Imminent Threat

by Jack Patterson

  “You think anyone will listen to us?”

  “I think my return home made quite a splash in the media—pun intended. I don’t see why they wouldn’t want to interview me.”

  “Channel 9 isn’t that far from here.”

  “Sounds good to me. Let’s go.”

  A half hour later, they entered the WUSA building and asked to speak to a producer. The security guard at the front desk was anything but compliant.

  “Everyone’s already gone home for the evening,” he said.

  “There’s an eleven o’clock news program. I know people are in there.”

  The guard stopped. “Hey, aren’t you that soldier guy, who—”

  “Yes, Sergeant Thatcher. And I want to speak to a producer. I don’t think they’d take too kindly to finding out that you turned down the hottest news story in D.C.”

  “Okay, okay. Just a minute.”

  The guard made a phone call and less than a minute later, a squatty man with a thin ring of hair surrounding his baldhead rushed into the lobby.

  “Staff Sgt. Thatcher?” the man asked.

  Thatcher nodded. “In the flesh.”

  The producer offered his hand. “John Finkle, producer for the eleven o’clock news. To what do we owe this honor?”

  “I need to tell my story,” Thatcher said.

  “Wonderful. We can schedule something for tomorrow.”

  Thatcher shook his head. “That’ll be too late. I need to do this now—or else I’ll go find another network that will take my exclusive this evening.”

  Finkle put his hands up. “All right. Come with me. This may take a bit of juggling. We’ve only got about an hour and a half before we go live.”

  Thatcher and Watson followed Winkle down the hall.

  “And who’s the young lady?” Finkle asked over his shoulder.

  “This is Dr. Watson.”

  “Wonderful,” Finkle said. “Pleased to meet you. I’m normally not this rushed—” He paused. “Oh, who am I kidding? I’m always in a rush. But maybe more so than usual after this curve ball.”

  They stood in the wings of the set and watched Finkle scurry across the floor toward one of the women who appeared to be on-air talent. Her face lit up as she listened to Finkle deliver the news. She nearly tripped over one of the wires on the studio floor as she rushed over to introduce herself.

  “Hi, I’m Rosalyn Booker,” she said, extending her hand to Thatcher and then Watson.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Thatcher said.

  She gestured toward a couple of director’s chairs nearby. “So, why all the urgency? What’s this all about?”

  “Well, I know you’ve heard my story that I got out when I was in Germany, but ever since I’ve been back, no one knows the truth about what really happened to me—and I want to make sure it gets out there.”

  Booker narrowed her eyes and cocked her head to one side. “But why tonight? Why right now?”

  “I can’t tell you everything, Ms. Booker, but I can tell you that if I don’t get on the air and talk about this tonight, I’m liable to end up dead in some mysterious suicide or car accident or some other weird form of death in the next day or two. It’s for my own protection.”

  “You think sharing your story will protect you from the people who are trying to kill you?”

  “Absolutely. If anything, it will make it more difficult for them.”

  “How so?”

  “Once I share my story on-air, the people who are trying to kill me will have a dark cloud of suspicion over them if I wind up dead.”

  “And what’s her role in this?” Booker said, pointing at Watson.

  “I’m trying to keep her safe, too.”

  “Well, this sounds like it has the potential to be an incredible interview. Why don’t you tell me a little bit first so I can craft some questions that will be helpful? Let me just go get my pad so I can take a few notes.”

  Once Booker got up, Watson’s phone rang.

  “It’s Banks,” she said.

  “Put her on speaker,” Thatcher answered.

  “Hi, Special Agent Banks. What can we do for you?”

  “Thatcher mentioned that you made a copy of the working antidote.”

  “Yes, I hid it.”

  “Okay. We need it as soon as possible.”

  Watson furrowed her brow. “Why? What’s going on?”

  “There’s a rumored attack going to take place tomorrow—and if we don’t make the antidote, some very important people could die, not to mention the turmoil it could throw this country into.”

  “Okay. We’re down at Channel 9 and Sergeant Thatcher is about to go on the air in an interview at eleven o’clock. Just come on down here and I’ll give it to you. I’ve got the formula committed to memory.”

  “See you soon.”

  Watson hung up and looked at Thatcher. “What have I got myself into?”

  He put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. Hopefully once I share my story, we’ll get out of this together.”

  ***

  KRAMER EYED HIS TWO CAPTIVES and grinned. “Well done, Special Agent Banks. I had no idea that you could be so compliant.”

  Kramer dragged Flynn’s two kitchen chairs to the center of the living area and placed them back-to-back. “Now, why don’t the two of you each have a seat.”

  Neither Flynn nor Banks moved.

  “Not all at once now,” Kramer said.

  They both remained still.

  “Do I need to take away a chair and start playing music to get you to move? Or should I just shoot the last one to sit down? Decisions, decisions.”

  They both walked toward the chairs and took a seat.

  “That’s better.” He knelt down beside them and started to tie them up. “Now, I bet you’re probably wondering why I haven’t killed you yet. Maybe you think I’m some crazy assassin who wants to play mind games with you.” Kramer chuckled. “But I’m neither. I’m just like you—an American following orders. Unfortunately, you just happen to be in my way.”

  He finished tying them up before setting up a small camera in the kitchen.

  “Now I’ve got a guy in a car outside watching this camera. If he even sees you trying to move, he’s going to come in here and put a bullet in your head. Understand?”

  They both nodded.

  “Well, then. I’ll see you soon—and it won’t be pleasant when I do. I owe you two quite a bit.”

  Kramer dashed toward the door. He picked up Banks’ keys. “I’ll take these, since you won’t be needing them.”

  The door rattled as he slammed it shut. Then he locked the dead bolt.

  Banks groaned. “I swear this day couldn’t get much worse.”

  A few more clicks and turns. They both looked toward the door as Kramer strode back in. He held a syringe in one hand, the cap to it clenched in his teeth.

  “I almost forgot about this,” Kramer said. “This’ll keep you sitting tight for a long while.”

  Flynn twisted his neck to elude Kramer’s grasp, but it didn’t last long before he felt a firm hand grab him. “If you move, it’ll hurt more than it has to.” Kramer sunk the needle into Flynn. Five seconds later, his head slumped down.

  “Now your turn,” Kramer said, sliding around in front of Banks. She struggled for a moment. “Didn’t you learn anything from your partner over there?” He grabbed her. “Now, hold still and say goodnight.”

  Kramer slid the needle into her neck and walked out of the apartment.

  ***

  “WE NEED TO TAPE THIS,” Finkle said, looking at Booker and Thatcher. Neither moved. “Now.”

  “Right now?” Booker asked.

  Finkle nodded. “We can do a short interview now, sort of a tease to a special for tomorrow’s six o’clock news. Then we’ll do a longer interview after the broadcast ends tonight.” He paused and looked directly at Thatcher. “As long as that’s all right with you, Sergeant Thatcher.”

  Thatcher nodded.
“Fine by me. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  A woman came over to him and started dusting his face with makeup.

  “Is this necessary?” he asked.

  Booker giggled. “It is unless you want to look like a ghost. High definition television is very unforgiving.”

  Thatcher relaxed in the director’s chair as the woman continued to prepare his face for the bright studio lights.

  “One more thing, Ms. Booker,” he said.

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “We have some friends who are coming down here to meet us. They need to talk to Dr. Watson about something—and it’s very important. Can you let the guard at the desk know so he can let them in and not hassle them like he did us?”

  She smiled. “Sure. Let me make a call downstairs.” She turned and walked away, her heels clicking on the smooth polished floor.

  Thatcher turned to Watson. “Have you heard from them yet?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sure they’ll be here soon. Just stay focused on getting the message out about what’s happened to you over the past few days.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “You’re going to do great.”

  Thatcher looked up at her and smiled. “Thanks for believing in me.”

  “Like I had a choice. It all made too much sense for me not too.”

  “I still appreciate it.”

  Booker walked back across the floor with a big smile on her face. “It’s all taken care of,” she said. “Your friends will be treated like VIPs.”

  Thatcher nodded and lifted his chin for the woman still decorating his face.

  Before anyone could say another word, a loud pop followed by a complete loss of power sent the building into a frenzy.

  “What the—” Thatcher said.

  Three seconds elapsed until the emergency floodlights kicked on, enabling just enough light to keep people from running into one another. A few choice expletives filled the air along with shrieks and people questioning the source of the blackout.

  When Thatcher’s eyes adjusted, he looked to his left where Watson had been standing.

  “Melissa?” he said. “Melissa?”

  Moments later, the lights came back on—and she was nowhere to be seen.

  Booker walked back toward him, wearing a big smile on her face. “Now that was strange.”

  Thatcher stood up. “Have you seen my friend, Melissa?”

  Booker shook her head. “She’s probably downstairs meeting your friends.”

  “No. She was right here.”

  “She’ll show up.”

  Thatcher scanned the room, looking for her amidst the chaos of people preparing for the forthcoming broadcast in the aftermath of the brief power outage. She was nowhere to be seen.

  “Ready to do this?” Booker asked, putting her hand on Thatcher’s arm.

  He shook her off. “No. Not now. Not until I find Melissa.”

  CHAPTER 42

  KRAMER CARRIED DR. WATSON’s limp body over his shoulder down the stairwell and laid her on the backseat of his car. He nodded at the security guard as he exited the parking garage and headed toward The Goldstein Group’s lab.

  His phone buzzed. “Yeah.”

  “Did you get her?” the man asked.

  Kramer glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Watson still lying there, motionless. “Yeah. We’re on our way to the lab.”

  “Excellent. We’ll be ready for her.”

  Kramer hung up and sped through the surface roads, the streetlights flickering off his windshield. Babysitting a doctor wasn’t in his plans, though if he were honest, he only had himself to blame. If he hadn’t been so lazy, he could’ve eliminated the other FBI agent and her journalist friend back on the Columbia River. But he was paying dearly for his carelessness, something his employer had little tolerance for.

  A detour sent him down a side street that was unfamiliar to him. The orange cones and flashing lights forced him into a single lane—and then a sudden stop. He craned his neck to see what the problem was. Unable to see what was going on, he decided to put his car in reverse only to see another car roar up behind him.

  Just my luck. The assignment that will never end.

  The car in front of him rolled forward and he followed suit, easing forward. He checked the clock again. It wouldn’t be long before he’d get another call, wondering where he was and what happened to him.

  Then Kramer noticed the flares on the road and realized he was in line for a sobriety check. He looked at the clock again and made some quick calculations in his head. He figured Watson wouldn’t wake up for at least another ten minutes.

  The minutes ticked by as the cars rolled through the checkpoint.

  Come on, come on.

  He banged the steering wheel and let out a string of expletives. Then his phone buzzed.

  “Yeah.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in line at a sobriety checkpoint.”

  “And the doctor?”

  “She’s still out.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Depends on how this check goes. I’d guess five minutes.”

  Kramer hung up and rolled forward. He tapped on the steering wheel as he inched closer toward the checkpoint.

  When the police officer handed the license back to the driver in front of him, the car eased forward.

  Kramer took a deep breath.

  Stay cool.

  He rarely interacted with people on his assignments, much less police officers. He preferred to do his work from a long distance away behind a rifle and a scope. Yet here he was, trying to keep from blowing his cover.

  “License and registration,” the officer said once Kramer rolled down his window.

  The flashlight blinded him for a moment, forcing him to shield his eyes. Kramer handed the proper documents to the officer and placed both hands on the steering wheel.

  The officer directed his light onto the documents Kramer handed him. He seemed to linger on it for a while, forcing Kramer to get nervous. He was a killer for hire, not a stone-cold killer. To him, there was a difference. And the last thing he wanted was to shoot a cop and start a citywide manhunt for him. His employer wouldn’t appreciate all the attention—and he likely wouldn’t last a night or two in jail before someone came to “take care of the problem.” His job was already lonely enough without having to be all alone on the run.

  Just hand the damn thing back to me.

  After a few more seconds, the officer put Kramer’s license and registration between his index and middle finger and handed them back.

  Kramer coolly took them and nodded at the officer, who was about to let him go until his flashlight fell on the backseat. Instead of waving Kramer on, the officer held his hand up.

  “Hang on a minute.”

  The officer put his nose against the glass of the backseat window and shined his light on the woman sprawled out.

  “What’s this all about?” the officer asked.

  Kramer shook his head. “A little too much to drink. She lost her job this afternoon and didn’t stop drinking until I offered to take her home.”

  “So you know her?”

  Kramer nodded. “Unfortunately. She can be a bit needy sometimes, if you know what I mean.”

  The officer smirked. “Well, good luck with that. And have a good night.”

  Kramer put his car in drive and started to roll up his window and a moan erupted from the backseat.

  And then a scream.

  Watson started banging on the back glass and yelling. She saw a flashlight fall on her as Kramer stomped on the gas. Then the light disappeared.

  She started slapping him on the head. “What are you doing to me?”

  Kramer raised his arm and shoved her back with his elbow. He slowed down for a red light and brandished his gun. The sight of the gun sent her scrambling further into the backseat.

  “Sit tight, Dr. Watson. I don’t want any trouble out of you. My employer won’t be very happy i
f I drop a dead body on his doorstep.”

  “Your employer? Who’s your employer?”

  Kramer shook his head. “It’s best that you don’t bother yourself with such things since it won’t matter if you aren’t willing to give up the rest of the formula.”

  “Is that why I’m here?”

  Kramer remained silent and kept driving.

  “Answer me, damn it. Is that why I’m here?”

  Kramer wheeled into The Goldstein Group parking lot. “You’ll have all your questions answered soon enough.”

  CHAPTER 43

  THATCHER CAUGHT A CAB and asked to be let out two blocks away from The Goldstein Group. Based of his best estimate, if this is where they took Dr. Watson, she had to have arrived at least twenty minutes ahead of him. However, he wasn’t overly concerned yet. If they wanted her dead, they would’ve killed her by now—whoever they was.

  On several of his tours, he’d been involved in rescue missions, which taught him the art of extraction. And like any good art, there were a few non-negotiable rules, starting with the first one—only act if you have good intelligence. The second one was to have a good plan, while the third one was to proceed with caution in case rules one and two weren’t adhered to.

  Thatcher didn’t have time for rules or art—and he doubted Watson did either. Once they got the antidote formula out of her and found out it worked, she was expendable. No, she was more than that: she was a loose end, something that necessitated being tied up and disposed of. And he needed her to prove that the Taliban outpost he attacked in Afghanistan had the same virus she was tasked with creating a vaccine for. He wanted to stay at Channel 9 and tell his story on television—but it would be dismissed as fantasy if he didn’t have Watson to corroborate what he was saying.

  He noted a guardhouse at the main entrance to the facility along with a pair of armed guards patrolling the perimeter.

  Since when did a research facility require armed guards?

  He needed a way in without drawing too much attention, which required some thought. He crept behind a row of bushes and sat down while he formulated a plan. Satisfied that his plan could work, he got up and headed toward the guardhouse.