When Thatcher tapped on the guardhouse window, the startled guard sat up.
“Can I help you?” he said, his face turning red from embarrassment.
Thatcher nodded. “Yeah, I’m lost and I was wondering if you could tell me where The Goldstein Group is.”
“This is The Goldstein Group,” the guard said. He stood up. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Thatcher sized him up.
Perfect.
Thatcher squinted and cupped his hand behind his ear. “What did you say?”
“I said—” the guard opened the door and walked outside. He turned to face Thatcher, who hadn’t moved. “I said this is The Goldstein Group, but I don’t have any visitors expected tonight. Everyone’s gone home.”
Thatcher cocked his head. “Have they?”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “What are you—”
A quick jab to the guard’s nose with the bottom of Thatcher’s palm sent the man sprawling backward. Thatcher punched him again and shifted behind him to catch him. He put the guard in a sleeper hold.
It took Thatcher less than two minutes to strip the man and change into his clothes. He tied up the guard and locked him in the guardhouse after stripping out all communications. The holstered handgun disappointed Thatcher but it would have to suffice.
He stole near one of the doors and shielded himself by crouching at the corner. Heavy footfalls fell on the sidewalk nearby—and Thatcher prepared himself.
With the patrolman getting closer, Thatcher exploded from around the corner and kept his head down, driving the man into the ground. Two quick punches knocked the patrolman out and Thatcher lifted the access card off the man. He dragged the man’s body into the bushes and continued to work his plan.
Thatcher utilized the access card to open a side door. Since Watson gave him a tour of the facility earlier, he knew the general layout. He headed straight for the stairwell leading to the basement and Watson’s lab.
He carefully opened the door leading to the main hallway. It was clear. He continued down the hall until he reached the door to Watson’s lab. He peered inside and saw only one other man, who appeared to be armed. The man paced around the room while Watson mixed several elements together in between looking at a microscope.
Thatcher waited until the man moved close to the door. He swiped his access card and used the door to batter the man, forcing him to the ground. A few more quick punches put the man out and Thatcher began tying him up.
“What are you doing here?” Watson said as she rushed over to him. “They’re going to kill you if they find you here.”
“They’re going to kill you as soon as you complete that antidote for them. It’s the only thing that’s kept you alive this long.”
“I know—but I figured it might buy me enough time to get a message out of here or escape.”
“I like that second option.” He grabbed her hand. “Let’s go.”
They got up to leave the room when someone hailed the guard on his walkie-talkie.
“Status report, Gordon,” crackled a voice over the small device.
Silence.
“Gordon? Gordon? Are you there, Gordon?”
Thatcher looked at Watson. “We’ve gotta go now.”
They crept into the hall and dashed toward the stairwell. Thatcher opened the door and staggered back when he felt a stiff blow to his head. He slumped to the ground and looked up to see Kramer with his gun trained on him.
“Trying to break the help out?” Kramer asked. “She’s still got a job to do.” A grin spread across his face. “And you and I are gonna take a ride.”
CHAPTER 44
DR. WATSON’S HANDS TREMBLED as she squirted some of the antidote she’d made into a test tube and placed it in the centrifuge. She glanced over her shoulder at the two men with their guns trained on her, while three men in suits talked quietly. One of the men was Dr. Franklin, her boss. But she didn’t recognize the other two.
“How much longer?” Franklin bellowed.
“A few more minutes,” she said. “I need to check a few things first and add one more thing.”
“This better work, Dr. Watson,” he said. “Your life depends on it.”
She already knew she was as good as dead the second they verified it worked, but she wasn’t going down without a fight.
“Dr. Franklin, would you be so kind as to fetch something for me in the quarantine room?”
He laughed and shook his head “Are you crazy?”
“Fine. I’ll do it myself.”
She donned the hazmat suit.
“Is all that really necessary, Dr. Watson?” he asked.
“Better safe than sorry.”
He rolled his eyes. “The antidote better be right this time.”
She’d put up a good front in the lab ever since she arrived. While she was grateful for Thatcher and his rescue attempt, she had already formulated her own escape plan—one she worked methodically.
Doing research in a lab that had strong ties to the U.S. military meant odd items often showed up around the lab. Lethal viruses, rare ingredients—all just another day at the office. But Dr. Watson knew how to create plenty of chemical compounds and what to do with the oddities that ended up in her lab, including capsaicin.
Inside the quarantine area, she found what she was really looking for—a hand-held aerosol spray pump and an emulsifier. She mixed the water with her emulsifier and the capsaicin.
Voila! Pepper spray!
When she exited the quarantine room, she continued to work her plan.
“I’m not sure the virus is cleared in there,” she said.
“Why not?” Franklin asked.
She watched as the guards and the other men crowded toward a corner away from her. “Just a feeling.”
They all eyed her carefully and backed farther away as she edged closer to them.
“Do I stink?” she asked with a coy smile. “Because if I didn’t know better, I’d think you guys were trying to steer clear of me.”
Do it now!
Watson then held up her aerosol pump can and started to spray. The men screamed as they fell to their knees and groped in her general direction, trying to apprehend her. She kicked Franklin in the head and snatched the keys out of his pocket. And she was gone.
She shed the hazmat suit in the stairwell and raced out of the building. She needed to find Thatcher before it was too late.
CHAPTER 45
THATCHER GRIPPED THE DOOR HANDLE as Kramer drove his car onto Connecticut Avenue. He tried to control his breathing and put up a courageous front. He never feared death in battle. At least there, he had a fighting chance. But this was different—this was an execution.
“Afraid to die?” Kramer laughed. His gun, trained on Thatcher, bounced on his knee as he laughed. “I never would’ve guessed such a tough soldier would have a hard time with the finality of his own life. You’ve trained for this.”
Thatcher shook his head. “A soldier’s trained to survive—and kill—not die.”
“I guess that explains it.”
They rode in silence for a few minutes until Thatcher spoke up.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Carrying out someone else’s bidding—you know, doing the dirty work?”
“You mean, like you do in the desert in the guise of freedom?”
“I’m protecting this country.”
Kramer laughed. “From some heroine addict on a camel? Really?”
Thatcher sighed. “And what are you doing?”
“I’m doing the same as you, though I’m protecting us against a real enemy, not some contrived threat to grease the skids on the war machine and feed the masses the illusion that they’re safe.”
Thatcher stared at the skyline against the night sky. “And what exactly is that threat?”
“If you think that we don’t live under a constant threat in this country and that people like me are ensuring
these threats never materialize, you’re naïve at best.”
“Yeah—so, you kill innocent Americans? A noble cause, indeed.”
“I don’t do this for nobility—I do it for freedom.”
“This isn’t the kind of freedom I want.”
Kramer chuckled. “Good thing since you won’t be around to experience it.”
With that, Kramer slowed down and pulled off onto the right shoulder just before the beginning of the Taft Bridge. It was quiet—and empty.
“What are you doing?” Thatcher asked as Kramer pulled him out of the car.
“You don’t think I could just shoot you, do you? A soldier returns home and accuses his own government of killing his entire squad—and then dies of a gunshot wound? Not a story that my employer wants to get out. It’s much easier to fake psychiatric evaluations and sell a story that you were a delusional and troubled soldier.”
“The kind of soldier who leapt to his death?”
Kramer smiled. “Now you’re catching on.”
Thatcher slowed his pace, anything to buy more time. A car, a pedestrian, a cyclist—anyone. He needed to be seen. And he needed to be seen right now.
The roar of an engine pierced the night air. Thatcher turned to look and saw a pair of headlights racing down the bridge toward them.
CHAPTER 46
MELISSA WATSON PULLED into a gas station and started to fill up. She spotted the green ATM sign in the window and grabbed a baseball cap out of her backseat. The last thing she wanted was surveillance footage of her splashed across the television and Internet. She hustled inside while gas continued to course into her car. With the hat pulled down over her eyes, she withdrew her maximum daily limit and kept her head down as she exited.
She left the city and headed south. After driving for fifteen minutes, she found a hotel just off the highway and decided it would be a safe place to stay for the night.
“I need a room for tonight,” she said to the clerk.
The clerk sighed and glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. “Would you like a queen or a king room?”
“Whatever is cheapest?”
“Queen it is.” He typed on the keyboard and asked for Watson’s name.
“Meg Ryan.”
The clerk looked at her and rolled his eyes. “Seriously? Can I see your driver’s license?”
“I’d like to pay cash.”
“Fine, but I’ll need a credit card for incidentals.”
Watson shook her head. “I don’t have one.”
“Look, Meg. Everybody with a pulse has a credit card—and I can’t check you in unless you’ve got one.”
She slapped a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. “I’m sure you can make exceptions.”
He snatched the bill and slid it into his pocket. “You know what? I think we can.”
Ten minutes later, Watson settled into her room and used a private search to get online and find out if there was any news of note regarding Thatcher. The Washington Post website was full of conjecture as to Staff Sgt. Thatcher’s whereabouts, as their requests with the feds to interview him had been rebuffed.
She snickered aloud.
You can’t interview him because even they don’t know where he is.
There was an article about Russian President Petrov’s speech before the U.S. Senate in the morning. Another teased of an entertainment blog post about something scandalous a Kardashian had done. Just like usual—nothing that mattered to her.
She composed a letter detailing everything she’d done along with what she observed and gathered while working for The Goldstein Group. She wanted to send it to someone for insurance purposes. But she knew if she did, whoever was watching her might find out where she was.
Instead of communicating through traditional means, she decided to create a dummy email account and send it to someone who just might believe her: Channel 9’s Rosayln Booker.
She hit send and closed her computer before collapsing onto the bed in exhaustion. She said a quick prayer for Thatcher and fell asleep.
CHAPTER 47
TODD OSBORNE REVIEWED a slew of reports on his desk about possible terrorist attacks on American interests in various regions of the world. It was late and the words on the page seemed to run together. If the coffee pot in the break room hadn’t been turned off hours ago, he would’ve gritted his teeth and poured a cup of the substance that had surely turned to tar by now. But he wasn’t that desperate to stay—not yet anyway.
He combed through the pages, looking for something, anything. While the report would’ve made a conspiracy theorist’s year, he’d been with the CIA long enough to discern potential threats from imminent ones. As he combed through the reports, he searched for the one nugget that might give him a clue to what was happening, specifically to James Flynn.
He conceded that Flynn had made plenty of enemies for blowing the whistle on unethical practices within the agency in Africa, but Flynn’s stature of prominence would give anyone pause before murdering him in a gruesome fashion. Yet, someone was very much trying to kill him, though the brazenness of the attack on the Columbia River led Osborne to believe either Flynn wasn’t the intended target or he was dealing with a different kind of terrorist with a different kind of mission. Whatever the reason, he couldn’t seem to find one why Flynn might be in someone’s crosshairs—nor had he heard any chatter before or since from his agents embedded in Russia about the theft of Plutonium.
He loosened his tie and flipped through a few more reports before he decided to start again the next day. After tidying up his office, he locked up and headed downstairs. There wasn’t a soul there—or so he thought.
When he reached the corner of the hallway, he noticed a light still streaming from Don Vandenberg’s office and overheard part of his phone conversation. Once he edged within earshot, he froze, mouth agape.
“Is everything set for tomorrow?” Vandenberg asked.
Osborne held his breath and waited.
“Do we have enough antidote for everyone?”
Antidote? What the—
“Whatever we do, we can’t let Petrov die—not yet anyway.”
Osborne’s eyes widened as he started to put everything together. When he’d heard that an attack on the Senate floor was imminent, he believed it—he just didn’t know who was crazy enough to pull it off. He never dreamed it was someone within the agency.
Osborne tiptoed down the hall and exited through a stairwell on the other side of the building. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Flynn.
Come on, come on. Pick up.
The call went to voicemail.
Damnit, Flynn. Where are you?
CHAPTER 48
THE CAR SCREECHED TO A HALT in front of Thatcher and the door flew open. Thatcher bent over and peered inside. Despite the glow of the streetlights, he couldn’t make out who was inside.
“What are you doing?” the man asked Kramer.
“Following orders.”
“Plans have changed. We need him alive.”
Kramer shoved Thatcher toward the open door. “What about the others?”
“Eliminate them, but make it look like an accident. We don’t need to draw any unwarranted attention.”
“That’s my specialty,” Kramer said with a smile. “So you have the antidote now?”
“We brought in another scientist who figured out what ingredient the good doctor was withholding from us. The antidote works.”
“And the doctor?”
“We have ways of discrediting her. But if you are feeling bloodthirsty tonight, knock yourself out. You won’t hear me complain.”
Thatcher slid into the limousine and took a seat across from the man, whose face seemed familiar.
“Do you know who I am, Sergeant Thatcher?” the man asked, catching himself as the car lurched forward and started to move down the street.
Thatcher shook his head.
“For the moment, I’m your savior.”
That
cher folded his arms. “Do you want me to tell you thank you?”
“I’d hold off on that just yet. You likely won’t thank me by the time I’m finished with you.”
Thatcher leaned forward and glared at the man while the streetlights flashed behind him. “I could break your neck right now.”
The man glanced down at his pocket and moved what appeared to be a gun. “I’m sure you wouldn’t get far before I put two bullets in you.”
Thatcher sat back. “What do you want from me?”
“I want to make you a hero.”
Thatcher furrowed his brow. “A hero? I’m already a hero?”
“Not quite,” the man said as he threw a copy of The Washington Post at him. The article headline spoke volumes about how people felt about him: “Source: Army Deserter Abandoned Squad in Time of Need.”
“Lies,” Thatcher said, tossing the paper back at the man. “Nothing but lies.”
“This is the twenty-first century, sergeant. One man’s lie is another man’s truth.”
“Nobody believes this garbage.”
The man threw the paper back at him. “Check out the poll at the bottom.”
Thatcher scanned the page until he found a small graphic with a question: “Is Staff Sgt. Thatcher a hero or a traitor?” Only twenty-two percent saw him as a hero, while sixty-five percent said traitor. He shook his head and slumped into the seat.
“Like I said: one man’s lie is another man’s truth.”
Thatcher crumpled up the paper and threw it down. He growled before he gathered his composure and looked at the man with a forced smile. “So, what is it you want me to do?”
“I want you to be a hero tomorrow.”
“And what am I supposed to do, exactly?”
The man smiled and leaned back in his seat, tapping his cane on the floorboard. “I thought you’d never ask.”
CHAPTER 49
SENATOR RYAN HOBBLED into his office about an hour before President Petrov was scheduled to make an appearance in the Senate chamber. He had an appointment to talk with his campaign director, one that had been on his calendar for five months.
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