by S. T. Boston
“Is she dead?” whispered Adam, standing back and feeling a bit useless. His mind was spinning. Why had he seen her in his dream? Maybe they were meant to find her all along, rescue her. If that was the case, why had his mind steered him back to Afghanistan with all the death and suffering? He couldn't piece it together. He knew one thing, though. The mother of all headaches was brewing away nicely at the back of his head.
“I need to check her,” said Sam, slipping straight into army combat mode. He rolled up her dirty, wet sleeve. The fabric was as light as silk, but felt much stronger. Resting two fingers lightly on the cold skin on her wrist, he tried to locate a pulse, simultaneously dropping his head down to place his ear by her mouth.
“Is she breathing?” Adam whispered, his voice shaking.
“Shhh. I'm trying to see if I can hear her breathing,” snapped Sam in a low voice, waving him back with a frustrated movement. Adam watched on as the seconds seemed to tick by like minutes, finally Sam looked up, “Okay, I've got a pulse,” he said, sounding relieved. “It's a little weak, but that's to be expected. I don't know how long she was in the water for. Her breathing is shallow but it's there and that's the main thing. Can you pass me some towels and a blanket; we need to keep her warm, she might be in hypothermic shock.”
Sidestepping Sam, Adam reached over and whipped the tasteless floral double duvet off the bed, then grabbed a fresh towel from the small rail outside the bathroom. The gloom of the RV was abruptly bathed in light, as the thwack, thwack of helicopter blades drowned out the rain. In unison Adam and Sam both stopped breathing, as if the sound of an exhaled breath would give away their position. Adam watched Sam gazing up at the ceiling, as if he could actually see the helicopter above them. The chopper was hovering so low, the noise it created made the cupboard doors vibrate on their hinges. Behind the doors, the mugs rattled and danced on the shelves. After what seemed like an eternity, the light whipped away and the sound of the slamming blades faded out as the helicopter left and banked off over the river.
“What the fuck is going on?” asked Sam, his voice low and quiet. “I mean, she's been shot.” He gestured to the gaping hole on the girl's thigh which continued to ooze a steady stream of bright red blood.
“I don't know; do you think those choppers were looking for her?”
“Seems pretty fucking likely. I'm guessing people with gunshot wounds don't wash up here all the time, especially not when there's a squadron of 'copters combing the area. Can you grab me a pair of scissors? I need to get a better look at this wound.”
“Do you want my belt, too?” asked Adam, already unclipping it from around his waist, “You can use it as a tourniquet to stem the bleeding.”
“Good idea, although I'm not sure how bad it is and the position is not great. Some of the blood flow seems to have eased, which is strange. It might not be as bad as I first thought.”
Placing the belt by Sam, Adam knelt on the soaking linoleum floor and watched him work, expertly cutting the white fabric of her clothing from around the wound before dabbing it clean with a towel. “Don't often get to use my skills on day to day – what the…?” He trailed off, his face washed in pale confusion.
“What's wrong?”
“I don't understand,” Sam began shakily. “When we got to her, I could see blood pouring from her thigh. Hell, she was still bleeding when I checked her vitals. It's— stopped!” He lifted the towel away and Adam could see skin through the hole in her clothing. But where the blood had been flowing not two minutes ago, that area now just looked red and inflamed. Inexplicably the redness faded as they watched, until there was no trace of any wound at all. Sam stood up and backed off a little, his mouth hanging open. “That's impossible,” he whispered, dropping the scissors to the floor.
“Maybe you were wrong,” Adam suggested, trying to reason out what he'd just witnessed. “Maybe she just had someone else's blood on her? You never know. It was pretty dark out there, not to mention the rain. It was hard to see properly.”
“No, she had a fucking gunshot wound!” Sam cried, pointing to the hole in her clothing. “I don't need to be a doctor to know that. God knows I've seen enough of them! And I don't need to be a doctor to know that gunshot wounds don't just heal themselves in a matter of minutes.” Sam's blousy expression was set in stone, deep wrinkles creasing his wet brow. For the first time in the past few minutes, Adam suddenly felt like he was the one more in control. Sam seemed frozen, unable to take his eyes away from the miracle which had just occurred right in front of him.
“Maybe we should just take her to a hospital.”
“Where?” barked Sam, snapping back to reality. “I bet the closest one is back in Denver, maybe Boulder. That's over two hours away. More like three in this weather. Not forgetting the fact that she seems to be able to do a pretty good job of fixing herself!”
“We should call 911,” Adam suggested. He grabbed a fresh towel, threw it on the floor and started soaking up some of the bloodied water by pushing the towel around with his foot. He thought he should be doing something, no matter how pointless. “What if she's been abducted or something? Maybe those police vehicles we saw and the choppers are looking for her.”
Sam glanced down at the unconscious girl; her breathing had improved so much that he could now see the gradual rise and fall of her chest. “Those weren't police, mate. Those SUVs were government, or CIA.” He kept glancing at the hole in her clothing, where he'd cut the material away to get at the wound. Why the hell would they have all that manpower out looking for this girl? She couldn't be more than twenty-six – twenty-nine at the most. She had no weapons on her and nothing about her seemed dangerous as far as he could tell. She was odd, there was no denying that, but just being odd didn't get you hunted like a dog through the woods, and it certainly didn't get you shot.
“Is that some kind of military uniform she's wearing?” Adam enquired. Her white clothing was a one-piece affair, figure-hugging, almost like a thin and much more flattering flight suit. Strange gold lettering ran the full length of both arms.
“Not that I've ever seen. Just looks like some kind of jumpsuit, but the material's strange. I don't recognise it and I sure as hell don't know what language that is. Could be Russian or something.”
“Why would they be after a Russian? The Americans haven't had issues with them for decades.” Adam began gingerly dabbing her skin with a clean, dry towel, mopping some of the water from her face and hair. He found it hard to take his eyes away from her face. Even in her unconscious state he was captivated.
“I didn't say she was Russian,” snapped Sam, leaning back against the kitchen sink and watching as Adam fussed over her. “I said she could be. The whole situation beats the shit outta me.” Adam placed the duvet over her dirty clothing. “Good work,” he commented. “We need to keep her warm. She's got some questions to answer when she comes around.”
Stepping away, Adam tucked the towel into his back pocket. His hand brushed the strange metal rectangle. Just as when he first touched it, the whole thing seemed to vibrate when his fingers found it. In all the fuss and panic he'd completely forgotten about picking it up. Adam retrieved the object from his pocket. “This was in her hand when we moved her.” He lifted it up for Sam to see. In the dim light of the RV, there was no doubt the object had a mysterious glow to it.
“What the hell is that?” asked Sam, his voice flat and barely more than a whisper. He reached out and took the item. The moment his fingers touched the strange object, it vibrated and hummed slightly. It appeared to be made of a mixture of gold and brass, but it was like no metal he'd ever touched before; it rested with impossible lightness in his hand, and yet it felt as strong as steel. Apart from the vibration coming off the surface, he could barely feel its weight. Sam cast his eye along the strange inscriptions that ran down its length, engraved into the smooth, glowing metal. He leaned forward and peeled back the duvet. The lettering seemed to match the strange language that ran down both arms of the
mystery girl's jumpsuit. “This is some proper Twilight Zone shit!” he added, placing the object on the table with a metallic clunk suggestive of something much heavier. As it left his hand it seemed to fade slightly, but still retained a soft glow. “I think it's safe to say that our friends in the SUVs and choppers are definitely after her. It's too much of a coincidence otherwise,” he concluded, running the options through his head. It didn't seem right to just hand her over, but on the flip side, he didn't know what they were getting themselves into by providing her refuge.
“We should get moving,” said Adam hastily. He felt sure that another chopper would arrive at any moment, or worse, one of the oppressive-looking SUVs which had torn past them earlier.
“And go where?” snapped Sam, frustration brewing in his voice. “The area is crawling with FBI, CIA or whoever the hell they are; this vehicle's not exactly easy to miss; not to mention the fact that this road is pretty much just one long run all the way back to Route 40. And why the hell are we suddenly choosing to aid a fugitive?”
“We don't know she's a fugitive!” protested Adam. “She doesn't look like one.”
Sam pondered their options. Adam was right. His eyes fell again on the unconscious girl. There was no denying just how strangely beautiful she was. Colour was returning to her face with every passing second. It wouldn't be long before she was awake; her recovery was nothing short of miraculous. When they'd found her, not ten minutes ago, she'd had all the appearance of a subject in major trauma, in need of urgent professional medical care. Nothing fit and nothing made sense.
“Get her off the bench seat,” he instructed, tearing the duvet away from her wet body.
“What the hell are you doing?” cried Adam. “We need to keep her warm.”
“The seat has storage space beneath it,” replied Sam, gripping her under the arms again, “designed to hold bedding and sheets. It's also big enough to hide little Miss Mystery.” Adam helped him by taking hold of her feet. Gently, they lowered her to the floor. “We need to get down out of the mountains,” he continued, sliding the cushions off the seat. “I'm going to head back the way we came and try to reach Route 40. If we get stopped and try to bluff our way out of trouble, and they take a look in the back and see her snoozing, it's not going to look good. I still don't know why I'm even doing this. My head is screaming at me to leave the whole situation well alone!” Standing back, Sam examined the small coffin-like space under the bench seat. The girl looked to be about five feet four. She would fit, but only just. Reaching down, he picked up the floral duvet that now looked like it had been dragged behind a car through a muddy field. Bending down, Sam lined the cavity with it. “Help me lower her in,” he said, taking hold of her again. Slowly, they placed the girl into the narrow space. Adam folded the sides of the duvet around her like a makeshift sleeping bag before Sam replaced the plywood base and cushions.
“What if she wakes up before we clear the area?” asked Adam, studying the mess on the floor.
“Let's just hope she knows how to keep quiet,” said Sam, his face deadly serious.
Adam had only ever seen him like this during their time together in Afghanistan. They both took a couple of extra seconds to mop up the dirt and blood on the floor with the towels. The bench seat they'd laid her on was soaking wet, but there was no time to dry it. Tossing the dirty towels into a bag, Sam headed through to the driver's seat and gunned the engine. As a last thought, Adam reached out and grabbed the strange, metallic object off the table. It hummed welcomingly when he wrapped his hand around it. Tucking it safely into his pocket, he made his way to the front. The RV was moving before he got to the passenger seat.
Chapter 6
The heat retaining cardboard cup and plastic cap made sure the coffee inside stayed at near on nuclear temperature for a good fifteen minutes. Finch blew into the small hole in the cap, his breath forcing a dull note to sound, like blowing over a half-filled milk bottle. Despite the fact the cappuccino remained pretty much undrinkable for the first few minutes, it was better than the soup-sized mugs they also served it in. Those lost the heat so fast, you literally had to gulp it down.
Starbucks was heaving; Finch had been lucky enough to grab a barstool seat and now sat facing out into the departure lounge at JFK. He glanced at his Omega Seamaster; it was the only part of his old life that remained. It had been issued to him after being promoted to the head of President Remy's security detail. There were no engravings or government seals on it which could tie him to his old life. It was such a beautiful watch he hadn't been able to bring himself to just throw it away, and now the perfectly crafted Swiss hands told him it was fast approaching four in the afternoon. Checking the departure board, he saw there were still thirty minutes before his flight would be called. He'd been there for the past hour and a half, watching and waiting for the perfect time to deploy the pathogen. Letting his hand fall to his trouser pocket as he'd done every five minutes since his arrival, he felt the pen there poised and ready. Just resting his hand on it was a comfort. Smiling, he thought of his colleagues who would be doing exactly the same in the other three airports, all spaced out tactically across the globe. No doubt the London and Hong Kong vials had already been deployed, each operative choosing the busiest time at their airport, hoping to make the biggest impact. He was to be the third, with LAX being last.
His new passport and identity had worked wonderfully. On check-in, they'd examined his documents before allowing him through to the departure lounge. He still hated the name Isaac Stephens, it just didn't fit his new face. It would do for now, though. There was no way Robert Finch would have breezed through check-in as he had. No, Robert Finch would now be in FBI custody with some very tough questions to answer.
Running his eyes down the departure board he saw the next four flights were bound for Sydney, Argentina, Bangkok and Madrid. The Sydney and Bangkok flights were both fast jet services, meaning the passengers would be at their destinations in hours, ready to spread the virus on.
Braving a sip, Finch let the cappuccino scald his tongue; he would need to get moving soon. His flight to Paris still had 'Wait in Lounge' flashing on the variety of boards spaced throughout the terminal, but a gate number would no doubt be revealed at any moment. Taking a last mouthful, he left the half full cup on the counter and stepped out into the main shopping and lounge area. A rich tapestry of life hustled and bustled its way through here, twenty-four hours a day. It was truly one of the main hubs and gateways to the world. A mother with a stroller containing a screaming child almost smashed into his ankle, whilst businessmen and women with phones glued to their ears hurried by, all looking to secure that last deal before boarding their flights.
Finch made his way to the end of the main shopping gallery. Here, the shops ended and gave way to long automated walkways that led to the departure gates. People for the next four flights were beginning to pour down them, all eager to hurry up and wait in the next section of the airport. Finch was always amused at how keen people were to stand around. The British, he'd learned, had a particular penchant for it.
None of the passengers looked at him, or took notice as he slid the smart-looking silver pen from his pocket and pushed the nib extender. Finch half expected to hear a slight aerosol style sound as the agent released itself into the air, but there was nothing. It was deadly silent. Walking away from the departure gates, he made his way confidently back to the shopping gallery, the pen clutched tightly in his right hand, thumb on the base. Throngs of people bustled past him; he was the only one walking against the tide of bodies all trying to reach their flights.
He knew the two minutes were up; in truth, he had held that activator down for more like five. He'd walked the entire length of the departure lounge without taking his finger off of it. Now relaxing his hand, he saw a small round imprint on his thumb, created by the pressure he'd applied. Double checking the task had been done, he gently unscrewed the pen at the centre and slid the vial out. It was empty. Right at that point
the virus was out there, most likely already in the air-conditioning system and being pumped all over the departure lounge. Those he'd passed heading to their planes would soon be sealed up in their metal coffins, the virus spreading through them unseen, like a silent wildfire. Screwing the now-empty vial back into the pen, he slid it into the pocket of his Armani suit while a monotone female voice sounded over the intercom, snapping him from his thoughts.
“Ladies and gentlemen, American Airlines Fast Jet flight twenty-six to Paris will now begin boarding at gate number nine, all passengers please make your way to gate number nine.” She seemed to emphasise the second 'nine' as if she were addressing a bunch of idiots.
Satisfied his work was done, Finch collected up his briefcase and patted his pocket one last time, checking for the pen. Losing it would no longer be an issue, but he wanted to keep it as a memento of this great day. Making his way to a slightly quieter area, near one of the toilets, he fished his cell phone out; it was time to call Buer. As usual, the phone hardly made it past the first ring before his supervisor answered.
“Yes?” came the voice, sounding expectant but still somehow annoyed by the intrusion.
“It's Finch,” he began. “I'm just about to head down to my gate, the flight's just been called.”
“Excellent. I trust everything is in order?” Buer sounded calm and confident.
