by David Spell
Contents
Chapter One - Prologue
Chapter Two - Chasing Shadows
Chapter Three - Virginia Highlands Hell
Chapter Four - Tracking a Fugitive
Chapter Five - Good versus Evil
Chapter Six - Layers of the Onion
Chapter Seven - East Coast Destruction
Chapter Eight - Video Games or Reality?
Chapter Nine - Two Against the World
Chapter Ten - Floor After Floor
Chapter Eleven - Waiting for the Tsunami
Chapter Twelve - Broken Arrow
Chapter Thirteen - Picking Up the Pieces
Chapter Fourteen - Back into the Belly of the Beast
Chapter Fifteen - Payback
Chapter Sixteen - Epilogue
Chapter Seventeen - Coming Soon!
CHAPTER ONE
Prologue
Interstate 95 Northbound, Virginia, Wednesday, 1600 hours
Terrell Hill tried to stay with the flow of traffic. The last thing he needed was to get stopped for speeding. He wasn't afraid of the cops but he had finally heard from the mystery man in Washington, D.C. Hill had an appointment with him on Thursday.
Terrell had tried to call his boss, Amir al-Razi, but there had been no answer. He called the other number that Amir had given him and the accented voice who answered said they wanted to have a face-to-face talk with Terrell.
Hill didn't know what to expect from this meeting. He figured the dude would want to recruit him for some more jobs. That was fine with Terrell, as long as they paid him. The man on the phone's accent had sounded similar to Amir's and he had given Hill some instructions about avoiding detection from the authorities. He sounded like he knew what he was talking about. Spy stuff.
The Iranian terrorist, Amir al-Razi, had recruited Terrell to be the inside man at Sanford Stadium the previous Saturday. Hill was working at a concession stand inside the location to make extra money during football season. He jumped at the chance to strike back at the University of Georgia. They had withdrawn their football scholarship when Terrell had been arrested for armed robbery and aggravated assault. His access and his anger made him the perfect recruit for Amir. The terror cell leader had given Hill two vials of the zombie virus, three thousand dollars, and a pistol.
Terrell had poured the vials of the poison onto two pizzas that had quickly been sold to the hungry football fans. He had then murdered his supervisor, Richard, stolen the cash generated that day from the concessions stand, and fled the scene in Richard's Ford Explorer.
Hill was feeling really good. He had spent the last three nights at a Travel Lodge motel, just off the interstate, south of Petersburg, He watched the news closely, expecting to see his own face. Instead, there had been no mention of him at all. I might just have gotten away with the biggest mass murder in American history, he thought, smiling to himself.
There was plenty of talk on the news about the terrorist attacks in Athens, Georgia. Looking back, Terrell was impressed with the depth of Amir's planning. Georgia Square Mall was infected first on Saturday morning with the bio-terror virus. This attack served to pull police and first responders away from the UGA campus. Then, the chemical was spread simultaneously from inside Sanford Stadium and the packed Tate Student Center across the street from the stadium.
The reporters were saying that the death toll was estimated in the thousands and that the university and the city of Athens were still not secure. It's a good thing I got out as quick as I did, Terrell thought. If I had tried to leave the stadium ten or fifteen minutes later, it might have been a different story.
Yeah, he hoped this guy that he was meeting had some more work for him. He definitely needed the cash. Hill knew that he would need to dump his vehicle pretty soon. This new ride was definitely a step up from Richard's but he couldn't keep it too long. He could steal another car but buying one would be better. The goal was to avoid getting arrested.
I'm pretty good at this stuff, he thought to himself. Maybe I'll become an international assassin or something. Those guys make a lot of green and get a lot of girls. He turned the radio on and sang along to a rap song about killing all the cops.
#
Alexandria, Virginia, Wednesday, 1700 hours
Imam Ruhollah Ali Bukhari sat across from the three young men in the living room of the safe house. It was time to strike the Great Satan again. Over the last several weeks, there had been many powerful blows throughout America utilizing the zombie virus.
Several key cities had been attacked and many infidels had been infected. The death count nationwide was almost thirty thousand. And this did not include the attack from the University of Georgia the previous weekend. Ruhollah had not been able to reach Amir al-Razi, his agent behind that attack. He had to presume that al-Razi was dead or in custody.
It was a brilliant move by Amir to somehow spread the virus inside the stadium at UGA's home opener football game. News reports had reported the crowd at ninety-one thousand people in attendance. There had not been an official estimate of casualties in the bio-terror attack but Bukhari knew it had to be in the tens of thousands. And, the university campus was still not secure. The news was reporting that the National Guard was working to clear the area of zombies and rescue any survivors but they still had a long way to go.
In spite of Amir's success, the imam was still disappointed. His instructions had been clear. "Cripple the city of Atlanta." Al-Razi had launched multiple strikes but they had been on the periphery of the city. The media had also reported, and Bukhari's own sources confirmed, that Somalian terrorist, Mohamud Ahmed, had been shot and killed by Centers for Disease Control officers in the heart of the city, before he could launch his deadly attack near Georgia State University.
The President of the United States had struck back harder than the leadership in Iran had expected. Once he was satisfied that Iran was behind the bio-terror attacks on America soil, the President had unleashed the full fury of the American military. The Iranian air force, army, and navy had been destroyed in less than a month. Tehran and many other cities had been completely destroyed by the infidel forces. Ruhollah had to presume his children and their families were dead. He had had no contact with them in weeks.
Now, he was sitting with three more young jihadists. Three martyrs for three more crippling blows inside America. Ali, Hassan, and Ramzi were being sent out as the warriors of Allah that they were. This was their last briefing before they started driving for their targets.
Washington, D.C., New York, and Atlanta were going to be struck again. These three cities were hit hard in the initial stages of the jihad. The imam's area of responsibility was the east coast. He had been told to do as much damage as possible and to cripple the most important cities.
New York City represented America and had been the target of terrorists since the first World Trade Center bombing in 1993. Washington, D.C., was the seat of American power. Atlanta was the major southern city and, while attacked by Amir's men, had not suffered the crippling blow that Bukhari envisioned.
Ruhollah would pray with the three young martyrs and send them on their way. The coded message on the Islamic internet message board ordered that the new offensive begin on Friday at 1700 hours. Ali, Hassan, and Ramzi had forty-eight hours to reach their targets and to launch their attacks. Bukhari's bomb maker and lieutenant, Usama, would start the timers as the soldiers of Allah left the safe house. They would merely need to park their vehicles in a populated area near their targets and walk away. They would then find another location to activate the suicide vests each would be wearing.
Bukhari knew there were other assets in place, cells that had been in exis
tence for years. He had no idea who or where they all were. The American intelligence machine was good and it was better to keep different groups and agents compartmentalized.
Most of these sleeper cells had been activated during the initial attacks, weeks earlier. These were soldiers who had been waiting for their chance to become martyrs, as well. The imam knew that these other groups of Allah's soldiers had received the same orders he had. This should be a very interesting weekend.
After Ali, Hassan, and Ramzi drove away, Ruhollah sat in the kitchen sipping a cup of tea which Usama had prepared for him. Now, he had to decide what to do with Terrell Hill. He had clearly proven himself useful to Amir and had been responsible for the deaths of many thousands of infidels.
He was not a true believer, though. The imam knew that. Prison converts seldom were. That did not mean that he could not serve a purpose. It just meant that Hill's motives were not as pure as the three men they had just sent out. And, he was clearly not a professional.
Bukhari had had Usama call Terrell earlier that day. He'd been surprised to hear that the killer was still driving the same stolen car and was still using the same cell phone. Didn't the fool know that the Americans, infidels that they were, had a very long reach? The imam did not even have a cell phone and Usama had returned Hill's call using a pay phone down the street.
Usama told Hill to get rid of the car he was using and to steal another one. He also told Terrell to buy two or three cheap, prepaid phones. Usama gave Hill the address for a mall a few miles away from the safe house. They would meet in the food court during the lunch rush tomorrow and, if Hill was free of a tail, he would be brought back to meet the imam.
And that brought him back to his original question. What do I do with Terrell Hill? He clearly has no qualms about killing people. There must be some way to use a man like that, even if he lacked the operational skills that most operatives possessed. I'm sure I can find some role for him in this Holy War.
CHAPTER TWO
Chasing Shadows
The hallway was almost completely dark but he knew he was running in the right direction. He had been here before. Behind him, the footsteps were getting closer. Ahead, she was waiting for him. He had to get to her. He had to save her.
Chuck McCain turned the corner and saw the large room in front of him. The flickering fluorescent lights ahead of him caused him to slow down. He didn't want to get jumped as he entered the big room. Behind him, the sounds of growling and the pounding of footsteps were drawing nearer.
McCain reached for his pistol but the holster was empty. He felt a stab of fear. Where was his gun? How could he have lost his gun? The lights continued to flicker as he peered cautiously into the room. Empty. She had to be there. He knew that she was in this room.
He stepped inside and looked around again. There she was, lying on the floor in a corner. Why was she on the floor? McCain rushed over to her side and saw the blood. So much blood. They were getting closer. He only had seconds.
"Rebecca, wake up. Let's get out of here."
There was no response but he knew that he could save her if he could just get her out of there. He scooped her up in his arms and ran for the door on the far side of the room. He glanced behind him and saw that they were in the room now, closing on him and growling loudly and snapping their teeth at him. He got to the metal door, turned the knob, and was in the next hallway, still carrying her. Chuck threw his body against the door to close it. A second later, the slam of bodies from the other side echoed down the corridor.
This should be the last hallway. The exit was just ahead and he could get Rebecca some help. She was going to be fine. As he got to the last door and pushed it open, he felt her stir in his arms. Chuck stepped into the sunlight as it reflected off of her blonde hair.
He smiled at the beautiful woman he was carrying. "I knew you were going to be ok."
Rebecca's eyes opened and her hands that had been laying lifeless, reached up and around his neck. He felt her pulling him closer. He started to kiss her. Suddenly, a low growl came from her throat and McCain felt her teeth sinking into his neck.
"No!" he screamed and sat up in his bed, the sweat pouring off of his muscular body. His heart was racing and he felt like he had just sprinted around the block. A large figure stood in his doorway, watching. He walked over to Chuck, handing him a bottle of water.
McCain took it and drained half of it. "Thanks. Sorry if I woke you up."
"Sleep's overrated," said Scotty Smith. "You want to talk about it?"
Chuck shook his head. "Same dream. I keep hoping for a different ending."
The red numbers on the clock beside his bed showed 0350 hours. He knew he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. He reached for the cargo pants on the floor, stood, and slipped them on.
"I'll be ok. I'm going to make some coffee and read for a while. Go back to bed. You need your beauty sleep."
Scotty chuckled. "Sure, Chuck. And, for what it's worth, I've been there, too, with the bad dreams. When I got blown up in Iraq and Alex and TJ got killed, I woke up every night in the middle of a nightmare."
"How long did it last?"
"A few weeks."
McCain nodded. That was what he expected. He had had nightmares before. It was nothing like this, though. He had never lost someone that he had loved as much as he had loved her.
#
Centers for Disease Control Headquarters, Atlanta, Wednesday, 0600 hours
He had sat in his living room, drinking coffee and reading a few of the Psalms. David was a guy he could relate to. He was one of the greatest warriors and leaders in history. He had made some really bad personal decisions along the way but he never completely walked away from God. He wrote about his pain and his grief from losses that he had suffered and Chuck always found comfort in David's words.
After McCain could hear Scotty snoring in the guest bedroom, he finished dressing, let himself out of the house, and drove to work. When he stepped through the secure basement entrance at CDC headquarters, a short African-American man with gray hair, wearing a security guard uniform, was waiting on him.
"I saw you pulling in on the security cameras, Mr. McCain. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Ms. Johnson. She was a fine person and a good cop."
"Thanks, Darrell. That means a lot coming from you. We're all going to miss her."
The security supervisor stuck out his hand and Chuck shook it, noticing the tears in the man's eyes. Darrell was a former City of Baltimore police officer. He had retired as a sergeant and after relaxing for a year had taken the security job at the Centers for Disease Control. He was now one of the supervisors. The security staff and the CDC Enforcement Teams that Chuck headed had a good relationship. Most of security officers were retired law enforcement or military so they all got along well.
McCain walked into the locker room and changed into his workout clothes. The fitness center was empty at this early hour, exactly how he liked it. Today was chest day and the flat bench was a good place to exert himself. After a few warm up sets, he put two hundred and twenty-five pounds on the bar. He got an easy twelve reps so he added another fifty pounds. This time, he only managed eight reps. He did two more sets at two seventy-five and then bumped it up to three hundred and fifteen pounds.
At six foot two inches tall and two hundred and twenty pounds, Chuck was strong but he also knew that his long arms meant that a heavy bench press was always going to be a challenge. He had friends who were moving four and five hundred pounds but they also had short arms. His long arms were good for fighting, though, and his reach had saved him on more than one occasion.
McCain heard the door open as he was about to lift the bar off the bench.
"You need a spot?" a familiar voice asked. "Not that you're doing that much weight, but I know how easy it is for you old guys to hurt yourselves. And don't forget, you can't sneak away from me. I'm a Ranger. I sleep with one eye open."
Chuck closed his eyes in resignation.
Scotty Smith had become McCain's designated shadow since the events of the previous weekend. He had spent every night except one at Chuck's house. Smith was a big, bearded six foot five and a muscular two hundred and fifty pounds.
After spending twelve years in the army as a Ranger, he had taken a discharge after his humvee had hit an improvised explosive device. His injuries had not been serious but his two best friends had been killed. Smith had always dreamed of becoming a fireman so after getting out of the army, he applied and was accepted at one of metro Atlanta's fire departments. He was trained as a paramedic as well as a firefighter.
After two years, though, Scotty had gotten bored and applied to a security contracting company to go back to Iraq. It was at that point that Rebecca Johnson, the head of the Centers for Disease Control Enforcement Unit in Atlanta, was able to recruit him to come apply his talents and skills there. His training as an Army Ranger Sniper and as a paramedic had made him a vital part of Chuck's team.
He helped Chuck lift the bar off the rack and watched him closely as he got four repetitions. Smith set up on the flat bench next to McCain's and started his own warm ups. He spotted Chuck for another set of five and then six repetitions at three hundred and fifteen pounds.
Scotty put a twenty-five on either side of McCain's bar for a total of three hundred and sixty-five pounds. Chuck managed to get two reps. Smith already had four hundred and five pounds on his bar and positioned himself under it. McCain stayed close to spot him as he got six repetitions.
After lifting weights for an hour, Chuck walked over to the hanging heavy bag. He pulled the wraps out of his bag and deftly wrapped his own hands. He set the timer on his phone for ten three minute rounds, slipped on the twelve ounce boxing gloves he carried in his gym bag, and went to work.
