by Rick Jones
The Well-Dressed man grabbed the aluminum case, hustled through the glass enclosed lab, and into the hallway with the cooling case in one hand the gun in the other. He then made his way to the elevators, passing the bodies he left behind as time seemed to be going along at a much faster pace, the secondhand in his mind moving in blinding revolutions as minutes appeared as seconds. When he reached the elevators he spoke into his Bluetooth. "Let's go,” he said. “The doors should have been open already."
As soon as he spoke the doors opened.
As the elevator ascended, the Well-Dressed Man lowered the aluminum case to the floor, reseated a fully loaded clip into his firearm, and then jacked the slide back to load the weapon. I'm good.
When the doors opened to the lobby, he quickly exited the elevator and confronted the two unit members who were posing as guards. With a deft move that surprised both of his teammates, the Well-Dressed man lifted his firearm and shot them dead, each man receiving a bullet to the brain.
After grabbing the case, he exited the building and moved as quickly as possible without drawing attention.
"Good job," stated the Navigator, the voice still distant and hollow over the ear bud.
Good job.
But the Well-Dressed man ignored the praise as he disappeared into darkness.
CHAPTER THREE
Galveston National Laboratory, Galveston, Texas
First Floor Lobby Area
11:27 PM
About a half hour before midnight, the lobby of the Galveston National Laboratory was milling with the principal leaders from the University, as well as members from the FBI. Law enforcement officials cordoned off the entryway to the facility, and were instructed to maintain their posts to restrict any unauthorized personnel into the lobby area.
After showing their badges, Special Agents Wheeler and Denmore walked toward the main console where four bodies lay. Two of the bodies were employees of the University, armed guards, whereas the other two were known only to Avery Curtis, the Associate Executive Assistant Director for the National Security Branch, and second-in-command of the Weapons of Mass Destruction Directorate.
"What's up, Avery? What do we have here?" Denmore asked, approaching with Wheeler at his side.
Avery Curtis was tall, thin and wiry with an awkward crook to his neck, like a buzzard’s, with eyes that appeared too close together and a weak-looking chin. In his hand was an iPad. And on the screen of that iPad was a series of photos. "So far," he began, "we have fourteen dead. Eleven known employees of the University and three with ties to a known terrorist faction active in Dearborn, Michigan."
“Dearborn?"
Curtis nodded, then reviewed his iPad. On the screen were three headshot pictures of African-American males in their mid- to early twenties. "These two,” he said, pointing at the two bodies who were wearing the counterfeit attire, "have been identified as Darius Townsend and Tyrone Washington, both born in Detroit. About three years ago they took up with a radical fundamentalist group close to Dearborn. That's where they apparently discovered themselves," he said, flexing his fingers of his free hand at the word ‘discovered’ for emphasis. He then walked over to the first of the two bodies, then matched the face to the headshot on the iPad. He then tapped the image with the tip of his forefinger, which brought up the man's dossier. "This one," he said, "Darius Townsend, took the name of Afiya Kassab, a punk with a rap sheet as long as my leg. And that one over there," he referred to the second downed guard with a slight inclination of his chin, "is Tyrone Washington. Another thug with a long rap sheet. And we’re talking about drug sales, strong-arm robberies, illegal gun sales—not a nice guy."
"And these two?" asked Wheeler, pointing at the two guards that were similarly dressed.
"Employees of the University," answered Curtis. "It appears they were taken out before they could even get their guns drawn or raised. Both quick kills."
"And who killed them?" asked Denmore. “Any leads?”
"Well, that's where things get a little strange on us," he said. "It appears that two others were involved. The third-party is downstairs. A man by the name of John Voorhees. Another outstanding citizen," he stated with a hint of sarcasm. "Another radical who took the name of Mohammed Bashir, also from Detroit. And like these two, he’d been executed by a fourth man."
Wheeler looked at him questioningly. "You mean to tell me that these three were executed by someone from their own team?"
"It appears that way," Curtis said. "We have some footage, not much since the system was compromised and the video feeds altered, of four men entering the building at two different stages. While these two stood post to keep others from entering the lower levels, Mohammed and the Fourth Man went below to BL-3, which houses the most virulent diseases known to man. While these two stood guard up here, the other two were able to breach the lab and took what was considered to be a highly toxic strain. So toxic, in fact, it warrants a visit by two virologists from the CDC, who are on their way here now from Atlanta."
Avery Curtis raised his iPad and tapped his fingertip against an app. What came up on the screen was a downloaded image of the Well-Dressed Man. Unlike Mohammed, who was dressed in black fatigues, this particular person was dressed in a top-end suit that was very expensive. "This guy, however, does not exist in our databases or any of our watch lists. We have used facial recognition software, but no luck. None of the landmarks on his face show up on any of our files. So whoever this guy is, he's an unknown. And as for the reason why he took out his teammates—we simply don't know."
"And the pathogen?" asked Wheeler.
"It's something called the Omega Strain. Obviously something I know nothing about since it’s a toxin with TS classification." TS being the acronym for top secret. "But what I've been told by the Executive Assistant Director, this stuff is quite nasty with a mortality rate of one hundred percent. Worse, there's no antidote. It's quick, it's efficient, and from what I understand, it can wipe out hundreds within minutes."
Wheeler in Denmore knew that establishments such as the Galveston National Laboratory were not unique. In fact, there were many facilities who dealt with toxic strains, especially within populated areas with several institutions going unregulated. There are even private enterprises who rent out workbench spaces to those who are not even qualified or accredited to work on virulent toxins, with these makeshift labs often found in brick and mortar buildings deep in the heart of Manhattan. As soon as the feds tear one down, another is put in its place.
But this was something different. This particular facility housed something that nobody had ever seen or heard of before. Something that had TS clearance for a selected few. The question was, how did this group know about the Omega Strain? Which begged a second question: How did they have the sophistication to hack through the firewalls of one of the most complex computer and defense systems in the world? Whoever they were, they were definitely high-end operatives. But the bodies of the three radicals seemed the counter that theory. They were smalltime thieves, not polished criminals. And because of who they were, nothing made sense.
Everyone continued to look at the still photo of the Fourth Man. It was obvious to them that this person, whoever he was, was the missing link who could shed some light upon a mystery that had many questions but no discernible answers.
Whoever this man was, he was deeply undercover with no apparent ties to the past or present. Nor was he on anyone's radar or intel databases. He was strictly a phantom.
"How much of the stuff was taken? Do you know?" asked Special Agent Denmore.
Avery Curtis nodded. "From what I've been told, a dozen vials."
"That's it?" asked Wheeler. “Twelve vials of one strain?"
"That's more than enough," he said. "One container of the stuff, so I'm told, can wipe out the entire city. Now what it does, I don't know. But when the guys from the CDC get here, then we'll have a come-to-Jesus meeting to find out what exactly this strain does, or is capable of doing. In the me
antime, we've alerted the NSA and the principals at the White House. Right now we're treating this as an act of terrorism. Obviously these people had expert backing. And given that the three deceased have ties with a radical fundamentalist group, we have to consider the action as a means for this group to use the strain as a bioweapon against American interests. Right now we have agencies looking for the leaders at the Dearborn, Michigan base where these three came from. Hopefully, we can get a fix on the Fourth Man. And if we get a fix on the Fourth Man, then perhaps we can find the strain before he or the organization he works for releases the contents within those vials."
Everyone standing in the lobby knew that the first forty-eight hours were always critical. If they didn't get any leads within that timeframe, then the case would flounder and lose its teeth. And all they had at the moment were a couple of photos of a man who did not exist.
With fourteen people dead and a lethal strain missing, and with 360° of direction but nowhere to turn, all they could do was hope that a break would fall their way. But breaks were few and far between.
The clock kept ticking.
CHAPTER FOUR
Saint Viator’s Church
Las Vegas, NV
1:00 PM the Following Day
The foyer to Saint Viator’s Church was in complete disarray. To the left of the entryway, a donation box was completely destroyed as chips of wood lay everywhere. One of the doors leading into the area hung drunkenly from its hinges. And the holy-water font had been tipped over, the water spread across the floor.
Father Donavan stood at the foot of the threshold looking at the mess. This was not the first time. Nor was this unique. Saint Viator’s Church was located in downtown Las Vegas and not far from the Clark County Detention Center. For years the area had been in decline, the crime rate skyrocketing. And two weeks ago, just after Saint Viator’s installed security cameras, they had been ripped from their mounts and stolen, gone within two days.
The priest sighed through his nose, closed his eyes, and waited for calm.
"I'll clean this up for you, Father," a voice from behind stated evenly, which startled the Jesuit.
When the priest first met Kimball Hayden several months ago, Kimball offered him a roll of bills amounting to more than $6000 from fighting in caged events throughout venues in Las Vegas. The large man had simply walked up to the gate, called upon the priest, and told him to put the money to good use, which Father Donavan did. The funds had provided cots, linen and food for the homeless. He never saw the man again until he showed up at the rectory's door two months ago asking if he could provide services without the benefit of pay, that he only wanted to give. The priest recognized him immediately. And when he asked Kimball his name, Kimball told him that it was ‘Seth,’ with no last name. Father Donavan never pressed him for it, either.
"Seth." The old man sounded relieved. Then he shook his head in dismay. "I know times are tough," he stated solemnly. "But this is still the House of God."
“Unfortunately, Father, that doesn't mean a whole lot to some people.” Kimball immediately got to his knees and began to gather the pieces of broken wood from the donation box.
Father Donavan hunkered down as well, and began to gather the pieces of the broken font. "That’s the third time I replaced the box in the last four months," he said. "But this font, I don't know how I'll be able to replace it. They’re not cheap."
"Maybe I can help you out with that, Father."
"Seth, I can't ask any more of you. You’ve given so much to Saint Viator’s already."
"You can never give too much to the church, Father. Never enough."
Father turned to Kimball, wondering what made such a man believe that giving his all was never enough in the eyes of the Lord. He had met people like Seth before. People who were never content in their own absolution no matter how much they offered. And in Seth's case, he wondered about this repeatedly by continuously turning a single question over in his mind: What crime did you commit to make you believe that God would never forgive you?
"I can find work," Kimball told him. "I’ll be able to get the money."
"Replacing these items are one thing,” Donavan said. “To keep them whole is another. Every time I put up security cameras, they steal them. Whenever I lock the doors, they break them down. And I cannot afford the doors of the church to be locked at all hours when there are so many trying to seek comfort."
"Did you call the police?”
"Many times," returned Father Donavan. "But even though I know who did this, I’ve nothing to provide them by way of evidence."
Kimball stopped picking up the pieces of the broken donation box, and seemed rather perplexed. "You know who's doing this?" he asked, waving his hand in a gesture regarding the mess inside the foyer.
"Only what I've been told," said the priest. "Which is why I put up cameras."
"Who?"
Father Donavan turned to Kimball, their eyes meeting. And Father Donavan could see something smoldering deep inside this man, a kindling spark of undeniable rage that told him that Seth was a man capable of great violence. "It doesn't matter," he told him. "Someday this man will be before God. And on his Day of Judgment he will not benefit from that which he steals from the church today."
Not if I get to him first, thought Kimball. Sometimes lessons need to be taught.
Father Donavan reached a hand out to Kimball and placed it gingerly on the large man's forearm. "It's all right, Seth . . . It'll be fine." But it wouldn't be fine. Father Donavan could clearly see the spark of burning rage pulsating like an ember that refuses to die within Kimball's eyes, that unadulterated anger that easily controlled the man rather than the man controlling the anger. In Father Donavan's mind, he could tell that Seth was taking this personally. So he intuited the man’s raw emotions by patting him gently on his arm. "Let it go," he said softly. "Please, Seth. Let it go."
But with Kimball being Kimball, he couldn't let it go.
Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.
He would protect the church.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bensenville, New Mexico
Three Days after the Break-In of the Galveston National Laboratory
10:44 AM
There was a small town twenty-five miles north of the Mexican border—where a dried-up fountain served as the community’s central point the same way a bandstand would serve as the point of congregation for a tiny village—that could only be accessed by four-wheel drives.
In the distance a plume of sand was kicked up as a Jeep made its way across the desert landscaping. As it approached the town's center, the driver, a stranger, parked the vehicle next to an old pickup truck with bubble fenders. On the pickup’s rear bumper was a sticker that read Mother, Guns and Beer.
Getting out of the Jeep, the Stranger stood for a long moment, appraising the town that was more like a dusty encampment. Behind him the tails of his leather trench coat billowed softly with the course of a soft breeze. He was tall and lean, about six-two, with broad shoulders and angular features, like his raw-boned jaw line and aquiline nose. Beneath the lenses of darkly tinted sunglasses, his eyes were the color of obsidian glass, eyes that were dark and penetrating.
The man eventually looked skyward at the white-hot sun, then turned to look at the town’s fountain, perhaps a one-time luxury designed to give the town some kind of appeal, only for its basin to collect inches of desert sand over the years. Perched on top of the fountain stood a raven who watched the Stranger through the eyes that were black and dark and seemingly without soul, the bird sizing him with cold indifference.
The Stranger stepped away from the Jeep and entered a small bar that had a washed out sign that read Jimmy Ray's, with the logo of a bottle of something, presumably high-end liquor, being poured into a martini glass. Over the establishment was a corrugated tin roof that had rusted over time, which matched the corrugated tin walls.
Stepping inside, a single ceiling fan turned in slow revolutions and d
id little other than to paddle hot air inside the room. In the center of the establishment sat three people, brothers by the looks of them, all grease monkeys who fixed anything that operated on diesel fuel, which, in Bensenville, was pretty much anything that ran on four wheels.
The Stranger, drawing exploratory stares from the brothers and from the bartender, took a seat at the opposite side of the room where the table had an old-time jukebox normally seen in a 1950’s diner, one that played three songs for a quarter. The price had never changed, and neither did the songs, which still played country oldies from artist’s he might have heard of once or twice in his lifetime, usually at moments of trivia.
The bartender walked over to the table, wiped his hands against his apron, and addressed the stranger. "Something I could do you for, Mister?" he asked.
"Yeah. I'll have a Corona.”
"Sorry. But we don’t carry any of that fancy French beer in this here establishment.”
You mean Mexican? "All right,” the Stranger said. “Tell me what you have on tap?"
"Well, what we got here, Mister, is Miller Lite."
When the bartender didn't add anything more to that list, the Stranger pressed him. "And?"
"And nothing. Miller Lite’s all we got."
The Stranger’s expression remained neutral, even though he couldn’t believe the lack of a drink menu. "You have Coke?”
"We have something close to it,” he said.
"Pepsi?"
"We have something close to it.”
What kind of place is this? the Stranger thought. And then: "I'll take whatever it is you have here."
When the bartender went behind the counter, the most sizable of the three brothers addressed him by pointing a finger that seemed more accusatory than friendly. "You just passing through?" he asked.
The Stranger nodded. "You could say that," he said. “Yeah.”
"Well, I tells you what--"
I tells you what? The Stranger couldn't get over the redneck vernacular of these people.
