by Rick Jones
Jerald Seymour nodded. “That’s right, Mr. President. As you previously mentioned, Mr. Melbourne and I were in a small community located about twenty-five miles north of the Mexican border. The town is tiny, isolated, with a population of eighty-four people. Now of this 84 people 80 were determined to have been killed by the virus, two were out hunting and returned after the virus had run its course, and the last two were visiting relatives elsewhere. Of the eighty people who were located at Ground Zero at the time of the virus’s release, it is presumed that everyone was killed within five minutes. Observations by Mr. Melbourne and myself, as well as the two members of the CDC, we concluded that this particular strain has the capability of decimating a much larger area, if not contained. It appears that the pathogen’s boundaries are only determined by its lack of hosts. Since Bensenville was an isolated community, we believe it was chosen as a petri dish, a testing ground if you will, to see the effects on the human body, which were quite devastating.”
“And the effects of the virus?” Asked Pres. Burroughs.
“The strain, unlike any other virus or bacteria, devours and breaks down human tissue internally and liquefies organs and soft tissue. It also breaks down the skeletal structure until it is so weakened that it can no longer support the weight of the body’s internal mass, which, of course, has been transformed into a liquid state. The bones become so brittle that they break into pieces no larger than the size of a dime.”
“You said something about hosts,” the president continued. “Can you expound on that for me.”
Seymour nodded. “The land beyond the borders of Bensenville is strictly desert terrain, a wasteland. However, if this was not the case, if the borders were not borders at all, but a populated city for which the strain could continue to leapfrog from host the host, from people to people, it could be said that what happened in Bensenville would have continued to stretch on if there was living tissue for the strain to infect.”
President Burroughs leaned forward at his desk, looking very intense.” Are you telling me that this strain would have continued to move outward in a ripple effect if it had bodies to feed on?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you, Mr. President. Once it reached the desert boundary for which there was nothing more to feed on, the strain simply starved itself into a benign state.”
Burroughs fell back into his seat, looking dissatisfied with the answer, with the truth. “And if such a strain was released in a city, let’s say, like New York?”
Seymour shrugged. “I’m afraid I can only hazard a guess, Mr. President.”
“Guess away, Mr. Seymour.”
Seymour gave a sidelong glance to Melbourne, who shared with him the knowledgeable look of the strain’s destructive capabilities, that it was absolute. “Mr. President, I’m afraid that as long as there are hosts to be had, then there would be no stopping its progression, at least as far as we know at this point. If such a strain should be loosened upon streets of New York City, then a pandemic would certainly follow. And the ripple effect of the strain’s movement may never cease.”
“Are you telling me that one vial of this stuff can wipe out an entire city?”
“All I’m saying, Mr. President, is that the Omega Strain has the potential of doing that, to grow and take new ground. Whether or not it can actually consume an entire population is still up for debate. Like I said, Mr. President, we can only speculate given what Mr. Melbourne, myself, and the members of the CDC have observed regarding the town of Bensenville.”
Burroughs then redirected his questions to NSA Chief Jason Melbourne and CIA Director Doug Craner, the monitors of cyberspace. Since Melbourne was in Bensenville alongside Seymour, he had his elite team intercept and appropriate all data coming and going from the Dearborn location. Since data was also being relayed to the Canadian faction, CIA Director Doug Craner utilized his team efforts to intercept the channeling of data from the Canadian group to principals in Iran, more specifically in Tehran.
“Doug, Jason, I know you guys had your units monitoring outgoing channels from Michigan to Canada, and from Canada to Iran. Am I correct on this?”
“You are, Mr. President,” said Craner, taking the lead in the discussion. “We’ve been working very closely with the NSA regarding all transmissions from the Dearborn location to the Canadian outpost, where we know the resident faction is receiving and transmitting encrypted data from their position to Iran regarding the obtainment of the Omega Strain.”
“So Dearborn’s admitting culpability in this?” asked the president.
“They’re claiming that the force sent to the Galveston lab was a part of the American-Islamic League working in conjunction with the Islamic group secreted away inside the mosque. Their transmission also stated that the three killed in the exchange were Americans, which we already know. The fourth, however, is also American, the one who obtained the strain and was working his way north to provide them with the asset of the WMD. Further stated and translated, it appears that once they got the asset, then the strain would be transported across Canadian lines to the Canadian group, and from there they would work on getting the strain to Iran.”
“I assume we’re working hand-in-hand with the Canadian authorities?”
“We are, Mr. President.”
“And the Dearborn location?”
This time, Melbourne answered. “We’re monitoring the location very closely,” he said. “We have forces all around the mosque. And we have bodies all over the place, asking questions, with my people digging deep and hard. If there’s any information to be had, Mr. President, we will obtain it. If the strain should make its way north as indicated in the messages, my team will be ready to intercept it. Believe me, this pathogen will never get close to the Canadian border, or to the Dearborn mosque.”
“I hope you’re right,” said the president. “Right now I need answers about this fourth man. I need to know where he is, who he is, and what his agenda is. If he should get cornered when our teams are positioning themselves, the last thing I want him to do is to take on a martyr-like mentality and open up the vials. The use of caution must be optimum here.”
“We’ll be very careful, Mr. President. Orders have been established that this man is to be terminated on site. We cannot afford to provide him with the opportunity to dig himself in, and then open the tubes.”
“Agreed,” stated President Burroughs. “Have we even got any kind of lead as to who this guy is?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. President,” said Melbourne. “He’s still a mystery. However, while we were in Bensenville, it appeared that our monitoring system was being hacked into from a small motel several miles east. Of course, we sent a team as soon as the breach was discovered, but the area is completely sanitized. The motel had been burned to the ground. The innkeeper and two patrons were summarily executed. In one room we found what looked like to be a PC workstation with several monitors. We’ve confirmed this location to be the point of breach. The question is, however, by whom?”
“You think it’s our guy?” asked the president.
“We believe so,” answered Melbourne. “We believe he was closely monitoring the results of the Omega strain being released on Bensenville. Once he got the required information, he sanitized the area, took out anyone who could possibly ID him, and is presumably making his way north towards Dearborn to meet his contacts.”
“And, of course, you’re canvassing every road, airport, train station, any means of transportation from point A to point B?” the president went on.
FBI Director Larry Johnston leaned forward to emphasize his point. “Mr. President, so that you know, I had my team contact every field office from the southwest to all points in the northeast, involving them in the search for this man. We had faxed photos and information regarding the break-in of the Galveston lab, as well as the volatility of the situation. They were told to be discreet as possible, and to approach with extreme caution. And as stated before, once confirmation ha
s been made on this fourth man, then he is to be terminated with extreme prejudice. All members of the FBI, regarding this man, have been given the right to show deadly force with impunity.”
“Understood,” returned the president.
Although the ducks appeared to be in place and the protocol machine working smoothly, President Burroughs realized that there was a lot of terrain to cover, a lot of back roads that could go undetected from a drone’s view or from a satellite’s eye. Someone unskilled or unlearned would simply take the interstate to condense time, taking for granted that he was a ghost, a man without a face or identity. So President Burroughs banked on this, hoping that this assassin would foolishly fall into government hands and end the threat. The Burroughs had seen the tape of the man working his way through the Galveston facility. He was swift and fluid, moving like a man who had been highly trained. His motions, the quickness of his thinking, told him otherwise. This killer was no novice. This he was sure of. In fact, he was sure that this fourth man would be smarter than what his political team assessed him to be.
Burroughs closed his eyes, felt the beginnings of a headache, and prayed that his appraisal of this man was wrong.
But President Burroughs had seen skilled players before.
And this guy, he knew, would not be an easy takedown.
His temples began to throb.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Las Vegas, NV
Contrary to popular belief, nuns do not wear habits and wimples 24/7. Long ago they had adapted to informal wear during times of leisure away from the church, often wearing slacks and a blouse. Today she was sitting outside a franchise coffee shop on Freemont Street beneath the canopy of the Experience, sipping a skinny latte.
People came and went and milled about, the rich and the poor, those that lived in stucco houses, and those who lived on the streets with their hands held out for the pittance of extra change. And Sister Abigail watched them all without prejudice.
Without the covering of the wimple, her hair was closely cropped and nicely framed the pixie-like features of her face. Her eyes were so blue and bright that they were starkly luminous, even from a distance. And her teeth were ruler-straight. As such, Sister Abigail’s countenance often drew an appreciative eye from men.
After taking a sip and placing the cup down on the tabletop, the Experience played cartoonlike images along the canopy to the beat of a Rolling Stone song that played over the loudspeakers. However, her mind was elsewhere as the beat of the tune became nothing more than a thrumming drone to her senses.
She had always been a good judge of character, always able to see deep within a man’s eyes and with near verbatim outline his life from start to finish with stunning accuracies. And Seth was no different.
Deep beneath the beautiful surface his cerulean blue eyes she saw the constant struggle of a man’s soul warring between the light and dark, between good judgment and bad, the two always tipping the scale from one side to the next in seesaw fashion, the man serving as the fulcrum for which there never seemed to be any true balance, only constant vacillation.
She saw the pain, the self-torture, the grief and the need to be good, to be the best man he could possibly be. But the journey was not an easy one. In fact, it was damn hard, Seth always struggling between what he is now . . . to what he used to be. On some odd plain of existence, she thought that the light and the dark needed each other in order for Seth to exist. He could never survive if one was weaker than the other.
Balance!
That’s all Seth needed, she thought: balance. If the light and dark could somehow coexist, then the sadness that she saw within his eyes, that look of deep sorrow, would somehow find an inner peace by accepting his past actions rather than regretting them.
How heavy of a cross do you bear, Seth? How deep is the pain?
Sister Abigail closed her eyes and silently prayed for the man, asking God to look over Seth and to give him comfort. And to allow the goodness within him prevail.
He is a good man, Lord. He is. And as keen as her senses were, she could see that much—no matter how heavy the cross he bore upon his conscience.
But above it all he was different, she considered. He was not given to the corruption of thievery to sustain himself in the streets. Nor was he the type to take from those who were willing to offer the value of help by way of pennies, nickels and dimes. He worked for his keep. And in the end, despite being destitute, he always gave.
Over two years ago he had donated a large sum of money to the parish which served to provide aid to those in need—such as food and blankets and peace of mind to those who would be cared for for one more night. And all due to the kindness of a stranger. Most recently, he was serving the parish once again by donating his efforts to see it restored and free from vandalism.
She opened her eyes.
Yes, Lord. He is a good man.
As that thought echoed through her mind, she was beginning to suffer her own regrets. Ever since she had come to know Seth, she found herself gravitating toward him emotionally, finding him strikingly handsome in the way that made one’s pulse race. In her mind’s eye she saw his dazzling smile and could envision the way he moved, that of confidence.
She had been in love once before and engaged right up until the moment her fiancé discovered a woman who had a never-ending financial well to tap from. So he left her without any regret or fanfare other than to tell her to ‘keep the ring,’ which she did, only to find out that the diamond was actually cubic zirconia that was worth less than its printed receipt.
Although the incident angered her more than crushed her, she eventually found her way with faith and hope, seeing divinity as tool of great healing. In time she became a sister of the Franciscan faith and a member of the Franciscan Sisters of Christian Charity, ultimately winding up at Saint Viator’s where she humbled herself by serving food to those in need and partaking in charitable services. She had never been happier.
But since Seth had come into her life, she began with her own struggles, feeling almost adulterous in her ways against God. Forgive me, Lord. I’m only human.
She wanted to help Seth, to aid the man by taking someone who was obviously broken and make him whole again. At least that’s what she told herself, what she told God in her prayers. But she knew that this was only the partial truth. She also wanted to be with him.
She closed her eyes and bowed her head, her lips moving silently. And for every moment of prayer she asked for forgiveness.
But the image in her mind was not of God or of the church.
It was the image of Seth.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Cuidad Obregón, Mexico
Ciudad Obregon is the second largest city in the northern Mexican state of Sonora and is situated 326 miles south of Arizona, and is the municipal seat of Cajeme municipality, which is located in the Yaqui Valley. The day was hot and stifling, the sun grueling and relentless with the promise of an excessively hot night to follow.
Ezekiel lay on a cot with a thin mattress that was badly spotted with brown, Rorschach-like stains. But he didn’t care as sweat poured over him. His tank top was clinging to his skin, wet and tacky. And in his hand was a handgun that was fixed with a suppressor that was as long as the gun’s barrel. He was staring at the blades of the ceiling fan move in slow rotations, the fan doing little else but to paddle hot air around.
Pointing the mouth of the weapon’s barrel to one of the moving blades and then drawing a bead, he pulled the trigger, a dry click.
When he first met Abraham Obadiah it was in Paris, right after he failed in his attempt to kill Kimball Hayden. The man had openly offered him a position within his organization after appraising his skill set as an elite killer. More so, they shared a common enemy in Kimball Hayden—with the enemy of my enemy being my friend. But Ezekiel had never seen Obadiah as nothing but an associate, someone who was nothing more than an afterthought by the end of the day.
He pulled the trigger again.
. . . Click . . .
After he was trained in the ways of the Lohamah Psichlogit, Ezekiel was then “processed” as if he were a prisoner, going through rigorous interrogation techniques to withstand any punishments should his role as an infiltrator be compromised. He learned the enemy’s language and dialect, their culture and prayers. And the transformation from Ezekiel to Umar al-Shaheed was a successful one that culminated in a final makeover as an Islamic terrorist with American ties.
His commencement as a mole began in Michigan, at the Masjid Al-Haqq Mosque where his anti-sentiment rants against the United States and Israel caught the attention of radical fundamentalists. Within months his seemingly sound reasoning earned him prestige within the Circle, which subsequently became a call of duty to serve Allah alongside his al-Qaeda brothers. Within a span of three months, Ezekiel had successfully infiltrated the Islamic Revolutionary Front.
It wasn’t too long, however, when he caught the eye of his leader, Adham al-Sazeem.
. . . Click . . .
