Conspiracy of Silence

by Ronie Kendig

“He’s been hit,” a voice shouted.

  “QRF has entered the building.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Catalyst is on-site.”

  The voices drowning the feed did nothing to buffer the shock speeding through her system. She couldn’t tear her attention from the monitor. Cole was shot. But it hadn’t stopped him. A few more moves that happened so fast, Kasey couldn’t tell what he did, and the puncher fell to the side.

  “Kasey.” Levi stood and touched her shoulder.

  “Shh.” She waved him off, staring at the monitor. She searched the people still moving. Everything went eerily silent. Men drifted around the room, removing weapons, checking pulses. Another hurried from one spot to another, gathering items. “Did we lose sound?” she asked, looking to Robbie. “What’s going on?”

  Robbie shook her head.

  Cole reappeared, a sack slung over his right shoulder, his left covered in blood. Six men grouped up around him with weapons and gear. “Command, this is Tox.” Cole was unnaturally calm and focused. “Targets neutralized. We need QRF exfil.”

  18

  — Day 9 —

  New Delhi

  Pain sliced through Tox’s shoulder and arm from the bullet wound. He cringed, hand going to his right pectoral. He gritted his teeth and worked his way out of the hazmat suit he’d been stuffed into before boarding the chopper. Skin clammy, head light, he lifted his leg free. Hopped to the side, his balance shifting, then kicked off the suit. He dropped against the inches-thick glass wall of the sophisticated isolation chamber and took a minute to regain his strength. He peered over at Chatresh, who was also disrobing.

  A glass divider slid down between them, pushing Tox farther to his right as it spliced the chamber. Air hissed through a vent. He turned and squinted past the glare into the semidarkness of the warehouse-turned-safe house.

  “Just extracting the air and refreshing with clean O2,” a man said as he adjusted dials. “Let me know if it’s too cold or hot.”

  Right, because comfort was important when you were possibly infected with a deadly plague.

  “Soon as Dr. Benowitz”—Ram indicated a man standing in a hastily assembled medical area—“clears you, we’ll get that bullet out and patch you up. The risk of exposure to the rest of us was both secondary and minimal, but we’re still doing blood work.”

  “Good.” Anger churned through his veins. He turned to Chatresh. “My men just got put through the grinder to save you. What do you know?”

  Still disentangling himself from his hazmat suit, Chatresh met Tox’s gaze. Then went back to changing.

  Tox stabbed a finger at him. “They risked their lives for you, and now you play dumb? We need answers! Tell me what you know.”

  Sitting, Chatresh curled away from him, his dark hair mussed and clumped to the side, and tugged the suit from his legs. “I told you they were coming after me.”

  “Who? Who were they?”

  Brown eyes widened. “I never met them before.”

  “Why?” Tox held his shoulder. “What do you have that they want?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you, I have nothing!” Chatresh held out his arms. Stood and turned a circle. “See? Nothing!”

  “Infor—” A stab of pain nearly dropped Tox to his knees. He growled through it.

  “Tox, you okay?” Ram asked.

  Sweat slipped down his forehead as he nodded.

  “SAARC and FBI are onsite,” Thor announced, the wash of a blue laptop glaring on his face.

  Hand on the cool glass, Tox braced himself. Looked across the twenty-three feet to a monitor that showed the perimeter of the warehouse. A half-dozen shapes closed in, then broke out of view. He glanced over his shoulder as the main door squeaked open.

  In walked Robbie Almstedt, two tech geeks, that suit from DC—Wallace—and Cortes. Her gaze swam across the warehouse and quickly came to rest on Tox. Something about her green eyes twisted him inside out. Was it his imagination, or did she seem relieved to see him alive?

  “Hey,” Ram said, standing in front of the wall again. “How you holding up? Want ibuprofen?”

  Tempting. “I’ll wait,” he gritted out, pulling his gaze from Kasey Cortes. He sat for another twenty minutes, eyes closed. Trying to rest. But he followed her voice. It was soft. Not like the guys or even Almstedt. Hers was low and lulling.

  “He’s clear,” the doctor called. “Go! Get him on my table.”

  Locks cracked back. The door swung open. Chiji was the first one hovering over him. Tox gritted through the pain. “Make him talk.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ram said as they hoisted him up.

  “I can walk,” Tox argued, hating that they carried him.

  Cell snorted. “Like a drunk pelican.”

  Ram and Chiji ushered him out of the chamber to the table waiting beneath a blinding industrial light. The doc numbed his shoulder then dug around for the bullet. It felt like a knife fight going on inside him.

  Finally, the doctor stitched him, then had him sit up. On the edge of the table, Tox endured the bandaging. He noticed SAARC and the FBI agents had set up equipment and settled into the digs.

  Tox accepted four ibuprofen from Ram. With a bottle of water, he dumped back the pills and swallowed. “You get anything out of Chatresh?”

  “He won’t talk to anyone but you,” Ram said. “And you might want to get dressed. Seems your bare chest is distracting certain people of the female persuasion.”

  Tox glanced at Almstedt.

  “Not her,” Ram said quietly.

  Tox’s gaze slid to Cortes, whose head was down. Low. In an awkward, trying-not-to-notice way. “Where’s my gear?” He came off the table to get another bottle of water.

  “Should you be moving around yet?” Square-shouldered and with his white sleeves rolled up, Wallace appraised him.

  Tox stopped. “We still have a mission?”

  The suit nodded.

  “Then yeah, I should be moving around.” Tox grabbed the water and twisted off the cap. Gulped. “Where’s my gear?”

  “You’re over there,” Thor said, pointing to a cot against the far wall.

  Tox grabbed a tactical shirt from his ruck then threaded his arms through it. When he hooked it over his head, pain wrestled him. He ground his molars and tugged it down before rejoining the others around the long row of tables. “Do we know yet if Chatresh is infected?”

  “Doesn’t look good.” Ram sat back in a chair. “There are abnormalities in his blood work. Benowitz recommended keeping him in there until a detailed analysis comes back from a UN lab.”

  “Hey,” Cell said with a lopsided grin, “I got shot, too.” He pointed to where his shirt sleeve had been rolled up over his shoulder and a Band-Aid glared back.

  Tox snorted. “My grandma’s butter knife would’ve left a bigger scratch.”

  “Man, why you hatin’?”

  “Because you make it so easy.” Maangi strolled to a chair and straddled it, arms folded over the back.

  “Any word from Tzivia?” Tox asked.

  “Actually,” Almstedt said, finally looking up from the mound of machinery and paperwork spilled over the tables, “I spoke with her. And Dr. Cathey.”

  “Why don’t I like the sound of that?” Tox mumbled, quickly making the connection between SAARC and Tzivia’s censers.

  “Because we all know they’re going to make us go all Indiana Jones again,” Cell complained.

  “Because after nearly blowing you guys to a thousand pieces in Syria, they want to make sure they don’t miss this time?” Thor’s humor was even darker than Cell’s.

  “Because,” Almstedt snapped, then took several calming breaths. “Because you signed on the dotted line, Russell.”

  “We were sent here to track down an assassin. Then we’re reallocated to track down an Indian with a virus.” Tox wagged his eyebrows toward the isolation chamber. “His brother says he’s dead, so are we done here?”

  “Until we locate the
body and missing censer, you’re not done.” Almstedt drew off her glasses. “What did you find out from Chatresh?”

  “Little,” Tox said with a shake of his head. “He got spooked. When we got back here, he went silent.”

  “Silent how?” The voice was softer, but no less direct. Cortes tucked back a strand of her sand-colored hair.

  Was there another kind of silent? “As in, he wasn’t talking.”

  She pursed her lips. “His words may have stopped, but did his body language?” She turned toward the isolation chamber. “Because I see a man waiting to talk.”

  Tox turned, too. Brown eyes were locked onto him.

  “Notice how he’s sitting. He’s watching you, Mr. Russell.”

  ****

  Kasey felt the tug of Cole’s eyes come back to her, but she kept hers on their prisoner.

  The tall Nigerian strolled up next to Cole. Chiji’s gaze was earnest. “Nwaanyi muta ite ofe mmiri mmiri, di ya amuta ipi utara aka were suru ofe.”

  Cole nodded, obviously understanding the foreign tongue, then navigated the chaos of cables, tables, and equipment. He made a quick diversion for another water bottle, then went to the isolation chamber. He drew out a steel drawer, dropped the bottle in, and slid it closed.

  Chatresh Narang unfolded himself and retrieved the water. It was gone in seconds. He dried his mouth then nodded to Cole. “Thank you.”

  Kasey shifted forward and joined the tall black man. “What—what did you say to him?”

  Chiji looked down at her, and she would’ve sworn he could see into her soul. But then his expression softened. “It is an Igbo proverb—If a woman decides to make the soup watery, the husband will learn to dent the foofoo before dipping it into the soup.”

  “And why do we care about soup or froufrou?” Cell shrugged.

  “Foofoo,” Ram corrected absently from where he sat on a table, monitoring their team leader. “It’s a staple in Central Africa, like mashed potatoes to Americans.”

  “And the point?” Cell asked.

  “Switch tactics,” Chiji said. “The gist of the proverb means to let the situation dictate which tactic to use.”

  “Whatever he knows,” Almstedt said, “we need to get it out of him.”

  Kasey couldn’t afford to miss anything, not with Cole’s trust dangling before her. “Is this being recorded?” she asked Steve Vander, one of Almstedt’s techs.

  “Everything here is recorded,” he responded.

  That was a bit disconcerting, but also reassuring. She would need to go back over videos a few times, listening, watching, then listening again if she wanted to be of help to the team.

  “Information.” Cole planted his hands on his tactical belt, then slightly adjusted his left arm. “You have information they want, is that right?”

  Chatresh merely stared.

  “I have to confess I’m getting pretty fed up with the waiting game, Chatresh.” Tox held out his hand. “You came to us, remember? We can’t help you—”

  “Help me by putting me in here?”

  “That’s for the rest of the world, to make sure you aren’t infecting them.”

  Chatresh snorted, shook his head, then sighed. “Those men found me very quickly when I came to you.”

  “They did,” Cole agreed. “And you think that’s our fault?”

  “Just as you think it is mine.”

  “Fair enough,” Cole said. “Tell me how your brother died.”

  Chatresh stilled. Then looked down. “He died in my arms.” So the guy was most likely infected, too. “Bhavin was very sick. Things sticking out of his neck. He made me promise to take care of our parents.” He hesitated, eyes swimming in grief. “He told me he stole something, that men were coming. He said I must get help.” After a moment of silence, he nodded around a sigh. “That’s about all.”

  Kasey grabbed her spiral-bound journal where she recorded information and scribbled in it.

  Cole continued, “Did he have anything?”

  “Not that I could see.”

  “He told you he stole something, though?”

  Chatresh blinked. Pulled his gaze back. “All I can tell you is that I was more concerned with his failing health. He was my brother.”

  He wasn’t telling them everything. It was obvious Cole knew it, too. “Look, if you don’t have anything for us, this game is over. We’re gone. And you can find someone else to play with.”

  A phone buzzed. Ram hopped off the table as he answered the call and stalked to a far corner.

  In the cage, Chatresh returned to the chair and sat, rubbing his thumbs over the plastic bottle.

  “It’s like he doesn’t care,” Cell groused.

  “He’s not worried, that’s for sure,” Thor muttered.

  “You’re right,” Kasey said, her voice and thoughts firming. “He’s not worried—not about himself.”

  Cole’s head angled to the side, almost over his shoulder. He’d heard her. Considered her words, apparently. Then focused on Chatresh.

  Bhavin Narang had already died. Was Chatresh not worried he might be infected? A thought pushed Kasey toward Cole. “Only a greater fear could mute the panic of a plague infection,” she whispered.

  Cole didn’t acknowledge her. “You’re not worried about yourself . . .”

  Chatresh looked up.

  “Your brother had a deadly virus, and it could be infecting others, but that doesn’t worry you.”

  Chatresh played with the bottle again.

  “We need to know where his body is.”

  “Buried,” Chatresh said, still fidgeting with the plastic.

  “He took something from that archaeological site he worked. We need that back.”

  “As I told you,” he said, holding out his arms, “I have nothing.”

  Wait. That—that wasn’t quite true. Something . . . Kasey chewed her thumbnail, thinking. “Not the full truth,” she whispered. “Either he doesn’t have it on him, or—”

  “Information, then,” Cole snapped. “What’s in your head that makes you not worried?”

  Chatresh pushed to his feet, and Kasey’s stomach squirmed. Ram hurried toward Tox and whispered something in his ear. Cole’s head came up, his shoulders squared. He considered Chatresh.

  With a sardonic smile, Chatresh nodded. “Now you understand. Brain cancer,” he said, pointing to his head. “I will be dead within a month, they tell me.”

  Ram muttered an oath. “It explains his messed-up blood work.” He turned away, lifting the phone to his ear. “Tzivia, he confirmed it . . .” His voice faded as he stepped out of range.

  “So you have nothing to lose,” Tox said.

  Sorrow lanced the man’s brow. “My family does.”

  Again, an extended silence. It felt like hours were falling off the clock as they played this game.

  “The longer you wait, it won’t be just your family with something to lose.” Tox stepped closer to the glass cage. “I get it, when you’re hurting and scared, nothing matters except what you’re protecting. But”—he shook his head, pleading—“my job is to protect you and everyone else from whatever killed your brother.”

  “Men killed my brother.”

  Tox frowned. “The plague—”

  “He was sick, yes, but men came. They shot him with a sparkling arrow.”

  “Am I supposed to believe that? Come on,” Cole said, his tone incredulous.

  “No signs of deception,” Kasey whispered from behind.

  Cole stilled, glanced at her. Frowned, questioning her words. After she nodded, his shoulders deflated a little and he turned back to Chatresh. “So, they shot him with a sparkling arrow. What else?”

  Lazy shoulder shrug. “That is all.”

  “You didn’t see anything else?”

  Chatresh looked down. “That’s about it.”

  “He’s whacked,” Cell muttered.

  The team grouped up around Cole, effectively sealing Kasey outside their tight-knit perimeter. She wat
ched and listened closely, and Levi joined her.

  “This makes no sense,” Tox said. “Bhavin was as good as dead. Why shoot him with an arrow?”

  “To make sure he died?” Levi offered.

  Cole shook his head. “Plague means death. Tanin knew that already—he saw it in Jebel al-Lawz.” He rubbed his jaw. “It’s not adding up. Chatresh must know something.”

  “What makes you say that?” Levi asked.

  Cole met his question with a stare. “Gut instinct.”

  Levi grunted, mocking him.

  “Most times,” Kasey spoke up, “gut instincts have legitimate reasons behind them that we just can’t identify at the moment.”

  Cole studied her for a long second.

  “Hey,” Ram said, catching Cole’s arm. “Let’s talk.”

  Their quest for privacy cut through her as they slid off to the side, but Kasey refused to feel excluded. Besides, there was something bugging her about Chatresh . . . she just couldn’t pin down what.

  She turned to one of Almstedt’s techs. “Can you send me the recording of the interview Cole just did?”

  “Sure.” It took him a few minutes, but he sent it to her laptop.

  Hand guiding the mouse, she pulled back the chair and slid into it. She started the video over. Watched it. Tugged out her field notebook and made notes in her standard format of things observed and things questioned. Paid attention to the way he sat. The things he did. Something . . .

  “What’re you doing?”

  Kasey started when Cole towered over her, hands on his belt. “Reviewing.”

  “Why?”

  His question wasn’t particularly terse, but she felt like she had to prove herself to him. And she hated that. She’d done it all her life. “Remember your gut instinct?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kasey eyed the screen. “I’ve got it, too. Which tells me there’s something to it.” She listened to the interview again and tried not to freak when Cole slid into the chair beside her. Pay attention to the interview. Not who’s next to you.

  “Glad you showed up,” Cole said. “Need your skills.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. But she refused to look into his blue eyes. “Skills?”

  Tox wagged a finger to the monitor. “This. The deception thing. It’s pretty—there!”