Turbulent Wake (Jason Wake Book 4)

by Matthew Rief

  The scientist was examining one vial under the beam of a flashlight and prepping a syringe. Creeping up from behind, Jason used the tunnel vision of the man’s visor to his advantage, and he wrapped his right arm around the guy’s throat. The scientist gagged and struggled, trying desperately to break free.

  His movements grew weaker, then he gasped and went limp in Jason’s arms. Holding up the guy’s right hand, Jason pressed his thumb against the biometric scanner for the middle sample. The screen blinked, then beeped and flashed red.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jason said.

  He tried the unconscious man’s other thumb, and when it didn’t work, he set him onto the floor. After shoving the guy under the table, Jason scrambled, running through what he could do next. The first sample’s case was open, but the other two were locked shut and fastened in place. He glanced over his shoulder at the inner chamber door, knowing that the guy with the clipboard would likely return at any moment.

  When he panned back to the open sample, his eyes ran over a row of chemicals lined up in a cabinet. Remembering Dr. Huxley’s words back at the restaurant in Iceland, Jason got an idea and quickly went to work.

  Less than a minute later, he set down a syringe and recapped the sample just as the door opened behind him. When he spun around, Jason stared into the barrel of a black stockless 12-gauge shotgun held by a man in a hazmat suit. Before he could react, the man in the doorway pulled the trigger, firing a beanbag at over two hundred feet per second right into Jason’s gut. The projectile struck hard, knocking the air from his lungs, causing his muscles to spasm, and toppling him to the floor. A second shot pounded into his shoulder, the whiplash from the blow nearly putting him out of commission.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Strong arms dragged Jason out of the corner room and across the anti-contamination space. His body was battered and in shock, and he couldn’t move his limbs. Two men ripped the hazmat suit off of him, then unzipped the sheeting and flung him out into the hall.

  Jason struggled for air, shifting his body around as his chest was pinned to the cold concrete. As a figure approached, he blinked to clear his blurry vision and realized it was General Kang. The middle-aged, lifelong military man was stoic, eyeing Jason with cruel indifference.

  The General looked toward Haan, his battle-hardened right-hand man still gripping the shotgun. “Retrieve the samples. We’re executing the dispersal ahead of schedule.”

  Haan nodded.

  “What?” Dr. Jong pulled off his face shield. “We cannot release the virus yet.”

  “We have no choice, Doctor.” The General shot a sour glance at Jason. “Jason Wake has forced our hand. And in the process, he’s done nothing but heighten the risk for mankind.”

  Dr. Jong’s face turned beet red. “We had a plan. A protocol to follow. This facility was secretly constructed years ago in preparation for such a discovery as this. This virus is a powerful weapon, yes, but these tests must be conducted before we—”

  “Time is no longer on our side,” Kang said. “We must expedite the plan. Your tests will need to be conducted another time and in a new location. This facility has been compromised, thanks to this American.”

  Haan appeared carrying a hardcase, then glanced at Kang. “The samples are inside.”

  “We don’t know what we’re dealing with, General,” Dr. Jong said. “If this virus spreads too fast, there won’t be time to conduct any tests. It will bring about the end.”

  “That is a risk we must take. There’s no avoiding it now. We cannot fail.”

  “He’s right,” Jason spat, his cognitive abilities slowly returning. “This virus won’t discriminate. If you release it on the world, it will kill you and your people, along with everyone else.”

  Kang paused. “Yet another benefit of being such an isolated nation. And with our own sample of the virus, we’ll have a head start on creating a vaccine. In the meantime, the Western world will scramble, panic, and die. And there’s nothing you can do about it, Jason Wake.”

  The General planted his hands on his hips. “Much like this virus, for years our regime has been lying dormant, waiting for an opportunity to strike—growing our knowledge, global networks, and distribution methods. The moment that word of this mystery virus came to me, I knew it could provide just the right lever to shift the global axis of powers. We have been living in the dark and scrounging for scraps off the world’s table for too long. Now, it is time for the global playing field to be leveled.”

  The General stared off into space as if imagining his vision for the future unfolding. Clearing his throat, he redirected his dark eyes back on Jason. “The plan would’ve gone off without difficulty, but you were an unknown, Wake. A variable not first calculated into the equation. You’ve done more than expected, but it won’t be enough to stop the inevitable from unfolding.”

  The General’s phone rang. He took one glance at the screen, then motioned to his men. “Load up the samples. Prepare the site for total shutdown and alert the rest of the group that the plan has been pushed.”

  –––

  The General turned from a chorus of nods and “yes sirs” and then pushed back into a room to answer the call.

  “Do you have him?” a calm voice on the phone said.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re still in the hotel?”

  “We’re leaving now.”

  The man on the other end snarled. “Get the hell out of there! Understand me? You’re a heartbeat away from blowing this whole thing. How could you let this happen? How could you let this American follow you?”

  “Rectifying that mistake now. But everything will still go as planned. I’ll make sure that the distributors catch their flights without delay.”

  “I’ll make sure of it,” the man hissed. “But we’re running out of wild cards. You and your crew get moving, now! And, General . . . I don’t have to remind you what will happen if you fail. Do not forget for a second where your family is being held. They will be killed with one word if this operation fails.”

  The Korean felt a heavy pang deep in his stomach. He didn’t need a reminder. The fact had been solidified and burning in his mind since the operation began. “It won’t fail.”

  “Good. Now move!”

  The line went dead, and Kang took a moment to compose himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. Pushing back out into the hallway, he stabbed a finger at his men. “Time to go.”

  “What about them?” Haan said, eyeing Jason and Anna Johannsdottir, who was unconscious and dragged out from her holding place.

  “The woman is to be kept alive,” Kang said.

  Haan clenched his jaw. “And the American?”

  “Have the local thugs rough him up a little bit. Make sure they teach him a lesson, then get rid of the body. He was never here.” Kang cracked his knuckles. “I hear the waters off the western capes are quite deep.”

  “You’re gonna regret this,” Jason snapped through gritted teeth, ignoring the pain burning all over his body. “I’m never going to let you—”

  Kang shut him up with a powerful punch to the jaw. Jason’s head snapped, his body reeled, and he landed lifelessly on the cold floor.

  Kang straightened his shirt and nodded at the thugs, who closed in and grabbed hold of the unconscious American. Another man threw Anna over his shoulder, and they were both carried from view.

  Kang rushed up the stairs with his men. Before climbing into a vehicle, he gave one of the virus samples to an athletic North Korean soldier named Pak Sung-won.

  “You know what to do, Pak,” Kang said. “This changes nothing.”

  Pak nodded as he took hold of the sample, stowing it in a backpack. “The time of reckoning has come, General.”

  The young man climbed into a car and Kang slid into the SUV alongside Haan. The General’s phone vibrated as he slammed
his door.

  Bird’s ready. Clock’s ticking.

  “To the airstrip,” Kang said. “And step on it.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Novena, Singapore

  Murph hunched over his laptop and typed ferociously on the keyboard. He’d been at it all night but couldn’t allow the drowsiness to sink in. Ever since Scott informed him that Jason was in the Azores, he’d been poring over data, hacking into systems left and right, and garnering as much intel as he could find on Jason’s exact location and where the terrorists were hiding.

  While listening in to police chatter, he’d heard that law enforcement officers were being ordered by the local government to surround the terrorist’s getaway aircraft that sunk at the northern end of Lagoa Azul, a picturesque crater lake in Sao Miguel. From what Murph could gather from listening in, there’d been a tip that the samples were still on the plane.

  But that’s not what Jason told Finn, Murph thought, trying to wrap his head around the situation.

  Two squad cars had been sent to the Monte Palace Hotel ruins, but after not finding anything suspicious, they’d been ordered down the hill to the lakeside. Securing the samples was the global priority, and the local authorities had been wholly convinced that they were still on the sunken plane.

  Murph was far from naïve. He’d been hacking into secure systems, both private and government, since he was a teenager. He’d read things and seen things that would cause the average person to lose all faith in their government . . . and humanity. Something strange was going on. Something corrupt. Someone on the inside with powerful political sway was working with the malefactors. He was certain of it.

  First the plane hijacking, and now this?

  Just as he dove in, whittling down the candidates that garnered such power, an alert popped up on his screen. Murph smiled and clicked on an advanced program he’d created.

  What treasure trove of intel have you handed me this time, Jason?

  The program was linked to a tiny device Murph had designed years earlier. He called it “the Plague.”

  More than a little fitting.

  Of all the gadgets he’d created, the Plague was his favorite. The little device was his key to the world. All he had to do was get someone to plant it into a computer, and voila, it attacks the computer and uses the computer’s own RAM against itself to search for keywords, even in heavily protected files. Essentially, it turns a computer into a cannibal that attacks itself for specified intel.

  Once the program was open, Murph punched in a few keys, and pages of intel poured into his computer. He popped his neck, took a swig of caffeine, and went to work.

  Most of the hacked computer’s documents were scientific—plans of action related to the handling of the virus and various tests planned to be conducted. Digging deeper, he managed to reach some of the juicy stuff: profiles of local personnel who the terrorists had hired; a schematic of the secret construction done in the bowels of the abandoned hotel to set up the cleanroom. According to the classified documents, the work had been completed in secret, years earlier.

  Murph rubbed his face and pushed on, sifting through the seemingly endless trove of intel like a prospector panning a riverbank.

  After two hours of searching, Murph’s heart rate spiked as he read communication transcripts and secure documents alluding to their planned method of attack.

  Their virus dispersal plan.

  This was it. Everything else paled in comparison. Each and every act that the violent group performed boiled down to the means of delivery, and if they managed to figure that out, a last-ditch effort could be made to prevent catastrophe.

  Renewed with newfound vigor, the sleep-deprived hacker buckled down and ran through line after line of text. After another half hour passed, he froze. Amidst the jumble of code and sporadic communications were six letters separated by a space: GCT LHR.

  Murph stared at the letters, the weight of them nearly knocking him out of his chair.

  THIRTY

  Jason awoke to a jarring rumble, his head pounding as he opened his eyes. His face covered with a dark hood, he felt around and quickly realized that he was in the cramped trunk of a car, the shaking and turning indicating that they were cruising along a winding dirt road. He tried to move, but his hands were bound behind his back with thick zip ties.

  In addition to the soft groan of the engine and the tires crunching against rocks, he heard faint music and muffled chatter coming from the seating area. He felt around the inside of the trunk, searching for anything he could use to remove his bindings. After checking every surface within reach and coming up empty, he shifted onto his stomach, contorted his body awkwardly, and reached along the opposite wall.

  He felt metal rods and wires among the mostly flat felt surfaces. The trunk was empty aside for him. Touching along the back, his forearm grazed the trunk latch. Adjusting and feeling it with his fingers, he touched a narrow metal edge.

  Curling up as much as he could, he managed to place the middle of the zip tie against the metal. He pulled his hands, increasing the tension in the plastic, then seesawed against the metal. The edge was far from sharp, and the industrial zip tie was thick, but after two minutes of work, the plastic began to crack. Jason gave it everything he had, then gasped in relief as the plastic gave way and his hands flew apart. He calmed himself and quieted his breathing, listening to make sure that none of the occupants had heard his movements. Hearing only the same occasional chatter ahead of him, Jason went back to work. With his hands free, he managed to pry up the floor mat. Reaching down in the darkness, he felt a spare tire, a plastic bag with jumper cables, and a lift jack kit.

  Grabbing the metal jack handle, he positioned it around the zip tie securing his ankles together, then twisted. Using leverage, Jason made quick work of the restraint, the plastic snapping free on the third rotation.

  With his arms and legs free, Jason shifted his attention to getting out of the trunk. Part of his training at Tenth Circle had focused on escape and evasion. The trunk didn’t have a release mechanism to open the door from the inside, and the vehicle’s back seat didn’t fold down, so the two primary escape options were out of the question.

  He thought over alternate trunk escape methods. With the latch mechanism too secure for him to try and pry free with the jack handle, he turned his attention to the lift jack itself. Knowing that a standard car jack can lift one and a half tons off the ground, he positioned the device where the overhead was closest to the floor. Inserting the jack handle through the eye at the end of the threaded rod, he began to slowly crank the mechanism. The act was complicated by the cramped interior, and Jason had to constantly adjust his position to complete the revolutions.

  One slow, difficult rotation at a time, the jack eventually neared the upper limits of its range when it finally came into contact with the trunk lid. Calling upon all his upper body strength, Jason forced the handle around and around, causing the metal lid to bow. Gritting his teeth, he heaved the rod around for another rotation. He was close.

  The trunk door appeared to be barely holding together, and he was certain that another half turn would do the trick.

  Wiping the sweat from his hands onto his shirt, he gripped the metal bar once more and wedged his body against the tip to maximize his leverage. Just as he was about to gear up for the final pull, he heard chatter coming from the passenger compartment, then the car braked to a stop. The driver shifted into park, and three doors flew open.

  Jason scrambled, having no choice but to leave the jack in place as footsteps approached the trunk. He shifted his body flat on his back, still gripping the handle jack in his right hand. In a flash, the trunk door clicked and creaked open, spilling in a wave of bright light. A man wearing sunglasses came into focus, and he leaned in, putting his face just above Jason’s.

  “Wakey, wakey, asshole,” the man said just before noticing the car
jack. “What the—”

  Jason spun, whipping his left arm from around his back, and whacked the steel bar into the man’s face. He grunted and fell back.

  Twisting rapidly, Jason threw his lower body out of the trunk and bashed his left foot into a second guy’s neck, causing him to lurch forward. Grabbing and jerking the guy closer, Jason felt along his waist. Finding a sidearm in his belt, Jason gripped it and put a round into both of the thugs’ chests before climbing out of the trunk.

  Landing onto a dirt, pebble-covered road, Jason whirled around to see the final criminal scrambling near the front of the car. The guy rose, forcing a tied-up and blindfolded Anna Johannsdottir into submission in front of him as he took aim at Jason.

  “Drop the gun!” the man yelled as Jason took cover behind the car. “Or she dies.”

  Jason briefly took in their surroundings for the first time. They were parked along the edge of a cliff, with a raging surf a hundred feet below. The late-afternoon wind was howling, the last rays of sunlight glistening over the Atlantic.

  “We weren’t planning to kill her, but I will!” the criminal shouted. “Don’t test me.”

  With no shot at the guy beneath the vehicle, Jason was just about to comply when a gunshot echoed across the air, coming from out to sea. A round pelted the man in the back of his right leg, and he yelled as his lower body buckled.

  With the man’s pistol no longer pressed to her head, Anna screamed and rammed an elbow into the man’s gut. Seeing a brief window of opportunity, Jason popped up and fired a bullet into the man’s side. He jerked back, tripping on the edge of a stone. Still holding tight to Anna, he lost his balance and fell over the edge, taking the Icelandic representative with him.

  Releasing his weapon, Jason charged headlong past the car, sprinting toward the edge. He took one step at the corner of the precipice, then hurled his body over the cliff with reckless abandon.