by Vicki Hinze
“You thrive on danger, not me.”
“I’ll take my kind of danger over yours any day. Swimming with political sharks is not my idea of a safe haven.” Rocking back, Gabby propped her feet on her desk. “How about Spain?”
“Spain.” She paused a moment. “Mmm, Spain could be interesting. Fascinating, actually. Sounds good. I’ll tell Jonathan.”
“Shouldn’t we get his input before making a final decision?”
“Why?” Sybil asked in all seriousness. “If he disagreed, we would just outvote him.”
“Works for me.” Gabby smiled. Jonathan might get outvoted now and then, but he held his own with the two of them just fine. Sybil loved the man, and Gabby adored them both. “I’m so ready for a vacation.”
“Me, too,” Sybil said. “Are you going to invite Max this year?”
“I don’t know.” Gabby grinned. “I sent him a birthday card. He might not be speaking to me for a while.”
“What did you do to him now?”
“Nothing serious, I swear. Just a little inside humor I’m not sure he’ll appreciate.”
“Gabby, if the man’s still going to be ticked off in September, it’s a good bet whatever you did is at least minorly significant.”
Gabby ignored her droll tone. “I’m not telling.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“One of my finer traits.” She rubbed at a knot in her neck. Long days and longer nights were catching up with her. “I’ll tell you about it after I hear from him.”
“Uh-oh. It’s got to be bad if you’re certain you’re going to hear from him.”
“Max calls at least once a week.” The calls were short, flirty, touching-base calls, but she didn’t mention that to Sybil.
“I don’t know why you don’t just stop dancing around and take the man to bed.”
Gabby frowned, hoping it carried through in her voice. “It’s not like that with us, Sybil.”
“I know. But it could be, and don’t bother telling me that isn’t how you want it.”
Gabby hated it when Sybil was right, which was too often. She went serious, refusing to give in to her or to her own emotions. “If I had a guarantee that sleeping with the man wouldn’t screw up what we’ve got, yeah, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But I’m not willing to lose what we’ve got and it would screw things up. It always does.”
“Not always.”
Jonathan. He and Sybil finally had connected and their relationship was terrific. Enviable. “For you, no, not always.” Gabby squelched a pang of jealousy. “But for me, it’s as certain as sagging boobs in old age.”
“Okay,” Sybil agreed. “But he could be worth the risks, Gabby. If taking a chance after divorcing Austin taught me nothing else, it taught me that. I don’t want to imagine my life without Jonathan now. But I was afraid to take the risk, too. Look at what I would have missed.”
“Max isn’t Jonathan. He was in love with you for years. This is … different.” She tried hard to keep the envy out of her voice. The envy and the wistfulness she so hated hearing.
“Not that different.” Sybil sighed. “They’re summoning me to the West Wing. I’ve got to go.”
“Give President Lance my regards, and take care of you.”
“I will—unless they corner me on running for president. David is pushing hard.”
President Lance was a smart man. “You’d make a great president.”
“Not all cultures are as open-minded as ours about women, Gabby. You’ve spent a lot of time in the Middle East. You know exactly what I mean. Women can’t drive, can’t vote; they can’t get medical treatment at a hospital without a man saying it’s okay. They can’t go out on the street unescorted by a man.”
“Well, if they’re dealing with us, it’s time they catch up.”
“At Americans’ expense?”
Gabby’s mouth tightened in a frown. “We need to educate their women.”
Sybil laughed because she was supposed to laugh, not because she had changed her mind. She was convinced that her candidacy would be a U.S. foreign affairs liability, and the one thing Sybil Stone, soon to be Sybil Stone-Westford, would never agree to was being a liability.
“You’re wrong about this gender thing,” Gabby said with passion. “Give the rest of us the opportunity and we’ll follow you, Sybil. Give the world a shot at judging you as a leader and they’ll follow you, too. You’re giving in to bias and low expectations.”
“I’ll think about it.” A buzz signaled, sounded through her phone; her second warning on the West Wing summons. Sybil paused and then added in a hushed, almost reverent voice, “Gabby, I’ve got an uneasy feeling about you. I don’t like it.”
“Well, thank God for that.”
“Stop it. You know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, she did. They often got these feelings about each other, and too often they had proven to be precursors of life-threatening danger. “Don’t worry,” Gabby said, knowing she was wasting her breath. “I’ll be extra careful.”
“Promise?” Sybil sounded vulnerable.
Gabby hated it, but she understood it. Aside from Jonathan, Gabby was the only family Sybil had, and she was extremely protective. “Hey, listen. I’m ready for a lot of things, but dying isn’t one of them. I’ve got a future to anticipate. Spain, sangria, and gorgeous men are a scant month away.”
“And if you’re lucky maybe one of those gorgeous men will get your mind off Grayson?”
That was the problem with good friends. They knew too much about you. “I’d prefer that to doing or saying something stupid and Max filing sexual harassment charges against me.”
“Mmm, the way you shut him out of your missions, he could be angry enough to want to do that. I’d sure be itching to get even. You have done some pretty outrageous things to him, Gabby. Like that clown stripper you had highjack him in the grocery store last year for his birthday—and what about the time you rigged his boat motor and he was stuck in the Devil’s Triangle for two days?”
“He had everything he needed on board to fix that motor,” Gabby said, hotly defending herself. “He wanted to be out there, so he deliberately waited to fix it.”
“Right.”
That was right. She rubbed a finger over her crystal ball. “He came back to work totally rested.” And Commander Conlee hadn’t so much as whispered a word about forcing Max to take a couple days’ down time. “Don’t worry, Sybil. I can handle him.”
“Be careful, Gabby. Max isn’t a ‘handle me’ kind of man.”
“Maybe not,” she said, mulling it over. “But we’re doing dinner and drinks and he owes me two dances.”
“Only if you’re handcuffed to him so you can’t leave him behind and go alone.”
That stung. But because it was true, Gabby couldn’t snap back with a witty remark. Instead, she took the conversation off on a tangent. “Max and handcuffs.” She let out a breathy sigh. “Oh, my. I’ve been alone too long to have those kind of images in my head.”
“Okay, okay.” Sybil laughed, and the background buzzer summoned again. “Third time’s a charm. Really have to run. Talk to you soon.”
Gabby hung up the phone, and an immediate weight settled on her. Sybil’s warning had her tense and uneasy, and she again checked the window.
Heavy black clouds churned low in the night sky, obscuring the stars and building into a whale of a thunderstorm. The tropical system NOAA had been watching, “Darla,” must be strengthening. She checked her watch—nine-thirty; if she hurried, she could catch the tropical update on the radio on her way to the lab.
She snagged her purse and locked the office. The deadbolt clicked. Darn. She’d left the “gift from an angel” on her desk. Needing to put it in a safe place, she fumbled with her keys, and recalled stashing it on her last restroom break. You’re definitely burned out, Gabby. Huge.
Chiding herself, she made her way to the elevator and took it down to the parking garage, then climbed in her red Jeep and
headed for the Logan Industries lab.
Fifteen minutes later, Gabby arrived at the sleek brick facility. She drove straight through the lab’s parking lot, beyond its asphalt and lights, into a small bank of trees. In the darkness and out of sight, she parked her Jeep, and then hugged the edge of the wood, working her way around the perimeter of the lot toward the private entrance.
The lot itself was empty. Pangs of sheer gratitude shuffled through her weary body. It had already been a long day. The last thing she wanted to do was to have to wait in the Jeep until everyone left the building, especially with a storm hanging heavy in the air. When she’d first arrived in Carnel Cove, Florida, she had nearly melted from the high humidity and hadn’t been able to tell the difference between threatening rain and dangerous storms. Now she easily noted the differences, and unless she was mistaken, the sky was about to split wide open.
A branch cracked off to her left.
Gabby stilled, stared through the darkness toward the sound, seeking its source. Only L.I.’s—Logan Industries’—major shareholder, Candace Burke, Gabby’s neighbor and friend, knew Gabby had access to the lab, and for her own safety—and Candace’s—it had to remain that way. At best, exposure would be risky. At worst, it’d be lethal.
Gabby keyed the lock, punched in Candace’s security code, and watched the door open. She locked it behind her, and though it was solid steel and weighed a ton, she gave it a habitual shake to make sure it was secure.
Of course, it didn’t budge.
Moving through Candace’s plush but rarely used office, Gabby took the hallway down to the lab, passing L.I.’s CEO and Chief Researcher Dr. Marcus Swift’s plush and well-used office. Dealing with Swift had been easy—Gabby had totally avoided him—but Swift’s second-in-command, Senior Researcher Dr. David Erickson, frequently interfered with Gabby’s work here. The man was so devoted he rarely went home.
Dr. Erickson was responsible for a Department of Defense contract to develop a vaccine and pesticide to battle Z-4027, a vicious superbug that had unexpectedly surfaced in the U.S. last February, in New York. Homeland Security, and all Intel agencies, had been caught flat-footed by it, and President Lance had issued an executive order funding the research, seeking a solution. He’d also quietly turned over the challenge of finding out who was responsible for developing and turning the superbug loose in the U.S. over to the Special Detail Unit.
Erickson, who had years of researching EEE under his belt, had hit the ground running on the project, and he remained in high gear. Considering that Z-4027 had proven to be a genetically altered and extremely lethal derivative of EEE, the American in Gabby appreciated his going the extra mile. But in the last few weeks, since the July 4 incidents, Erickson had gone the extra mile in overdrive. The sensitivity and top-secret nature of the work required Logan Industries’ full disclosure for reasons of national security—not to mention the political advantages of not disclosing to the world that a new superbug that had no cure was on the loose in the U.S.—which meant every event, note, calculation, and test on Erickson’s project was observed and reviewed by Intel. That taped surveillance proved Dr. Erickson rarely left the lab. His work habits made for a lot of three A.M. visits to the lab for her, and there was no alternate facility within a reasonable distance.
Logan Industries was one of the top three cutting-edge government-contracted labs in the biological warfare defense program located away from Washington’s and Nevada’s arsenal storage. It had the added benefit of being the facility closest to the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. Six hours by car. Hours she had driven often in the past few months. But most importantly, Logan Industries was the only lab where Gabby could get full access, no questions asked. So she’d sucked it up and sustained the god-awful hours.
Ten minutes later, she stood to the left of a long row of mosquito-filled tanks at the first of four stainless steel lab tables, staring up at the white ceiling. She couldn’t see the secure remote viewer, but she knew Intel had installed one there, complete with audio. When occurrences warranted, Intel passed top-secret information along to Home Base’s Commander Conlee. Lagniappe for Gabby was that the viewer provided her with direct, secure communications with SDU. And secure contact between Home Base and a covert operative under deep cover was essential to staying alive.
She prepared the tissue specimen received on Judge Powell today, and immersed it in testing solution. Her nostrils burned. She sniffed and blinked hard to stop the stinging in her eyes, her nose, and waited. The specimen and fluid turned purple.
Oh, God. Oh, God, no. Her stomach pitched and rolled and she went clammy from the inside out. She tested again, and then a third time, to leave no room for error.
The results never changed.
Queasy, she pulled a mobile communicator from her purse, and inserted its earplug into her ear. It took two tries to seat it; her hand was shaking. Adjusting the lip mike, she bumped her mouth, cutting her inner lip with her teeth. “This is Lady Justice,” she said, identifying herself and her security clearance to Intel by using her code name. “I need a direct feed with Dr. Richardson—stat.”
Home Base’s chief medical officer was one of the sharpest medical minds in the world. Gabby had often relied on his expertise, but never had needed it more than right now.
Gabby checked her watch. Two minutes ticked by. It seemed like two lifetimes. Finally, she heard a man’s voice through her earpiece.
“We’ve established the patch, Lady Justice,” the Intel officer said. “Tropical Storm Darla is charging down your throat, challenging communications. Wait twenty seconds for scramble to assure security.”
Tropical Storm Darla? “It was a depression this morning.”
“Yes, ma’am. And it’ll be a hurricane by midnight, according to the Hurricane Hunters’ ten P.M. advisory.”
Oh, please. She did not need a hurricane complicating matters.
Dr. Richardson spoke first, his voice crisp and clear. “I’m on the line, Lady Justice. What do you need?”
“A verification request on the specimen testing, Doc.” She couldn’t, wouldn’t, reveal the results until she confirmed.
“Striation or color?”
“Color,” she said from around a lump in her throat, clearing the lab table and preparing the specimen for transport.
“How did you prepare the specimen?”
Relaying specific details on the specimen and then the procedure, she locked the specimen in place inside a foam-lined steel transport box.
“You’re certain the entire specimen was totally immersed?”
“Yes, sir. I double-checked and validated.”
“Then we want pink.”
Pink meant the coroner had been correct. That Judge William Powell’s cause of death was due to a natural genetic mutation of eastern equine encephalitis. That Gabby and Commander Conlee had been wrong, and the genetically altered superbug, Z-4027, deliberately created and black-marketed by God only knew who, had not murdered the judge.
“Lady Justice?” Dr. Richardson prodded. “What color is it?”
Gabby opened her mouth to answer him, but something moved just outside the lab door. Someone was coming. She couldn’t risk a response.
Hurriedly, she shoved the transport case under the lab table and then dropped to the floor, rolled underneath it.
The door opened, and Dr. Erickson walked in.
She didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Whistling, he walked down the aisle on the other side of the lab table until he reached the fourth table, near the only window in the lab. She crouched, slid on her stomach, cleared the edge, and then risked a glimpse to see what he was doing.
Washing his hands at the sink. Turning his back, Erickson stretched for a towel.
Now or never, Gabby. There’ll be no better time.
Adrenaline rushing through her, she grabbed the case and eased to the door. Slipping out, she scrambled down the hallway and, finally, exited the building.
Hard, cold rain p
elted her head, her face, her arms, stinging her skin, drenching her clothes. Darla’s feeder bands—the foremost lines of the storm—had arrived. Powerful gusts of biting winds whipped at her, tugging at her eyelids, plastering her hair back from her face, pushing her back toward the building.
Shielding her eyes, she avoided the amber-lit parking lot and headed through the trees, winding between branches that bent low, threatening to snap. The shrill wind sliced through the leaves, piercing her ears, slapping at her legs. Lightning flashed. Hellacious thunder rolled over the ground and rumbled through her, vibrating down to her bones. She stubbed her toe on an exposed tree root, muttered a curse, and kept moving through the dark thicket to her hidden Jeep.
Fighting a violent gust of wind, she forced the car door open wide enough to crawl inside.
It slammed shut behind her. The sudden silence was deafening. Dripping wet and cold, she reached into the backseat for her judge’s robe. A sharp stick. “Ouch.”
Her skin crawled. She had nicked her fingertip on a knife that should have been under the seat.
An icy chill crept down her spine. She paused in removing her blouse, to focus, and recalled cutting twine from around the oak she’d picked up at the nursery and planted in the front yard. It had been larger than the ones she usually bought and planted on missions. Slinging her blouse onto the floorboard, she recalled her every move, pulled on the dry robe, and specifically remembered dropping the knife onto the seat while wrestling with the oak.
Relaxing, she fished in her purse for her keys. Her fingertips grazed the cool metal of her .38, a tube of Jive Java lipstick that was supposed to last eight hours but she managed to eat off in four, and finally hooked her key ring. She had to connect with Home Base, tell them the test results, and request someone to pick up the specimen. It was now valuable evidence that couldn’t be replaced. But Dr. Erickson had been carrying a coffee thermos; clearly planning on pulling an all-nighter. Which meant she couldn’t get to the remote viewer and be assured of secure communications. Until then, she had to keep the specimen someplace safe.
Her windshield wipers clacking, she drove back toward the courthouse and cranked up the volume on the radio to check the weather. But the rolling thunder and horizontal rain beating against the car drowned out the sound.
