Lady Justice

by Vicki Hinze

  Max lowered the gun, almost afraid to ask. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking I want to feel special and so do you,” she said. “And I’m thinking that if our kiss is a decent gauge, we can both have our wish.”

  “Gabby, this is a lousy idea.” It was even if it felt like a great one. “We’re not talking about a couple dances and dinner and drinks. Or having an affair and keeping it quiet in the unit so we aren’t banned as partners. I have to kill you.”

  “I know. You have your orders and you have to carry them out. I would myself.” She tossed back the sheet, then crawled out of bed. Her lace gown unfolded and, as she walked over to him, it swished around her ankles. Stopping in front of him, she lifted her hands to his chest. “But tonight, or in the morning—what’s the difference? Dead is dead, Max, and I can’t die without knowing if you’re as special as your kiss promised.”

  “Yes, you can.” He raised the gun, disputing her.

  “Okay, I can.” She eased the barrel aside, pointing it toward the window, and then stepped closer; so close their chests brushed and her subtle scent filled him. “But I’d rather not.” She circled his neck with her arms. “And I’d sincerely rather you not.” Pressuring with her fingertips, she tilted his head and sought his mouth. Her warm breath fanned over his face. “If only for one night, I want you to feel special, Max. I want you to know where you belong.”

  She’d found his Achilles’ heel and stomped it hard. Gabby was doing for him what no other human being, not even his parents, had ever done: taking him in, claiming him … protecting him. She was determined to spare him from regret. And if there was even an outside chance that either of them could experience what they’d needed their whole lives, even for one second, he wanted—no, needed—to take that chance.

  “Max, please.”

  He shouldn’t do it. It’d be worse to do it than regret not doing it. Good God, if he got that second, he’d never be content without it. Gabby wouldn’t be there. Not ever again.

  Logical. Reasonable. Rational. He should refuse. He really should refuse, but … He dropped the gun on the pale green carpet. “To hell with it.” He closed his arms around Gabby.

  “By sunrise,” she promised between kisses, “you’ll be glad you didn’t just shoot me.”

  By sunrise he would have more to regret—and the stuff of his nightmares would have an entire arsenal of new fodder for tormenting him. He tugged at her lower lip with his teeth. “Spoken like a confident woman.”

  “Confidence has nothing to do with it.” She rubbed circles on his sides, just below his ribs, and inhaled the scent of his skin at the crook of his neck.

  Something in her tone had him rearing back and lifting his eyebrows in question.

  She forked her fingers through his hair, lightly raked the skin at his nape with her nails. “We got sidetracked and I forgot to tell you where I hid the evidence.”

  Shock rolled over him in waves.

  Gabby erupted in laughter. Though he didn’t like being the object of it, he did like the sound of it. Gentle, but robust. Honest. In their profession, honest emotional reactions of any kind were a rare treat. “Tell me where it is now.”

  “After,” she promised, and then tempted him with a searing kiss.

  “After.” He scooped her into his arms, not at all sure he would get through this kiss-then-kill scenario, or why getting through it had become so important to him. But it had.

  It mattered to Gabby. And somewhere between entering her room and holding her in his arms, what mattered to Gabby had come to matter most to him. Yet there was only one way this could end, and Gabby’s “big picture” and “for the greater good” comments proved she knew it.

  Orders had been issued at the highest level.

  There would be no reprieve, no order to rescind, and no escape.

  It was his duty as a reliable, dedicated operative to execute those orders, and he would execute them. He would kill her.

  Later.

  The phone rang.

  Gabby protested the interruption with a heartfelt groan, but he put her down, and she stepped away to answer it. Tapping a button on the phone, she engaged the speaker. “Hello.”

  “Gabby, it’s Candace,” a woman said. She sounded breathless. “I need help.”

  Gabby frowned, hiked a shoulder at Max. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m at the lab. There’s been an accident with the tanks. It’s serious.”

  “Five minutes,” Gabby said, already tearing off her gown and pulling on a pair of jeans. “Max made it home.”

  “In the middle of a hurricane?”

  “He knows I’m freaky around storms, so he risked it.” She shoved an arm into a blue T-shirt, then yanked it down over her head. “He’ll come, too.”

  “For God’s sake, hurry.”

  Tugging on her sneakers, she promised. “We’re on our way.”

  When she tapped the toggle to disconnect the call, Max sent her a look meant to melt steel. “Why did you tell her I was here? Gabby, you’re complicating—”

  “Stop bitching.” Gabby cut him off, snagged her purse from a hook inside the closet. “You can kill me later.” Grabbing him by the arm, she headed for the back door. “Right now, I need your help. We’ve got to try to prevent a biological disaster.”

  Max followed, closing the door behind him. Ignoring Jaris Adahan’s body on the garage floor, he slid into the passenger seat of Gabby’s red Jeep and snagged his safety belt. “What kind of biological disaster?”

  “Candace’s lab is filled with mosquito tanks.” Gabby opened the garage door, cranked the engine, slammed the gearshift into reverse, and then stomped the gas. Outside on the driveway, she slammed on the brakes, knocked the gearshift into drive, then punched down on the gas pedal. The tires spun and spit gravel.

  The fear on her face worried him more than the Jeep fishtailing down the horseshoe driveway to the street. He’d never seen her express fear so openly. “It’s just mosquitoes, not sarin, Gabby,” he said, referring to a deadly chemical nerve agent. “Take it easy.”

  “Take it easy? Did Conlee tell you nothing?” She let out a huff of pure exasperation, cracked the heel of her hand against the steering wheel. “Logan Industries doesn’t have ordinary mosquitoes, Max. It’s a research firm, remember? They’re infected with Z-4027.”

  Logan Industries was one of the research firms developing a vaccine and pesticide to combat Z-4027. The truth smacked him in the face. “You know for fact that the crop infestations aren’t natural occurrences?”

  “I strongly suspect it, but I can’t prove it. Not yet.” She nodded. “I’m convinced someone was testing the waters with the New York incident and Judge Powell. Z-4027 has to be on the black market by now, and I’m scared to death someone has turned it loose on our crops.”

  Max didn’t have five days. He didn’t have five minutes. He looked at Gabby. The fear he felt, stark and solid, bitter and tinged with terror, shone back at him from the depths of her eyes and proved his worst nightmare had come true.

  The attack had already begun.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The lab was a wreck. A quarter inch of water soaked the floor, mosquitoes swarmed everywhere, and the stench of pesticide seemed to have sucked out every atom of oxygen.

  His eyes tearing and nose burning, Max blinked hard to clear his vision. A tall blonde he presumed was Candace stood bare to the waist and spread-eagle with her back to him and Gabby, stretching her blouse over the only window in the lab. Judging by the broken glass at her feet, she was trying to block the opening—and not totally succeeding.

  “Gabby?” Candace called out, clearly panicked. “Help me over here.”

  Gabby ran to her, began batting at the mosquitoes biting Candace. “Oh, Jesus.” She nodded toward the broken window. “Do something about that.”

  Max grabbed a stapler off a desk. “Where’s some tape?”

  “Third drawer on the left in Erickson’s desk,” C
andace said from between gritted teeth.

  Spotting Erickson’s nameplate, Max jerked open the desk drawer, snagged a roll of masking tape, and then rushed back to the window. He stapled Candace’s blouse in place and then sealed the edges with masking tape.

  “Jesus, there’s a million of them.” Gabby kept slapping at the mosquitoes covering Candace’s back. “What the hell happened? Where’s Erickson?”

  “Too many trees and electrical wires are down from the storm.” Candace coughed hard, choking on the pesticide. “He couldn’t get here. Neither could Marcus.”

  Gabby spared Max a glance. “Erickson heads the Z-4027 project. Marcus Swift runs Logan Industries.”

  Candace frantically swatted at her arms, her thighs. “Some of the mosquitoes got out. I tried—I really tried, but I couldn’t keep them all inside.”

  Tears streamed down her face. Whether she was crying or the chemicals stinging his eyes had hers watering, he couldn’t tell. But her voice sounded steady.

  She swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “The window was broken and all the tanks were smashed and they were swarming everywhere and I couldn’t find anything to block the broken glass, so I used my shirt and—” her voice broke “—I’m not sure how many got out, Gabby. But some did.” Fresh tears spilled down her face. “I know some did. We’ve got to warn Sheriff Coulter.”

  Candace was nearly at the breaking point and she was already swelling, particularly on her face, chest, and neck. Max did a quick scan. At forty bites, he stopped counting. Gauging, she had maybe twice that many. He glanced over, saw a target, and smacked Gabby’s upper arm.

  She glared at him. “What?”

  “You were being bitten.”

  Gabby still stared at him.

  “What?” Either she thought he had been ogling Candace, or she was still smarting from him swatting at the bugs biting her. “You want me to just watch you get bitten?”

  Gabby held her glare. “Seal the lab, Max.” Then what he had said sank in; it stiffened her expression. “Bitten? Oh, no.” She glanced at her arms—seven bites—then at Candace, who was covered. “Oh, God.” The stench of fear fell between them. “How long do we have?”

  Candace swallowed hard. “Not long. Respiratory problems manifest within minutes and steadily worsen. We’ve got maybe twelve hours before we’re in respiratory failure and coma. From what William told Elizabeth, he lived about twenty-one hours after three bites.” Candace surveyed her red-whelped chest and arms. “I’d say my time is going to be shorter.”

  Gabby darted a frantic gaze at Max. “Are you bitten, too?”

  Dressed in all black covert gear with only his face exposed, he was well protected. “No, I’m pretty well covered, and I may smell bitter. They’re avoiding me.”

  “Thank God.” Gabby turned back to Candace. “We’ve got to get them contained.”

  While they captured or killed the mosquitoes to stop the immediate dissemination challenge, Max sealed the lab and then searched for clothing for Candace.

  In the supply room, a variety of cans lined the wall. He walked around, into an alcove, and then opened a cabinet. Lab coats were stacked next to masks, boxes of gloves, and other nonregulated supplies. Grabbing two coats—Gabby’s arms were bare—and masks, he left the supply room and returned to the main lab.

  “Put these on.” He passed the items. “Masks, too.” The pungent odor of pesticide still hung heavy in the air. Near the window, three cans of insect repellent had been tossed to the floor. Two were dented.

  Candace buttoned up the coat. “I did that—sprayed the insecticide. It didn’t work at all. It just seemed to piss them off.”

  Max swiveled his gaze to Gabby. No insecticide or pesticide in existence would kill Z-4027-infected mosquitoes. “I’m sure it did.”

  Gabby shrugged into the sleeves of her coat. “We’ll gather up the strays. You report and see what we’re supposed to do now. Use the viewer. Candace knows it’s here.”

  Surprised, Max nodded and pulled out a headset, then moved to the lab table Gabby indicated. He looked up into the remote viewer, and realized if Candace knew about it, then Gabby’s cover had been compromised, though not by Global Warriors. By Candace—unless the commander had authorized disclosure to Candace. He well might have. Logan Industries worked on highly classified Z-4027 contracts with the Department of Defense. They’d be subject to a full review, which meant Candace would have to respond to any inquiries.

  Did that mean Elizabeth knew about Gabby, too? More than likely, she did. She was Powell’s widow, and Candace wouldn’t have given Gabby his tissue samples without Elizabeth’s agreement. They were friends, right? Of course, she knew. Though they could both think Gabby had been inserted undercover for the Justice Department.

  However, none of those things would explain to Candace how Max knew about the remote viewer or why he was reporting to Conlee. How had—or would—Gabby explain? “Gabby?” When she looked over at him, he sent her a pointed, questioning look, insisting she think through her reporting suggestion.

  The mask covering her mouth and nose, she nodded. “Do it, Max. It’s okay.”

  How could it be okay? “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “All right.” This mission just kept getting more and more twisted.

  Feeling futile because he wasn’t fully informed or certain that he ever would be, Max cursed again, and then spoke into the lip mike. “Commander?”

  “I’m here,” Conlee said. “We’ve been monitoring. I’ve already contacted Burke Pharmaceutical. They’re working a mirror contract for us on this. Dr. Keith Burke is on his way to Carnel Cove with a vaccine injection.”

  “So there is a vaccine available?” Hope filled Max. A vaccine would save Candace’s and Gabby’s lives. Erickson hadn’t yet developed one, though according to Gabby, he was making significant progress.

  “It’s strictly experimental,” Conlee said. “Burke hasn’t yet done trial studies, so if Candace is willing, she’ll be the first to test it.”

  Max glanced back at the women. They were still killing mosquitoes, but getting things under control. “What’s the alternative?”

  Conlee didn’t miss a beat. “Certain death.”

  “I guess she’ll agree, then.” How could she refuse?

  “What about Gabby?”

  The commander hesitated and silence crackled through the headpiece. Finally, he answered, his voice steely with resolve. “You have your orders.”

  Frowning, Max walked away from the viewer, though he could still pick up audio, and examined the mosquito tanks, the fall pattern of the broken glass on the lab floor, the rows of chemical canisters labeled with yellow bands, and one canister banded in black. He doubled back to Dr. David Erickson’s desk. Next to his nameplate rested a photo of a boy about nine. Its silver frame glinted in the overhead emergency light. Was that Erickson’s son? A rock had skid across the desktop, scuffing it, and lay next to the frame. What was going on with these rocks?

  Fist-size rocks lay all over the lab … including near or inside every broken mosquito tank. Max checked more thoroughly and then spoke into the lip mike. “Commander, it looks as if someone hurled in a rock from outside to break the window.” The lab had only one window. “There are rocks all over the place. Actually, most of them are stones. Polished, not natural. The kind you buy in stores.” He double-checked the trajectories, window to damage points. The damage definitely had been done from outside the lab. “This isn’t a result of hurricane damage, sir. And it wasn’t an accident.”

  “Stand by. I’m having Intel run the tapes. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  Max checked on Gabby and Candace, soaping their bites at the sink. Gabby had to know that wouldn’t help, not with Z-4027-infected mosquitoes. So why was she doing it? “Gabby?”

  She looked up, her eyes calm and intent. She knew what she was doing. “Yes, Max?”

  Gabby was just comforting Candace. Helping her to feel in contr
ol and not like a helpless victim. “Never mind.”

  Sweat sheened on her skin. She swiped her hair back from her face. Candace was already pouring sweat and breathing heavily, though that could be a reaction to the pesticide or anxiety about what lay ahead rather than symptoms induced by Z-4027.

  “Grayson?”

  Max turned his attention back to Conlee. “Yes, Commander?”

  “The thrower never entered the lab. The window was broken first with rocks, and then the stones were hurled at the tanks from outside. Unfortunately, that’s also beyond our viewer’s field of vision. Supposition is based on the trajectory of the rocks and stones.”

  Two good-size rocks were on the floor below the window and stones were in or near every tank. “Looks that way from here, too, sir. Nothing indicates otherwise.” Why was there a window in the lab? Max had never seen a window in a lab that worked classified projects.

  “Then we can’t ID the thrower. Can Candace?”

  “No, sir.” Max had overheard her telling Gabby. “When she entered, the lab was empty and the damage had already been done.”

  “How long was containment violated?”

  “No clear estimate on this end.” Max’s stomach furled. “Best bet is to clock the time of the damage on the tape and go from there.”

  “Is the lab sealed now?”

  “Yes, sir.” Max wandered back to the lab table below the viewer. “Should we notify Sheriff Coulter or the mayor?” Gabby had mentioned his name, but at the moment Max couldn’t recall—wait. Faulkner. That was it. Mayor Faulkner.

  “No. Not yet,” Conlee said, sounding worried and agitated. “Frankly, there isn’t a thing they can do about this that they aren’t already doing.”

  “Sir?” Max didn’t understand.

  “Hurricane Darla has power out and mosquitoes breeding like there’s no tomorrow. There’s a post-storm warning to take preventative measures and a dusk-to-dawn curfew.” Dread etched his tone. “Dusk is feeding time.”

  Max’s skin crawled. “I see.”