by DiAnn Mills
How could he have left her alone? Such a coward.
Worthless.
His parents were such losers. Why hadn’t they aborted him? Or did the idea of inflicting physical and mental anguish have a better ring? How many times had the parents insisted he owed them? Right. The only thing they’d taught him was manipulating techniques, and Whitt had sworn off using those tactics.
Or had he? His mind refused to stop its random nonsense.
Selfishness pelted him like rock-size hail. He’d walked out on the only person who’d ever shown him kindness. Teachers had encouraged him, but even they could have ulterior motives. When he performed in class, it offered irrefutable proof their school ranked with the elite school districts.
You’re cynical, Whitt. Dying and disillusioned in a world where the strong stepped on the weak. None of the things he wanted to accomplish would happen.
If he could walk out of these woods, he’d turn himself in and apologize to Miss Stacy.
I can conduct myself like a man. Perform one honorable deed for the woman who could have been my mother. Impress God with determination and valor.
The slight movement caused more anguish than he’d imagined. He cried out, startling Xena. But he must try, get to the water supply and purify it with the pills in his backpack. The dog rose onto her haunches, her tender brown eyes urging him to attempt the impossible. He couldn’t be angry with the dog when it wasn’t her fault she’d been injected with a deadly disease.
God, please help me. I don’t want to die without telling Miss Stacy I’m sorry.
ON THE FLIGHT TO HOUSTON, Alex’s head hurt and his stomach curdled. “Are you feeling okay?” he said to Ric.
“Arm hurts when I breathe.”
“What about the rest of you?”
Ric eyed him. “Are you showing signs of brucellosis? Frankly, you look flushed.”
“Not sure. Got a huge headache and upset stomach.”
“Considering what we’ve been through, you’re entitled. But for the sake of your health, get it checked out ASAP when we arrive in Houston.”
“Might have been the burrito at the airport.”
“Told you to stick to a burger. You were exposed to Xena more than once.”
“We both were.” Alex hoped his stomachache was a repercussion from too many jalapeños. “The ASAC won’t want to be friendly with a suspicion of brucellosis.”
Ric laughed. “Shouldn’t have insisted we return home.”
In Houston, Alex and Ric were whisked off to the FBI’s med clinic near their office. Both had blood drawn. Briefing their ASAC was done via phone. Fortunately the blood results would be available around four in the morning. The agents were ordered to spend the night at the clinic in case they tested positive. Alex’s fever registered 102 degrees, and Ric’s hovered at 98.9. A combination of antibiotics to stop the spike of fever was administered.
He texted Stacy but avoided the subject of his health.
Shortly before 10 p.m., Alex paced the floor between their clinic beds. Jensen Phillips had seemingly vanished. “If we’re delayed any longer than waiting on our blood test results, I might need to check into a mental hospital.”
“The good thing is we have all night to piece this together.”
“You should try to sleep.”
Ric huffed. “Trust me, I can’t rest with the steady throb in my arm. You talk and pace, and I’ll take one-handed notes.” He pulled out his phone. “Ready. Start from the top.”
“On a Saturday morning, Stacy is conducting her normal routine of patrolling the outer perimeter of the airport and finds Todd Howe’s body, a wounded Lab, and a stolen military-grade quadcopter. In the drone investigation, we look at enlisted men with connections to Fort Benning, where the quadcopter was stolen, which leads us to Doug Reynold and his military antigovernment group.
“Lynx Connor, posing as a rep for an investment firm, steps into the picture and persuades property owners in Stacy’s subdivision to sell out. We learn the investment firm is a shell company that leads back to Russell Phillips. Connor phones Bekah Howe and states her husband deserved to die. We go after him. We also discover Howe had a condo and an offshore account in Andorra with over a half million dollars. Was that an investment or a refuge if caught in a crime? Or was he planning to leave his family?
“Stacy is hospitalized. Medical testing indicates she has human brucellosis. The Lab found at the crime site is infected with a genetically engineered disease that infects dogs and people. Whitt McMann runs off and takes the infected Lab because he’s afraid of social services sticking him in a foster home. No one can find him, and he tested positive for the disease.
“Connor is picked up in LA. He claims Russell Phillips is the mastermind of the human brucellosis to buy out the subdivision. We fly to LA to talk to Connor and Phillips. Now Connor’s been murdered—because someone smuggled poisoned Zoloft into his cell. Obviously someone was afraid he’d talk. Then Howard Dottia phones Russell and tells him he knows who’s behind the series of crimes. Unfortunately he’s killed in a bombing. All roads lead to Jensen Phillips, but he’s conveniently missing. We also learn Jensen has the background to develop the bacterial strain.
“Houston calls us home from LA because Doug Reynold bailed Ace McMann out of jail. McMann is a drunk. Not soldier material, so the only reason Reynold’s wasting time with him is McMann has to know where Whitt and Xena are hiding. I hope the boy is still alive.” Alex stopped pacing, his body aching with exhaustion. Must be the fever. “What did I miss?”
“That’s remarkable for a guy running a fever.”
Alex chuckled. “Imagine my output at 98.6. Seriously, the concrete findings are Xena was injected with brucellosis to start an epidemic. Why would Jensen use dogs to accomplish his purpose when he prefers them to humans?”
“If we’re freed in the morning, we can dive into what Doug Reynold is up to.”
Promptly at 4:05 a.m., a nurse entered the agents’ room with the results of their blood work.
“Agent Price, you tested negatively for brucellosis,” said the nurse, a petite Vietnamese woman. “Agent LeBlanc, your test is positive. We’d like to keep you until your fever breaks. The combination of antibiotics has reduced it some, but not to our satisfaction. There’s—”
“No cure. Take it now.”
Alex’s temp hovered around 100. What else could go wrong on this case? “When my fever is 99.5, I’m out of here.”
“That’s not our recommendation,” the nurse said.
Irritation rose in defiance like a boil on his behind. “I appreciate your professional opinion. I feel fine.”
“Wonderful. Then I suggest you sleep.”
“Are you saying my partner is free to go, but I have to hang around?”
The nurse smiled. “Exactly.”
Alex fumed. “Only a few hours.”
“Stay put.” Ric gathered up his belongings from the past few days in LA. “Don’t let your pride get in the way.”
Logical conclusion, but he had better things to do.
Saturday morning, Stacy opened her eyes to a better attitude than she’d experienced for the past two weeks. She listened to the whirr of grinding coffee beans and pretended it was Whitt instead of Mom. Last night they’d talked in her room, Dad seated on one side of the bed and Mom on the other until she fell asleep. Which didn’t take long. But what she remembered was rich and tender. They’d laughed and cried about KaraLee, and the time seemed to heal the lost years.
The coffee grinding stopped, and her mind swept to Whitt again.
Where are you? Are you fighting the effects of the disease?
He seldom spoke of good times with his parents. Ace wasn’t such a bad person when he didn’t have alcohol in his system. His mother had destroyed any chances of nurturing with her addiction to drugs and other activities. Whitt had reported one trip to the beach and zoo and another to San Antonio. Nothing more Whitt could recall. She texted the information to Alex, who�
�d know where to forward it. Volunteers to aid in helping pet owners get their dogs tested for brucellosis and distribute facts about the disease planned to arrive at the clinic by 8:00 this morning. She’d open the doors at 8:30.
She glanced at the clock: 6:45. Taking a deep breath, she made her way down the hallway to the kitchen and pretended Whitt was there with Mom and Dad.
“Morning, cher.” Dad’s greeting spread from one ear to the other. “Are you ready for a big day?”
“I’m looking forward to it with my wonderful dad.”
“Hungry?” Mom tilted her head. “Grits and scrambled eggs?”
“I love being spoiled.” Nobody made grits and scrambled eggs like Mom . . . or Whitt.
Alex had texted last night that he was back in town. She wanted to call, but restraint won out. She’d not interfere with his job.
At 7:35 her cell phone rang with Alex’s name shining like a banner on the screen. What a great diversion when her mind searching for Whitt had produced nothing but despair.
“Thanks for sending the info about Whitt. I passed it on.”
“Appreciate it. I assume you’ve been racing since arriving in Houston.”
“Not really. I just got my freedom papers.”
“Been in meetings?”
“No, quarantined. When Ric and I arrived from LA, we were tested for brucellosis. Ric was the lucky one. But I’m now fever free.”
Misery assaulted her. “I’m really sorry.”
“I’m fine. Shouldn’t have mentioned it. Any word on Whitt?”
“No. I’ve racked my brain thinking about where he could have gone.”
“Has a family member or neighbor ever taken interest in him?”
“The only person was his grandfather, and he died.”
“Did they spend time together?”
“He took him fishing, but it was in a public place.”
“Where?”
She sighed. “A stocked lake in Montgomery County.”
“Anything more specific?”
“Alex, the only person who could give you details would be his dad.”
Silence met her ears. “What are you thinking?”
“My agenda for the day.”
“What?”
“Adding up what we know. Remember Doug Reynold, the leader of a military antigovernment group in the area? He bailed Ace out of jail. The FBI’s watching them, but nothing suspicious. We think Reynold’s using Ace to find Whitt and Xena. His chances of figuring out Whitt’s location increase with Ace’s help. In the wrong hands, Xena could infect hundreds of people.”
“Bioterrorism,” she said. “Stronger infections and viruses made in laboratories. The outcome would be devastating.”
“From your experience, how often have you seen the canine version in your clinic?”
“Rare, and never transmitted to a human.”
“Stacy, I need to go.”
“I understand. If you find Ace, black both his eyes for me.” She dropped her phone into her lab coat, feeling relief that Alex and Ric were back in Houston working the case.
ALEX NEVER LIKED TO LOSE. The instinct to succeed gut-punched him every time he thought about the killings and those who’d died from the infection. He wanted to talk to Doug Reynold and walk his property, search every square inch for illegal activities. Reynold had a constitutional right to spout his antigovernment beliefs and to hold military maneuvers on his property. Online chatter indicated they were planning an operation to take down those in power, but did those plans include Todd Howe’s murder and a quadcopter?
Alex and Ric labored over paperwork and reviewed backgrounds until nearly noon, when a judge signed a search warrant for Reynold’s property based on suspicion of conspiracy—specifically illegal weapons, ammunition, and drones with deadly payloads. Local law enforcement readied for backup.
Ric drove his silver Camaro, although he complained about Reynold and his militia filling it with bullet holes. Three additional vehicles contained agents and police officers. At the entrance to Reynold’s property, No Trespassing signs and a chained-lock gate stopped the vehicles. “Call him. He’s crazy enough to blow our heads off for tampering with his lock.”
Alex read a new sign: Trespassers’ bodies will be shown on YouTube.
He’d dealt with Reynold in January when a former member of the militia group came forward. A search warrant and a team of agents hadn’t discovered the stockpile of weapons and ammo the man stated was hidden there. He was involved in a fatal car accident shortly after the FBI search. Law enforcement officials were convinced the arsenal existed.
Alex exited the passenger’s side and pressed in the phone number listed on the gate. “This is FBI Special Agent Alex LeBlanc. I’m at your gate with a search warrant.”
“For what?” the man said.
“We have reason to believe you have illegal weapons and ammo on your property.”
Reynold laughed, a raspy smoker’s sound followed by a cough. “Tried that a few months back, remember? I’m a busy man. No time for government interference in my business.”
“Take the time. Either remove the chain or we will, and I’m not alone.”
“Oh, I see you. Smile, Agent LeBlanc.”
Alex had previously seen the security camera mounted on a pole. “I’m running out of patience.”
“Invading private property violates my rights.”
“You have ten minutes.”
While they waited, agents reported pickup trucks making a fast exodus out the rear of the property. The vehicles were stopped and the drivers and passengers detained for questioning. Ace McMann was not among them.
Eight minutes later, Reynold screeched his rusty pickup to a stop on the opposite side of the gate. Dust swirled behind and above the truck, obviously meant to demonstrate an intimidating force. His six-foot-four lean, muscular frame moved toward the gate as though he were in command of a battalion of fighting men. Which he claimed to be. Releasing a ring of keys from his belt, he unlocked it and spit through the gate’s metal railings, the wad landing beside Alex’s shoe. Reynold nodded before speeding in reverse along the dirt road to his home.
Alex pushed open the gate and motioned the procession on. The temps were nearing the high nineties, and sweat dripped down the sides of his face. The extra few minutes had given Reynold time to ensure his stash was secure . . . But Alex believed the man always kept his weapons and ammo concealed.
Reynold’s two-story stone-and-concrete house resembled a small fortress, complete with iron-barred windows. It had been built about ten years ago when the militia group first started meeting. Reynold had three wives under his belt and hadn’t attempted a fourth. Four kids with their mothers, and he didn’t pay child support. Rumor was he’d threatened to kill his ex-wives if they took him to court. His tough-guy facade kept those who didn’t share his antigovernment beliefs at a distance, but the man had a master’s in economics and six years in the Army. Intelligent and belligerent, not a pleasant combo.
Alex walked up the concrete steps to the porch. He’d bet his next paycheck that beneath his feet was concealed what would send Reynold to prison, but as of yet, the FBI hadn’t detected an entrance.
Reynold opened the steel front door before Alex knocked. “Let’s see what you got.” He closed the door behind him. “Agent LeBlanc, you don’t give up, do ya?”
“No reason to when a man’s hiding what’s illegal.” Alex handed him the warrant and took in the surroundings. The area looked the same—a shed to the left held a leather and saddle shop, legitimate with its own website and catalog. No weapons in sight. Over three dozen quarter horses and just as many Angus grazed in a pasture behind the house. In the distance, a small herd of Jersey cows supplied milk and butter, or so the website claimed. A creek wove through the property, and a stocked pond kept the occupants in fish. Reynold, and whoever else lived there, grew their own food right down to grain for bread. This afternoon, no one appeared to be working the grounds—
they’d taken off.
Reynold returned the warrant. “What’s this about?”
“A man at Fort Benning claims he and a partner sold a quadcopter to a military group in this area. The transaction took place in Little Rock. The partner ended up dead. You’re the only man who fits the description.”
“But you have no name or proof.” He sneered.
“The man at Fort Benning has agreed to talk.” Which he hadn’t, but Reynold didn’t know that. “Two men are dead with connections to the device.”
“Two dead? How sad the quadcopter didn’t inflict more damage.”
Alex studied him . . . waiting. Reynold carried a weapon behind his back and probably a knife in his boot. “Bet you’d throw a party.”
“All the beer you’d want.”
“Why did you pay Ace McMann’s bail?”
“My good deed for the week,” Reynold said. “Is he dead too?”
“You tell us. What’s your interest in him?”
“None. Friend of a friend. That’s all.”
“We’d like to talk to him,” Alex said.
“He’s not here. Have no idea where he hightailed to. Look for him all you want.” He nodded beyond his front porch. “My buildings are locked. You need me to conduct a tour.” Contempt poured over his words.
“Why not hand over the keys and save yourself the trouble? Time’s precious for a busy man.”
“Have you rob me or plant evidence? Nah, you Feds are all the same. Push your weight around and take respectable citizens for idiots.”
Not exactly. No doubt he’d called his lawyer. “We’ll be sure to honor your constitutional rights.”
“I’ll be sure to protect ’em.”
Hours later when darkness settled around the property, Alex and Ric closed their car doors and left the area with the other agents and police officers. A surveillance team maintained vigilant watch.
Behind every padlock at the property were items necessary for a working ranch or leather supplies for Reynold’s business. Inside the house, a huge refrigeration and freezer unit powered by a generator contained wild game, catfish, and perishables. A large pantry held canned goods, bags of beans and rice, a water purifier, and enough bottled water to last a few years. Agents searched for safe rooms inside the home and the underground storage units outside. Pics were taken from every angle.
