Dark Cure: A Covid Thriller (Dark Plague Book 1)

by Bradley West

  “Forty thousand and not a dollar less,” Melvin said. “I’m not wearing no spacesuit and dumping a Covid corpse into the Bay for chump change.”

  “Forty it is. Help Lenny bring the young grandfather down into the basement and chain him to the pole. Once we have the cash, I’ll give you the key to the Oakland warehouse our biker friends use. Pay one of those meth slingers five hundred bucks for an infected corpse. Our man Burns will give you magic sauce to inject.”

  “Just tell me when I get paid. I want to help my sister make a down payment on a house.”

  * * * * *

  Pat, Barb and Carla waited in Steph’s living room. Carla patted her pants pocket to reaffirm that Travis had returned the authentic drug dose and thumb drive. Her mind was agog, mentally rehearsing Travis’s last-minute instructions. Carla hated guns and here she was with a loaded pistol. It was much heavier than she’d expected. She stared at the weapon on the coffee table, barrel pointed at the front door. Travis had warned her that he’d disarmed the safe mechanisms: If someone burst in, aim at the center of mass and with two hands press the trigger over and over until the person dropped and hang on tight.

  Barb and Pat had hit the merlot hard during the family deliberation that concluded with a deferral on the FBI decision. Both were anxious, Barb on behalf of her sister. “That backpack weighs thirty pounds, and Stephanie almost died a week ago. What kind of people are we, sending her out there?”

  Carla didn’t have the relationship with Barb that she enjoyed with Stephanie, so she waited to see what Mother Maggio had to say. Pat looked distracted, even distant. “Stephanie’s a good woman. A person of faith, a true Catholic. That gives her a strength that many of us lack. It was prayer that saved her in the hospital, and if we pray hard enough tonight, that will see her through this and return my grandson to us.” Pat took a gulp of wine. “The world is a wicked place, a sinful place full of people with evil in their hearts. But prayer and good deeds can make the difference. If I had known that little Tyson had been taken, I’d have brought my rosary beads. Maybe I should get them.”

  Barb had heard enough. “Mom, that’s your third glass. You need to calm down, and you’re not going anywhere. Let me make some coffee.”

  * * * * *

  Lenny and Melvin frog-marched Sal down the rough basement steps. The two men backed him against a metal pole in the center of the room. “Melvin, grab that metal bucket, will ya?” Lenny instructed.

  “Melvin, could you do me a favor?” Sal asked. “Leave me cuffed, but not around this pole. Otherwise, I’ll shit my pants.”

  Melvin said nothing but scowled at Lenny for using his name. He repositioned Sal’s arms in front and re-cuffed his hands. “Don’t move or I’ll beat the brakes off you.”

  Lenny picked up a seven-foot-long rope section and tethered Sal’s waist to the pole. The British veteran used his foot to nudge the bucket against Sal’s feet and placed a large bottle of water on the floor. “There’s a piss bucket and a bottle of water. Once we’re upstairs, you can remove your hood, but don’t try anything clever. We’ll feed you later tonight.”

  The two men tromped up the steps, switched off the single overhead bulb and shut the door. Off came the hood. He could breathe again. What a relief. He downed half the water and explored his small circle of freedom. The metal bucket was a cheap one with raw edges where the handle attached on each side. He wedged the bucket between his feet, grabbed hold of a length of rope and began to saw.

  * * * * *

  Travis knew that Arkar and Maung were his hole cards. He also knew that the sight of military duffels, even on the periphery of a dog walkers’ park, would raise eyebrows. He instructed his shooters to park blocks away to the northwest and find hides with firing angles out to sea. He and Greg would be the decoys and keep Steph within view from their spot curbside.

  Jaime had his own ideas for concealment and fields of fire. He exited the truck and disappeared into the bushes between two houses. Travis’ final advice was, “Just don’t fire the first shot.” He knew as soon as he spoke that it was as good as prophecy.

  * * * * *

  Muller and his three Black Ice moonlighters crammed into the Taurus, long weapons in the trunk and walkie talkies in laps as they synced comms channels. Muller called for quiet. “I know this is last minute. We don’t even have a doll, much less a stroller. We can improvise with a bag of flour and a jacket. There’s a grocery store near the park. Melvin, you’re always talking about how you want kids, so you carry it. You need to make it look like it’s real.”

  Muller pulled into the Woodland’s Grocery parking lot and handed Lenny a fifty. “Grab a bottle of scotch along with the flour. We’ll all need a drink once this is over.”

  * * * * *

  Arkar loitered at the end of a side street next to Niven Park. He had his binos out, and through the trees he could see the entirety of the paved inner oval. A couple of old people were being jerked along by their yippie dogs, but the park was otherwise abandoned. Arkar made the distance at two hundred and thirty meters. His M-4A1 carbine with military-grade optics leaned against the nearby Toyota, draped with the old tee shirts he used to wash his car. Through his Zeiss’ he could see Maung’s outline under a camo net, concealed in shrubs. The younger man was in a riskier position, but not by much with Arkar covering his flank.

  Travis had chosen not to hide the F-150 at all. Arkar could see it sitting across the park. Where Jaime had ended up, he didn’t know, but he wasn’t too worried. He doubted the former Marine could detect either Arkar or himself, much less mistake them for foes.

  * * * * *

  Muller was none too pleased with Lenny’s choice of spirits. “Bells? Who the fuck drinks Bells?”

  “Whaddya mean? That’s fine blended whiskey from my home country and half the price of that Chivas shite you lot drink over here.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll just drink beer. Melvin, use this jacket as a wrap, and put this hat on it so they don’t see that they are paying one-point-three million for a bag of flour.”

  “I went with a five-pound bag of rice,” Lenny corrected. “We can’t have the baby farting clouds of white dust.”

  Muller dropped off Alf and told him to use his spotting scope to find the former Marine: If shit went sideways, slot him first. Alf had his pride and joy, an L118A1 AWC sniper rifle, the same one he’d used in 5th Para. He slung the case over his shoulder and hiked down into the scrub behind the line of houses that overlooked the north end. When he’d found a good spot, he assumed a prone position and assembled his weapon. For his final step, he attached a homemade suppressor to reduce flash and noise. Settled in place, he clicked twice to alert Muller. He noted the last of the distances and checked the time: 19:55.

  Muller chose to stay in his vehicle, parked out of sight at the end of a residential cul-de-sac. Melvin sat next to him, cradling his precious bundle of rice. Muller ran through the plan again in his mind. In his experience, last-minute ops often went south, most of them straight away.

  Lenny was armed with a concealed automatic pistol as he embarked on an evening stroll along the park’s perimeter. He wished he had on the ceramic body armor he’d worn in Iraq but consoled himself that he had little to worry about provided Melvin sold the babe-in-arms well.

  * * * * *

  At eight o’clock, Travis confirmed that Stephanie could hear him through her cellphone speaker. She shouldered the backpack and set out south across the lawn on unsteady feet. Panic welled as she thought about Tyson trapped in a box with holes in it. Was he even alive? Thoughts of her baby caused her breasts to express milk.

  As she reached the oval path, the burner buzzed with a text: Place money on bench to left, turn around and walk back 50 yards. She stopped and looked around. Across the oval, she saw a black man in dark sunglasses walking with a baby in his arms: Tyson! As she hurried toward the bench, a C-section stitch pulled and sent a jolt into her abdomen that doubled her over. She could hear Travis ask if she wa
s okay. She straightened up and said in a pained, low voice, “I’m fine. I got a message to leave the pack on the bench up ahead and turn around and walk away.”

  “Take your time. Walk over to the bench and sit. When the man gets to within fifty meters, leave the backpack and walk away a short distance before you stop. He should hand you Tyson, but he might leave the baby on the bench, pick up the money and approach you. Unless he has Tyson in his arms, don’t let him get too close. If you feel threatened, drop to the ground and keep your head down.”

  Stephanie reached the bench and sat down. She felt lightheaded enough to pass out if not for the searing pain.

  Melvin saw the target drop the pack as per instructions, but she made no move to walk away. He sped up his pace, feeling as exposed as a pit bull’s balls.

  Travis had his own binoculars up and didn’t like the view. He turned to Greg and whispered, “Either Tyson is drugged, or it’s a doll. There’s no movement and the head’s wrong.” The former SEAL flashed back to the first battle of Fallujah in 2004 when female jihadis detonated their IED babies at U.S. checkpoints. A moment’s indecision or misplaced compassion had cost the limbs and lives of good men. “I’m calling it off,” Travis said.

  “No! You can’t!” Greg exclaimed. “If you cancel the handover, they might be killed.”

  Travis’s training and instincts told him to take control. Greg’s pleas gave him pause. This wasn’t his call, was it? He didn’t even know these folks, and this wasn’t a military operation, either. He did nothing and felt his anxiety build.

  Melvin gently laid the windbreaker-wrapped bundle on the nearest bench. He adjusted the ball cap to shade the ersatz baby’s face from the sun’s last rays and looked at the Maggio woman seated fifty meters away. Finally, she stood up, but instead of walking down the path she veered off onto the lawn, splitting eye contact between him and the baby bundle. Then she broke into an uneven run toward what she thought was her child. Shit. He could end up shot if she detected the fake before he had the money and found cover. He broke into a trot, ignoring Muller’s radioed instructions to walk slowly.

  Ryder spoke to his Burmese snipers. “Arkar, put two shots near the money. Keep that man from picking it up, but don’t shoot him unless you have to. Maung, cover me.”

  Travis started the Ford. “Get in!” he said to Greg. “The baby’s a fake and Steph’s in trouble.”

  Arkar bracketed the black backpack with a pair of bullets that splintered the bench. The shots echoed across the park as the F-150’s engine roared to life. The dog walkers and twilight perambulators scattered. Melvin panicked, turned and ran away from Steph, who had stopped and turned at the sound of gunshots. Meanwhile, Lenny sprinted across the grass straight for Steph. Jaime’s pickup mounted the curb and accelerated across the lawn. Steph heard more gunshots and ran toward Tyson on the bench, ignoring the burning C-section incision. Lenny was closing the distance when Jaime’s first shot struck him in the shoulder and pitched him face-first onto the ground.

  Alf saw the smoke from Arkar’s rounds but couldn’t discern the shooters through the foliage. The sound of the shot that felled Lenny caused Alf to whirl around. He acquired his target within seconds and squeezed off a quick shot. Then he turned and drew a new bead on the juking pickup. He could put a hole in the driver just like a pub dart into the double bullseye. As he steadied on the trigger, Maung’s bullet struck his forehead and left a neat exit hole out the back.

  Muller ran toward Lenny, and Melvin ran for the rucksack. Maung didn’t shoot as he had the pickup and Stephanie in the background. The F-150 slammed to a stop as Stephanie reached the bench and discovered the deception. Arkar’s shot hit the top of the backpack and knocked it over. Melvin stopped and raised his hands, his eyes on stalks as he sought the shooter.

  A hysterical Stephanie had picked up the windbreaker-wrapped rice bag when Greg grabbed her. “My baby! My baby!” she screamed.

  “That’s not Tyson! We’ll find him!” Greg shouted. “Let’s go!”

  Additional shots rang out. Lenny had staggered to his feet and was out for vengeance. He fired his pistol one last time before Maung shot him through the heart.

  Twenty meters away, Greg was down and clutched his leg. Stephanie stood in shock and watched her husband’s thigh gush blood. Travis ran up and shouted at her to climb in the truck, grabbed Greg under the armpits and dragged him to the rear door, hoisted him inside and pushed Stephanie in. Travis’ shoulder blades awaited the sniper’s bullet, but miraculously he found himself behind the wheel and threw the truck in gear.

  Melvin stood with his hands raised. Muller saw that Lenny was dead and put his up as well. Sirens sounded. Travis pulled up close and leveled a pistol out the window. He was five meters from the rucksack. “You want to live, throw the backpack into the back of the pickup. Now!” Melvin did as he was told. “Keep your hands up! You drop them, you’re dead.” The F-150 surged away and zigzagged across the lawn.

  Maung had both Black Ice kidnappers covered while Arkar drove the Toyota down to pick him up. “Boss, you want to shoot these last two?” Maung asked Travis over his handset.

  “No. Let the police get them. Get out of there and drive north on 101 toward Novato. I’ll call you with more later.”

  Alf’s bullet had pierced the ballistic helmet and plowed a furrow across the top of Jaime’s skull. The former Spec Ops man recognized the sound of .223 cartridges and figured the good guys were ahead, but couldn’t see shit due to the blood in his eyes. His phone rang. Damnit. Where was it? Oh, here.

  “Are you okay?” Travis asked.

  “I, I was shot. In the head. I . . . I can move, but I can’t see well.”

  “Fuck. We’ll pick you up where we dropped you. Be careful: There are still tangos out here.”

  Three minutes later, Jaime climbed into the cab as a grim-faced Travis directed Steph to apply pressure to Greg’s leg wound. “Stop!” Jaime commanded. Travis did so. Jaime got out and opened the door to the backseat. “Get up front,” he said to Stephanie. “He needs a tourniquet. Let me handle this.”

  Travis smiled as he drove off: The USMC was still in the fight.

  Muller and Melvin lowered their hands and ran for the Taurus. The pair waited at the pickup point while Muller radioed Alf in vain, then drove off as the first police cars arrived.

  chapter ten

  TRIAGE

  Friday, July 10: Marin County and Gualala California, night

  Muller drove slowly and checked his mirrors. Traffic was light. “We’ll pick up the van and stake out the mother’s house.”

  “The van? They made the muthafuckin’ van.” Melvin was unhappy that they had abandoned their sniper Alf, even though common sense suggested he was either dead or in custody.

  “They’ll head back home to meet the others and debrief.”

  “Then we go in and shoot every last one of those godless—”

  “No. Either they’ll run or wait on the law to arrive. We still have bugs in place. If we can set up the van before they return, we’ll play it by ear.”

  * * * * *

  Greg howled as Jaime tightened the makeshift tourniquet. That set Steph off into a stream-of-consciousness rant. Travis yelled for everyone to shut up. “Jaime, what’s going on back there?”

  “I’m using his belt. It looks to have missed major vessels. The bleed is under control.” Jaime focused his eyes and blinked to restore single vision. His head hurt like hell, but the task was simple: Cinch the belt until the leaks stopped.

  “Jaime, we have to make a call,” Travis said. “If we go to the ER, it’s over for us and maybe Tyson. Can Greg make it without surgery?”

  “As long as we have antibiotics and IVs to expand his blood volume.”

  Two more police cars and an ambulance passed in the opposite direction, sirens and lights on. Travis pulled out his phone and left Carla a voicemail. “Get out now. Two kidnappers still out there and will come to the house. Greg and Jaime are wounded. No Tyson.
Drive north to the Vintage Oaks shopping center in Novato. Turn off all your phones until 9:38 and I’ll text you.” Travis hung up without waiting for a reply.

  Next up were the two Burmese. Arkar confirmed that they were unharmed and underway and had made two kills. Travis made a command decision. “Return to head office. Grab all the weapons, ammo, body armor, climbing gear and our full trauma kit, the big one. Switch vehicles and come back here. Stay off comms until 23:58. If something happens, meet at the Vintage Oaks shopping center, Novato, at 07:00.”

  Shit, shit, shit. Travis pulled off the 101 North and turned to Stephanie. “Where’s the burner from the kidnappers?” Stephanie looked to be on the verge of shock as she sat twisted in her seat to stare at Greg’s ashen face.

  “Stephanie. Stephanie. Look at me. Give me the damn kidnapper’s phone.”

  She processed the message one word at a time and complied.

  There were no new messages. Travis disabled the location services, GPS and Wi-Fi. He left the phone on, but at least they couldn’t be tracked by anyone short of the NSA. A new thought struck him. Jesus! He hopped out of the cab and ran to the back. In the dark, he found the backpack wedged against the tailgate. He stashed it on the floorboard under Stephanie’s feet, got back behind the wheel and eased the F-150 back into traffic.

  “We have to find bandages and meds for Greg. The police will have a BOLO out on this truck, so we have to act fast. I’m in their facial recognition database, which rules me out. Can you make the buy? I promise we’ll find Tyson, but first we have to help Greg. Do you understand? Steph! Stephanie!” Travis grabbed the frail woman’s shoulder. She started at his touch, but it brought her back into the present.

  “Yes. Yes, I can do that. What should I buy?” Ryder gave her a short list, uncertain if she’d remember more. As he drove, his practiced hands deconstructed his cell.

  * * * * *

  Carla hustled the agitated Maggio women out of the condo. Barb insisted she could drive and would make her own way to Novato, so Carla left her and shepherded her least-favorite aunt into the Audi. She pulled out of the driveway, wondering how badly injured Greg and Jaime were. What an awful day. As she turned the corner down the block, a van with a roof antenna passed her in the opposite direction.