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

by Bradley West

  “I have Jaime. His head’s better and he’s itching for payback.”

  “How’s Greg?”

  “He’ll recover. Out of the hospital and resting here where he’s less likely to fall sick.”

  “I’ll let you know if anything changes with Carla. In the meantime, you and Jaime need to install a secure messaging app. I’ll email you the link.”

  “Will do. Thanks for the call.” Sal disconnected and drummed his fingers against the armrest. Maybe he should sit tight and wait for the kidnappers. The problem was that by Tuesday, the kidnappers might all be sick or dead which would be fatal for Tyson even if he were immune.

  * * * * *

  The longer Melvin thought about it, the more steamed he got. Fifteen percent? His ass was on the line every bit as much as Muller’s, and the man just gave him, what, a third? Less than a third. And the way he did it was even worse: no discussion and not even in private. Well, if push came to shove, Melvin knew who would shove harder. Muller made a point to everyone he knew that he used to be a CIA contractor. Big fucking deal. He’d seen those assholes in Kandahar, and half of them were out of shape, overconfident and drugged up. And that was another thing on his shitlist: his coke. Who the fuck was Muller to keep it?

  Now it’s nut-cutting time and who gets the call? The Screaming Eagles, the Bastards of Bastogne, the 101st Airborne: Sergeant Melvin Robinson walking point once again. In the twilight, he cruised the backroads and picked out two candidate vehicles. Muller told him to find a large SUV and a crew cab pickup. They would make a game-time call on which one: If Burns was dead or beyond salvation, they’d wrap him in plastic and throw his ass into the pickup bed. Otherwise, they’d bundle him into the back of the SUV in his spacesuit.

  Muller had worked hard to build up the mystique around his hazy background. It hadn’t taken Melvin long to discover from his 101st brothers that Muller’s mystery years had been spent mostly in Almaty, wherever the fuck that was, guarding an arms dealer. That was it: No black-ops assassination team, just a bunch of babysitters for someone the spooks wanted an eye on. Someday, Muller and he would settle matters hand-to-hand. He couldn’t wait to turn that closet racist inside out.

  The Jag crept down Roseman Creek Road and a sight for sore eyes came into view: A Chevy Tahoe parked up a driveway, yet far enough from the house to make it a piece of cake. Melvin noted the location and cruised on. Less than a quarter of a mile farther down was a four-door Toyota pickup parked by the curb. Jackpot.

  * * * * *

  Back at the dentist’s holiday home, another predator stalked his prey. Muller knew he had to have more than coke if he wanted to seduce Katerina. Though Muller was all for the rough and tumble, he drew the line at force. That was the sort of thing that separated white people from the knuckle-draggers.

  Katerina had finished the crossword magazine, working in ink without any corrections. She looked around the living room and saw Muller check her out yet again. “Like what you’re seeing, sailor?”

  Muller was attracted to the sassy ones. “Yes, I do. It seems like you decided we don’t need Burns. I can trade in Melvin for a couple of shooters on day rates, no problem. I wonder what makes my future fifty-fifty partner tick other than a love of wordplay?”

  “I’ve decided to risk the last of the baby’s blood on Burns. I say we suit up and I film you injecting him. Ideally, he’ll recover within a few days and we’ll shoot more video, but even if he dies, I’ll just splice in my recording from when we negotiated in my contract. Once I change the metadata, no one will be able to tell.”

  She leaned forward and looked at him with intensity. “And maybe it’s time you start pulling your weight. Can I access the floorplan of the address I gave you for the campus lab? Find out the campus security guard’s patrol routines? What about locating a safe house and a place to reassemble the lab equipment? I don’t see why I would give up half if I have to do all the work myself.”

  Muller flushed with anger, but put a lid on it: The science fairy had a point. “Let’s suit up.”

  * * * * *

  Greg was awake, so Sal addressed his family in his son-in-law’s recovery room. “I spoke with Travis a short while ago. Carla didn’t use the half-dosage and she’ll return it to us. However, she’s a virtual prisoner and Travis won’t see her again until Monday night. They’ll come here as soon as he frees her, maybe as early as late Monday night but possibly only Tuesday morning if the road lockdown is insurmountable. Ryder said he could call in a favor with the FBI, but I could tell that it’s something he’d try only as a last resort.”

  Barb spoke for all assembled. “Tuesday? It’s only Saturday. What should we do if the kidnappers contact us sooner?”

  “Play it by ear. As Jaime said, there are only two of them left, plus Burns and a woman scientist. Burns wants to make his own cure and sell it. They have no incentive to harm Tyson. We wait and arrange the exchange for after Carla escapes. I’ll volunteer to be the hostage. Burns will like that.”

  “Why is Carla a prisoner?” Steph asked.

  “Travis’ friend cracked the encryption on the files Nancy Jacobs created. Carla read them earlier today and they contain the formula and batching instructions. She wants to set everything up to allow Livermore to replicate Nancy’s work and produce a cure that might save millions of lives. That will take another two days.”

  “What prevents Burns from killing you?” Greg asked.

  “Nothing, but here’s an idea. Step One, I bring the drug over and Tyson’s released. Maybe we give them the formula as well just to ensure we recover our boy. Step Two, you tell them that you have the manufacturing process and money, and you’ll trade them both for me.”

  “Why not just give them everything all at once for Tyson?” Barb asked.

  “Because the only proof that the drug isn’t phony is to inject most of it into a sick person and then undertake chemical analysis of the remainder. See if the reverse-engineering results match up to the formula. You’ll also have to wait a few days to see if the cure actually works. They won’t release Tyson unless they get a new hostage in return.” Sal saw that his personal stock was off rock bottom.

  “Every news channel reports violence in the streets, food shortages and looting,” Pat said. “Gangs are invading people’s homes. How soon do we leave once we have Tyson back?”

  “We’ve already signed a contract on a big camper and are in negotiations on two others,” Jaime said. “We’ll buy as many supplies as we can between now and Tuesday. Then we leave.”

  “When Travis brings Carla,” Sal continued, “you should head for Canada no later than Tuesday night. Jaime and I will stay behind and negotiate for Tyson. We’ll follow when we can.”

  This was news to Barb. “Wait a second. We’ve never discussed this. We all leave together, don’t we? Jaime?”

  Jaime opened his mouth to speak, but Sal beat him to the punch. “Think about it. In a week, everyone in Marin may be sick or dead. At the very least, we’ll have to defend our home. If we want to stay healthy, we need Carla because she will either bring the cure or make it. Travis can protect you on the drive. Jaime and I will look for Tyson and wait for the kidnappers. If we don’t find him or hear from them by this time next week, we’ll head north after you.” As he said those fateful words, Sal saw the contempt in his family’s eyes as his credibility plummeted.

  “Fuck that!” Stephanie said. “We’re not leaving Tyson behind! If I can’t trust you to do the right thing, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “In a week, anyone here will be sick or under siege. If we don’t have Tyson back by that time, it means the kidnappers and Tyson are dead or dying.”

  Steph howled in anguish. “No! I’m not leaving my baby!”

  Greg, Barb and Pat joined the clamor, insisting that the Maggio family would never abandon a baby. Their shouts assailed Sal’s ears and followed him as he walked out, Jaime behind him. They regrouped in the kitchen where Jaime pulled out two beers and handed o
ne to Sal. “What you said in there was right, but they don’t want to accept it.”

  “It’ll take time to sink in. By Monday night, they’ll be packed for Canada. As long as people keep dying, and you and I stay behind to look, I think they can be persuaded.”

  “We’ll need more than Ryder to protect the convoy. I may have a couple of old soldiers from the VFW Hall who can help.”

  Sal paused. “You’re right, particularly if we don’t manage to catch up to the RVs before they hit trouble on the road north.”

  “Precisely.”

  * * * * *

  Burns was delirious as he sweated inside a hazmat suit. His head hurt, his throat was on fire and he hacked nonstop. Someone came into the room and threw the drapes open, and the light added to his pain. Rough hands found the front zipper on his boilersuit and opened it up. He heard a female voice in the background.

  “You can inject him anywhere in the upper arm.” The distorted voice sounded like something Tipper Gore used to play in reverse on her home stereo. He felt a prick in his right shoulder, there was a camera in his face and then someone zipped up his suit.

  Melvin walked up while Katerina and Muller stood outside Burn’s bedroom in their underwear, surgical masks on as they cleaned themselves with disinfectant wipes. Damn, that chick was tiny, but she had a perky body. Melvin continued to stare at her as he reported that he’d found two candidate vehicles.

  “We’ll take the SUV,” Katerina said. “Burns can ride in the back.”

  “Change the baby and feed it a bottle,” Muller said. “Throw dinner together and we’ll make a move around nine when it’s dark.”

  Melvin swallowed hard and turned toward the sound of the infant’s cries.

  * * * * *

  At six sharp, Sal and Jaime headed for his and Barb’s place, a ten-minute drive down the hill. Jaime had asked Barb for a packing list, but she’d been too upset to provide one. Sometime over the weekend, he’d drive her over to pack herself. For now, he checked that his MR556A1 had a fresh mag, and put his sidearm on the seat next to Sal’s S&W piece. A floppy hat on top of his bandaged gourd, amber shades in place, and Sergeant Gonzalez was ready to patrol Erbil, Iraq, 2017 . . . or Marin County, California, 2020. Strange times.

  “Travis emailed me Fillmore’s FBI files on the kidnappers,” Sal said. “Fillmore believes a former SEAL is better able to handle this situation than we are and communicates accordingly. I printed it out and have it back at the house. Maybe we can go through it once we’re back.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Jaime contemplated the man next to him. Sal looked all right for fifty-five: good posture, a tennis player’s physique and athletic movements. He recalled that Barb viewed her father as always having more time for other people than his own daughters. If he wasn’t working long hours, he was involved in civic or neighborhood activities. Jaime noted that her aversion to the man didn’t extend to refusing the down payment on her home.

  On the other hand, Sal wasn’t exactly a rags-to-riches story by Mexico standards. Blue-collar Ohioan to multimillionaire Silicon Valley executive for an educated gringo was just speedbumps along a gilded road. That was no knock on Sal, as Pat was the only one who bragged about it. Overall, Sal was one of the few Maggios whom Jaime respected. Barb was smart, energetic and devoted, but she didn’t understand the first thing about the causes she’d embraced. Jaime knew that much of his appeal was the street cred he provided, and he found it insulting how she was always showing him off to her Patagonia-peacock friends.

  They passed Woodlands Market, the local choice of epicureans. It looked like a cross between a country club charity raffle and a hostage situation: jammed parking lot, scores of people lined up and two police cars out front, lights winking.

  “Jesus, I guess half the town decided they’d rather stand in line and pay for their food rather than mix with the rabble at the high school,” Sal said. Jaime said nothing but noted a million bucks’ worth of luxury cars outside.

  Sir Francis Drake Boulevard was clogged with traffic as people took advantage of the short pause in the curfew. Portable signs urged everyone to wear a facemask and socially distance. Squad cars were parked every three blocks, cops behind the wheel looking for bad actors. Mom & Pop stores sat with front windows either boarded up, broken or burned out. All of this was from today and in one of the wealthiest towns in America. The barrio down in LA would burn tonight. Jaime reminded himself to check in on his mother to see how she was doing. Why bother? She was brown and poor, and if she caught the bug, she’d die. If she didn’t, she’d probably get shot or robbed or worse. That was how the world worked in most places already, and now the U.S. could see what it was like for itself. Mom’s brothers would likely bring her back to Juarez in any event.

  “Turn around and back it up the driveway,” Jaime said as they arrived at Barb’s house. “I’ll walk through and open the garage.” Jaime hopped out. He’d clear out the food, cash and weapons and leave the clothes for another day. They still had to pick up food boxes at the high school, and later he’d take Sal through the basic firearms fundamentals.

  * * * * *

  Stephanie and Greg were alone, having banished Pat from Greg’s bedside. Steph held herself together, but only just. “I can’t believe he wants to leave my baby behind. What kind of person does that? Barb’s right: He’s a robot.”

  “He’s not, hon. Don’t forget, he wants to trade himself for Tyson.”

  “He has to say that so we won’t all hate him. But what happened last time? He ran away. If he truly cared, he would have stayed, and we’d have our son back.”

  “Those people at the park didn’t even bring Tyson. They weren’t there for a trade, they wanted the money and they wanted you. Your father did well to escape. We have to face facts: Tyson might have been in one of those cars that went over the cliff.” Greg’s eyes filled with tears at the thought of his baby boy.

  Stephanie began to weep again. “I’m not leaving here without Tyson. I’d rather stay here and die than abandon my baby.”

  “We won’t leave him behind without knowing for certain. I promise you that.”

  * * * * *

  Saturday night, Travis dropped in on a former Ride Out Security employee who now drove a high tech garbage truck for Environmental Security Inc., the owners of the contract to incinerate Livermore Lab’s unsavory leftovers. The divorced man had a lot of unburdening to do and it was almost midnight and half a gifted quart of Wild Turkey down the hatch when Travis made his pitch. The money-strapped vet confirmed he was still working the swing shift solo and agreed to meet after his Livermore stop at 20:00 hours Monday night on a side road. For five hundred dollars, he’d take a walk in the woods for fifteen minutes. If he stopped any longer than the time required for an emergency dump, the dispatcher would suspect foul play and alert Livermore’s security team.

  Travis assured him that he would be long gone inside of ten minutes after taking a quick look into one of the medical waste disposal bins. Once he had what he’d needed, he’d text the all-clear. But Mum’s the word, right? The former SEAL left his old colleague an envelope with an annotated map and two hundred dollars with the promise of another three hundred on Monday night.

  Travis drove home, re-heated leftover Tex-Mex and packed for the long, long trip north and the loving arms of a copper-haired siren. He hadn’t had a drop of bourbon though he’d winced every time his old employee topped up his highball glass with Coke. Ah, the bad old, good old days.

  chapter eighteen

  NIGHT STALKERS

  Saturday, July 11: Kentfield, outside Gualala, San Francisco, afternoon into night

  Sal and Jaime’s detour by Marin Catholic to pick up staples had devolved into an endurance contest. Too many hungry and frightened people overwhelmed both the ample police presence and the best efforts of volunteers. Collecting long-shelf-life food for Canada had been a nice distraction to start, but as the second hour approached the tedium had won out. The line of car
s inched along, the heat pulsed off the blacktop, and the neighbors' music choices sawed at Sal’s nerves.

  For his part, Jaime fiddled with his phone and kept his own counsel. Finally, he twisted toward the backseat to check the cold boxes to see whether the ice cream was still solid: It wasn’t and now the meat had begun to thaw as well. “Sal, they haven’t processed more than a dozen cars in the last half-hour. Maybe they’ve run out.”

  “We’re only eight-or-nine cars back. It looks like there’s movement up ahead. You want to take a look?”

  “Sure. Call me if something happens.” Jaime holstered his Berretta and untucked his shirt as he got out. He walked up a few cars and stopped in front of a Hispanic policeman who was directing traffic. They exchanged pleasantries, and Jaime walked onward toward the handout zone.

  Sal watched his almost-son-in-law survey his environment. Sal locked the doors and had his revolver on the seat with Jaime’s long gun propped up at an angle. The way things felt, he’d have to fire one or both someday soon.

  Sal’s phone buzzed and he checked to see a new email from Fillmore. He read it with concern. No sign of Tyson. Kidnappers on the move. What did that mean? To find them on the road would be impossible, even if he had a better description of their vehicle. But what choice did they have? He replied to Fillmore’s email and asked for the license plate number and color. Three minutes later, his patience was exhausted, and he called Fillmore’s cell. It rang unanswered until it shunted him into voicemail.

  Jaime reappeared—or at least he thought it was Jaime as tattooed forearms held two big cardboard boxes against an anonymous chest. Three cars up, the doors opened, and two large men got out and approached. Before Sal could get out to help, Jaime slammed the boxes into the first man, then punched the second man, who fell down with hands clutching his nose. Then Jaime turned to face the first man and delivered a side kick to his shin that dropped him to the asphalt.

  Sal drove close to where Jaime was restacking the boxes. The two men on the ground got up. Behind them, the Hispanic cop ran and shouted. Jaime opened the rear door and shoved the two boxes inside. Sal could hear angry voices and Jaime’s masked face popped into view on the passenger side as he grabbed the rifle. “Be ready,” was all he said.