The Dark Side of Angels

by Steve Hadden

  “See you up there.” Charlotte shuffled quietly across the cherrywood floor to the staircase and disappeared into the shadows.

  He turned off the TV and walked down the long hallway and across the covered footbridge to his office. He stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking across Lake Sammamish toward Mount Baker. From a thousand feet above the lake, the reflected light danced on the water like fireflies. A knock on the door leading to the private entrance to his office interrupted his momentary meditation.

  Max Wagner, head of his security team, entered. “I have some information.”

  “Okay. But we have to be careful. I don’t want to know the details.”

  Wagner’s silence and raised thick eyebrows said otherwise. Neville suspected it was a tactic he’d learned working in the intelligence community. He’d been with Neville since the second venture round, when Neville’s net worth surpassed the one-billion-dollar mark. Recommended by one of the venture capitalists, his résumé was short: thirty years with the Central Intelligence Agency. Nothing else. But judgment and discretion were paramount for Neville.

  Neville had to ask for more details since they’d both previously agreed on maintaining Neville’s plausible deniability in all sensitive matters due to SZENSOR. “What is it?”

  “They missed her.”

  “What? How in the hell could that happen? It looks like they blew up the building and killed everyone inside.”

  Wagner deadpanned. “She got out through a window.”

  “If she’s still out there, she can make it again.”

  Wagner narrowed his eyes on Neville. “The word I get is that the FBI had an agent in there. She’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

  “You’re pretty certain.” Neville knew that the longer Kayla Covington was out there, the greater the risk that she’d re-create this threat to mankind. “Did you at least get the new data?”

  “Got all of it yesterday. On the lab computers, in the cloud, all of it.”

  “When will we have it?”

  “Soon.”

  “Let me know as soon as it’s secured.”

  Wagner nodded in agreement and moved back to the door.

  “Hang on,” Neville said. “You and I need to talk about the problem in Equatorial Guinea.”

  “Now?”

  Neville just waited for Wagner to catch up.

  “Right. We can’t lie to her,” Wagner said.

  They headed to the side chairs overlooking the Cascades and talked about the logistics and security problems with the new water system going in at Malabo. Then Wagner left Neville alone.

  Neville walked to the hand-carved mantel above the fireplace across from the windows. He gently placed his hand against the side of the gold urn. He turned and walked to the doorway to the footbridge. As he turned off the light, he softly said, “Good night, Mother.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Mason Reed quaked as he rushed through the charred dripping guts of the laboratory. With his pulse thundering in his ears, he stepped around the EMTs checking the contorted bodies among the twisted lab tables and relaxed his clenched fists as he tried to calm himself. He slowed his pace and reminded himself to maintain his objectivity and professionalism. As the special agent in charge for the San Diego office of the FBI, he knew nothing less was expected.

  The San Diego Police had responded within four minutes with the SDFD on their bumper. EMTs arrived in five minutes. He’d followed in fifteen. Even with that response time, they couldn’t save her. One of the responding officers who’d secured the scene said she was in the back. Every cell in his body didn’t want to be here—to find her.

  The smell of tar, aromatic chemicals and the stale butcher-store scent of death filled his nose. Any Marine veteran with his experience knew it was C-4. The possibility of terrorism flashed through his mind. Based on the structural damage confined to the front of the lab, the blast was survivable.

  Moving down the center aisle of the lab toward her station, he sloshed through the water. Shattered glass was everywhere, and every drawer, cabinet and refrigerator was open. The bodies already checked by the EMTs were partially charred, but the cause of death was clear: the single bullet hole in their skulls. Working in pairs, firemen doused the remaining hot spots along the back wall. Just before he reached them, he spotted her. The adrenaline drained from his body, replaced with the leaden guilt he hadn’t felt since Afghanistan.

  Reed knelt in the water and covered his mouth with his hand as if trying to keep his last ounce of humanity from draining onto the floor. A cold, empty grief swept through him. Ashley Reynolds lay sprawled on the wet linoleum. She was on her back with her legs bent at the knees. A deep crimson bullet hole glared against the soft white skin of her forehead. Her arms were crossed haphazardly across her chest. Reed envisioned her on her knees begging her executioner not to fire. Her lifeless eyes were open, and despite all he knew about preserving crime scenes, he gently closed them with his fingers.

  She was his responsibility. The daughter of his best friend from high school. He’d recommended her for her first undercover role. Twenty-six and fresh out of school with a PhD in molecular biology, she was perfect for the assignment. He’d convinced her that the operation was low risk. No drug dealers, no felons, only scientists.

  He went rigid at the thought of her killers standing on this very spot and a geyser of heat rose up his neck and burned away his sadness. He stood and scanned the lab again and his hand immediately went to his gun. This time he was looking for any trace the killers left behind. Anything that would lead him to them. He fought back the urge to annihilate them and reminded himself he’d follow the law.

  As he scanned the back wall, he noticed Kayla Covington’s office and the blown-out windows. Because he was the SAC charged with the security of Covington’s lab, he’d frequently been briefed on her progress for the last five years. She’d created something that could revolutionize medicine. It even gave his brother, who was stricken with MS, hope. But Covington had protested the government safeguards at every turn. And now she’d paid the ultimate price for her arrogance.

  Another pair of firefighters were checking the room for embers. He walked over to the doorway. “Where’s the body?”

  The firefighters looked at each other, then simultaneously shook their heads. One of them pointed to blood on the floor. “Looks like someone was here.” He nodded to the window. “I think they got out.”

  Reed scanned the room. The wooden desk looked like it had been sandblasted and the front sparkled with shards of glass embedded in the wood. The fire had swept in from the lab and charred the walls and ceiling. Burnt pieces of acoustic ceiling tiles littered the floor, and parts of the back wall still smoldered. He stepped through the door and the firefighters stopped ripping down the drywall and stared.

  Reed searched the floor around the desk where the smeared blood had mixed with water. The bloodstain reached along the floor and stopped, as if she’d reached out for something. He looked past the end of the blood trail and spotted a small metal box covered by a piece of blackened ceiling tile. He reached into his sport coat pocket and slipped on a pair of gloves as he squatted. Using his pen, he lifted the tile and examined the box. It was longer than his pen and three inches wide. A black bar code was painted on the end facing him. Carefully, he lifted the lid. He immediately recognized it as an insulated case for a syringe.

  A shockwave shuddered through his body. Terrorism. Weaponization. Those risks just got real. And Covington had somehow escaped. Reed stepped to the window and saw blood on the sill. In the distance, he could see the roadblock on Torrey Pines Drive. Kayla Covington had mysteriously disappeared along with a sample of what the FBI director had called the most dangerous treatment of modern medicine. She apparently was the only survivor—either extremely lucky and scared or an accomplice. Reed’s questions mounted. Why did she take a prefilled syringe containing the treatment? Every sample had been removed from the lab. Did she remove the final one to assu
re they were all gone or to save it? Did she stage her escape to be able to claim innocence once she was found? Only Covington could answer these questions.

  “Sir?”

  Reed spun to see Special Agent Sean Connelly. Connelly had been with Reed all five years in San Diego. He was his best case agent from his best squad. With a bachelor’s degree in chemistry and a master’s in criminal justice, he was well suited for this case. Connelly’s awkwardness was the result of seeing his SAC in the field, but Reed had insisted on joining him in this response.

  “Covington headed this lab and she escaped, maybe with a dangerous biologic agent,” Reed said. “We need to find her. She’s either in trouble or a threat to national security.”

  Connelly made a call and notified the operations center, then said, “What about Ashley?”

  “She’s gone,” Reed said, refusing to turn back toward Ashley’s body.

  Connelly dipped his head. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve notified the Evidence Response Team and the JTTF as you requested.”

  Reed knew the Joint Terrorism Task Force would have to be brought in. Henry Walters, the SAC for Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms and Explosives, was a friend and easy to work with. The FBI would take the lead here because Washington had wisely sorted out jurisdiction issues when the FDA had given approval for the gene-editing program to move forward. There were two caveats: the work would be kept secret and the FBI would ensure its security. Reed’s failure to do so would not be overlooked.

  “Let’s get set up, Connelly,” Reed said. He headed back toward the blasted-out entrance.

  Outside, SDPD had established a perimeter and officers were stringing yellow crime scene tape between barriers. Patrol cars, ambulances, fire trucks and unmarked government cars had flooded the parking lot, and the sea of flashing red and blue lights illuminated the wet asphalt. Somehow, a small crowd was already gathering behind the barriers. Just inside the perimeter, Reed spotted a police lieutenant leading a gathering of officers and detectives at the trunk of an unmarked sedan. He joined the group with Connelly at his side.

  “Lieutenant. Mason Reed. SAC FBI. This is Special Agent Connelly.”

  Reed extended his hand and the lieutenant shook it.

  “Manny Chavez. Location is secure. No sign of the perpetrators. I assume your guys have your ERT on the way?”

  “Yes. We had an agent in there. This was our operation. The JTTF is being activated.” Reed’s gaze drifted to the front of the blown-out entrance to the lab. The image of Ashley’s contorted body wedged its way into his mind. He felt his face sag for a moment, then he reminded himself of his mission and the investigation ahead.

  Reed looked back up at the lieutenant who said, “Sorry to hear about your agent. We’ll lock it down and plug into your command center.”

  “Thanks.”

  Reed and Connelly headed toward Reed’s car, parked to the left of the small crowd. As he ducked under the yellow tape, he heard a young woman yell.

  “Special Agent Reed?”

  The voice was familiar. Reed looked in her direction. He recognized her instantly. The young reporter from the Union-Tribune who’d interviewed him just last week about the new ops center they’d added. He’d been impressed with her questions and refreshing style. The article had boosted the morale of his entire office. But there was a protocol for handling reporters, and he had no time for pleasantries. He waved her off and headed to his car.

  “Is the genetic material from the lab dangerous to the public?” she yelled.

  He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at her. Connelly ran into him. A leak would ignite panic, and he would not let that happen. He turned to him. “Get her. Quietly. And bring her to my car.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Sienna Fuller felt as if she were balancing on a bed of razor blades. The move was risky. Her information had been obtained in a less than legal way, but it was solid—and like a laser in the night sky, it would lead directly to the truth.

  More importantly, her question had sparked that pupil-paralyzing reaction she always looked for in her sources. When she saw that deer-in-the headlights stare, it meant she was onto something and her sources were usually ransacking the deep recesses of their minds for an alternate version of the truth. This was the opportunity she’d sought for the past three years. She’d begged her skeptical editor to send her in place of that hotshot Rebecca Temple who had the flu. The endless days focused on freelance stories and community-interest pieces could be replaced with a hard-core news career if she pulled this off. And this one had national coverage written all over it.

  She’d watched Special Agent Reed stop and bark an order to the other agent. In the interview about the operations center, Reed had struck her as a no-nonsense, cautious type; every move was premeditated. His atypical action now had his agent headed straight for her. Thanks to a little luck and driving that would have impressed the stunt drivers in The Fast and the Furious movies, she was the first reporter on the scene.

  As the agent approached, she could see that his dark eyes were focused on her. He was tall and lean and each stride closer felt like a vise tightening. On one hand, she was thrilled her ploy had worked. On the other hand, she’d only get one shot at him.

  The young agent reached into the breast pocket of his black blazer and displayed his wallet with his badge and ID. “Ms. Fuller. Special Agent Connelly. Would you mind coming with me?”

  “Not at all.” She stepped closer to Agent Connelly.

  “Do you know Special Agent in Charge Reed?” Connelly turned away without waiting for her answer and headed in the direction of a pair of dark sedans parked just outside the crime scene tape. She caught up and walked as close as possible beside him. “What was it like in there?”

  He ignored her. An aromatic scent wafted off the agent’s clothes.

  “What’s that smell? Is it the explosives used?”

  Still no reaction.

  As they walked across the parking lot, she spotted the coroner’s van. Based on her quick count of cars inside the crime-scene tape, there were at least a dozen people inside. She’d taken photos of the license plates with her phone and immediately sent them to her confidential source, who’d been feeding her the registration information. One name she’d recognized from a couple of articles about the lab she’d found while googling its address on her phone in the parking lot. That name had been a lightning rod in the raging debate over genetic modification. She’d dangled that bait in front of Agent Reed and he’d taken it.

  None of the ambulances had left under Code 3 from the scene, and based on the damage to the building, that meant at least a dozen casualties. Twelve innocent people: mothers, fathers, daughters or sons. Her mood darkened as she imagined how her own parents would react if their twenty-eight year old daughter was suddenly killed. As they approached two government sedans, she swallowed her sadness and reminded herself that her job was to find and report the truth. She spotted Reed in the driver’s seat of the second car. He was on the phone, animated and clearly unhappy. He looked up, spotted Connelly and pointed to the passenger seat. Connelly led her around to the door and opened it. Sienna looked at him, then dropped into the seat and closed the door.

  “She’s here. I’ll let you know,” Reed said and ended the call. “Ms. Fuller.”

  “Special Agent Ree—”

  “No. You don’t get to say anything yet. This is not an interview. This is me interrogating you. Off the record. Now, where did you get your information?”

  Sienna was surprised by Reed’s obstinance. But she held fast. “My sources are confidential.”

  “Not if your sources are connected to this. Do you want to be charged with terrorism against the United States?”

  “Is this a terrorist attack?”

  “Answer my question.”

  “I know who owned one of the cars in the lot.” Sienna watched Reed’s eyes connect the dots.

  “Who?”

  “Kayla Covington. She was all over th
e news three years ago. I read the articles. She pushed the government to approve her human gene-editing process to go into phase one trials. As soon as the FDA approved the trials, everything went dark. I imagine with all the non-GMO backlash and revolt about polluting the human germline, the government wanted to keep the work confidential. Is she one of the victims?”

  Reed opened his mouth to reply, but then stopped. She could see he wanted to answer, but he held back. And there was something else bothering him trapped just below the surface. “This isn’t an interview.”

  Sienna sensed that it was something about Kayla Covington. And she wondered if Reed’s reluctance to answer was driven by that fact. The question passed her lips before she thought about it. “Did Kayla Covington have something to do with this explosion?”

  Reed’s face went bright red, but then he hissed out a breath and looked at the carnage in front of them. A sadness drifted across his face. Without looking at her he said, “Thank you for your time, Ms. Fuller. We’re done here.”

  Sienna waited silently to test Reed’s resolve. He nodded to Connelly, who was standing outside.

  Connelly opened the passenger door. “Ms. Fuller.”

  She looked back at Reed. “Sorry about whatever is bothering you.” She exited the car and Connelly escorted her back to the expanding throng. By now all three major networks were setting up and Sienna only had minutes to get the story online or face the wrath of Todd Smythe, her editor. She returned to her beat-up Subaru and typed out a tweet along with several photos. Then she typed a brief web advance story, sent it to Smythe and called him.

  “Did you get it?”

  “Got it. What else?” Smythe said.

  “It’s still very fluid here and I’d like to dig a little more.”

  “Are the big boys there?”