by Steve Hadden
“They just pulled up.”
“We’ll go with this now, then.”
“I have a tweet ready to go.”
“Send it. We’ll point it back to the web advance story.”
“Okay. Todd, something’s not right here.”
“What do you mean something’s not right?”
“Read my story.”
“Once this is out, you’re done with it.”
“No. No! Don’t give it back to Rebecca. I’m on to something. Let me finish.”
“Tonight.”
“What?”
“You can finish tonight. Then we’ll see.” The line went dead.
Sienna stuffed the phone into her back pocket. “Asshole.” Todd clearly thought she was too young to handle this story and replace his ass-kissing senior reporter.
She got out of the car and scoured the area. TV reporters were spaced like fence posts, all facing live cameras with the simmering lab and first-responder vehicles in the background. She was sure they all had their own angle on the breaking story. But because she’d been first on the scene, she had a good head start, and that start began with one name: Kayla Covington.
CHAPTER 5
Artemis knew her namesake wouldn’t tolerate this failure. The mythical daughter of Zeus and Leto and twin sister to Apollo, Artemis was the goddess of the hunt, and killing was just a tool to the Greek goddesses. Those in the business knew Artemis only by that moniker. She’d abandoned her Christian name when she’d deserted the agency that had recruited her from the Bob Wilson Naval Hospital the day after she was injured in the twenty-second week of SEAL Qualification Training with a blown knee. In her current line of work, names were a liability.
They’d arrived undetected at the warehouse five minutes north of the Marine Corps Air Station at Miramar. The six months spent setting up the front as an emergency-vehicle restoration shop had paid off. While it had tested Artemis’s patience, the wait allowed Covington to complete the development of a treatment the world would consider priceless. After pulling into the large bay, she exited the ambulance and watched the darkness disappear as the large door rolled down, ending the first stage of the mission. Several ambulances spread throughout the shop were in various states of repair. Automotive parts and medical equipment were neatly stored in rows of shelves that lined one wall of the structure. Hydraulic lifts, welding stations and diagnostic equipment filled the remainder of the workspace. As she’d done with most of her fronts, she’d made it a fully operational and profitable business. It had a customer base, paid taxes and even advertised through select local media. The shop was separate from the office, and every vehicle was picked up and delivered at the customer’s location.
She checked her watch and noted the operation was ahead of schedule. Artemis was impressed with Covington’s resourcefulness and had quickly warmed to the idea that the hunt would be that much more interesting. But her escape threatened Artemis’s payout and a comfortable retirement from her grueling line of work. That thought fed the crushing fury she would unleash to end Covington.
The man everyone knew as Forrest had left the driver’s seat and met her at the ambulance’s rear doors. He’d been with her since the beginning, and he was the only one of her original team who’d survived. His linebacker build, thick black beard and laserlike green eyes always reminded her of that day. Ignoring the CIA’s orders, she’d gone back for her team and pulled him from the bowels of the mother of all screwups on the Syrian-Iraqi border. The remainder of her team died that night, and her allegiance to the criminals in the US government died along with them. But Remy “Forrest Gump” Stone lived up to his nickname and survived once again.
“Let’s get the treatments secured in the refrigerators and start uploading the data to the server,” she said.
“You got it.” Forrest nodded toward the two mercs in FBI jackets helping two other men unload the other ambulance. “What about them?”
Artemis made eye contact and knew what she had to do. She calmly walked straight at them and stopped five feet short. “You missed her?”
“She got out before we could get back there,” one of the men said.
Artemis pulled her Glock from its holster, attached the suppressor and in one fluid motion pointed at his head and fired. He collapsed. Then she targeted the other man, who had raised his hands to stop her bullet. She fired and he dropped to the floor.
All eyes were on her when she said, “Failure is not an option. Each of your shares just went up by twenty percent.” She calmly slipped the Glock back into its holster and returned to help Forrest.
“That’s one way to deal with them,” he said, smiling.
“For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.”
“Quoting Isaac Newton, are we?”
Artemis smiled and picked up a large wooden box full of laptops. She walked to the back of the shop and handed the box to a man who’d been seated at a bank of monitors.
“Can you pull what we have on Covington?” she asked.
He set the box to the side, sat and pecked at one of the keyboards. “Here she is.”
“Pull up her network of friends and family.”
He worked the mouse and keyboard, then pointed to the monitor. “Here they are.”
“Let’s see. Ex, daughter and father in Seattle. No. Her current colleagues we just took care of. My count was fourteen. Who’s this? This guy in San Diego.”
“Looks like someone from her University of Washington team seven years ago. Harrison Clarke. Marine veteran who got his PhD courtesy of the GI Bill. Mother’s American, father’s British. Moved here when she did. Works at University of California at San Diego now. Runs his own lab.”
“Address?”
“137 Del Rio.”
Artemis typed it into the Google Maps app on her phone. “That’s it.”
Forrest walked up. “That’s what?”
“I think I know where she’ll head.”
“What about the cops and feds?”
Artemis looked back at the bodies on the floor. “She saw those guys. She won’t trust them. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 6
Kayla felt the cold sand under her feet and listened to the dark rumble of the breakers to her right, gnawing closer to her path along the narrow beach. The night sky was now devoid of any stars and the blanket of darkness concealed everything except the next step in front of her. Still, her eyes darted back and forth between the dark wall of the cliffs and the sand ahead as she dodged the soggy clods of seaweed. Sirens wailed continually. Some, no doubt, looking for her. Salty, cool air invigorated her lungs and oxygenated blood cleared her mind. The images of her team being brutally murdered kept a steady stream of tears etching her cheeks. The feeling of free-falling into a bottomless pit faded as more rhythmic breathing settled in. Sadness and panic gave way to determination and rage, and her mind sped up and focused on how to survive.
She checked her watch and knew she was fifteen minutes down the beach, roughly two miles from where she’d started. Two more to go. She’d made the run hundreds of times, but not barefoot and running for her life. Without her flats on in the shifting sand, she was much faster. She looked ahead for the rock-strewn break in the sand just below NOAA’s cliff-side biological lab. It was silhouetted in the light from the buildings and houses that hugged the shoreline farther down the beach. She slowed her pace and carefully maneuvered through the rocks to avoid cutting her feet or breaking an ankle.
She estimated it had been twenty minutes since she’d escaped. At any moment, the authorities would send agents and officers to scour the shoreline. She had to get off the beach soon, but leaving the beach would be like walking into a pride of hungry lions. She scrambled over the rocks, and once she was back on the sand, she was shocked that she’d covered the last two miles in under twelve minutes. RGR was already affecting the tiny energy source in each of her cells.
The townhome was two blocks off the beach, tucked behind the small seaside park. S
he’d made the walk with him so often she could trace the route with her eyes closed. She slipped on the flats she’d been carrying and left the blackness of the park and started up Santa Rosa, hugging the shadows on the right side of the sidewalk. Not a run but not a stroll. Just an unsuspicious pace.
She froze when she saw her forty-eight-year-old face reflected in the side window of a parked SUV. She did her best to wipe the blood from her face, but the cuts remained. When she reached Del Rio Court, she turned left and spotted the townhome at the end of the cul-de-sac.
Regret swamped her heart when the memory of their last night together returned. He’d said he loved her, always would—and she said it wouldn’t work. It had been a lie. She’d known that when she awoke alone the next morning wearing her sadness like a lead coat. He’d gotten too close. And old demons convinced her she wasn’t worthy of a love like that. She could see that now, thanks to her therapist. But that revelation wouldn’t help her tonight.
After cutting through the small front yard, she reached the teal door. A small brass lamp glowed and lit the white millwork surrounding the doorway. She’d stood there in amorous anticipation before. Now her mind raced through the infinite forms his rejection could take. But she stuffed her dread and knocked. His footsteps were firm and confident, just like they always had been. She thanked God they weren’t the delicate footfalls of a woman. The footsteps stopped. She gave a nervous smile to the peephole, then the steps retreated. As she heard him return and stop at the other side of the door, a bolt of fear ripped through her when she realized he could be angry enough to turn her in. The doorknob turned and she braced to run. He opened the door.
Kayla lost all sense of time, taking him in with her gaze. His deep brown eyes and his reddish-brown hair and close-cropped beard still reminded her of Prince Harry. She waited and read the look in his eyes. He clearly was surprised and still inflamed with the sting of her rejection.
“No,” he said and slammed the door.
Her throat tightened and she felt as if she were free-falling again. She pounded the door and yelled in a whisper, “Harrison. Please. Please open the door. Please.”
He cracked the door open. “I’m calling the FBI.”
“No Harrison. Please don’t do that. You can’t do that. I’m so sorry to do this, but I have no one else to turn to.”
He said nothing, showing no concern or pity. Then he spoke in a measured and detached tone. “You’re all over the news. Your lab—your team. Did you—?”
“I had nothing to do with that. You have to believe me.”
“But you’re the only one left. And you ran.”
“I had no choice. They were in on it.”
“Who?”
Kayla steadied herself and refused to cry. “The FBI. They had FBI on their jackets.”
“They killed all those people?”
Kayla looked to the street. “Please, Harrison. Can we do this inside?”
She could see his eyes shifting slowly from side to side. She’d seen him do that as a young grad student in the lab at UW when evaluating the facts of a particularly challenging data problem. Finally, his expression softened.
He opened the door wide. “Come in.”
She slipped in and immediately heard the television. “Again, a possible terrorist attack at a lab in La Jolla. The CEO of the lab, Kayla Covington, seen here, is wanted by the FBI for questioning. If you have seen her, please call the FBI at the number on your screen.” She walked down the hallway and into the den. She caught a glimpse of her photo from her ID badge on the screen.
Then she felt Harrison behind her.
“It’s been going on for the last ten minutes,” he said.
She turned and faced him. She could feel his resentment.
He picked up the remote and muted the TV. “You have two minutes.”
CHAPTER 7
Artemis drove the Ford Transit van under the 805 and wished there were more traffic. She wasn’t worried about getting to Covington. Two civilians, even if armed, stood no chance of repelling Forrest and her. Artemis’s concern stemmed from the massive response the lab attack had invited. Their target tonight was red hot. FBI, SDPD and ATF units were blanketing most of La Jolla. She hadn’t planned on returning to the area. Covington was supposed to be dead. But disguise and deception were part of her trade, and she and Forrest were ready.
Artemis glanced at Forrest and hardly recognized him. His bleached-out long hair, puka beads and ripped jeans were like hiding a bomb in a toy box. For her, deception required much less work. Her short spiked black hair with frosted tips, black leather jacket and hulking shoulders were all that was necessary thanks to her Malaysian plastic surgeon. She thought they made a great couple in disguise and even more so in their real life. Forrest was the only man who’d ever gotten close to her and lived. The others had been pleasurable excursions-turned-liabilities and had to be erased when she grew tired of them. But she never tired of Forrest. He was a magnificent mixture of brute strength, curiosity and passion. His loyalty could never be questioned, except for one little twist in this deal that she’d kept from him. After all, he considered himself a killer and a patriot.
Artemis had whatever the opposite of patriotism was. She despised her country for sponsoring the incessant harassment at the Naval Academy and the sexual harassment throughout her active duty. And as far as she was concerned, they’d ordered the murder of the only people she cared about in her life. But Forrest was different, and she respected that.
Their cover as two workers for Ortega Commercial Office Cleaning had been meticulously planned. The stenciled panel van included a thin sealed compartment under the false floor that could easily accommodate two adult bodies. The cleaning supplies and jumpsuits embroidered with their assumed names filled the back of the van. The cleaning chemicals had been carefully chosen to throw off any curious K-9 unit, and they had enough bleach to clean any mess they might create. The two hidden panels at their feet concealed their weapons. Their driver’s licenses were perfect forgeries that even TSA would pass.
Forrest looked at his smartphone. “Ops center says there’s a roadblock at Torrey Pines Road. Go left on Scenic and we’ll go in the back way.”
Artemis turned left. “What’s the layout?”
Forrest looked at this phone. “Two-story townhome at the end of a cul-de-sac. Three points of entry: front, back, garage. Four counting the first-floor rear kitchen door. Owner is Harrison Clarke, thirty-two, postdoctoral scientist working at San Diego State University. Worked with Covington as PhD student at her University of Washington lab. Moved to La Jolla seven years ago. Same time she started her lab here. Mother from Washington State, father British author. History books. Clarke joined the Marines at eighteen and served two tours in Iraq.”
“Shit. What did he do?”
“Couldn’t pull that. Not enough time.”
“Let’s assume the worst. Go in strong. You’ll have to pull the body armor from the floor compartment when we get close.”
“Eliminate them both,” Forest said.
It was a statement, not a question. Loose ends, no matter how small, had a tendency to grow like an infection. Treat it now and you’d avoid an amputation down the road. “Yeah.” Artemis nodded to the back. “They’ll both fit.”
CHAPTER 8
Mason Reed pulled the phone away from his ear and turned his back on the team of FBI agents that he’d assembled. It was 10 p.m. and he’d called this briefing in the parking lot of the lab just thirty minutes ago. While he scanned the smoldering remains of the lab, he knew this decision would haunt him for his lifetime. Ashley Reynolds’s parents deserved to hear the news directly from him. As far as he was concerned, he had sent her to her death. But he was charged with tracking down her killers, and that hunt started with finding Kayla Covington. With his eyes locked on the coroner’s van, Reed decided that justice, and Ashley Reynolds’s parents, would best be served if he hunted her killer.
“Send ASAC Da
vis to tell them. Let them know I’ll be by as soon as I can,” he said and ended the call. He took a second to compartmentalize the dense mass of disappointment buried in the pit of his stomach that said he wasn’t living up to the standard set by their friendship. When he faced the group again, Agent Connelly eyed him, probably trying to assess his boss’s mental state. Reed ignored him. One deep breath fortified his determination to protect the public and uphold the constitution as the leader of one of the most powerful field offices the FBI operated. He scanned the faces of the senior team leaders staring back at him. Covington was his target, but time was his enemy. They needed to move quickly. Soon, if she was a suspect, she’d be in the wind. If she was a victim who narrowly escaped this carefully planned attack, the perpetrators would most likely track her down and kill her. Either way, the fastest path to justice for Ashley went through Covington.
Still holding his smartphone in his hand, Reed opened his notes app. “Go,” he said, looking at the senior team leader for the Evidence Response Team.
“C4 most likely in demolition blocks. Military grade with detonators. Lab chemicals and natural gas accelerated the fire. Maybe with a satchel-type charge tossed into the front of the lab. Fourteen victims, most burned but all were shot in the head at short range with high velocity round, probably an assault rifle. Professional. No shell casings.”
“Keep on it.” Reed shifted his gaze to the ATF leader. “Terrorist?”
“We don’t think so. Pattern is that of a professional. TEDAC supports that theory.”
Reed knew he could rely on the Terrorist Explosive Device Analytical Center. They’d handled thousands of analyses from around the world and were experts on explosive devices used by every terrorist group across the globe. That took him back to Covington.
Agent Connelly answered his phone, then held it out. “Sir. Ops has something you should hear.”
