by Steve Hadden
The Chinese man stood a couple of inches taller and outweighed her by at least forty pounds. His eyes were dark and stared directly into hers as if assessing her own determination. His face was smooth, but she noticed several small scars that looked like buckshot damage down one side of his neck. His black hair peeked out from under his watchman’s cap. For an uncomfortable few seconds, they stood in silence, gauging each other’s threat level as they were both trained to do.
“Jack sent me,” he said in perfect English.
“Come in,” she said with her gun ready at her side.
He stepped past her and quickly scanned the house.
“I’m Charlotte.”
He smiled. “I know who you are.”
“What should I call you?” she asked.
He clearly didn’t want to answer, or he just didn’t like small talk. “David. David Zhang.”
She wanted to know his Chinese name but didn’t ask.
“Have they made contact yet?” he said.
Charlotte raised the phone. “No.”
“Let me know when they do.” Zhang pivoted and headed to the kitchen, then went straight to the cabinet holding the coffee mugs and pulled one out. He’d been here before. He went to the Nespresso machine, made a cup, then disappeared down the hallway to the back of the house. Charlotte was left standing at the kitchen table wondering if the purpose of his distancing was to maintain his indifference should he have to kill her.
The vibration in her hand snapped her from her morbid wondering and she opened WhatsApp. The message read: Preston Laboratory Supply at Preston Industrial Park. Back into bay 2. 0500.
She forwarded the information to Jack through the app and shoved the phone into her back pocket. She looked down the dark hallway and immediately thought about Penelope and Darrin and a chilling hollowness rattled through her bones. She wondered if she’d see them today—or ever.
CHAPTER 73
This was not the world Kayla had known. Her thoughts were fragmented and disappeared into some unknown expanse as she had them. The light in the room was diffuse and distinct shapes appeared, then melted away into the darkness only to reappear again. Despite the confusion, she didn’t have a care in the world. But something deep in her consciousness told her that the emotion wasn’t right. It demanded her attention, and as the sensation matured, she realized she was seated. She tried to move but couldn’t. Panic released its sobering shock when she realized her hands were bound behind her. Her feet were anchored to the floor. Then memories flooded her mind as if a levee suddenly gave way: Emily, the exchange, the cold and Artemis choking her life away.
Now her mind had traction. Kayla’s heart pounded and her visceral fire for revenge burned away her mental fog. Artemis had taken her daughter, stolen her life’s work and threatened the redemption Kayla so desperately sought. She had to stop Artemis: for herself, for her family and for the millions whose suffering would be eliminated by RGR. It was time Artemis and her thugs paid for what they’d done.
She worked her arms and quickly recognized her wrists were zip-tied together against the cold steel chair. Her ankles were bound to its feet. Scanning the room, she identified the familiar boxes that had contained the reagents she used in every lab she’d ever worked in. They were everywhere: organized in neat stacks on five yellow shelves, sitting against three of the four walls of the small room.
She had no idea where she was or how she got here, but she suspected it was some kind of laboratory supply warehouse. She noticed a door directly in front of her. An old tool belt hung on a single hook next to it. Light leaked around the perimeter of a blacked-out window to the right. Next to the door, a drab gray steel desk was shoved into one corner. Its side was dented, probably from repeated collisions with the door. On the desktop, an old phone, a clipboard, a computer monitor, and a keyboard were lined up neatly against the wall. Reed. She recalled she had to tell Reed where she was before it was too late. And she figured that if she was still alive, RGR was still here—somewhere.
Her energy and clarity returned. Her body was fighting whatever Artemis had injected into her neck. RGR had made her stronger and younger, and perhaps it had some effect on the drug. Either way she guessed she was awake earlier than her captors had planned, but they could return at any moment. And because she wasn’t blindfolded, they intended to kill her.
She leaned forward and pushed one shoe off with her other foot. She eyed the floor. Two broken fireplace matches lay on the ground. She knew her next maneuver would be loud, and she might not have much time after that to free herself. After carefully listening for any activity outside the room, she rocked the chair side to side until she toppled to the ground. Searching the cold concrete floor with the tips of her fingers, she scrambled to position her hands over one match. She finally felt the small stick and passed it between her fingers until she could strike the match head on the floor and twist it toward the plastic tie. She practiced once, then lit the match and turned it toward the zip tie. The heat burned her wrist, and the smell of burned flesh and plastic filled her nostrils. She swallowed her pain and applied as much pressure on the ties as she could without moving the match. Her wrists snapped free. She reached for her ankles and pulled on the ties. They remained tight.
Still attached to the chair, she dragged herself to the door. She grabbed the doorknob, pulled herself up, and yanked the tool belt from the hook. She pressed her ear against the door. Still quiet. She quickly checked each pocket of the belt. The front pockets held screwdrivers, a hammer, pliers and channel locks. She spun the belt in her hands and unsnapped the cover to the pouch on one side and found a box knife. She dropped the belt and exposed the blade of the knife. Sitting down, she cut her ankles free. She pulled a long screwdriver from the belt and practiced a stabbing motion. It would have to do. She shoved it into her back pocket but kept the box knife ready in her other hand.
After putting her shoe back on, she went to the desk and checked the phone. It was dead. The computer monitor had its cable coiled around the base. She couldn’t reach Reed from here, but the clipboard held a stack of invoices and the shipper was listed as Preston Laboratory Supply. She walked back and picked up the remaining match and stuck it back behind her ear. She moved to the door and twisted the knob. Her pulse quickened as she thought about someone waiting on the other side. Just in case, she raised the box knife as she cracked open the door.
She’d been right. It was a warehouse. The bright fluorescent light assaulted her eyes and she waited for them to adjust. The small room she’d been imprisoned in sat between rows of giant yellow racks that reached to the ceiling. They were stacked with boxes and steel pails containing various bulk laboratory chemicals. To the right, she spotted a closed loading-bay door marked Bay 2. To the left, along the back wall of the warehouse, she saw a door with a thick glass window. Through the glass she spotted the corner of a Thermo Scientific lab refrigerator and she dropped her head in relief as her heart soared. If they had the RGR treatments, they would be stored there. And just one injection would save her life. She’d only need a few seconds to inject herself, and then she could destroy the rest and do her best to survive the assassins.
She exited through the door and slipped it closed, careful not to make any noise. The constant background hum of the heating and ventilation systems was the only noise she heard. She moved to the outside corner of the room she’d just left and peeked around the corner. Rows of chemicals stacked in yellow shelving mirrored the ones to her right. Light poured from another window through a door at the end of one of the rows. She thought she could see a few office doors in the hallway beyond the door. She decided that the small warehouse specialty-chemical storage room and office she’d just left sat in the center of the warehouse. That made the most logistical sense.
She scanned the area again. There was no sign of anyone, but they couldn’t be far, and they’d be checking on her soon. Her pulse pounded in her ears, distracting her, and she forced out a breath to qu
iet it. She crouched, still holding the box knife at the ready, and eyed the door to the refrigerators on the back wall. She’d be exposed on her run all the way to the door.
To her left just around the corner, she heard a click followed by rapid footsteps from the direction of the office door. Someone was coming, and her leg muscles tightened, and the box knife trembled in her hand.
They were coming for her.
CHAPTER 74
Kayla pinned her back against the cinder-block wall and looked down at the box cutter shaking in her hand. She’d have to do the unthinkable. Something she’d never imagined doing. Her mind had chosen fight, but her body flight. The conflict vibrated through her hand and into the knife. She drew another deep breath and filled herself with the seething hate for what her captors represented. Her hand steadied, and she crouched, coiling her body, as the footsteps neared the corner of the block-walled office.
A person dressed in black turned the corner. Kayla focused on the white of their neck. In an instant, she sprang behind them and ripped the blade across their throat. Warm liquid drenched her knife hand. A faint gurgle was followed by a thud as the dark-dressed figure hit the concrete. Kayla looked at the bloody knife in her hand and heard her own heavy breaths. Nausea swept through her. Then she looked down and saw it was a woman.
Shedding her shock with a shake of her head, she dropped down and reminded herself she needed a weapon and a phone. As a pool of blood flooded the floor beneath the woman, she searched the body and found a Glock and an iPhone. She stuffed the Glock into her waistband and slipped the iPhone into her back pocket. Then she stepped to the corner again and checked the area for any other movement. Seeing none, she sprinted to the door on the back wall, careful to avoid being seen through its window by anyone guarding the refrigerators. Reaching the door, she immediately noticed the digital door lock and the steel-reinforced plating covering the latch. Carefully, she looked in.
There were four refrigerators in the room and Kayla’s body warmed with the anticipation of saving her own life. Ten feet away, on the other side of the door, a refrigerator contained the prefilled syringes for the second treatment. She pulled the iPhone from her pocket. It was locked with face ID. She couldn’t call Reed, so she activated the emergency call button and dialed 911.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“My name is Kayla Covington,” she whispered. “Contact Special Agent in Charge Reed with the FBI. Tell him I’m at the Preston Laboratory Supply warehouse.”
“Ma’am, what’s your emergency?”
Kayla didn’t want to explain and didn’t have time. She knew the call would be recorded and she thought of the most explosive words she could use. “The terrorists are here.”
She ended the call, stowed the phone and examined the doorknob and lock. She tried the knob but couldn’t open the door. She pulled out the screwdriver.
“Leah. Where are you?” a radio squawked. The noise pushed Kayla’s heart into her throat. She looked back at the body on the floor. “Leah!”
Kayla turned back to the door and stabbed the screwdriver into the jamb. The treatment that was just inside the door could save her life. Frantically, she violently worked the screwdriver. The door didn’t budge. She was sure they were coming now. She wouldn’t have time to save herself, and if they caught her or killed her, RGR would be gone or, worse yet, bastardized into some sick weapon of mass destruction.
Holding the screwdriver in her hand, she looked to the left down the last aisle of the warehouse along the back wall. Then she saw them. The familiar black steel containers filled the bottom row of the racks. Hundreds of them. Hexane. She knew the volatile liquid’s vapors would create a firestorm that would destroy the warehouse and everything in it.
She looked at the screwdriver and walked to the first row of containers. Taking one, she went back to the door. She punctured the top with the screwdriver and poured the liquid against the door. It flooded into the room with the refrigerators. She set the empty container quietly on the floor, then went down the aisle stabbing each container as she passed. Hexane flooded the area.
She was deep down the aisle when she heard it. It was soft and barely discernible over the hum of the ventilation system. The chirp of the sole of someone’s shoe against the polished concrete floor. It was somewhere in the center of the warehouse. She stowed the screwdriver, pulled out the Glock and headed to the far end of the aisle. Once there, she peeked around the corner then down the next aisle toward the office. That aisle was clear, so she crossed to the next one at the center of the warehouse and looked down in the direction of the office again. She could see the woman’s body on the floor against the office, but no one else. Quietly, she slipped across to the row of racks marking the fourth aisle. Through the racks, she saw a man, from the shoulders up, about halfway down the next aisle. He was quietly hunting her. If she fired and missed, she’d mark her location. But even if she did, she was close enough to retrace her steps and ignite the spilled hexane before anyone could reach her.
Because the fumes hadn’t reached her current location, her muzzle flash would not risk igniting the hexane. With a two-handed grip on the gun, she exhaled to settle her nerves. She took aim and fired. The man recoiled and dropped to the ground. Carefully, she leaned around the row of racks and saw the man facedown in another puddle of blood.
“Forrest?” A shout came from somewhere beyond the aisle. Then Artemis turned the corner at the other end and stopped. “Forrest!” she yelled. In a split second, she targeted Kayla with her pistol and fired round after round, charging down the aisle. Kayla noticed that Artemis limped and grimaced in pain with each step. She was trying to run but couldn’t as she headed to the man she’d called Forrest.
Boxes on the racks next to Kayla’s head exploded as the bullets ripped through them, and liquid and other debris rained down as she dove for cover. When she hit the ground, her gun skittered beyond her reach under the pallets holding blue containers on the bottom row of the rack. Despite the endless hail of bullets screaming overhead, she scrambled to her feet, her breathing rapid and chaotic. Retracing her steps, she ran back to the aisle flooded with the hexane and headed toward the door of the refrigeration room. As she ran, she pulled the match from her ear and wondered what it was like to burn to death.
CHAPTER 75
Kayla sprinted along the back wall through the spilled hexane, and the gasoline-like vapors assaulted her nose and burned her eyes. Two aisles over, she heard Artemis reload her handgun and yell, “Leave her alone! She’s mine.”
Somewhere at the front of the building, she heard the whine of an electric motor and clattering chains as a loading-bay door ground open.
“Tell the clients to hold their position in the bay and guard that door,” Artemis yelled.
Kayla kept moving. Artemis still needed her alive if she wanted her payday. That’s why she hadn’t killed her in the mountains. But that thought was little comfort when she realized her scientific value was in the cells in the tissues of her various organs. And the clients with the money were here. That meant these might be the last minutes of her life. She wanted to spend them well. She accepted her death as a given, and a calm determination solidified inside her. She reached the room containing the refrigerators and stopped on a dry patch of concrete beyond the door. She’d do this on her terms—no one else’s. She crouched with the last match in her hand.
Looking down the aisle, she saw Artemis turn the corner and head toward her. Artemis was limping, now dragging her useless right leg with every step. She spotted Kayla, then looked down at the hexane covering the floor. Artemis stopped, rocked her head back and laughed. She holstered her gun, probably knowing the muzzle flash could ignite the fumes. She pulled a long knife from her vest.
“Okay, Dr. Covington. We’ll do this your way.” Slowly, she moved forward. “Before you blow us all to hell, remember your daughter. And what about your dear father. Wally, is it? Wally McIntire? How will they do without you or
your treatment?”
Images flashed into Kayla’s mind of Emily suffering with her grief and maybe even her guilt over not reaching out to her mother before she died. She imagined her father, with his hands shaking and fighting for every word, lost and alone without Kayla. A dark, lonely desolation settled over her when she thought about all that she was leaving behind. She wouldn’t be there to see the miracle of RGR or simply sit with Emily and talk as adults for the first time in their lives.
Artemis kept coming, like an unstoppable monster. She spoke with a gentle tone. “They won’t kill you. They’ll probably even let you go home at some point.” But the vile anger screaming from her eyes betrayed her message. She wanted Kayla dead.
Kayla dug down hard, and somewhere inside she reconnected to the determination she’d felt moments ago and found the righteousness and courage she needed. Her life and death would mean something. To Emily, to her father and to Harrison. At that moment she realized Harrison had been her source of courage. He’d always said bravery was a combination of courage and sacrifice for a greater good. Now facing her own death to save millions, she knew he was right. He’d also taught her that love was a verb, not a feeling. You had to act it out. She only wished she’d learned that lesson earlier.
Kayla looked up at Artemis who now was only ten yards away and in the middle of the aromatic liquid. Artemis appeared to read Kayla’s determination, and the shock written on her own face said she’d underestimated Kayla’s courage. Kayla glanced at the trembling match in her hand, then back at Artemis with contempt and prayed that if there was a God, she’d been good enough. She sucked in her last breath, closed her eyes and struck the match on the floor.
