Blood List (28 page)

The policeman's voice was calm. "Slowly put your hands on your head and turn around."

Gene raised his hands. "You've made a mistake. I'm—"

"I know who you are, Mr. Palenti." Gene folded his hands over his head. He could hear the officer outside calling for backup. "Now turn around."

Gene turned. "I'm not Jim Palenti. Chief of Police Logan Stukly of the LAPD can vouch for me. My name is—"

"Shut up," said the cop. He twisted Gene's hands behind his back and zip-tied them together. Spun back around, Gene suffered a pat-down that took his pistol, his Swiss Army knife, and his wallet. The policeman opened the wallet and tsked at the FBI badge. "Looks good, Palenti." He flipped the wallet closed and put it in his pocket.

As he was manhandled toward the door, a familiar blue SUV screeched up to the curb. The officer at the car turned his pistol toward the newcomers.
What the heck?
Carl jumped out of the passenger's seat, flashing his badge as Doug put the car in park and climbed out.

Carl ignored the gun in his face and read the officer's badge. "Officer Russo, I'm Special Agent Carl Brent of the FBI, and I'm taking this man into custody. You're ordered to stand down and surrender custody on authority of Director Adams, PRD."

"This guy here's got a badge, too," said the other officer.

"Ours are real," Doug said, flashing his own. "We've been tracking Palenti for eight months. You guys did good."

Russo hesitated, then looked at his partner. "Joey, call it in."

Carl's jab took Russo in the throat, and a chop knocked the pistol from his hands. Gene head-butted Joey even as Doug closed the distance and connected with a wild haymaker to the side of the head. Joey dropped to the ground, writhing. Carl followed up his strike with three more, then stepped in and slammed Officer Russo's head into the hood of the car. The cop dropped to the ground next to his partner, gasping and groggy.

Doug pulled a knife from his belt and cut Gene loose. He kneeled between the cops and cut the cords on their police radios before rolling them over and handcuffing them with their own zip ties. Gene recovered his wallet, knife, and pistol, then stabbed both drivers-side tires for good measure. Meanwhile, Carl did something to the cops' dashboard.

"Radio?" Gene asked.

Carl smiled. "Not anymore."

Doug patted the cops on the heads. "Be good, kids." He stood and looked at Gene. "Let's get the hell out of here."

They headed west.

"We need to ditch this car, Gene," Carl said. "Black-and-whites have front-mounted cameras standard these days. It's a fair bet they have our license plate as well as pictures of Doug and me."

"Stupid," Gene said. "They're going to be all over us."

Doug smiled at him through the rear-view mirror. "Yeah, it was. Did you find anything good?"

Gene shook his head. "Besides that phone, Paul cleaned them out. I've got four files, but I'll bet they're worthless." He pulled them from the duffel bag and passed them up to Carl.

Carl scrutinized them for a few minutes as Doug found a convenient back alley to ditch the SUV. "They look like receipts and warranties. Might be a cipher of some kind. We can pass them up to Sam to get some forensic accountants on them. If we can reach her."

"Yeah," Gene said. "If we can reach her."

"So," Carl said, "where are we hiding?"

February 3rd, 12:35 PM EST; Massachusetts General Hospital; Boston, Massachusetts.

Marty looked up from his hospital bed as Sam entered the room.

"You look like shit," Sam said. He really did.

Marty's grin was glazed with painkillers. "Hey, Sam, how'd you get in here?" His voice was groggy and thick.

She gave him a half-smile. "Bribed the head nurse fifty bucks."

He chuckled as his head listed to the side. "Cool…." His head lolled, and his eyes rolled back, then snapped into lucid focus. "So how's it going, Sam?"

"Not so good, sweetie."

Marty teared up. "Not Gene—"

She cut him off. "Last I heard, the boys were in California," Sam said. Marty sighed with relief. "Something weird's going on out there, Marty. I think they're stuck in San Francisco, and I need to find a way to get them out past the barricades."

Marty's reply sounded hopeful, but puzzled. "They can't just leave? Why not?"

She explained. "It's a setup, Marty. The terror threat is fake, a front to set up a manhunt for them."

"Um…." His voice slurred. "Can't you just publish the fucking evidence we have so far, exonerate them?"

"Marty, I can't go to work. Someone tried to kill me last night." She reached up with her right arm and tugged her jacket down, showing the large bandage made with supplies from a convenience store.

"Holy fuck, Sam. Why?"

She put her hand on his arm. "I know who hired those mercs from Martha's Vineyard, who tried to kill Lefkowitz and Renner." Marty's face darkened at the name. He motioned for her to continue. "He's a government official named Emile Frank." He didn't reply. "Doctor Emile Frank?" she asked.

"Fucking hell, Sam, I've been stabbed, cut open by doctors, given several fucking gallons of other peoples' blood, and shouldn't even be conscious. I can barely fucking think with all these fucking painkillers coursing through me." He grimaced and hammered the button taped into his right hand, which sent even more morphine into his IV. "And I don't need you playing fucking coy with me. Spit. It. Out."

Sam gave him a half-hearted smile and patted his cheek affectionately. "He's the Director of Antiterrorism, Bioweapons, at DHS."

Marty mouthed a silent
wow
, his eyes starting to glaze as the morphine kicked in. "That's not good, Sam. You need to lie low."

"I know, Marty. I also need to tell Gene."

His eyes widened as he fought to stay conscious. "You haven't told him yet? What the fuck, Sam?" His eyelids drooped as he finished.

She patted his cheek, just hard enough to wake him back up. It mostly worked.

"Marty. Hey. I need you to tell me how you'd contact Gene in an emergency."

He opened his eyes and smiled at her. "Hi, Sam."

"Hi, Marty. How do I get a hold of Gene?"

"Try the COM, babe. Fucker's always wearing it, unless he's sleeping. He's the boss, after all." He scowled, then smiled again. "Hi, Sam."

She enunciated every word, hoping she'd get through the opium haze and into his thick skull. "No COM, no phone. How do I contact him if he's gone under the radar? How would you do it?"

He tried to lean forward. She bent down to listen, and he grabbed her jacket with his left hand. "Ummmm…. E-mail."

"Okay. What address, Marty?"

"A secret one. Never use it unless there's a big trouble thing, Gene says. I told him it's stupid. But who's stupid now?" He nodded, as if sharing brilliant wisdom. "Little bro's got the smarts, you know?"

She nodded back. He copied her with ten times the enthusiasm. "I know, Marty, I know." He was still nodding when his eyes closed.

"What's the address, Marty? To contact Gene?"

He told her and passed out.

Let's hope this works, kids!
She walked out of emergency by way of the main desk and passed another fifty to the head nurse. "I wasn't here."

The woman took the fifty. "Who wasn't where?"

*   *   *

February 6th, 9:18 PM PST; Home of Margaret VanDeSande; San Francisco, California.

Gene shook his head at Doug, his face blank. They were playing Russian Pinochle, a card game they'd learned in the service that was neither Russian nor Pinochle. They'd tried to teach it to Carl two days earlier, but he'd found it incomprehensible. They'd been holed up for three long and frustrating days after two near-misses with the authorities, so Gene and Doug were stuck playing cards while Carl looked for a way to contact Sam.

Margaret VanDeSande smiled at the two FBI agents from the doorway to the den. "Are you sure you boys don't want more tea and cookies?" she asked.

"No, thank you," Gene said. He could have gone for more of both, but was too polite to say so. They'd taken too much from this woman already.

Mrs. VanDeSande was a ninety-year-old Dutch widow with curlers in her hair and a faded pink nightgown. She was the proud owner of a large farmhouse built in 1947 by her dearly departed husband, bless his soul, and cared for most weekends by three of her eighteen grandchildren. The city of San Francisco had enveloped it four decades back.

Carl, Doug, and Gene had rented two rooms from her. They'd paid her a hundred dollars for the next week, with a promise of more once the lockdown had lifted. She took their hundred dollars and their promise of payment, and in return gave them not only a place to stay, but all the tea and cookies they could possibly want.

Almost every business in the city had closed because of the terrorist threat. People not waiting on bridges to evacuate were afraid to go out. Hospitals and newsrooms were the only things doing brisk business. The latter reported that the former were full and that there were over forty dead and two hundred injured from lootings, robberies, and home invasions. Close to a dozen had died in traffic accidents during the first hours.

The rest of the casualties came from people rushing roadblocks, trying to beat past the naval blockade or taking to the air. At least two hang-gliders and four hot-air balloons had been shot out of the sky, as well as one single-engine plane. The media warned of dire consequences that would befall any who tried to leave except through the still-congested and heavily searched approved routes. That is, they did so when they weren't busy airing a bunch of made up "facts" about Trubb and Palenti, or clips from the president's speech about the dangers of terrorism and the resolve necessary to fight it.

"Suit yourself, boys," Mrs. VanDeSande said. "I'm going to bed." She set a small tray holding a cup of tea and a plate of six shortbread cookies between them. "Just in case your friend gets back and wants a bite to eat," she said with a smile. She wandered into her bedroom and closed the door.

Gene took a cookie and munched.
No point waiting for Carl on these.
He studied his hand. "Three clubs, no twos."

Doug rolled his eyes at Gene's bid and threw down a seven of hearts. "Remind me to never take you to Vegas."

Gene followed with a nine of spades. "Don't worry about that. I like to win," Gene said with a smile. Doug was saved from utter defeat when Carl strolled into the den.

"You look awfully proud of yourself," Gene said.

"I got an open WiFi node a block over, near the gray apartment building with the trees on top." Carl grinned ear-to-ear. "I boosted the signal with another wireless router, ran the cable over the roof top, so we should be lights-on in here."

"Really?" Gene was excited for the first time in days. Mrs. VanDeSande's computer was old in 1992 and had no Internet access. "Who'd you get to sell you a computer in this mess?"

Carl's grin turned downright evil. "Who said anything about selling?"

"Ah, shit, Carl," Doug said. "You stole it?"

"Ain't stealing," Carl said. "I appropriated the computer for emergency government use. If movie cops can do it with cars, I can do it with a laptop."

Doug favored him with a withering stare. "You know that's illegal."

Carl grinned. "Sure! But he didn't. I flashed my badge…." Gene looked at him in alarm, and he added, "real quick, too fast to read anything, and he handed it right over."

Gene threw up his hands. "Whatever. I don't care. Just give me the computer."

Carl produced the laptop and set it on the desk. He logged in and slid it over to Gene. Gene opened a web browser and went to Gmail.

To:  Maggot Face

From:  Zipper

Hey its S. Zip sez 'Mellow Cricket'. If ur stuck and 1 2 get back _Yellow Brick Road_ is how. Zips ok.

Gene slammed his hands on the table. "YES!"

He clicked on the link embedded in the phrase _Yellow Brick Road_. While he waited for the page to load, he explained. "It's Sam. Mellow Cricket's a code phrase. Don't ask, but it means this message is legit."

According to the web browser's navigator bar, the web page name was "How_ya_like_them_apples.com." The web page showed a bunch of gibberish. Cyrillic and Chinese symbols scrolled down the page before disappearing at the bottom and reappearing at the top. Gene furrowed his brow. "How ya like them apples?" he read aloud.

Carl responded. "Over easy."

Gene looked up at him, confused. "What?"

"It's a me-and-Sam thing. Just type
Over Easy
into the computer."

Doug gave him a puzzled half-grin. "Are you blushing, Carl?"

Carl shook his head with far too much enthusiasm. "I never blush," he lied. "Just type."

Gene did so.

The gibberish dissolved away into an empty chatroom. Words flowed across the screen.

SayItAintSo:  Hey there! This is as secure as I can make it, which means the right computers can hack it in a couple of weeks or months, if they know where to find it.

GMan:  Hi, Sam.

SayItAintSo:  Don't use names. It gives the cryptoweenies a crib. Are you guys where I think you are?

GMan:  Yes.

SayItAintSo:  Stuck?

GMan:  Very.

SayItAintSo:  All three of you ok?

GMan:  Yes. How's M?

SayItAintSo:  Good. Bored. Confined to bed rest.

GMan:  What's up with A.D. A? Called and got impostor.

SayItAintSo:  Not surprised. Long story. Will send file. Decrypt with first thing I ever said to you.

GMan:  I remember.

SayItAintSo:  Of course you do, baby.

GMan:  Ok. How are we getting out?

SayItAintSo:  Now I know you're alive, gotta talk to a friend. Wait for e-mail.