Bringer of Fire (16 page)

“And Sanders,” Denton cautioned. “This time, you’d better secure whoever you nab out there. I want live people to interrogate this time.”

Sanders looked up with a frown. “Yes, sir.”

I snatched the plastic bottle of sports drink from the corner of her desk and upended it. I had to make sure that my brain was charged up this time.

Then I recalled the syringes of vitamin supplements that I’d taken from Maria’s refrigerator. Yet another reason that I needed her back safely; I had no idea what the proper mixture was.

I made my way to the small break room on the other side of the office. I’d stored one of the syringes containing my vitamin mixture inside a small thermos in the small employee refrigerator.

I looked around to ensure I was alone.

While rolling up my shirtsleeve, I belatedly realized that it was still stained with dirt and grime from the Chicago streets.

I wasn’t about to contribute to another debacle like that, if I could help it. But then, what could I have done better to prevent what had happened?

I popped the cap off the syringe and tried to decide the best self-injection method. All that I’d ever learned about injections was back in the army when they had demonstrated how to jam an atropine needle into my thigh in case of chemical agent exposure.

“Are you a diabetic?” Sanders asked.

I winced and gazed in her direction. I hadn’t even heard her enter the room. What was she, a trained ninja?

“It’s a vitamin solution,” I replied.

She frowned as she approached me.

“Please tell me that’s not an illegal substance,” she prodded with a disapproving tone.

I gave her a wan look. “Maria Edwards gave it to me. She said it would help with my abilities.”

By the surprised look on her face, she hadn’t expected that response.

“Give me that,” she said as she reached out for the syringe. “You’ll probably end up putting an air bubble into your bloodstream. That’s all we need is for you to have a massive coronary or a stroke.”

I adopted a dubious expression. “So, you’re a nurse, too?”

“For your information, I used to volunteer at my father’s neighborhood clinic as a teenager. I know my way around a needle and more.”

Sanders was just full of surprises.

“Well then, thanks, doc,” I chimed.

She injected the solution in a practiced manner, though not quite as seamlessly as Maria had done.

“For the time being, you’d better let me give these to you,” she suggested. “At least until someone can show you how to do it properly.”

I handed her the needle cover and she dropped the empty syringe back into my thermos.

“Rule number one—don’t reuse your needles,” she instructed.

“There’s a few that Maria had already prepared back at my hotel room,” I said.

“How frequently?”

“Daily for now, if I recall correctly what Maria said,” I replied.

“Our flight is in two hours. We’re each going to pack an overnight bag, just in case,” she said. “Bring one syringe with you, but put it in your jacket. We won’t have to deal with customs; I can get us past that easily enough.”

“Thanks a lot, Sanders,” I said.

“Well, you did sort of save my life again today,” she said. “So, I guess I owe you one.”

She spared me a momentary look of complete sincerity before her visage returned to that of the consummate professional. She pressed the thermos into my hands.

“Come on,” she said. “We don’t have time to waste. We’ll try to catch a nap on our flight.”

On the way to the airport, Sanders went by her apartment and then stopped by my hotel so I could hastily pick up a change of clothes. We met Agent Ben Foster at the terminal and fortunately didn’t have to wait long before we boarded our flight.

Once again, I was vexed over the sense of futility from waiting, as if precious time was progressively sifting through our fingers. Still, I was determined that this journey was going to be more successful than our last.

Then I recalled that the road to hell was paved with good intentions.

* * *

I fell asleep sometime during the flight and dreamt that I was sitting on an airplane next to both Sanders and Foster. However, all of the other passengers had faces that were devoid of features. There were literally just pale white voids where their faces formerly resided.

I looked to my left where Sanders was quietly talking to herself about a host of tasks and ideas. I looked to my right where Foster calmly recited a list of items that all sounded like articles one would pack for a trip. Then a din of voices slowly built around me and I found myself unable to pick out a single, lucid voice. The din grew to a cacophony until it was like dozens of men’s and women’s voices practically screaming in my head.

“Shut up!” I yelled, clapping my hands over my ears.

Then I jerked awake.

Sanders stared at me with concern.

“Bad dream?” she asked. “Your face is sweating.”

I looked to my right, but Foster was leaned back into his seat with his eyes closed, seemingly at ease.

“Nah, I’m fine,” I said evasively and excused myself to go to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face.

The remainder of the flight was thankfully uneventful, but it was as if I could still subtly
sense
a host of voices in the back of my mind. Slowly, and quite thankfully, the sensation abated.

By the time we landed at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas it was close to midnight. The field office supervisor from the Las Vegas bureau, Sid Prescott, and an agent named Letitia Hansen met us at the terminal. During the introductions, both agents considered me suspiciously. Either they hadn’t expected a “civilian” to be part of our little group, or they’d already heard about the debacle in Chicago.

On the drive to the local bureau office, the agents informed us that they’d already formed a small task force in conjunction with both Las Vegas and Henderson municipal police departments.

We left our luggage at the FBI offices and immediately suited up in bulletproof vests. More than once, Prescott asked Sanders if I was actually supposed to be in harm’s way, given my status of being “under the bureau’s protection.”

“He’s far more useful to us in the field, I assure you,” Sanders said.

The drive down the Great Basin Highway was quicker than I thought it would be. By the time we passed south of the Nevada State College campus, the area looked rather desolated, though more likely due to the imposing darkness.

“Are we still in Henderson?” I asked.

“Yes, although we’re actually just as close to Boulder City as Henderson,” Agent Hansen remarked.

“What else can you tell us about the residence?” Sanders asked.

“It’s a small farm. One of our best field agents, Mike Carter, is already staging the tactical team around the site,” Prescott informed us.

“Farming? Around here?” I asked.

Iowa was one thing, but arid Nevada seemed outrageous for farming.

“Sounds odd, I know. Nevada’s the driest state in the nation,” Prescott said. “In fact, much of the surrounding area is little more than uninhabited, sagebrush-covered desert. Historically, we’re better known for silver mining operations.”

“My grandparents grew melons in Boulder City when I was growing up,” Hansen said. “It takes some additional watering, but you can do it successfully.”

Farming in the desert.

And to think that reading minds and blocking bullets in mid-air was supposed to sound strange.

“Listen, before we arrive on site, there’s a couple of things I’d like to know,” Prescott said. “I’ve seen the news coverage on TV of what happened earlier today in Chicago. Your supervisor, Agent Denton, was a little evasive when I spoke with him, so I took the liberty of placing a call to my peer in Chicago, Agent Desmond. He said what should’ve been a routine search and arrest turned into a balls-to-the-wall gun fight.”

“It was both unexpected and unfortunate,” Sanders said diplomatically.

“This whole situation seems a little strange at this point and I just want to know what we might be walking into, Agent Sanders,” Prescott continued. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you explain to me why Denton was so insistent about my bringing a cooler filled with sports drink with us. We’re not a catering service, you know.”

He had a point. Frankly, I couldn’t blame the guy.

I looked at Sanders and then stared out the car window to the darkness beyond.

“Honestly, Agent Prescott, it’s more complicated than you might think,” Sanders said.

Chapter 12

We pulled off the highway some distance from our destination and proceeded down a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. A few police cars, a Ford sedan, and an oversized RV that was stenciled with
Las Vegas Mobile Tactical Command Center
were situated along the side of the road.

Inside the command center, numerous law enforcement officials prepared their gear while others watched over video surveillance screens arrayed along one wall of the vehicle.

We were introduced to the tactical commander, a Las Vegas police major named Duggar, as well as Special Agent Mike Carter. Both were attired in body armor. A quick scan of everyone quickly suggested that body armor was the uniform of the day.

It appeared that nobody was taking any chances with the operation.

“We’ve already created a perimeter of men a couple of hundred yards outside the boundaries of the property,” Duggar explained. “Everyone will wear a wire, so when the order is given, we’ll close in together from all sides. Snipers are arrayed in three locations that give us a sound periphery of fire coverage. The only structures appear to be the two-story house, two small outbuildings, and a large barn. There are two propane tanks to be cautious of; one on the front side of the house, and another along one side of the large barn. The back side of the property is a series of vegetable patches and watering apparatus.”

All in all, it seemed as though everything was in order and everyone seemed prepared. That should’ve reassured me, but after Chicago, I just kept wondering what we might have missed; though SWAT tactics were hardly my specialty.

You never know everything you need to.

It’d felt that way when I was deployed overseas back in my army days, as well. It was good to plan and prepare, but few arrangements survived the chaos and dynamic events that took place in a live combat zone.

I learned that no battle plan was sound beyond first contact with the enemy.

But those days were over, weren’t they?

I noticed Foster and Sanders being wired with those Secret Service-looking earpieces and microphones. I rubbed at my ear where my earpiece was tickling me.

It was nearly eleven o’clock by the time that Sanders, Foster, and I finished gearing up. Most of the tactical team had already deployed around the farm’s perimeter. Only a small entry team accompanied us.

A tactical van transported us back to the main highway and then along the couple of hundred yards of gravel road where the farm was located. In order to maximize stealth, we walked the short distance from where the van was parked to the farm property.

It was a quiet, dark night with no moon, and there was little if any traffic on the gravel road behind us. We moved off of the gravel to the sandy side of the road to minimize the noise from our footfalls.

We made our way down the narrow dirt driveway leading up to the main house.

It was a large, rustic-looking two-story farm home with 1950s era architecture. There appeared to be no lights on in the house and a lone white Ford Explorer was parked at the side of the house close by the large barn. The entire place had a slightly abandoned feeling to it, though part of that might’ve been the nocturnal hour.

Agents Foster and Carter made their way to the back of the house with their tactical team, while Sanders, Prescott, and I quietly approached the front of the house with our four-man tactical team. As we reached the propane tank that was maybe a hundred feet from the house, I lifted my hand for everyone to halt.

“What?” Sanders whispered to me in an urgent tone.

“I’ve got an idea,” I said. “Wait here until I signal for you.”

Sanders started to protest, but I pointed meaningfully at my head and ear with one hand. She nodded and motioned for everyone to squat behind the propane tank.

It was then that the utter absurdity of using a potentially explosive tank for cover occurred to me, but I let it slide.

“What the hell’s he doing?” Prescott quietly demanded.

I ignored him and made my way to the old, wooden front steps that led up to the wide porch.

“Prescott here,” he said over the comm link. “We’re halted out front, just beyond the front porch. Stand by.”

I stopped, crouched down near the front steps, and opened my thoughts. Unlike my experience at the Nuclegene Corporate offices, my ability only took a couple of seconds to respond.

A tingling sensation flowed through my head, and picked up on multiple thoughts at once. Picking through the voices, I realized that it was Sanders and the rest of the team behind me. I adjusted my concentration and envisioned a sweeping pattern ahead of me.