Firestorm: Book III of the Wildfire Saga (16 page)

Vasily stared at the retreating vision in front of him.
 
He felt a stirring—not in his chest—and looked down.
 
He smiled around another cough and followed her.
 
“I’ve got something for you, too…”
 

Forty minutes later, Vasily stumbled out into the brisk morning air, ignoring the doorman.
 
Memories of the previous night's drug and alcohol-induced orgy brought a smile to his cracked lips.
 
He rubbed a clammy hand across his forehead, confused that it should feel so cold.

Do I have a fever now?
 
What next?
 
Damn doctors.
 
Dedushka
was right, they always lie.

A car honked on its way past and Vasily jumped back onto the sidewalk.
 
He glanced down at the curb and looked to the right before looking once more to the left.
 
It would do him no good to be killed like a common drunk on his way to making himself a millionaire.
 
With his other hand he clutched tight the briefcase that held the important documents and the large cash reserve he was to deliver to Onnei's London branch.
 

He broke out into a sweat just thinking about the amount of cash in the unassuming briefcase clutched hanging at his side.
 
His eyes darted to the passerby as they gave him curious glances and a wide berth on the sidewalk.

Anyone of you could try to steal this!
 
I must be cautious.
 

Vasily took a deep, shuddering breath which led him into a vigorous coughing fit.
 
The hotel doorman appeared at his side and helped him stand up.
 
Vasily shrugged angrily away from the man's help.

He suppressed another violent cough and stared through watery eyes at the concerned face of the doorman.
 
The man looked ridiculous in his greatcoat, shiny brass buttons, and little top hat.
 

The doorman asked him a question, his eyes flicking to Vasily's briefcase.
 

You want to steal my money!
 
Vasily jerked free of the doorman's hand and stepped back.

"No," Vasily said shaking his head.
 
He coughed again.
 
"I'm fine…"
 
He coughed again and spat a glob of phlegm on the sidewalk.
 
It glistened pink this time, not yellow-green.
 
That was new.

The man said something and held his hands up, then muttered to himself and returned to his post.
 
He clasped his hands behind his back, slipping easily into his role as the hotel's gatekeeper.

Vasily stared at the wet glob of mucus.
 
Is that blood?
 
 
He looked around at the people who passed by, watching him.
 
It doesn't matter.
 
I must get to my meeting.
 
My fortune depends on it.
 

Vasily fished a scrap of rumpled paper out of his pocket glared bleary-eyed at the scribbling.
 
Number 3 Dunning Street.
 

One of the ubiquitous black cabs slowed to a stop not ten feet from him.
 
The passenger door opened and a woman stepped out, followed by a smartly dressed older man.
 
The man leaned down to the window and shared a laugh with the driver.
 

The couple strolled into the hotel and Vasily watched them as the doorman tipped his hat to the lady and opened the door.
 
Vasily turned back to the cab and stared at the headlights for a second before focusing on the driver's face.
 
The driver arched an eyebrow and raised a hand in the universal symbol of "Well?"

Vasily nodded and walked to the passenger door.
 
He collapsed into the back seat and gasped for breath before he could raise the strength to shut the door.

The driver half-turned in his seat and asked him a pointed question.

Vasily muttered something he hoped sounded like an apology, then handed the crumpled paper to the cab driver.
 
The man hesitated for a second, looking at Vasily's trembling, outstretched hand before he took the damp paper and gingerly opened it by the corners.
 
He peered intensely at the handwriting for a moment and then recognition crossed his face.
 

The driver flipped a switch on his dashboard and the fare meter activated as the driver rambled on in English.
 
Vasily closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the seat.
 
He didn't bother buckling in
—
he struggled too much to breathe, let alone fiddle with a seatbelt.
 

He found himself thinking of crawling back in bed with Zoya and sleeping.
 
The nice warm bed, next to her nice warm body.
 
Her skin had been so smooth…

He took a deeper breath and froze, a grimace of pain on his face.
 
His lungs burned, then everything faded and sleep found him.

Vasily jolted awake when the cab came to a stop.
 
"How long have I been asleep?" he asked, though his throat felt like it had been filled with concrete.
 
His hand flew to his chest—it still burned when he breathed, but not as much as earlier.

The cab driver turned in the front seat and stared at him quizzically.
 
He jerked his head toward the large display on the dashboard.
 
Vasily glanced at the meter and decided he didn't have the time to worry about exact change or tip.
 
He reached into his wallet, coughing and wheezing, and pulled out a couple large notes.
 

Vasily ignored the protestations of the cab driver and threw open the door.
 
He stood there on the sidewalk for a second, clutching his briefcase and attempting to control his breathing.
 
His heart raced with fear.
 

Every breath was tinged with fire now, not just the deep ones.
 
He closed his eyes to stop the dizziness that tickled the edge of his vision.
 
No one said anything about the vaccine making it hurt to breathe.
 

Vasily found it difficult to stand up straight.
 
He looked back at the cab, but the driver had already pulled back in to traffic.
 

He turned back to the building and glanced up at the large sign plastered above the main door, proclaiming this to be the London headquarters of the Onnei Corporation.
 
He'd made it.
 
He glanced down at his watch.
 
Twenty minutes early.
 

He took two steps and fell flat on his face.

C
HAPTER
16

North of Walden, Colorado.

C
HAD
FIDGETED
WITH
THE
strap on his seat.
 
He listened to the endless drone of the Chinook's dual rotors
wop-wopping
through the cold air north of Denver.
 
The inside of this helicopter was a little nicer than the Black Hawk the Rangers had flown back at Glacier National Park, but it still lacked a bit in the comfort department.
 
He shifted his back, trying to find a more comfortable position in the jump seat.

After a few more minutes of chest-numbing noise from the engine, he keyed the microphone on his helmet.
 
"I'm sorry to bother you—where did you say you were taking me again?"

He had a clear line of sight into the cockpit and saw the pilots turn their heads to face each other.
 
Finally, one of them replied, "We didn't."

Chad rolled his eyes.
 
All the secrecy grated on his nerves.
 
He understood why Admiral Bennet wanted to take no chances regarding his safety.
 
Most world governments would still love to get their hands on him, even though Dr. Boatner had assured him they had all the blood required and the serum had been completed.
 

He'd spent many long hours in the lab and donated more blood than he cared to think about, but as far as Chad was concerned, his service to the United States government was over.
 
They'd replenished their stockpile, Boatner completed the serum and already administered it to special forces and regular troops.
 

Everyone from the President down to the lowest janitor inside the secret government complex under Denver International Airport had been dosed.
 
A handful had come down with a mild case of the flu, but for most the only side effect had been a runny nose and a light fever.

"Can you give me a hint?
 
It's not like there's a lot of in-flight reading material back here…" Chad said, hoping to elicit at least a chuckle.

Silence from the cockpit.
 
One pilot turned and leaned back to look at him through the narrow passageway up front.
 
The cold reflective visor on his helmet did not give Chad any comfort.
 
"I'm not at liberty to tell you anything, sir.
 
Please sit back and enjoy the ride."

"So much for the friendly skies…" muttered Chad.

He glanced to his right and looked at the cargo stacked along the side of the helicopter.
 
In those crates lay most of the survival gear he would need to eke out a living at one of the hidden bases Admiral Bennet had selected for him.
 
The only thing he knew for sure was he was heading north—way north.
 

Admiral Bennet had made certain Chad had been outfitted with cold-weather survival gear.
 
Chad had lived the past decade in the upper wilds of Glacier National Park—he knew the temperature ranges there and the gear he'd been supplied with now was for a whole other level of cold.
 
Chad also knew he was going to a military base, so in his mind, that put the destination somewhere in Alaska.
 

He thought about the gear he'd watched soldiers pack into the crates.
 
Probably near the arctic circle judging by the amount of stuff they loaded.
 
He hadn't been privy to exactly what was in all the boxes, but he assumed he'd find out sooner or later.
 
In the meantime, he made a guessing game out of it and tried to figure out what the military code stamped on the side the wooden crates meant.
 

The crate upfront—underneath his personal duffel bag—contained food rations.
 
He heard the cargo masters laughing about it as they wheeled it aboard.
 
Something about not wanting to subject anybody to so many MREs.
 

Chad shifted his eyes to the next crate and tried to decipher the string of stenciled letters and numbers.
 
Among other things, it was labeled with an 'HG' stamp.
 

Does that mean 'hunting gear'?

As he thought about it, he realized the only weapon he had on him was the hunting knife 13 had given him.
 
They'd searched his bag and confiscated the pistol he'd had from Rykker.
 
Chad frowned.
 

What are they expecting me to hunt with, a bow and arrow?

Suddenly, the lid on the crate he was staring at seemed to jump about an inch.
 
Chad looked forward to the cockpit, but the pilots hadn't noticed.
 
He looked cautiously back at the crate.
 
Had he imagined it?
 
The lid bumped up again.
 
Nope.
 
It definitely moved.

"Hey you guys, just so you know…"

The pilots didn't even bother looking back.
 
"Please keep this channel clear, sir.
 
Is there an emergency?"
 

Chad frowned toward the cockpit, then looked back at the crate whose lid now jiggled quite vigorously.
 
He swallowed.
 
"Um…
nooo
…" He said, drawing out the word.

"Then please keep this channel clear."

Chad ignored the pilots and stared at the box.
 
Something was coming through that lid.
 
He thought about drawing 13's knife—if another one of Reginald's agents popped through that lid, he would at least go down fighting.
 
Chad reached down and struggled with the chest harness.
 
His fingers shook as his eyes darted back to the crate's lid.
 
A gloved hand emerged between the gap and took a good grip on the lid.
 
Chad's fingers trembled.
 
Not again!
 
I will not be captured again!