Lethal Misconduct (17 page)

When he’d first started his work for Cromwell, Merrifield hadn’t completely understood. Now he did. It would take evil to defeat evil. Why wait until another attack hit the West? Cromwell’s ideals had latched on to Merrifield’s psyche. Hand in hand they would deliver the solution to the world.

As luck would have it, the night before was when the answer had come. He’d rushed back to the lab to see if his dream-induced epiphany would work. It did, and in stunning fashion.

He took one last look at his office and headed for the exit.

Chapter 29

Fredericksburg, Virginia

5:45pm, April 10
th

Once again, MSgt Trent volunteered to go in first. Armed with a personality that could talk its way past the sternest gatekeeper, plus a signed inspection affidavit from the NIH, the huge Marine chatted with the guards just inside the front door.

“I’m sorry, sir, Dr. Merrifield just left.”

“Did he say when he’d be back?” asked Trent.

“He didn’t. I’d be happy to take your contact information, or you’re more than welcome to wait.”

Neither of the pistol toting rent-a-cops seemed like they were lying. Trent shrugged. “Not a big deal. I was just in the neighborhood and my boss wanted me to check in on his work.”

“Would you like me to get Dr. Merrifield’s assistant?”

“Don’t worry about it. Would you mind giving me Dr. Merrifield’s cell phone number? The one they gave me says it’s no longer in service. I’ll give him a call and schedule something for tomorrow. My fault for not calling ahead.”

One of the guards asked to see Trent’s identification again, which he provided. “Yes, sir. Let me write it down for you.”

Trent headed back to the vehicle where Cal and Daniel were waiting. They’d already heard everything from the mic Trent was wearing concealed in his American flag tie.

The first thing they did was relay Merrifield’s cell phone number to their FBI counterparts and to Neil, who was in a command vehicle a couple blocks away. Maybe they’d get lucky.

+++

Cromwell couldn’t believe how quickly things had gone from bad to worse. Not only had he gotten messages from multiple contacts within the FBI and Homeland Security, the guards at the Fredericksburg lab also reported the visit of a Mr. Charles Randall, an investigator from the NIH.

Cromwell would’ve heard if his own hierarchy was sending someone to one of his facilities. No one ever went around him. This was another agency trying to get their hands on Merrifield and his research.

Luckily he’d gotten confirmation from Merrifield that he was safely on his way to their rendezvous point, research in tow. It wouldn’t be long. With the completed formula in hand, nothing could stop them now. The cycle was almost complete.

He ignored his cell phone. Another text from Sen. Thompson. Cromwell had a feeling that the wily senator was involved with the leak. Maybe he’d gotten cold feet. Maybe he thought it was time to have Cromwell removed. It didn’t matter. Within hours he would be gone, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

+++

Plum Tree Island National Wildlife Refuge

Gillespie Dukes sat in the captain’s chair of his brand new seventy-six foot Viking Convertible saltwater fishing boat. Its robin’s egg blue hull bobbed gently in the surf just off the point of the national wildlife refuge. His son was down below prepping the small inflatable they’d use to pick up their customers from shore.

Dukes waved to a freight liner cruising down the center of the Chesapeake Bay, heading out to sea.

Since childhood, Gillespie Dukes had known almost nothing but the sea. Raised in nearby Yorktown, Virginia, he’d cruised the countless inlets and byways of Mobjack Bay, Pocomoke Sound and, of course, the mighty Potomac. First he’d gone along with his father, a crusty fisherman. He hadn’t known until he turned sixteen that his father did very little fishing.

“How do you think I paid for that nice house we’ve got on the bay, son?” his father had asked.

“Crabs?”

His father had laughed. “Did I ever tell you the story of your great, great grandfather?”

Gillespie had rolled his eyes. He’d heard the story a thousand times. According to his father, most of their ancestors were the noble pirates, or privateers, who’d worked the American coastline since before the United State’s revolution. First employed by the lords of Great Britain, and then by rich colonists and revolutionaries, the Dukes had supposedly been into all sorts of smuggling and thievery. But Gillespie had always thought his father was pulling his leg, trying to get him to believe a truth stretched to impress a son.

“Sure, dad. You’ve told me a bunch of stories.”

His father nodded, recognizing the look of bored disbelief in his son’s eyes. “So you don’t believe the stories?”

Gillespie shook his head.

“That’s your right. Tell you what. Come with me tonight and I’ll prove it to you.”

Sixteen-year-old Gillespie had wanted to say no, to take off and meet up with his buddies in a little cove they’d found and drink the beers his friend Billy had snatched from his grandfather’s fridge. But he knew his dad wasn’t going to let up. Truth be told, he was a little bit curious.

Oh, how Gillespie’s eyes had gone wide that night. Not a mile from where he now sat in his own boat, his father’s old skiff met a boat full of Asians. Brought in by some container ship from China, the filthy stinking specimens were to be shuttled to their next destination. It was his father’s job to get them there.

After the passengers were stowed and half the money paid, Gillespie sat on deck with his father’s shotgun, told to make sure none of their cargo escaped. He often wondered if he could have shot someone at such a young age. Now he wouldn’t think twice, but that had been his very first mission.

There’d been countless others over the years. Sometimes slaves. Other times weapons, exotic animals or counterfeit cash. He never really cared what he was delivering, just that he was paid. Once his father retired, he changed the business plan and always insisted on the full fee upfront. He was good for it and anyone who hired him knew it.

The job he was waiting to do now was his biggest payday in years, and might turn out to be his easiest. Three passengers and a leisurely trip out to sea. A piece of cake.

Everyone always enjoyed a first class experience when they hired Gillespie Dukes. This time more than others, thanks to his shiny new boat, courtesy of the hefty sum from his latest customer.

Chapter 30

Washington, D.C.

6:28pm, April 10
th

Senator Mac Thompson paced back and forth across the Oriental rug. If he did much more of it he was sure to wear a path right down the middle.

His plans of getting away unscathed seemed fleeting. Not only was Cromwell not answering his calls and texts, he couldn’t get anything from his contacts. The information chain had effectively been cut off. It was like flying in the dark, something the seasoned senator hated doing.

It reminded him of being a second stringer on his high school baseball team, a bench-warmer. Never in the know. Never the one calling the shots. Luckily, the summer after his freshman year Mac Thompson hit his growth spurt. Three inches taller, twenty pounds heavier, and his skills honed from hours in the gym and at the batting cage, sophomore first-baseman Mac Thompson throttled the returning senior for the starting job. He’d never looked back.

Now he felt like that scrawny freshman again, limited, powerless, in the dark.

He tried texting Cromwell once more, but there was no response. Maybe the soldier was just doing what he’d been told, lying low, being careful. Thompson wasn’t worried about Cromwell being found, but he was worried about Merrifield’s research and the implications should it get tied back to him. He couldn’t let that happen.

The phone buzzed in his hand and he almost dropped it in surprise. It was Cromwell.

“Where have you been?” asked Thompson.

“Doing what you told me.”

“Where are you?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not sure I trust you anymore, Senator,” came the slow reply.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve had time to think.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I find it convenient that you just happened to know about the authorities coming after me.”

Thompson shook his head, trying to make sense of Cromwell’s accusation. “I’m the one that called you!”

“Again, very convenient.”

“What are you getting at, Colonel?” It was said in a tone that usually would have put the junior man in his place. It did not.

“I think it’s time to say goodbye now, senator.”

“Wait. What are you—”

“Say goodbye to your father, Michael,” Thompson heard Cromwell say. He froze.

“Dad?” came Michael’s voice over the phone.

Thompson wanted to scream. “Son, are you—”

“Your son’s fine…for now,” said Cromwell, once again back on the line. “Now here’s what I want. You will—”

“You let my son go, you son of a bitch!”

“Now, now, Senator. I’d suggest you listen up if you want to have a chance of getting young Michael home safe and sound.”

Thompson’s heart felt like it was going to give out. He stumbled and only kept from falling to his knees by holding on to the end of his desk. He couldn’t lose his son again. It was the only thing he had left that he gave a damn about. This time when he spoke it was as a broken man, resigned to his fate. “What do you want me to do?”

“Two things. First, I want you to call off the hounds. I don’t care how you do it, just get it done.”

“But I—”

“Second, you will meet me at a place of my choosing. Get yourself to the nearest helicopter pad and rent one for the night. I’ll let you know where you can pick your son up,
if
you get the Feds off my back.”

Thompson closed his eyes. “Is that all?”

“One more thing, and this is just an FYI. Our vision, our dream, is about to become a reality.”

The line went dead and Thompson stared out the window into the darkening sky, an omen. He didn’t know what he could do to call off the investigation. He didn’t have that kind of clout. Nobody did.

But he had to try. He had to save Michael.

As he reached for the phone on his desk, his hand paused. Another option reluctantly crept into his mind. Gradually the idea took hold even as he tried to keep it at bay. He now had two options. Which to choose?

He picked up the phone and dialed the senate operator.

Chapter 31

Fredericksburg, Virginia

7:04pm, April 10
th

The FBI and Neil had both drawn up blanks. Dr. Merrifield’s cell phone had either been discarded or destroyed. Neil’s attempts at tracking it through the service provider came up with zilch. No pings.

Every other method they had at their disposal, including the combined databases of the CIA, Homeland Security and NSA, hadn’t turned up a thing they could use.

Cromwell and Merrifield had disappeared and took all the data with them. Neil confirmed the system scrub at the research facility. Everything of consequence was gone. They had the original copy, but without the final piece they had nothing.

“What else do we have?” Cal asked his team of operators. They’d been at it for what seemed like hours.

“What about Merrifield’s family?” asked Gaucho. “Is there a way we can use them?”

“I already checked,” answered Neil. “His parents died years ago. No living relatives of any consequence, and the distant ones live overseas.”

“What about Cromwell’s superiors at the NIH?” asked Daniel.

“Travis said they were all clueless. Apparently the good colonel was something of an anomaly, given the ability to work autonomously without their approval,” said Cal.

“And the CDC?” asked Daniel.

“Same thing. This guy’s a fixer. You have a problem, you called Cromwell. Trav says he’s got quite the reputation.”

Cal looked to MSgt Trent. “What about you, Top?”

Trent shrugged his massive shoulders. “I’m stumped on this one. I know it’s a long shot, but what about the mute. What’s his name, Magic—”

“Malik Vespers,” offered Dr. Price, whose eyes hadn’t left the computer screen containing the files they’d copied from Merrifield’s server. “Even if you get anything on the guy, I don’t think it matters. He’s a guard dog. All he cares about is what Cromwell says. Even if he had a wife and you threatened her life, Vespers probably wouldn’t care.”

That didn’t leave anyone else. Once again Cal couldn’t imagine how Cromwell had done it all by himself. How was that possible?