Reckless Creed (18 page)

OUTSIDE ATLANTA, GEORGIA

S
tephen Bishop stayed in the office even after the cleaning crew had shut off most of the lights inside the building. Except, of course, the areas they weren't allowed to access. This was when Bishop felt most comfortable. Alone with no one around to second-guess decisions. No one asking stupid questions.

There was a cabin in the woods for Bishop to retreat to, but this office was large enough to use as a makeshift apartment. The sofa made a comfortable bed. Someone had mentioned that the office had belonged to a scientist who had used a wheelchair for most of his tenure, so it came with an attached private bathroom including a handicap-accessible shower. Bishop had added a microwave and mini refrigerator. It was fortunate that many scientists were introverts or demandingly private. So although some might have suspected that Bishop spent an unusual number of nights here, they would also find it unremarkable.

Tonight exhaustion had taken its toll. The plan that had been worked on for so long was finally being implemented. It was a
milestone, a historic event that should be greeted with celebration. Instead, Bishop felt anxious and stressed.

Besides having a crew that couldn't be trusted and a life that had been uprooted, there was also the albatross of Colonel Hess. The only reason the man had agreed to be a part of any of this was his own self-preservation and his obsession with eliminating the enemy. Both things Bishop could understand and even appreciate. The man had done amazing things in his career.

Under Hess's leadership, DARPA had developed groundbreaking and revolutionary technology. The contribution of drones to modern warfare would appear minor compared to the biological weaponry that was being developed in Hess's research facilities throughout the country without the American public and most of the political class knowing about it. But if turning the bird flu into a biological weapon proved successful, it would dwarf all the other projects. Bishop would feel vindicated for decades of work.

The cell phone started ringing.

“What is it?”

“What the hell happened with those birds?”

Bishop winced. Nothing like cutting to the chase. Hess was brilliant but totally void of manners.

“It wasn't me. I gave Dr. Robins perfect instructions.
She
messed up.” Bishop wanted to remind Hess that he had chosen Dr. Getz and Dr. Robins, but by now it didn't matter. “I've changed the formula. Another flock will be ready in several days.”

“Your grandfather did amazing things with mosquitoes,” Hess said, sounding suddenly nostalgic.

“What are the numbers in Chicago and New York?” Bishop wanted to change the subject.

“According to my sources at the CDC, two hundred sixty-seven people in the Chicago area. New York is reporting only seventy-five.”

“Fatalities?”

“Only five,” Hess said with disappointment. “But there could be many more that simply haven't gotten to a hospital. Or”—and he paused—“it could mean our health care providers are much more prepared than we expected. That's good news.”

“But bad news for killing armies of ISIS soldiers.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “So using human virus carriers alone isn't a viable plan. What are the chances of using birds?”

“I believe I'm close.”

“I don't know how many test runs you can make before people get suspicious,” Hess said. “Too many lakes filled with dead birds and having them fall out of the sky . . .”

“The American people are used to mistakes,” Bishop said. They had already talked about this. “Live anthrax spores accidentally sent through the mail. Cattle from university research facilities accidentally being taken for commercial slaughter. Freezers with smallpox virus malfunctioning.” Those were just a few of the examples Bishop could throw at Hess. There were many more incidents, some that had shocked and frightened even the scientists who had been a part of them.

Hess was silent for a change.

Then finally he said, “We're on schedule for phase two?”

“Yes,” Bishop said, and ended the call.

NEW YORK CITY

C
hristina pulled the second burner phone from her tote bag just to look at it again. She had done this compulsively almost every ten minutes for the last several hours. She needed to check to make sure it was turned on. That the battery had not died. If there were enough bars. If it was possible that she had missed a call. Each time everything checked out fine.

She had given the biologist all the information and details necessary of where to meet and what time. She had asked that she not try to contact her. And yet Christina was disappointed that she hadn't heard from the woman.

Maybe she needed confirmation that she didn't think Christina was a nutcase. Maybe she wanted reassurance that Rief hadn't contacted federal officials who were now tracking her by using this phone. Just that line of thinking should have convinced Christina to shut the phone off, but she couldn't bring herself to do that. It felt like the only lifeline she had right now.

Speaking of tracking, her self-inflicted wound hardly ached at all despite how much she ended up digging to get the microchip out of her arm. The tiny glass capsule had fascinated her. Once she washed it off she could see the coils of threadlike wire. She had slipped it into the zippered pocket of her tote bag. For now it would continue to travel with her. She didn't want the watchers to panic when she did disappear from their radar.

The soldier who followed her had started to leave her for longer periods of time. It was easy for him to catch up with her as long as he could track her with whatever GPS technology must be contained in the microchip.

Now as the day grew late, Christina realized she might need to return to her hotel room and let them feel assured that she was tucked in for the night. She needed to rest if she was going to be back on the streets again at nine o'clock tonight.

What concerned her was that she wasn't sure her body would last much longer. She was burning up, her forehead slick with sweat. Her layers of clothes were damp against her skin. It hurt to breathe. The muscle aches made it difficult to move. This afternoon she sat on benches and inside cafés, moving only when her coughing fits drew too much attention.

She needed to lie down for just a few hours. But what if she wasn't able to get back out of bed?

This was something Christina didn't think the biologist had understood. How could you fully relay to a stranger that you knew you were dying and might already be too sick to even help yourself?

Reluctantly she started to trudge back to the hotel. By now she
should have known the way by heart, but the fever was playing tricks on her mind and her eyesight. And worse, in the last hour the sky had darkened with storm clouds. All her confidence in being a survivor was already slipping away by the time the first raindrops started to fall.

FLORIDA PANHANDLE

J
ason hadn't looked inside the box since the night he picked it up from Tony's mom. Creed wanted everyone to get a good night's sleep. He wanted them up early—fresh, rested, and ready to work long hours for the next three days. But he couldn't sleep. For some reason he needed to see what Tony had left for him—now, tonight.

He carried the box as carefully as if it were filled with glass Christmas ornaments. He couldn't imagine what Tony wanted him to have.

Couldn't imagine, or dreaded finding out?

Knowing Tony, maybe it was filled with some last prank. Jason found himself hoping that was exactly what it was.

Scout had followed him. The dog had paid more attention to the box since its arrival than Jason had. Thankfully he no longer looked to the door watching for Tony to come in and play fetch.

Jason put the box by the sofa and invited the dog to jump up and join him. In case there was something strange or illicit inside, he didn't want Scout grabbing it.

He opened the lid. The item sitting at the top took his breath away.

The leather was worn. An elastic band kept loose notes from falling out of the notebook. The cover was stained with greasy fingerprints and spilled beer. There was a small rusty splatter in the corner that Jason knew was blood. He knew it because he'd been there when it happened.

They'd been hunkered down for the night. Their unit had spent the day chasing Taliban fighters, pushing them back only to send them hiding in the hills waiting for nightfall so they could come back down and try again. Some days it felt ridiculous. They even laughed about it because if they considered the actual risk, they'd never be able to get through each day.

Tony had this small notebook. He was forever jotting things down, doodling in the corners, writing scraps of thoughts. He was doing just that when gunfire erupted. The assholes had found their courage in the dark, figuring they knew the terrain better than the American soldiers. And they were right.

The blood was from a fellow soldier, staff sergeant Timothy Garcia. Head shot. Probably wasn't just blood but some brains and bone, too.

Jason reached for the book, his fingers stopping inches from picking it up when he realized something.

Tony would never have left this behind. He had it with him everywhere. There was no way he would have gone to Chicago and not taken it with him. Unless he knew he wasn't coming back.

There was something sticking up out of the notebook. Curious, Jason gently started to tug on it to pull it out. He stopped himself.
It was tucked into the last half of the book. What if it was marking a particular page?

Jason peeled the elastic band back and opened the notebook. The paper sticking out looked like a deposit slip. When he looked at the pages his pulse quickened and he felt a clammy chill. The entry on the right-hand page, written in Tony's familiar chicken-scratch, started with:

DEAR JASON.

NEW YORK CITY

B
oth Amee Rief and Charlie Wurth were waiting for O'Dell at JFK.

“I have a driver out front,” Wurth said instead of a greeting. He grabbed her roller bag. He already had a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and another roller bag—what must have been Rief's—and started leading the way.

“Good to see you, too, Charlie,” O'Dell said to his back, getting only a wave of his hand. He didn't slow down. She asked Rief, “How are you doing?”

“I'm okay. My ticket was in first class.”

“Nice. I was on the aisle in the last row next to the bathroom.”

“That's no fun. I'm glad you're here.”

The black Escalade had two rows of leather captain's chairs. Wurth made sure Rief and O'Dell were comfortable in the second row before he climbed into the first, where he could give the driver instructions. From their conversation, it was obvious the man had worked for Wurth before.

Turning back to the two women, Wurth explained that Roger Bix from CDC was on his way with a team.

“Bix wants both of you wearing surgical masks and latex gloves.”

“Seriously?” O'Dell asked. “How are we supposed to not look suspicious on the streets of New York with surgical masks on?”

“Have you walked the streets of New York lately? You'll fit in just fine. Besides, it all needs to go down quickly. The place she's chosen makes it very difficult for a snatch-and-grab, but that's basically what we'll be doing.”

“Wait a minute,” Rief interrupted. “Snatch-and-grab? This isn't what I signed up for. She sounded really scared.”

“If she has the bird flu she's going to be very sick,” Wurth said. “And highly contagious. Didn't she even tell you that she was instructed to walk around and contaminate as many people as possible?”

“That's true, but I don't think she—”

“The fact that she arranged to meet you where there'll be crowds of people tells me that either she doesn't know how devastating this virus is, or she only cares about herself.”

“Survival instinct kicks in,” O'Dell said. “You know that, Charlie. You can't blame the woman for wanting to save herself. Sounds like she didn't know exactly what she was signing up for. If she did, they wouldn't need to send watchers. I think Amee has a valid point. This woman is frightened. By now she must be feeling like hell. If Roger's team comes in with hazmat suits and attempts to grab her off the street, she might run. She's decided to trust Amee. I think she'll be okay with me being there. Why can't Amee and I simply escort her to the CDC's vehicle?”

“And what about her watchers? You think they're going to let you just ‘escort her' away? Didn't you say she described one of them as a soldier?”

“Can't you get
us
some soldiers, Charlie?” O'Dell told him. “Didn't it occur to you that we might need some protection? Some help in case these watchers try to prevent us from taking this woman.”

“I thought about that, but this flash drive will be worthless to us if they know we've taken the woman. It might push them into acceleration mode. She has to come with us without her watchers seeing it happen.”

“Are you sure you can pull that off?”

He gave her his wide grin and said, “You really need to start trusting me, Maggie.”

O'Dell and Wurth had worked together before. They'd tracked a terrorist mastermind after an attack at the Mall of America. A few years ago the Coast Guard had found a cooler with body parts stuffed inside just off the shores of Pensacola Beach, and O'Dell and Wurth went down to investigate despite a hurricane barreling up the Gulf. She wanted to remind him that she had trusted him before and bombs ended up exploding and he had left her stranded in the path of a hurricane. Several times she had trusted Wurth with her life. But now, even the deputy director of Homeland Security wouldn't be able to protect any of them if they contracted this virus.