Читать книгу Perfect Weapon - Amy J. Fetzer - Страница 7

This was bullshit, Jack thought, opening the office door. The ranger station looked like a command post at Threat Con Delta. There were more cops, rangers, and firefighters in here than necessary. Three murders didn’t call for this. Okay, sure, a gas leak was plausible, and maybe there was an explosion somewhere—he’d certainly felt the earth move—but then, where was the equipment used to dig out after such a blast? Air tanks, compressors, bulldozers, backhoes? The crew?

Too many doing too little, he thought, easing out of the room and down the hall. People ignored him despite his uniform. His Marine utilities had been stripped of insignia, too frayed for service, but perfect for hunting. He’d bet five bucks everyone here figured him for a local boy hunting, since anyone could get old camouflage uniforms from Army surplus. It made things easier. He moved to the end of the corridor, listening. Ranger Pearl, a bulky man who needed to do a few sit-ups, was talking with another guy, short, Asian. Between them, Pearl held a videotape. The little Asian man was gesturing wildly, but no one could understand him.

Jack could. Two tours in Iwakuni and Okinawa gave him a small handle on the language. But the man was chattering so fast, Jack only caught words. Woman. Long head hair, he translated loosely and would have been amused if he wasn’t listening so hard. Ding wah. Phone. Stain? No. Blood. Well, the little guy had Jack’s attention. The ranger motioned to a man in jeans with a police shield on his belt, and when he approached, the Asian man started all over again before the cop led him into another office, taking the tape.

When Pearl turned toward him, Jack said, “What’s that about?”

Pearl hesitated. “Just a local convenience store owner. Words out to a few locals about your buddies.” At Jack’s look, he added, “We capped the rumors, I swear, but this guy’s got a video from his store. We think it’s got a suspect on it.”

Jack would bet it didn’t. “I want to see it.”

The ranger stared back, and Jack felt him waver. “Come on man, these are my pals. Marines. They’ve been to Afghanistan, Iraq; Lyons and Decker had Purple Hearts, for crying out loud. They’ve seen hard corps battle and were shot in the head like fish in a barrel. You either have something or not. And I was up there, I could tell you if you have something.”

Pearl sighed. “I saw the tape. It’s a woman.”

Jack reared back, scowling. “Describe her.”

“Average height, hair looked dark on the video. She was wearing a black skirt and jacket. The store owner’s English is bad, but we think he saw blood on her when she came in. That’s why he gave over the tape.”

“You’re wrong about her.”

“Sir, I know you’re upset about your friends, understandably—”

Just then, the cop stepped out with the Asian man and Jack pinned the officer with a hard stare. “You’re wrong,” he said. “That woman didn’t kill my pals.”

“Remind me never to take you into confidence, Pearl,” the cop groused and the ranger reddened.

Jack ignored him. “She was with me and running for her life.”

“Maybe she was running from the murders she’d just committed? You said she had a gun.”

“Yes, I did. But her nine millimeter military issue didn’t make the holes in my Marines’ heads. Long-range weapons did.” Jack flicked a hand toward the Asian man. “What did he say?”

“We need a translator, his English isn’t great.”

Jack looked at the little man, bowing a bit, then said, “Tell me the story,” in Japanese.

“You speak it?” Pearl asked, impressed.

Jack glanced his way, eyeballing him. “I can swear in five languages, but little beyond that.” He looked back at the storekeeper. “Tell me,” he said in Japanese.

The man’s eyes rounded and he started talking again, fast.

“She went straight to the bathroom, then made a phone call.” Jack tapped his watch. “How long was she there?”

“Ju.”

“Ten minutes. When she left, she headed south. He said he looked down the road and she was already gone.” Jack thanked the man, then looked at the cop. “I want to see that tape.”

“I need to review it again, then maybe.”

“I’m your only witness.”

“Yeah and the only one alive to tell the truth, too. Kind of works against you.”

Jack wasn’t going to point out that if he had actually killed his friends why would he report it and hang around. “You know, I don’t see you doing much about my pals. And when the press gets wind that three decorated U.S. Marines were murdered in cold blood in your county, and left on a mountainside…” He let that hang for a second. “Are we communicating here?” Jack gestured between himself and the cop. “I think we are.” He glanced at Pearl. “Don’t you?”

Pearl smothered a rude sound. Neither man realized Jack was about to blow a gasket.

“Are you threatening me?” the officer said.

Jack shrugged, giving him his best good ole boy look. “I’m about five minutes away from pounding you into the concrete; you be the judge.”

The officer glanced over him, unimpressed. “Must be the trauma making you act so stupid,” he said. “Did you know this woman?”

“Nope, never saw her until she was running down the hill with men chasing her. And I’d been out there since five A.M., which I already told Pearl here.”

The cop ignored that. “And you believed her story.”

“You’re not listening. I saw them, heard the gunfire. I’m sure there are a few rounds in the ground, the trees—my men,” Jack growled back, wanting to wipe the floor with this guy. “What’re you gonna do about it?” It was tough keeping all this inside and not having at least his punching bag to pound.

The cop scraped a hand across the back of his neck. “And you say you shot one man.”

“I found a man dead with a hole in him. She could have shot him, but I’m guessing I have better aim.”

“Where did this woman come from? There is nothing up there but the caverns.”

“Maybe she fell asleep after a tour, how the hell should I know? I didn’t get her name and number.” But he had the ID tag, and survival instincts said don’t let the cops in on that just yet. He wanted to find her, question her before the cops stopped every bit of information from flowing his way.

The detective seemed to battle with something and when he reached for the doorknob, his shirtsleeve slid upward. Jack saw the USMC tattoo. “Wait in there.” He jerked his head to the room with the files. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Jack nodded and quietly stepped inside. “Semper Fi.”

The cop met his gaze. “That’s the only thing keeping me from locking you up right now.”

Jack folded his arms, his patience snapped. He was tired of being shuffled off without answers. And he wasn’t leaving without them.

Peter Wickum bagged the weapon and handed it to Cisco. “No prints,” he said.

Cisco held it up to the light. “No firing pin either.”

“A cleanup crew?”

Cisco shook his head, his ponytail slipping across his back. “They’d have taken the body, or at least hidden it.” He handed the gun back, then squatted near the body of the intruder. “Whoever was here, didn’t care what they left behind.” He pointed to the footprints. “Cocky sucker.” A pause and then, “Like you, Wick.”

Peter snickered to himself and squatted, too. “This guy didn’t pull off his own mask,” he said. “With a wound like that he would have been dead before he hit the ground and the impressions in his skin from the knitting says he was talking to Lucifer around then.”

“Cute, Wick.”

“I try, sir.”

Cisco opened the dead man’s jumpsuit, peeling back the folds.

Wick swallowed at the sight of torn flesh and blood as his boss pulled something from the lining. “What’s that?”

Before Cisco could answer, Agent Hodges rushed up to the scene.

“Jesus, you’re pale, Hodge,” Wickum said as he rose, and the agent glanced between the two. Cisco stood.

“We have a problem.”

“A bigger one than I have now?” Cisco gestured to the body at his feet.

“Oh, yeah.”

It was the first time Pete Wickum had seen Agent Gabriel Cisco run. He usually stalked an area like a wolf on the scent, slipped quietly away in a dark sedan, but rarely did he get worked up over much. He didn’t take anything personally. At least not in the three years Pete had worked with him. Cisco was ruthless in his pursuits and emotionless while he performed them. Wickum hurried after him.

Cisco stood rock still near a lump on the ground and Pete’s first thought was: they’ve found a body that’s been there a long time. Small, too. His stomach tightened and he reached for his Maalox tablets. Please don’t be a kid.

Cisco lifted his gaze from the body. “A Gilly suit?”

“We have it from the Fish and Game that some men from a hunt club were out here thinning the doe herd,” Hodges said, handing Wick what they found on the body. “I guess the deer were getting into traffic, eating garbage. Destroys the ecosystem.”

The Gilly suits were used by military in combat to hide their approach in the field. It made them invisible and part of the terrain, and it wasn’t something that could be easily bought. Of course there were copies, but this was the real McCoy.

Cisco squatted. “What do you see, Wick?”

Peter took a hard look. Cisco liked testing him. “I don’t see any signs of a struggle. Two sets of footprints, this man’s and one other.” He pointed to the dead man’s boot cocked sideways. “This guy has small feet, the other marks were from someone with the same boot, same tread, but larger. Weapon and ammo were left behind. But”—Wick leaned out for a better look—“it’s been disabled, like the other guy’s.”

Cisco reached for the netting.

“It’s a head wound, sir.” Hodges looked ready to puke.

“Did you look further?”

“Not yet. Pictures are done.”

Cisco nodded. “Gonna be ugly,” he murmured and lifted the netting hood. He looked, and dropped the cloth.

Wickum handed over a wallet. “He’s a Marine.”

Cisco stood, and flipped to the ID.

“There are two more,” Hodges was reluctant to say.

Cisco didn’t speak, his expression unchanged as Hodge led him to the next man. And then the next.

“About a hundred yards apart,” Cisco said, his voice tight with disgust. “Regardless of what Fish and Game says, dressed like this, we can’t ignore that these men could possibly be part of the attack. Maybe staking out a spot to kill anyone who escaped the Cradle, but someone got to them first.” The dead man on the hill? Cisco did a three-sixty, his attention flicking high and low. In this dense forest, anyone could hide well.

“But those are hunting rifles,” Wick said.

“With high-powered scopes.” Military types liked having state-of-the-art, even for game, but Cisco had to exhaust all possibilities. “I need facts. Hunting licenses, records, associates, family, friends, duty stations, everything.”

“The bodies?”

“They’re ours for now.”

Wickum moved off, radioed for stretchers and a forensic team. Hodge and another man were laying the first victim flat on the ground. “Treat them as you would your mother, Hodge.”

Cisco glanced, eyeing him for a second, then walked off. But his anger was just below the surface. Wick had learned that that narrow look and long stride said stand clear or be knocked clear.

Gabe Cisco stopped beside the last man, thumbing open his wallet. Carl T. Lyons. Gunnery Sgt. USMC. He wasn’t even thirty yet. Then he found pictures. He hated seeing this. Pictures made it personal. He slid them back into the plastic cases, ignoring the face of a little girl smiling at the father who’d never come home.

“Cisco,” Wick called. “CBC is here.”

Cisco turned, scowling. Chemical Biological Containment. Army. He tossed the wallet to him. “Bag it.”

“The tourist side is secured.”

“Air quality?”

Wick spoke again into the lip mike, then looked up. “Contained in Mother and so far in the corridor only.”

Cisco nodded. Sarin gas lacked color, odor and taste. Invisible and deadly. “Do not begin excavation until CBC give you the okay.” Excavation would be slow and dangerous.

“What’s down there?”

Cisco just stared at him.

“Never mind, forget I asked,” Wickum said, knowing better and expecting the worst.

Lifting his gaze to the mountain, Cisco watched the choppers circle, the noise like the beating wings of a hawk. Time to march on the locals.

With the door cracked a bit, Jack listened to the noise, picking out one voice and holding onto it. They couldn’t move on the mountain and the cops were getting pissed. Who was messing with their jurisdiction, they kept asking, but Jack could have told them that. Your government dollars at work.

He needed to see that videotape, and when Pearl headed toward him with it, he thought, finally. But someone called the man back. Jack moved to the door, leaned out just enough to hear better. Gut instinct said stay hidden. The gas leak was a warning that it was smelling pretty bad around here and was only going to get worse. The lack of equipment and the wrong people to contain it screamed when it should have whispered. He watched, listened. Reconned.

A tall man with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail swept into the station like a winged creature. Two men followed, each wearing dark clothes, long coats. The first guy looked ready to eat a small child, his eyes cold, blue, and moving over the faces in the room. Nothing in there, Jack thought. Must be hell being that empty inside.

Ponytail took the tape from Pearl, handing it to the man flanking him. The cop stepped forward, arguing over jurisdiction. Ponytail rested his palm on the guy’s shoulder like they were old pals. His expression went kind and soft.

What a player.

Jack eased back a bit more, but listened intently. They weren’t giving up the bodies and it took everything in Jack to stay put and hear the rest. FBI had the power to override locals, but they were usually clearer about it. Ponytail wasn’t making any declarations. In fact, he was talking to the cop and Pearl. No one else.

The noise in the station muffled their words, but when Ponytail handed over a business card, Jack’s senses went on alert. It wasn’t so much the white card, but that the instant the cop read it, Ponytail took it back.

NSA.

Had to be. NSA agents had to collect back their cards.

This is a bigger shit pile than I thought.

Pearl wasn’t included in the conversation and when the young man glanced toward the room Jack was in, he jerked back out of sight, looking around for an escape. Staying here was no longer an option. Not with Ponytail out there quietly flexing muscle and overruling local authority. Getting out between that flood of officials was the only thing on his mind now. Especially when he was covered in blood and smelling like a horny stag. He’d be detained, used, accused. He’d never find the woman, or the son of a bitch who murdered his friends.

Too many cops outside the windows to climb out, Jack thought, then moved behind the door, peering through the crack between the jamb and the wall. Ponytail was doing a lot of asking and no answering. He wondered how much this guy had to do with the woman and if he could lead Jack to her. Ponytail advanced, ignored Pearl, and spoke with the cop. Jack couldn’t hear but body language said a lot. The cop was ticked off; NSA was taking over, or restricting them. Ponytail leaned closer and whatever he said, shot the officer’s plan out of the water. Pearl, his ham-like fists clenched at his sides, turned on his heels. Beyond him, Jack saw the ponytailed agent slip out as unassumingly as he’d arrived. Smooth.

Pearl stepped inside, looked around for him. Jack cleared his throat.

“They aren’t releasing the bodies to us.”

“I heard. Who are they?” he said innocently, but he knew.

“I can’t say.”

Jack nodded, accepting that the young man had screwed up by telling him about the tape and wasn’t going to walk that path again. Besides, Jack already knew who he was dealing with. He stared, silent.

Pearl folded in ten seconds. “Dammit, they can’t do this!” Pearl said. “I mean, something’s terribly wrong here and we’re supposed to just shut up and take it? National security, my ass.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Pearl bit back. “What’ll you tell your friends’ families?”

“The truth.”

Pearl shook his head. “Hell, man, I don’t know what the truth is right now. I’ve been here for three years and didn’t know there were gas pipes up there. Natural steam, sure, it plays the organ in the caves, but, oh, hell…” Pearl rubbed his neck and muttered something Jack ignored. “Detective Harding says I’ve got to hang with you. Material witness. Harding’s pissed.”

“Did the agent mention me?”

“I don’t know. That guy was talking, not listening. I don’t see where the murders of your friends have anything to do with a gas leak, though.”

It has everything to do with it, Jack thought and saw his chances of learning more going from slim to none real fast. NSA would clamp down and that’d be it. They were already manipulating the ranger’s world.

“I understand, Pearl. Take it easy. I lived with this kind of red tape crap.”

Pearl nodded and reached for a stack of forms sitting in the in-box. They were yellowed and curled, and Jack knew this place hadn’t seen trouble in years. Now they had more than they could handle.

Pearl searched the desk for a pen. Jack just noticed there wasn’t even a computer in here.

“Your full name.” Pearl frowned, cocking his head. “You know, I don’t even know your first name.”

Jack moved up beside him, laying his hand on his shoulder. “I’m aware of that.” He popped the kid hard on the back of the neck, and Pearl went out like a switch and down like a sack. Jack caught him, leveling him into a chair. Quickly, he knelt, pulling at the park ranger’s shoelaces. “Sorry kid. NSA’ll cramp my style.”

Ten minutes later, wearing Pearl’s too loose uniform, Jack walked out the back door and to his truck. The area was peppered with men in uniforms, yet no agents. Jack was good at spotting agents, covert or otherwise. They rarely looked at the usual and searched beyond. Pulling the cap low, he offered Pearl’s wallet to the cop standing post at the edge of the lot.

“Where you headed?”

“Out for donuts and food. With the gas leak, they won’t let ’em open the diner.”

The cop snickered, handed him five bucks, and ordered breakfast. Jack took the order like he meant it, then drove. It took him another half hour to get down the drive and when he passed a police cruiser, he tossed the wallet into the open window and sped on.

He had a new prey to hunt.

It hit her in the shower.

Sydney slid to the tile floor, water streaming over her hair and mixing with her tears. Grief swelled like foam, poured so fast she couldn’t catch her breath as she cried, the faces of her colleagues, her friends, filling, then fading through her mind. All those people, that drive and innovation gone. They’d had one goal, stop the deadly chemical threat of Sarin gas. Save lives. And for that, they’d lost theirs.

This assault presented a bigger threat. The attackers had the gas. The amounts were small, too small, in her opinion, to warrant an attack of that magnitude. But they’d done it, slipped inside before anyone had realized it.

How? How did they get into the lab, or into the cold room? Hell, how’d they get into the Cradle at all? Her reasoning that the attackers could have easily killed the guards and taken the keys and codes managed to get past her grief. Hot water slapped at her like tiny needles, prodding her to move. She climbed to her feet, finished her shower, dried and put on the sweatpants and thermal shirt she’d found.

Then she noticed the gun she’d left on the bathroom counter was missing. Bastards.

Grief slid deeply into anger, and she was already wired for sound. Her internal clock was set for night hours and beneath the surface of her skin, she could actually feel her blood rushing through her veins. Prickling with energy. Adrenaline and endorphins, she thought. The hot shower had done no more than remove the stench of death, but sleep was impossible. Hunger and uncapped energy slid so hard through her she wanted to run, fast. Anywhere. Alone.

She stormed into the great room. One agent stood near the window talking into a head mike set. Another was in the kitchen, without his coat and jacket and preparing something to eat. He wore a shoulder holster, the leather grip latch open.

The agent gave her a mild glance, then went back to work. “Feeling better Dr. Hale?” He slid a sandwich and chips across to her, then started cleaning up. If he noticed she’d been crying, he didn’t give any indication.

Ignoring the sandwich, Sydney moved past him to the fridge, took out a soda and wished for a beer. She popped the top and drained a third, then looked at Agent Combs.

“You guys get a good show while I was in the shower?”

Combs was silent.

“I want the gun back.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. It’s evidence.”

She figured that. But the weapon gave her power when her world was crashing. The Cradle was supposed to be safe. Impenetrable. Well, not anymore. So why should she believe that these guys could keep her safe? She wanted a weapon, yet now all she had were her notes, tucked inside too big sweatpants. She hoped the paper didn’t crunch when she moved. Opening the freezer, she found a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and took that, the sandwich and soda to the living area. She curled up in the corner of the sofa. Her watchdogs whispered amongst themselves. She didn’t try to listen. NSA talked in code and never made much sense.

She ate, her mind on trying to figure out how the attackers had made it up the mountain without setting off Mother’s sensors, let alone getting inside the facility. The park wasn’t open, the day guards weren’t there, but the checkpoints she usually had to go through were enough to catch anyone trying to sneak in. The inspectors scheduled to arrive had probably been turned back when Mother went down, so that cut them out of the equation. The day shift? Had those scientists been accounted for? And the data? Her work?

The elusive “they” had known how Mother operated, knew how to get close enough to shut Mother down. So much for state-of-the-art security and technology. She tried to remember if the emergency lights were on when she got off the elevator. She couldn’t recall anything except Corporal Tanner dropping like a stone, helpless and bleeding to death, and the gunman who’d killed him, pointing his weapon at her heart.

Shaking off the fear, she mentally plucked at the events since she’d arrived at work just before midnight. Arrived by car—a chauffeur was a perk of the job so cars weren’t seen outside the facility when tours weren’t operating. Day security parked with the tourists and walked. During park hours, only two guards were outside the facility, dressed like guides for the caverns or mingling with tourists. Sydney suspected they were just downright lucky to be on their way to work at the time. Key locks and codes, hidden steel enforced doors, palm scans; in the cold room was a retinal scanner. All sensors linked to Mother, then from Mother to someone who knew what all that stuff meant, somewhere in Langley. Three Marines were inside the Cradle twenty-four seven, shift changes were at 2200 hours, and they left in civilian clothes. Corporal Tanner favored baggy khakis and big shirts, she recalled, her throat tightening.

All information was filtered and yet, she understood there were at least fourteen possible leaks in military personnel and scientists. Then there was the Defense Department, finance committee members, NSC, their staff. Anyone who could get a look at certain “eyes only” papers if one DOD personnel slipped up. But she doubted that. Data went to the Under Secretary of Defense first, then was filtered down. She frowned, chewing the last bite and dusting off her fingertips.

At least she was told that’s how it worked. Security wasn’t her bag.

She dove into the Ben and Jerry’s, which was just the right consistency for her to finish off what was left in the pint in record time. She was glad now she hadn’t given her unexpected savior her name. It was a little too convenient that he was in the forest and armed at the time. Deer or no deer. Was he part of it or had he been stationed there to stop a suspected attack? Why, then, hadn’t she been warned? She was the project manager; it was her research that garnered millions from the government and enabled the Cradle to exist. Okay, think smart. If he’d been part of it, he’d have killed her instead of risking his life to protect her.

Tossing the spoon into the empty pint, she glanced at her watchdogs. Combs looked at her, bland and so very special agent–like.

“Get the chief up here. I have some things to tell him.”

“He’s got his hands full right now.”

And you don’t have the clearance to take my statement, she thought snidely. “Really? Well how about you tell him my ID tag, which I had on this morning, is missing.”

Combs’s features tightened, the first sign of life. He grabbed the radio.

Cisco’s people found chute packs, and another body. Two terrorists and three dead Marines, and motorcycle tracks. Worst case, no one was alive up here to have heard anything. Except Dr. Hale. He had to assume that everyone inside the facility had been killed by the attackers—too many dead aboveground to believe otherwise.

He couldn’t order the air compressor to the Cradle turned on if the vials were broken. The toxicity would kill everyone aboveground. Below ground, a dozen people were dead, or dying.

Standing under a tree, Cisco tried to comprehend what happened. The intruders had dropped silent and waited to take out Mother. How they did that was a mystery in itself, but somehow they managed to delay the internal alarms, or he would have heard about it before it was too late—and it was painfully late. Stupid place to put a lab, he thought.

“Wick. Contact SETI and see if anyone reported a UFO; assign men to canvas any homes in the valley. If they parachuted in, someone might have seen something.” Not that it would do him much good, he thought. “I need satellite photos of this area, from twenty two hundred yesterday till now.”

“I can do that. But infrared didn’t tell us anything. Not even showing the men running when, with all the footprints, is proof positive they were here.”

Cisco braced his back on the tree. It was a beautiful day. “You’re getting slow, Wick. You didn’t notice the suit, the black fabric, but more specifically, the lining.”

Wick frowned, and remembered Cisco pulling out threads through the bullet holes.

“It keeps the body temperature even to avoid infrared. Those particular thermal liners are classified. They knew we could track them, so they chilled themselves up for it.”

“Great. Now what?”

“We need delayed infrared, Six A.M. to sunrise. After the attack. They might have chilled up, but not the motorcycle engines. Cast the tracks and footprints, I want to see if the ones near the Marines match any we find here near the escape hatch.”

“I know I’m going to really feel stupid for asking, but why?”

“Dr. Hale got out of here alive, was she the only one? Why?”

“Evasion? Luck?”

Cisco shook his head. “The escape hatch.”

Wick frowned down at his notes. “Her checkpoint is logged in at the HQ. Her palm print says she was in there. I don’t get it.”

“She was. But she wasn’t inside the facility at the time of the attack.”

Wick looked at him blandly. “I take it back, I wanna be you.”

Cisco scoffed, pushed off from the tree and started walking.

“You really think she had something to do with this?”

Cisco didn’t answer, and Wickum drew his own conclusions.