Dead Drift

  “We just got some news,” Declan said, indicating the communications piece in his ear. “It doesn’t bode well.”

  Luke was afraid to ask. “What?”

  “The truck used for the attacks this morning was tracked by traffic cams and found parked behind a Best Buy.”

  “Not submerged in water?” Kate asked.

  “Afraid not. The GPS tracker was stomped to pieces on the ground beside it.”

  Which meant the chances they hadn’t bothered to check the other vehicles was zilch. He’d wager the trucks were gone and only the tracking devices remained in the warehouse. Luke swallowed hard. They’d lost their opportunity.

  Declan exhaled. “Looks like the warehouse is empty. Thermal imaging indicates no warm bodies inside.”

  “The warehouse may be empty, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t leave any surprises behind for us.” Luke indicated the direction he wanted Declan and Kate to look with a lift of his chin. “Two and seven o’clock.”

  Declan lifted the binoculars, shifting to the warehouse across from the one they were raiding, and then handed them to Kate.

  Two snipers. One on the southwest corner. The other on the northwest.

  “Great,” Kate sighed.

  “Better warn your team,” Luke said to Declan. “They will be sitting ducks if they arrive front and center.” It’s exactly why Luke always preferred finding a back way in and always observed first. Thankfully, he’d chosen a good spot, one the snipers couldn’t see.

  Declan asked the team’s ETA over the comm. “Roger that.” He looked at Luke. “Twenty minutes out.”

  “I’d instruct them to come in the same way we did. No sirens. No lights. Quiet as possible.”

  At least the day wasn’t a total loss. They could capture the snipers, and get whatever information they possessed out of them. And there was no time like the present. He shifted, moving low and slow as to not draw any attention.

  “Where are you going?” Kate whispered.

  “To get the snipers.”

  “Are you crazy?” Declan’s brows shot up. “Wait until our team is in place and you have coverage.”

  “And risk any other lives or the possibility of losing the snipers when the cavalry arrives?” Luke shook his head. “I’ve got this.”

  “It goes without saying, you’re good,” Kate said in a forceful but hushed tone, “but even with your training, taking on two snipers who maintain the tactical advantage is crazy.”

  “Aren’t you the one who always told me that everyone needs a little crazy in their lives—it keeps ’em sane?” he asked.

  “Yes, but . . . ” she sputtered.

  “No time to think.” With a wink, he pressed a kiss to her lips and smiled at her bewildered expression. He’d most likely have to answer for the kiss later, but—one—he would deal with it if he survived and there was a later, and—two—it was better to ask forgiveness than permission.

  If there was a chance he wouldn’t survive—and in all probability, there was a high one—he most certainly wasn’t leaving this world without one last kiss from the woman he loved.

  Rapidly assessing the layout, a quick plan of attack formed in his mind. He moved up the right rear scaffolding as silently as possible and as he cleared the roof’s edge and climbed on top, the first sniper’s back remained fixed to him, his focus on the ground. His presence was sheltered from the second sniper by the HVAC unit, hopefully giving him enough time to move from one to the other without being seen.

  Stalking as quickly and as stealthily as possible, he reached the first sniper and zapped his back with a shock stick, knocking him out cold. Then he moved toward the second target.

  Moving quietly didn’t work this time. The sniper rolled over as Luke approached, gun aimed at him—and fired.

  Luke bobbed and managed to kick the weapon out of his hand. He lunged for the young Southeast Asian as the man pulled a knife from his leg sheath.

  Luke dodged, but the knife slashed his right forearm, stinging hard. He bit back the pain as the man wrestled from his grasp and stood, holding the knife poised for a fight, his gun nearly a dozen feet to Luke’s left.

  Boot steps fell heavily across the rock-covered roof, and Luke glimpsed Declan moving for the unconscious sniper.

  “Drop it,” Kate said, racing forward, gun aimed at the second sniper’s chest.

  His eyes darted to his unconscious mate, and the realization that he was outnumbered flashed across his face.

  “Don’t do it,” Luke said, rushing forward, but he was too late.

  The young man darted toward the ledge and hurled himself over. A distant thud echoed up to the silent rooftop.

  Death before dishonor.

  “Medics’ ETA?” Luke hollered, but he knew it was already too late.

  “Five,” Declan said, handcuffing the other sniper and holding him at gunpoint.

  “At least we got one.” But the likelihood of his talking after the desperate measures his fellow sniper just took was minimal.

  SWAT teams, black Bureau cars, and an ambulance arrived within minutes.

  Kate insisted Luke get his slashed arm attended to, so he relented and sat on the back edge of the ambulance, the bay doors open. His wound was soon to be one of many scars littering his body. He ignored the stinging as antiseptic seeped into the raw wound. He’d endured far worse.

  Though, since being reunited with Katie, he was a new believer in mental anguish being equal to, if not harsher than, physical pain. Physical pain healed. If his relationship with Katie did not—and it was a long shot, at best—he doubted that the raw, pulsating inner agony would ever abate.

  Declan’s team infiltrated the warehouse, and as soon as Luke was cleared to proceed, they walked inside together.

  “Anything?” he asked as Declan met him at the door.

  “How’s your arm?”

  Seriously. It’s just a flesh wound, people. “Fine. And the warehouse?”

  “It’s been cleared, but it’s going to take a while to comb through.”

  Luke exhaled. “We were too late.”

  Declan’s head dipped in affirmation.

  Frustration flared inside of Luke. Ebeid had once again slipped through his grasp.

  As Luke followed Declan through the warehouse, he was impressed. It had been transformed into three sections. There was storage—at least that was what the shelves and few remaining boxes attested to—living quarters, no doubt Bedan’s, and most terrifying, Bedan’s laboratory.

  Declan insisted they await the hazmat team’s clearance before entering the glass-walled storage container functioning as Bedan’s lab.

  Luke moved through the living quarters while he awaited the hazmat team’s go-ahead, praying that, in the rush to flee, something, anything had been left behind to give them a fresh lead.

  Ebeid had set up a comfortable environment for Bedan, probably knowing the more comfortable the scientist was, the better his work would be.

  There was a galley-style kitchen, which still held a good amount of food. Closing the fridge door, he surveyed the cabinets and then continued moving through the space into the living room. There was a sofa, reclining chair, a couple accessory tables, and a TV mounted on the wall. Though, based on the impressive amount of reading material stacked on the side table, Bedan was not a TV enthusiast.

  Luke scanned the book titles, careful not to touch anything until it was all properly processed, despite the gloves he had on. He knew Parker would step in for the still-recuperating Avery and photograph everything as it was found before anything was moved. Then the agents would spend hours, possibly days, cataloging and bagging every item.

  With a sigh, Luke straightened and shook his head at the titles he’d just read. They were chasing a man with frightening knowledge and ability.

  “Find something of interest?” Declan asked, entering the space.

  Luke indicated the stack of books.

  “Let me guess. Terrifying topics?”

>   Luke raked a gloved hand through his hair. “Extremely.”

  “So is this,” Declan said, holding up a bagged sheet of paper with mathematical and scientific notations on it.

  Luke’s curiosity sped.

  “The hazmat team found it behind one of the counters in the lab. Must have slipped behind during the rush to move out. From the state we found things in, along with the number of items they had time to move, I’d wager they discovered the GPS trackers in the truck early this morning, soon after they took Hank out.”

  “Which gave them several hours’ head start on us.”

  Declan rubbed the back of his neck with a sigh. “I’m afraid so. On the plus side, they probably don’t know how closely we were behind them, and they made a few significant mistakes, like leaving this”—he jiggled the paper again—“behind.”

  “And what is it, exactly?”

  “I know it deals with chemical agents that bond with anthrax and sarin gas, but that’s the extent of my mathematical and scientific expertise.” He handed it to Luke.

  Luke studied the page through the plastic evidence bag. “It looks like the notes around the edges are in some sort of mathematical shorthand.”

  “That would explain why I had no clue what it meant,” Declan said.

  “I think”—Luke’s mind tracked back—“I’ve seen this before. . . .”

  “You have?” Declan’s brows furrowed.

  “Unfortunately,” Luke said, the memory fixing in place. “It’s a form of shorthand used by Bedan’s grandfather during his time with Operation Paperclip. There are samples in the classified records from that project.”

  “I’m assuming Bedan’s grandfather left some of the paperwork behind, that he only stole certain files from the project?” Declan asked.

  Luke nodded. “Correct.”

  Declan slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “Can you decode it?”

  “I’m afraid not. I just know that’s what it is.”

  “What was on the other pages you saw with this shorthand?”

  “Formulas for biological weapons, if I remember correctly.”

  “Whatever happened to Bedan’s grandfather?”

  “It took them a few days to find him after the theft, but before they could bring him in for questioning, he committed suicide.”

  Just like their sniper on the roof.

  “Since he committed suicide before he confessed, the Agency doesn’t positively know Abel Bedan was responsible for stealing those documents.” Declan shrugged. “So how do they know Bedan is currently working off them?”

  “Because after Bedan’s biological attack in Munich, he was forced to flee and leave most everything behind. When we combed through his office and lab, we found a few of the missing Operation Paperclip files.”

  “Just a few?”

  “Afraid so. He’s still got some of them.”

  “Any idea what’s on them?”

  “Not specifically, but we know the scope of the project centered around the use of anthrax as a biological weapon. In addition, some of Bedan’s current work was left behind, and it was directly built upon the work done during Operation Paperclip.”

  “I can’t believe he’d leave it behind. He had to know there was a strong chance he’d have to run following the Munich attack. He must have made preparations.”

  “That makes what he left behind even more terrifying.”

  “Why?”

  “Because what we found was awful. If he felt secure leaving that level of work behind, I hate to even fathom what level of destruction he’s working on now.”

  “Agent Grey,” someone behind them said.

  “Yes?”

  A young agent motioned toward a window overlooking the lab. Inside, a hazmat team member held up an evidence bag with several aerosol cans in it. “Apparently, Bedan’s big on his hair care.”

  “Those were in the lab, not the bathroom?” Luke asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the young man said.

  “Not good,” Luke said, striding over to the window.

  “What is it?” Declan asked.

  “Bedan’s hair on a good day looks like Einstein’s on his worst. No way Bedan spends time on his hair, and he definitely doesn’t use product.”

  “So why the hairspray cans?”

  The realization of what he was looking at struck like a thunderclap to his soul. “I’ll need to wait until the notes are decoded and I take this apart, but I think I was wrong about Bedan’s choice of dispersal method.”

  “Not food?”

  Luke shook his head.

  “Why? Because of some shorthand notes and a couple cans of hairspray?”

  “These aren’t cans of hairspray. I think they are prototypes.”

  Declan’s eyes narrowed. “Of what?”

  “Bedan’s chosen dispersal method.”

  Realization dawned on Kate’s face. “Aerosol dispersal? Is that even possible?”

  “Not easily, but a man with Bedan’s skills and heritage . . .”

  “But how could he regulate it?” Declan asked. “Isn’t anthrax sensitive to temperature fluctuations?”

  “Yes. You’d need specific conditions, but if those were met, and the anthrax stabilized in the deployment device—essentially an oversized spray can—and with the proper prevailing winds . . .” Luke’s eyes widened. “I’ve got to contact an old friend.”

  “An old friend?”

  “If what my gut is saying is about to happen is truly the threat against us, he may be able to provide some insight.”

  “Okay.” Declan nodded.

  “Just so we’re on the same page,” Luke said, “as far as I’m concerned the threat level just went DEFCON 2.”

  “DEFCON 1 is war,” Kate whispered.

  “A terrorist attack on U.S. soil is war, and if I’m right about this, we’re teetering on the brink of it.”

  23

  Luke followed Declan into his FBI office to find Kate and Tanner waiting for them with lunch. Luke had contacted his friend David the day before yesterday, after the warehouse raid, and he’d be arriving through BWI shortly. They’d agreed to meet up at CCI, as David wanted to keep his visit as unofficial as possible. With the shattered windows replaced and the space patched up reasonably well after the sniper attack, CCI would make an excellent meet-up location off the books.

  Luke had approximately half an hour before he needed to head over to CCI, wanting to be there in plenty of time to greet his guest. It was odd thinking of David as a guest, though he’d been one himself a time or two when their roles were reversed and David had required his intel.

  Parker was in his lab at CCI, processing the evidence retrieved from the warehouse raid. Luke was anxious to discover what he had learned, praying they’d garner more of value from the raid. Thankfully, Avery was recuperating well, so according to Parker, she was resting at home and really antsy to get back to her job. And meanwhile, Griffin and Finley were on their way to North Carolina, still tracing the killer’s steps as they made their way home.

  Kate stood, assessing the bandage wrapped around Luke’s arm. It’d been two days, but the wound was best protected with a bandage for another day or two. “Any luck with the sniper you brought in?” she asked.

  “Still in a cell. Refuses to talk, so we’ll keep him until he decides to cooperate,” Declan said.

  “Has he called a lawyer?” she asked.

  “Nope. Hasn’t even asked for one. Hasn’t spoken a word, period.”

  “Good luck cracking that one,” Kate said.

  “Thanks,” Declan said, before shifting his attention to Tanner. “I was hoping you’d accompany me for the next round of questioning.”

  She smiled. “You got it. Want to go now?”

  “Sure, if you don’t mind waiting to eat.” He gestured to the carry-out they’d brought in.

  “Nah, I’m good,” she said.

  The two disappeared before Luke could blink.

  “Being a cri
sis counselor makes her a fabulous interrogator,” Kate said, opening the bag of food, the smell of freshly baked bread swirling through the office.

  “I imagine that skill set would be a strong asset.” Though the Bureau’s idea of interrogation and his experience with interrogation in the field were probably quite different.

  With Tanner, he imagined the questions and approach were coming from a place of help and befriendment, whereas he went straight for the jugular. Then again, the men he was dealing with and the chaos of the crisis he was typically involved in during an interrogation didn’t allow time to establish actions of perceived befriendment.

  However, he was on U.S. soil now, working as a liaison with the Bureau, so he’d abide by their rules, and truth be told, he might prefer their rules now. Interrogation had never been his thing. He much preferred intervention over interrogation.

  Kate pulled out a thick sandwich wrapped in white paper and handed it to him. “From Pitango’s,” she said.

  “Thanks. I didn’t realize Pitango’s has sandwiches now.” It’d always been a gelato specialty shop where he and Kate would get affogatos, chocolate gelato with espresso poured over it, for late-night study sessions. They’d get their fuel, sit on one of the benches lining the brick sidewalk in Fells Point, and study under the streetlamps. Then they’d walk along the water before making the drive back to campus. It had been a nice break from the monotony of studying.

  Having grown up along the water, he wanted to be near it, on it, in it as much as possible and had returned to his Chesapeake Harbor home with Kate every weekend they could throughout college. His mom had insisted he not only sleep in a separate room from Kate, which he’d absolutely have done on his own, but she’d gone one step further, making him sleep on an entirely separate floor—most often on the couch in his dad’s den.

  He had been glad to learn via Mack that when his parents retired to Florida—he’d never thought he’d see that day—his brother and wife had moved into the family home.