Bad Nights (26 page)

Once he'd been a patriotic American, so proud of his son graduating from West Point. An officer and a gentleman. That was Pete through and through.

They'd talked about the wars. Both of them had supported the invasion of Iraq. Both of them had been shocked that no weapons of mass destruction had been found.

In retrospect, it was too bad that Iraq had taken the U.S. focus off of Afghanistan. If the government had done what we should have there, the conflict might have been over before Pete had to go over there.

When his son got through one tour okay, Arthur had breathed a sigh of relief.

That second tour had started to change his mind about America's foreign policy. Pete had only had a couple of weeks to go when his Humvee was hit by an IUD. If the Congress had authorized the proper armor, his son would still be alive. But they'd scrimped on this damn endless war. Because it wasn't
their
sons being sent to a godforsaken foreign country to die.

Nor had they considered how many other people they were hurting. His sweet, loving wife, Louise, hadn't survived more than a few months after Pete's death. She'd suffered a massive stroke and mercifully died a few hours later.

That was on their heads too.

And very soon they were going to pay the price for the way they played with other people's lives.

He'd given Trainer a lot of money. And found a biologist at Fort Detrick who'd been willing to unleash hell on the U.S. Capitol because his own son had suffered the same fate as Arthur's. Of course, the man was now dead, so he could never reveal what he'd done with that batch of ZR 427 that was never supposed to leave the level four containment lab. Nobody even knew it was missing, because almost nobody had access to the stuff. It was like ricin, only better. A whiff could kill in a matter of minutes.

***

Jack and Max both leaped to the door of the storage building and looked out. The two medics and Duffy were circling the building attached to the infirmary, the building where he'd left Morgan and Shane.

Christ! He'd thought he'd left them in a safe place. As he saw the militiamen closing in on them, his heart leaped into his throat.

The troops fired toward the structure, and someone inside returned fire. Probably Shane. Or if Shane was down, was Morgan shooting? Oh Lord, no! But the three men were spread out, coming in slowly, making it difficult to go after all of them at once.

“Over here,” Jack shouted.

With most of their comrades down, the three men had lost any semblance of military discipline. And now they were caught between Jack and their original target.

They scattered, but Jack took down Duffy. Max got one of the medics, and the other got off a burst of fire.

Shane blasted him in the chest, and he went still.

“We got them,” Jack shouted. “For Christ's sake, tell me you're all right in there.”

“Ready to party. Is that the last of them?”

“Yeah. Including Trainer.”

A moment later, a bare-chested Shane Gallagher came out. He was followed by Morgan, who was wearing Shane's shirt.

“Thank God,” Jack breathed.

Before he could caution her, Morgan dashed from behind Shane and crossed the open space between the buildings, landing in Jack's arms. He caught her and held tight. “Are you all right?” they both said at the same time.

“Yes,” they both answered.

He held her for a moment longer, wanting to say so much to her, but he couldn't do it now.

“We're getting the hell out of here,” he said. “But I've got a couple more things to do.” Jack turned to Max. “You get one of Trainer's Land Rovers.” To Shane, he said, “Take Morgan into Trainer's office, and see if you can find anything useful. You know which building?”

“Yes,” Shane answered.

“I'll clear away the mess at the gate and meet you in the office. If you touch anything, wear gloves.”

He headed back to the main gate, finding the defenders where he'd left them. He dragged the unconscious men to the side of the road and pulled the dead ones into the bushes where maybe Morgan wouldn't see them.

His mind was still processing what had happened. They'd made it out of Trainer's death trap, but he wasn't quite ready to leave the compound.

When he returned, the Land Rover he'd requested was parked outside the office.

“Find anything?” he asked Max as he joined the others inside.

“Lots of nut job books on political theory and rebellion. The records must all be in the computer.”

Jack sat down at the computer. When he touched the keyboard, the desktop lit up. It was a picture of the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City—after McVeigh had destroyed it.

After typing in the password, Jack took a thumb drive from his pack and downloaded the contents of Trainer's hard drive. Then he found several bulletin boards that the militia leader subscribed to as well as email addresses of the White House and some prominent Congressmen. To each of them he sent a message that said,

“This is a final message from the leader of the Real Americans Militia, Wade Trainer. I am preparing to carry out my main mission. By the time you read this, I will have launched a deadly attack on the U.S. Capitol.”

When he was finished, he wiped off the keyboard.

“We'd better split,” he said as he turned away from the computer.

“Why did you send that message?” Morgan asked as she followed him outside.

“Because it will look like he was getting ready to deploy—and someone prevented it.”

He gave Morgan and Shane a serious look. “I think we'd better stop at one of the barracks so you can both get dressed.”

They ducked into a cabin that had been used for sleeping quarters, and Jack found her some pants. They were a reasonable fit, although she had to roll up the legs. And the only shoes she could find that came close to working were a pair of rubber flip flops.

Shane quickly found a shirt.

Outside again, they all climbed into the Land Rover, and Max pulled away.

As they sped through the front gate, Jack was thinking that they still had a couple of jobs to do.

They had to turn the deadly box over to someone who would know what to do with it. Probably that would be the Department of Homeland Security. In exchange Jack was going to get them all immunity for what had gone down at the militia camp.

Now that Jack had done everything he could, he flopped into the backseat of the Land Rover beside Morgan. She reached for his hand, and he wove his fingers with hers.

“Thank God you're all right,” he whispered as Max drove out of the militia compound. There was a lot he wanted to say to her, but he couldn't do it yet. And certainly not in front of his friends in the front seat.

“And you,” she answered.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He needed to rest, but he had another motivation as well—avoiding conversation. When the car came to a stop, he looked up. They were at the airfield where they'd been towed up in the glider.

Shane went to do a preflight check on the helicopter. When Jack had confirmation that they were ready to take off, he pulled out Trainer's cell phone and dialed 911.

“What is the nature of your emergency?”

He lowered his voice to a gravelly whisper. “This is Wade Trainer. I want to report an incident at my militia compound.” He gave the address.

“Can you be more specific, Mr. Trainer?”

“Just get over here,” he said and clicked off.

Morgan looked at him. “When the troops who are tranquilized wake up, won't they tell the authorities what happened?”

“Maybe. But I'm betting Trainer didn't tell them my real name—or Shane and Max's either. They won't be able to identify us. And even if they come up with information, the local authorities have that fake message I sent where he's declaring his intentions to attack.”

She breathed out a sigh. “Yes.

“And I've got something to give Homeland Security that will get us immunity.”

“What?”

“Some kind of deadly biological weapon from Fort Detrick. My guess is that Cunningham got it for Trainer.”

“How?”

“I guess they'll find out.”

***

They climbed into the helicopter, and Max took them up. As they headed for the safe house, Jack could see police cars on the road speeding to the militia compound. He didn't know if it was in response to the 911 message or the Web message. Or maybe both.

While Max piloted the helicopter, Shane used the communications equipment to check on some of their unfinished business.

When they disembarked at the safe house, Shane was grinning broadly.

“What?” Jack said as they climbed the steps to the porch.

“I have an ID on Arthur Cunningham.”

“How?”

“Before we left, I took a few extra minutes to send his fingerprints to a friend in the FBI. His real name is Arthur Crispin. He's a lawyer, and he was a five-term Congressman from Maryland. He also inherited a boatload of money from his parents. They made millions from cold remedies and liniments.”

Jack gave him a long look. “You know I would have told you not to take the time.”

“Yeah.”

“I'm glad you did. Good work.”

“We know where he lives,” Shane said.

“And I have an idea about what to do to him,” Morgan said.

They all turned to her. “You do?”

“You know he's the one who brought me to the militia compound?”

“Yes.”

Her face contorted. “I knew something was wrong, but I couldn't get away from him.”

“Not your fault,” Jack answered.

She gave him a little nod, and he could see tears in her eyes.

“I said it's okay.”

“I caused you all a lot of trouble. You could all have gotten killed because of me.”

“No. Not you.” Jack pulled her close and held her for a moment before easing away. “Never think that. It was them—Trainer and Crispin.”

He knew she was struggling to get control of her emotions.

When she finally spoke, her voice was stronger. “When you told me about the biological agent, that gave me an idea.”

As she began to outline her plan, the men grinned.

“Can we pull it off?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Jack answered, thinking how much courage this woman had. She'd just been through an ordeal that would have left most women an emotional basket case. But she was thinking about how to turn the tables on the bastard who had captured her.

***

Arthur Crispin blinked when he saw the lines of type come across the bulletin board.

“This is a final message from the leader of the Real Americans Militia, Wade Trainer. I am preparing to carry out my main mission. By the time you read this, I will have launched a deadly attack on the U.S. Capitol.”

He jumped up and whooped. He'd been worried, but that son of a bitch Trainer had done it! He'd taken care of Rockfort, and now he was on his way to the U.S. Capitol.

He'd known the man was good. Apparently he'd decided to go right from cutting down the Rockfort men to the endgame.

He called Trainer's cell phone on his speed dial and punched the button. There was only a recorded message, but the guy was busy and probably on radio silence.

He waited for the beep and left a message. “Big congratulations.”

Next he snatched up the TV remote and turned on CNN. They were deep in the middle of a stupid debate about tax increases with the usual guys giving their usual opinions.

Where was the news of the attack? Maybe it hadn't happened yet. He started scanning the online news services, thinking that maybe they'd get it first. Or maybe all the reporters down there were dead. That thought had his heart beating faster.

How many thousands would die? He hadn't thought about that, just those legislators taking other peoples' lives in their hands.

They were done for now. And that deserved a celebration. He brought out a bottle of Krug Clos d'Amonnay, 1995, opened it with a flourish, and took down a Waterford flute from the set Louise had brought home from Ireland on their last trip together.

On second thought, he got down two. One for her. He had no doubt that she was in heaven with their son and no doubt that they were both looking down on what he'd done with approval.

He had pulled off a master coup. All it had taken was a great deal of money and the right man. And if they caught Trainer, so what? He could never tell anyone who had financed his chicken-shit militia because he didn't know Arthur's real name. And he was sure that none of those Rockfort guys were still alive to finger him, either.

He had just taken a sip of the champagne when he heard a knock at the kitchen door. He wasn't expecting anyone. Maybe it was something he'd ordered from one of the online stores where he liked to shop for coffee and cheese.

As he started to call out, “Who is it?” the kitchen door blew off its hinges, and four white-clad figures stepped in.

His mouth gaped open as he stared at them. It took a moment to realize they were even human—men wearing white hazmat suits that looked something like space suits, enclosing them from their large yellow boots to their insect-like helmets.

Each of them wore an air tank on his back, attached by wide black straps. He could hear them breathing through the respirators, but he couldn't even see their features because of the thick faceplates on the helmets.

Why were they here? And why now?

A sudden thought struck him. The attack had begun. And since he was a former Congressman, they were going to whisk him to a secure underground location until the government knew the area was safe again.

He tried to grasp at that explanation, but it swam out of his mind as they surrounded him, closing in, making him feel like he couldn't breathe.

“What… what are you doing?”

None of them answered as they formed a circle around him. He'd thought they had come to help him. Now he trembled as he tried to figure out their purpose.

His eyes danced from one of the frightening figures to the other, looking for a way out. Seeing an opening, he tried to dart through, hoping he could make it to his den and lock the door. From there, he could get out a window.

His plans went up in smoke when one of them grabbed him and spun him around, and he realized he'd never really had a chance to escape.

“Don't,” he choked out.

“Where were you going?” a hard voice boomed.

“You're frightening me.”

“Oh, sorry.”

He still couldn't identify any of them. But there was something familiar about one of the voices. And one of them was smaller than the others. Maybe it was woman.

“Arthur Crispin?” a grating voice asked.

“Yes.”

The figure turned to the champagne bottle on the counter. “I guess you were celebrating the attack on the U.S. Capitol. But there's been a change of plans. The fun will be here.”

He tried to make sense of that.

“What? What attack?”

“You know damn well,” a hard voice said.

“No,” he protested again, looking from one to the other, searching for some signs of human compassion.

The small person stepped forward. He tried to figure out who it was, but he stopped focusing on the figure's distorted features when he caught sight of a metal box, about the size of a toolbox, with the words “Fort Detrick Labs” and “Extreme Biohazard” printed across the top.

Arthur gasped, and his heart started to thump inside his chest when he saw it. “What… what's that?” he quavered.

“It's that nasty biological agent you arranged to steal from Fort Detrick.”

“No. Trainer took it to the Capitol. He said so.”

“Actually, no,” the figure holding the box corrected him. “Wade Trainer didn't really send that message. It was Jack Brandt who did it—after he finished off Trainer.”

Arthur's mouth had turned so dry he could no longer swallow. Through his terror, he looked at the figure more closely—and recognized the pretty nose. The bow of a mouth. Her blue eyes were fierce. It was the woman he'd kidnapped and taken to Trainer's compound.

“How…” He couldn't finish the sentence. It had become impossible to speak as she sprung the latch on the box. Inside was another container, this one with a skull and crossbones on the top. There was an elaborate mechanism to hold it closed.

When her gloved hand began working at the latch, he felt his whole body go cold.

“We're protected, and you're not,” she said as she opened the box. Inside was a white powder. She gave it a shake, waving her gloved hand over the contents. The powder flew up in a little cloud that drifted toward Arthur.

He began to cough and choke, his eyes watering as he tried to protect his face. But there was nothing he could do. The stuff clung to him, and he felt warmth spreading in his pants. Looking down, he saw that he had wet himself.

“Why did you want to attack the Capitol?”

“They killed my son.”

“And you didn't mind killing thousands of innocent people to get them,” the woman said, her voice a buzzing in his ears.

“The Congress…” The words ended in a fit of choking.

Two of the others in the white suits grasped Arthur's arms, holding him upright so that he couldn't collapse. The door opened again, and four more men stepped into the room.

Arthur's eyes bugged out as he stared at them. They weren't wearing any kind of protection. They were dressed in ordinary dark business suits.

One spun him around and cuffed his hands behind his back.

“Department of Homeland Security. Arthur Crispin, you are being held under indefinite suspension on suspicion of treason.”

He realized he had been deceived, that the men and woman in the white suits had wanted him to think he was being exposed to a deadly biological agent.

“That wasn't ZR 427?” he choked out.

“No. It was an irritant. How did you like getting tricked?” Jack Brandt took off the helmet of his hazmat suit and gave Arthur a satisfied smile.

His terror was replaced by anger. “You son of a bitch.”

“It was just a joke, Arthur. Not like what you did to us. You really thought you were going to get us all killed, didn't you?”

The others took off their helmets, and he saw Shane Gallagher along with Max Lyon and Morgan Rains.

He focused on the injustice of what they'd done to him, not the way he'd used the Rockfort Security men and Rains. They'd been a means to an end. That was all.

“I want a lawyer.”

One of the Homeland Security men spoke. “Maybe later. Under the Patriot Act, we can hold you without legal counsel.”

“But—”

They marched him outside to a waiting vehicle, a van with no windows, and he was thinking that perhaps he would never see the outside world again.

***

Jack watched Crispin go. He should hate the man, but he thought he understood him. Grief had driven him to extreme acts. Jack knew how that could happen.

But if you recognized what was happening, maybe you could stop it. Especially if you had some help.