Black Flagged Apex (58 page)

**

Daniel walked over to the two men sitting side by side on the laboratory floor. They were both tightly cuffed to a large, stainless steel workstation, using two pairs of metal handcuffs found in Brooks' desk.

"Good news. You're free to go," he said.

Douglass Kemp expressed a look of relief, which was not shared by Michael Brooks, head of security.

"Not really," Daniel added, instantly deflating the man.

Douglass had been quick to identify Brooks' position after a few minutes of impromptu waterboarding on one of the lab tables. He'd been unable to identify the destination of the convoys leaving this site, but he'd professed that the delivery trucks were filled with crates of water processed in the assembly line next door. He'd also confirmed that the trucks were unmarked and had run nonstop since three or four in the afternoon yesterday. They had pressed him about potential targets, but it was evident that he knew little beyond what he had seen firsthand at the site or had learned from his equally uninformed fellow security guards. He had no solid concept of True America's greater plot for the next few weeks, only that he'd go down in the history books as part of the New Recovery.

Daniel told him that he might make medical history. This comment managed to raise Brooks' eyebrows, which gave Daniel some hope that he might not have to resort to cutting them open. Brooks had shown considerable resilience against waterboarding, leaving them with little choice. They didn't have all day to identify and exploit his psychological weaknesses, though Daniel had an idea. If it didn't work, he'd turn this over to Aleem Fayed and Tariq Paracha. Sanderson had assured Daniel that the two of them would produce results.

"Here's where we stand. Douglass has nothing more to tell, and Michael plans to hold out as long as he can. Michael knows he'll eventually tell us everything, but he's clinging to the notion of loyalty and honor. I can appreciate that, but I assure you that these notions will be crushed just as quickly as your testicles. Just one of a hundred painful, non-lethal examples of the misery you'll endure for your masters. The end result is always the same," he said, walking over to Fayed and Paracha.

"I'll turn you over to my friends here, and your screams will fill this building for hours, eventually replaced with the begging and the sobbing. But here's the twist—they're going to be really careful this time. I want you to survive, Michael. I want you to sit here on this floor for the next week or two with your new best friend. Thirsty, Douglass?"

Daniel took a bottle of Crystal Source water sitting on the table above them and stepped back, slowly twisting open the cap in front of them. He brought the bottle to the trembling man's lips and paused when Michael Brooks yelled, "Don't drink that, Doug! Who knows what they did to it?"

"That's true, Doug. Maybe we should take one out of a fresh crate. Fresh water please!" Daniel said.

Melendez stepped into the room carrying the shrink-wrapped case and slammed it down in front of the two men. Daniel ripped open the plastic on one of the sides and started digging through to one of the bottles in the middle. He pulled one out and opened it, holding it out toward Douglass.

"Now here's a fresh one. Found the crate sitting inside the loading bay. Probably left behind for the security guys. Nothing like a clean bottle of Crystal Source after a long day of digging graves. Right, Michael?"

"Don't do it, Doug. They could have poisoned all of the bottles," Brooks said.

"You think we poisoned all of the bottles and then somehow packaged them up to look like they came from the Crystal Source bottling factory? That sounds like an insane conspiracy, Michael. Right? You better get used to this stuff. It's all we're leaving behind for you. Go ahead, Douglass."

He held it closer to the man's lips.

"Douglass, listen to me. They're fucking crazy. We're dead no matter what."

Daniel removed the bottle of water and poured it over Michael's head. He watched the man blow out of his nose and press his eyes and mouth shut until the water ran its course.

"Wow. Did you see that, Doug? He almost had a panic attack."

Daniel dried his head with a towel handed to him by Paracha. He waited until Brooks opened his eyes again, then opened another bottle and put it up to Kemp's lips. The man closed his eyes and mouth, twisting his body and turning his head away from the bottle.

"Damn. Now Doug doesn't want the water. Too bad he already drank a ton of it."

Melendez reentered the room, carrying a transparent plastic bag filled with at least ten empty bottles. He kicked the half-empty case of water along the floor through the doorway.

"We used these bottles to waterboard Mr. Kemp. Don't worry, Mikey. We used the tap water on you."

Kemp looked despondent and utterly confused. Brooks looked horrified.

"Do you want to tell him what's going to happen, or should I? This may come as a complete shock to you, Mikey, but I led a CIA-sanctioned special operations team into Russia a few weeks ago. I saw what happens firsthand in Monchegorsk. You have no concept of what your organization just unleashed on this country…but you'll get to experience it firsthand, chained to this table. It's going to be a long week for you, Michael. Watching Doug and waiting."

"What is he talking about, Mr. Brooks?"

Michael Brooks stayed silent.

"Mr. Brooks?"

Brooks stared off into space. A quick slap from Daniel brought him back into the conversation.

"Doug, the water you swallowed and took into your lungs was infected with a weaponized form of viral encephalitis. A demented scientist from Russia's premier virology lab designed this particular strain to maximize the amount of damage inflicted on the brain's temporal lobe. At first, you'll start to experience typical flu-like symptoms. Weakness, chills, cough, congestion…the usual stuff. A few days later…"

Daniel shook his head slowly back and forth.

"What?" Kemp said.

"The hallmark symptoms of this virus are rage, aggression, violence, murderous impulses. At least that's what I saw in most of the infected population. The destruction of the temporal lobe results in irreversible brain damage and permanent regression to these savage instincts. Mr. Brooks had every reason to keep you from drinking that water. You're chained to the table next to him. He doesn't want to wake up in a few days to find you gnawing on his head."

Douglass Kemp tried to distance himself from Brooks, but Daniel had attached their handcuffs to the table less than a foot apart. No matter how hard the two of them tried, they would always be within biting distance.

"History in the making, Doug! You'll be the first to experience the start of True America's New Recovery plan. Turning American citizens into rabid zombies."

"They sent this into the population?" Kemp yelled at Brooks.

Brooks glared at Daniel, shaking his head.

"Thousands of bottles are headed to one of the distribution plants. I need to know which one. Right now, my plan is to free one of Doug's hands, leave the two of you several jugs of tap water, and never return. What are your thoughts about that course of action, Michael? Do you think Doug will put the jug to your lips and let you drink? Or will he bash your skull against the table out of principle? Maybe he won't be able to kill you in cold blood. He'll help you drink, still hopeful that someone might be coming, which they won't be. Then, one day within the next week or so, he'll bite your face off and spit it out in your lap."

"You'll let us go if I tell you?" Brooks said.

"No. I'll drop Mr. Kemp off in town, where he'll seek medical treatment. High-dose, intravenous acyclovir should kill the virus. We'll let him know when he can come back out here to get you or send someone else. Mr. Kemp's choice. If he attempts to warn anyone before that, we'll bring his three children here to the laboratory and cuff them to this little stretch of table with Daddy and Uncle Mike. Thanks to your excellent record-keeping, we know where his ex-wife lives. You won't fuck with us, will you, Mr. Kemp?"

"No, sir. I won't say a word. I'll go about my business like this never happened. Why would you have my ex-wife's address in a file?"

"Leverage, Doug. That's what security people do. They collect information to use against you," Daniel said.

Brooks shook his head and said, "Don't listen to him, Doug. He's clearly insane. How long will I have to wait?"

Daniel looked at his watch. "If you stop wasting my time, I'll be done within a few hours. The rest will be up to Doug. He doesn't look happy."

Brooks looked around at everyone. Doug refused to meet his eyes. He stared at Daniel for several seconds and glanced away before he started talking.

Chapter 54

1:08 PM

Washington Hospital Center-Observation Unit

Washington, D.C.

Frederick Shelby knocked on the hospital room door and entered. Special Agent Ryan Sharpe sat upright in a sturdy hospital bed, staring out the window. His right cheek was bandaged with a thick gauze pad stretched in several directions by surgical tape. A similar bandage covered his forehead. Beyond that, Shelby could see that his left arm was in a thick cast, supported by a stainless-steel bracket mounted to the top of his bed frame. His leg lay in an unsupported cast above the blankets at the foot of the bed. He turned his head and forced a thin smile at the sight of the director.

"You're looking a little better than last night. Still look like crap, but at least you're awake," Shelby said, taking a seat under the raised television. "I'm really sorry to hear about Frank. He was one of our best agents. I struggled to decide who should run that task force."

Sharpe smiled a little more, which was a good sign. Sharpe had contacted him as soon as he regained consciousness this morning. Shelby didn't want to descend upon him like a vulture, but they were having an impossible time trying to piece the investigation back together without the help of key task force personnel. O'Reilly was still unconscious, having been shielded by Hesterman, who was killed instantly. Digital playback clearly showed the two hundred and twenty-five pound ex-linebacker from Michigan intentionally hovering over O'Reilly less than a second before the bomb detonated. Mendoza was gone, along with most of the FBI agents sitting near O'Reilly. From what Sharpe had told him a few days ago, O'Reilly had arranged the workstations so that the more important agents sat close by. Nobody within twenty feet of her survived.

"You probably made the wrong choice. He pretty much ran it anyway. I need to talk to you about something," Sharpe said.

"Don't go and try to blame this on yourself in any way. This was a coordinated attack by True America, with a little help from General Sanderson. There was nothing you could do to stop it."

"Sanderson had nothing to do with the attack. I can assure you of that."

"I watched that Stewart traitor rush over and finish the job. Mendoza had stopped the attack. She set off the bomb. One of the survivors confirmed this," Shelby said.

"That's not what happened. I clearly remember Stewart yelling something about a dead man's switch. She held onto that detonator for a few seconds, while Mendoza lowered his gun—"

"She was just buying time. I saw the tape. She yelled something at him, which made him lower his gun. Probably threatened to blow the place up. As soon as he lowered the pistol, she blew the place sky high."

"No. Another agent shot her. She lost control of the detonator," Sharpe said.

"She set it off, Ryan. Sanderson's people got to one of the security guards earlier in the day. He let the bomber through the checkpoint. He described how a highly professional and brutal group snatched him off the street and kidnapped his family. They threatened to kill his wife and children. Sound familiar? This has Sanderson written all over it. I've already arrested his people in Brooklyn. We're looking for the rest."

"There is absolutely no way that Stewart or Sanderson had anything to do with that bomb. I've been working behind the scenes with them for two days, trying to catch up with True America. Nearly all of the information we've obtained has been hand delivered to us by his operatives."

Shelby thought Sharpe's sentence hadn't made a lot of sense. It had sounded like he just claimed to be working with Sanderson. "I'm sorry. I didn't fully understand what you just said."

Sharpe spent the next ten minutes explaining everything that had happened since the Brooklyn raid, up through the successful rescue of Benjamin Young. Shelby stood up and paced the room for a few minutes, while neither of them spoke a word. He couldn't believe what he had just heard, but oddly enough, it all made sense. If any other agent had told him that story, he would have arrested them on the spot, but Sharpe was different. He had spent the last two years searching for Sanderson and had every reason to distrust him. He couldn't dismiss Sharpe's assessment.

"Where did you leave things with Sanderson?"

"He'd sent one of his teams north to investigate a possible lead," Sharpe said.

"He didn't happen to send them to Scranton, did he?"

"How did you know that?"

"Because Jessica and Daniel Petrovich boarded a plane to Wilkes Barre/Scranton International Airport yesterday afternoon. I've already redeployed the mobile task force to Scranton. Guess who was on that same flight?"

Sharpe shook his head.

"Jeffrey Munoz. If Sanderson sent these three to Scranton, we're talking about more than just a reconnaissance mission," Shelby said.

"What are you going to do?"

"About what?"

"About Scranton."

"Wait and see. It sounds like this might be under control," Shelby said.

"And me?"

"There's an upcoming retirement at the executive level in the National Security Branch. Associate executive assistant director. If things don't completely go to shit in the next few days, I'd like to offer you that position."

Sharpe squinted and lightly shook his head.