Waterkill (Dave Henson Series) (30 page)

“So how do you want to proceed?” Dave yelled.

Fenton swept his eyes from left to right across the tangle of giant plumbing in front of him.

“Let’s head in that direction,” yelled Fenton over the din of the machinery as he pointed to the left. “The outflow pipes from this building that flow to the large outdoor water storage tanks are over there. Those pipes, and their related access points, are where Mr. Williams will most likely try to introduce the cholera toxin.

Dave looked in the direction that Fenton was pointing and agreed with his assessment.  “Alright, I’ll follow your lead.”

With side arms drawn Fenton led the way towards the left. As they walked Dave began to fully appreciate the massive size of the building. It was about half the size of a football field, but instead of a wide open area it was a massive grid of huge pipes. It was going to be hard to find Spencer in this web of metal, he concluded.

As they made their way towards a flight of metal stairs Fenton suggested they split up and radio each other if either of them saw any signs of Spencer. Dave agreed, so Fenton took the metal staircase to the second floor while Dave stayed on the first.

Dave proceeded to slowly work his way into the maze of plumbing and machinery, walking down the four foot wide walkway corridor outlined by yellow and black hazard lines painted on the concrete floor. As he began to enter into what looked like a web of metal spaghetti he was amazed by the sheer size of the plumbing pipes and the loud sound of the pumps that were forcing thousands of gallons of water per minute through them. Occasionally, as he made his way further into the building, he noticed inspection ports and large metal hoppers for apparently sampling the water or adding chemicals to it. 

After making his way about halfway back into the building Dave decided to work his way to the left and head over to the far western edge of the building, where the side entrance was located, and where the missing guard’s badge was used to enter it. He looked up as he walked in the direction of the side entrance and saw a portion of the second story catwalk above him. No sign of Spencer or Fenton.

He continued on and finally made it to the western edge of the building. He walked in a northerly direction for a couple of minutes before he came to the west side entrance. The door was locked shut. However, he noticed the floor around it was wet. Not huge puddles of water, but as if someone had just stepped out of a full bathtub and walked across the bathroom floor. As a matter of fact, Dave soon realized that they were indeed footprints. He could see that the wet footprint marks worked their way further into the building heading in a northerly direction, and getting smaller with each step.

Dave followed the path of the fading footprints. Finally, as he neared the rear of the building, he came upon another metal staircase. He could have moved further inward into the building and made another pass towards the south, but he suddenly had a gut feeling that going up a level was the right choice.

Just as Dave began to work his way up the staircase he heard Fenton yell out, “Stop where you are. Don’t move.”

Fenton’s command was followed by the immediate sound of a firearm being discharged multiple times. No sounds of distress or cry for help followed. Just the constant roar of the machinery in the building was all that Dave heard as he listened intently for a few seconds.  

Dave took the metal staircase two steps at a time, yelling for Fenton in the process, but getting no response. The top of the metal stairs landed onto an industrial catwalk that branched out in two directions, one path directly ahead, and the other to the left. For no specific reason he chose the left branch and started running down it yelling for Fenton, the 9mm Glock extended outwards in his right hand. The catwalk took a long circuitous route through the filtration building’s maze of plumbing, turning left, then right, and then left again. Along the course, Dave passed small stubbed offshoots of the catwalk that ended in front of large metal panels of gauges, valves, knobs and light indicators. He also passed by a number of massive steel industrial looking hoppers. But he had yet to find Fenton or see any signs of Spencer.

Based upon the preponderance number of right hand turns he was taking along the second story catwalk, Dave surmised that he was looping his way back to where he had started from. Consequently he became increasingly more alert for movement, his 9mm now extended far out in front of him, as he jogged along the elevated network of metal. Fenton had to be down, and Spencer had a weapon, he thought to himself.

Dave approached another right hand turn on the catwalk. It was a blind turn. The view to the right of it was blocked by a massive tank that stood three stories tall. Dave slowed his approach as he came to the turn. He didn’t want to blindly run around the corner and stumble head on into Spencer holding a gun to his chest. When he got to the turn, he stopped, crouched down, and slowly peered around the corner to see if it was clear. It wasn’t.

The second white FBI Fly Team SUV came screeching to a halt outside the main entrance security gate. Ron and the security guard had seen them coming down the road and had already ran from the guard shack to meet them.

“What’s the situation?” asked one of the FBI team members as the two men stayed in their vehicle with the engine running.

“Fenton and Dave entered the filtration building ten minutes ago and we have not heard from them since,” responded Ron. “Also, a security guard has been killed. His body was found just minutes ago on the west side of the building where he had been patrolling for a breach in the security fence. His throat had been slashed.”

“Alright, we will provide assistance. Stay here and continue to monitor for any movement outside the building,” said the FBI agent behind the wheel as he yanked the car into drive and sped off in the direction of the filtration building.

Ron turned to the guard and said, “I can’t sit here any longer and not help my friend. I’m going in to help.”

Ron shoved the tablet computer into the guard’s hands and stepped back into the guard shack. He found a pen sitting on the guard’s desk, scribbled down his phone number on a piece of scrap paper, stepped back out of the shack, handed over the piece of paper to the guard and said, “Call me if you start to see any red blinking lights on that screen.” Before the guard could object, Ron tore off in a full run across the parking lot in the direction of the filtration building.

Lying face down on the metal catwalk was Fenton. He was approximately fifteen meters from Dave’s position. There was no sign of Spencer. Dave stood up and ran to Fenton. As he approached him Dave could see blood splattered on the catwalk, dripping through to the floor below.  He reached down and felt for a pulse on Fenton’s neck. It was slight, but there was one.

“Fenton, can you hear me?” whispered Dave as he slowly turned Fenton over.

Fenton’s eyes fluttered as he was rolled onto his back. Dave could see that Fenton had taken several rounds, two to the chest, one in the shoulder and one on the left hand. Fortunately the two to the chest were stopped by the Kevlar vest that Fenton had been wearing, though he would have a couple of huge bruises. The bullet to his left hand looked like it had broken a couple of bones as it passed through, but it wasn’t life threatening. The shoulder injury, however, was more severe. The bullet had entered Fenton’s right shoulder, up near his neck. A couple of inches higher and the bullet would have severed his carotid artery and he would have already bled out. Nevertheless, the wound was severe and blood was seeping from it quite heavily. Dave immediately applied pressure to it with his left hand while he ripped off a piece of his shirt to act as a temporary bandage to stem the bleeding.

“Fenton, can you hear me?” asked Dave again, as he placed the piece of his shirt over the shoulder injury and applied firm pressure to the wound.

Fenton’s eyes opened up as he became aware of Dave’s presence.

“Was it Spencer?”

Fenton ever so slightly nodded his head in the affirmative.

“Which way did he go?” asked Dave as he continued to hold his hand over Fenton’s shoulder wound.

“Further down,” responded Fenton in a weak voice as his eyes drifted beyond where Dave was kneeling in front of him.

“Can you hang in there for a little while longer?” asked Dave.

“Yes, I can make it,” whispered Fenton. “Help should be coming. Get the bastard.”

“Okay, let me get you into a better position so that you can apply pressure yourself to your shoulder wound,” said Dave as he dragged Fenton up to a sitting position and leaned him against a metal railing post.

After stabilizing Fenton, Dave continued to make his way down the metal catwalk, in the direction that Fenton had indicated Spencer had gone. He half walked and half crawled, his eyes continuously sweeping back and forth, left to right and then right to left, as he proceeded forward on the metal footbridge.

Just as he was passing the second branch of catwalk that shot off to his right, he heard above the continuous roar of the machinery a large clang sound. It had come from somewhere down the branch. Dave stiffened momentarily and strained to hear for any additional noises over the roar of the machines. There was none. However, Dave could sense Spencer was close by and doing something he shouldn’t. Damn, thought Dave to himself. I need to find Spencer soon if I am to prevent a catastrophe here in Dallas.

Dave turned and began to make his way cautiously down the branch, his Glock 9mm now held in both hands extended out in front of him.

Ron entered the filtration building looking for any sign of life. The two FBI Fly Team agents had gotten a few minutes head start on him and were not to be seen in the massive web of plumbing that stood before him. “Jesus,” he said to himself. “I’m never going to find Dave in this mess.”

Ron also realized he didn’t have a weapon on him. He swiveled his head one hundred and twenty degrees before his eyes fell upon a fireman’s axe fastened to a wall. Why the heck would you need a Fireman’s axe in a building filled with water, he thought to himself? But he’d take it.

Ron raced over to the wall on his right and lifted the axe out of its holding brackets. Then, with no idea of which way was best to search for Dave, he simply started running straight ahead, into the first floor bowels of the massive building, following the marked yellow and black hazard lines that outlined a trail through it.  

He heard it again. There was a second loud clang that had just occurred. Dave stopped in his tracks to again listen intently, hoping to hear another clang over the racket of the machinery. He was rewarded with his patience this time, and then some. Three repeated loud clangs shot through the air up in front of him and slightly off to the right. Dave also noticed there was another branch in the catwalk, about ten meters ahead of him. It had to be Spencer, thought Dave. He could feel his twisted soul and contorted spirit nearby. Maybe it was due to the harshness of the repeated clanging sound. He could visualize Spencer violently striking at something, a combination of panic and hatred energy emanating from his body with each blow.

Dave advanced very slowly, again crouched low, as he approached the right branch in the catwalk. While carefully making his way forward in the final meter he heard another loud sound. However, this time the sound was hollower in tone, as if metal tin fell on metal tin.

Dave spied a look around the corner and saw a large steel circular hopper lid lying hinged open and back on itself. The lid and the corresponding hole in the hopper were nearly a meter in diameter. Dave noticed a sign that said Chlorine on the side of the massive hopper. However, it was the sight of Spencer that sent a chill down his spine, or more specifically, what he was doing.

Spencer’s back was to him, as he was bent over rummaging through a large duffle bag. There were two metal canisters positioned next to him. One was already opened and lying on its side. Empty. Fear immediately gripped Dave as he realized what Spencer had done. He had poured the contents of the metal canister into the Chlorine hopper. He had infected the water supply. He had succeeded in his and Aref Zarin’s terrorist plot thought Dave.

Spencer reached over to the second metal canister and began to unscrew its lid. Dave noticed that Spencer was wearing protective latex gloves and goggles. The bastard, thought Dave. He has no issue killing millions of people with his deadly toxin, yet he has the audacity and cowardice to go out of his way to protect himself while doing so. Despicable. The worst of mankind, he said to himself.

Dave stood up and stepped into the center of the catwalk branch, holding the 9mm Glock out in front of him.

“Get up slowly, Spencer,” yelled Dave through gritting teeth.

Hearing Dave’s voice, Spencer initially flinched before his body froze where it was. Aref was supposed to have killed him and his bitch of a wife, he thought to himself.

“I said get up slowly and turn towards me,” repeated Dave.

Spencer slowly began to stand and turn to face Dave. As he did, he continued to hold onto the second metal canister.

“You’re too late,” hissed Spencer, a sneer on his face as he looked into Dave’s eyes. “I’ve already dumped a canister into the water supply,” said Spencer as his eyes glanced down to the empty canister by his feet. “Hundreds of thousands are now already doomed to die,” said Spencer.

“Wrong,” yelled Dave. “We’ve already shut down the supply of water from this facility into the Dallas network of water mains.”