Carnival of Mayhem (Gray Spear Society) Page 3

  He checked that the safety on his Beretta was off. He crept forward and tried to keep his shooting hand steady despite the adrenaline flowing through his veins. His palms were sweaty.

  The Army had constructed the laboratory from prebuilt modules, and each module fit exactly into a standard shipping container. The corridors were narrow, the rooms were small, and there were no windows at all. It was like operating inside a submarine.

  Smythe heard the sound of rustling papers up ahead. He peeked around the corner and saw two intruders. They wore skin-tight camouflage outfits, but the color scheme was an unusual black and gray instead of green. One intruder was a big, muscular man. The only way to get a physique with that kind of definition was obsessive, daily exercise. Smythe worked hard to keep himself in good shape, but he was a slug in comparison.

  The other intruder was a woman, and she also had an impressively athletic body. Even so, Smythe was confident he could take her in a fight. His advanced Army training in combination with his greater mass and strength gave him a decisive advantage.

  The intruders were rifling through drawers with a flashlight in one hand and a camera in the other. They spent no time looking at what they found. Instead they took pictures and moved on hastily.

  Smythe was somewhat relieved. Regulations required all classified data to be stored in encrypted computer files. Even a locked safe wasn't good enough these days, especially in a temporary facility like this one. The intruders would find little of value just lying out in the open, unless a staff member had seriously screwed up.

  Smythe didn't see any weapons, although both intruders had many bags hanging from their belts. The bags were easily big enough to hold a gun or a knife.

  He considered shooting them both. The circumstances certainly justified the use of deadly force. However, Smythe was as much a doctor as a soldier, and taking a life had to be his last resort, not his first. If the intruders refused to surrender, he could shoot them without guilt.

  He stepped forward with his gun raised and yelled, "Freeze! Put your hands up and keep them up! Try anything funny and I swear I will kill you where you stand!"

  Both intruders turned to face Smythe. He expected to see fear or at least shock, but instead he was met with cool gazes. It was disconcerting.

  "Put the gun down," the man said in a voice so calm it was almost sleepy. "We won't hurt you unless you force the issue."

  "Excuse me?" Smythe said. "I'm holding the gun, so I'm giving the orders. You'll march outside and surrender to the police right now."

  "Not likely."

  "What's wrong with you? You're acting like this is a paintball gun. It shoots real, lethal bullets."

  The man spat a glob of something sticky. Startled and confused, Smythe looked down. His gun was dissolving into greasy smoke. He tried to pull the trigger but it just broke off. The whole weapon fell apart in his hand.

  "Ugh!" He dropped the remnants of the gun. Now he was unarmed.

  The male intruder raised his bushy eyebrows. "Hey! You're Timothy Smythe."

  He had straight brown hair and a strong jaw. He was actually a very handsome man.

  "You know me?" Smythe said.

  "Yes, and we have some questions. It's lucky for us you're here. You're exactly the man we want to talk to."

  "You won't get answers from me."

  "We'll see," the intruder said.

  He ran across the room like a charging bull. Rather than take the charge head-on, Smythe dropped and twisted to get out of the way. He expected his opponent to fly past and crash into a wall, but instead he slid to a graceful stop.

  Smythe needed a new weapon, fast. He looked around the laboratory full of complex equipment but saw nothing suitable for combat. Out of desperation, he grabbed a bottle of some chemical. He couldn't read the label in the darkness, but there was a good chance it would do nasty things to human tissue.

  A slender hand grabbed his wrist, preventing him from taking the bottle. He turned to find the woman inches from his face.

  "I can't allow that," she said. "Put it down."

  He couldn't wrestle with her and fight her partner at the same time, so Smythe let go of the bottle. She stepped away.

  The male intruder settled into a fighting stance with his fists in front of his body. "That was a nifty little move for a doctor."

  "What was that gunk you spat at me?" Smythe said.

  "I'm asking the questions, not you. Tell me about this strange, new disease. We both know it isn't really tuberculosis. What's the truth?"

  "Forget it."

  The man threw a kick at Smythe's head. It was a fast attack but Smythe managed to get both his arms up in time to block. The impact was so strong it still almost knocked him down. The man followed with a jumping kick to Smythe's midsection. He had no chance to block this attack, and the pain was like a grenade exploding in his guts.

  "Did that loosen your tongue?" the man said.

  "No," Smythe replied through clenched teeth. "I'm an American soldier. I fought terrorists in the mountains of Afghanistan and insurgents in the cities. I've seen all the horrors of war. You can't scare me."

  The laboratory had a suspended tile ceiling that hid the complex ductwork above. He remembered the tiles were fragile, loosely attached, and very dusty on top. He had an idea.

  He faked a quick punch, forcing his opponent to react. Then Smythe jumped up and smashed a tile with his fists. Dust and debris cascaded down. During this brief distraction, he dropped and hooked his opponent's leg. The man's stance was so strong that it was like trying to uproot a tree, so Smythe switched the attack to a straight groin kick. That blow connected but the man twisted his hips at the last instant and deflected the force.

  A fist flew through the dust and smashed Smythe in the jaw. He fell back, stunned. It had been a long time since anybody had hit him that hard.

  "Good!" the man said with a smile. "You're making this fun."

  "Enough." The woman stepped in front of him. "Stop playing with him. You're picking up my bad habits."

  "OK. What do you want to do?"

  With eyes the color of jade she stared at Smythe. "Our orders were specific. We can't beat the truth out of him. If he doesn't want to talk, we have to move on."

  "Then put him to sleep."

  She drew a knife from one of the bags on her belt. The polished blade glittered as she twirled it expertly in her hand. She thrust at his chest, but the attack was slow and he pushed it aside easily. With her free hand she grabbed his neck, and this move was lightning quick. Her fingernails jabbed his skin, causing a sharp pain.

  "Good night," she said.

  Darkness consumed him.

  Chapter Three

  Aaron looked down at the unconscious body of Captain Timothy Smythe.

  "I like this guy," Aaron said. "He took a couple of hard hits and didn't fold."

  "What are you saying?" Marina asked.

  "Ever since Victor died, we've been seriously short-handed. Smythe might be a replacement."

  "You want to recruit him?" She stared. "We just met him."

  "You saw the report. He's a genius doctor and a veteran soldier. I also have a feeling about him."

  "Before we do anything, we need to run a more complete background check. That report was pretty sparse. If Smythe has skeletons in his closet, we have to know about them. And Ethel will decide how to proceed, not you. Inviting somebody into the Gray Spear Society is a very big deal, and it has to be done exactly the right way."

  "I know," Aaron said. "I was just making a suggestion."

  "It's not a bad one. We just have to go through the correct process. Let's get back to work."

  He looked around the laboratory for more things to photograph. The place was crowded with sophisticated equipment, most of which he didn't recognize. It all looked like a jumble of tubes, wires, and buttons to him. The one familiar item was a refrigerator, but it had a glass door and contained tissue samples, not food.

  He went back to se
arching desk drawers and file cabinets for papers. Even though he didn't understand the technical terminology, he could tell he and Marina weren't getting the good stuff. The government liked to stamp "TOP SECRET" or "CLASSIFIED" on documents with real value, and he wasn't finding those words anywhere. Frustrated, he broke open a computer and yanked out the disk drive.

  He and Marina had a limited amount of time. Every minute spent here increased the risk somebody else would interrupt their work. The bodies of the guards outside were not very well hidden. They worked for another half-hour, then left.

  * * *

  Aaron and Marina sat at the kitchen table back at headquarters. They were eating lunch, but it was their first meal of the day. They had slept late while the rest of the team analyzed the photos they had collected.

  Ethel, Ramirez, and Edward had joined them for lunch. Edward was the computer and communications expert for the Chicago cell. He was a black man with short, curly hair and wire-rim glasses. His red T-shirt had coffee stains on the front above the words, "I have more gigahertz than you."

  "We finished our preliminary analysis," Ramirez said. "Unfortunately, we don't have much to report. Most of the pictures were of published research papers and other reference material. Some of it came straight off the internet. I'm afraid you wasted a lot of time last night."

  "What about the disk drive?" Aaron said.

  Edward shook his head. "The data is encrypted. It will take a lot of time to crack, if I can. These military codes are tough."

  Angry and disappointed, Aaron took the last bite of his salami and cheese sandwich.

  "But we did learn something," Ramirez said. "You took pictures of some charts from actual patients, along with helpful handwritten notes. The illness is clearly not tuberculosis. In fact the symptoms don't match any disease I know, and I thought I knew them all. We're dealing with a new monster."

  "No wonder the government is nervous," Marina said. She was eating an egg salad with extra bacon.

  "We all should be. The degenerative process takes four to eight weeks and always ends in death. The only good news is the disease doesn't seem to be contagious, at least not in the usual way."

  Having finished his lunch, Aaron stood up and stretched his arms. He walked around the kitchen, hoping to shake off the sluggishness caused by going to bed at dawn and sleeping until noon.

  The kitchen was spacious with black granite counters all around. Only Ethel lived in headquarters, but the other seven members of the team spent most of their waking hours here, and they were a hungry group. A pair of oversized refrigerators had to be restocked twice a week.

  "That's good," he said. "Right? It's not so dangerous."

  Ramirez shrugged. "Lots of people are dying and nobody can explain why. The doctors can't find the pathogen. That sounds dangerous to me."

  "The patho-what?"

  "The germ, sir."

  "Oh." Aaron said. "Then maybe a poison is causing it."

  "That really doesn't seem likely." Ramirez shook his head. "I'm sure the doctors tested for everything a dozen times. Even trace amounts of a toxin would've been detected by now."

  "Still, it's an interesting idea," Ethel said. "Let's say somebody is using an extremely exotic poison to commit mass murder. That sounds like the kind of conspiracy we'd want to investigate. We need more information, a lot more, and another late night photography session won't do. We have to convince somebody on the inside to help us. We need a mole."

  "Are you sure, ma'am?" Marina raised her eyebrows. "Cultivating a mole can take months."

  "We have days."

  Nobody spoke for a moment.

  "What about Smythe?" Aaron suggested.

  "No." Ethel shook her head. "I followed up on your suggestion that we recruit him, and I dove deep into his background. He'll never be a traitor. Everything I read indicates a traditional soldier who puts duty and honor above his own life."

  "What about recruiting him though?"

  Her impossibly dark eyes looked at him. He still wasn't used to those eyes. They were like windows into another universe, one without light or life.

  "Dr. Smythe certainly has a lot to offer. Of course, his skills would be particularly valuable right now. Still, I want to wait a bit before I take the next step with him. Let's give the Lord a chance to make His feelings known. If Smythe is meant to be a Spear, we'll find out soon enough."

  "Yes, ma'am," he said. "How long did it take for you to make a decision about my membership?"

  "Five seconds. In some cases you can smell the death stink, and you reeked. We still had to go through the recruitment process though. Back to the matter at hand. We have to look elsewhere for a mole. Edward, that's your job. I want dirt on everybody who works in the laboratory. Find me a weak link."

  "You're asking for a lot, ma'am," Edward said. "It's a secret Army facility."

  "You have my permission to work with the Washington cell on this matter. They have contacts inside the Pentagon who can give you all the information you need."

  * * *

  Ethel was watching Aaron and Marina spar with each other on a blue practice mat in headquarters. Both of them wore traditional white karate uniforms, but instead of black belts, theirs were gray. Sweat made their thick cotton clothes heavy, and drops rolled down their foreheads.

  As usual, Ethel was bored.

  Many years ago, she had received a unique gift from God: supernatural quickness. In her world the only person who could move and react at the proper speed was herself. Everybody else pushed against an ocean of invisible taffy. A normal eye blink took seconds, and birds drifted across the sky like helium balloons. She could count the laces on a baseball as it flew from pitcher to catcher.

  However, the disadvantage of watching the world in slow motion was it was usually very boring. Often, she simply ran out of patience.

  "Attack!" she yelled.

  Aaron stepped forward with his fists held defensively in front of his body. His limbs were shaking from exhaustion, but he maintained good form. Marina stepped forward in a similar stance. They eyed each other, each waiting for the other to commit to an attack.

  "Now!" Ethel said.

  Aaron lowered his stance. She could tell from the way his leg muscles tightened that he was going to perform a leaping, spinning kick. He leaned back and pushed off with all his strength. As he gracefully twirled through the air, she had plenty of time to mentally critique his form. His back wasn't nearly straight enough, and his fists needed to be six inches closer to his chest.

  Marina finally started to react. She lowered her head and twisted her torso. She was attempting a counter-punch aimed at Aaron's midsection. Ethel watched the distance close between the combatants like two ships on a collision course. Velocities and forces performed a stately dance.

  Aaron used his palm to sweep Marina's punch aside. It was the correct counter-counter-move, and clearly, he had planned it from the beginning. Excellent, Ethel thought.

  Marina was knocked off balance. Her tired muscles betrayed her and she began to topple awkwardly. It looked like Aaron might crash into her.

  Ethel took two strides forward and pushed Marina out of the way while Aaron was still in midair. Then, Ethel moved Aaron's leg to the correct position so that he would come down in a good stance. The entire intervention had taken just a fraction of a second.

  Aaron landed properly. Marina recovered her balance and rolled to her feet. Both of them looked very startled.

  "Ma'am?" Marina said. "Why did you push me?"

  "You were about to get hurt," Ethel said.

  "I was? How?"

  "I've told you a hundred times. Always maintain your balance even when you're tired. And the same goes for you, Aaron. I just saved you from twisting an ankle."

  Edward ran into the exercise room. "I got a name, ma'am. Mark Woods!" He paused to take a breath. "He's a medical technician with top secret clearance, but he's a civilian, not a soldier. The Army is employing him as a contractor."
/>   "Go on," Ethel said.

  "Woods has a very serious gambling problem. He plays way too much online poker. His credit cards are maxed and he missed his last three mortgage payments. He is close to bankruptcy."

  "Married?"

  "No, ma'am, but a woman shares his home in Virginia."

  Ethel nodded. "Perfect. Mr. Woods will be our mole. Nice job."

  Edward smiled.

  "Marina," she said, "you will play the part of the angel. You will rescue him from certain doom and offer him a new, better life. He will pay you back with the information we need."

  "What about me, ma'am?" Aaron said.

  Ethel looked at him. "You will be the devil that dooms him."

  "Gambling, eh? I know exactly how we'll play this game. He'll be on our payroll within a couple of days."

  * * *

  Marina adjusted the hem of her little black dress. She wanted to show exactly the right amount of thigh: provocative but not slutty. She rechecked her appearance using the mirror in her compact makeup case. Her red hair was a little flat, so she fluffed it with her fingers. Men called her beautiful, but she only saw unsightly freckles, a thick nose, and eyes full of anger. She snapped closed the makeup case.

  She stood in the hallway of the Green Vines Hotel in Naperville. She knocked on the door of the room where Woods was staying for the duration of the "tuberculosis" outbreak.

  "Hello?" a male voice called out.

  "Mr. Woods? May I please speak with you?"

  The door opened, and Woods peered out. He was a short man with a puffy face and thick glasses. Perhaps his best feature was a full head of jet black hair, but it needed a trim. He wore a yellow hotel bathrobe.

  His eyes widened as he looked at Marina. His gaze drifted down to her artfully exposed cleavage. "What can I do for you?"

  "That is the question. Can I come in?" She spoke in a thick Russian accent. Since both her parents had been Russian immigrants, she actually found it easier to talk this way than with no accent at all.

  "Uh, it's late, and I have work tomorrow..."

  "I'll be quick," she said. "I just want a few minutes. Please?"