Next Exit, Quarter Mile Page 28

  “Yes, and when she does, she leaves bodies behind,” Blake retorted.

  “You're still mad about last fall, aren't you?” Stephanie demanded. “Get over it. I did.”

  “I'll admit she has her uses,” Blake said after a moment, his voice calmer. “I would probably like her if I ever met her. Lord knows she has to be something special for Mike to care about her the way he does.”

  Stephanie tilted her head and considered Blake across the table.

  “You know, I think you would like her,” she said decidedly. “I think you've got some kind of image in your head about her that isn't quite accurate. She's not the devil.”

  “No. She's the one they send to kill the devil.”

  Stephanie shrugged and picked up her coffee cup.

  “That's true,” she admitted with a quick grin.

  “And she was involved in losing me my Cartel Lieutenant.”

  “That's also true.”

  Blake was silent for a long moment, then he sighed in resignation and leaned forward.

  “If she can find the connection between Dominic and the drivers, I have the connection between him and the Cartel,” he said. “All we need to know is what they're hauling and we can round them all up.”

  “I know.” Stephanie reached into her purse beside her and pulled out her phone. “I'll call her and see if she can at least get that list of cars over to me so you can get working on that end.”

  Blake nodded and sat back as Stephanie hit a button on her phone and held it up to her ear. He looked out the window and wondered what it was like to have an assassin on speed dial. He'd have to remember to ask Mike next time he wanted to rile up his old friend.

  “It went straight to voicemail,” Stephanie said with a frown, slipping the phone back into her purse. “That's weird.”

  “Why?”

  “Her phone never goes to voicemail.”

  “Maybe she's somewhere with no signal,” Blake suggested. “Try her again later.”

  “Yeah,” Stephanie agreed dubiously. “As soon as I get the list, I'll forward it to you.”

  “I appreciate that,” Blake said. “And when you get her, tell her I said thank you.”

  Stephanie smiled.

  “I will.”

  Michael climbed into his truck and slammed the door, exhaling slowly as he shut out the gray day. He sat for a moment, staring at the rows of cars around him in the massive lot behind Mercy General Hospital, trying to wrap his head around what he just learned. Reaching into the inside pocket of his sports jacket, he pulled out the shrink-wrapped box Dr. Traeborn gave him. Michael stared at it for a long moment before unlocking the middle console and slipping it inside. He closed and re-locked it, then rested his elbow on the console, his chin in his hand.

  He still couldn't really fathom it. If he hadn't been face to face with Patrick while he explained it, Michael wasn't sure he would even believe it. But he and Patrick went way back; back to Iraq when Patrick was a Marine doctor and Michael got shot through the shoulder. That was right after Dave died, and Michael wasn't himself. It was Patrick who patched up his shoulder and took the time to try to patch up Michael's soul as he grieved for his best friend. It was Patrick who became a fast friend in a time of unbelievable hard knocks. And now, it was Patrick who just confirmed Michael's entire theory about the terrorist attack.

  Shaking his head, Michael pulled out his cell phone and hit speed dial. Viper had to know what they were dealing with. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while he waited for the call to connect, but when it did, a deep frown crossed his face. The call on the other end didn't even ring, but went straight to an automated voicemail. No familiar voice or even a name, just a computer-generated voice telling him to leave a message. Michael disconnected and stared blindly at the sprawling building that dwarfed the parking lot. After a moment, with a sigh, he pressed another button on his phone and waited. Chris picked up after two rings.

  “Talk to me, Mike,” he answered.

  “It's not good,” Michael said, rubbing his forehead.

  “I never think it will be. Where are you?”

  “Sitting outside Mercy General. I went to see an old friend, a doctor who specializes in infectious disease.” Michael dropped his hand from his forehead and rested it on the steering wheel. “I got a call earlier, suggesting that the Cartel is running bomb parts up and down the coast.”

  “Suggesting?” Chris demanded. “Or telling you?”

  “Telling me,” Michael replied. “It gets worse. It looks like the bombs are going to release a biological weapon.”

  Chris was silent for a long moment, absorbing the news.

  “Is the information good?” he finally asked.

  “I believe so.” Michael leaned his head back on the seat. “According to the doctor, this hospital and every other hospital in the DC Metro area has been stockpiling an antidote for months. One of the big pharmaceutical companies is pushing this antidote to all the hospitals.”

  “Antidote for what?”

  “Well, that's where it gets interesting,” Michael told him. “According to them, it's an antidote for anthrax.”

  “And according to the good doctor?” Chris prompted.

  “It seems to be an antidote for a mutated Ebola virus.”

  “Holy...are you telling me that all the hospitals have been stockpiling antidotes for an Ebola outbreak???” Chris exclaimed.

  “Without knowing it, yes,” Michael said. “Patrick just figured it out last night. He's preparing a report now for the board.”

  “That report can't see the light of day,” Chris said after a moment. “The panic would be unthinkable.”

  “I've already taken care of it,” Michael assured him, watching absently as a woman in scrubs walked from the crosswalk to her car a few rows over. “He's sitting on it for now until we can get more information. He gave me the name of someone, a biochemical engineer. I'm taking a sample of the antidote to him. Maybe he can tell us exactly what we're looking at.”

  “Do we know where he is?” Chris asked. “We don't have a lot of time.”

  “He's about three hours away,” Michael said, glancing at his watch. “I'm leaving now, and he's expecting me.”

  “Check in as soon as you have something,” Chris told him.

  “There's one more thing,” Michael said. “Apparently, this guy has some crazy theories about what really happened in Africa during that outbreak a couple of years ago.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like he doesn't think it was a normal Ebola outbreak,” Michael told him grimly. “He believes it was a biological attack.”

  There was a long silence on the line as Chris absorbed that and Michael knew exactly what his boss was thinking. It was the same thing he’d been thinking ever since Patrick casually mentioned it as Michael was going out the door.

  “A dress rehearsal?” Chris finally asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “If that's the case, why allow the hospitals to stockpile an antidote?” Chris asked. “It would defeat the purpose of the attack.”

  “Yes, but it also makes the pharmaceuticals billions,” Michael said. “Anyway, there is no antidote for Ebola. Patrick said there is no cure.”

  “Then why does he think it's an antidote for Ebola?!”

  “He thinks it's an antidote for a mutated form of Ebola,” Michael pointed out. “Hopefully I'll get a clearer answer out of this other guy. If there is a mutation of the original virus, I suppose it's possible that there is also an antidote. If so, we're back to the pharmaceuticals making billions on it.”

  “I can't imagine that would be a priority to a terrorist,” Chris muttered.

  “Unless they're in bed with them,” Michael said thoughtfully. “Although, that doesn't line up with what we know of their ideology.”

  “There are too many questions, but it's a start,” Chris said after another long silence. “You get moving and let me know when you have something. At least now I have a
ctionable intel to take to the Hill.”

  “You got it.”

  Michael disconnected and started the truck. As the engine turned over and hummed, he still sat there, staring out the window. Finally, he pressed the speed dial on his phone again and waited. Once again, it went straight to that impersonal voicemail message. Michael frowned and disconnected, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

  Where the hell was Viper?

  “Sir?”

  A blond head poked around the office door and Harry looked up from his computer screen, pinning the young face with a questioning stare.

  “What is it?”

  “I think you want to hear this,” the younger man said, unfazed by the stare. He was used to Harry's brusqueness.

  Harry sighed and got up, following him out of the office and down the hall to the large, computer-laden lab where the young man spent most of his day.

  “We intercepted a call a few minutes ago,” the man told him as they entered the room.

  Harry nodded and followed him to a terminal where the man seated himself and held out a pair of headphones. Harry put them on and the man started the playback. Harry listened in silence to the whole phone conversation, a frown creasing his brow.

  “Who's line did this come through on?” he asked when the playback finished.

  “Chris Harbour, sir,” came the answer. “And the initiating line was...”

  “Michael O'Reilly,” Harry stated.

  “That's right.”

  Harry motioned to playback the conversation again and listened once more before motioning to stop it. He removed the headphones and handed them back.

  “No one else knows about this?” he asked.

  The young man shook his head.

  “Of course not,” he answered. “This is your priority red list. Your ears only.”

  “Good.” Harry pursed his lips for a moment, then laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Scrub it clean.”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me. Scrub it. I'll take it from here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Stephanie glanced at her watch and sipped her drink, watching the door to the coffee shop. Busy afternoon traffic streamed by on the city street outside, Philadelphia bustling away as usual. When the blond-haired man in wrinkled khakis and a casual navy button-down finally pushed through the door, she broke into a wide, relieved smile. He looked around and spotted her, seated at a back corner table, and nodded with a half wave. Stephanie watched as he went to the counter to order himself a large coffee and, a few minutes later, he joined her.

  “I never thought I'd say this, Steph, but I'm glad to be out of the lab for a few minutes,” he announced, sinking into the chair across from her.

  Stephanie looked across the table at Matt, their resident wizard at the office. John called him the basement gnome, but Stephanie preferred wizard because he was just that. If there was any forensic evidence to be found, Matt would find it, and then some.

  “Is that why you called to meet for coffee?” she asked incredulously. “Just to get out of the office for a few minutes?”

  “'Course not,” Matt retorted, sipping his hot coffee gratefully. “You know me better than that. How's John?”

  “He woke up yesterday and they removed the breathing tube,” Stephanie said, leaning her arms on the table and looking down at her half-empty coffee. “But then he became agitated later in the day and the docs sedated him when his numbers started getting too high.”

  Matt shook his head.

  “God, I hope he pulls through,” he muttered. “He's one of the few I like.”

  Stephanie let out a choked laugh.

  “Me too,” she agreed.

  Matt looked at her and reached out to take one of her hands awkwardly. He squeezed it and she looked up in surprise. Their eyes met and Stephanie smiled, squeezing back. Matt didn't know what to say, but he was willing to offer what comfort he was capable of, and that meant more to her than any words.

  “So, tell me what was important enough to pull you out of the basement,” she said, pulling her hand away and picking up her coffee.

  “They brought the Firebird in and I went over it,” Matt said, all business. “John did an excellent job of restoring it, by the way. Really, a fantastic job. It's a shame that...well, that it got destroyed.”

  “What did you find?” Stephanie asked.

  “Well, for starters, it wasn't an accident.”

  Stephanie stared at him, pretending surprise.

  “What?”

  Matt shook his head, blissfully unaware that he was not delivering earth-shattering news.

  “Someone put a bomb in his wheel well.”

  “What?!” Stephanie allowed her voice to rise, then she glanced around and lowered it again. “What are you talking about?”

  “There was explosive residue all over the inside of the front wheel well,” Matt said, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “Here's where it gets tricky. I analyzed the residue and this was no ordinary, homemade bomb from Joe Schmo down the corner. This was professional. What was John working on?”

  Stephanie stared at Matt, unsure how much to tell him.

  “I don't know,” she finally said, deciding to play it safe. “He wouldn't say. I know he was upset about his friend's death and he was investigating, but beyond that, he never told me.”

  Matt gave her a searching look, then shrugged.

  “Well, he stumbled across something hinky,” he said. “That bomb had a history.”

  “History?” Stephanie lowered her voice even more. “What do you mean?”

  “Look, I haven't even told Rob yet,” Matt said, matching her tone. “That's why I asked you to meet me. When Rob finds out, he'll have to launch a full investigation, and then DHS will have to get involved and all my evidence will be taken away. I wanted you to have it first.”

  Matt reached into his pocket and pulled out a flash drive, sliding it across the table to her.

  “What is this?” Stephanie asked, her hand closing over the drive.

  “All the evidence I pulled from John's car,” Matt said softly. “Do you know anything about bombs and forensics?” he asked.

  Stephanie shook her head.

  “Not enough to converse intelligently on the subject.”

  “Well, bombs have signatures, just like anything else,” Matt explained quietly. “If you know what to look for, the residue left behind can tell you anything you want to know about where the bomb was made, what ingredients were used to make it, and even who the bomb-maker was in some instances. It's like blood splatter at a crime scene, or fingerprints, or tire tracks.”

  “And this one?” Stephanie asked.

  “This one has been used all over Syria and the Ukraine.”

  This time Stephanie wasn't acting when her jaw dropped open.

  “Excuse me?”

  He nodded, satisfied with her reaction, and pushed his glasses up on his nose.

  “It was a shrapnel bomb, and I was able to match the residue to several bombings over the past two years,” he said, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. “One of them took out the British Prime Minister's body double last year in the Ukraine.”

  Stephanie stared at him, a chill streaking down her spine and coming back up just as quickly, her mind spinning.

  “How is that even possible?” she whispered. “Why would a terrorist plant a bomb on John's car?”

  “That's the big question, isn't it?” Matt asked, straightening up to sip his coffee before leaning forward again. “And that is precisely why Rob will have to call in Homeland Security.”

  “I don't understand any of this,” Stephanie muttered, shaking her head. How had this gone from John looking into Dutch's death, to cartel connections, to terrorists in the matter of a few days?

  “There's something else you should know,” Matt continued, his blue eyes meeting hers. “Someone else knows all this.”

  Stephanie stared hard at him.


  “What are you talking about?”

  “There was a break-in at the office the other night. Someone blew out the security cameras and motion sensors in the stairwell.”

  “What?!?!”

  “There was no sign of forced entry anywhere and nothing was broken, missing, forced, or anything of that nature,” Matt said. “In fact, if it weren’t for the fried circuit breakers, I would have thought someone was playing an April’s fools joke. I mean, who in their right mind breaks into the FBI? They’re investigating, but once it was determined that nothing was missing and the network wasn’t breached, it went onto the back burner.”

  Stephanie considered him, her eyes narrowed.

  “You think something happened, though,” she stated rather than asked. “What?”

  “I ran the initial residue analysis from John’s car in my lab this morning,” he told her. “That particular test should have taken a couple of hours. I started it at nine and had all the information by nine-ten.”

  “What? How?”

  “Someone ran the same test on my machines,” Matt said. “That's the only way the results would come up so fast. The computer already found them. So, of course I checked the logs.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. They're wiped clean.”

  Stephanie and Matt stared at each other and Stephanie felt her face draining of color.

  “Have you told anyone?”

  “No, and I don't plan on it,” Matt stated. “I'm not having Homeland come into my lab, tear it apart and confiscate my equipment. No way. The only person I'm telling is you.”

  “Matt, you can go to prison for this,” Stephanie hissed. “Why are you doing it?”

  “Because I know John, and I know you. Somehow, he stumbled onto something big and now he's in a hospital at deaths door. You've been removed from duty for God only knows what reason, and now someone's broken into my lab and run analysis on a bomb residue they shouldn't even know exists, let alone have access to. I don't know what the two of you got yourselves into, but I'll help you before I help Big Brother.”