Chapter Eighty-four.

Pennsylvania Airs.p.a.ce Sunday, September 1, 10:23 a.m.

I gathered my team and broke the news to them.

"Here's what I know. We've lost all communication with the Locker. That includes landlines, cells, computers, the works. It happened in a way that somehow prevented the automatic systems from notifying anyone. In fact, from the outside during automatic checks by computers it appears as if things are normal. When MindReader pinged the system the automatic status sent back an all-clear message. It was only after Aunt Sallie tried to call them to have on-site security coordinate with us that she hit a dead line. All attempts to reestablish contact have been negative. Because the automatic replies were still functioning there's no way to know exactly when the facility was actually compromised. Last verbal contact of record was nine thirty last night."

"How the f.u.c.k are we just finding this out now?" asked Lydia. "I thought Auntie confirmed that the place was secure."

I sighed. "It's set up for computer confirmation rather than person-to-person. It was a design element that keyed a request from the Hangar directly to the Locker's security systems. Ask for a status report and it runs an immediate diagnostic that excludes the possibility of human coercion."

"Except when one of the world's smartest computer experts rigs the system."

"Yup. And I'm pretty sure Mr. Church is going to fry Aunt Sallie for not speaking directly to a human being," I said. It's possible my total lack of sympathy for Auntie was evident in my tone.

Top grunted. "Maybe that was built into the plan. Mother Night's been jerking us in so many d.a.m.n directions it's likely she knew that this sort of slipup might happen."

That thought had occurred to me, too, though I felt ungracious enough not to admit it. Aunt Sallie had threatened to neuter my dog. Ghost seemed to catch my train of thought and bared a fang.

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute," said Bunny. "I'm having a hard time buying that the Locker's been taken. I thought that couldn't happen."

"t.i.tanic couldn't sink either, Farmboy," muttered Top.

"No, I mean aren't there like ten kinds of redundancies?"

"At least," I said. "There are separate backup landlines for the computers and phones, ditto for wi-fi and cells. The redundancies are both pa.s.sive and active. The pa.s.sive ones go active when the primary signal is interrupted; the active ones randomly ping the system and go active when they don't get a reply. And we have some phantom lines that even the people at the Locker don't know about. These can be remotely activated on Mr. Church's say-so."

"Which he gave?" asked Top.

"Which he gave," I agreed. "However, no one's picking up the phone, and now even the computers have stopped responding."

"Is the Locker the prize in this whole game?" asked Noah. "Or is this another way to thin us out to the point where we're effectively useless?"

Of all the newbies he was the one whose personality I hadn't quite grasped. Montana was a tough country woman with the professional skeptical cynicism of the FBI. Dunk was a solid team player with a sense of humor that was probably a facade over some kind of personal hurt. Maybe an idealist wearing the uniform because he actually thought it would make a difference. But Noah was a blank, a mask. In some ways he reminded me of a shooter who'd run with my pack a couple of years ago, a laconic man named John Smith. He'd been the best sniper in the U.S. military, the hammer of G.o.d in a firefight; but he kept everything in. He never shared his opinions or feelings, never let anything show. Was Noah cut from the same cloth, another internalizer and self-imposed loner? Or was his bland mask hiding complexities he didn't want to share? Wish I had the time to find out.

"We don't know," I said. "We're operating on guesswork and supposition."

"Is stealing those things from the Locker really a possibility?" asked Montana. "Can that facility be cracked and looted?"

"If you had asked me that question this afternoon I'd have told you no. Not without a computer like MindReader and a security strategist as savvy as Bug. Things have changed, which sucks for all of us." I switched on a tabletop computer and brought up the floor plan of the Locker.

As I loaded the screens, Bunny mused, "I didn't know her real well, but well enough. When the h.e.l.l did she become evil?"

"Not the first time that question's been asked," I said. "We know she went off the reservation when she started stealing cla.s.sified materials, but when did she cross the line to the point where she was willing to take lives? I don't know."

I thought back to some of the conversations I'd had with Bliss. About the nature of good and evil, and of where evil came from. About nature, nurture, and choice. She'd brought those topics up. Was she looking for how to put her ethics and compa.s.sion on a shelf? Or kill those qualities within her life? I think so, and it made me feel sick to think that I played a part, however small and tangential, to that process. Part of me felt sorry for her. I'd known her pretty well, and I'd liked her a lot. I thought she was part of the family, and even after she'd been arrested, I wished her well. I was sorry when the judge threw the book at her, and sorrier still when I thought she'd been murdered in prison. Those feelings were still inside me, warring with the apparent truth that Bliss had become a murderous monster.

The civilized man inside my mind was appalled and refused to accept that such things were possible. The cop was far more worldly and cynical. He knew about the pathology of all kinds of criminals. After all, everyone is innocent until they commit their first crime. Even Hitler was innocent once. And Charles Manson.

Could we-the experts in the DMS-have spotted this thread of damage in Bliss? Should we have spotted it sooner? Aunt Sallie saw it and stopped trusting Bliss months before she was able to bring charges.

Hu never saw it, though. Nor did Rudy.

I didn't.

And Church? Who the h.e.l.l knows what he saw, but I know that he couldn't have antic.i.p.ated this level of treachery or criminality.

This level of evil.

The third voice inside my head-the warrior, the killer-was not trying to figure it out or a.s.sign blame. All he wanted to do was hunt that other killer, to find the enemy and destroy her.

He was banging on the bars of his cell, demanding to be let out.

Soon, I knew, I would want to do just that.

Once more Ghost sensed what was in my mind, and the look in his eyes made that subtle and dangerous shift from dog to wolf.

Part Five.

First-Person Shooter.

When Alexander heard from Anaxarchus of the infinite number of worlds, he wept, and when his friends asked him what was the matter, he replied, "Is it not a matter for tears that, when the number of worlds is infinite, I have not conquered one?"

-PLUTARCH, Life of Alexander.

Chapter Eighty-five.

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention Special Pathogens Branch.

Building 18.

Atlanta, Georgia.

Sunday, September 1, 11:02 a.m.

Colonel Samson Riggs leaned out the side door of the Black Hawk and studied the target. The building was modern but awkward, with wings of various sizes jammed in together, and with walkways and shrubbery covering the grounds. The streets were blocked off by police vehicles and everything was washed in overlapping red and blue lights. There were already crowds of pedestrians, including a fair number of kids from Emory, but the local law had set their barricades hundreds of yards back. The grounds immediately around the buildings were empty and dark. Inside the building a few night lights glowed.

Nothing moved.

Like the four remaining members of Shockwave Team, Riggs was dressed in an unmarked black battledress uniform. Unlike them, he wore no helmet. Instead, a Chicago Cubs cap was snugged down on his head. He tapped his earbud for a clear channel to the pilot. "Set us down here, Corkscrew."

"Roger."

The colonel felt tired. Usually a mission of this kind would have him jazzed and jumpy, ready to rock and roll as soon as boots were on the ground. But not today. His team was as somber as he was.

What was left of his team.

There had been no time for the shock and grief and wrongness of that to process through Riggs's mind. The only thing that kept it firm was the thought that the people responsible for the deaths of his team and so many other deaths around the country might be taking a run at the CDC tonight. If so, then tired or not, he was going to do them unG.o.dly harm.

Riggs was old for the field, pushing forty-five pretty hard, and he could feel every one of those years. He'd been a sailor, a SEAL, a CIA shooter, and for the last seven years he'd run the number-one team in the Department of Military Sciences. Only Captain Ledger's Echo Team was racking up stats like Shockwave, but they were a newer team, a.s.sembled four years ago. By the time Echo had turned out for its first mission, Shockwave had already stormed the gates of h.e.l.l more times than Riggs could count.

As the helo swung into position, Riggs watched his team get ready. Only his sniper, Rico, had been with him since the first mission. So many others had come and gone. It was the way of things when you worked for the Deacon.

The Black Hawk sank slowly toward the macadam.

His second in command, Carrie Marchman, hunkered down behind the minigun, the barrels pointed down at the building. The other members of the team finished their buddy checks of each others' gear and cl.u.s.tered by the door.

"Okay, heroes, listen up. Latest intel says that the building's security system is online, Aunt Sallie has been in direct voice contact with the senior security officer, Lieutenant Neale. He reports all clear. The building has a six-person security force, all armed, all former police officers. Neale will meet us at the rear loading door."

"Neale's a friendly?" asked Marchman.

"We treat him as such, but we are going to ask him to surrender his weapon and stand down while we search the building. No a.s.sumptions, feel me?"

"Hooah," they all said.

"Combat call signs from here on," said Riggs. "I want a clean dispersal." He nodded to Rico. "g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger, you take up a shooting position behind that trash can. See it? It offers the widest target range around the door. Hipster and Gomer watch side-to-side. Once we're inside, we'll split into two teams. Wicked Witch and Gomer with me going upstairs; g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger and Hipster go downstairs."

Hipster glanced at the building. "That's a lot of real estate for five people to clear."

"Well, life sucks just a little bit, don't it?" said Gomer.

The wheels of the Black Hawk had barely touched the ground when Samson Riggs was first out, with Shockwave following.

As they approached the rear loading bay, a uniformed man stepped outside. He wore a billed cap, a holstered pistol, and a broad smile. He raised his hand in a friendly greeting as the group of killers converged on him.

Chapter Eighty-six.

Maryland Airs.p.a.ce Sunday, September 1, 11:07 a.m.

We landed on a private airfield thirty miles from the Locker. Bird Dog and his crew from the Warehouse in Baltimore met us with a pair of fully loaded Black Hawks. The helos dusted off as the last of us scrambled aboard.

Church called me with a quick update and I shared the intel with my guys.

"Aunt Sallie was able to contact Dr. Myles Van Sant, the director of the Locker," I told them. "He had the day off and was on a fishing trip, camping in the nearby woods with a friend-Buddy Scarf, the local sheriff. Van Sant was ordered back to the Locker, but his radio and cell phone went dead shortly after entering the building. No way to know if he ran into hostiles or if there was a signal jammer. Bug's working on determining that. There has been no further communication with anyone inside the Locker."

"Dingo b.a.l.l.s," grumbled Ivan. He was one of those guys who was never quite happy about anything. Not a complainer in a way that would interfere with team efficiency, but not a cheerleader by any stretch.

"What about Van Sant's fishing buddy?" asked Lydia. "We sending him to see what's what?"

"No," I said. "The sheriff's department is too small to be anything but collateral damage. A Homeland SWAT team is on the ground, and they've secured a perimeter one mile out. Nothing gets in or out, and they've been ordered to stay well clear of the facility. They don't have the same generation of protective gear as we do."

"Wouldn't a hazmat suit work?" asked Dunk.

"No," I said. "There are at least three different bacterial agents stored at the Locker that are designed to specifically feed on the materials used in hazmat suit seals."

"Jesus Christ," said Dunk. "This s.h.i.t is insane."

Bunny popped his gum and grinned at him.

"The governor of Virginia is rolling out the National Guard," I said, "but we'll be on the ground before them. They'll reinforce the perimeter."

"Nice to know we're not completely alone with our b.a.l.l.s hanging out," said Ivan.

"Okay," I said to the group, "questions?"

"What do we know about Van Sant and Scarf?" asked Sam.

I tapped my earbud. "Bug-? Give us the lowdown on Dr. Van Sant."

Immediately photos of two men appeared on screens of our forearm-mounted tactical computers. One man was dressed as a rural cop, the other in a lab coat. "Dr. Van Sant is clean as a whistle as far as MindReader can tell," said Bug. "He's a longtime friend of Mr. Church, and was a thesis advisor for Dr. Hu. His background check is squeaky clean. Couple speeding tickets because he bought a sports car when middle age set in, but otherwise nothing. We're looking at him, but n.o.body expects him to be a bad guy here."

"What was his relationship with Artemisia Bliss?" asked Montana.

"Van Sant testified against Bliss at her trial. I don't think they're down there doing the dirty boogie together."

Noah nodded at the second picture. "What about Sheriff Scarf? What's his story?"

"Bryan 'Buddy' Scarf did twelve years in the army," said Bug, "the last six as an M.P. at the beginning of the Iraq war. Clean service record and honorable discharge nine years ago. He had people out in this part of Virginia, so he came here and ran unopposed for sheriff, got the job, and he's been doing it as well as a place with less than three thousand people requires in an area where the closest thing they have to capital crime is growing an acre of pot."

"How hard are we looking at him?"

I answered that. "Bug's going deep on everyone at the Locker, and anyone even tangentially a.s.sociated with it."

"Wait," asked Ivan. "If Van Sant was off the clock, who was running the place?"