FATAL eMPULSE (2 page)

Devon raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t worry. We will figure it out before you finish this next job.”

Devon glanced at Alena’s photo one more time. “What can you tell me about this woman?”

“She’s dangerous. She’s smart and you might be able to use her to get to Gerrit. I think the two of them may have connected.”

“Connected? You mean—?”

“Do I have to draw a picture? If you can arrange it, I want Gerrit to suffer before you put him out of his misery. I’ll give you a hefty bonus if you accomplish that.”

Devon gave the man a cold stare. “Gerrit’s last moment on earth will be him watching me end her life.”

Martin gave him a wicked-looking leer. “A man after my own heart.”

February 20
Seattle, Washington

G
errit O’Rourke jarred awake, his chest and back wet with perspiration. Damp bed sheets clung to his skin. Nightmares haunted his sleep once again, ghoulish demons waiting to devour everything he cherished, everything he held dear. He sat up, trying to shake this sense of foreboding.

For a moment, he thought fate had finally turned in his favor. Moments before the explosion, his old boss—Lieutenant Stan Cromwell of Seattle PD—finally revealed that he was the one who triggered the bomb that killed Gerrit’s folks. He was following orders—then he was dead.

Gerrit glanced at his surroundings, realizing he was still in protective custody at the Seattle hospital. He had been sequestered in this room since the explosion, an armed guard posted outside for his protection. Every part of his body ached from that jarring bomb.

Memories of this last month came back to him in waves of painful memories, each wave crashing on parts of his life he would never get back. His best friend tortured and killed, his girlfriend murdered, and Cromwell torn into a hundred pieces by a bomb…set by whom?

As soon as one question was resolved, more unrelenting questions followed. Always more questions. Gerrit’s journey to find his parents’ killer remained a dark and puzzling mystery. Cromwell became one more chapter in an ongoing investigation. Case still open and unresolved.

He had to get out of this place. He needed answers—not more questions. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand.

“Mr. O’Rourke, get back in bed.” A nurse bustled through the doorway and grabbed his arm. “Doctor’s orders.” She reminded him of Nurse Ratched in the movie
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
but with a lot more steel.

“I’m fine. Just looking for my clothes.” He felt a breeze on his rear end and realized he might be giving passersby a view of his naked backside.

“Now you’re a doctor? A little over forty-eight hours ago a bomb threw you into the street. Probably jarred a few brain cells loose. Now—get in bed.”

“Nurse…” He glanced at her name tag “Florence?”

“Just call me Flo,” she said, eyebrows raised. “And no wisecracks about Nightingale, or I’ll forget to give you any more painkillers.”

“Okay, Flo. I need my pants and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“No you won’t, Mr. Smarty Pants. Not until the good doctor tells us you’re good to go. Until then—back in bed.”

She began tugging his arm toward the bed when he heard a knock on the door.

Alena peered through the doorway. “You decent? Oh, wow…now, there’s a view.” She started laughing, then turned serious. “Huh, almost forgot…Beck and Willy need to talk to you.”

“Okay, okay. You win, Flo. I’ll stay in bed for now. See, I’m doing what you asked.” He eased himself onto the bed. “Now, can you give us a little privacy?”

Flo looked at him suspiciously. “I’ll be back to check on you.” She wagged a finger at Alena. “Make sure he stays put.”

She gave a nod. “I’ll do my best. But he can be such a pig.”

Gerrit glanced up. “I may be a little rough…wait a minute. Do you mean
pigheaded
?”

“Whatever. Stubborn like one of those animals.” Alena struggled to use American colloquialisms, but her Russian and Yiddish translations often missed the mark. Like right now.

“I’ll accept
pigheaded
. In fact, I consider that a compliment.”

She gave him a pained look, waiting until the nurse left before motioning toward two men lurking outside. As soon as they entered, she closed the door.

Willy Williams, laptop lovingly tucked under his arm as if it were his girlfriend, edged close and gave Gerrit a worried look. “Any closer to that bomb, Mr. G, and you’d be blacker than I am.” He took a chair and began powering up, focusing on the screen as the others chatted.

Behind Willy, FBI Special Agent Beck Malloy drew up a chair next to the hospital bed. Malloy, with his open dress shirt with a T-shirt underneath, khaki pants, and wavy raven-black hair, looked more like a college professor than a federal agent. Until you saw him in action. “We need to talk, Gerrit. We just—”

“Shut up, Beck!” Willy glared at the agent, pressing his forefinger against his lips. Then he moved his finger to his ear, indicating that someone might be listening.

Beck gave him a shocked look, and then turned to Gerrit. “Grab your pants. We need to talk…
now
.”

“Got a little problem,” Gerrit said. “Nurse Ratched might come back at any time. Just grab my robe.”

Alena helped him climb from the bed and slip into a white terrycloth robe. “By the way,” she whispered. “It was a nice view.” She waggled her eyebrows mischievously.

Gerrit grinned. “Flo’s going to be ticked. I wish I could see her face when she finds I’ve flown the coop.”

Willy chuckled. “I might be able to arrange that, Mr. G. I’ll explain later.”

A few minutes later, Gerrit and the others slipped past the nurse’s station and made their way to an empty room. When Beck had arrived, the guard took a break. Gerrit perched himself on the bed, feeling woozy.

Beck peered at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Now, what’s up?”

Beck thrust his chin toward Willy. “Take it away, computer geek.”

“Sure thing, Mr. B.” Willy reopened his computer. “When they dragged your sorry behind into this hospital, Mr. G., I made sure to set up a few monitors for your protection.”

“Audio and visual surveillance?”

“You got it. And I set it up so I could remotely keep an eye on the area through my own computer program. These monitors feed information back to a single source, and I can download the feed into whatever device I’m using.”

“Get to the point, Williams,” Beck said. “Time’s running out.”

Gerrit glanced at both men. “You two are a little testy. Want some of my meds?”

Alena moved closer, taking his hand in hers as she sat next to him. “Let Willy finish, babe. This is serious.”

“Remember the
Daemon File
program we dumped into their system back in Albuquerque?”

Gerrit nodded. It was the first operation he led after joining Alena and the team. Fighting their way into a New Mexico computer lab, they tracked down what turned out to be the heart and soul of a program that promised to make privacy a thing of the past. Dubbed
Project Megiddo,
the program was built upon a network of proxy servers on steroids, using quantum-computer breakthroughs known only to a few in the scientific community.

Richard Kane planned for his organization to use this system to break down computer firewalls and develop a massive intelligence base. Eventually, they planned on using this data to change the world’s balance of power: blackmail, extortion, access to intelligence data systems—whatever it took to gain the upper hand. Kane and the others perished several nights ago before they could act.

“I’ve used my little daemons to track and target any information that group passed on about us and to snoop around to learn what other trouble they might be up to.”

“Like access to nuclear weapons programs?”

Willy nodded. “I have been focusing on any online communications with that source in D.C. who seemed to control Kane and the others. Can’t find who this guy might be, but the last communication I traced went to your old boss at Seattle PD.”

“Lieutenant Cromwell?” Gerrit asked.

The last thing they had discussed was about bombs. Gerrit’s familiarity with bombs went way back to his time in the military. One of his bomb instructors once remarked that Gerrit seemed to have a knack with things that went boom. That pyrotechnics must run in his veins. He never shared that
compliment
with anyone because they might think he was a little strange—okay, more than a
little
.

“Yeah, that traitor.” A scowl crossed Willy’s dark features. “Anyway, my program tracked the source and I saw a communiqué that sent up red flags.” Willy glanced at his screen. “It reads: ‘
Contract for problems in Seattle on track for extermination. GO and friends. Contract signed and delivered. Ready to initiate next step when problems eliminated.
’”

“He’s referring to us,” Gerrit said, suddenly feeling stupid for stating the obvious. His medication must be fogging his brain more than he thought.

Willy nodded. “That’s how I read it.” He looked around the room. “All of us.”

Beck moved forward. “I think he’s right, Gerrit. We’ve got to move you out of here. Now.”

Alena gave him a bag of clothing, price tags still attached. “I hope you like my choice of’ styles. Didn’t have much time to shop.”

“Whatever you selected will work for me.” He removed his robe, then started to remove his hospital gown.

Alena looked away. “Whoa, cowboy.” To the others, she said, “I’ll keep an eye on the hallway until Gerrit’s dressed. Then you two help him get out of here while I keep the nurse distracted.”

As Gerrit slipped into his trousers, he glanced over at Beck. “Where’s Joe?”

Gerrit’s uncle was the informal leader of the group. As cyber-security specialists, Joe and Willy worked to keep the group’s movements hidden from those who might try to track them down. Joe narrowly escaped the same bombing that killed Gerrit’s parents.

“He’ll catch up with you later. Willy gave him an update, and he flew out a few hours ago to start setting up new aliases for everyone. Whoever tried to blow you up must have tracked everything you owned or used by now. We all have to start over. Here, I pulled this from your property in case we had to move fast.” Beck handed Gerrit a black semiauto Smith & Wesson M&P40 along with several loaded magazines.

“Thanks.” Gerrit laid the weapon on the bed. He slipped his belt through the holster, then picked up the gun and inserted the magazine, chambering a round before slipping the weapon into his holster. “Now I don’t feel so naked.”

Willy coughed. “Hey, Mr. G., one more piece of bad news. Project Megiddo is still on. All we did—by destroying the last two labs—only postponed their plans.”

“Does it say what that next phase might be?” Gerrit buttoned up his shirt. “Or where they might be headed?” He glanced at the sleeves and saw they were a perfect fit, just like the trousers.

“No. They don’t give a hint. But I will monitor this guy’s e-mails to see if they screw up.”

Gerrit turned to the FBI agent. “Beck, where are we supposed to catch up with Joe?”

Willy tapped his shoulder. “Mr. G. I can answer that—”

The door flew open as Alena rushed in. “We got trouble. Those hitters might already be here. I asked the nurse to walk with me to the front lobby downstairs to check on your hospital fees to distract her for a few minutes. Two men came through together. They have the look I’ve seen before—hired guns.”

Beck grabbed the door and peered around the corner. “Nothing here. You guys get to the exit. I’ll cover the hallway and slow them down if I can. Just make it to the garage. Willy has a van waiting there.”

Gerrit nodded and grasped Beck’s hand. “Thanks for everything.”

The FBI agent gave him a quick nod. “Stay safe.”

Gerrit, Alena, and Willy started to make their way to a stairwell at the end of the hall. They were a few yards from the exit when the elevator door rang.

Gerrit opened the stairwell door and motioned for Alena and Willy to go on ahead. Glancing back, he saw two men emerge. One of them spotted Gerrit and reached for something under his black leather jacket.

Gun.

“FBI. Raise your hands!” Beck emerged from the unoccupied hospital room, weapon raised.

Gerrit reached for his weapon as he turned to face the gunmen. They were approximately forty yards away and seemed confused by Beck’s command. They hesitated for a moment. Beck stood about twenty yards away, with an angled shot at the gunmen. Gerrit’s shot would travel twice that distance, and at this angle his rounds might endanger innocent civilians. Beck’s angle offered a thick concrete wall directly behind the shooters if he missed. The first wave of gunfire erupted down the hall as the gunmen turned their attention toward Beck. Frustrated, Gerrit lowered his weapon as Alena gripped his shoulder.

“Keep going! We have to make it to the car. Beck has backup en route.”

Gerrit shot her a skeptical look.

She tugged harder. “He had two agents stationed down below. Let them handle this.
Please
.”

He turned, gritting his teeth. As he moved down the stairs, his legs and stomach felt shaky. Just as they emerged in the garage parking lot, sirens wailed in the distance. Cops would be on the scene any minute. Backup on the way. Beck and his men could hold off the gunmen until then. Still, Gerrit hated to leave anyone behind.

He turned and followed Alena down the stairs.

February 20

D
evon, still fighting jet lag, sat in a black Porsche 911 Carrera tucked away in the hospital parking garage. Flicking his spent cigarette outside, he reached for another and found the pack empty. He wadded it up and tossed it out the window.
Nasty habit.
Suddenly, his tired eyes snapped opened as frantic voices erupted from his radio.

“Incoming on the twelfth floor. FBI.” One of the men Devon sent into the hospital for reconnaissance yelled over the portable. He slammed his fist on the dash. They were just supposed to look around. Not take on the feds.