The Ancient Breed (26 page)

27

S

omething catastrophic was about to happen today. Nick felt the ominous chill in his bones, and it distressed him. He checked his watch: 10:12 a.m.

The wind shook the palms and the pink-and-white-flowering oleanders lining I-275 as Nick and Agent Johnston crawled in the bumper-to-bumper, rush-hour traffic past the University of Tampa on their way downtown. The air was stifling and thick with humidity. Lightning flickered above the Gulf of Mexico, and grumbling thunder reverberated through the swelling gloom. Nick frowned. What next? An earthquake?

Although Neo had reported that their security teams were in position for today’s political activities, Nick realized the futility of their efforts. Jay Walkingman could be anywhere in the area, ready to serve up his new and improved fountain of youth formula. Neo’s security teams couldn’t blanket the entire city, especially without the services of the local police. Despite their sophisticated surveillance equipment, cutting-edge communications, and other high-tech resources at his disposal, Nick was powerless to stop Walkingman. If there was ever a time when he needed Gabriella’s magical support, it was now. But, of course, she wasn’t accessible.

Earlier that morning, Geronimo plucked fourteen felons from the massive list of vendors, workers, and private security forces employed by the visitation sites, the largest being Busch Gardens. Crow ordered those businesses to suspend their employees who appeared on the felon list for the remainder of the weekend or face government fines. Even the largest corporations complied immediately.

Nick phoned Grandfather, who was visiting Blossom at the hospital, and inquired if the elder Indian sensed the presence of the demon guardian in the Tampa area; but Grandfather said he didn’t. Nick told the old man to contact him if the demon guardian showed up, and then he slammed the sat phone down on the leather seat. Agent Johnston flinched.

“Dammit!” Nick swore. “I can’t believe this day. When I want that miserable son-of-a-bitch demon around, he’s a damn no-show.”

“Why would you want that murderous thing around here, especially today?” Johnston asked.

Nick faced the agent. “To hunt and kill the terrorist.”

“It would do that?”

“Oh yeah, in spades.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story. Some other time.” A few sprinkles dotted the windshield; Nick sighed. This was going to be, as Neo would say, one
mutha
of a day.

Jay Walkingman, now known as “Carl Sanger,” an assistant manager of
Arthur’s Bon Appetit Gourmet Catering
, and his four associates finished unloading the last of the perishables for the luncheon. The head honcho, Arthur Belotti, arrived in his Cadillac Escalade and directed “Carl” to park the company van in the parking garage to avoid potential scrapes and dings from the other delivery vehicles. “Carl” did as he was instructed and then withdrew the remote detonator from his pocket. A mask of rage swamped his compliant-employee expression as he flicked on its power. The winking red light indicated its readiness.

His thumb pressed the detonator button. A few moments later, a distant rumble became a tidal wave of sound that engulfed the traffic din from nearby I-595. He extracted the batteries, wiped his prints off both the detonator and batteries with his handkerchief, and rammed them into the exhaust pipe of a nearby, beat-up minivan.

“Carl Sanger” strode swiftly through the sprinkling rain, a smile breaking his chilly countenance.

“It’s showtime!” he said to himself, ignoring the questioning stares of several passersby.

Nick’s satellite phone rang. It was Rance Osborne.

“Dammit, Nick, this had better be good. I just blew off President Hanover to call you!” the FBI director growled.

“Nice to hear from you, too,” Nick retorted.

“Don’t give me attitude,” Rance warned, “because I’m definitely not in the mood.”

Nick hastily described his visit with Blossom Smith and the ominous outcome of their conversation.

“Holy shit!” Rance exclaimed. “Worldwide, you said?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“What can we do?”

“I was hoping the fountain’s demon guardian might lend us a hand by eliminating Walkingman, but I’m not that lucky,” Nick explained.

“Your luck has run between slim and none as long as I’ve known you,” Rance said, exasperation tainting his words.

“Here’s what I think we should do. Have the president send out a worldwide alert outlining the terrorists’ game plan. Next, tell Hanover to convince his wife to cancel her plans at the VA Medical Center today and fly directly back to Washington,” Nick suggested.

“That it?”

“And pray that the terrorists fail.”

A fireball suddenly erupted and mushroomed on the gray northern horizon, followed by a thunderous shock wave that rocked the black Navigator as it passed the halfway point on the Howard Frankland Bridge above Old Tampa Bay. Tires screeched and steel bodies thudded as drivers on the bridge tried in vain to control their swerving vehicles. Agent Johnston deftly maneuvered between the aslanted vehicles in the burgeoning demolition derby.

“What in God’s name was that?” Rance shouted.

“Hell if I know,” Nicked replied, his nerves shaken. “But it looks from here that there’s been an explosion at Raymond James Stadium.”

“Where the Vice President’s going to speak this morning?”

“That’s the one.”

“Find out what happened and call me.
Yesterday
!” Rance abruptly ended their conversation.

Nick’s phone rang again.

“Hey, Nick, see the show?” Neo asked.

“Yeah, up close and personal. What happened?”

“Seems some asshole rigged the light towers with C-4 explosives and detonated them with a remote triggering device,” Neo reported grimly.

“You want me to check it out while I’m in the vicinity?”

“Nah. I’ve got enough guys on the scene. If this was the big terrorist strike we’ve been warned about, then the bastard was a little trigger-happy. He missed Vice President Donaldson by an hour,” Neo said. “FYI, Walkingman’s mug is being broadcast on all the local channels, four times an hour. Hopefully, someone will spot him and call it in.”

“It’s a long shot, but hey, stranger things have happened. Back to the explosion: My gut tells me that it wasn’t a mistake. I think Walkingman planned the early detonation to be a diversion from the real action,” Nick explained.

“Which is where?”

“My best guess would be the VA Medical Center, where I’m headed now.” Nick heard a ringing phone at Neo’s end of the connection.

“Hang on,” Neo said, and placed Nick on hold.

Neo returned a minute later. “The preliminary reports from the stadium estimate that nearly a hundred people were injured by the overhead blasts, but there’s no word if there were any casualties,” he explained tetchily. “I want this son-of-bitch, Nick, and I want him bad!”

“I’m with you on that. Just keep me posted,” Nick replied, and ended the call. He turned toward his driver. “Let’s shake a tail feather, okay?”

Agent Johnston nodded, switched on the strobing blue lights and siren, and floored the accelerator. The sudden g’s momentarily pinned Nick against his seat. The phone rang again. It was Rance.

“The President tried to persuade his wife to call off her plans and return to the White House, but she refused. You know Natalie; she’s so damned stubborn. She refused to cave in to terrorists,” Rance stated angrily. “Hanover’s hands are tied.”

“Thanks for the good news,” Nick said facetiously.

“Keep me in the loop, Nick,” Rance demanded and was gone.

Jay Walkingman donned his penguin tuxedo at 11:00 a.m. and started serving drinks to seated guests at 11:30. At noon, he told one of the other servers that a button had popped off his shirt, and he was going to see if one of the nurses could sew it back on. He exited the ballroom and walked nonchalantly to the maintenance closet down the hall. After checking to see if the coast was clear, he entered the small room.

He pulled his satchel from the supply cartons; uncovered the ice bucket, tumblers, and serving tray that he had hidden there earlier that morning; and quickly filled eight glasses with bottled water and ice. Then, he poured precisely measured amounts of his formula into each glass.

Two Secret Service agents escorted the First Lady and four other dignitaries into the hospital and down the hallway at 12:15. A smiling “Carl Sanger” greeted them and offered them the simple refreshment.

The two agents declined, but Natalie Hanover graciously accepted. “Thank you, sir. This dreadfully hot, sticky weather down here has left me parched.”

The other dignitaries laughed at her comments as if on cue and accepted the proffered drinks as well. “Carl” moved aside to let them pass, and when they had disappeared around the corner, he returned to the closet. When he reappeared, Walkingman was now “Ben Sanderson,” disguised with a brown mustache, green contact lenses, a neatly styled grayish-brown wig, a light-gray linen suit, a white shirt, and a red-and-gray-patterned silk tie. He glanced down the hallway and strode rapidly from the hospital.

Perfect
, he mumbled to himself.
Just fucking perfect
.

Nick and Agent Johnston arrived at the VA Medical Center at noon after zigzagging through the stalled traffic. Nick raced past the checkpoints into the hospital ballroom. His blue FBI polo shirt clung to his perspiring body, and his hair was a damp mop. He didn’t care. He had a life to save.

He toured the kitchen, observing each of the employees, but none looked like Walkingman or acted suspiciously. He inspected the contents of the stainless-steel refrigerators for signs of tampering, but he didn’t know where to begin. Every food item had been freshly prepared, so the terrorist could have readily poisoned any of them. The bottled drinks were all properly sealed without any telltale puncture marks, but the coffee percolators, teapots, and pans of sizzling chicken breasts, like the refrigerator food, were easy targets. Nick was inclined to ship everything to an FBI testing laboratory, but he had a distinct feeling that the First Lady might object and insist that her husband assign the arrogant
Orion Sector
Director to a remote Alaskan post.

Nick watched as two Secret Service agents accompanied the First Lady and others into the ballroom through a side door. They ascended the risers to the dais. He froze when he spied the drinking glasses in their hands. Dammit! He was too late.

He ran across the ballroom and hurriedly ordered the Secret Service agents to escort the dignitaries into the prearranged, quarantine room for examinations and blood tests to determine if the fountain water poisoned them.

Nick listened to the angry buzz from the seated guests as the First Lady’s procession left the ballroom, but he disregarded it. The hospital director made the announcement that luncheon was officially cancelled, and the disappointed guests left the room under the watchful eyes of the FBI agents positioned at the exits.

Nick approached Arthur Belotti in the kitchen and identified himself.

“Are any of your employees missing?” he asked tersely.

Belotti looked around. “Where’s Sanger?” he shouted at his people over the clanging and banging commotion.

A young man, sporting a single earring and a slight lisp, waved his arm. “Carl had a shirt button pop, so he went out to find a nurse who could fix it,” he volunteered in a lyrical voice.

“Jesus, how long ago was that?” Belotti bellowed.

“Twenty minutes, I think,” the young man replied timidly.

“Can you describe this Carl Sanger?” Nick asked Arthur.

He rubbed his chin and gave Nick a brief description. The young man added that Carl’s eyes were blue.

Nick quickly relayed the description to hospital checkpoints and rushed from the ballroom. He scanned the hall in both directions, but saw no one who matched Carl Sanger’s description. As he sprinted toward the exit doors at the end of the hall, he spotted a closet door. On a hunch, he stopped and entered.

Formal clothing, a wig, a satchel, empty water bottles, a serving tray, and three empty glasses were scattered on the floor.

Nick flipped on the radiophone and alerted his men to detain any suspicious men, approximately six feet two and between 175 and 185 pounds, for questioning. When he stepped outside, he collided with a silver wall of rain that reduced visibility to a few feet.

He realized that their odds of capturing Walkingman in that weather were miniscule. He turned and headed toward the quarantine room inside and wondered how the other terrorists had fared abroad. Hopefully, not as well as Walkingman.

Nick was determined to stop that madman before he could inflict his poison on any more victims. But, since Walkingman changed his identity again, it seemed to be an impossible task.