The Devil's Pitchfork (35 page)

With an angry jerk Derek dropped the empty magazine from the weapon and held out his hand. “Got more?”

“Not to do that.”

“I need a weapon.”

“You need to go home and sleep it off. You need some R&R. We’ve got it under control here.”

“Coffee’s gone. Dulles. He’s got the virus and plans to let it loose on a plane. Even with instructions on how to make the vaccine it might be too late if we don’t stop him. This virus acts too fast and getting it distributed will take too long. Millions might still die. I’m going after him. I need a gun.”

Then Derek reached under his scrub shirt and retrieved the computer disks and leaned down to pick up the box containing the vaccine. “Get this to USAMRIID.” He quickly explained what they were.

Johnston took the disks and the vials. “I’ll get this over there right away. But don’t go after Coffee alone--”

“Spare magazine. Now.” Derek raised the gun in his hand and held out his other for the spare magazine. Reluctantly Johnston dropped it into his hand.

Derek said, “I need clothes.” His eyes darted. He forced his way into the nearest trailer, the one he had hidden beneath. There was broken glass on the floor. Furniture. A TV. It was almost homey. In the living area he found a closet with men’s and women’s clothing. He quickly drew on jeans, a denim shirt, socks and a pair of running shoes. They were all a little big on him, but they would do. “Where are we?” he asked Johnston, who had silently followed him in.

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“Arlington. By the river. Derek, I’ll alert the Bureau. Don’t go after him—”

But his words fell on thin air as Derek rushed from the trailer and sprinted across the warehouse toward a rank of cars, Jeeps and motorcycles. Derek jumped on a cycle, kicked it into life and roared out of the headquarters of The Fallen Angels.

60

D
EREK RACED ACROSS TOWN
on the motorcycle, in and out among cars, shifting onto the shoulder when the morning traffic clogged. Dulles was a long way from the warehouse in Alexandria, more than twenty miles west. He sped down Braddock to King Street through Sleepy Hollow and Falls Church, charging onto 66 to 267, The Dulles Airport Access Road. Cars, buildings, trees, parks, business were all a blur out of the corners of his eyes. All he felt was an urgency, adrenaline coursing through his veins like an electrical wire in his blood.

As he approached Dulles, his mind registered the signs indicating airlines. Dulles was huge. Probably about a million square feet.

The Air France sign was the most obvious clue. If Richard Coffee was actually heading toward France, that was the way to go, concourse B.

He parked the bike and stopped to take a deep breath. Security was going to be tight. He didn’t have ID and he looked like a wreck. What the hell had he been thinking?

He went in, browsing the computer screens behind the ticket counters. Dulles was a babble of voices in all languages. Flights to Paris...

There was one leaving in an hour.

His gaze scanned the crowd. Hundreds of people, men, women, children. All on the move. Waiting in line, in and out of bathrooms, in and out of the bars and lounges and restaurants. People brushed past him carrying laptop computers and carry-on luggage, hauling wheeled suitcases like reluctant overweight dogs.

If Coffee was here, what would he be doing? Would he have headed for his gate? If he had, Derek thought he might as well forget it. The thought made him feel desperate, panicky. Once again, he felt the panic rat gnawing at his guts. After all this, to be too late. Without his passport or a ticket he didn’t stand a chance of picking up Coffee here.

What would Coffee do?

If Derek were in Coffee’s shoes, he would head for his gate at the last minute, staying in crowded areas with exits. Would Coffee be so cocky as to assume nobody was pursuing him?

Somebody bumped him and he stepped aside, gaze scanning the crowd.

Something sharp pressed against his spine. Coffee’s low voice said, “You are unbelievable. Come with me.”

Derek tensed. “I’m perfectly happy right here, Richard.”

The blade pressed harder into his back. “It would be seriously inconvenient for me to kill you right here, Derek, but I could. I could push this blade right into your spinal column, leave the knife there and walk away and be gone. Move it!”

Derek walked the way Coffee directed him, toward an escalator.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere else.”

“I’ve told the authorities you’re here. They’ll be here soon. We’ve caught the rest of your people.”

“I’ll find more.”

They rode down the escalator and Coffee directed him toward the revolving turnstiles of the baggage claim areas.

“Picking up your luggage?”

Coffee moved him close to where the conveyor belt slipped inside the luggage area. Suitcases rode on their endless journey.

“It’s the end for you, Derek. I’m not—”

A tall, striking woman appeared from the crowd. She wore tan slacks, a white oxford shirt and a maroon blazer. One hand was deep in the blazer pocket. “Don’t move, Surkho.”

Derek had never seen the woman before. Behind him Coffee said, “Irina. Well, well, well. Traveling today?”

“Let him go.”

“I’d really like to know how you followed me here.”

She seemed calm. “You think this is the time for it, Surkho?”

“I learn from my mistakes.”

A small smile played across her lips. “Nadia had to pay for that apartment somehow. I backtracked the financials. Probably just a step ahead of the FBI. Now let him go.”

Coffee shrugged and stepped away. Derek moved aside, his gun heavy in his own pocket. He looked around for security guards. He couldn’t believe there were none to be seen. Where the hell were they all? One shout would bring them running, he was sure.

Coffee pulled a can of Coke from his pocket.

“It’s not ideal,” Coffee said, “but this will do.”

Derek lunged at Coffee, grabbing onto his old friend’s wrist. Coffee slammed his other hand into Derek’s skull. His head felt like a gong, but he held on with one hand, hammering at his wrist with the other, wanting him to drop the can. He mustn’t release Chimera here.

They tumbled onto the moving treadmill, bumped and banged by moving luggage. Somebody screamed. Somebody else yelled for security.

Derek slammed Coffee’s arm down onto the stainless steel rim of the luggage carousel. The can slipped from his grip and went rolling and skittering across the moving treadmill. They  dived after it. Derek got his fingers on it but it shot away.

Coffee spun after it, but Derek caught him by the belt and knocked him down. Coffee kicked out, connecting solidly with Derek’s knee. Derek felt something snap and a burst of pain exploded through his leg. He tried to stand, but his left leg collapsed beneath him.

He watched helplessly as Coffee chased after the Coke can.

Only to see it picked up by the woman with the gun. Coffee stopped, eyes narrowed. “Give it to me, Irina.”

Irina had a gun in her other hand. “Not a chance.”

Derek finally got his own gun out, shouted, “Freeze! You’re both under—”

Irina fired her weapon at Coffee, who simultaneously dived through the opening into the luggage carousel warehouse.

Derek shouted again. “Put the can down! Do it now!”

She stared at him, surprised. “He’s getting away.”

“Put the can down.”

 She stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Now!” His gun was steady. “I
will
shoot.”

Their gazes locked. She carefully set the can of Coke down on the rim of the carousel and without a moment’s hesitation dived through the hatchway after Richard Coffee.

Derek crawled, dragging his useless leg after him, pain shooting through him until he reached the can of Coke. He leaned back against the carousel, the can of Coke clutched to his chest, the Glock in his other hand, ready to shoot anyone who tried to take it from him. When the first security guards arrived, guns drawn, he said, “My name is Derek Stillwater. I’m with the Department of Homeland Security. You need to contact James Johnston immediately.”

The security cop was a broad-shouldered man with more than a little bit of worry in his dark brown eyes. “Put the gun down.”

Derek shook his head. “National Security matter. A terrorist just went through there into the luggage area. His name is Richard Coffee. He’s very dangerous. Get your people after him. He’s responsible for yesterday’s White House attack.”

“Drop your gun!”

Derek closed his eyes. His breathing was harsh and raspy. “I said...” He trailed off. He would not let down the gun until the Chimera was someplace safe. He had the canister of Chimera. He had stopped Coffee. He had retrieved the devil’s pitchfork.

For now.

EPILOGUE

Ascent

EPILOGUE

Bayman’s Marina, Baltimore, Maryland—Three Weeks Later

D
EREK SPRAWLED IN A
lounge chair on the deck of
The Salacious Sally
, his left leg in a walking cast. Richard Coffee’s kick to his knee had caused enough damage to require arthroscopic surgery, and Derek would have the cast on his leg for at least another week. The sun was high in the sky, beating down on him. He lay with his eyes closed, listening to Dave Brubeck on the stereo system, a cold Corona at his fingertips and three more on ice in a cooler within easy reach.

A pleasant voice said, “Knock, knock.”

Derek opened his eyes. Liz Vargas stood on the dock next to the
Sally
, smiling at him. She looked paler and thinner than he remembered, but otherwise seemed healthy.

“Well,” he said. “Come aboard, Doctor. How are you feeling?”

“Still a little weak,” she said, coming aboard.

“The recovery time isn’t bad. Three weeks.”

She shrugged. “I was on my feet in one week, a little bit slow for recovery from internal bleeding injuries, but not bad.”

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to another lounge chair. “Beer?”

“That would be good,” she said

He pointed to the cooler. “Sorry for not being polite, but the my leg’s still pretty sore.”

He knew she had narrowly avoided death. Johnston hand-delivered the vaccine to USAMRIID and Ben Zataki rushed it into The Slammer to administer a dose to her. The vaccine had not been designed for use after the disease set in, and it hadn’t looked like it would work. In most cases, once a disease kicked in, the only thing a vaccine did was overload the immune system. There were exceptions—like smallpox, if caught early enough in the infection—and luckily for Liz, Chimera had been one of the exceptions. Slowly the vaccine worked, and after a week of spiked fevers, anemia and various other problems, she had started to recover.

“Anybody told you your recovery seems rather quick?” Derek asked.

She smiled hesitantly. “It’s about average, considering I’m the only human being who’s ever been infected with Chimera. Compared to recovery from Ebola—for those lucky enough to recover—I’m about average.”

Liz took a swallow of beer, then set it down. “How’s your knee? Are you on pain medication?”

“You’re drinking it,” he said.

“Oh. Well ... I wanted to know ... I mean, I know some of what happened, but not all of it.”

He took a long swallow of beer, thought for a moment, then told her. He left out a few details that needed to be kept secret for national security reasons, but otherwise he told her as much as he could.

They had not found Richard Coffee. He disappeared. Irina Khournikova—the real Irina Khournikova—disappeared as well, though everyone knew she had disappeared back into the T Directorate in Moscow.

The Coke can had been analyzed at USAMRIID and it contained aerosolized Chimera.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked when he finished his recitation.

He looked at her. “Did Johnston send you over here?”

Her face flushed pink. “Well, Sharon Jaxon asked me to, and so did Cindy Black.”

Cindy Black, the helicopter pilot, was still in the hospital. Her testimony to Aaron Pilcher cleared Derek of any connection to Sam Dalton. Derek felt he owed her for that; and owed Pilcher for keeping an open mind and for staying by her bedside until she became conscious.

Derek visited her every day. She had a broken back, fractured pelvis and assorted other injuries. She would be able to walk someday, but her career in the Coast Guard was probably over.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” he said.

Johnston had been reinstated as Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, a national hero. He wanted Derek to come aboard as his Deputy Director. Derek told him no. What he actually said was, “You’re fucking crazy. No fucking way.” Then he turned in his resignation as a troubleshooter. Johnston said he’d keep his resignation in mind.

Derek hadn’t changed his mind. But he did have a plan.

“So what will you do?” she asked again.

He shrugged. “I’ve got a couple ideas. How about you?”

“They’ve invited me to work at USAMRIID. I’m thinking about it. But I might just look for a job in academia.”

He smiled. “I might, too. Or, I might just retire. Or, I’m thinking some travel might be in order.”

There was something about the way he said it. She looked at him closely, wondering. They sat in silence, enjoying the sun. She said, “What do you think happened to Richard Coffee?”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he reached over to the paperback novel he had been reading off and on, and pulled out a postcard and handed it to her. “Got this in the mail yesterday,” he said. “I haven’t shown it to Johnston yet. You know, the Department of Homeland Security only has jurisdiction here in the United States.”

She studied the postcard. On the front was a picture of a devil holding a pitchfork. Turning it over, she saw it said: “See you soon, Derek. Count on it.” The postmark was from Mexico City.

She looked at him. “You’re thinking of travel?”

“Haven’t been to Mexico in a while,” Derek said, tipping his beer at her. “Maybe I’ll start there.”