The Gender Experiment: (A Thriller) (25 page)

When the checkpoint station came into view on the left, Bailey slowed and scanned for the SUV, but didn’t see it. She made the turn and parked at the outer edge of the visitors’ lot. After pulling on the overcoat, she took off running across the grassy slope that separated the highway from the first row of military housing. She needed an easy-to-steal vehicle. Jeeps were quick to hot wire, and the base probably had them sitting around.

She ran past two streets lined with perfectly maintained new homes and apartments, a quaint image with the snow-covered ground and sun peeking over the horizon. No slobs or slackers allowed in a military neighborhood. But no Jeeps either, so far. Almost no vehicles on display at all. They had to be tucked into garages. Bailey kept moving, her feet already cold from the wet snow.

When she hit the main road leading into the community, she started scanning for vehicle storage lots. Every base had them. She spotted one on the next block. A vehicle was coming down the road in her direction, so she jogged behind a building and cut across the side street. In the distance, engines started, lights flickered on, and heat pumps generated white noise. She had to do this quickly before someone spotted the anomaly that she presented—a forty-year-old, non-uniformed woman running on base in sensible work shoes.

The lot was only partially fenced, so Bailey sprinted around the barrier and ducked in between two oversized vehicles that that looked like bigger, stranger versions of tanks. Beyond those, she spotted three Jeeps and a Humvee. Excellent.

She jumped into the smallest Jeep, pried off the dashboard cover, and pulled out the jumble of ignition wires. Yellow to red. It was that simple. The engine roared, giving her an old familiar thrill. She’d stolen plenty of cars in high school to take joy riding. She’d returned all but the one she’d wrecked. Joy riding had been her favorite of the many self-indulgent activities she’d pursued until she’d gotten control of her impulses. But taking what she wanted was natural to her—and often fun.

The feeling passed quickly. This was a military base, and she was an intruder. She would be lucky not to end up in a windowless room with expressionless armed guards. Bailey eased out of the lot and instinctively headed away from the base’s entrance. The hospital was at the back. Her earlier map study had provided a visual layout to work with, but it wouldn’t help her locate the secret complex. Still, she expected a medical research lab to be near the hospital, perhaps below it.

The base intrigued her. Numbered buildings with open spaces and rolling hills in between. No clutter or trash, no pedestrians, and nothing that looked aged or run-down. She noticed a pub, a behavioral health clinic, and a fire station. Looking down a side street for the SUV, she noticed a cluster of fast food restaurants. A self-contained community.

Five blocks ahead at the T-intersection, she noticed the big dark SUV make a right turn.
Yes!
She gassed the Jeep, no longer worried about being seen. The driver wouldn’t be concerned about a military vehicle behind him. Beyond the intersection, the three-story hospital sat on a small hill, with a gently-rising wilderness area behind it. Was the unsub headed into the hospital parking lot?

She exceeded the 15-mph speed limit, raced to the last stop sign, and turned right. The SUV had skipped the hospital entrance and was driving past a golf course into open terrain. Now that she had the big vehicle in sight, Bailey reduced her speed and hung back. While she followed, she worked through possible scenarios. If they were headed to the secret lab, it was probably gated, guarded, or difficult to enter. Following the unsub inside might be impossible. Apprehending him before he reached that point might be more logical. Once she had him in custody, he became leverage, a bartering tool. She was on her own for now, so the rulebook was moot.

Still, it would be nice to have backup. Using voice command, she called Agent Renfro again. “Bailey here. I’m inside Fort Carson, but leaving the main base on a back road headed southeast. I’m still following a dark SUV, driver unknown, but he’s the one I caught destroying files at the clinic.”
Close enough.
She needed a solid reason for pursuing him and making an arrest.

“I’m headed your way,” Renfro said. “About five miles out. Does the base have a checkpoint?”

“Yes, but I went around on foot after being denied yesterday. Tell them you’re picking up a friend or something.”
Damn.
Renfro’s stop at the visitor center would slow her down. Maybe even block her backup cold. Hopefully, the Denver team or SWAT unit—if either arrived—would bring a warrant or official paperwork that would bypass the clearance bullshit. But in case Renfro made it through, Bailey gave her basic directions. “Once you’re inside, come straight to the back of the base, turn right, and stay on that road.” She clicked off.

Her phone beeped with a text from Havi. With one hand, she opened it. No message, only a photo of a handsome man in his late fifties with military-cropped graying blond hair and the caption
Major Blackburn
. It helped to know who she was looking for. Another text followed with an attachment, but now was not an ideal time to read the major’s background profile.

The snow clouds began to part, and the morning sky brightened. Bailey hung back, not wanting to spook the driver or move in before they were within striking distance of the complex. How would she know? She typically relied on logic as her operating mode, but this one might call for a gut instinct. Fortunately, even her hunches were better than most people’s. More important, she needed a plan. At the moment, all she could think of was to run the other car off the road.

Devin took another gulp of coffee and rolled down her window. The cold fresh air helped, but she was still woozy and sick to her stomach. How long would the effect of the heroin last? Once she dropped off the computers at the complex for incineration, she had to find and terminate Wozac. How could she do it feeling like this? Grabbing and smashing data storage at the clinic had been mindless and easy in comparison. At least until all hell broke loose. Finding the reporter in the building had surprised her, yet it made sense that he would be there, searching for the evidence she was sent to destroy. It had been a lucky break—after chasing and failing to terminate him twice. Putting two bullets into Wilson had felt victorious.

But the breaking glass and firebombs that followed had been a complete shock, so she’d fled the scene in a still-high-on-dope state of panic. Devin didn’t know what the hell had happened, but once she was safely on the road, she’d burst into rare laughter. Another lucky break. The clinic would burn to the ground, not only destroying all trace of the Peace Project, but giving her some peace of mind too. As proud as she was of her service to her country, she hated the damn drug that had made her this way.

And as much as she respected her father, she hated him too. At the age of six, she’d tried to tell him she was female, but he’d shut her down and threatened to beat the girlishness out of her if she brought it up again. She hadn’t. The major wasn’t abusive very often, and she liked to keep it that way.

The violence issue troubled her. The Peace Project’s mission was to end the horrible violence of Islamic terrorists. But she’d killed five people in their quest to keep the project going forward.
Five lives were nothing,
she told herself again. Nothing compared to the thousands and thousands who would die over the next twenty years—either from direct warfare, Sharia law, or the disease and starvation that plagued the refugees fleeing the terrorists. Yet the five deaths bothered her now, and she didn’t want to be a fixer anymore. Did she feel this way because of the heroin? She hoped the guilt and revulsion would go away when the drug finally wore off.

One more, Devin told herself. After she terminated Wozac, she would get her last tattoo and tell the major she wanted a transfer. Living under the radar—and under her father’s direct supervision—wasn’t how she wanted to spend her life. She would always serve her country, but there had to be something better for her. The major had started his military career as a doctor, a healer. Maybe she would become a paramedic or Medevac pilot like he had been.

Another wave of nausea rolled over her, and Devin stuck her head out the window. Frigid air slammed into her face and pushed the sickness down. When the heroin had first hit her system, she’d been euphoric, experiencing a pleasure and sense of wellbeing she’d never known. She’d stopped at a park and sat for an hour, marveling at the beauty of nature and the diversity of people who came and went. But she’d soon become drowsy and had checked into a motel and slept until the major called. During the wait to carry out her clinic assignment, she’d walked around, eaten what she could stomach, and drank a shit-ton of coffee. Maybe the caffeine was making her sick now.

Twenty minutes later, as she neared the entrance to the research complex, another wave of nausea hit her. Devin pulled off the road, climbed from her car, and vomited.

The SUV suddenly swerved to the side of the road and stopped.
Oh shit.
The driver had probably spotted her. Bailey braked and pulled her weapon. She eased to the edge of the gravel but kept moving forward. She rolled down her window, transferred her Glock to her left hand, and stuck the gun outside the car where she could fire it.

Fifty feet ahead, the driver stepped out, bent over, and started puking.
What the hell?
A ruse to lure her in close? Not likely. Bailey slammed to a stop, shut off the engine, and sprinted toward the incapacitated unsub. Rather than risk a chase or physical confrontation—or be forced to shoot an unidentified, possibly unarmed man—she would simply slam into him, knock him to the ground, and cuff him.
Did she have handcuffs in her jacket pocket?
Yes.

The man looked up seconds before impact, but he didn’t have time to brace. Bailey put up her free hand at the last moment to minimize the impact to herself and hit him broadside. They both went down, her landing on top. She registered pain but ignored it. With her forearm pressed against the side of his neck, Bailey got up on her knees and rolled the man face down. As she grabbed for the handcuffs, he suddenly bucked. To shortstop the altercation, she slammed the butt of her Glock into the back of his head, then cuffed him before he could recover.

She pushed to her feet. “Roll over so I can see you.” She stepped out of reach and kept the Glock aimed at his head. He didn’t comply, so she rammed a foot under his shoulder, lifted, and shoved.

The face staring back at her was young, sharply defined, and strangely pretty. In fact, the kid looked a lot like the photo of Major Blackburn, only more feminine. “Who are you? Devin Blackburn?”

The man, or boy, was silent. He had to be a soldier, otherwise he wouldn’t have made it through the checkpoint. Did he have a weapon? “Roll back over.”

This time, he did as told. Bailey dropped onto his back and searched under his jacket for a weapon, but found a phone and a magnetized key-card. A security pass? That might come in handy. She slipped both into her pocket, then patted down his legs and confiscated a small handgun from an ankle holster. Was this the weapon used to shoot Zion Tumara?

She stood. “Don’t move or I’ll put a bullet in you.” Bailey stepped over to his SUV and looked inside. A military-issue rifle sat on the passenger’s seat. On the floor of the vehicle, she spotted a roll of duct tape and a pair of plastic handcuffs. Materials used in restraining someone—like a kidnap victim.
Interesting.
Maybe Lopez really was in the complex. Bailey glanced at her detainee. He hadn’t moved. She remembered his vomiting. What kind of sick was he? Poisoned? Such as with a suicide pill? That seemed extreme, and she had no knowledge that soldiers carried such things.

Bailey reached in and grabbed the duct tape. She needed to get him into his car, which she would appropriate. They wouldn’t go anywhere just yet—she had other objectives to accomplish—but keeping him out of sight seemed wise.

She squatted next to his feet, grabbed his ankles, and began to apply the tape. He kicked at her, and she rocked back. Bailey caught herself with one hand, and felt a burst of rage.
The little shit!
She squeezed his Achilles tendon between two fingers until he lay still. But he didn’t cry out. A tough guy. Good for him.

She wrapped the tape in a loose figure-eight pattern, leaving enough slack in the middle so he could walk with tiny steps but not escape. She jabbed her Glock into the back of his calf. “Get on your feet.”

He didn’t respond.

“Hey, I can cut you a deal if you cooperate. Otherwise, you’re going to prison for life. I caught you with the weapon you used to murder Zion Tumara, and I’m sure the bureau’s forensics team will find Taylor Lopez’s DNA in your SUV.”

If she could manage to get the vehicle off base to have it processed.

The man was silent.

“Get on your feet and shuffle back to your car. It’s damn cold out here.” Actually, the morning sun was warming the air and melting the snow, but after lying in it for a few minutes, he had to be wet and cold. Still, he was a soldier, so hitting him or threatening him with pain was probably pointless. Bailey tried again with persuasion. “Work with me. Tell me who gave you the kill orders. Save yourself.”

The man finally brought his knees up and struggled to his feet.

Bailey locked eyes with him. “Who are you?”

“First Lieutenant Devin Blackburn.”

The major’s son, as she thought. She repressed a smile. Perhaps his father would be interested in a trade.

“Agent Bailey, FBI.” She nodded and gestured at his SUV. “I’m detaining you for questioning in the disappearance of Taylor Lopez.”

“You have no jurisdiction here.”

“I will. The bureau director has made a call to the commander-in-chief. A team will be here with an executive order soon.”

Devin shuffled toward his SUV. While he inched his way over, Bailey took his rifle and stashed it out of reach in the back, where she found a pile of smashed computer hard drives. From the clinic? A technician should still be able to recover the files. Only a powerful magnet would completely wipe out digital data. She searched the rest of Blackburn’s vehicle and found a grey-canvas duffle bag, and a black, hard-plastic box. A look inside the duffle bag revealed more duct tape, lock picks, tools, and a variety of hats, sunglasses, and shirts. For disguises? What the hell was in the black box? It was locked, so she suspected weapons. An assassin’s treasure trove.