Callsign: King (Jack Sigler) (Chesspocalypse #1)

The drive had seemed interminably long. The unfamiliar environment was a flood of new sensory information that had to be interpreted and categorized. At the same time, he wrestled with the mystery of the attack.

His mind was like a computer, sorting what he knew and what he suspected, running through all the possible explanations to see which made the most sense, and like a computer running a complex program, the activity slowed down his processing speed.

He was certain that the four shooters were private contractors, and knew that, once he could establish contact with Deep Blue he’d be able to pin down exactly who they were. The trucks and other equipment would have left a money trail. But because the attackers were in all likelihood hired guns, there was no guarantee that the trail would lead back to the person or organization that had ordered the attack. A connection to Sara’s mission in Africa was by no means explicit, but none of the alternative explanations made any sense.

Dead end, he thought. I need more information.

He contemplated calling Deep Blue then and there on the dedicated Chess Team satellite phone stashed in his bag, but he wasn’t even sure what questions to ask.

He jogged the half-block from where he’d parked the truck to the hospital’s main entrance, his senses on alert for any hint of trouble. The first few steps were excruciating. His body was a mass of bruises from the crash, and as the adrenaline drained away, pain and stiffness had set in with a vengeance. For a few minutes, he moved like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz, creaky with rust. But he was no stranger to pain. He didn’t think he’d suffered any internal injuries, and the muscle soreness would eventually pass. He’d found a first-aid kit in truck, and had used it to clean and bandage the worst of his lacerations, including the wound on his arm where a bullet had grazed him. He had also downed an 800 mg Motrin tablet.

There would be time to rest and heal once he knew that Sara was not in danger.

He entered the hospital building on high alert, his right hand close to the MP5 concealed in the duffel bag slung over his shoulder, but nothing appeared to be amiss. Despite the language barrier, he managed to convey to the woman at the reception desk that he was looking for the CDC team, and a few minutes later, he opened the door to the conference room where the disease detectives had set up a command post.

The room was a hive of activity. Five people—Caucasians all, wearing familiar American clothes—were hastily unpacking computer and laboratory equipment from a stack of plastic containers lined up near the back wall. There was no sign of Sara.

A kindly looking older man noticed him. “Can I help you?”

King frowned. He hadn’t anticipated having to deal with Sara’s co-workers. The last thing he needed right now was to be given the runaround. He strode across the room, getting close enough to the man to be able to speak in low voice, barely louder than a whisper. “I need to speak with Dr. Fogg. It’s urgent.”

The man flashed a patient smile that suggested he was used to hearing people make such claims for the sake of expediency. “I’m Kerry Frey, Dr. Fogg’s assistant in charge of personnel. She’s busy right now.”

“I need to speak with her. I…” He took a deep breath, wondering how much to reveal. “My name is Jack Sigler. She asked me to come here.”

A gleam of recognition dawned in the other man’s eyes. “So you’re Jack. Sara has spoken of you. She’s with the patient in the isolation room on the fourth floor…”

Frey’s voice trailed off as something else in the room grabbed his attention. King turned, following the direction of the other man’s gaze to the door through which he had just entered.

Because he was trained to deal with surprises, King did not lapse into the same paralysis that now afflicted Frey, but he was nevertheless taken aback by the pair of figures, all in black from the soles of their combat boots to the tops of the balaclavas which almost completely covered their faces. A curse formed on his lips, but before he could speak the word, the two figures, in perfect synchronization, each tossed something into the room.

“Shit!”

Even though the objects were tumbling through the air, King recognized them immediately. Black metal tubes about three inches long, an inch in diameter, and perforated with a Swiss cheese pattern of holes.

Flash-bangs! Shit!

There was no time to seek cover, no time to even shout a warning. King did the only thing he could think of: he dropped to the floor, curling up like a hedgehog. He pressed his face into his thighs, and covered his ears with his forearms.