Black Flagged Apex

Chapter 53





10:37 AM

Wayne County

Pennsylvania



Daniel Petrovich sat in the front passenger seat of the Jeep Grand Cherokee, tensing for the next pothole in the road. Munoz seemed unable to avoid them. They had driven along these roads for the past forty minutes, each turn depositing them onto a smaller, less comfortable stretch of isolated, tree-covered dirt road. Fortunately, they were moving along slowly to accommodate the Ford Transit van following them.

The windowless white van carried the electronic warfare team, which had already proven themselves to be invaluable. Graves and Gupta, two wisecracking cyber geniuses, had swept through Honesdale Construction's unsophisticated computer network and found payments linked to the five million dollars Benjamin Young had shifted to the company's account. The company had multiple projects, both small and large, ongoing and scheduled around the time of the deposit, so they went to work digging. Most of the projects appeared to be legitimate and included several town-awarded contracts along with a dozen or more commercial business expansions.

One project drew their attention, simply because it lacked a physical location. The other projects listed either an address or town grid lot number, but this one lacked any geographic reference. A little more electronic snooping uncovered a list of drivers used for the project, which is how Harry Welsh ended up sitting crammed between Jessica and Melendez in the back seat. Welsh, age thirty-two, had worked as a heavy vehicle driver at Honesdale Construction for nearly six years. He'd listed his mother as next of kin on the company's record sheet, and his recorded address in Pittston put him nearly eighty miles from his mother's address in Middletown, New York. They assumed he was unmarried, which suited their purposes. The last thing they needed when they knocked on his door at 6:00 AM, posing as FBI agents, was a headstrong wife demanding to verify their identities with children crying in the background.

Karl Berg had provided them with six sets of forged credentials matched to Sanderson's operatives, complete with badges and picture identification. Daniel had never really seen an FBI identification case up close, but these looked real and felt authentic. If anyone had questions, they would be happy to pass along accompanying business cards with the Philadelphia field office number, which would be answered by someone in the inconspicuous white van that followed them from a distance.

Harry Welsh had answered the door red eyed and disheveled, clearly woken out of a severe Sunday morning hangover. He barely examined their credentials and didn't seem fazed by their outfits. Daniel and Munoz had purchased several black nylon jackets at Walmart to lend some uniform credibility to their group appearance and to conceal their pistols. It worked with Welsh, though Daniel was convinced that the man was seeing double. As he swayed in the doorway, they thought about leaving him alone and moving on to the next driver, but Welsh insisted he could get them to the site, and Daniel didn't feel like wasting any more time.

According to Welsh, he'd made over a hundred trips out there, sometimes at night, and could drive it blindfolded. Several wrong turns later, Daniel was about to dump him on the side of the road when he finally spotted the dirt road off Route 590. Based on the numerous, recent tire tracks on the seemingly obscure, unmarked road, Daniel decided to give him a little more time. When he started calling out turns well in advance, they felt more confident that the man had found his way.

"How much further?" Munoz said.

"About another quarter mile. It's a pretty big place, you know," Welsh said, followed by a deep, guttural burp. "Sorry about that. The road is f*cking with my stomach."

Daniel turned his head and met Jessica's glare. She didn't look happy to be seated next to Homer Simpson. Welsh's gaseous discharge refreshed the stale beer smell that had persisted in the SUV since he was stuffed into the back seat. Their short trip on the interstate had provided them with enough air turbulence to clear the stench, but they had no such luxury moving along at ten miles per hour on these roads. Daniel's handheld radio crackled and Graves' voice filled the van.

"We're picking up some faint wireless signals to the north. We should proceed on foot from here," he said, and Daniel acknowledged.

Munoz slowed the van in the middle of the road, blocking traffic in both directions. The Ford Transit stopped twenty feet behind them, depositing Fayed and Paracha.

"What kind of fence can we expect?" Daniel asked Welsh.

"I just hauled construction material up here. They didn't have a fence at that point."

"You think it's a quarter mile? Does this road run straight north?"

"Straight as an arrow," Welsh said.

"All right. Let's gear up," he said, and they all stepped into the damp Poconos air.

The operatives met between the two vans.

"Do the two of you mind keeping an eye on Mr. Welsh? We'll head about fifty meters into the forest and turn north toward the site," he said to Fayed and Paracha.

"No problem. We'll make sure nobody gets in or out. Our guys in the van are trying to access the security system. They're pretty sure we're dealing with cameras. High bandwidth wireless output," Fayed said.

"No motion detectors?" Munoz said.

"Not as far as our guys could tell. There might be a hardwired system close to the structure, but these are the only signals so far. I think we should move up another two hundred meters to be sure."

"We'll unload here and set out, while you reposition," Daniel said.

Munoz tossed the vehicle keys to Paracha, who snatched them out of the air.

"Mr. Welsh, Agents Paracha and Fayed will keep you company until we return. We should have you home in an hour or so. This is probably just a wild goose chase, but you never know. You'll be safe here," Daniel said.

He turned and walked to the Cherokee's rear lift gate, raising it to expose two black nylon duffel bags. He pulled out dark green load-bearing vests (LBV) for the four operatives that would approach the compound. The vests had been loaded with thirty-round magazines for the Mark 18 Mod 0 rifles each of them would carry. The Mark 18 was a modified M-4 carbine, fitted with a more compact 10.3-inch barrel, which was better suited for close quarters battle. These preselected versions had been equipped with EOTech holographic sights. Welsh nearly stumbled off the road when Daniel started to distribute the rifles.

"F*ckin' A, man. What are you expecting in there? Osama Bin Laden?" he said, clearly amused with his own comment.

Worse, Daniel thought. Aloud, he said, "Never hurts to be prepared."

Melendez reached into the same duffel bag and removed a thick suppressor, attaching it to the barrel of his rifle. He had already removed the EOTech sight, preferring to trust the iron sights for any long-range shots that might need to be taken. He would be their designated sharpshooter during the compound breach. All of them removed their black jackets and donned hunter camouflage-patterned hoodies and ball caps, also compliments of Walmart. Once they had tightened the LBVs over the camouflage hoodies, they all adjusted their earpieces and conducted a communications check. Everyone would be on the same channel for the raid, including the electronics team. Satisfied that they were ready, Daniel assembled them on the side of the road.

"Melendez, I want you on point. Pick a spot roughly fifty meters out and head due north. The rest of us will follow twenty meters back. Line abreast formation. Jess on the right, Munoz on the left. I got the middle. When we reach the fence, if there is one, we'll breach together. Sound good?"

Everyone nodded, and Melendez removed a small handheld GPS unit, which he quickly configured as a compass. Moments later, their scout disappeared into the thick forest.

"We look like hillbillies. I can't believe our friend hasn't figured it out yet," Jessica whispered.

"He's still about seven Pabst Blue Ribbons away from sober. We could have shown up in clown suits. We're just lucky he found this place," Daniel said.

"You get to ride with him on the way back."

"Thanks," he said.

They pushed their way through the persistent ground cover to catch up with Melendez.

The approach to the compound proved difficult. Stubborn, newly grown underbrush obscured their vision, nearly eliminating any clear line of sight beyond twenty or thirty feet. Upon repositioning the vehicles, Graves was able to fix the locations of four wireless signals, none of which were located in the team's path. Graves felt confident that the signals belonged to four wireless cameras located along the road. He still couldn't discount the possibility of a fence-linked motion detection system. At this point, security for the compound appeared to consist of four separate wireless feeds, which weren't tied to a central system. There was little Graves could do to help them without a computer network to manipulate. If the fence was hardwired into a standalone security alarm, they could expect immediate resistance.

Forty minutes into their patrol, Melendez reached a point where he could observe the fence. They all moved into a tight formation around Melendez and surveyed what they could see of the grounds. Daniel could see a tall chain-link fence topped with a single coil of concertina wire. It was difficult to tell from his angle, but it looked like the fence backed right up against the forest. Large branches appeared to rest on the concertina wire in a few places, flattening the coils. This basic observation convinced him that the fence was neither electrified, nor rigged with motion detection equipment. The constantly moving branches would have shorted the fence and driven security personnel insane with false alarms.

"Looks like about fifty meters of open ground," he said.

"Maybe a little less. I don't see any cameras mounted to the building, but I'd need to get closer to verify. Too many blind spots from here," Melendez said.

"All right. Let's move up to the fence and observe for a few minutes. Keep low."

The small group slithered through the brush on the forest floor to a point along the fence. Now Daniel could see everything. Devoid of windows, the building's frontage spanned over one hundred feet. Two black Suburbans, parked side by side, faced a closed loading bay at the far eastern end of the building. Daniel couldn't see a gate from his angle, but he could discern a well-worn driveway leading away from the loading bay. A single, closed metal door was located to the right of the loading bay, made accessible by a short concrete slab stairway. The building's walls were constructed of featureless, gray cinderblocks, holding up what appeared to be a flat, metal roof. He could discern no pitch whatsoever to the roof, which struck him as unusual given the vast size of the one-story building. If the interior craftsmanship resembled anything close to the lackluster exterior appearance, Honesdale Construction owed Mr. Mills about four million dollars.

"I don't see any cameras," Munoz said.

"Neither do I," Jessica said.

"I think we should move down the fence until we can see the western side of the building. If it's clear, Melendez will provide cover while we move to the corner. Melendez follows when we reach the building. We'll then move along the exterior to the back," Daniel said.

He passed the plan over his radio to Fayed, while Melendez and Jessica cut the fence with powerful, short-handled tin snips. Once the fence was opened, Daniel slipped through and sprinted for the corner of the building, followed closely by Jessica and Munoz. Daniel moved a few feet down the western side of the building, keeping his rifle's red holographic sight trained along the structure. He heard Jessica and Munoz pile into position behind him, followed by Munoz's voice in his earpiece. Melendez joined them a few seconds later and moved swiftly in front of Daniel, continuing his job as the team's point man.

Melendez extended his arm and held an open palm to Daniel as they approached the northeast corner of the building. At the sight of Melendez's hand, the rest of them stopped and crouched. He watched the young sniper approach the corner carefully, removing his camouflage baseball cap before taking a quick look along the northern wall. By Daniel's rough estimation, the side they had just traversed matched the front of the building in terms of length. The only difference between the two sides had been the complete absence of any openings on the eastern facade. They had just slid silently along a blank cinder-block slate.

Daniel removed his own cap and tossed it to the ground, waiting for Melendez's assessment. Their point man backed up against the wall and crouched. He pointed to his own eyes with his index and middle fingers ("I see"), then held his hand up showing three fingers, keeping his ring finger down along with his thumb ("seven"). The next hand signal indicated they were "enemy," accomplished by a simple thumbs-down. Finally, he stretched his arm upward and formed a pistol shape with his index finger and thumb, representing "rifles." Seven men armed with rifles. Not something you'd expect to find in the middle of the Poconos on a Sunday afternoon. He recalled Melendez.

"What are they doing?" he whispered.

"Digging. I see several bodies nearby. All of the weapons were slung around their backs. I did see a few with just pistols. No body armor. Everyone's dressed casually."

Jessica leaned in to hear what they were saying, while Munoz kept his rifle pointed at the front corner.

"Who were they burying?" Jessica asked.

"I saw a few lab coats stained bright red. The others looked like the gunmen. Looks like a cleanup job," Melendez said.

"Yeah. Tying up more loose ends. I need to get a look at the situation," Daniel said.

Daniel switched places with Melendez and crawled to the corner, easing his head toward the edge. As his view expanded, the stretch of ground between the northern fence line and the rear of the building took on a disturbing familiarity to another time and place. A different life. Men smoking cigarettes, their instruments of murder tossed casually over their shoulders. Nervous laughter. Nobody quite sure who might end up in the ground. In that other time and place, men like these rarely did the digging. That was reserved for the desperate victims that had somehow convinced themselves they were digging a hole for someone else. He watched the men in front of him carefully.

Only five of the men sank shovels into the soft ground near the fence. The other two stood behind them, conversing and laughing. He counted five AR-15-type rifles equipped with optics slung over the diggers' backs. The two "supervisors" carried pistols in tactical thigh rigs. Melendez had missed the fact that one of them carried an MP9 submachine gun on his left side. Admittedly, it was hidden from view. Daniel burned the image in his mind and returned to their tight group pressed against the cinderblock.

"Burial party. The five men armed with rifles are occupied with digging. Unfortunately, they're more or less facing this direction. The other two have their backs turned. One with a pistol. The other with a pistol…and an MP9. You're slipping, Rico," he said, patting Melendez on the back.

"The usual plan?" Munoz whispered, never looking away from the far corner.

"In this case, I don't think we can afford to improvise," Daniel said.

"Do you mind sharing with the rest of us?" Jessica said.

"I forgot that you ditched most of these classes. We bag two of them. Highest ranking and lowest ranking. The rest are targeted for rapid termination. The leader knows the most, but is willing to say the least. The follower knows the least, but is willing to say the most. The two usually hate each other. We play them off each other," Daniel said.

"What if they all go for their guns?" Melendez said.

"Then we have ourselves a good old-fashioned shootout. Gunfight at the OK Corral," Daniel said.

"I'm your huckleberry," Munoz said.

"See? He does have a sense of humor, Rico," Jessica said.

"I never said you didn't have a sense of humor," Melendez insisted.

Munoz turned and grinned. "Let's just get this over with."

"Rico and Jessica shoot from the corner. You and I will sprint along the back wall, focused on the two men with pistols. We'll hit the guy with the MP9 and try to force the other guy to surrender. The two of you will tear into the digging crew. We'll be yelling for them to drop their weapons as we move. If you see hands raised skyward, keep them covered until we swing into place behind the group. Less than seventy-five feet to targets. Good to go?" Daniel said.

"Sounds easy enough. We'll pop two of them and see what happens," Melendez said, nodding at Jessica.

Daniel and Munoz stacked up on the corner. As soon as they disappeared, Jessica and Melendez would take their place and start to engage targets. He edged up to the corner and took a quick peek, exposing less than an inch of his head to allow his right eye to verify that the scene looked the same. Nothing had changed, so he nodded. Less than a second later, he felt a solid squeeze on his right shoulder, indicating that the team was ready. He checked the M4's safety one more time out of habit and spun around the corner, sprinting along the wall. He wanted to get as far as possible before anyone noticed.


**

Michael Brooks stood facing his security crew as they slid their shovels into the ground. He hadn't decided if they would be buried in the same holes. It really all depended on how much space remained in each hole when they finished piling the bodies into the ground. Brooks really didn't feel like digging. He had a busy day scheduled and didn't need the delay. Plus, they might come in handy at the distribution center. Anne Renee said they could use some more help, especially given the compressed timeline. He swatted at a fly that buzzed by his head. He really hoped this group would finish their work within the next few minutes. The flies were already swarming around the pile of bodies littering the ground behind his men. He hated flies.

Jason Carnes, whose corpse formed part of the tangle, had never seen it coming. Even when Brooks' men corralled the laboratory group out of the back door for "instructions," he had ignored the dubious looks from his own people and even went so far as to make excuses for the few lab technicians that had already vanished. Two of the techs had tried to escape in one of the delivery trucks early this morning. Their absence was discovered a few minutes before one of the early morning convoys departed for the distribution center, and the trucks were searched. They were found jammed between crates, cowering in fear. They had every reason to be afraid. Their bodies were hidden outside of the gate, until it was time to "sanitize" the facility.

The last convoy of delivery trucks carrying crates of freshly packaged bottled water to the distribution center had left the compound around 8:00 AM. Carnes' lab crew spent the next hour shutting down the packaging equipment and sterilizing laboratory equipment. Brooks started to sense that the techs were stalling, hoping that the security detail would leave. He decided to expedite his last remaining task at the facility by directing everyone outside to receive instructions for their follow-up assignment to the distribution facility.

Twenty-three men and women filed out of the door and milled around, waiting for him to speak. His assistant, Jason Ryband, stood next to him and started to shoot into the group without warning, catching Brooks by surprise. Brooks had been waiting for his security detail to walk out of the back door and form a hasty line abreast. Instead, Brooks drew his own pistol in a desperate measure to keep Carnes' people from reaching him. His security team heard the shooting and ran through the door, firing at the runners or anyone not huddled into a group that served no purpose other than to absorb bullets. It lasted less than twenty seconds. The digging followed, after a few distrustful glances from the security team. Brooks watched the shovels carefully, noticing that the men were not straining to move the dirt. Frankly, he was surprised they agreed to dig at all. He started to open his mouth to address this discrepancy, when one of them suddenly grabbed his rifle and tried to swing it around.

The movement startled Brooks, causing him to scramble for the pistol in his thigh holster. A f*cking mutiny was underway. Before he could get his hand on the pistol, the security guard's head snapped back. The hiss and snap of passing bullets filled his ears, followed by thunderous explosions that drowned out every sound around him. He removed his hand from the pistol and glanced over his shoulder. His assistant lay face up on the ground, wheezing and rasping through a hole torn in his throat. When he turned back around, only one of his men remained standing. The others twitched or lay motionless on the grass. He didn't dare look for the source of the gunfire. Instead, he raised his hands slowly above his head, nodding at his last guard to do the same.


**

Daniel jogged over to the presumed leader of the group, keeping his rifle trained at the man's head. Through his peripheral vision, he could see the rest of his team moving toward the second surviving guard. They had a leader and a follower. Not bad for three seconds of work. Munoz announced that he would clear the doorway and make sure they didn't have any surprise visitors from inside the building.

"Clear and restrain," Daniel said.

Jessica sprinted over and yanked the leader's pistol from his thigh holster and tossed it into one of the shallow graves. She patted him down for any other weapons, removing a small folding knife from his back pocket. She stepped over to the second gunman and cut his rifle sling with the knife, letting his rifle fall to the ground. Aside from the K-Bar knife attached to his belt, she didn't find anything concealed. She tossed the knife to the ground and proceeded to zip tie their hands behind their backs.

"Over here." Daniel motioned to the two prisoners.

The two men hadn't said a word since the ambush, which surprised Daniel. These two might be harder to crack than he expected. Normally, someone was demanding answers or exhibiting some kind of useless bravado. These two were either scared out of their minds, or they were cool customers. He'd soon find out. The two begrudgingly moved to where he had pointed his rifle, roughly ten feet behind where Daniel currently stood. He wanted them to have a nice view of the festivities.

"Pay close attention," Daniel growled, as they walked past him.

Daniel walked up to the man who had been armed with the MP-9 submachine gun. A wet rasping sound passed through the hole in his throat, which bubbled and overflowed with blood. His eyes looked ghastly, even to Daniel. He held his M4 CQB rifle in one hand and placed the barrel in the man's mouth.

"Can you tell me what's going on around here? What's the purpose of this facility? Were the virus canisters stored here? I'm sorry, I can't hear what you're saying," Daniel said, addressing the mortally wounded man sprawled out on the ground.

"Who's he talking to?" the leader said, finally breaking their code of silence.

Daniel pulled the trigger, firing a single 5.56mm M885 projectile through the back of the man's skull into the ground.

"What the f*ck! Oh, Jesus Christ!" the follower yelled.

Daniel turned to the two of them. "I have absolutely no use for anyone that can't…or won't answer my questions."

He walked over to the last remaining guard who appeared alive. He kicked the man in the side of his ribcage, where he had suffered from a messy exit wound. The 5.56mm projectile had a nasty habit of tumbling around inside the human body, bouncing off bone and finding its own unique pathway out. He could see three entry wounds in the center of the man's chest, which put this particular exit nearly ninety degrees off the original trajectory. The man emitted a guttural, animal-sounding moan in response to the kick.

"I can't imagine this guy answering any questions." Daniel kneeled down and picked up the discarded K-Bar knife, raising it high before slamming it through the man's neck.

"F*ck this!" the follower screamed, struggling to break free of Jessica's hold on his collar.

"This is psychotic. Who the f*ck are you?" the leader said.

Daniel rushed up and placed the sticky blade under his chin. "But executing twenty people and rolling them into a shallow grave is perfectly normal? You've been hitting the Greely-Harding Kool-Aid a little heavy," he said and shifted over to the follower, grabbing him by his hair.

"Do you really think this f*cker was going to let you leave this place alive? I've seen people dig their own graves before. Once they figure it out, they start to shovel half loads in an attempt to put off the inevitable. I've been watching you dig for a while now. How long does it take to dig a f*cking hole?"

"He's full of shit, Douglass. Nobody was planning to shoot you," the leader said.

Daniel released his hair. "I wonder what he told them," Daniel said, pointing to the fly-encrusted pile of bodies with his bloody K-Bar knife. "So, here's the deal. I'm going to take a little tour of your facility. When I'm done, I'll be back with lots of questions. You don't want to be the first person to stop answering my questions."


**

General Terrence Sanderson answered his phone immediately.

"Daniel, I presume everything is moving along smoothly up there?"

"Not by any measure. I think you need to call the president and have them converge on the distribution hubs. From what I can tell, they're bottling up the virus and transporting it nationwide. We caught the last of the security crew here tying up loose ends, Milosevic style."

"Have they confirmed this? What are the targets?"

"We've been working over the two that we captured. They confirmed that thousands of bottles were transported from this site to one of the distribution hubs over the course of the last twelve hours. They both claim to have no knowledge of what went on inside the industrial-grade laboratory we found in this place. This site resembles a miniaturized, standalone version of a bottled water plant. They have at least three thousand square feet dedicated to assembly and packaging. Now I know where most of Benjamin Young's money was spent," Daniel said.

"The bottles were poisoned? I didn't think this was possible. The virus wouldn't survive suspended in the water for very long. Are you sure this was their plan?" Sanderson questioned.

"I'm not seeing any other conclusion to be drawn. We found the original virus canisters shipped from Europe. They sure as hell did something to the bottles that left this facility. Whatever they're planning for those bottles, I guarantee it won't be random. They've carefully crafted the events leading up to this sudden demand for bottled water. You need to convince the president to shut this whole f*cking town down," Daniel said.

"That won't work. First of all, I'm back on the shit list. They won't believe a word I say, especially with Director Shelby whispering in their ears. Secondly, the bottles might already be on the way to their intended targets. Unless someone confesses on-site, the FBI has no way to force this information out of them. This water will disappear into the population as soon as it hits the shelves. Give me specific targets, and I'll try to call the president."

"The president could go on national television and tell the American people not to drink Crystal Source water! How hard can this be?"

"He'll only do that if he believes me. You know how this works. If I call him up right now, rambling about poisoned bottled water linked to a bottled water company, I'm going to have a problem with credibility. Especially when I try to explain how we obtained the information. Anyone that could prove we were working in good faith on behalf of the FBI task force is either dead or unconscious. Right now, we are once again enemies of the state. Get over to the distribution hub and unf*ck this situation. Please."

The line went silent for a few moments.

"All right. We'll close up shop around here and try to figure out which hub they're using. Things sound a little tense down there, General," Petrovich said.

"We're leaving the compound. Headed to more populated areas east of here. I'm not taking any chances."

"It wasn't a bad run while it lasted," Daniel said.

"A minor setback. I'm nowhere close to finished," Sanderson said.

"There's no place for someone like you or me in the system they've created. They'll congratulate you with one hand and put a gun to your head with the other."

"Don't lose the faith, Daniel. We're their last line of defense. It's worth the trouble. Can I count on you to see this through to the end?"

"Have I ever disappointed you, General?"

"Just once I wish you'd quit answering my questions with another question. Is that too much to ask?" Sanderson said.

"Yes."

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Not really."

"Get me some targeted information, and I'll make the call."

"We're on it," Daniel said.

Sanderson disconnected the call and walked up a short path to meet with his operations officer. Standing on the covered porch of the headquarters lodge, Parker looked disturbed.

"What's wrong?" Sanderson asked.

"I just lost all satellite connectivity. They're shutting us down," Parker said.

"Can they do that without Argentine cooperation?"

Parker shook his head.

"Shit. What's the impact to our organization?"

"We're temporarily cut off from our EW teams in the States. We'll probably lose our sat-phones next. We need to get out of here immediately and reestablish our entire communications network. We've been transmitting from a fixed position known to the U.S. government for at least a week, which has given them plenty of time to sniff around our system. I've been careful with our data management. All of our U.S. feeds were one way, which is impossible for them to intercept. I scrubbed the return data in case they had somehow managed to piggyback the satellite we were using. Our network hacks are still intact. The team in McLean has full access to FBI headquarters."

"Issue backup SATCOM to each vehicle and clear out. I'll meet up with you in Neuquén," Sanderson said.

"We'll be ready to roll in fifteen minutes. I guess we should be thankful for the cloud cover," Parker said.

"Let's hope it's cloudy all the way to Neuquén. Start working on a plan to take us to the coast. Neuquén's bound to shrink really fast if the Argentine government gets involved. Senior Galenden told me he had to back off this for a while. We're more or less on our own."

"We'll be fine. We have the best team possible on the job up north," Parker assured him.

Sanderson pondered the ex-SEAL's statement. Daniel's sense of duty was confused. He had long ago ceased buying U.S. patriotism wholesale. His dedication to Jessica overshadowed all of his motivations, which was why Sanderson always framed their conversations around what was best for their future together. It wasn't a disingenuous tactic. Daniel could smell his bullshit for miles, so there was no point in trying to psychologically sway him. Framing it for their benefit allowed him to continue conversations that Daniel would normally dismiss.

He thought about Daniel's tone near the end of their most recent phone conversation. Petrovich resorted to humor when he was undecided. He also tended to quickly agree with Sanderson when he had no intention of following instructions. Daniel remained an enigma to this very day, which gave Sanderson no comfort. Unfortunately, there was little he could do to control the situation. If Daniel walked off the mission with Jessica, he still had four extremely capable operatives to continue the mission. He didn't want to think about it. He had enough to worry about on his end.


**

Daniel walked over to the two men sitting side by side on the laboratory floor. They were both tightly cuffed to a large, stainless steel workstation, using two pairs of metal handcuffs found in Brooks' desk.

"Good news. You're free to go," he said.

Douglass Kemp expressed a look of relief, which was not shared by Michael Brooks, head of security.

"Not really," Daniel added, instantly deflating the man.

Douglass had been quick to identify Brooks' position after a few minutes of impromptu waterboarding on one of the lab tables. He'd been unable to identify the destination of the convoys leaving this site, but he'd professed that the delivery trucks were filled with crates of water processed in the assembly line next door. He'd also confirmed that the trucks were unmarked and had run nonstop since three or four in the afternoon yesterday. They had pressed him about potential targets, but it was evident that he knew little beyond what he had seen firsthand at the site or had learned from his equally uninformed fellow security guards. He had no solid concept of True America's greater plot for the next few weeks, only that he'd go down in the history books as part of the New Recovery.

Daniel told him that he might make medical history. This comment managed to raise Brooks' eyebrows, which gave Daniel some hope that he might not have to resort to cutting them open. Brooks had shown considerable resilience against waterboarding, leaving them with little choice. They didn't have all day to identify and exploit his psychological weaknesses, though Daniel had an idea. If it didn't work, he'd turn this over to Aleem Fayed and Tariq Paracha. Sanderson had assured Daniel that the two of them would produce results.

"Here's where we stand. Douglass has nothing more to tell, and Michael plans to hold out as long as he can. Michael knows he'll eventually tell us everything, but he's clinging to the notion of loyalty and honor. I can appreciate that, but I assure you that these notions will be crushed just as quickly as your testicles. Just one of a hundred painful, non-lethal examples of the misery you'll endure for your masters. The end result is always the same," he said, walking over to Fayed and Paracha.

"I'll turn you over to my friends here, and your screams will fill this building for hours, eventually replaced with the begging and the sobbing. But here's the twist—they're going to be really careful this time. I want you to survive, Michael. I want you to sit here on this floor for the next week or two with your new best friend. Thirsty, Douglass?"

Daniel took a bottle of Crystal Source water sitting on the table above them and stepped back, slowly twisting open the cap in front of them. He brought the bottle to the trembling man's lips and paused when Michael Brooks yelled, "Don't drink that, Doug! Who knows what they did to it?"

"That's true, Doug. Maybe we should take one out of a fresh crate. Fresh water please!" Daniel said.

Melendez stepped into the room carrying the shrink-wrapped case and slammed it down in front of the two men. Daniel ripped open the plastic on one of the sides and started digging through to one of the bottles in the middle. He pulled one out and opened it, holding it out toward Douglass.

"Now here's a fresh one. Found the crate sitting inside the loading bay. Probably left behind for the security guys. Nothing like a clean bottle of Crystal Source after a long day of digging graves. Right, Michael?"

"Don't do it, Doug. They could have poisoned all of the bottles," Brooks said.

"You think we poisoned all of the bottles and then somehow packaged them up to look like they came from the Crystal Source bottling factory? That sounds like an insane conspiracy, Michael. Right? You better get used to this stuff. It's all we're leaving behind for you. Go ahead, Douglass."

He held it closer to the man's lips.

"Douglass, listen to me. They're f*cking crazy. We're dead no matter what."

Daniel removed the bottle of water and poured it over Michael's head. He watched the man blow out of his nose and press his eyes and mouth shut until the water ran its course.

"Wow. Did you see that, Doug? He almost had a panic attack."

Daniel dried his head with a towel handed to him by Paracha. He waited until Brooks opened his eyes again, then opened another bottle and put it up to Kemp's lips. The man closed his eyes and mouth, twisting his body and turning his head away from the bottle.

"Damn. Now Doug doesn't want the water. Too bad he already drank a ton of it."

Melendez reentered the room, carrying a transparent plastic bag filled with at least ten empty bottles. He kicked the half-empty case of water along the floor through the doorway.

"We used these bottles to waterboard Mr. Kemp. Don't worry, Mikey. We used the tap water on you."

Kemp looked despondent and utterly confused. Brooks looked horrified.

"Do you want to tell him what's going to happen, or should I? This may come as a complete shock to you, Mikey, but I led a CIA-sanctioned special operations team into Russia a few weeks ago. I saw what happens firsthand in Monchegorsk. You have no concept of what your organization just unleashed on this country…but you'll get to experience it firsthand, chained to this table. It's going to be a long week for you, Michael. Watching Doug and waiting."

"What is he talking about, Mr. Brooks?"

Michael Brooks stayed silent.

"Mr. Brooks?"

Brooks stared off into space. A quick slap from Daniel brought him back into the conversation.

"Doug, the water you swallowed and took into your lungs was infected with a weaponized form of viral encephalitis. A demented scientist from Russia's premier virology lab designed this particular strain to maximize the amount of damage inflicted on the brain's temporal lobe. At first, you'll start to experience typical flu-like symptoms. Weakness, chills, cough, congestion…the usual stuff. A few days later…"

Daniel shook his head slowly back and forth.

"What?" Kemp said.

"The hallmark symptoms of this virus are rage, aggression, violence, murderous impulses. At least that's what I saw in most of the infected population. The destruction of the temporal lobe results in irreversible brain damage and permanent regression to these savage instincts. Mr. Brooks had every reason to keep you from drinking that water. You're chained to the table next to him. He doesn't want to wake up in a few days to find you gnawing on his head."

Douglass Kemp tried to distance himself from Brooks, but Daniel had attached their handcuffs to the table less than a foot apart. No matter how hard the two of them tried, they would always be within biting distance.

"History in the making, Doug! You'll be the first to experience the start of True America's New Recovery plan. Turning American citizens into rabid zombies."

"They sent this into the population?" Kemp yelled at Brooks.

Brooks glared at Daniel, shaking his head.

"Thousands of bottles are headed to one of the distribution plants. I need to know which one. Right now, my plan is to free one of Doug's hands, leave the two of you several jugs of tap water, and never return. What are your thoughts about that course of action, Michael? Do you think Doug will put the jug to your lips and let you drink? Or will he bash your skull against the table out of principle? Maybe he won't be able to kill you in cold blood. He'll help you drink, still hopeful that someone might be coming, which they won't be. Then, one day within the next week or so, he'll bite your face off and spit it out in your lap."

"You'll let us go if I tell you?" Brooks said.

"No. I'll drop Mr. Kemp off in town, where he'll seek medical treatment. High-dose, intravenous acyclovir should kill the virus. We'll let him know when he can come back out here to get you or send someone else. Mr. Kemp's choice. If he attempts to warn anyone before that, we'll bring his three children here to the laboratory and cuff them to this little stretch of table with Daddy and Uncle Mike. Thanks to your excellent record-keeping, we know where his ex-wife lives. You won't f*ck with us, will you, Mr. Kemp?"

"No, sir. I won't say a word. I'll go about my business like this never happened. Why would you have my ex-wife's address in a file?"

"Leverage, Doug. That's what security people do. They collect information to use against you," Daniel said.

Brooks shook his head and said, "Don't listen to him, Doug. He's clearly insane. How long will I have to wait?"

Daniel looked at his watch. "If you stop wasting my time, I'll be done within a few hours. The rest will be up to Doug. He doesn't look happy."

Brooks looked around at everyone. Doug refused to meet his eyes. He stared at Daniel for several seconds and glanced away before he started talking.