Rook said, “If I ever buy a house in the burbs, I’m going to have a man cave
just like this in my basem—”
A screeching, pulsing alarm broke the hush of the control center and a blinding
light strobed above the two of them. Glass doors automatically slid shut in the
offices lining the perimeter. A rolling metal shudder descended, sealing the door to
the Situation Room. Inside its window, Nikki could see Agents Callan, Bell, and
other members of the task force get up from the conference table and stare out. A
squad of four personnel in moon suits and gas masks rushed out of nowhere, grabbed
Heat and Rook, and scrambled them to a small room beside the elevator. Two of the
moon suits waited outside; the other pair stayed in with them. One pressed a button
that created a vacuum around the door seals they could feel in their ears, as if the
room were an airliner gaining altitude.
“What’s happening?” asked Nikki. They didn’t answer, just separated her from
Rook and began scanning both of them with sensors that resembled microphones on the
ends of yellow garden hoses attached to whirring filter machinery.
“Nikki,” said Rook. He tilted his head to a sign on the door that she had to read
backward: “Contamination Quarantine.”
Then one of the machines began to chirp and blink an array of yellow lights. The
word “POSITIVE” flashed on the monitor.
The positive reading came from the machine testing Heat.
FOURTEEN
“You set off our sniffer.” Agent Callan held open the door to Quarantine, and
Nikki emerged in a borrowed DHS hoodie and mismatched sweatpants. As he walked her
to the Situation Room, he said, “But I like the style. You can keep that while we
test your clothes and find out exactly what bioagent you had on them.” He gestured
to the robotlike air sampling machine she had set off. “This here’s the li’l guy
that busted you.” Heat had seen versions of these bioaerosol monitors throughout
Manhattan, part of the city’s—and Homeland’s—attempt to get early warning of a
dirty bomb or bio strike. “You aren’t, by chance, moonlighting in a terror cell,
are you?”
“Right. In all my spare time.”
While Nikki changed, Rook had found a seat at the conference table—right beside
Yardley Bell, who was deep in conversation with him until Callan and Heat came in
and all eyes turned their way. “Prelim from the lab is some kind of trace material
on her blazer,” announced Callan as he took his spot at the head of the table.
“Whatever set it off, it’s not in sufficient quantity to be harmful, but at least
we know the air sampler works.”
“Great. Maybe we can wheel it person-to-person around New York City during the next
few days and find out who’s planning the attack,” said the professorial man in the
bow tie. His crack was no joke, but an acerbic snarl of frustration. “I would be
curious to know where you picked up this virus or bacteria, Detective.”
Callan asked, “You didn’t have any physical contact with Salena Kaye, did you?”
“No. Not today, anyway.”
“Tough one,” said Yardley Bell, sounding baldly condescending. “Don’t feel too
bad. Sometimes they just get away from you.”
“Even the good ones.” Nikki didn’t need to toss a glance at Rook. Yardley was
smart enough to get it. Heat chided herself for stooping to soap opera—even though
it felt good on a primal level; oh-snaps were a trashy seduction. She redirected
herself to the bow tie man.
“I could have picked something up at the place I just came from. The motel room
where Salena Kaye has been hiding out.” Nikki felt that announcing her rogue
mission would be an unpopular bit of information, and she wasn’t wrong. Throats
cleared, butts shifted, faces grew taut.
“You mounted a raid on our suspect without notifying us?” asked Callan.