Perfect Weapon. Amy J. Fetzer
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shoulder like they were old pals. His expression went kind and soft.
What a player.
Jack eased back a bit more, but listened intently. They weren’t giving up the bodies and it took everything in Jack to stay put and hear the rest. FBI had the power to override locals, but they were usually clearer about it. Ponytail wasn’t making any declarations. In fact, he was talking to the cop and Pearl. No one else.
The noise in the station muffled their words, but when Ponytail handed over a business card, Jack’s senses went on alert. It wasn’t so much the white card, but that the instant the cop read it, Ponytail took it back.
NSA.
Had to be. NSA agents had to collect back their cards.
This is a bigger shit pile than I thought.
Pearl wasn’t included in the conversation and when the young man glanced toward the room Jack was in, he jerked back out of sight, looking around for an escape. Staying here was no longer an option. Not with Ponytail out there quietly flexing muscle and overruling local authority. Getting out between that flood of officials was the only thing on his mind now. Especially when he was covered in blood and smelling like a horny stag. He’d be detained, used, accused. He’d never find the woman, or the son of a bitch who murdered his friends.
Too many cops outside the windows to climb out, Jack thought, then moved behind the door, peering through the crack between the jamb and the wall. Ponytail was doing a lot of asking and no answering. He wondered how much this guy had to do with the woman and if he could lead Jack to her. Ponytail advanced, ignored Pearl, and spoke with the cop. Jack couldn’t hear but body language said a lot. The cop was ticked off; NSA was taking over, or restricting them. Ponytail leaned closer and whatever he said, shot the officer’s plan out of the water. Pearl, his ham-like fists clenched at his sides, turned on his heels. Beyond him, Jack saw the ponytailed agent slip out as unassumingly as he’d arrived. Smooth.
Pearl stepped inside, looked around for him. Jack cleared his throat.
“They aren’t releasing the bodies to us.”
“I heard. Who are they?” he said innocently, but he knew.
“I can’t say.”
Jack nodded, accepting that the young man had screwed up by telling him about the tape and wasn’t going to walk that path again. Besides, Jack already knew who he was dealing with. He stared, silent.
Pearl folded in ten seconds. “Dammit, they can’t do this!” Pearl said. “I mean, something’s terribly wrong here and we’re supposed to just shut up and take it? National security, my ass.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Pearl bit back. “What’ll you tell your friends’ families?”
“The truth.”
Pearl shook his head. “Hell, man, I don’t know what the truth is right now. I’ve been here for three years and didn’t know there were gas pipes up there. Natural steam, sure, it plays the organ in the caves, but, oh, hell…” Pearl rubbed his neck and muttered something Jack ignored. “Detective Harding says I’ve got to hang with you. Material witness. Harding’s pissed.”
“Did the agent mention me?”
“I don’t know. That guy was talking, not listening. I don’t see where the murders of your friends have anything to do with a gas leak, though.”
It has everything to do with it, Jack thought and saw his chances of learning more going from slim to none real fast. NSA would clamp down and that’d be it. They were already manipulating the ranger’s world.
“I understand, Pearl. Take it easy. I lived with this kind of red tape crap.”
Pearl nodded and reached for a stack of forms sitting in the in-box. They were yellowed and curled, and Jack knew this place hadn’t seen trouble in years. Now they had more than they could handle.
Pearl searched the desk for a pen. Jack just noticed there wasn’t even a computer in here.
“Your full name.” Pearl frowned, cocking his head. “You know, I don’t even know your first name.”
Jack moved up beside him, laying his hand on his shoulder. “I’m aware of that.” He popped the kid hard on the back of the neck, and Pearl went out like a switch and down like a sack. Jack caught him, leveling him into a chair. Quickly, he knelt, pulling at the park ranger’s shoelaces. “Sorry kid. NSA’ll cramp my style.”
Ten minutes later, wearing Pearl’s too loose uniform, Jack walked out the back door and to his truck. The area was peppered with men in uniforms, yet no agents. Jack was good at spotting agents, covert or otherwise. They rarely looked at the usual and searched beyond. Pulling the cap low, he offered Pearl’s wallet to the cop standing post at the edge of the lot.
“Where you headed?”
“Out for donuts and food. With the gas leak, they won’t let ’em open the diner.”
The cop snickered, handed him five bucks, and ordered breakfast. Jack took the order like he meant it, then drove. It took him another half hour to get down the drive and when he passed a police cruiser, he tossed the wallet into the open window and sped on.
He had a new prey to hunt.
It hit her in the shower.
Sydney slid to the tile floor, water streaming over her hair and mixing with her tears. Grief swelled like foam, poured so fast she couldn’t catch her breath as she cried, the faces of her colleagues, her friends, filling, then fading through her mind. All those people, that drive and innovation gone. They’d had one goal, stop the deadly chemical threat of Sarin gas. Save lives. And for that, they’d lost theirs.
This assault presented a bigger threat. The attackers had the gas. The amounts were small, too small, in her opinion, to warrant an attack of that magnitude. But they’d done it, slipped inside before anyone had realized it.
How? How did they get into the lab, or into the cold room? Hell, how’d they get into the Cradle at all? Her reasoning that the attackers could have easily killed the guards and taken the keys and codes managed to get past her grief. Hot water slapped at her like tiny needles, prodding her to move. She climbed to her feet, finished her shower, dried and put on the sweatpants and thermal shirt she’d found.
Then she noticed the gun she’d left on the bathroom counter was missing. Bastards.
Grief slid deeply into anger, and she was already wired for sound. Her internal clock was set for night hours and beneath the surface of her skin, she could actually feel her blood rushing through her veins. Prickling with energy. Adrenaline and endorphins, she thought. The hot shower had done no more than remove the stench of death, but sleep was impossible. Hunger and uncapped energy slid so hard through her she wanted to run, fast. Anywhere. Alone.
She stormed into the great room. One agent stood near the window talking into a head mike set. Another was in the kitchen, without his coat and jacket and preparing something to eat. He wore a shoulder holster, the leather grip latch open.
The agent gave her a mild glance, then went back to work. “Feeling better Dr. Hale?” He slid a sandwich and chips across to her, then started cleaning up. If he noticed she’d been crying, he didn’t give any indication.
Ignoring the sandwich, Sydney moved past him to the fridge, took out a soda and wished for a beer. She popped the top and drained a third, then looked at Agent Combs.
“You guys get a good show while I was in the shower?”
Combs was silent.
“I want the gun back.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. It’s evidence.”
She figured that. But the weapon gave her power when her world was crashing. The Cradle was supposed to be safe. Impenetrable. Well, not anymore. So why should