 
THE ZOMBIE CONSPIRACY
Part 1 - Undercover

By Jeremy McIlroy

The Zombie Conspiracy
Part 1 - Undercover

© 2016 Jeremy P. McIlroy

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed "Attention: Jeremy McIlroy," at the address below.

420 Spotsylvania Mall Drive #42194

Fredericksburg, VA 22404

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN-13:

ISBN-10:

First Printing, May 2016 Printed in the USA

Works Published By Jeremy McIlroy

In Print:

Finding Sanctuary: A Novel of Alternate History

Z.A.P.S. Gear Survival Grenade User's Guide

The Zombie Conspiracy Parts 1-3 The Population Control Bundle

The Zombie Conspiracy Part 1- Undercover

The Zombie Conspiracy Part 2- D.A.R.P.A. Dangerous

The Zombie Conspiracy Part 3- Going Home

Via Amazon Kindle:

Finding Sanctuary: A Novel of Alternate History

Falling Star: A Dystopian Short Story

A Husband's Revenge

Get Out Of Debt: Financial Freedom Fast

Z.A.P.S. Gear Survival Grenade User's Guide

The Zombie Conspiracy Parts 1-3 The Population Control Bundle

The Zombie Conspiracy Part 1- Undercover

The Zombie Conspiracy Part 2- D.A.R.P.A. Dangerous

The Zombie Conspiracy Part 3- Going Home
This book is dedicated to my lovely wife Stephany and to my three sons: Patrick Henry, Jeremy PQ, and Bryan.

Special Thanks to Brian McWilliams and Brenda Pemberton. You each helped right when I needed it. Devon and Thomas, thank you for the encouragement. Phil, sorry, no hover tanks or rail guns (yet), but thanks for being my sounding board and inspiration.

The Zombie Conspiracy

Part 1 - Undercover

Table of Contents

 Preface

 Part 1 – Undercover

 Chapter 1: Propositions

 Chapter 2: Snooping and Pooping

 Chapter 3: Jihadi

 Chapter 4: Fine Wine

 Chapter 5: Pooping and Snooping

 Chapter 6: Trace Alert

 Chapter 7: A Toast

 Chapter 8: Alcoholic You Say?

 Chapter 9: Wake Up Call

 Chapter 10: Called To the Principal's Office

 Chapter 11: Go Home; Doctor's Orders

 Chapter 12: Wakey, Wakey

 Chapter 13: Kick It!

 Chapter 14: Grand Theft Auto

 Chapter 15: Guns Hot

 Chapter 16: Safe House

 Chapter 17: Library With a Side of Head

 Chapter 18: Trace Alert 2

 Chapter 19: Again?

 Chapter 20: Singing In the Shower

 Funnel What?

 About The Author

Preface

A friend of mine has been a big fan of zombie fiction for as long as I've known him. He had just finished reading my first novel, Finding Sanctuary, when he told me I should write a zombie novel. At first I thought the idea was absurd because I didn't know the first thing about zombies. I had never seen a zombie movie or read any zombie fiction. The Walking Dead TV show hadn't been made yet. I told him as much.

He then proceeded to tell me all about the commonalities and differences within the genre. Things like: zombie are undead and can only be killed again quickly by destroying the head, they don't attack other zombies—usually just humans and contamination is usually spread with a bite, some are slow while some are fast, a zombie apocalypse would mean a complete shutdown of modern society while everyone runs away from hungry corpses, etc. I asked questions and took note of his answers.

I must admit that I didn't really intend to write any zombie fiction while we were discussing zombie characteristics, but the more I thought about it, the more the idea grew on me. As a mental exercise I tried to think of how a zombie apocalypse, while staying true to my friend's listed characteristics, really could happen in our world, in our current society where zombie fiction is popular.

The story idea that I came up with stemmed from my conspiracy theory reading (which makes life interesting and sometimes comical), and the 'how' of my zombies came from the technical research in other subjects for my previous novel, which has nothing to do with zombies but includes high tech science, drone warfare, and conspiracy theory related and unrelated to entities within the US federal government. I put the story idea down on paper, threw together a short outline, and started writing. What you are about to read is the result.

Fair warning: this is not your typical zombie novel. It doesn't start with the world falling apart and zombies everywhere in the opening scene. I build up to that. I explain where zombies come from and why. This is how I imagine a real zombie apocalypse could happen.

Phil, you asked for it. Here you go.

PART 1 – Undercover

Chapter 1: Propositions

King Philip raised his goblet.

"My friends," he said with a booming voice and a smile as he turned his attention to each side of the table in turn. "I thank you all for joining me tonight on this most joyous of occasions. It is not every day that a king finds a woman worthy to be his queen, but today I tell you, I have found my shining star.

"How was that for an opening?" he asked, lowering the cup and his voice and turning towards his friend. "Too thick?"

"No, I don't think so. I thought it looked and sounded pretty good for what you are doing," Jeff said from where he sat in the heavy leather chair a few paces away. A charred log popped in the fire behind him. "I especially like the costume. If you grew a beard you'd look a bit like Sean Connery at the end of Robin Hood Prince of Thieves. It looks pretty authentic...like realistic royal garb."

"Pfft, it better. We spent enough on it, and it is a tax deductible business expense, so why not."

Philip popped the top on his soda can and poured some Pepsi into the ancient-looking goblet.

Several staff members dressed in period livery whirled around the table, arranging everything for the upcoming dinner party. They studiously ignored their boss and his guest, completely intent on their own tasks, or so they would have liked him to believe.

"So what was so important that you needed to interrupt my speech rehearsal, Cur? I need to practice. I don't want anything to go wrong tonight."

Jeff chuckled.

"Relax, Phil. You already proposed, and she said 'yes.' Now it's just a celebration of that fact."

"Yeah, I know you're right, but this is where we go public with our engagement. I want it to be perfect for her. So seriously, what's up? I can tell you've been holding something back. What's going on? Is it spy stuff?"

Jeff winced slightly.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that."

Philip reached under the table.

"Hold on. Let me turn on the counter-surveillance white-noise generator so we can talk."

Jeff snorted.

"Ha-ha—very funny. But in all seriousness, if you actually had one, I'd say to go ahead and turn it on."

Philip raised an eyebrow.

"That serious, huh?"

Jeff nodded.

"Well, all right then," Philip replied, looking at his staff moving around them. "Let's go to the library. It's a bit more private." He emptied the goblet and placed it on the table for one of the "servants" to clear away then turned and walked out through the double doors.

Jeff stood and followed, bringing along a small briefcase that had rested on the end table next to his seat. On the way out he slowed, taking an extra look at the suits of armor that guarded the entrance to the dining hall. They were polished to a nice shine, but they also looked heavy as hell. Not for the first time, he wondered how they managed to wear them back in the old days.

Their footsteps echoed across the stone floor. Colorful banners hung from the walls. Recessed lights gave the appearance of sunlight streaming through the occasional break in the stone ceiling.

"Medieval Kingdom. So how has attendance been?" Jeff asked, catching up as Philip turned the corner into an adjacent hallway.

"Pretty good. I couldn't ask for more, actually. We've had a steady stream since we opened the castle. The tourists were already flowing in to see Yellowstone, and we've gotten a healthy percentage of them to stop in here and spend their money. Everyone seems to be pretty excited to visit. If we're lucky, we'll be able to draw in winter tourists even after Yellowstone closes for the season."

"Excellent," Jeff replied. "If we're doing that well our first season, I can only guess at how we'll take off when even more people find out about the new attraction in town."

Philip nodded then turned as he opened a door and swept his hand.

"After you, Sir."

"M'Lord," Jeff replied, tilting his head in mock deference as he stepped into the library.

The walls were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the shelves were packed, a room in which any bibliophile could happily dive in and never come up for air. A fireplace was at one end of the room, not far from the door they had just come through, and at the opposite end of the room were tall, stylish windows of stained glass that wouldn't be out of place in a true medieval European cathedral. Small nooks here and there afforded additional privacy, and a few small anterooms opened to additional reading space off of the main chamber.

Philip followed and closed the door, turning the lock against uninvited intruders.

Jeff quickly walked around and peeked in to the extra rooms to check that they were alone.

"Better send Linda a text letting her know we'll be out of touch for a little while," he suggested.

Philip nodded. "Good idea."

He sent a quick message then turned off his phone and handed it to his friend. "Just like the old days, huh?"

Jeff nodded and took a pouch out of his cargo pocket. It was made of some kind of reflective fabric and was sealed with Velcro. His phone was already nestled inside. He dropped Phil's in next to his own.

"That's it?" Philip asked. "You're not going to pop the battery first?"

"Nope, this will do it, the latest in signal blocking technology. Copper, nickel, and rare-earth-metals-infused electronic forensics evidence bag—blocks all signals going in or out. The phones can't be remotely accessed, so their microphones can no longer be used for eavesdropping—as long as they stay in the bag. Even the radio feature inside is scrambled enough to prevent snooping or location triangulation. You can do the same thing by wrapping them in quadruple layers of aluminum foil, of course; but a government agent can't be seen doing something so cheap—you know how it is."

"Of course," Philip said, nodding his head and chuckling, as he leaned back against one of the small tables that rested in the center of the room. "So—spill the beans. What's going on?"

"First, let me just say that I really did come out here to wish you and my sister congratulations on finally deciding to tie the knot. I'm not just using it as a pretext to visit undercover; I really am happy for you guys."

"Ok, but—?"

"But," Jeff continued, "I also need to ask you for a favor."

Philip looked skeptical.

"I've got a job for you if you'll take it."

"Come on, Jeff. You know Linda doesn't want me doing that stuff anymore. We were this close to getting caught by the Iranians three years ago when we went off on one of your missions," Philip said, pinching his fingers together and holding them up in front of his face.

"I know, I know, believe me, I know. My ear drums are still ringing from the chewing she gave me. But this is important. And last time was a fluke. We weren't even supposed to leave the safe house. That was totally out of my hands."

Philip sighed and shook his head, looking up at one of the crystal chandeliers that hung at the level of the open second floor.

"Why me?" he asked, bringing his gaze back down. "Why not get one of the agency guys? That's what they get paid for, you know."

"I know, but, strictly between you and me, I think the agency might be compromised."

"What? Why would you think that?"

"Because some strange things have been going on lately—and not overseas. Domestically. Some previously sweet resources have all of a sudden dried up and gone quiet, and turning over new stones is producing nothing. Zero, zip, nada. Guys are going out and not coming back. It's like someone got their hands on our playbook and is running us in circles while feeding us a steady diet of bull shit and zero calorie soft drinks. And that only happens when the bad guys have someone on the inside or crack your codes."

"Well, that's a pretty vague explanation of why it's me you need," Philip replied. "In fact it's not an explanation at all. There's gotta be somebody on the inside that you still trust."

Jeff closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he opened his eyes, he looked about as serious as Philip had ever seen him.

"There are a very select few—but they aren't suited for what I need you for. I'm not positive we're compromised, but it sure feels that way lately. What I'm about to tell you is S-C-I level Top Secret. If the powers that be found out I was talking to you about this, we'd both be locked up in a secret prison where the sun doesn't shine and seeing the stars is pretty freaking rare too."

"Got it, sealed lips, never heard a thing," Philip replied, returning the serious look.

Jeff nodded then continued.

"After the debacle in Iran, the agency decided to put me on easy domestic cases, something I could work quietly while things blew over on Capitol Hill."

"Ok"

"I've been plugging away in the background, staying out of sight/out of mind, but then something came up, something big—even if it didn't really make much of an impact in the news. The director assigned me an investigation into something the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency has been working on."

"You're investigating DARPA."

"Yes," Jeff replied.

"Why?"

Jeff sighed.

"Do you remember a while back, Science Digest had a special on military drones and special projects?"

"Sure"

"Well, there was an article in there about DARPA's top secret super soldier program, that wasn't vetted or cleared for print. It's spot-on-accurate from what I've been able to gather from my own inside source."

"Oh, crap."

"As eloquently put as usual; but, yes, in this case, 'Crap' is right. Certain members of congress flipped out when they read the article, not only because of the secrecy breach but also because whoever sourced the piece basically admitted that DARPA is engaged in researching some restricted areas of bio-engineering and human experimentation; the very thing the U.S. entered into multiple international treaties to prevent. So congress went on the war path and ordered the DIA to investigate. It's not Edward Snowden big, but it's big enough."

"So if you have an inside source what do you need me for? Why don't you just bust DARPA in a congressional hearing and be done with it?"

"Unfortunately, what I have hasn't been completely substantiated—not well enough to stand up in court, which is where this whole thing is headed. I don't have the physical evidence—yet. DARPA isn't playing ball with the investigation despite Congress's orders, and even more unfortunate...my inside source seems to have gone completely dark—no contact."

"And you want me to go in and take his—or her—place. You're not making a very convincing case for yourself here, Bud."

Jeff smirked and replied, "I wouldn't necessarily need you to take his place. We would be better served if you could go in, make contact, and start the flow of information again—through him if possible. And if he is unable, or unwilling, to continue, then, yes, I could really use your help getting me the information I need.

"And you said the director specifically chose you for this. Well, that sounds kind of good for your career."

"It could be, if it works out ok. The problem is that now I'm under intense scrutiny from some people I didn't even used to know existed, and they are pressuring me to downplay the whole thing. There are some major money players involved and they aren't above buying agents' loyalty. I've already been approached with bribe offers."

Philip shook his head.

"Very substantial offers," Jeff added. "Knowing that, and seeing what is happening on the operations side ever since this all broke, I need an outside investigator to go undercover while I manage the 'public' side of the investigation. In addition to the private bribes that have been offered, I've been pressured by certain opposing members of Congress as well. It's getting rough. I need someone I can trust not to be bought out from under me. Someone I can trust to get the job done."

"So you came to me," Philip replied.

"Yes...I know it puts you in a tricky position with my sister, but this is extremely important."

Philip sighed.

Linda definitely wouldn't like the idea, but he was a sucker for a friend in need. And this was Jeff. Loyalty to him went a long way.

"I'll think about it," he said. "But I need to know more about the mission. What it entails. How long you anticipate this thing taking. The risks. The rewards. Most importantly—how Linda will be kept safe while I'm not here for her."

"Naturally," Jeff replied. "I'll address the last two concerns first. I will have a few people here on the staff watching over my sister. They're old hands at the protection game, and they'll be undercover until there is a need. They'll blend right in, even here. She won't even know they're here. And, no, they aren't DIA.

"As for reward, well, I am authorized to pay out quite a bit of taxpayer money for this investigation, and the director did specify that, if necessary, I can appropriate additional funds from the black ops budget—as long as I can guarantee him deniability, of course."

"Of course," Philip replied. "So what exactly is the mission?"

Jeff nodded. "And that's where the classified info comes in."

Opening his brown leather briefcase, he pulled out a manila folder.

"If we didn't have history I wouldn't be showing this to you until after you signed another Non-Disclosure Agreement," Jeff said, holding the folder to his chest.

"Got it. Ultra top secret with no decoder ring, no talking about it—not even whispering."

"And no joking either."

"Got it," Philip said, smiling one last time before turning completely serious.

Jeff shook his head, pulled an 8 x 10 photo out of the folder, and slid it across the table.

"Memorize his face. This is Donovan Clarke. He is your mission."

Philip nodded and studied the photo.

It was a standard head shot of a man who looked like he could fit in comfortably in just about any corporate job in America. He was a balding Caucasian with corrective glasses on a thick nose over a strong jaw. The light reflecting off his glasses and the solid-colored backdrop showed that it was a professional photo not just a snap shot.

"Don has been working for the DIA for at least a year," Jeff continued. "I've been his case officer for the last three months, except I haven't been able to get through to him for the last month. He isn't responding to any of the usual ways we have set up to communicate with him. All flow of information from his side just stopped as if he has fallen off the planet.

"The last update he sent was corrupted. Most of the data was nearly impossible to make sense of. What I was able to salvage, with the help of an NSA reconstruction expert and his supercomputer, was this." He slid a stack of paper-clipped papers across the table.

"Looks like partial schematics," Phil said, scanning through the pages. "...and gibberish."

Jeff nodded. "The schematics are specialized nanotechnology designs based on Doctor Harper's patents, but our copy of the schematics is massively incomplete. Again, most of the file was corrupted before it reached me. Keep looking. I highlighted the most important piece we found that was readable."

Philip mumbled as he sorted through the lines and lines of seemingly random letters, numbers, symbols, and technical drawings. He flipped through and stopped mumbling.

"E-W-E-S-6 trials complete and successful. Z-S-1 trials commencing."

"Yes," Jeff replied.

"And what are E-W-E-S-6 and Z-S-1?"

"EWES we know," Jeff replied, pronouncing it "Use." "It is an acronym that stands for the Elite Warrior Enhancement Series, in this case: Series 6. That is the official name of the DARPA super soldier program. And, according to this, it is a success. Just one problem: Congress revoked their funding and shut them down two months ago when the article exposed their illegal research methods. At that time they were only on EWES-4, so they are getting funding from somewhere else, despite Congress's orders, and they are continuing their research—in fact, accelerating their research, contrary to lawful orders."

"And Z-S-1?"

Jeff shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. "We don't know what Z-S-1 is. We have absolutely zero documentation on it. Judging by the 'S' in EWES we can bet that the 'S' stands for Series, but the 'Z'? Your guess is as good as mine."

Philip leaned back and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and clenching his jaw.

"I have the inside scoop on EWES from one of the Special Forces commanders that I've worked with over the years," Jeff said. "He said that initially EWES was getting volunteers from the S-F community but that he and the other commanders were getting pissed that their guys were volunteering and never coming back. They'd get word back later that each and every one of the volunteers either had died in 'training accidents' or had ended up in military psych wards. Whatever EWES was doing was either killing our best guys or messing up their heads."

"But this says EWES-6 was a success," Phil countered, holding up the paperwork.

"So somewhere between EWES-4 and EWES-6 they made a breakthrough—maybe, if they're being honest in their internal paperwork," Jeff guessed. "But they're not doing it with military volunteers any more. None of that really matters though because the way they're doing whatever it is they're doing in there is against U.S. law as well as international law."

Philip nodded and wiped his eyes. This conversation really wasn't going the way he would have liked. He would rather have come in here to relax, smoke a nice smooth cigar, and talk about the "good old days" when they had been working together back in the Sandbox.

But that just wasn't going to happen right now.

"So what I'm thinking," Jeff continued, "Is that there are three possibilities for what happened to our asset. One: Don was compromised during his poking around for us and was killed and then disappeared. Two: he was compromised and then captured and locked away where he has been unable to reach out to us. Or three: he was either compromised or felt like he was about to be and went on the run or into hiding and has been unable to contact us."

"There's a fourth possibility," Philip suggested.

Jeff tilted his head questioningly.

"Maybe he got scared and just decided not to have anything to do with you or the agency anymore and is just working at DARPA as if nothing has happened. Maybe he is just ignoring you."

Jeff closed his eyes and rubbed a hand across the stubble on his cheek. Opening his eyes, he nodded.

"You're right. That is another possibility. None of them are very palatable, but we have to face reality, and if that is the reality then having you on the inside will at least show us where we stand."

There was a moment of silence between them.

A crowd out in the courtyard began cheering. A clock that hung on the wall in a gap between bookshelves told Philip that it was time for the daily joust, always a guest favorite.

"Phil, I wouldn't ask you to do this if I felt like I had other options. I have to find out what happened to my asset, and if he is gone, I need you to get me the information he was after. I'll need you to look into Joshua Harper, the creator of these schematics. That is where Don left off. Something here," he said, holding up the stack of papers, "Was important enough for him to send it to me.

"Best case scenario, you won't have to do anything but walk up to Don's room, tell him why you're there, and he gets back to me. Then you're done. But I don't think that's going to happen. I need you in there. You're loyal. You operate well under pressure. You have a knack for this kind of work...You're loyal"

"Ugh—enough already," Phil said, dropping his head into his hands and pulling them down his face. "Linda is going to kill me."

"Yeah, but then she's going to marry you. And you'll have a chance to make it up to her for the rest of your life."

"And I'm sure she'll remind me of that daily."

Jeff chuckled.

"Well, the half a million dollars that Uncle Sam will pay you out of the black budget for your service, tax free I might add, will make sure that you can make it up to her in style."

"Make it a million," Phil countered.

"Deal. I think that's reasonable, considering what you'll have to do, the potential dangers involved—and there are some serious dangers with you doing this. And, of course, I have to mention the fact that you'll have to wait for about a year to go through with your current wedding plans."

"A year? Seriously?"

Jeff nodded. "Possibly. I hope not, but it could be. Your new name is Richard Dalton. I have a bio for you all ready to go with references, a social history, and an impressive résumé that will make you a shoe-in to the job I'm getting you at the DARPA facility where you'll be going undercover. But if the résumé is going to be believable, you have to be believable. You have to be able to talk the talk and walk the walk. You will be getting some concentrated intensive training from a few experts I've got lined up before you go in to get you up to that level, and you'll need to get yourself into better physical shape. You're supposed to be a former SEAL after all."

Philip shook his head.

"You had to name me 'Dick'?"

"Well, 'Dick' is an acceptable shortening of the name 'Richard', but you don't have to use the short version if you don't want to—Dick."

Philip laughed then thought it over some more before speaking.

"All right, but if I'm going to do this, I want half of the money up front in cash—and you have to be best man at the wedding."

Jeff smiled.

"I'll do you one better than that. All of the money up front, in cash, with a bonus to be added in later to pay for your honeymoon—and I'll be best man at your wedding and godfather to the many children you and Linda will spawn."

"You have yourself a deal, Brother," Philip said, and put out his hand.

Jeff shook the offered hand then reached into his suit jacket and brought out two cigars.

"Congratulations, Dick. You're hired. And Congrats on successfully proposing to my sister. May you grow old together in absolute bliss."

Philip laughed and looked longingly at the cigar that was extended towards him.

"I was beginning to worry that our meeting was going to be all business—and thank you."

"Well, now that that's out of the way, I still want to talk business. How about you tell me about our business? Medieval Kingdom seems to be everything you told me it would be and more, but I still haven't taken the time to learn all of the ins and outs of owning an amusement park. I've had so much going on."

Philip smiled and began to talk about their investment.

Chapter 2: Snooping and Pooping

TWO MONTHS LATER

Richard eased the door shut behind him and listened for any sign that his intrusion had been detected. He mentally counted off thirty seconds. The room was quiet. There wasn't even the small hum of a TV in standby mode. Turning on a small penlight, he flashed dim light around the room. To the left, the bathroom door was open to cavernous darkness. Ahead, the bed was empty, as he had expected it to be. To the right was a standard work station with which most of these dorm rooms were equipped. No other doors. No windows. The room was designed for privacy, less so for comfort.

He was alone.

Perfect.

He had just broken into Joshua Harper's sparsely furnished, undecorated dorm room. For being one of the leading scientists in the field of nanotechnology and a billionaire, he sure didn't live up to the lifestyle he could afford.

Strange

Casting his light along the wall for the light switch, he found it in the same spot as in all of the other rooms.

The temperature in the room was the usually comfortable 70°F, but his clothes were soaked through with sweat. Since he had been hired by DARPA, the US's premiere research and development agency for technology on the bleeding edge of science and warfare, this was his first time actively attempting to break in and steal information.

On his way over from the lab he had almost bumped into someone who was getting something out of a vending machine. He'd almost been seen, which would have necessitated diverting, maybe for the night, and returning again at another time.

He'd spent the first month getting to know the facility: the alarms, the cameras, the layout. He bided his time, getting a feel for the work and life rhythms of the people and systems in place at the facility and letting people get used to him. He had hoped he would bump into Donovan Clarke, but so far he'd had no luck.

Jeff wanted results. With no Don to be found, Richard had to pick up the information gathering and reporting where Don had left off.

There was a lot of information that he absorbed just by going through the day to day routine of being a normal working Joe and watching what went on around him.

His cover was as a security officer with a résumé that was every bit as impressive as Jeff had told him it would be. Former Navy SEAL/Red Raider with multiple awards for bravery, heroism, and competence—all completely fabricated.

But fabricated by professionals who could go back and create all of the documents, photos, accounts, and transaction history he needed to pass a deep investigative background check so that his infiltration into a DARPA employee position had been successful. With his qualifications, they had been chomping at the bit to bring him on.

Even as a new member of the agency security force, Richard had complete access to every part of the Spokane, Washington DARPA facility, even personal living spaces, through various keys and access control devices, though if he were caught in certain areas, like Harper's personal dorm room, he'd have to be able to articulate a pretty good reason for being there.

He'd already done his nightly security rounds, noting as he passed by Harper's lab that Harper and his associates were working there tonight. That left him a window of opportunity to access Harper's dorm room now while everyone else was likely asleep.

Richard walked over to the work station and brought the computer out of standby mode.

He blew out a quick breath and waited for the monitor to finish refreshing.

Ok, let's see if Don knows what he was talking about.

The screen that came up was not the screen that he was expecting.

What's this? He thought, reading the screen. High security BIOS login—damn. Well, Jeff said this might be a possibility. Makes my job harder.

BIOS is the software embedded on a chip connected to the motherboard that tells the computer how to operate before the operating system starts. Passwords created after the operating system boots are far easier for hackers to compromise than passwords buried in BIOS, he had learned.

He sighed and shook his head then unstrapped his backpack and set it on the chair in front of the work station.

I'll just take a quick photo, so I know everything is left as I found it. He pulled out a Polaroid camera and took a snap shot of the desk then set the photo off to the side to develop.

He was using old school technology for this job, but that was preferable this time. Newer tech, like the smart phone he'd left back in his room and some of the newer digital cameras, had features like GPS/Wi-Fi/Bluetooth connectivity, which were great for recreational applications, could very likely blow his cover here. The security office had signal trap hardware secreted around the facility with software programs that monitored which devices connected to which servers. So if he, an unauthorized user, happened to be in an area he didn't have good reason to be in, like right now, his newer devices might connect to servers he didn't want to connect to and then it would be game over, go straight to jail, do not enjoy one million dollars.

Putting the camera back in his bag, he grabbed his tool kit and set it on the desk. Then he turned off the computer and monitor and went step by step through the process of getting to the computer's motherboard safely and without leaving signs of tampering.

It was imperative that he gain access to Joshua Harper's hard drive. He'd been shown how to access a back door built into the DARPA Operating System by one of Jeff's training cadre, but they had warned that some of the higher clearance staff could have additional protective features on their equipment. So, of course, Harper had to have additional layers of security.

That was ok. Richard came prepared for that possibility. Instead of accessing the hard drive now, he'd have to wait a little while. When he had the motherboard in front of him, he pushed a small chip down into one of the free slots then began to reassemble everything.

The key stroke logger would record every entry Harper made, including the BIOS password. Richard just had to give Harper time to use his personal computer then he could come back, recover the chip, and use the information it held to access the hard drive.

He just didn't know how long he'd have to wait. Harper was a bit eccentric and spent most of his time in his lab at the other side of the facility, even sleeping there occasionally. But Richard had been told that Harper did go back to his room sometimes and sometimes accessed his lab's computer from the computer in his room.

That was the whole reason Richard was breaking into the dorm room instead of attempting a much more difficult infiltration into Harper's lab.

Just gotta be patient, he told himself. The keystroke logger was equipped with a second software program that, once activated with the reboot of Harper's computer and subsequent sign in to the DARPA OS, would send a short spam advertisement to a dummy email account using Harper's hardware, letting him know that he could continue his information and intelligence gathering when the room was once again vacant.

When he had everything reassembled and positioned correctly at the workstation, he double checked then triple checked that everything was as it had been when he had come in, using the Polaroid photo to verify.

Then he packed his bag, settled it on his back, and turned off the light.

Damn, I should have brought the scope, he thought. He had a fiber optic cable that was attached to an electronic LED display which he could use to check the hallway outside for anyone in the area. But he couldn't feed it under the door for the view, since he hadn't brought it with him. Next time.

He stood near the door in the darkness and listened for a full minute for anything that would indicate movement in the hallway. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he eased the door open, stepped out, and closed the door. He locked the dead bolt and the knob lock with the issued master key he had used to get in then walked as nonchalantly as he could manage out of the area, rehearsing excuses for being there should he bump into anyone before he'd made it into the clear.

Chapter 3: Jihadi

His throat was dry as sun-bleached bone, and his hands quaked with tremors that shed sweat like rain. Muhammad al-Filisteeni craved a cigarette with an intensity that he had never before experienced, but he could not allow himself to indulge.

Earlier in the morning he had ritualistically bathed to cleanse himself before his god. Each part of his body had been cleaned in turn and then committed to Allah's will. He still wore his ritual clothing. Smoking a cigarette would make him unclean in Allah's sight, and he couldn't afford to make such a mistake now.

He swallowed some water from a bottle and, to calm his nerves, he began singing supplication to Allah. He started with first chapter of the Qur'an. With each melodious word, his body relaxed more and more. Soon his hands stopped trembling, leaving only a slight tingling behind, and the tension that he hadn't even realized he had carried in his temples eased away.

He smiled as he drove the truck down the two lane street. The full realization of his actions unfolded in his mind. He was about to join his brother jihadists in Paradise. Allah would embrace him as one of His own sons. His entire life's purpose was about to be fulfilled by this one action.

Today he would strike a blow that the western devils would not recover from. He was not supposed to have overheard, but the Imam had told one of his brothers that this attack had been funded and planned by one of the westerners. It was to be seen as a sure sign of Allah's greatness that he had turned Islam's enemies against themselves.

"Allah be praised. Surely you are the Most Praiseworthy, the Most Glorious," he said, finishing his prayer.

The target was coming into view.

It was a small white building with a cross atop its steeple. The nearby parking lot was packed. Local police cruisers and unmarked, federally owned sedans and SUV's lined the curbs within a block. Uniformed police officers stood around near the street, keeping the generally curious away. Men in suits milled about closer to the building, giving the pat down to anyone who was allowed entrance by the first ring of police.

A police car turned on its emergency lights and began to pull out into the intersection in front of his cargo truck to cut him off. It didn't matter.

Muhammad accelerated, and his adrenaline began to really flow. He smashed the truck into the car's engine compartment, flipping it out of his way. He lost some momentum but not enough to hinder him from accomplishing his goal.

He jerked the steering wheel to the left and then back to the right. The truck bounced up onto the sidewalk and then tore over the grass next to the side of the church. As the men guarding his target reached for their guns, he grabbed the remote initiator that hung around his neck, shouted "Allah huAkbar!—Allah is Greatest!" with his last breath, and slammed his hand down on the plunger.

Nothing happened.

He slapped it again.

Panic crept into his soul then a sharp pain in his chest blossomed outward into the rest of his body. He was vaguely aware through his disappointment that he had been shot. Fear and doubt flickered through his consciousness. He had failed, but he would die anyway. Would his brothers still welcome him? Would he still receive the virgins each martyr was promised?

As his breath, blood, and strength leaked from his body for the final time, he made one last desperate attempt. He depressed the plunger with the last of his strength.

The payload in the back of the box-truck detonated.

Chapter 4: Fine Wine

A massive green and white helicopter with the Presidential seal on either side landed on the dedicated landing pad in Napa Valley, California. It was escorted by a pair of Marine Corps AH1W Super Cobra attack helicopters. Men in suits scrambled out of its belly carrying machine guns. They ran across the grass that grew around the outside of the vineyard and up the hill on which rested the vice president's family mansion.

Vice President Edward Nelson hummed an old tune, as he sealed freshly filled wine bottles with new corks and prepared them for the foil label wrap. The family winery had been in business for several generations, and, like his father and grandfather before him, he was intimately familiar with how everything worked. He wished he could spend more time here than just the occasional vacation. It was so much more peaceful than the hustle and bustle of Washington D.C. but he knew that was the price he had to pay for seeking and attaining office.

The cellar where he was working was much cooler than outside. He had decided to wear a knit sweater to keep from feeling the chill.

One of the agents on his protective detail hurried into the room.

"Sir, we're going to have to cut the vacation a bit short. We need to get you and your family out of here, right now."

"Why, Chuck? What's going on?" Nelson asked, pulling down on the press handle.

"The President has been assassinated, Sir."

"What?" Nelson asked, finally looking up from his work.

"A vehicle-borne, homicide bomber just detonated outside the President's church. His detail didn't have time to get him or his family out. They're all gone, Sir. And now we need to go."

"Of course," Nelson replied. "Give me ten minutes—ten minutes to get my thoughts in order."

He set the finished bottle next to the others.

The look on the agent's face said no, but he nodded his head and said, "Yes, Sir; we can wait ten minutes."

Nelson nodded his head and the agent left him to see to it that the rest of the Vice President's family was ready to leave. He glanced over at the bottles resting on the counter and then at the cases in crates that he had already finished. As much as he and Zimmerman had disagreed on certain issues, Zimmerman was a good man—had been a good man. Nelson was going to miss him.

Hearing the news, Marlon, his personal assistant, walked into the cellar.

"Ed? You heard the news I assume?"

Nelson nodded his head. Very few people were on a first name basis with the Vice President, but Marlon Dunwoody was one of them.

"Chuck is going to usher us out of here for some bunker, destination unknown, I'm sure," Nelson said. "See to it that the finished cases of wine are brought with us."

"Of course," Marlon replied.

"Good."

He turned to look around the cellar. So many fond memories had been made down there. It might be a while before he was going to see it again. There were a lot of hard decisions coming up, things no one else was suited for. He had to be strong. He had to be the one to lead.

"I guess it's time to go," he said. "I'll see you on the helicopter."

Marlon nodded and watched his boss walk away.

Chapter 5: Pooping and Snooping

TWO WEEKS LATER

It was just as easy to break into Harper's dorm room the second time around as it had been earlier. Before he knew it, weeks had passed. The President's assassination had stirred up the country, but Harper seemed oblivious as he worked day in and day out in his lab. When was he ever going to go back to his room? Richard began to grow impatient. He'd even started contemplating breaking into Harper's lab as day after day passed without having the specifically worded erectile dysfunction spam message show up in his inbox to let him know that the key stroke logger had done its job.

But breaking into the lab wasn't a very good idea he concluded.

Harper practically lived in there, visiting his living quarters exclusively, it seemed, for sleep, which he didn't appear to do every night, at least not in his room. Also, because of the sensitivity of the work being done there, the lab had a few more access control systems than the simple lock and key entry to his dorm room as well as video surveillance systems that monitored that area around the clock. Breaking into the lab wasn't beyond Richard's capabilities, but getting away with it afterwards might be. And he'd still have the problem of the high security BIOS login to hurdle before he could exploit the backdoor into the DARPA Operating System software.

The hallway was clear as he approached Harper's door. Holding his breath, he turned the master key in the lock. The deadbolt was sticking just like last time, so he gave the key more of a twist and pulled the door knob towards him. With a click far louder than he would have preferred, the bolt retreated into the door. He looked up and down the hall one last time and slipped into darkness, re-locking the door. If it had been loud enough to wake anyone, they'd find an empty hallway when they poked their head outside.

Pulling the Polaroid camera from his backpack, he walked towards Harper's workstation. He snapped a few shots of the computer desk's cluttered surface after he turned on the desk lamp. He set the shots under the light to develop.

Nothing looked to have changed from the last time he had been there.

Yesterday he'd finally received the message that Harper had accessed the computer. Richard hadn't been able to break in last night when Harper, true to form, was at work in his lab. He had been forced unexpectedly to cover a shift for one of the other security personnel who had gotten bed rest and pain killers after a rough tumble during hand to hand control tactics training. Tonight was different. He was going into his days off and wouldn't be needed for several days.

Moving as few of the objects on Harper's desk as he could get by with, he unplugged the desktop and pressed the power key to discharge any internally stored electricity. Then he used a screw driver to open the tower casing. He pulled on the keystroke logger to take it off of the motherboard, but it didn't pop off.

Wow, it's really stuck in there.

He gave it a little wiggle, and just as he started to pull on it again, he heard footsteps in the corridor outside.

Oh crap, he thought, yanking on it as he looked toward the door. It popped off into his hand, and he gripped it in a fist. Please don't be Harper.

With Harper being free to make his own work hours, it very well could be him heading back to his room. Richard began sweating anew as the footsteps grew louder. They slowed near the door.

Son of a bitch, he thought. There's no way I'm going to be able to explain this. I am so royally screwed.

Putting the keystroke logger into his pocket and leaving everything else where it was, he hurried over to the door and hid next to the wall where he wouldn't be immediately seen when the door opened. As soon as the door opened and Harper stepped inside, he was going to have to hit him on the head behind the ear with the lead-filled leather sap that he was pulling from his pocket.

Once Harper was unconscious, Richard could finish copying the hard drive and then leave. There would be a hellacious investigation afterward, but it was possible he might be able to keep off the radar, especially since he could very well be the one assigned to investigate the break-in and assault. That was certainly better than being seen by Harper and then everyone knowing he had been there.

The footsteps stopped right outside the door, and Richard raised his hand with the sap to get ready to strike. He heard the jingle of keys.

Here it comes.

The footsteps moved on. He heard them stop after a few more paces and then there was the sound of keys in a lock and finally of a door opening and closing just down the hall.

He breathed out a sigh of relief and wiped his sleeve against the sweat on his forehead. His heart was a hammer pounding on an anvil in his chest.

Oh my god, that was close, he thought.

His mouth was dry, and it hurt to swallow.

Taking a second to calm down, he put the sap back in his pocket and walked back to the computer desk. The computer tower was still disassembled, so he put it back together and replaced all of the various cords that been plugged into it.

While waiting for the desktop to turn on, he plugged the keystroke logger into an old PDA and accessed the log record of Harper's BIOS password.

The BIOS screen with its password prompt appeared on the monitor. Richard leaned over the keyboard and entered what he read on the PDA screen. DARPA's standard operating system booted up and asked for an additional password.

He typed the password he knew would open the administrative backdoor into the encrypted DARPA operating system, and the contents of Harper's entire drive opened to him.

Thank God. I don't think I can take any more surprises right now.

He plugged an external hard drive into the tower via a USB slot then began the process of copying everything on Harper's drive.

When it was finished, he packed up his things and placed the objects he had moved out of the way on the desk back to their original spots within the desk clutter. Then he compared the setting to the Polaroid photos he had taken.

A pen was a few inches out of place and the picture on a dirty coffee mug was turned a little too far away from where it had been, so he fixed both to their original places. One last look confirmed that everything was as he had found it, so he turned off the desk lamp and moved to the door.

Unwilling to just walk out into the hall and risk running into someone, he pulled a fiber optic cable surveillance scope from his backpack and poked it an inch out into the hallway under the door's weather strip. The coast was clear, so he turned off the light, unlocked and opened the door, stepped out into the hallway, locked the door behind him, and began a casual walk down the hall toward his own room.

He looked calm as could be, but his heart was still thundering in his chest. Sometimes being a spy was downright stressful—even if he was spying on his own people.

Back in his own room, he connected the clone drive to his tough-book computer and transferred the contents to a separate partition within his own drive so that he would have a backup copy.

All right, just one more thing to do tonight and then I can chill.

After making a connection to the internet, he went to a site using its numeric IP address. The domain name it used had too many randomly selected characters to remember. Accessing the site required entering a password and then answering a few questions that very few people, two to be exact, could correctly answer.

Jeff, back at the Defense Intelligence Agency was the only other person who knew how to access the site—or even knew about its existence. Since Guddemi was on the other side of the country, and Richard's cover job was inside a secure facility, they needed a way to pass information to each other without either one being caught or the information itself being compromised and falling into the wrong hands.

This site made that possible. He selected Harper's drive to upload and began sending the information into cyberspace.

He knew it would take a while, so he decided to take it easy. He went to his refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of orange juice. He guzzled a few gulps to quench his immediate thirst then poured a healthy amount into a glass from the cupboard. Then he went and plopped down in front of the television.

Watching an episode of Robot Chicken brought a few laughs, but he didn't feel like watching what came on next, so he flipped through the channels. He stopped on a news channel where the talking heads were discussing an outbreak of something as yet undetermined over in China that was claiming a lot of lives. They said it was so serious that the local Chinese officials had ordered the quarantine of entire areas and the burning of several towns. The talking head wondered when we would send aid to help those poor people.

Richard shook his head.

There's always some story of doom and gloom going on. We can't—and shouldn't, fix everything in the world. We've got enough of our own damned problems that need to be fixed first.

He changed the channel.

Another news network. Another dark-haired, news anchor—this time a man, wearing a solemn expression.

"...entire community of Amish folk in Berlin, Ohio have disappeared with no explanation. The local authorities are investigating the cause and..."

Maybe a rival sect kidnapped them all and cut off their beards. Maybe they'll show up in a few days and, he yawned. Oh, who am I kidding? I couldn't care less if the Mennonites packed it up and went into hiding.

His eyes were beginning to glaze over and their lids to droop.

Just a little bit longer. Gotta wait for the upload to finish, he thought and opened his eyes wider by raising his eyebrows.

He changed the channel and immediately felt a little refreshed when he saw a gorgeous blond with a British accent wrapping up a news segment on the G20 that had been in session over the last few days. He half listened to her talking about how it must have gone better than many had feared it might, since none of the world leaders had really known what to expect from the new US President going into the assembly.

Richard frowned, partly because he wanted to look at the hot blond some more, but also because he had been listening a little and didn't agree that American tax payers should be bailing out the European central banks.

The network cut to footage of the world leaders leaving the room they had met in. They were all smiles.

That's right. Smile for the camera, dipshits. Smile while you plan on how to further screw the Americans that have been helping the world and your individual countries for the last sixty years.

Closing his eyes, he shook his head at the ceiling and then rubbed his temples. He didn't like the emotions that flared in him whenever the news was on. He had learned a healthy distrust of politicians while he was serving in the military, and the news just reinforced those feelings.

I gotta watch something else before I decide to put a boot through the TV, he thought, picking up the remote and surfing away from the news networks. Ah, here we go. Wow, I haven't seen the original Star Wars movie in ages.

Half an hour later, he caught himself dozing off.

Mmm—gotta get in bed. I'll mess with the upload material tomorrow.

He trudged across the room to his bed. As he lay down and pulled the sheets up to his chin, luxuriating in the cold feeling of freshly turned bedding, his semi-conscious mind drifted to Wyoming and the life he had left behind until he completed his current assignment.

Good night, Linda, he thought, and pictured his fiancé's face. I hope you are managing on your own for now. I'm this close to having what I need to get out of here.

He drifted off into unconsciousness, happily aware that he didn't need to worry about setting his alarm clock. Tomorrow was his day off. He'd be going into town.

Chapter 6: Trace Alert

Sitting at his desk, half asleep, Deron Brown jerked upright in his chair when the computer console in front of him began chiming a warning.

What the hell? He thought, as he looked at the screen.

He didn't recognize the alarm code the computer was showing. It had to be one of the alarms his supervisor had mentioned was only explained in the books up in the cupboard.

And that means it is some serious shit, he thought. Oh boy.

He grabbed the key from the hook on which it rested over the supervisor's desk, and opened the cupboard. Confirming the number sequence of the alarm again, he grabbed a binder with numbers across the bottom. Opening it, he flipped through the plastic protected pages until he found the sheet that listed his alarm.

When he saw the directions, his knees almost gave out on him.

He recognized the phone number he now had to call because on his first day on the job, his supervisor had told him to make sure he never called that number, not unless it was the end of the world. He'd memorized it. He knew that number better than he knew his own birth date.

Fingers shaking, he dialed the number. It rang twice.

"What?"

Deron swallowed.

"Um, Sir. I, um—that is, uh, the alarm went off, and..."

"Yeah? Spit it out."

"Sir, it's a five-nine-three, dash echo-one."

There was silence on the other end for a full second.

"Sir?"

"I will be right over. Make no other calls."

"Yes, Sir. I won't ma..."

Click

Deron looked at the phone then placed it back on the receiver.

When the door opened a short while later, Deron shot to his feet.

"Sit," the new arrival said, as he walked past Deron and went to the computer with the flashing screen.

"It just started going off about..."

"Don't talk."

Deron opened his mouth to acknowledge, but he caught himself and just nodded. He watched as the man's hands flew across the keyboard faster than Deron ever seen anyone type before.

The man's head never turned from the screen. Eventually the screen stopped blinking, and the alarm stopped sounding.

Before Deron had a chance to see what the man had accessed in the computer, the screen was blank again.

"If it happens again, you know what to do," the man said as he left.

Deron nodded his head and didn't stop until the door had been closed for several seconds. He shivered and sat back down in his seat.

He blew out a long breath.

Those damage control guys are spooky. He shivered despite the warm coziness of the room. Not my problem. I'm not going to worry about it.

He leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to forget about what had just happened.

Chapter 7: A Toast

Each year the President of the United States hosts a dinner party at the White House for the governors of each of the fifty States. He gets them together to talk about the different issues he would like them to concentrate on within their States to help the federal government achieve its goals, and he listens to what they have to say about the needs of their constituents.

President Nelson had the governors and their wives waiting down on the State Floor, where most dinner parties and special events at the White House were held. The Marine Corps band, also known as "The President's Own," kept them entertained with instrumental music, and the residence staff walked paths through the crowd with trays of hors d'oeuvres and glasses full of several selections of wine from the President's Napa Valley vineyard and winery.

Nelson stood at the top of the Grand Staircase with Marlon Dunwoody.

"Are they all here?"

"All but Alaska and Texas—Alaska had something come up with the new Denali pipeline at the last minute..."

Nelson shook his head and muttered something derogatory under his breath about the polluting oil companies and their greed.

Marlon nodded and finished what he had been saying. "And Texas had to cancel with apologies. Governor Haynes's nephew died over the weekend, so he is staying with his brother for a few days until after the funeral service."

The President nodded.

"We are almost there, Marlon," Nelson said with his chin up, as his man straightened his tuxedo bow tie. "The G20 went as well as we had hoped. There will be no turning back now and not very much longer to wait."

Marlon smiled and nodded.

"We have waited such a long time," Marlon agreed. "The pieces are all in place. China has already hushed their media around the Premier. They haven't figured it out yet. The rest will follow. Now there's just tonight. Go knock them dead," he said, giving the President an encouraging slap on the shoulder.

Nelson laughed.

"Oh, you can be sure of that, my friend—that you can."

"I'll go see if Diane is ready," Marlon said.

The President nodded and turned to look at himself in the mirror, while he waited for his wife. He stood tall, admiring himself. He had taken care of himself over the years, and he liked how young he still looked—even if he didn't feel so young. No matter. Harper had promised something that would make him look and feel young for as long as he liked.

Marlon returned with the First Lady at his side.

"Sweetheart," Nelson said. "You look ravishing, as always. You'll make every woman down there jealous."

"Thank you," she said, smiling.

She wore a red dress that highlighted the slimness of her hour glass figure. White pearls were strung at her neck and a matching set of pearl earrings framed her elegant cheekbones.

"Shall we?" Nelson asked, offering his arm.

She nodded and slipped her arm into his.

They descended the red-carpeted Grand Staircase and emerged onto to the State Floor, where the President's Own stopped the song they had been playing and began "Hail to the Chief," the traditional song of serenade to the President.

"Thank you, thank you," Nelson said, holding up a hand and waving to the crowd.

The First Lady was all smiles, as she stood by her man.

"Thank you for coming tonight," the President said. "I know we all thought President Zimmerman would be doing the honors tonight. He was a good man, a righteous man."

Several in the crowd clapped their hands, and a few said, "Hear, hear."

Marlon appeared at the President's side and gave him a portion of wine. The flute was a little more decorous than the others that floated around the room. The wine had been poured by Marlon's own hand from one of the bottles Nelson kept upstairs, separate from the rest. Tonight only Marlon, the President, and the First Lady would drink from this bottle. It was special.

Nelson raised the wine for all to see.

"A toast," the President said. "To President Zimmerman—a man who cared for and served his country like few have before. May he and his family rest in everlasting peace."

"To President Zimmerman," the room repeated.

As one, everyone in the room raised their glasses and drank.

"And to our boys in the military who are going to hunt down the damned terrorist bastards who are responsible for taking him away from us," one of the governors added.

There were cheers and the room drank again.

President Nelson and Marlon mingled into the crowd to talk to a few of the more influential governors, and the First Lady, always the perfect hostess, went to talk to some of the wives.

Chapter 8: Alcoholic You Say?

Dressed in a white tuxedo, like all of the other White House staff who walked through the crowd serving hors d'oeuvres and flutes of the President's wine, Antoine Davis carried his empty tray back into the kitchen to get more refreshments. Several of his coworkers bustled past with their own newly filled trays, and he stepped out of their way.

Events like this were always busy, and he had learned to work hard, go with the flow, but also to get a few bites and swallows in for himself throughout the night. And if he happened to drink a little more alcohol than the others, well, it wasn't a big deal. He was a bigger guy than the others. He deserved a larger share for his larger frame. At least that's what he told himself.

Anything to keep from admitting to himself that he had a drinking problem. Deep down he knew it was probably true, but he never let himself entertain such thoughts for very long. There was always a rationalization for why he should allow himself to drink a little more.

Tonight, the staff had been very clearly told that the wine was for guests only. Anyone caught drinking the wine could face suspension if not termination from employment. Pretty serious consequences for something so simple. Some grumbled that it was unreasonable, but only when their supervisor wasn't close enough to hear.

Antoine didn't grumble. But he didn't fully agree with the order either. Normally he would go along with that kind of directive because he understood that sometimes the supplies the White House ordered were in short supply elsewhere, so it made sense if there were limited quantities. The guests should enjoy the best before the serving staff. That was just common sense.

But in this instance there were cases upon cases of the wine that the President had ordered delivered to Washington DC from his Napa Valley vineyard.

A tray of fluted white wine rested on the counter a few feet away from the table that should have held hors d'oeuvres.

He knew that very shortly one of the kitchen assistants would bring up another cart on the elevator from the kitchen. There was not yet anyone else in the lesser kitchen with him.

Without even thinking about it, he snatched up a flute of the white wine from the tray, downed it in two quick gulps, and tossed the empty wine glass onto a growing stack in the trash.

Not thirty seconds later the elevator door opened and a cart came rolling off the elevator.

"There you are," Antoine said. "They're really scarfing them down tonight, hey?"

"You're telling me."

Antoine grabbed enough to fill his tray and then snaked his way back out into the crowd of governors.

Hours later the party had wound down and the staff had cleaned most of the mess that had remained afterward. They knew they were required to be right back in for work in less than six hours. Most of them lived too far away to make leaving for their own beds worth the trip.

After events like this, with so little time before coming back to work, it was customary for the staff to be offered the opportunity to sleep on cots specially set up in spare conference rooms next door at the Eisenhower Executive Office Building.

Tonight their supervisor practically insisted that nobody leave, saying that it wouldn't be safe for them to drive after such a long day and with so little time before they were required to report back in. A few tried to argue that they lived only fifteen minutes away and that they would rather drive home to their own beds and drive back in in the morning.

Not too long later Antoine saw them setting their bags of sleepover gear under cots a few rows over from the one he was already lying on. He ignored their quiet complaints. His stomach felt a little funny, and he was tired, more tired than he thought he should be.

Rolling over onto his side away from the grumblers, he pulled the gray military issued blanket over his head and closed his eyes to seek a few precious hours of sleep.

Chapter 9: Wake Up Call

Joshua Harper was not your typical geeky looking scientist in a white lab coat. No, he was actually quite handsome, according to the ladies, being tall, with dark hair, sparkling eyes, and a charming smile—when he did smile. And he was rich—filthy rich, having successfully patented several very useful and thus valuable inventions in the new but growing field of nanotechnology.

Presently, Harper was tired. He would have slept on the cot in the lab, but he knew the smell of something he had just burned would prevent him from getting any rest. The bed in his room was more comfortable than the cot, and it had been a few days since he had slept in it.

His thoughts whirled and tangled in his head. There was so much going on, and his associates still had so much they expected him to do before the end. He wondered if he should just take the plunge with his most recent batch and hope for the best.

Stupid! It could still go wrong. I still have to check to make sure they will deactivate under the controls. If they don't, there could be some serious side effe...

A knocking at the door interrupted his thoughts.

He looked at the clock hanging on the wall.

Who the hell would disturb me here at nearly two in the morning? He wondered. I'm going to light a fire under someone's ass.

He walked over to his door and unlocked the deadbolt. He was about to open it and see who wanted to be transferred to Antarctica for penguin duty, when the handle turned and the door opened without invitation.

"Do you mind?" he asked, his voice rising an octave. "I don't know who you think you are—" he began, but stopped when he really saw who it was. His eyes went wide. "Brandon Brock. What are you doing here?"

"Sit down," Brock ordered, as he stepped further into the room.

Harper backed away from him. Fear began to creep into his soul, as he sat down on his bed.

"And Tim Mercer too," he whispered, when he saw the second man come through the door.

"Did you miss us, Doc?" Tim asked, as he closed and locked the door

"Not really," Harper said. "I've been too busy to really miss anybody."

"That's what I like about you, Doc," Mercer said with a chuckle. "You speak your mind, regardless of what anyone else thinks."

Brock ignored the banter and went to Harper's computer desk.

"What are you doing?" Harper asked at Brock, who ignored him.

"What is he doing?" he asked again, this time to Mercer.

"Well, Doc, we've got ourselves a little problem," Tim replied. "It seems someone accessed this computer right here in your room and then sent some very secret information to a website online. That's a big no-no, you know. We can't have you sharing our secrets now can we?"

"What? That can't be; I've been in my lab all night, and no one else..."Harper began but drifted off, his voice growing quieter and his eyes dropping to the floor. "I didn't do it," he said, looking back up. "So why are you here?"

Mercer nodded, his eyes boring holes into Harper's skull.

"We're here to find out if your system agrees with our information. If it does, you get to go see a mutual acquaintance of ours, so you can explain yourself.—Relax, Doc, we're not here to kill you, if that's what you're worried about."

Harper didn't say anything, just leaned back, understanding clearly visible in his eyes.

Mercer shrugged his shoulders then continued.

"If the system info doesn't match, we'll have to go look somewhere else for the culprit, and you can go back to whatever our acquaintance has you doing here...For your sake, Doc, I hope our information is wrong. That nano-shit you put in us has really helped."

Mercer actually looked sincere.

"What is your first password?" Brock asked, making the room feel cold.

Harper swallowed as he looked at Brock. He was afraid to look the man in the eye all of a sudden. Curious, he had never felt that way before with any of the men he had tested and improved.

"B-u-c-k-m-1-n-5-t-3-r-f-u-l-l-e-r-e-n-3," Harper spelled.

"What the hell is that?" Mercer asked, as Brock typed it out.

"Buckminsterfullerene," Harper replied. "It's the most stable fullerene with sixty carbon atoms in the shape of..."

"Whoa, never mind," Mercer said, chuckling. "That stuff is way over my head. Sorry I asked."

"What is the next password?" Brock asked, in his chillingly monotone voice after BIOS began booting the DARPA operating system.

"3-n-d-0-h-e-d-r-@-l-F-u-l-l-3-R-e-n-e," Harper spelled again.

Brock typed the characters into the prompt box, and the DARPA operating system decrypted the drive contents for usage.

"Endohedralfullerene," Harper said to Mercer, needing to say something to ease his nerves. "It's a hollow carbon molecule with an atom of metal or a noble gas trapped inside. They can be used..."

"Doc, really, it's Greek to me, and I don't care," Mercer interrupted. "I was just making idle conversation, while Brock searches your usage history logs. I'm being somewhat friendly because I don't want to believe that you would betray us and the whole organization after all that you have accomplished."

Harper nodded, as Mercer maintained eye contact.

"But don't get me wrong, Doc; if the man orders it, I will put a bullet right between your eyes, and I won't lose a lick of sleep over it. Got me?"

Harper leaned back, a little shocked at the directness of the statement, but he knew these men's capabilities. He hadn't ever worried that their special talents for violence would ever be directed at him, but now he could imagine the possibility.

He nodded his head again and pulled his hands closer to his body. They had started to shake, and that was just too damned embarrassing to live with.

Mercer sighed.

"All right, Doc; look, I'm sorry. Our friend just wants to make sure..."

"Why can't you just say his name?" Harper interrupted. He didn't like being scared, and right now he was scared shitless.

"Because we both already know who I am talking about," Mercer replied. "And if you have betrayed us, he doesn't want to risk further exposure to himself or to the group.

"Now, as I was saying, he wants to make sure you are not the bad guy here. You are a valuable asset to the group's goals. He doesn't want that brain of yours falling into the wrong hands. If our information is incorrect, we'll call him and let him know. He mentioned having some instructions for you if you haven't turned."

"I swear, I would never go against the group—or our friend," Harper pleaded.

"We'll see, Doc," Mercer replied.

Brock cleared his throat, getting Mercer's attention.

"Look at this," Brock said when his associate walked over to join him.

Mercer read the log entries, and nodded then turned back to Harper.

"It was this computer all right. You said you were in the lab all night."

Harper nodded.

"What were you doing?"

"I was running projections for endurance on one of my latest batches of nano..."

"Were you logged into your lab computer while you were running these projections?" Mercer interrupted.

"Of course, the computations would take forever if I had to do them long hand. The only reason I came back to my room tonight is that I had to do a heat test on one of the filaments in—something I am not really authorized to talk to you about, and I accidentally caught the—um, accessories on fire when I pushed too far past the rated heat limits."

"Good," he interrupted again. "You come with me," he said to Harper. "See what else you can find," he said to Brock.

Brock nodded his head, already focused back on the computer.

"Where are we going?" Harper asked.

"If you were logged into your lab computer then there will be a record of it there too. If it shows you were logged in there, then your story is probably true."

"And?"

"And assuming you are telling the truth, this facility has a mole—a spy, who broke into your room, accessed your computer, copied your drive, and then sent it to someone online. Whether it was you or someone else, that cannot be tolerated. The trace program that was inserted into your operating system can't activate itself except in very specific circumstances—like when someone sends it to the internet."

"Oh my god," Harper said, as they walked out of his room toward his lab. "Someone copied my hard drive? Oh my god."

"Come on, Doc," Mercer said, as Harper began to fall behind. "We have to really move on this. No time to waste."

Harper walked faster. He knew very well what kind of damning information was stored on his computer.

Brock studied the usage log again. He had a feeling the Doctor was telling the truth.

Harper was obviously an idealist. If you were a member of the group, you had to be. And no way did someone bribe him into betraying the group. He already had more money than most people would see in a hundred life times.

Which meant that an outsider was probing. And they just got more than they bloody well bargained for, he thought.

He knew the high security BIOS on these computers were outstanding. That's why they used them. If somebody wanted to break into it, they pretty much had to be present to do it.

So if Harper was telling the truth, someone else had been here.

He thought about how he would break into the system if he had been doing the probing. A few thoughts entered his head, but were quickly rejected. Then another came.

He snorted.

Maybe.

He logged out and turned off the computer then unplugged it and discharged any internally stored electricity. He removed the tower's outer case then slipped some latex gloves on over his hands.

Inspecting the motherboard for anything that didn't belong, he found something that made his suspicions all the more probable.

A bent gold-covered, copper prong was still attached to the motherboard right where he knew a keystroke logger would have been placed, had someone been using one.

The Doc's clean. That's good, at least, he thought and sighed. That will definitely make Benson happy, but this won't, he thought, as he removed the abandoned prong.

Setting the motherboard aside, he pulled a phone out of his pocket and dialed a number from memory.

"Put him on the phone please," he said when the call connected. "Good morning, Sir. Doctor Harper is clean. There is a mole in Spokane.—Yes, Sir; I am sure. There is evidence that a keystroke logger was secreted inside his computer. Has there been anything new about the site the information was sent to?—I see. Yes, Sir. We'll be in touch."

He put the phone away.

It didn't take long for Mercer to confirm Harper's claims in the lab or for them to return to his room.

"He is telling the truth," Mercer told his partner.

Brock nodded.

"I know; look what I found," he said showing them the metal prong and then explaining where he found it and what it was for.

"So someone really is spying on me," Harper said.

"Sure thing, Doc," Brock said, in a much less hostile voice than he had used when they had first arrived. "And may come back. That's why our mutual friend has ordered the two of us to stay here with you and provide 'round the clock protection. Like Mercer said, we don't want you to fall into the wrong hands."

"I'll stick to the doc like glue, so he can continue his work in the lab," Mercer volunteered. "How about you stay here in his room, and catch the mole if he pops his head back in while we're away."

Brock thought about it for a few seconds then nodded his head.

"That will work just fine. I'll start searching the room for other signs of surveillance. We could already be on video or audio."

Mercer nodded and looked thoughtful.

"Yeah, you'd better get on that right away."

Harper yawned. He had been tired before all of this had started, and the recent stress had depleted his energy reserves.

"That's fine, Gents," he said, before another yawn broke through. His fear from earlier was gone. Now he just wanted to sleep. "I'm sure I can find an excuse for having you follow me around like lost puppies tomorrow, but right now—I am exhausted; I'm going to bed."

His visitors nodded and let him go do what he needed to do.

A few hours later, after Harper had already crawled into his bed and fallen fast asleep, Brock's phone vibrated with an incoming call.

"Yes, Jax?" Brock said, his voice as quiet as he could make it.

"The site is hosted by the DIA. We will know soon who is working it for them. Another team is already being tasked to take care of the receiving end. I'll have the location to match the IP address the copy was sent from and then you or another team can go find the asshole that did this. I should have that soon too."

"All right, thanks," Brock replied. "Anything else I need to know?"

"Yes," the voice on the other end replied. "We were told to treat this as exposure. We're going hot with Project Wildlands. The boss has some new instructions for Harper. I just sent them to your email. Good luck."

"Thanks," Brock said, and the connection ended. He walked over to where Harper lay sleeping, and laid a hand on the scientist's shoulder. "Doc, wake up."

"Whaaa—"

"Wake up, Doc. Our friend has some things he wants you to start doing," Brock said.

"What? Right now?" Harper asked, bleary-eyed.

"Yes, right now," Brock replied. "We need to get you over to your lab."

He made sure Harper was up and getting ready before he went and made sure his partner was up and ready to go as well.

He hung up on Brock and dialed another number.

"What is it, Jax?"

"Frank, I've got a job for you and your team. You are needed at the Pentagon. We found the recipient of our stolen data. The name is Jeffrey Guddemi. He's D.I.A. According to a source inside the agency, he was put in charge of the DIA's investigation into the DARPA shadow programs that twisted the congressional oversight committee's panties into a bunch a while back.

"My trace program indicates that the DARPA mole sent the data to a private server located at Guddemi's private residence. We need you to pick him up at the Pentagon, interrogate him, and then make him and his server disappear."

"We'd better get moving then."

Frank's phone vibrated in his hand and then chimed.

"That should be the email I just sent you," Jax said, after hearing it from the other side. "Address and target information—everything you should need."

"Got it."

"Make it quick. I should have a location for the sender soon. Their physical location was cleverly concealed, but I'm narrowing it down by process of elimination. They're definitely in the Spokane DARPA facility. We'll need you to get him as well, and we are now on a time line. Project Wildlands is hot. The boss wants this hushed quickly, so our voice is the only one people hear when the shit comes out."

"Roger that. We'll do the grab at the Pentagon and interrogate him in the air as we head west to Spokane."

"Sounds good. Keep me informed."

Chapter 10: Called To the Principal's Office

Jeff had a habit of shaking his pen between two fingers when he was nervous, and at the moment it was blur of rapid motion. The newly appointed Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency had demanded his presence at DIA headquarters within the Pentagon as soon as he had arrived at the Arlington, Virginia satellite office—not a good sign. He knew it had to be related to his investigation into DARPA. That was the only thing he had on his plate.

Normally he lived by the saying "Out of sight—out of mind," but with him working such a high profile case, that just wasn't an option this time.

He sat on a leather-upholstered chair outside the Director's office, staring blankly at the photo of President Nelson hanging on the wall near the door. He had taken notice of it fifteen minutes earlier when he had first sat down and had thought how quick they had been to remove the picture of President Zimmerman for that of the new President, but then his thoughts had gone back to questions of why he was being called in front of his new boss.

"Director Borrenpohl will see you now," the Director's secretary announced, interrupting his thoughts.

Jeff stood and cleared his throat.

"Thank you," he replied and stepped up to the door. He realized that he still had his pen in his hand, so he hid it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket before he opened the door and stepped inside.

This was his first time in the new Director's office

A quick glance around showed that all of the furnishings, even the layout had changed—except for the desk. He would keep that.

The desk was huge and made of mahogany, a clear display of power to anyone invited to appear before it. Vertical blinds over the window behind the desk were closed, but enough sunlight to clearly see still filtered through and gently permeated the room. There were frames with art and photographs hanging on the walls, but Jeff didn't look at them.

At that moment he only had eyes for the Director, who was sitting behind the power desk already glaring, practically burning holes through Jeff's skull.

This can't be good, he thought in dismay.

"Jefferey Guddemi reporting as ordered, Sir."

The Director glared at him for a second longer then barked, "Sit down!"

Jeff barely kept himself from collapsing into the chair across from the man who controlled his paycheck.

"Who gave you authorization to put one of our clandestine operatives inside DARPA to act as a mole?"

Oh crap, Phil. What happened? Jeff thought, as he swallowed hard and sat up straighter.

"No one gave specific authorization, Sir," he replied.

"Then why the hell am I finding out that you did just such a thing?"

"Sir, as you know, I am heading the investigation into DARPA's research methods. Part of the investigation includes using undercover investigators. Because of the sensitivity and classified nature of the issues involved, certain predecessors put procedures in place that would allow these kinds of operations while also affording the agency and the Director, in this case you, deniability should one of our contractors be discovered in the course..."

"I don't care how the last Director ran this agency, Mr. Guddemi," the Director interrupted, slamming his palm down on the desk. "This is my agency now. My predecessor may have wanted deniability for your incredibly stupid actions, but what I want is an agency that keeps to a specific chain of command, a chain of command that answers to me."

The Director was red in the face. Rumor had it he was a strictly by the book kind of guy who liked to step on anyone who showed an ounce of initiative, the exact opposite of the man who had given Jeff this assignment.

"How do you think I felt this morning when DARPA Director Mangano called my office to complain that you have spies secreted in their midst, as if we can't trust them? Huh, Mr. Guddemi? It couldn't have been anyone else because, as you already pointed out, this is your investigation."

Jeff was speechless. He opened his mouth to respond, but he couldn't think of anything.

He called? How the hell could they have possibly found out? He wondered.

"Director Borrenpohl, I—I don't know what to say," he finally stuttered. "Richard is one of our top operatives. He knows how to stay under the radar and..."

"Under the radar? He sure as hell isn't under the radar now!" the Director yelled, interrupting yet again. "You want to know why? Because he transmitted top secret documents onto the world wide web, and those documents had a trace program secreted in them. And do you know where those documents ended up on the internet, Mr. Guddemi?"

"Yes, Sir, I have a pretty good idea," Jeff answered quietly. "We set up a DIA hosted site."

Director Borrenpohl glared at him and shook his head.

"You did not follow DIA guidelines. You used a private server out of your home, even if it was DIA issued equipment. You realize you are going to do time for this don't you?"

"What?" Jeff shouted. "Any files that were transferred were from one federal computer system to another.

"We had to do this. For months now no one in the Spokane DARPA facility has submitted to the congressionally mandated inspections. They have been working in some extremely sensitive areas without oversight for too long. Richard has been there to see to it that whatever the hell they are hiding from congress is not prohibited under law. He's there to make sure that their work is still in the best interests of the US government."

Jeff's face turned red. Anger was boiling to the surface. So much was invested into this investigation at the behest of the former director who had died recently under, to Jeff at least, suspicious circumstances. And now this fucking bureaucrat was trying to get information that for security and integrity reasons he shouldn't have.

"What is the name of your asset inside DARPA?"

"He goes by Richard, Sir."

"His real name"

"I can't give you that information, Sir. It would jeopardize our man's health, and I won't do that unnecessarily."

"How noble," the director said, sarcastically. "Who else knows about this little operation you initiated?"

"Just me, Richard—and former Director Tilton," Jeff admitted, feeling slightly guilty for bringing his prior boss into it.

"Good," Borrenpohl said. "This is going to be hell on wheels if anyone else finds out."

Jeff nodded in silence.

"Now, is 'Richard' currently employed with D.I.A.?"

"He is a private contractor, and part of his contract is that he remains anonymous until he has completed his job," Jeff said.

Director Borrenpohl stared him in the eyes, studying him. He shook his head and sighed.

"You...are a hard-case. I can see that right now. Well, protecting your asset is admirable, but this is something that needs resolution right now. Last chance: who is Richard?"

Jeff clenched his jaw, saying nothing. Whatever the Director thought he could threaten him with, it wouldn't work. No way in hell was he going to give up his best friend to this untrustworthy bureaucratic political appointee.

The resolve in his eyes was clear.

Shaking his head, the Director stood and walked over to the office's side door and motioned for someone to come in.

Two large men in suits entered the office, one shorter man between them.

"There he is," the Director said.

Jeff stood.

"I want to talk to a lawyer," he blurted, as the big men yanked his arms behind his back and threw cuffs on him.

"You don't get it, do you?" the Director said. "You aren't under arrest, and you aren't going to jail. We have the authority to hold you for transmitting classified information over unsecure lines—in essence: espionage, which now falls under the USA Patriot Act. You are being detained as an enemy combatant. You have no Constitutional rights now. You are going to disappear."

"Bullshit!" Jeff shouted, as he shook his head and kicked his feet and tried to keep the big men from dragging him away like a criminal.

But it was too late to resist. He was already restrained, and Frank's grip was hard as steel. Quite unexpectedly, they also gagged him with a cloth and then slipped a black bag over his head, taking away his ability to see or talk.

"You should have told me his name," Borrenpohl said at his back. Then, turning to the shortest of the three men, "Do you have what you need, Mr. Keyser?"

"Yes," he replied.

He had a scar on one of his cheek bones and another across the top of his head and forehead; his nose was crooked from having been broken and reset numerous times; and his eyes were like cold steel—unflinching, unfeeling. His hands, sticking out of nicely tailored suit sleeves, were also a mosaic of scars.

"We have what we need." Even his voice sounded like it had been through the grinder. "I'm sure the list of employees named 'Richard' who was picked up or transferred to Spokane DARPA within the last six months is fairly short."

"About Mr. Guddemi," the Director said hesitantly.

Frank smiled an Arctic breeze.

"We'll take care of it."

The Director nodded, his eyes downcast. Then he looked up and met Frank's hard eyes.

"Tell Mr. Benson it was an honor to be able to provide this small measure of help for him in his time of need."

Frank snorted as he shook his head and walked away.

The Director went to sit behind his desk, as the men left the way they had come in. He checked to make sure the door was all of the way closed and then breathed out a sigh of relief.

Even if he too occasionally worked for their boss, those men scared him. He tried not to think of what they were going to do to Jeff Guddemi. He shouldn't have poked his nose where it doesn't belong. Hopefully, for his sake, they kill him quickly. No one messes Bruce Benson and lives.

It was not a common sight to see someone being escorted through the halls of the Pentagon in cuffs with a black bag over their head, so their procession drew a few looks.

Frank's glare made most of them return to whatever they had been doing. Those brave few that didn't look away didn't concern him. In a week or two they'd all likely be dead anyway.

Jeff still tried resisting even though he couldn't see, but Frank and his partner were more than enough to keep him in line. They were freakishly strong. They could literally pick him up with one arm each and calmly walk him out, squirming and kicking and all, which they ended up doing as soon as they hit the steps leading out to the loading dock in a rear parking lot away from the main entrances.

A plain black suburban waited for them.

They tossed Jeff into the back seat and climbed in, sandwiching him between them.

"Go," Frank ordered.

The suburban accelerated quickly, circling around the Pentagon and heading south into Crystal City. Reagan National Airport was less than ten minutes away.

"Did you find the server?" he asked the driver.

"I did," Wagner replied. "Down in his basement. Fragged it with thermite. That bitch ain't bein' read by anyone ever again."

"Good."

He pulled his phone from a pocket and dialed home.

"We've got him and the server has been destroyed," he said, as soon as Jax answered. "We'll be in the air in ten minutes. And I've got a name for you. Richard."

"Excellent! That will speed up the personnel elimination process significantly. I'll send you a list of questions to ask him during your interrogation and anything else I come up with before you land in Spokane."

"Roger that."

"Oh, and, Keyser."

"Yeah?"

"The boss wants him to suffer, and he wants to watch, so make sure you get video."

"Understood."

Chapter 11: Go Home; Doctor's Orders

It wasn't unusual for Stanley Witmer to wait on Antoine. They lived just a few blocks away from each other in Annapolis, Maryland, so they took turns driving each other to work at the White House. Stanley knew Antoine had a bad habit of oversleeping. It was about the only point of contention between them in an otherwise peaceful and beneficial carpool.

Neither of them had had to drive in this morning because they had both slept on a cot in a conference room next door to the White House. And still he waited on Antoine.

"Come on, Tony," Stanley grumbled from the cot next to the one where Antoine lay, still covered by the blanket. "You're going to be late, buddy. We have to be across the street in half an hour. "Come on, or you'll be working on an empty stomach."

He reached over and shook Antoine's shoulder.

A miserable groan wafted up through the blanket. It sounded like it had come from a dry, scratchy throat.

Stanley didn't like the sound at all. He leaned over his friend and ever so slightly lifted the blanket off of Antoine's head.

Antoine looked like he had lost several pounds overnight. His normally fully fleshed cheeks, a little closer to pudgy cheeks actually, had a sunken, grayish look to them. His body was covered in sweat, and when Antoine opened his eyes they were more bloodshot.

"Damn, Tony. You look like shit."

Antoine's eyes fluttered a bit, and he began to shiver and groan some more.

Stanley could tell right away that his buddy was in no condition to work today. He looked up and caught the eye of one of the other staff.

"Hey, Joe. Give me a hand would you? Tony don't look too good. I want to take him down to the medical unit."

"All right."

They lifted him up and got him to his feet. When the blanket fell to the floor, they saw that Antoine hadn't even bothered to undress last night before sleeping. At least that saved them from having to dress him before taking him downstairs.

Coughing in the elevator drew some concerned looks. Stanley was sure everyone was wondering if poor Tony was contagious and if they'd have to worry about catching it in the elevator. Heck, he was wondering the same thing himself.

"Hang in there, Tony. We're almost there."

Antoine nodded his head weakly and coughed into his hand.

When the elevator stopped, they let everyone else off before they tried getting off themselves. Stanley caught several that had ridden down with them glance over their shoulder to look back at them and then get hand sanitizer from automatic dispensers that were installed every so often along the hallway walls.

Not a bad idea, he thought.

"Thanks, Joe," Stanley said, as they sat Antoine in one of the seats in the medical unit waiting room.

"Sure, no problem. Hey, I'll let the supe know what's going on. I'm no doctor, but I'd say it looks pretty clear that they're going to send him home today. He's in no shape to work, an' I doubt they're going to want him around the rest of us if he is contagious."

"Thanks"

Joe nodded then tried to get Antoine to look him in the eyes. It didn't work. Tony had his head down.

"I hope you feel better soon, Tony," he said.

Antoine bobbed his head a bit and groaned.

Joe's head was shaking as he left the medical unit.

They didn't wait long. The duty doctor came out of a back room where he had been stocking supplies and took them in right away.

"Fever, cough, raspy throat, and a touch of dehydration. You've got a flu," the doctor informed them after a quick inspection. "I'll get you a few meds to take home with you, but you'll need to drink plenty of fluids, and I would recommend you up your vitamin intake for a few days to help your immune system fend off this bug."

"Thanks, Doc," Stanley said, as he wheeled Antoine out of the medical unit in the wheel chair that was offered.

Traffic on the drive home wasn't as bad as it normally was on the way in, since they were going the opposite direction of most of the rest of the people on the roads. It still took them close to an hour, and in that time, Antoine only seemed to get worse, despite the meds the doctor had given him in the office. His groaning seemed to increase in intensity, and Stanley worried some more for his friend.

Something just wasn't right.

In the last ten years that they had been driving to work together, he could only remember one time when Tony had called out sick, and it hadn't even been for him. It had been for his mom, as she lay on her death bed.

"Come on, Tony. Let's get you inside."

He wheeled his friend up to the front door then took the house keys from Antoine's pant pocket. He took him inside and got him to the bedroom where his friend collapsed onto his bed.

Stanley called back to work and let them know that he wouldn't be coming back for the day because Antoine was in bad shape, and he just didn't feel right leaving him alone, as incapacitated as he seemed to be. It was going to cost him at least a day of vacation time and some overtime that he otherwise would have worked, but he accepted that as inevitable and focused on taking care of his friend.

Chapter 12: Wakey, Wakey

Richard woke and groaned. His bladder was painfully full. He knew he shouldn't have had that glass of orange juice so close to bedtime last night. He stumbled out of the cozy bed, hugging himself a bit in the cold of the room, and walked through the dark into the restroom. After a hot summer, these autumn morning were beginning to feel downright cold. He relieved the pressure that had woken him and shivered then made his way back to his bed. Flopping back down onto his mattress, he relished in the warmth under his sheets.

He really didn't want to get out of bed. It wasn't often that he had the chance to sleep in. Just another hour, he thought, as he cracked an eyelid barely enough to see the time displayed on his alarm clock. Way too early!

Two hours later, he woke again feeling refreshed and ready to start the day. A glance at the alarm clock showed that if he hurried, he'd be just in time for the tail end of breakfast at the cafeteria.

I could really go for pancakes and eggs right now.

He flipped the lights on and yawned, as he pulled clean clothes over his muscular frame and slipped into a pair of comfortable boots. His breath wasn't kosher, so he made another trip to the restroom for mouth wash.

While he was there, he splashed some water on his face and looked at himself in the mirror. His hairline was receding faster than he had thought it would. Both of his parents' fathers had gone mostly bald, so he knew that his time would eventually come too. He planned to shave his head and keep it shaved before his hairline crept too much farther back on him. He certainly didn't want to look as old as he felt.

That's me—Mr. Vain.

His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he was hungry. He dried his face and turned off the bathroom light.

"Better pick up the pace, Richard, or you'll be eating breakfast in town," he said, as he stuffed his pockets with his wallet, phone, keys, and other every day carry items. Lastly, he pulled back the unbuttoned Hawaiian that he wore over a white T- shirt and clipped his worn leather paddle holster into his waistband and over his belt.

He never went anywhere without his issued Springfield XD(M) .40 and a few spare sixteen round magazines. He had learned that lesson in the Marine Corps years before when he had walked around with a different name.

Mr. Murphy, of Murphy's Law, always seemed to pop up when you are least prepared for him.

His stomach grumbled again, as he reached for the door handle on his way out.

Enough already. I'm on my way.

He turned the handle and pulled the door inward with one hand and flicked off the light switch with the other.

Mr. Murphy decided to visit.

Framed in the doorway of the room opposite, a man dressed in black with cauliflower ears looked Richard in the eye and began raising his hand toward him, almost as if he were offering a handshake.

Who's this guy? Oh, shit!

But that wasn't a finger that was about to be pointed at him.

Richard recognized the fat cylinder attached to the end of a Walther P22. He had used one a few times himself. Because of its reliability, ease of acquisition in the Western world, and decibel reduction when fired, the pistol/suppressor system was one of several weapons used regularly for close in work by assassins the world over.

His natural reaction saved his life. His body flinched back and curled in on itself to present the smallest possible target to this new threat. At the same time, his arm shoved the door closed. If he had taken the time to think about what to do instead of just reacting, he would have been dead.

Before the door slammed shut, the assassin got a shot off. The bullet impacted the metal door with a louder ping than the sound of the shot itself. Since it hadn't completely lost its energy and the door was at an angle to its trajectory, the bullet skimmed across the door, grazed Richard's right arm, and made a second impact sound as it hit the face plate of his government issued sheet metal dresser drawer, deformed completely into a pancake of lead, and fell to the floor.

Richard jumped forward to the closed door and turned the deadbolt to the locked position just as the door handle turned and the door was jarred in its framed from the impact of the assassin's shoulder. He stepped back away from the door as it shuddered from another impact that connected with the door, this time the assassin's size ten boot.

He took his Springfield from the holster at his hip, brought it up towards the center of the door, and then shifted his aim by roughly a foot towards the door handle. He let loose with three rounds. The sudden loud noise in the close confines of his room made his ears ring enough that he could barely hear the curses from the man out in the hallway.

His vision swam with fuzzy little balls of colliding red and white ghost light, the after effects of the muzzle flash imprinting on his retinas. The only other illumination in the room were his glowing tritium night sights which were currently bobbing slightly up and down with his breathing and accelerated heartbeat. The lack of light coming through his door told him the rounds he had fired had not penetrated through the door.

The cursing was followed by bullets impacting the door from the other side. The small projectiles from the assassin's gun weren't penetrating through either. Richard moved out of alignment with the door anyway, just in case.

The man yelled in frustration and began kicking the door again. He was making a lot of noise, but the steel door and frame held. How long it would stay that way, Richard didn't know.

He kept backing up, his body and gun pointed toward the door in case the assassin broke through. His butt bumped into his computer desk. The sudden stop surprised him. He was concentrating on the door and on his gun's sights. He tried to catch his breath.

The door was holding. He had a few seconds to act. He switched the XD to his left hand and used his right to fish into his pocket for his phone. He found it then switched the gun back into his primary shooting hand.

Even in the dark, it was a cinch to press the buttons to unlock the phone. The display screen glowed to life, temporarily restoring his normal vision, and Richard pressed the speed-dial button to Mack, his security supervisor.

Nothing happened.

He brought the phone up into his line of sight without bringing the gun down from its aiming point.

No signal.

That's impossible. I always have a signal here in—oh shit! He's gotta have a jammer. Radio!

He dropped the useless phone into his pocket and put both hands on his weapon. He sidestepped in the dark until he made it to the foot of his bed and the nightstand. A quick glance in the dark showed him what he wanted. The LED on the radio's battery charger glowed green, indicating a fully charged battery but also letting him know where to find the radio. He reached down and across his body to grab the radio with his left hand, keeping the gun pointed at the door with his right.

The door was still being assaulted, but thankfully it held.

He turned the power knob on top to the "on" position and listened for a second and a half. No one else was broadcasting. He keyed the transmitter microphone.

As soon as he began speaking, the radio let out a low, continuous tone. He released the transmit button and then tried again. He got the same tone.

Damn it!

Either Murphy was playing with Richard's radio, or the radio had been dropped from the encrypted security system. Regardless, it was worthless to him now.

The pounding on the door stopped.

"Come out and play, Richard," he heard from the other side of the door.

He didn't respond.

Why is this asshole trying to kill me? He thought. Shit! I'm trapped and I can't call anyone to help me.

There was only one way out of the room, and the would-be assassin began kicking away at it again.

Think! Think!

He took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out slowly. He willed his heart beat to slow down.

He replayed the incident in his head. His attention had focused on the gun that was being raised towards his face. The face behind the gun went blurry during the adrenaline spike he had experienced as soon as he had realized what was happening, but he recalled that brief second when the other man had made eye contact.

Target identification verification. Wouldn't want to take out someone other than the intended target. I saw him just like he saw me—only I don't recognize him, and he clearly recognizes me. He can't be one of the staff or security; I would know his face, even if I didn't know his name. That makes him someone from the outside. How could someone from the outside know about me? Only Jeff knows why I'm here. Jeff wouldn't...He was right outside my door just waiting for me, and he knows my cover name. There was recognition in his eyes—but not instant recognition. There was too much of a gap in time. He should have raised the gun as soon as the door started opening. So he knows me, but not well—Jeff wouldn't betray me. He wouldn't—not after all we've been through together. What the fuck is going on?...My cover is blown. Somehow, someone found out, and they didn't like it, so they called in a pro. Who? Damn it!

He caught his breath speeding up again, and he forced it back into submission.

The incessant pounding on the door stopped.

Maybe someone complained and security showed up to investigate. Yeah right. Who's going to complain, Richard? You're the only one who takes time off on week days around here. Everyone else is already at their work station well into their work by now. Why did he stop? Duh, because it's not working. So what else is he going to try? Is he just going to wait? Would I?—No. what would I do? Fire axe? No. Battering ram? Where the hell is he going to get a battering ram? Explosive entry charge? No, he would have already used it. Think.

It doesn't fucking matter what he is going to do. I need to concentrate on what I'm going to do. How do I get out of here without getting shot?

Then he remembered the layout of the rooms in this wing of the facility. His room had a concrete floor and overhead, and three of the walls were made of steel reinforced, concrete-filled cinderblock. The fourth inner wall, the one that he was forced to share with his sometimes loud next door neighbors, was made of timber and drywall. So the assassin was facing a nearly impenetrable shell of hardened walls and steel doors, while Richard could break right through the drywall of the next several rooms with hardly any effort at all.

His neighbors would be pissed when they came back to their rooms and found huge holes in their walls, but it was his life on the line. If he could make it through a few rooms before the assassin broke in the door, he could leave out of one of the front doors that faced into another corridor. The assassin would be banging away in the other hallway and wouldn't see him leave.

Like all good spies, Richard had contingency plans should he need to leave in a hurry. They hinged on him being able to leave his room, but he had plans. And he had everything he needed to go on the run already packed and pre-staged at a safe house in the city—if he could get there.

The only things he couldn't leave without now were his tough-book laptop computer and the external hard drive that he had saved files on last night. He made his way back to the computer table, felt around until he touched the external hard drive, and then stuffed it into his pocket. The tough-book was already in its shoulder bag, which he quickly slung over his back.

Then he sidestepped to the back of the room away from the front door until he bumped into the wall. He moved forward until he found the drywall then backed up one deep step. He timed his kick into the drywall with the thump of the impact into his front door.

No need to let the assassin out front know that he was doing anything inside other than cringing in fear.

"Go away!" He yelled, giving his voice a hint of fear. "I'm calling security!"

He broke through into more darkness. Light wouldn't be a danger in this other room. Having the larger, double-sized unit on the end, he was neighbor to two back-to-back rooms, each with its own separate entry corridor. He debated breaking through another wall into another room or just going out into the corridor from this room.

He paused and listened.

The impacts on his door continued.

Screw it! I'll take speed over stealth right now.

He raced to where the front door should be—and tripped over something hard and low to the floor. He heard the crunching noises of several things breaking, at least one of which sounded like glass.

"MMMMmmmm!" he stifled a yell of unexpected pain.

Murphy strikes again!

From the floor he saw a thin, horizontal bar of light under the door where the weather stripping had worn away and an area of darkness where another obstacle waited to nail him on the way to the door. He pushed himself off of the floor, dodged around the obstacle, grabbed the door handle and yanked.

It was locked—of course.

He slid his hand upward and felt for the deadbolt, found it, and finally managed to open the door. He stumbled out into the light and immediately brought his gun up to shoot anyone coming at him in the corridor.

It was empty—in both directions. Maybe he had finally outrun Murphy.

He turned left into one of the three exit halls on the ground floor, each the length of one room's width—and ran right into the back of a large man silhouetted against the light coming in through the glass door.

The man grunted in surprise then saw who had run into him and began raising a gun, suppressed like the assassin's at Richard's front door.

How many appearances can Mr. Murphy make in a day?

Don't ask.

This time Richard didn't have to react in complete surprise. He was already past that stage and was well into combat mode. His gun had barely lowered from where he had been carrying it since he had come out of that neighbor's door.

He was so close he didn't even need to bother with his sights; the second assassin took up most of his forward field of view. He squeezed off two rounds so fast that it almost sounded like one shot.

He watched his rounds take effect. The assailant crumbled inward on himself and fell backward to the floor, dropping the gun from his hand—another suppressed Walther P22. Blood began to leak onto the floor from beneath the body fast enough that there would soon be a puddle of it. Blood had already spotted the front of the man's shirt where the bullets had connected. They had shattered the man's heart.

Unfortunately, Richard's handgun did not have a suppressor like those connected to the assassins' weapons. He knew assassin number one would have heard his shots and would be responding forthwith—with more help if this goon on the floor was any indication of their modus operandi. He took a good look at the dead man's face, while he reached down and grabbed the suppressed handgun that could have punched his ticket. He tucked the unfired weapon into the waist band at his back and turned to leave.

The bullets that had taken down assassin number two had been fired at such close range that they had torn right through his back and gone through the glass door he had been guarding. Now the door was a mess of blood-splattered, spider-webbed glass, and Richard was careful to only touch the metal bar that ran across the frame as he pulled the door inward.

Out he stepped and began running. As he crossed the wide road that separated the dorm building from the adjacent buildings in the maze that made up the DARPA facility, he heard the door behind him slam shut and its glass face fall to the ground. He didn't turn to see if he was being pursued; he just ran and prayed that he wouldn't take a stream of bullets in the back—or run into Murphy again in front of him.

Chapter 13: Kick It!

Frank Keyser kicked the door for what seemed the millionth time. The door frame was stubbornly solid, and had yet to open for him despite his above average strength and the pounding he was giving it. Maybe if he had had the larger bulk of either of his teammates, Nate Wagner or Scott Davies, he might have already caved the door in and shot this lucky "Richard" bastard. You were lucky this time, asshole; but luck has a way of turning.

While the rest of the team changed out of business suits into their tactical gear, Davies had beaten Richard's last name out of Guddemi on the plane ride to Spokane, though that was about all he'd been able to get out of him. The information had gone straight to Jax, enabling him to separate this Richard from the other twenty-some-odd Richards that worked at the Spokane facility. Also, the new information enabled him to procure a photo of the correct Richard from the DARPA personnel files, which he then forwarded to Keyser and his team. But there was enough of a difference in appearance between Richard's photo and Richard now that Frank had hesitated for a fraction of a second too long to verify that he had the right target before bringing the gun up to shoot. It was just enough for him to miss a body shot.

He lined up for another kick when he heard the shots from somewhere else in the building.

Shit! Same floor, inside...bastard was trying to sneak out the back—unless—other security personnel? No, McCann said all of his other people were warned away from this side of the facility for our "training exercise." We'll see.

"Report," he said into the throat mic he wore below his jaw as he sprinted down the corridor.

"Jackdaw clear"

Davies

He waited to hear from Wagner. Seconds passed. He rounded the corner to the left and continued down a shorter corridor.

"Magpie, report," he called.

Silence

"Magpie, report"

He turned left again and saw light spilling into the otherwise empty corridor from the exit hall ahead and to the right. Seconds later he turned into the light and found Wagner flat on his back, blood pooled out to either side and oozing towards the shattered door, like angel wings of blood.

"Magpie down; hold position"

Keyser continued to the door frame and ducked through it. He scanned left and right, his handgun pointing everywhere his eyes went. He didn't see a sign of Richard.

"Target loose; no visual," he said, as he ducked back into the dorm building. "Creeper, do you have a track on his cellphone?"

"That's a roger, Raven. Cell is mobile. Current location four hundred sixty meters south-west of your current position and increasing."

"So he has it with him," Keyser said. "Excellent. Continue to monitor and keep me informed, Creeper. Out."

"Creeper copies. Out."

Keyser sighed and stretched his neck before straightening and calling for his other team mate.

"Rally on me—north entrance."

"Jackdaw copies"

Keyser waited until Davies showed up to provide security for the team before kneeling down next to Wagner. He tore the man's shirt open and poured a vial of grainy powder into each of the bullet holes. Then he slapped a pair of adhesive patches over the holes, both front and back, and turned to Davies.

"Your turn"

Davies shook his head but didn't complain otherwise as he reached down and grabbed the man's meaty palms. He stepped over the body to straddle it and then lifted and hefted it over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.

"Now what?" Davies asked. "You want to go get him now or wait until we have better numbers?"

Keyser stared through him in thought.

"We'll wait for Wagner," he replied a few seconds later. "I'll go recover all of the electronics in Richard's room, so we won't have to worry about other copies getting out, and we can see what Mr. Richard has been up to. You go ahead and get him to the suburban. We're going to have to rely on Jax's tech skills to track him down now."

Davies nodded and began carrying the body of their fallen comrade the two blocks to where they had left their black Chevy Suburban. He opened a rear door and unceremoniously dumped him into the back seat. Then he climbed into the front seat and dialed a number into his phone.

Keyser showed up fifteen minutes later.

"I talked to Jax," Davies said. "He's got a good lock on Richard's phone."

"Good," Keyser said.

"What about him?" Davies asked, nodding to the back seat.

"Throw a blanket over him. We'll get rooms in town, and he can join us once the bugs do their thing."

Davies nodded then leaned over the seat and put a finger to Wagner's neck.

"He's got a pulse again, so it's working. He's going to be hungry as a hog when he wakes up."

"Yeah," Keyser said with a smirk. "We'll just have to find a grocery store after we wrap up our little Richard situation."

"We oughtta start making him wear a vest."

Keyser laughed.

"With his luck, it would just mean the next time he gets shot—it'll be in the head."

Davies snorted.

"He has had some bad luck lately."

They drove away from the facility, a cloud of dust following behind them.

Chapter 14: Grand Theft Auto

Richard was sweaty and winded when he stopped running. He had made it out of the DARPA facility without having been seen or having set off any intruder alarms. Once outside the fence and into the tree line, he had turned toward Spokane and run. Spokane was the city closest to the facility and the most likely place for him to go. His attackers had to know this too, so he was determined to be very careful not to be spotted by them. He stayed off of the road into the city and away from the occasional houses that lay between him and his destination, keeping instead to the forested sides.

Constantly expecting a vehicle from the facility to catch up, full of pursuers out to kill him, he decided to steal a car the next time an opportunity presented itself. Opportunity came at a gas station just a few miles outside the city limits. He had just skirted another house and walked half way into a cluster of trees when he found it. He stayed hidden in the shadows as he crept closer and watched the area.

Several cars were sitting at the pumps with people filling up. A few more were parked in front of the merchandise area doing their normal business. He wouldn't risk the cars in front. There was too much traffic in the area. The probability of an owner coming out or anyone else finding his behavior suspicious while he tried to break in and start the engine was just too high.

There were two cars around the back. One was a truck. He thought the other was a Honda Civic, but he couldn't tell from where he was hidden, so he moved further around to that side, careful to still stay hidden in the trees.

He was partly correct. It was a Honda Accord, and the owner had left the window down.

Paydirt!

Because the Honda Accords and Civics were made with widely interchangeable parts, they had the unfortunate honor of being the most stolen cars in America. Chop shop money makers.

He would feel guilty later for stealing it, but right now that Accord could be his life line. He stalked through the trees to the point where he judged that he would be exposed the least then walked toward the car.

The door wasn't even locked.

As he sat in the driver's seat he reached into his pocket for keys out of habit. There were no keys, but he felt his phone and then realized he had made a huge mistake.

Shit! Shit! Shit! He thought. How could I be so stupid? Remember your training, dumbass.

He pulled the phone out of his pocket and placed it on the dash. Then he popped the catch on his shoulder bag and opened a side compartment. He withdrew a flat, grey bag. A "Paraben's StrongHold" logo was imprinted on its surface every few inches.

The bag was sealed with Velcro, which made its usual tearing sound as he pulled the sides apart to access the inner compartment. Grabbing his phone from the dash, he fit it into the inner compartment and sealed the inner and outer Velcro.

His hands were shaking from the surge of adrenaline that had jolted his system when he realized that someone could be tracking his phone. Now that it was safely in the signal-blocking bag, he breathed a sigh of relief, shook his hands to stop some of the trembling, and set his mind on the car he was sitting in.

It took him a few minutes to hotwire the engine. He was sweating bullets that someone would come out the backdoor and catch him at it. No one did though, and as soon as the engine was running and the steering column bypassed, he buckled up and drove away.

He glanced in the rear view mirror as he left the gas station, half expecting to see someone running out of the store and chasing after their car. No one did, but a black Chevy suburban pulled in rather quickly just as he was leaving. Seeing it nagged at his fear. It looked suspiciously like a vehicle out of a federal agency fleet. Between that and having just recently shielded his phone, he felt spooked. He settled a little more weight on the gas pedal and glanced up into his rear view mirror every couple of seconds.

Chapter 15: Guns Hot

"Signal lost"

That was not what Keyser wanted to hear.

"Last known location, Creeper?"

"Five point two miles ahead of you. It looks like it's at a FasTrak gas station."

"Copy that," Keyser said then stomped on the accelerator.

There was a groan from the backseat and the blanket rose into view in the rearview mirror.

"Welcome back, Sugar," Davies cooed.

Wagner showed him his middle finger.

"What the hell happened?" he moaned.

"You got shot is what happened," Keyser answered. "That's twice now you been a fatality. You're slowing us down. From here on out, you need to wear a vest, Big guy."

"Aw, come on, Frank," Wagner pleaded. "You know I hate those freaking vests. They're too freaking small, and they're too hot. I get rashes in places..."

"That's an order, Nate," Keyser interrupted. "Quit being such a pussy; you're a SEAL damn it. Start acting like one. Suck it up. Just be glad I'm not making you wear a helmet too."

Wagner, who had been sitting there with his mouth open waiting to plead his case as soon as his team leader quit talking, shut his mouth and sat back with his head down.

"Roger that," he mumbled.

Keyser shook his head.

"There it is," Davies said, pointing.

Keyser slowed just enough to pull into the parking lot without running into anything or losing control then he stomped on the brake pedal. The suburban slid to a stop directly in front of the front double doors.

"Stay here, Nate," Keyser ordered, as he and Davies jumped out of the front. "Watch our six."

The two of them stormed into the FasTrak with M4 carbines ready, prompting a few screams from female customers. The man behind the counter let out an "Oh shit!" before he realized that they weren't there to rob him.

They cleared the three aisles of merchandise in the front of the store then went into a hall to the back. There was a single storage room to the left, which was full of merchandise and clearly wasn't hiding anyone—they checked it anyway, and a restroom to the right with light showing under the door. All that remained down the hall was a door with a red "exit" light mounted above the door frame.

Keyser aimed at the door of the restroom. Davies went around his back and grabbed the door handle. With his free hand he turned the door knob. It was locked, so he backed up, raised his rifle, and waited.

Keyser stepped back, tensed himself, then lunged forward and planted the bottom of boot against the edge of the door, just above the door knob. The wood of the door frame was reduced to splinters as the deadbolt easily sheared through it, and the door crashed open. Keyser stepped in ready to shoot; Davies squeezed in next to him.

Before the screaming started, a woman had been bent over the sink, her dress splayed up to her waist, while a man was behind her thrusting away.

It wasn't Richard.

"Damn it!" Davies yelled. "Where is this guy?"

"Let's search the grounds," Keyser said, as he backed out, keeping an eye on the two love birds who were now cringing against the back wall trying to cover themselves.

They went back out of the front of the store then turned left and left again, searching the side of the parking lot. Another left turn put them behind the gas station.

Davies hopped up to check inside the cab of the truck that was still parked there, while Keyser kept an eye on his partner's back as well as the area a little further off to their right in the open, unsearched area.

Just as Davies stepped down, the back door to the gas station popped open in a hurry.

Both men pivoted and aimed their rifles at the person in the doorway.

It was the man they had caught in the bathroom.

"Don't shoot!" he yelled and raised his hands, turning his face away as soon as he saw them.

"Get the fuck back inside," Davies snarled.

The man moved to comply but then froze again.

"Hey, where's my car?" He asked. "I left it right here."

Keyser turned to make eye contact with Davies.

"That's him. He stole the car. Grab this dumbass, and let's go. He can tell us the descriptors on the way."

Davies nodded and grabbed the man by the back of his shirt at the neck.

Chapter 16: Safe House

Richard drove into Spokane faster than he would have any other time. He was taking a chance that there wouldn't be any speed traps between him and the city limits. He felt the risk was warranted. Seeing the black suburban pulling into the gas station rather quickly had set off alarm bells in his head and spooked him.

As soon as he made it into the city, he found the bus station, and parked the Accord. He rolled the windows up and locked the door before going over by the bus terminal. He was sure the police would find it within the next few days.

Instead of buying a bus ticket, Richard jumped into the first taxi he found and had the driver take him to a hotel on the other side of the city. He paid the driver and walked towards the lobby of the hotel. Once the taxi had driven away and was completely out of sight, he pretended to throw something away in the trash can in front of the hotel and began walking. He kept his eyes open for any signs that he was being actively followed or watched, and he changed his direction several times.

A mile later he walked into a mom and pop diner with a direct view into a local residential neighborhood. He took a booth with a view of the street leading into the neighborhood. There weren't many customers inside. He must have arrived right between the heavy breakfast and lunch crowds a diner like this could expect. He'd be able to watch his new area of operations without being remembered by every working Joe who stopped in for a bite to eat.

Perfect timing.

A television was playing near the bar. Only one patron was watching. Richard recognized the news anchor as Jamie Davis, one of the locals at KREM channel 2. She was cute, as the young ones usually are. She was talking about a story from Wyoming—something about the governor, but he could barely hear any of it, and he became distracted by movement in the corner of his eye.

A middle-aged brunette woman walked toward his table and gave him a menu to look at. The tag on her blouse named her Marie. Up to that point, he had been so worried about evading whoever these pros were that wanted to kill him that he had forgotten that he was hungry.

"Thank you but, no, I'll just have water," he said when she offered him coffee, and after a quick glance at the lunch menu, he added, "And I would like the grilled chicken sandwich meal."

"Ok," she said and took the menu back.

"Is there any way I could substitute apple sauce for the French fries?" he asked.

"Sure, that's not a problem at all," she replied. "I'll go put your order in with the kitchen, and I'll be right back with your water."

"Thanks," he said and smiled.

He watched her walk away then turned his attention back to the neighborhood out front. Every once in a while a car would drive up or down the street. It wasn't busy. Kids would be in school, and adults would be at work or on their way back to work from their lunch hour.

Richard sighed and shook his head.

What the hell happened, he thought. What did I do wrong?

Nothing came to mind. The idea that he might have been betrayed kept sneaking back into his thought process, but he didn't want to entertain those thoughts. That would mean that his best friend had turned against him.

Jeff was the only one who knew I was there. Even Director Tilton didn't know who the operative would be when he authorized the mission—just Jeff.

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

Footsteps caught his attention, and he looked up.

It was the waitress. She had his glass of water.

"Thanks," he said when she placed it on a napkin in front of him.

"Your sandwich will be ready soon," she said before leaving him to his thoughts.

He nodded and looked back outside. Nothing looked to have changed in the neighborhood, and no one was out of place on the street. He was close to his safe house. That was why he had chosen this diner. It would allow him to get a feel for the area again, before going to ground.

Running directly to the safe house in a panic was a sure way to raise the suspicions of those he would need to blend in with if he were to stay alive and out of enemy hands.

He would have loved to try to contact Jeff, but he couldn't risk using his smartphone. He would just have to wait.

There was a phone at the safe house that couldn't be connected to Richard, Jeff, DARPA, or the DIA. It was completely clean. He would use it as soon as he verified that the safe house was still safe.

"Here you go, Sir," Marie the waitress said, placing a plate in front of him. "A grilled chicken sandwich and a side of apple sauce. Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"No, this is good, thanks," Richard replied.

She walked away, and he tore into his meal. It tasted so good after all that he had been through that morning. He just hoped it wouldn't turn out to be his last meal. A lot could go wrong. He didn't know who he could trust, or even why, now of all times, he was being hunted.

It must be something to do with Harper's hard drive, he thought, as he finished his sandwich. Well, it's time to find out what's on there that's worth killing for.

He put a twenty dollar bill on the table to cover his meal and Marie's tip and then left

Nothing outside had changed. He hadn't seen any particular car drive by more than once. If he had, he would have been more worried that someone was driving circles around the block, surveilling the area. He waited on the traffic light at the intersection then crossed the street and walked into the residential neighborhood.

He felt out of place wearing the colorful Hawaiian shirt, but he hadn't seen a clothing store in which to buy a replacement during the walk from the hotel to the diner. At the safe house, he had clothes he could wear without standing out at the safe house, along with a selection of hats, sunglasses, and a few different disguises he could wear to change his appearance if needed.

Strolling along the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, he did his best to look like he belonged there. He didn't hurry, didn't keep looking back over his shoulder. He was just there, one more person in a world that hadn't gone crazy, hadn't fallen apart all around him.

The neighborhood was just like thousands of other neighborhoods around the country, one house indistinguishable from the others around it except for the number out front on the mailbox or maybe a different kind of car in the driveway.

A perfect place to blend in and disappear.

The safe house driveway was empty, just like most of the other driveways in the neighborhood at that time of day.

He walked up the drive to the side of the house where the air conditioning unit rested. He was out of view of the street now, and he pulled open the maintenance panel on the AC unit. The house key was waiting for him, right where he had left it.

He unlatched the gate to the back yard and closed it behind him. Walking up to the back door, he brought his handgun out and prepared to use it if necessary. Very little of the inside was visible through the window in the back door, but he could see that the security system keypad mounted on the wall showed that the house was secure.

Now it was time to test the theory that his buddy Jeff, unlikely as he believed it to be, might have turned on him for some reason. If anyone else was in the house waiting for him, he would have his answer.

He was extra cautious as he unlocked the door and stepped inside. He went to the keypad and entered his security code before the system called home to its parent security company.

The house was quiet.

Systematically, he walked through the house, room to room and bottom to top, checking for signs of intruders. When he was confident that he was alone, he went through a second time with specialized equipment, checking for listening devices and spy cameras. That turned up clean as well.

For the moment, he appeared to be safe. He felt confident now that he could rule out the possibility that Jeff had deliberately outed him. It felt like a weight off of his shoulders, but he knew he wasn't "out of the woods yet," so he determined not to grow complacent.

His next step was going to have to be getting out of Washington and going back to the Arlington, Virginia DIA office. After what had just happened at DARPA, he wouldn't be surprised if he were ordered to respond to DIA headquarters at the Pentagon for a major ass-chewing.

Thinking about Virginia brought Jeff back into his thoughts.

Time for a little chat, old buddy.

He went upstairs to a room that was stuffed to the gills with metal equipment lockers and a sizeable wardrobe. Unlocking the lockers, he found the untraceable prepaid phone that he had been thinking about earlier and several cards with extra minutes.

And it's urgent enough that I can call you directly.

He punched in Jeff's number and listened to the dial tone. While it rang, he set up and turned on his tough-book computer. Jeff's voice mail came on. It was a generic message that didn't name any names—just repeated the number that he had called and told him to leave a message.

After the beep, he left his message.

"Hey, Jeff, it's Tommy out in Seattle. I ran into one of our old friends today, and he told me you are moving up in the world. He gave me your number and said you might want to catch up. Give me a call at 206-555-9555. I have a lot to tell you."

He disconnected the call. Giving a different name and location was a standard precautionary measure. Jeff would know his voice and know exactly how to contact him. Using the 9555 ending on the fake phone number would let him know it was of the highest priority that they make contact.

Setting the phone down within easy reach, he turned his attention back to his computer and made sure the screen capture software was recording, so he could add audible notes during the initial viewing. Then he reached over to a shelf with computer accessories and grabbed a pair of headphones with a built-in mic. He put them on, keeping one ear uncovered, so he'd be able to hear the sounds of the safe house and the neighborhood. If a suburban pulled up, loaded to the gills with the guys he'd just escaped from earlier, he'd need to know before they kicked the door in.

Now let's see what is so damned important about Harper's drive, he thought, as he opened the separate partition in his drive to access cloned drive folders.

What the hell?

Every folder and every file he opened in the separate partition was corrupted—damaged. He couldn't make sense of anything. He went back to his system settings and tried a system restore. Nothing happened. The files remained corrupted.

That's just great, he thought. All of this cloak and dagger bullshit for files that are now worthless.

He wanted to pick something up and throw it, but there wasn't anything in reach that he could afford to damage. Then he remembered the external hard drive he had originally copied to. He needed to check there too. He turned off the screen capture program. No need to leave notes on a video of garbled pixels.

Thinking about countermeasures that could have been built into Harper's drive to corrupt the data without him realizing it, he decided to try something. He closed the partition on his tough-book so that any corrupted files with a built-in anti-piracy virus routine wouldn't cross contaminate any files on the external drive. He kicked himself for not thinking about the possibility sooner.

Without opening the folders on the external drive, he dragged and dropped the contents of Harper's drive onto another external drive so that he would have another, hopefully uncorrupted, copy. Then he unplugged the copied drive from the computer and opened Harper's folders.

Oh thank goodness.

The files were fine.

He wondered why there was a difference between the files in the separate partition on his computer and those on the external hard drive. He analyzed what he had done differently between the two.

I copied the contents from the external to the computer. That shouldn't have triggered anything; Harper would have to back up his files too, so it can't be that. Then I uploaded the files from the partitioned copy, but I didn't from the external. I had already unplugged the external. I haven't touched either one again since then. That's the only difference then. It must have a built-in program that destroys files uploaded to the web without authorization. Shit! That means Jeff won't have a clue of what is on this drive.

He looked at the phone, wondering if he should call again, but only a few minutes had passed. He had to be patient. Who knew what Jeff was busy with?

I need to make sure he can see this right away in case anything happens to me. I can't risk corrupting the files again by sending it directly. Sending the video file of opening the original should be fine though.

He restarted the screen capture software program that would make a video log of everything he saw while perusing Harper's drive.

Yes, that should work.

"Examining the contents of Joshua Harper's personal hard drive, taken from his room at the Spokane, Washington DARPA facility. I'm Richard Dalton, deep cover sub-contractor working for the Defense Intelligence Agency."

He rattled off the time and date so they would match what was shown on the task bar at the bottom of the screen then began concentrating and trying to figure out what Harper had been up to.

He looked into a folder labeled EWES. It contained a text document and several video files. He opened the text document first. The title at the top was revealing: Elite Warrior Enhancement Series.

DARPA's Super Soldier Program, he thought. This is what Don was looking at before he disappeared... But what is Harper hiding?

It wasn't a long document, so it was a quick read. Based on the way it was worded and on its length, he surmised that it was a promotional piece that someone had put together for the generals at the Pentagon in a push for extra funding.

Why didn't Harper just use his own money if it was such a big deal to him? Richard thought. But then again, why spend your own money, if the big wigs will throw taxpayer money at you?

The document didn't tell him anything he hadn't already been briefed on before he infiltrated DARPA, so he closed it out and opened the first video.

Another funding promo.

He closed it out and flipped to another video further down the list. Again, it was another promo video.

Geez, how many of these damned things do you need?

He scrolled to the bottom of the list and decided to try one before moving on to another folder. He needn't have bothered.

As he was about to close the folder and try another, he noticed a folder he hadn't seen while looking through the videos. It was labeled 'P'. Upon opening it, he found that 'P' was for Personnel. There were two subfolders labeled 'A' and 'D' respectively.

He opened 'D' to find a long list of files, each labeled alphabetically with a person's name. He double-clicked the first.

Carl Andersen, US Navy, SEAL Team Two, Volunteer. Below was an official military picture of the seaman, "Deceased" stamped in red across the bottom. At the bottom of the page was a footnote: "Series 4 unsuccessful."

Richard opened another file with similar results: Jim Auston, US Army, 10th Special Forces Group, Volunteer, Deceased, Series 2 unsuccessful.

File after file, each showed basically the same results: Special Forces volunteers from the different branches of the military—each deceased because series 1-5 were unsuccessful.

That's a lot of dead volunteers, he thought, looking at the subfolder's metadata at the bottom of the screen. One hundred and thirty-eight good men gone.

He shook his head and went back to look in subfolder 'A'.

Interesting, he thought, as he scrolled down the list. Only seven this time. I guess they started running out of volunteers.

Instead of scrolling back up to the top, he opened the last file.

Nate Wagner, let's see who you are, he thought, as he double-clicked the thumbnail.

"Oh...my...god," he said out loud.

The file had opened to a picture of a man with a face that Richard would never forget. It was the same man he had shot and killed just a few hours before.

"This is one of the guys that tried to kill me this morning. I shot him dead in self-defense."

When he was past the initial shock of seeing one of the assassins that had been after him, he realized that assassin number one could very well be in there too. He clicked quickly through each file, until he made it to "Frank Keyser." He instantly recognized that face as well.

"Mr. Keyser, here, shot me at my door step. He was using a suppressed Walther .22. I am very lucky to be alive right now," he said for the benefit of the screen capture software.

So I have at least one active super soldier after me, trying to kill me, he thought. This is just great—just freaking, fantastic. And there are five more on the list. Geez, could it get any worse?

Maybe it was the cosmos' idea of a sick joke, but, apparently, it could get worse.

After looking through each of the active super soldier files and memorizing each face, he dug deeper into some of the other folders. In one he found more video files, and what he saw sickened him.

The video had been labeled "ZS3." It had been filmed in a prison and shortened for length. The camera showed two men in a prison cell, facing each other, each shackled at the wrists and ankles. The shackle cables of the man on the left were loose at first allowing him a few feet of movement if he desired. He held his hands close to his chest, and he looked to be trying to stay as far from his cell mate as possible. From the quick rise and fall of his chest, it was clear he was the one whimpering in the audio. He was looking away from the camera, so his face wasn't fully visible.

The other man's shackles were fully retracted, keeping him pinned to the wall, but he leaned forward as if trying to be as close to his cell mate as possible. He had longer hair that hung down, hiding most of his face—all but a portion of his heavily bearded chin. He must be the source of the moaning.

A line of prison guards arrived at the cell door, their footsteps echoing in cadence. The cables attached to the prisoner on the left retracted into the wall, forcing him spread-eagle against the wall, just like his bearded mate. The cell bars obstructed part of the view but not enough to matter.

The fear on the face of the inmate on the left was plain as soon as he looked towards the guards, and he looked familiar. The cell door slid open, and one of the guards stepped inside. The man shackled on the left side of the frame began crying and shaking his head. The guard turned to the crying man, reached up with his right hand, and tapped the man consolingly on the face with his fingertips.

Richard could just barely hear the guard saying, "Hey, don't worry; you'll get your chance at the afterlife soon enough, traitor."

"What the hell is this?" he muttered, shaking his head.

Traitor?

Whatever the hell this was, it wasn't right.

Who is this guy?

The man's expression changed, and suddenly Richard knew exactly who this was.

"That's Donovan Clarke," he said.

Donovan Clarke. Holy shit! Jeff's inside man. This is why he wasn't heard from.

The guard turned away from Donovan, toward the other shackled man. The guard's head tilted to the side, as if he were studying a curious new insect, then his hand fell to his side and came back up abruptly with his sidearm. Three quick shots into the man's chest—and the man no longer leaned into his restraints; he slumped, not quite able to fall to his knees. A glistening stream of blood flowed down his chest to the floor and began to trickle toward a drain in the center. Donovan was now screaming and jerking at his shackles.

"Oh my gosh."

Richard felt like throwing up the chicken sandwich that he had eaten. Executing a prisoner as the just punishment for crimes committed was one thing; whatever was going on here was quite another. This clearly wasn't something that was sanctioned by US law.

The prison guard stepped out of the cell, the barred door slammed shut with a bang, and the bleeding man's restraints were loosed completely, dropping him in a heap on the floor. He twitched a little at first but then didn't move at all.

The guards crowded around the bars, murmuring among themselves; but one of them pushed the others back and gestured towards the camera. Several of them looked up into the camera and smirked then made room so it could capture all of the action.

The video jumped ahead by over thirty minutes. This was the part that scared Richard the most.

The inmate on the floor began moving, little spasms at first but then wide swinging of his arms and legs and shaking his head back and forth. The moans that came through the speakers sounded unearthly.

Donovan was clearly flipping out, terrified. He had a large wet stain in the crotch of his bright orange jump suit.

Most of the guards appeared to be plenty entertained, but a few of them were beginning to look disgusted as well.

Bleeding man gained his feet after much jerky motion, but his balance appeared precarious. He stumble stepped toward Donovan and fell on him.

Donovan did his best to get away from him, but there wasn't much he could do, since he was shackled tight and the other man was not. He kept crying for help, but the guards just laughed.

Bleeding man fell on his shackled mate and started biting. He bit at the chin, and a chunk of flesh fell away, blood dripping in its place. Next a part of cheek and then a part of nose fell to the floor. The screams changed pitch and sounded louder.

"What the hell?" Richard said, but he couldn't look away. "Is this for real?" He added, but he knew it was.

The guards backed away some, as blood and bits of torn skin and muscle were flung about.

Crazy, Psycho, Cannibal man didn't just bite. He bit, really latched on, and then shook his head, like a dog intent on tearing something apart for the fun of it.

Donovan stopped resisting as much and began to slump in the restraints. The guards still moved around a bit, and Cannibal man was drawn to the movement—or maybe the noise; Richard wasn't sure.

The same guard that had shot him in the chest earlier walked closer to the bars, aimed his gun at Cannibal man, and blew a hole through his head. His target slumped to the floor, and the guard backed away again.

Cannibal man didn't get back up.

The video jumped forward again.

Donovan leaned in his shackles towards the guards, his face a frozen snarl. He looked and acted the same as his cellmate had before being loosed to attack him.

Oh, God, what has Harper created? I have to get ahold of Jeff. He needs to see this for himself. This is going to be huge. He's going to have to bring in outside investigators. This has gone beyond just me and my discreet investigation, while he wrangles in the corridors of power. This has to end before it gets out of hand.

"This is really bad," he muttered before pausing his recording.

Chapter 17: Library With a Side Of Head

Jeff hadn't answered his message in over three hours, and Richard was beginning to worry. If the program embedded in Harper's drive was not just a program to prevent transmission online but also a trace program, then his friend might soon be in trouble.

If Jeff had covered his tracks well enough when he had created the website, then he had time; if the people who had tried to kill Richard were able to find out who had created the site, Jeff was screwed.

Richard tried calling Jeff's phone one more time, but there was no answer—just the voicemail again. This time, he didn't leave a message.

What's going on, Jeff? Why haven't you gotten back to me? He thought. Could they have already found out that he created the site and then gotten to him first? What if he has been calling my phone trying to warn me? I know it's against the rules we set, but if it were urgent, he would contact me directly.

He ran a hand through his thinning hair.

Well, I can't turn on my smart phone anymore; it would be foolish to give them something to track and pin point my location. Why wouldn't he call this phone? Maybe he forgot the number off the top of his head and isn't in a position to go looking for it. How else would he contact me? There's the website. He wouldn't forget that...I can't sign on here, though; not with these guys having access to the tracking equipment they must have. They'd have my IP address and location as soon as I signed in to Jeff's page. The safe house would be compromised, and then they would have me.

He tried to remember where in town the library was but it eluded him. Since he wouldn't be going online to their site, he wouldn't have to worry about being traced if he just went online to find the local library. That's what he decided to do, using his tough-book.

He found the address to the library and checked out the surrounding area using Google maps. If he ran into trouble, he wanted to be able to leave in a hurry...and he might want to eat somewhere over there too.

Before leaving the house, he showered and changed his clothes. He wore tan slacks and a polo shirt under a blue windbreaker that wouldn't look out of place. The weather was cool but not cold, and he still needed a way to conceal his handgun. A heavier coat might be a bit too much. To top off the new look, he picked a crimson and gray ball cap with a howling, white cougar on it, the colors and mascot of the Cougars of Washington State University.

There was a shed in the backyard where he kept a mountain bike. Since he didn't have a car anymore, the bike would have to work until he was ready to move on.

He didn't want to take the chance that the men after him might show his picture around to taxi and bus drivers for them to report back if they saw him. They would say that they were cops and that he was wanted for something really bad but that they didn't want to panic the public—the usual BS deception.

With the tough-book in a book bag over his shoulder, he hopped on the bike and rode away from the safe house. He had memorized the directions to the closest library, and he followed the turns where they would take him.

When he arrived, he locked the bike in a bike rack and went inside. He walked around until he found where to sign up to use one of the computers. There was an opening for the top of the next hour, so he put his name on the list.

While he waited, he browsed through the books on display. A copy of Finding Sanctuary stood out among the other books around it. He read the back cover.

Sounds interesting, he thought, putting it back.

He wouldn't be checking out any books—not without the library card that he wasn't going to sign up for.

Sanctuary—I wish I didn't need sanctuary right now. This whole situation is such a mess...I hope Jeff is all right. Who the hell do I take all of this to if he isn't?

He shook his head and moved on. There were a few chairs open in the periodicals section, so he went and sat down. He saw that he still had a few minutes before it would be his turn at a computer, so he looked at the magazines on the shelves around him and waited for one of them to grab his attention.

It was a Time magazine commemorative issue that did it. The cover was of President Zimmerman.

Richard had seen a little of the news coverage after the assassination, but at the time, he had been fairly busy and hadn't taken much time to pay attention. He had time now, so he stood up and grabbed the magazine. Opening it to the table of contents page, he sat back down.

Finding the story about the assassination itself, he began reading. He wasn't that interested in the stories on Zimmerman's past. He had already looked into that before he had voted for the man in the last election.

It was not at all surprising to him that Muhammad, the assassin, had known where to find Zimmerman on a Sunday morning. This President had been predictable that way. What was surprising was how close Mohammad had been able to take an auto-borne explosive to a US President.

Zimmerman may have insisted that he attend Sunday services, but the secret service should have been able to insist on a larger perimeter, he thought.

The final article was a small piece on, then, Vice President Nelson and the challenges that he would face in finishing out the term of the Presidency. It said that he had a tough schedule ahead of him, if he didn't cancel anything, but that he was in a good position to make things happen. The Republicans were said to like him because of the wealth his family had earned with the wine business they had built from scratch. The Democrats were said to like him for the leftist environmental views that he espoused and supported with the family cash.

Richard's watch beeped an alarm, letting him know that he was scheduled for a computer in five minutes. Putting the magazine back on the shelf, he walked over to the attendant's desk and was given a numbered and laminated note card that had the computer log in information he would need.

He logged on and went directly to the internet. First he pulled up a website that he could click on and browse quickly if someone walked up on him while he was looking at the DIA sponsored site. Then he accessed Jeff's site.

It was mostly the way he had last seen it. The corrupted copy of Harper's drive was gone now though, and he noticed a new icon in the top left corner of the page. Without clicking on it, he hovered the cursor over the new icon. The file descriptor that popped up showed that the file was in a video format.

The computer was equipped with an earphones headset, so he put it on over his ears and made sure the volume was low enough not to blast his hearing. Hoping the video was his friend giving him alternate contact instructions, he double-clicked the file icon.

Jeff's face was the first thing that came into view when the video began. A surge of hope flooded through Richard but subsided just as quickly when he saw that his friend was bloody and battered. Hair was plastered to his forehead, sticky with blood. An eye was puffy and purple. His nose looked like it had been broken, and a small trickle of blood was submitting to gravity.

Split lips opened, and Jeff coughed. A muffled droning sound in the background made it a little difficult to hear, even with the headphones on.

"Richard," Jeff croaked. "Richard, they want me to tell you to give yourself up. The files you took will...hmmppff"

Jeff's head jerked back. Someone had him by the hair on top of his head. A shiny metal object entered the frame—a great big bowie knife blade.

The blade went into Jeff's neck, all the way up to the brass hilt. The person doing the stabbing pulled back more on Jeff's hair and pushed the edge of the blade forward in a sawing motion until it cut clean through the front.

Richard watched in horror and disgust as his best friend was mostly decapitated. Blood sprayed everywhere. A few drops hit the lens of the camera and then trailed downward.

The camera panned down with Jeff's body as his murderer dropped him to the metallic floor. His eyes were beginning to glaze over, and the sloppy sound of blood bubbling in his final exhale made Richard want to vomit.

His palms were bleeding from where his nails dug into them as he made fists with his hands. Tears came to his eyes. His jaw clenched so hard he knew he would have a headache later. He wanted to turn away, but he couldn't. That was Jeff, not some nameless stranger in a sick snuff film.

"Richard," said a gravelly, electronically disguised voice.

The camera panned back up to the mask-covered head of Jeff's killer.

"I'm going to kill you next, Richard. You got lucky earlier. I won't miss again," he growled, pointing the big bowie at the screen. "You can't stop what's coming to you—coming to the world. You're mine."

Then light flooded the scene, washing out the camera view at the same time the microphone picked up a torrent of sound, as if it were at the edge of a hurricane. When the camera's sensor adjusted to the changed condition, Richard saw that the view framed an open doorway in the side of an aircraft, military by the looks of it.

The masked man reached down, grabbed a handful of Jeff's button-up shirt and picked up Jeff's body with one hand. He held him in place for a moment, giving Richard another quick glimpse of his friend's lolling head and glazed eyes before tossing him out the door. The camera panned down and caught Jeff's body flopping head over feet as it plummeted towards the ground thousands of feet below.

The video ended to the sound of the masked man's laughter, and the computer's default media player began replaying from the beginning. Richard closed the window and sat back, as tears threatened to blind him. He took the headset off and set it on the table. Feelings of guilt began to build inside of him along with the grief. He swept them aside and let rage build instead.

Super soldier or not, the asshole that killed his friend was going to die...and so was the scientist that had started it all, he decided. There was no way Harper could be innocent in this.

He turned off the computer, so no one else could see what had happened to Jeff and then he left in a daze. He was still in a daze when he rode away on his bike. Car horns honking after he had cut into traffic, snapped him back to what he was doing and where he should have been going.

Chapter 18: Trace Alert 2

Deron sat in front of the bank of televisions and computer monitors. Various lines of numbers and symbols with the occasional intelligible sentence scrolled up the screens.

He couldn't kick his feet up and relax just yet. His supervisor might walk out of the office and catch him at it.

He had decided to accept the overtime that the scheduling office had offered because there was a beautiful motorcycle he had his eyes on. Another few months of overtime and he would be cruising.

The man he had relieved told him about the new code that had been entered into the monitoring system that morning after Deron had left. It was another code with the response action written only in the binder in the supervisor's office.

Sometimes he wondered what the coded alarms actually monitored and protected, but the one time he had asked, he had been told not to ask.

It was good money, so he didn't ask again...but he still wondered.

"All right, Deron, it's all yours," the supervisor said, emerging from the office with his lunch box and book bag in hand. "I'm going to head out for a drink and then some shut-eye. I will see you tomorrow."

"Ok, Mr. Gibson," Deron replied. "You have a good night."

Mr. Gibson nodded his head in acknowledgement and then walked out of the monitoring station. The door automatically closed and locked behind him.

Standing, Deron stretched and yawned. This really was an easy job with easy money.

He went over to his backpack and retrieved a portable DVD player and a pepsi. He had a few movies to watch and then he would nap for a little while. If he was needed to answer an alarm, the speakers were set loud enough to wake him.

An hour later he put the Transformers 4 movie on pause and walked over to the small restroom to take a leak. He left the door open, so he would be able to hear the alarm if one went off.

Soda had the tendency to go right through him. It was so predictable, he could almost set a clock by it. It usually took forty-five minutes from the time that he drank one to the time he had to go.

He was mid-stream when an alarm went off.

Cursing and swearing about the timing, he pinched it off, did up his pants, and went to see to the alarm.

"Son of a bitch! Why me?" he said when he saw the code.

It was the new one that had been entered into the system just that morning. Below the code, an IP address appeared, followed a few seconds later by a physical address somewhere in Spokane, Washington.

He wrote the information down then went into the supervisor's office. He unlocked the book cupboard and found the correct binder.

"Of course," he said when he saw that the response action called for phoning the same number he had called the night before. "I just hope spooky dude doesn't have to come in here again," he muttered, shaking his head.

He dialed the number.

"Hello," spooky dude answered on the third ring.

"Sir, we just had a code seven-one-eight-dash-zulu-seven at monitoring station bravo delta."

"There should have been other information with it, yes?"

"Yes, Sir;" Deron answered then gave him the IP address and the physical address.

"So he is still in Spokane. Very good, Mr. Brown. Clear the alarm and go back to watching your movie."

Deron swallowed hard. He wasn't technically supposed to have been watching anything but the work monitors, but spooky dude knew.

"Y-yes, Sir," he said and put the phone receiver back in its cradle.

Deron hadn't known that someone was monitoring him while he worked. He knew now that they could see what he was doing, but he wondered if they could hear what was going on too.

He shivered, though it wasn't cold, and hoped the damage control guy wouldn't take offense at him having called him "Spooky Dude" out loud.

Chapter 19: Again?

The black suburban skidded to a halt in front of the library, and two men jumped out. They sprinted into the library and climbed the stairs three at a time to the computer section. Looking at each face, they scanned the small crowd looking for Richard.

When they didn't find him, they began a top to bottom search of the entire library. Again they didn't find him.

"Turning up nothing in here, Raven," Davies said into his throat mic.

"Keep looking," Keyser ordered from the vehicle.

"Jackdaw copies"

They were too slow. Richard got away again. He just knew it. Keyser punch his fist into the dash board.

He wanted to curse and swear, but if he did, it might draw undue attention that would slow them down. Instead, he kept the curses inside, took slow deep breaths, and imagined his hands around Richard's throat, slowly squeezing the life out of him. He grinned.

A pedestrian walking by saw Keyser's face. She thought he was snarling at her, but then she saw the badge that he held up. It still didn't comfort her, and she hurried to get away from the area.

Keyser watched the woman leave and thought about the fun he could have with her if he should ever find her alone one night in a dark alley.

"Still nothing," Wagner called out.

"Fine," Keyser said. "Rally on me; we'll start searching the streets. He has to be close."

An hour later they had found no sign of their quarry, though they had driven up and down all of the main streets and side streets within three miles of the library.

"He's gotta be around here somewhere," Davies said, breaking the silence that had prevailed inside the suburban for the last fifteen minutes. "We've been monitoring the police band all day. He hasn't stolen another car. The taxis and bus drivers would report him for how much we offered as a reward."

Keyser shook his head.

"This guy's either exceptionally lucky or he's had some top notch training. Clearly, though, he wants something here. He should have left the State when we missed him this morning, but now we know that he didn't. So he's after something here—we just have to figure out what it is and then get there before him."

"Do you think McNeil would know?" Wagner asked, pulling down on the neckline of his ballistic vest. He was still trying to live down having been killed by their target.

"The security chief?" Davies asked.

Wagner nodded.

"He might," Davies replied.

"It's as good a place to start as any," Keyser said, and he made a turn at the intersection. He stepped heavy on the gas pedal, as he drove back towards the DARPA facility.

"You shouldn't have killed Guddemi," Wagner added. "We might have gotten him to talk, and then we wouldn't have to mess with all of this running around."

"Fuck you," Frank said. "He was done talking...And he pissed me off."

"Benson is going to be pissed that we keep missing this guy."

"Well, fuck him too. He doesn't even know how to catch an STD, let alone an operator who doesn't want to be found. I'm sick of his shit. We're doing the best we can with the intel we're given. That's what we tell him. Plain and simple."

"You got it, Boss," Davies said.

Wagner nodded but kept his mouth shut.

Out of the corner of his eye, Frank saw him rubbing a hand over the scar at the base of his skull.

Fuck Benson, he thought. Fucking asshole.

Chapter 20: Singing In the Shower

Stanley had fallen asleep while he waited in a chair by Antoine's bedside. He had made sure his friend took the medication the White House Medical Center doctor had prescribed that morning and had made sure he had consumed plenty of fluids to go along with it, but the quiet of his friend's house and the complete lack of anything else to occupy his time had quickly made him bored and drowsy. He drifted into sleep without realizing until his phone had chimed, reminding him that he had one more day to take advantage of a special offer from one of the applications installed on his smartphone.

He put his phone back in his pocket and looked around. The bed was empty.

Standing up, he stretched and then went looking for his friend. He hoped it was a good sign that his friend was up on his own again, but he worried that he had maybe gotten up and then not been able to return on his own.

He poked his head into the other rooms along the hallway but didn't see any sign of Antoine.

Then he heard a thump ahead.

It sounded like it had come from the bathroom at the end of the hall, but he could see from the crack under the door that the light was turned off in there.

"You all right, Tony?" he called.

A groan came from the bathroom.

"I'm sorry, buddy; I fell asleep. I would have helped you," he said, as he took the last few steps to the door.

"Do you need help?" he asked with his head close to the door.

Another groan came from the other side.

Stanley paused.

Was that a groan or a growl? He thought.

There was another thump from inside.

"I hope you're decent because I'm coming in. I can't tell what you're saying, so I'm coming in to check on you...doctor's orders," he added, as he turned the door knob and open the door a crack.

The smell that came out with the opening of the door almost made him gag. It smelled like something had died inside.

"Oh, god, Tony, is that you? Ah, man, it smells bad in here."

Stanley fumbled around on the wall for the light switch.

"Oh, my god, Tony. Are you all right?"

Antoine was sprawled on his back in the tub, facing away from the door, his arms swinging erratically.

"Oh my gosh. I am so sorry, bud," Stanley said, as he rushed to the bath tub. "Here let me help you up."

He grabbed ahold of Antoine's closest arm, right under the armpit, where he would enough leverage to, hopefully, lift him up and get him to his feet.

Antoine jerked his arm towards himself so quickly and unexpectedly that Stanley lost his balanced and tumbled forward over the tub. He threw his other arm up and caught himself on the wall before he fell in on his sick friend. His friend reached up and grabbed his arm with surprising strength.

But then Antoine turned his face towards him, and Stanley knew he had made a huge mistake.

This wasn't his friend Antoine. It was some demon out of a grave. Its face was contorted in a hideous snarl, and its eyes were shot through with spider webs of black.

Stanley barely had a chance to scream in terror as a mouth full of slimy teeth sank into his arm, and he tumbled down into the tub on top of his doom, bringing his face and neck closer to those evil teeth.

CONTINUED IN: The Zombie Conspiracy Part 2 – D.A.R.P.A. Dangerous, available now at amazon.com, or you can save some money by buying the bundle containing books 1-3 of the Zombie Conspiracy Series.

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I hope you enjoyed the story. If you did, please do me a favor and go back to Amazon.com, find the page for this book, and leave me an honest review. I read every one of them.

It doesn't have to be long or detailed. Just tell me what you thought I did wrong and what I did right. That will help me make the rest of the story better for you as well for the other readers your review will hopefully draw in.

Oh, yes, there is definitely more to the story. It's just beginning to get good. I hope you'll come back and read parts 2 and 3, available now in the amazon store.

I am currently working on additional segments of the story where Richard and company take the fight to the bad guys, so sign up to my email alert list. I'll let you know as new installments become available. I promise not to spam you or give/sell your info to anyone.

In the meantime, check out my other works. Here is what I have:

In Print:

Finding Sanctuary: A Novel of Alternate History

The Z.A.P.S. Gear Survival Grenade User's Guide

The Zombie Conspiracy Pts 1-3 The Population Control Bundle

The Zombie Conspiracy Pt 1- Undercover

The Zombie Conspiracy Pt 2- D.A.R.P.A. Dangerous

The Zombie Conspiracy Pt 3- Going Home

Via Amazon Kindle:

Finding Sanctuary: A Novel of Alternate History

Falling Star: A Dystopian Short Story

A Husband's Revenge

Get Out Of Debt: Financial Freedom Fast

The Z.A.P.S. Gear Survival Grenade User's Guide

The Zombie Conspiracy Pts 1-3 The Population Control Bundle

The Zombie Conspiracy Pt 1- Undercover

The Zombie Conspiracy Pt 2- D.A.R.P.A. Dangerous

The Zombie Conspiracy Pt 3- Going Home

If you'd like to contact me, I can be reached at Jeremy8541@zapsgear.com. Mention this book in the subject line, so I don't accidentally think it is spam.

Speaking of zapsgear, go check out www.zapsgear.com. My wife and I have a small family business selling paracord survival gear. Several of our items are unique. One was so popular (the Z.A.P.S. Gear Survival Grenade), the Chinese decided to steal my design and mass produce it—lost a lot of sales from that, but it's a good design. Hopefully the cheap pirated copies they are selling will still save lives.

Thank you again. I look forward to hearing from you.

About The Author

Jeremy McIlroy lives a private life with his family in Virginia.

He likes to tinker with outdoor and urban survival gear. He created the original Z.A.P.S. Gear Survival Grenade, a versatile survival kit wrapped in parachute cord. They are available at www.zapsgear.com, along with other creations made of parachute cord.

Z.A.P.S. Gear = Zombie Apocalypse Paracord Survival Gear

Friend him on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/jeremy.mcilroy.73

Follow him on Pinterest:

Username – zapsgear

Follow him on Instagram:

Username: zaps_gear

You can email him with questions, comments, concerns:

Jeremy8541@zapsgear.com

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