It was time to go.
Cole dug his fingers deeper into the man’s neck, searching for the pulse that would prove his oxygen-starved heart was still beating.
“Think we can bring him back?” he shouted.
“Not without an airway,” Leila said, tearing through the first aid kit she’d found in the front office.
Cole emptied his pockets, searching for something, anything, that could be used to cut into the man’s neck for an emergency tracheotomy. Keys? Maybe. But of course, it was pointless without a tube of some sort that could be inserted through the wound and into the trachea itself.
Leila leaned over the man’s body, placed both hands on top of the sternum, and began to pump. Up and down, up and down. Cole heard a rib crack. She was giving it all she had—he had to respect that. Blood started to trickle from the man’s nose.
“Think that might be it.” Cole put a hand on her shoulder.
She did a few more compressions, slowed down, then stopped.
“There goes our best chance of figuring this thing out.”
“I know,” he said. “But that’s not going to bring him back.”
Cole jumped to his feet. Halfway down the hall, the door to one of the storage units stood open. It was dark inside, but a laptop screen flickered in the far corner. He flipped on the overhead light.
“Here’s the girl!”
He knelt down and felt for a pulse. Still alive. But she was hot. Way too hot.
Leila crouched beside him just as he noticed the rash on the girl’s bare arm.
“She’s got it too,” he said. “Here, in the U.S. of A.”
Leila pulled out her phone. “I’m calling for an ambulance.”
“Sure, but let them know they need BSL-4,” Cole said. “If you stay with her I’ll check out that light from the unit across the hall.”
He dashed out into the hall and tried the handle.
Locked.
One step back, then he brought a heel up with all his strength, hitting the door just to the side of the handle. There was a crack, but no movement. Again he kicked out, and this time the door swung open.
A wall of hot, putrid air rushed out to hit him like a train. He threw an arm up over his mouth and nose and stepped inside. It was a small room, about the size of a two-car garage. A space heater glowed from its position on the ground just inside the door. Along the back wall, a shelving system was empty except for a few boxes. More boxes were piled everywhere, mixed in with the dimpled cardboard inserts that could only be used for one thing.
Eggs.
A large outdoor trash can stood in one corner. Cole almost didn’t want to look inside, didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to confirm what he already knew to be true.
It was filled to the brim with more broken eggshells than he’d ever seen in one place. He kicked the can over on its side, sending the shells flying across the floor. Not just shells. Hundreds of tiny insulin syringes spilled out too.
This was it. Bioterrorism 101.
Eggs had been used to efficiently reproduce viruses and bacteria since the earliest days of experimentation with biological weapons after World War II. They were cheap, available, and effective—almost every pathogen under the sun seemed to grow in them. Given enough eggs and a few days in a warm incubator, a single drop of infectious material could be transformed into an almost unlimited quantity of live viral culture. A deadly solution primed and ready for distribution using whatever discrete method its creators desired for achieving their devastating goals.
He dug into his pocket for the phone. If this didn’t convince them, he didn’t know what would.
A tired male voice answered. “Colonel Simmons here.”
“Sir, this is Captain McBride.”
“Cole, where the hell are you?”
“I apologize, sir, but I didn’t see an alternative.”
“Like hell you didn’t. Always the maverick, isn’t that it?”
Cole took a deep breath.
Here goes.
“You think you’ve still got any influence over at the White House?”
“Excuse me?”
“Because we’re going to need it. You won’t believe what I’m looking at right now.”
Anna McBride had to pinch herself to confirm that this wasn’t just some strange nightmare. First Cole’s late night surprise at the apartment, then the morning’s realization that his escape had somehow made him public enemy number one around the White House, and now a half-hearted reversal of opinion with his preemptive find of the terrorist’s lab.
She tried to melt back into the wall of the Situation Room. Her interim top secret clearance had finally come through that morning, and this was the first time her boss had let her stay for a high-level briefing. No reason to make herself too obvious, though.
“So it’s really that easy for a couple lone rangers to brew up a biological weapon like this?”
Anna had never seen the president so angry. She really did feel bad for him, poor old man. He was only trying to throw a good party, after all. Yes, it was probably more for his own benefit than the American people’s, but that didn’t mean he deserved this.
“They think they can bring our great country to its knees,” he continued. “Well, they’re wrong.”
Colonel Simmons motioned with his hand from near the other end of the long table. He was the one Cole had called first this afternoon, and it was his team from USAMRIID that was already there in Fairfax now. “They’re wrong, Mr. President, because they won’t have a chance to bring this country to its knees. Not if you do the right thing and cancel tonight’s festivities.”
“Colonel Simmons,” General Howard said. “I think the president has already made it clear that this option is not on the table.” He turned to President Rogers. “Am I right, sir?”
“You are. Canceling the event would mean the terrorists have won. Game over.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Simmons said. “The terrorists win if this hybrid pox virus is released into our population. We’re talking thousands sick within days, hundreds of thousands in a couple of weeks. There goes the economy, and with it any chance of a second term.”
The president pointed at her boss. “Andrew, tell us again how the media would handle this last-minute cancellation?”
“There’s no way we could keep the threat under wraps, even if we tried. This event that was supposed to be a crowning triumph would be portrayed instead as yet another failure on the part of your administration.” Anna could see that he was wrestling with the implications of his own words. “But even in light of this cold hard truth, I have to side with—”
“Thank you, Andrew,” the president interrupted. “That will be enough.”
The president had already shot down both his FBI Director and the Secretary of Homeland Security, so Anna knew her boss didn’t stand much of a chance. But she was glad he made the effort, and she knew it probably had more than a little something to do with the news of his friend Fadi Haddad’s death.
“If we cancel this event,” the president continued, standing up, “the terrorists will have achieved their primary objective, which is sowing fear in the hearts of the American people. We will not let them change our way of life.”
He looked down the table to his national security advisor.
“Chuck, I trust you’ll work together with this group to neutralize whatever threat might face us tonight.”
“Of course.” Howard looked slowly around the table. “And I expect full cooperation.”
Cole looked out over the sea of bodies spread across the West Lawn of the Capitol. The still air felt heavy with moisture, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was deceptive—just another warm summer evening perfect for the rousing patriotic spectacle ahead. The calm before the storm.
“Really packing themselves in down there,” Leila said.
“And this is just the tip of the iceberg.” Cole pointed beyond the stage and Reflecting Pool to the long open park stretching all the way to the towering Washington Monument and beyond. “Capitol Police are estimating four hundred thousand people between us and the Potomac right now.”
“You scared?”
He thought she might be playing with him at first, but the expression in her eyes said otherwise.
“Not so much scared as pissed,” he said. “Everything we’ve been through this week, and all these lives still at risk just because a few guys in suits didn’t have the balls to make the right decision.”
The distant clatter of a helicopter reflected off the wall of windows behind them. They were positioned at the northwest corner of the Capitol’s sprawling terrace, standing just a few feet from a couple of quiet Capitol Police officers. Cole glanced at their weapons again, trying not to be jealous. One held an M4 carbine loosely in both hands, while the other was already set up with his bolt action Remington 700 sniper rifle. Bill Shackleton and the colonel were on the opposite corner of the wide terrace, and the rest of the grounds were swarming with undercover FBI and Secret Service.
“Hear that noise?” Cole said. “Those birds will be making low circles over the city all night, starting right here and continuing out about five miles.”
Leila looked up higher into the sky, and Cole followed her eyes.
“You said there are jets up there too, right?”
“Yeah, the F-22s should do a fine job of keeping the airspace over the city clear.”
“So no crop duster flyby or something ridiculous like that.”
“No, no crop dusters.”
“But that’s still not enough.”
“Nope. Even if we did have eyes on every rooftop in the city, what’s to stop someone from using a high-powered pressure washer out the window one floor down? These guys have already proven themselves creative, so even if their original plan is unworkable now, they’ve got to have a backup.”
Three radios crackled to life at once.
“This is an all hands alert. I repeat, all hands alert.”
He didn’t recognize the voice. Colonel Simmons had given Cole a handheld transmitter from his biological threat team, and all the federal services involved in the night’s operation were tuned in to the same channel.
“Two suspects have been detained at the northeast entrance after resisting our request to turn over their water bottles. The bottles are filled with an unidentified white milky fluid.”
Leila was shaking her head.
“Requesting urgent on-site evaluation to assess the threat.”
Now Colonel Simmons’ voice came through the speaker. “Deliver the bottles securely to the temporary lab behind the Library of Congress, and we’ll have an answer within twenty minutes. Over.”
“Roger—” The voice cut off, then continued. “No. No! Don’t open that!”
“What’s happening?” A third voice cut in. Deep and intense.
“Sir, everyone, it’s a false alarm.” There was some laughter in the background. “Vodka and cream—white Russians. Just a couple college kids trying to get drunk during the show tonight.”
“Shit,” Colonel Simmons said. “Still shouldn’t have opened it there in an unprotected environment.”
“Won’t happen again, sir. Out.”
Cole closed his eyes. That kind of slip-up was not okay. What if they were in fact the terrorists, and had simply popped the caps off and sprayed the liquid out over the crowds of people still waiting to get through security? The exposure would be limited, and probably containable, but even thirty people were too many.
“Could be a long couple of hours, right?” he said.
“As long as that was the last scare, I’ll be fine.” Leila answered. Her lips turned up in a half smile. “Couple of my favorite bands are playing tonight, so that’s my real interest in hoping these Lebanese guys changed their minds.”
If she could crack a joke, after everything she’d been through, maybe he should try to lighten up a little, too. The entire anti-terrorism apparatus of the United States government was focused right here. He’d done his part—now it was time to let the big boys run the show.
There was a flash of lights from the stage, and a male announcer’s voice broke through the roar of thousands of excited voices squeezed onto the lawn below.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Please rise and join me in welcoming the president of the United States of America!”
Ten incredible entertainers, each performing two American classics, and now it was coming to a close. The cheering died down as the presenter announced a short break for the set change. The orchestra was next, scheduled to accompany first a couple of famous classical singers and then what had been billed as the most elaborate fireworks display in U.S. history. Cole had to give it to him—the president did know how to put together a good show.
He blinked his eyes and continued to move his gaze purposefully across the scene below. It wasn’t easy to keep scanning the audience, trees, and sky, now that the sun had set and the lights on stage pushed everything else into darkness, but he’d done his best.
They were almost in the clear.
Something wet and soft pressed itself into the back of Cole’s knee, and he reflexively spun around, kicking out with one foot as he turned.
Bad decision.
A tall brindle Malinois caught his shoe in its mouth, throwing him off balance and sending him flying to the marble-tiled floor.
“Out! Tyson, out!” A young black guy in smart civilian clothes spoke firmly to the dog, who released Cole’s shoe and sat down on his haunches, a toothy grin on his face.
“What the—” Cole said, jumping to his feet. A familiar laugh came from behind the pair, and his sister Anna jumped out and ran straight for him.
“I’m so so sorry!” she said, wrapping her arms around him, still laughing. “When did you start reacting to a dog’s innocent sniff with that kung fu kick?”
“Innocent?” Cole said, trying to contain his irritation. He was too wired to play around. “Who are these guys, anyway?”
Anna stepped back and gestured to the man, who came forward with a hand extended. Cole noticed the pistol holstered to his belt.
“Special Agent Danny Walker, Secret Service.” He reached down and scratched the dog between the ears. “And this is Tyson. Sorry about that—I think we’re all lucky he didn’t catch you just a little bit higher.”