Or it had been there all along.
As the roar died away, the whispers started up again. Rotating his head, Caplan glanced at the entrance corridor. Where, he wondered, was Pearson? Still at the edge of the clearing, watching over the area? Or had he moved closer in order to keep an eye on things?
Caplan replaced the axe covers and stowed the tools in his belt. Then he rescanned the room, counting the terrorists and noting their positions. A large part of him desired a direct fight. But ultimately, he ruled that out. The smart move was to take advantage of the situation. With the terrorists focused on Research, he could sneak into Hatcher’s other wings. He could look for prisoners, distribute the antibiotics, and secure weapons.
Then he’d make his move.
A thick-bearded man with bronzed complexion crossed the Heptagon. He knelt close to Caplan and began sorting through a small duffel bag.
Caplan squinted. Was that…? Yes. Yes, it was Dr. Adnan. Quickly, he considered his options. He could keep a low profile and sneak into the other wings as planned. Or he could reach out to the good doctor, but possibly risk discovery in the process.
It only took him a second to make up his mind. With soft, fluid movements he slid along the wall until he reached the man. “Dr. Adnan?”
Dr. Ankur Adnan, Hatcher’s primary physician, didn’t look up. “What do you need?”
“It’s me, doc. Zach Caplan.”
“Zach?” Glancing up, Dr. Adnan studied Caplan’s features with a pair of sharp, hazel eyes. “But… but you left.”
“Yeah. And now, I’m back. Listen—”
“Traitor!” Dr. Adnan reeled backward, lost his balance, and fell. His body splayed out across the floor. “Here! Over here!”
Caplan didn’t have time to move or even think. In a fraction of a second, over a dozen flashlights lit him up like a prisoner caught in a late night jailbreak. He saw confused expressions. Shocked ones, too.
His cheeks scrunched. His eyes narrowed. Wait. He knew these faces. Knew them well. For the most part, they belonged to Hatcher’s brainiac scientists. But that didn’t make sense. Unless…
His jaw hardened into rock.
Unless they were the terrorists.
Chapter 33
“Zach?” someone said in disbelief. “Zach Caplan?”
“What the hell is he doing here?” another voice called out.
More questions rang out. But they soon gave way to a sea of angry shouts and accusations.
“He’s with Corbotch!”
“He’s one of them!”
“Kill him!”
And so on and so forth. For almost thirty seconds, the scientists squabbled amongst themselves. Caplan found it almost amusing, watching these grown-up brainiacs playing at professional terrorists. They looked so eager, so willing, yet so pathetically out of place. Sort of like a terrorist B-team. Or C-team. Hell, make it the Z-team.
Still, they had guns aimed at every inch of his body. And their trigger fingers had all the steadiness of a junkie going through withdrawal. So, he made no sudden moves, silently praying they didn’t accidentally turn him into Swiss cheese.
GRRAAWWRRR!
The roar, the most massive one yet, sent a stunned silence through the crowd. Gritting his teeth, Caplan watched the trigger fingers. They flinched wildly, but not quite hard enough to send steaming hot bullets spiraling through his guts.
Heads swiveled back to Research. Eyes focused on the door, the warning sign. Caplan saw his opportunity. Scanning the room, he focused on another door, the one marked Operations, and prepped for escape.
“Don’t even think about it.” Amy Carson, a redhead with a thick Canadian accent, slid in front of Caplan, blocking his path. She was a tough old vixen with a triangular face and hollow eyes. “How’d you get in here?”
Caplan tried his most winning smile. But sheer exhaustion left him looking like a deranged clown. “You left the door open.”
“Sutter,” Carson called out. “Secure the entranceway.”
Jillian Sutter, a pretty genetics expert with the personality of a wet tennis ball, gathered up her rifle and slid into the corridor.
Carson glanced at Caplan. Her mouth worked in overdrive, chewing every bit of flavor out of a wad of bubble gum. Her pistol, sized just right for her claw-like appendage, was aimed directly at his crotch. “Are you working for Corbotch?”
He nodded at the pistol. “Could you point that somewhere else?”
She flicked her wrist and the barrel slammed into Caplan’s right cheek. His head exploded in pain as it whipped to the side.
“Let’s try that again.” She shifted her aim. “Are you working for Corbotch?”
So, they knew Corbotch owned the Vallerio Foundation. He found that surprising. Carefully, he touched his jaw. Tasted blood on his tongue. Then he nodded at her pistol, which was now aimed at his eyeballs. “Thanks,” he said. “That’s much better.”
Her finger started to squeeze the trigger.
“Okay, okay.” He stretched his aching jaw. “Yeah, I’m working for him. So what? Last I checked, he signs your paychecks, too.”
Her eye sockets sunk into her head. “Why’d he send you here?”
Caplan thought about HA-78 and the antibiotics in his bag. He needed to distribute them as quickly as possible. But to whom? What was going on here anyway? Why had this collection of eggheads turned on their employer? “He received garbled transmissions about a terrorist attack,” he said, deliberately staying as vague as possible. “He asked me to lend a helping hand.”
“Like the one he offers his enemies?” She sneered. “No thanks.”
GRRAAWWRRR!
“What the hell is that?” Caplan glanced at the Research door. “A bear on steroids?”
“None of your business,” Carson replied.
Metallic crashes, distant but still loud, wafted into the Heptagon. Whispers and murmurs died away as the brainiacs cast petrified, guilt-ridden looks at one another.
“We can’t just leave them down there.” Jermain Bernier, an oily little guy with a creepy mustache, swallowed hard. “We have to help them.”
“Who?” Caplan knew the answer even as he asked the question. “Who needs help?”
“Amanda Morgan. Bonnie Codd and Zlata Issova, too, although we think Zlata might be…” Bernier trailed off, a look of profound sadness upon his visage.
Caplan clenched his jaw. Cowards, all of them. Standing around like idiots, wringing their hands about whether or not to do something. Well, not him. Shoving some gawkers out of the way, he strode toward Research.
“Hold it,” Carson called out.
Ignoring her, Caplan twisted the knob and opened the door. Inside, he saw more gawkers, their flashlight beams aimed at the far side. Annoyed grunts and surprised gasps rang out as he pushed his way through them.
He stopped in front of a metal hatch, hinged on one side. Although it lacked handles, it was ajar a couple of inches. He recalled what Corbotch had told him about the hatch, about how the terrorists had hacked into its security program. That was how HA-78 had been released in the first place.
He studied the hatch for a moment. Obviously, it required electricity to open and close. But since it was already open, he figured maybe it could open a little farther.
He reached out. Grabbed the hatch’s open side with both hands. Metal groaning, he began to pull it upward.
“Stop, Zach.” Gun at the ready, Carson ran to the hatch. “I mean it.”