She got up from the bench where she'd been working and made her way to the storage cabinet where Level 4 pathogens were kept. Hoses connected to her pressurized suit trailed in loops behind her from a rack overhead. The Level 4 vaults contained a collection of the deadliest infectious agents in the world and there had been many deaths at the facility over the years, though most of those had been prisoners used in experimental trials. The biohazard suit kept her alive when she was in the room.
She placed the sealed container of E495 in the storage locker, closed the door and activated a system that exchanged and sterilized the air inside. It was essential to purify the air because the storage vault could be accessed from outside the room where she worked without entering the lab itself. Only secure containers went into that locker, brought in from the outside or taken away in specially constructed transport boxes. The containment laboratory where she worked was for when the killers were out of their cage.
She'd been suited up for half an hour and was exhausted. The air entering her suit did little to keep her cool. It was difficult enough to work with something that would kill her if she gave it a chance. The stress was made worse by the confines of the suit. It was hard work.
Exiting the lab was a tedious process. She went through a pressurized airlock and into a decontamination room where chemical sprays soaked her suit. Then she entered a vacuum room where she could undress. After that came a series of stinging showers that smelled of more chemicals. She hated the showers. They dried out her hair and irritated her skin. Still naked, she went through another airlock into a room where she dressed. After one more airlock she was outside again, breathing normally.
Usually there were people here in the outer room, but not tonight. She'd stayed late, claiming the pressure of work. Everyone was gone except for the guards in the halls. From the outside, the door to the laboratory could only be opened with the proper card and biometric authentication. From the inside, anyone could press down on the handle. She walked over to the locked door leading into the rest of the underground complex.
Bong Cha looked at her watch and remembered Hyo's instructions. He'd been adamant, specific, making her repeat what he'd said.
"You open the door at 7:20 tonight. 7:20 exactly. You understand? Someone will come in. Don’t talk to him. Show him where the containment locker is. Go home. That’s all you have to do."
"There are cameras. What if someone sees? What if I’m caught?"
"It's taken care of, no one will see. Look, this is our chance. My cousin is waiting for us in Seoul. He’s the one who told me about this man, it’s alright."
"Your cousin is mafia."
"My cousin is a businessman, that’s all."
"The locker is restricted. What about the guards?"
"Don’t worry about it. Look, I told you, it’s all taken care of. The guards won't be a problem. Just show him where the samples are stored, then leave. Don’t argue."
"Yes, Hyo."
She looked at her watch. It was 7:20. She opened the door and took an involuntary step away.
Three men stood there, not one. They were dressed in black. They had black masks pulled over their faces. One of them had a pack on his back. Two of them held assault rifles. The third had one of the specialized transport carriers in his hand.
"Hello, Cha," the first man said.
He drew a knife and in one, quick motion slashed it across her throat. Bong Cha's blood sprayed out across her attacker, across the door, the wall. She tried to speak, to scream, but only blood bubbled from her mouth. She clutched at her throat with both hands, stumbled backward and died.
"Move," the leader said. His voice was guttural, low. "Get the locker open and take everything. Be careful."
The second man stood guard with his assault rifle. The third went to the locker and opened the door. There were sixteen samples inside, neatly labeled. With great care, he began transferring the contents into the container he'd brought with him.
"Hurry up," the leader said.
The man at the locker closed the lid of the transport container and locked it down.
"Done."
The leader set his rifle down, un-shouldered his pack, opened the flap and reached in. He flipped a switch. Inside the pack, a digital counter began ticking down a four minute count in red numbers.
"Four minutes," he said. He left the pack on the floor and picked up his rifle. One man took the container and the three left the room.
Behind them, Bong Cha lay sprawled and graceless, ugly in death. She would never know what she had done by opening that door.
It was just as well.
CHAPTER 2
Elizabeth Harker had been hand-picked for her job as Director of the Project by President Rice. Rice was determined that he wasn't going to be one of those leaders who ended up like the fairy tale emperor with no clothes. It was easy to find people who told him what he wanted to hear, harder to find someone who'd tell him what he needed to hear. He'd found that person in Elizabeth. Not many people knew who she was or what her unit did. The Project operated in the shadows, as much out of public view as the dark side of the moon.
Nick Carter and Selena Connor sat on the couch in front of her desk. Nick had spent years in Marine Recon and led the Project's field team, all Special Forces vets except Selena. She'd come from the civilian world, with a unique mix of abilities that balanced the hard military background of the others.
Selena had a gift for ancient languages and spoke a dozen modern languages with ease. She knew martial arts and had used them more than once since Harker had recruited her. Since she'd joined the Project, she'd begun to pick up some of the lethal skills Nick and the others had spent years refining in the military.
The third member of the team was Lamont Cameron. He sat in a chair near the couch. His looks were marred by a thin, pink scar that stood out against his coffee-colored skin. It ran over his right eye and down the side of his nose, a souvenir of Iraq. Lamont was a former Navy SEAL. He had blue eyes that missed little, a genetic gift from his Ethiopian ancestors.
"Have you heard anything from Ronnie?" Elizabeth asked.
Ronnie Peete was the fourth member of her field team. He'd been badly wounded during a recent mission in the Philippines and gone back to Arizona after leaving the hospital. He'd told Nick he was going home to the Navajo reservation for a healing ceremony. That had been two weeks ago.
"I talked to him yesterday," Nick said. "He didn't say when he was coming back."
"All right. Bring him up to date when he gets here."
Elizabeth got to the point of the meeting.
"What do you know about North Korea's biological warfare program?" she said.
Nick rubbed the scar on his left ear, where a Chinese bullet had clipped the earlobe. His eyes were smoky gray, with gold flecks in them. His black hair was cut short. He was six feet tall and weighed in at just under two hundred. He wore a gray jacket that matched his eyes. A slight bulge under the jacket signaled a shoulder holster. Everyone in the Project went armed at all times.
"I don't know anything about it," he said, "but it figures they'd have one. I hope you're not thinking of sending us to North Korea."
"No," she said. "I'm sending you to Hong Kong."
"That's comforting."
"We have time to hit the malls?" Lamont asked. "I always wanted one of those silk suits."
"It's too early for the jokes, Lamont."
"Sorry, Director."
Elizabeth tapped a file on her desktop with her finger. "This is a transcript of an NSA intercept between the head of North Korea's bio warfare program and the Vice-Chairman of their National Defense Commission. He's second in command to the Supreme Leader. Their top general."