Phil began to scribble a note and passed it to Patton. “Can you drop us any lower?” Rodney asked the pilot. The LAPD pilot nodded and dropped down low enough that grass and dust began to fly through the open window.
Phil listened with his mind — there had been something here, but it seemed remote. He was here — gone now; Phil quickly wrote and showed it to Patton.
The big man frowned and the search went on. Seven more times, Phil had them pause and nearly land, but each time the spore had grown cold.
“We’re going to need to refuel,” the pilot told Benedict after nearly two hours of the yo-yo flying. Patton twirled his finger in the air for Phil who nodded that he understood.
Phil couldn’t shut out his companions growing frustration and panic, and reached for the pad of paper, which had slipped between his seat and Patton’s; he was just straightening up when he felt it again, only stronger. He grabbed Patton’s arm so hard and suddenly that the big man yelped.
“Son of a bitch!” Rodney screamed, while trying to pry Phil’s gloved hand from his forearm. Benedict looked back at the sudden commotion, and it took him a moment before he understood.
“Stop!” he yelled to the pilot. “Hold this position.”
Phil was writing again, and Rodney was rubbing his injured arm.
“That’s some grip he’s got,” Patton said to Benedict as Phil finished his note. “He wants to land there.” Phil was pointing at the tallest building in a cluster of tall buildings. A circled H marked a helipad.
“That can’t be right. That’s the Federal Building,” the pilot said.
“Shit,” said Benedict.
“Son of a bitch,” replied Patton. “This should have been the first place we looked.”
The pilot flared the helicopter and bumped to a soft landing. Phil was out a moment after the skids had touched down. “He’s here,” he yelled to Ron Benedict through the roar of the blades and his isolation suit.
“Say again?”
“He’s here.” Phil’s voice was still muffled even though the pair had moved away from the helicopter. Patton trailed behind, blocking out some of the rotor noise. “He works in this building,” he said, pulling open a door. A powerful stream of mental energy compelled him down a flight of stairs.
“Dr. Rucker, it’s safer to take the elevator,” Benedict called after him, but all he got in return was a series of unintelligible noises that under the right circumstances could have been words.
“Yeah, he’s always this way,” Patton said in answer to Benedict’s questioning look. “After you,” he said, and Patton followed the Assistant Director of the FBI down the stairs.
Phil had gone down seven flights before he started checking the floors individually. At first, he would just open the fire door and stand there for a moment. By the twenty-fifth floor, he was walking the circuit of the floor. When he opened the door to the twenty-third floor, he stopped and turned to his two escorts. “In here,” he said, and they followed him into the Los Angeles County Office of Emergency Management with their weapons drawn. A number of people began to stand and challenge them, but they were immediately silenced when Benedict introduced himself. Phil just kept walking until he came to a small corner office. Phil read the nameplate: Joseph Rider.
“Is this the guy?” Patton poked his head into the empty office.
Phil didn’t hear him. He had wheeled around and was striding towards a young black woman. He almost made it, but the isolation suit wasn’t designed for running. Phil fell face first into a file cabinet and cracked his faceplate. The young woman screamed and dropped the phone. “She’s warning him!” Phil yelled, struggling to his feet.
Benedict saw the crack and lifted his weapon. “No one move! Everybody down on the floor, now!” Patton had also raised his weapon, and the two panned across the room. “Dr. Rucker, are you still secure?” asked Benedict.
“No leaks, I’m fine. Lower your weapons. They’re not involved.” Phil was back on his feet and had picked up the phone. Joseph Rider, aka Izhan Ahmed, had already hung up. “Where is he?” Phil addressed the cowering woman.
Adrienne Mays just stared back at the man in the space suit, shaking. The two men with guns and badges came up from behind the spaceman, and that terrified her even more.
“I am Ronald Benedict, assistant director of the FBI, and we need to find Joseph Rider.”
“He j-just left for the airport not five minutes ago,” she stammered. The two cops exchanged a look of panic. The woman added, “He’s not going anywhere. They’re setting up a command center there.”
It seemed reasonable, since the airports were going to be empty very soon. “What did you tell him?” Patton asked, wondering how accurate Rucker’s senses were. It seemed awfully coincidental that she just happened to be on the phone with the man they were looking for.
“I just told him that some people were here with guns. He said that he was calling our security force.” Adrienne could sense Patton’s suspicion. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” she pleaded.
“She doesn’t know anything,” Phil said to both of them. “Call him back,” Phil said to the crying woman.
“What do I tell him?”
“Anything, it doesn’t matter, just get him on the phone.”
She looked confused, but it was a relatively easy task, so she moved closer to the desk. Phil had obligingly backed away. She picked up the phone with a shaky hand and dialed the number. Benedict reached over and hit the speaker button.
The phone rang, and rang, and rang. “Damn it,” Patton said. “Tell us exactly what you told him.”
Chapter 52
It was sad but necessary, and on the whole inevitable; but Rider liked his boss, and a part of him regretted that circumstances required him to shoot the man in the head. It had also been fairly messy, and he was glad that he had a different car to switch to.
He wondered how the Americans had discovered him, and he feared for the others. If they could find him after all the extra precautions he had taken, the plan was in real jeopardy. When he had first arrived in the United States three years ago, he’d never met with Avanti’s contact, choosing instead to create his own identity. It wasn’t difficult, especially in Los Angeles, and especially with a good deal of cash. He had paid well and within a month had seamlessly stepped into the persona of Joseph Rider. He had been a model citizen ever since, so how had they found him? He drove down the emergency lane with his lights and flashers on, soon-to-be-dead faces gaping at him from cars stuck in a hopeless traffic jam.
In some ways he was glad. They were forcing him to revert back to the original plan — at least partially. Even with an anonymous, unmarked vehicle, he had little chance of distributing enough of the complexed paper across the Los Angeles Basin before being caught; so he would adapt. The quarantine was still three hours away, and the grocery stores and malls were still packed; if he hurried he could hand-deliver the virus to hundreds and probably thousands of Americans who would then take the infection home and spread it further. It wouldn’t have the impact that they had original hoped, but combined with a strategic distribution of the viral-impregnated parchment, he would devastate Southern California. Professor Avanti estimated less than five grams would infect the entire Basin; the blue vial had more than fifty, and Rider was certain that he could distribute at least half.
He pulled into his driveway, and his neighbor gave him a half-hearted wave as she carried supplies into the house. A toddler, dressed in pink and adorned in bows, followed her in. He left the car running and quickly ran inside. Before the song on the radio had changed, he was backing out of his driveway for the last time, a small crash-proof case sitting next to him.