“OK,” he concluded, lighting his cigar. “Find out who the hell they are and why they’re fucking with me.”
He breathed in the rewarding scent of the Arturo Fuente cigar, letting the aroma soothe his stretched nerves. These days he did little more than smoke, drink, and worry. He was stressed out, and his entire body felt it and screamed its pain. No wonder he was coming apart at the seams, with gastritis, liver pain, back pain, the whole nine yards of a stressful life.
This operation, instead of being the quick success it should have been, was turning into yet another one of those cases where it seemed like fate was toying with him. It felt like an unseen enemy knew precisely what he was trying to do, and that enemy was doing everything possible to foil his best-laid plans. No matter how hidden. No matter how elusive. How was it possible?
He felt paranoid again, and hated it. He liked being lucid and cool in the face of an imminent threat, and didn’t like feeling hunted and harassed. But that’s exactly how it felt, and it wasn’t the first time. What if there was, indeed, someone who was out to get him?
…52
Alex fidgeted a little, trying to find a more comfortable position. She sat at the root of a tree, leaning against the wide trunk that had her back covered, and kept her eyes scanning the horizon line constantly. Blake sat across from her, watching in the opposite direction, both of them keeping their Tavors clutched tightly, ready to fire.
They’d found a small clearing in the woods, somewhere near Mayak, a small town lost in the swampy expanses of forest. Every minute or so, she checked the time, impatiently waiting for Sam and Lou to be back with some news. They’d been gone for a while; she was getting worried.
A snapped twig made her heart stop for a second, and a wave of adrenaline surged through her body. She sprung to her feet, wincing. The sudden move brought a sharp pain to her ribs, right next to her sternum. She positioned her weapon, ready to fire, and listened intently. The sounds of rustling, wet leaves were getting closer, clearer, and more discernible. Someone was coming.
She signaled to Blake, who hopped to his feet, silent as a feline, and lifted his Tavor in a shooting stance. She couldn’t see anyone, and, judging by how Blake scanned the forest, neither did he.
They appeared from behind a tree close by, Lou supporting Sam in his unstable, limping walk. Relieved, she lowered her weapon, but Lou frowned the second she did that. Surprised and worried, she asked Lou a silent question, raising her eyebrows. His reply came in the form of a silent gesture that meant, “They’re everywhere.”
Great.
They huddled together, and while Lou kept guard, Sam briefed them in a choppy, labored whisper.
“We have a lead,” he said, still out of breath. “There’s an abandoned ICBM site only twenty klicks from here, that way,” he added, pointing northeast. “No one’s used it in many years, not since ’89, when the arms race slowed down.”
“That’s it?” Alex asked, a little disappointed. “An abandoned missile silo doesn’t seem like much of a lead, Sam.”
“So, then why are there trucks loaded with food and supplies going in there every couple of days?”
“That’s more like it,” she whispered, letting a wide grin appear on her face. “Let’s get going.”
“Gotta be careful, we already ran into a couple of trucks filled with armed men heading back toward the hangar. I’m thinking cleanup team. Keep your eyes peeled.”
“Let me get precise coordinates,” Lou said.
He took out his SatSleeve-equipped phone, wrote a quick message to DigiWorld, describing what they were looking for, then sent it together with a screenshot of the map view with their current GPS location. Within two minutes, a discrete vibration alerted him and he confirmed with a thumbs-up to the rest of the team that he had the coordinates.
He showed Alex his phone. DigiWorld had sent maps, routing, terrain views, and infrared scans of their target location. Infrared scans showed several clustered heat signatures. Their only lead looked better and better by the minute.
Lou signaled them to start moving.
“I think we should call for extraction at this time,” Sam said, leaning into the support offered by Lou’s arm.
“What if they’re not there?” Alex replied. “What if it’s not them? And I think CIA would need a couple of days to organize an extraction, right?”
“A few days? In this hell hole?” Blake asked. “Not acceptable… sorry. We can’t wait. Who knows what could happen in a couple of days. We need to move now.”
“Affirmative,” she replied. “It’s only twenty klicks. Let’s go there, see what we find. Then we’ll figure out options,” she added, briefly looking at Blake, then averting her eyes.
What she wouldn’t say was, “Let’s see how many are still alive.”
…53
They worked feverishly, almost without even speaking to one another. Each of them knew exactly what they had to do, and, for the first time since they had arrived, felt a little excitement and hope. Focused and careful, Gary Davis checked the results of the analysis delivered by the gas chromatograph.
“How sure are you?” Adenauer asked. “We have to be very precise, or else we’ll die,” he insisted, sounding parental.
“I know that,” Gary replied, a little irritation seeping in his voice.
Dr. Fortuin was in charge of aerosolizing the compound, and was running some tests a couple of tables away. Even he, against his typical Dutch coolness, was rhythmically bouncing his left foot, synchronizing it to the beat of his internal anxiety.
Jane Crawford had left her cot, volunteering to handle the final test on the remaining three lab rodents. She petted the rodents one by one, holding them in the palm of one hand, and scratching behind their ears with another. Then she placed them back in their cage and covered it with the clear Plexiglas casing, to verify the containment of the aerosol delivery environment. The clear casing was fitted with a small tube that could be hooked to the aerosol canister. The tube was taped to the hole, ensuring perfect containment of the tested gasses. Satisfied, she removed the casing, allowing the rodents unrestricted access to air for a while, and then rubbed her hands together, smiling. She was ready to test.
Marie-Elise approached Gary, curious, carefully eyeing King Cobra, who sat close to the entrance, flipping through a dirty magazine printed in faded colors on cheap, yellowish paper.
“Have you decided what to use?” she asked, keeping her tone low, almost inaudible, although King Cobra didn’t have the knowledge to understand what they talked about, and he obviously wasn’t paying any attention.
“For sedation?” Gary asked.
Fortuin rolled his chair closer to them, to listen in.
Marie-Elise nodded vigorously, smiling shyly.
“I’ve decided to go with a mix of anesthetics after all. I’ve mixed thiopental, for fast induction, with fentanyl and desflurane. I know, I know,” he added, seeing how worried Marie-Elise and Fortuin suddenly looked. “It’s untested, never before attempted, and two of these drugs aren’t typically delivered via aerosol. They’re injected, so we don’t even know how effective they’ll be. No need to tell me that, I know what you’re thinking. But we’re out of options and we’re desperate; I guess you’d have to agree to that statement.”