How much blood did he need on his head? After all, he wasn’t entirely without conscience. He was still wondering, even vaguely troubled by how many friends and relatives his recent victims had left behind—who might know something and talk—aware, then, that if official powers shone light on his activities he would find himself pleading his case before a military tribunal, tried for murder and treason.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’d executed American civilians who wanted to squeal after they had sworn an oath and signed a blood contract to go deaf, dumb and blind on a black project. There were those two aerospace engineers in Nevada, one who had gone “missing” an hour before he was to appear on a cable documentary about UFOs and reverse engineering. And there was that microbiologist, his wife and their teenaged son in Sacramento….
Yet three more civilians here in Louisiana. Two of them had been paid a midnight call, pals of the assistant manager who had sounded the alarm to the FBI. More food for the bayou, he thought, if he wanted to be callous about it, smart if he wanted to congratulate his foresight on getting their home and cell phones tapped, bugs planted under their roofs, which had betrayed loose tongues. If the others wanted to flap their gums—the science crew included—they would turn up victims of any number of creative accidents.
Snowing the G-men from Washington wasn’t that difficult, he reflected, pleased with himself for giving an award-worthy performance as the plant’s manager, all the bogus credentials and manufactured background checks holding up to their intense scrutiny. After all, Wolfe-Binder had been a legitimate industrial chemical plant. The paperwork he showed them was in perfect order when they trooped in, armed with suspicions and warrants. Before their arrival it had been a little tense, he granted, a few frenzied hours of sanitizing, loading up the eighteen-wheeler with contaminated tubes, vats, the disassembled decon chamber, HAZMAT suits, weapons and so forth.
The job here was finished, at any rate, he thought as he gave a last look around.
He stepped through the front door of the main plant, leaving it unlocked. The shop was barren except for a few stainless-steel tables. The documents that could tie him to their people in Brazil and Washington had been shredded. Computers and sat links were already on board their winged ride. Nothing was left now but to roll the last fifty-five-gallon drums into the bird and set off for Brazil.
Marching past the steel facades of the giant storage tanks, he heard engines grinding to life around the corner of the first warehouse. Forklifts geared up to haul the pallets—shipped back in by tractor trailer after the Feds had cleared out—and then they’d be done.
Then what?
He shuddered at the thought of what lay ahead. Knowledge alone damn near told him he should hijack the transport bird, fly for parts unknown. His orders were to return to Washington. The big event was down to a few days, which meant his every breath would be counted by the men in the shadows. What madness did the future hold? How did they intend to actually pull it off?
He was envisioning every doomsday scenario—personal and otherwise—when he thought he glimpsed a darting shadow, east, in the latticework of pipelines. Heart racing, he feared the Feds had decided on a surprise return. Submachine gun in hand, he set off on a course between two tanks, thinking if it was an intruder he could intercept him. If it was a small army of Feds, there would be no choice but to start gunning them down—a murderous fighting evac, all hands blazing away while attempting to load the bird.
He eased into the no-man’s land between the massive bins, then began rolling hard. Weapon extended, thinking he should raise his crew, gathering more speed as he reached the corner, he was crouching, going left, when the sky crashed down with a light show that exploded in his eyes. Something that felt like a sledgehammer, but what he knew was a fist, had dropped him on his back. The world threatened to black out next, as he felt himself being dragged along the ground by the shoulder.
The voice of doom helped sweep away the mist in his sight. Looking up, he stared into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, two chips of ice more like it, he thought, framed in combat cosmetics.
A NO-SHIT DEAL.
The armament, for one thing, told him the hitter was no G-man. Then there were those damn eyes, pinning him with judgment day, like he was a bug about to be dissected by righteous anger alone. Vaguely he was aware he had been dragged into the cubbyhole near the readout shack. Out of ear- and eyeshot of the others, no doubt. The sound suppressor threaded on the end of the big Beretta and aimed square between his eyes warned him his life hung in the balance. He glanced to the assault rifle with the attached grenade launcher in the hitter’s other hand. No, the man wasn’t any Fed.
“I don’t like repeating myself,” he heard the man’s voice state. “How many, including yourself?”
“Eleven,” he answered. “Thirteen, if you count the pilot and copilot.”
“What’s the cargo—and don’t tell me it’s pesticide.”
Why not answer the man? Whomever he really was, Harper had seen enough black ops to know the invader had come to close down shop, more than likely with a body count as icing. In some strange way, he felt relieved, absolved of his sins, free to talk. His gut told him he wouldn’t be led away in cuffs. He was no defeatist, but for some time now he’d been wondering when someone, somewhere from some No Name Agency would smell them out. In reality, there was no such thing as a secret if more than one individual knew. He was glad it was over—unless the big guy had come alone. If that was the case, he was either crazy or suicidal to tackle that many professionals, all of whom had nothing to lose and everything to gain if they stayed in the game.
Harper chuckled. “You’re not going to believe me, pal, but it is, in fact, pesticide.”
“You’re right, I don’t believe you.”
“You want to go uncap one of those drums they’re moving and take a deep whiff, be my guest. It’s a superhybrid DDT, in gel solution. One sniff upclose and you’re choking on your own vomit. If you’re what I’m thinking you are, then maybe you have some idea of what that means.”
“You’re telling me you’re cutting out a couple of steps for a nerve-gas recipe.”
“Give the man a first-class round-trip ticket to Hawaii.”
“Where’s it headed?”
“Brazil.”
Harper felt his heart lurch as something angry danced through those eyes.
“Who do you work for?”
“Uncle Sam,” Harper said, and immediately regretted the answer as the muzzle dropped an inch or so closer to his face. “We’re a black ops arm of the NSA.”
He was poised for the next question, but the man in black was a blur, hurling himself to the side, wheeling toward the pipeline. Harper glimpsed the red beam knife through the shadows in the space the invader had vacated, heard the brief stutter of the gun. The bullets were tearing into his chest, piercing him before his mind registered what was happening. He caught his cry of pain, clinging to anger at whoever had gone for broke, missed and nailed him instead. As the life leaked out of him and the sickening wheeze of a ruptured lung swarmed his ears, he heard a howl of agony and grabbed a final look at the shadow toppling beyond the pipeline. Fading into warm blackness, aware the big hitter had chopped his friendly killer off at the ankles, he then began sinking deeper into the dark abyss, to the evanescent roar of the invader’s M-16.
6
