Marc Cameron - National Security

She looked up to see a wide rip in the leather of the Cajun’s motorcycle jacket, running parallel with his elbow. Another creased his thigh.

“What happened to you?”

“Turns out Kalil’s backup boys were pretty handy with their shooters.”

Jericho was already off his bike, examining the torn leather. “Are you hit?”

Thibodaux laughed. “They the ones that’s hit, beb.” He poked two fingers through the bullet holes in the jacket. “Lucky for me, I’m

Mahoney raised an eyebrow.

Jericho smiled, turning to take off his helmet. He motioned a group of Japanese tourists away from the Center Cafe and Kalil’s bleeding corpse. “All the gear all the time.” He chuckled. “The armored riding gear Palmer had made for us saved him.”

Over the strenuous objections of the mayor of D.C., the feds-who were, after all, really the ones in charge of the capitol-had Union Station locked down for five hours while the area around Kalil was searched for other vials of virus. The body and the glass vial were placed in an airtight “coffin” and transported via armored CDC van back to the BSL-4 at Fort Detrick with a full security detail.

“Y’all hear those flyboys come by?” Thibodaux said, wiping his brow with the back of a big hand. “Talk about a close one.”

Quinn released a deep breath. “Too close.”

Megan shivered as she began to understand what they were saying. Not only had they come within the brink of exposure to a deadly hemorrhagic virus, they’d very nearly been bombed to oblivion by their own government.

“The Gang of Five?” she whispered.

“Yep,” both men said in unison.

“I think we just about got dropped in the grease,” Thibodaux said, his forehead furrowed in thought.

“When this is over”-Jericho looked at Thibodaux-“you and I need to pay a little visit to the halls of the Senate Hood and have a chat with our Gang of Five.”

Marc Cameron

National Security

15 September U.S. Customs Holding Center Dulles International Airport

FBI Special Agent Bob Chaffee leaned back against the edge of the metal table and exhaled through his prominent nose like an angry bull. His thinning blond hair was combed straight back, plastered to his scalp with gel. A dark suit jacket was folded neatly on the table to his right.

The Arab man handcuffed to the wooden chair in front of him wasn’t talking and Chaffee was beginning to look foolish in front of his new partner.

“I think we’re supposed to call someone with the CDC,” a portly customs inspector with gray hair offered from the other side of a metal government-issue desk. His name was Ernie and he was a likeable enough sort for a grandpa. Chaffee thought the man a little too sweet faced to be a gun-toting U.S. customs officer.

“The hit was flagged for national security,” Chaffee tossed the words over his shoulder to Ernie, but his steel blue eyes still locked on the suspect. “Last I heard the Bureau retains jurisdiction on national security matters no matter what some CDC doctor puts in a computer field.” He opened his fist to reveal a clear glass vial about two inches long.

The prisoner’s eyes focused intently on the vial, following it as a cobra might follow the bobbing of a flute. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, though the room was cool enough that Ernie had to wear his dark blue grandpa sweater.

“What’s in this thing, Hamid?” Chaffee asked. “Drugs?”

Liz Miller, Chaffee’s Betty-Bureau-Blue-Suit partner, chimed in. “There is a flag that pops up to say specifically we’re supposed to notify CDC. Maybe this is some sort of swine flu. I’ve read theories that Al Qaeda is trying to weaponize it…”

Special Agent Miller was an attractive enough woman, tall and triathlete fit with a pile of flaming red hair and a splash of freckles across her cheeks. Fresh out of Quantico, she thought she actually had something to offer to an investigation-some unique insight from her twenty-six weeks of study that trumped Chaffee’s twenty-three years on the street. What she had yet to learn was when to shut her yap and observe.

Chaffee shook his head. He was not about to call the CDC. The CDC was supposed to call the FBI. That’s the way things worked. He’d show this nubile newbie just how terrorism investigations were done.

Loosening his tie, he rolled up the sleeves of his custom-made white shirt and folded his arms across his chest. It was important he let the suspect know he was prepared for the long haul.

“So, Hammy,” he said, hoping the Arab was smart enough to get the pork innuendo. “Let me tell you what we do know. You came in this morning on the 9:06 flight from Dubai. Your passport is in good order, but… and this is a big but, my friend… your visa has some problems. The thing is, it’s not even a very good forgery. Visa fraud is a felony, you understand me?” Chaffee craned in close, inches from Hamid’s twitching cheek. “You understand prison, shit for brains?”

“Allahu akbar,” Hamid whispered.

“What did you say?”

Hamid hawked up a throat full of phlegm and spat. Yellow mucus dripped from Chaffee’s nose and chin.

He wiped it of with a handkerchief, pausing a moment to gaze at the office door before he doubled his fist and hit the prisoner hard in the jaw. Handcuffed, the Arab was unable to catch himself. Both he and the chair pitched onto the rough carpet, face first.

“Bob!” Agent Miller grabbed Chaffee by the shoulder, but he shrugged her off, towering over the prisoner.

Hamid lay on his side, panting, but still tight-lipped. A trickle of blood ran from his nose, spotting the scabby carpet.

“I’m calling the CDC,” Ernie whispered from behind the desk. “This is getting out of hand.”

Chaffee wheeled, a shock of gelled hair hanging down across a pink face. “Don’t you even think about it, old man. I told you, this is a national security issue. I’ll have your ass for hindering my investigation if you so much as touch the phone.” His starched shirt was askew, half untucked. One sleeve hung unrolled and unbuttoned, loose around his wristwatch.

A beige desk phone began to chirp. Ernie snapped it up. He, listened for a moment, nodded curtly, and then extended the handset toward Chaffee.

“Plain fact is I already called them, Bob. This is Dr. Mahoney with the CDC. She wants to talk to the agent in charge.” The inspector’s jowly face tightened. “And you’ve made it pretty clear to all of us that that’s you.”

Chaffee snatched up the phone, and then promptly slammed it back on the receiver. He threw up his hands in disgust. “You’re an idiot, you know that, Ernie.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Three thousand people died in Colorado. This guy could be connected to that and you call in the disease police. Unbelievable!”

“The computer hit said to call them.” Ernie stood his ground. “When you go back up to Mount Olympus with all your other Bureau gods, I have to answer to my boss. I followed protocol.”

“Shut up.” Chaffee turned away. “You’re a disgrace to the badge.”

Agent Miller touched his arm. “Bob-”

“Don’t you Bob me,” he snapped. “Sit back and shut your yap. You might learn something useful.” He hitched up his suit pants, making certain his sidearm was snapped securely into the holster on his belt. Handing her the glass vial, he rolled up his dangling sleeve and turned his attention back to Hamid.

“Hold on to that for me. It’s evidence and I’m gonna need both of my hands.”

“They hung up on me.”

Megan Mahoney sat in the back seat of her Toyota 4Runner, dwarfed by three black parachute bags containing biohazard suits and portable air units. She lowered a cell phone from her ear in dismay.