Scott Nicholson - Liquid fear

“Your own staff member would double-cross you like that?”

“Sure, if the price was right. And he’s not just on my payroll, he’s officially on the books as a CIA consultant. We’re not the only ones who work both sides of the fence. It’s a pain in the ass, but we’re all grazing the same pasture.”

Wallace grunted. “That’s what’s wrong with Washington these days. You can’t even buy loyalty anymore.”

Burchfield thumbed his phone, clicking out a text message. “Riordan probably had some loyalty that ran deeper than a dollar. These agents sometimes forget which side of the fence they’re on.”

“What would he do with Halcyon if he had it?”

“The CIA would hustle it over to whichever company they’re in bed with this time. CelQuest, Genesis Laboratories, BTDM, could be any one of the majors. They crack the compound and roll it into whatever they are already doing, so it looks like a new discovery. No proof that the formula was stolen, because it’s a new formula.”

“You don’t sound too worried about it.”

“Riordan will be easy to find. When a donkey breaks out of its pen, it usually stands around just beyond the fence, not understanding it’s now free. The fence is what defines him, no matter which side he’s on. Riordan will jump back through the same old hoops again and he’ll turn up before you know it.”

“And the other option?”

Burchfield concentrated on his text, hit “Send,” and looked at Forsyth for the first time since they’d left his Georgetown condo. “That would be the one I’m worried about. It means Briggs is on the ball and won’t be so easy to maneuver. He knows what his drugs can do…and that this is a legacy-maker.”

“I thought this Briggs fellow was damaged goods. He doesn’t have any career.”

“That’s why he’s dangerous. He has nothing to lose. And Riordan is a desk jockey, a corporate snoop, not a muscle guy. His cover might have been blown, and he wouldn’t have been prepared for violence. Maybe we’re all underestimating Briggs and CRO.”

“I thought Mark Morgan was in your pocket,” Forsyth said. “That gives you CRO.”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t give me Briggs. If the CIA is in on the rage drug, the lid may blow off the volcano.”

“Dear Sweet Lord Almighty,” Forsyth said, instantly grasping the implications. A part of him had thought Burchfield’s Afghanistan plan was a little pie-in-the-sky, but maybe other people were having similar ideas, only with different targets and agendas.

“We need this before any other agencies get their hands on it,” Burchfield said. “I just don’t think we can trust anybody to do the right thing anymore.”

The gleaming dome of the Capitol Building loomed ahead, and despite the traffic, Winston was making good time. Dark limousines slid through the tide like sharks skimming through schools of lower members of the food chain.

“How many other people do you have on the job?” Forsyth asked. He didn’t think Burchfield would trust a lone operative on something this important, though every additional person involved meant a doubling of the risk factor.

“One more, but he’s working through CRO. He flushed Roland Doyle back to the Triangle, just to make sure he didn’t take a detour.”

“You said half a dozen were tied up in this. How come Briggs needs all of them?”

“Everybody reacts differently. Briggs needs to understand the range of reactions if we want any degree of predictability. And I don’t want to let this stuff loose in Al-Qaeda country until I know what’s in Pandora’s box.”

“Hardly seems American, dosing our own boys with this stuff.”

“Think of the greater good, Wallace. Afghanistan will blame Pakistan, and India has to do something. China’s sitting up there waiting. Of course, Israel will stick its bulldog face in the mess. If we’re lucky, we’ve got Muslims killing Hindus and Buddhists killing atheists, and Uncle Sam rides in like the cavalry.”

“It sounds like the revelations,” Forsyth said. “Wars, pestilence, famine, and one horned beast on the seat of power.”

“Damn, Wallace, I’m almost starting to believe you’re sincere. But don’t say that stuff in public. People will label you a wacko and I need you for the presidential run.”

Forsyth gritted his dentures. He’d originally backed Burchfield because Burchfield had promised to allow churches to receive federal funds for charitable purposes, which Forsyth felt was the next step toward getting school prayer before the Supreme Court.

Burchfield hinted that a couple of the more liberal justices were due for some ill health that would force them to step down. Forsyth knew from his own political background that timing was everything when it came to paradigm shifts, and wise use of these potions could help shape the next administration. And in a world weakened by war, that administration could be very influential indeed.

And if Burchfield saw a more prominent role for Christianity in government, such a push was sorely needed. When the angels poured out the seven vials of God’s wrath upon the world, the Lord would need foot soldiers, not just a white horse and a sword and the strong arm of righteousness.

Burchfield pressed the “Call” button on the back of the driver’s seat. Winston’s voice came through a tinny speaker. “Yes, sir?”

“Change of itinerary,” Burchfield ordered. “We’re heading south on I-95.”

“Yes, sir.”

“South?” Forsyth asked.

“North Carolina’s a five-hour drive. We take a plane, everyone will know we’re coming. This way, it’s like a surprise party.”

Forsyth wasn’t sure he liked Burchfield’s grin. But he found himself curious about these mysterious drugs that corrupted people’s minds and eroded their will. When Burchfield had exhausted its military and corporate applications, perhaps it could have a place in Forsyth’s arsenal for the bigger battleground.

After all, Armageddon was also a matter of timing.

“Help me, hurry, we’re in the factory where we killed Susan.”

Roland stared at the dead cell phone, contemplating several reactions. He wanted to hurl the phone against the wall, but he no longer trusted his instinct. And a small part of him wanted to race into the bedroom and pummel Wendy with his fists. Not for any particular reason he could think of, but just because she was the latest contestant in the Blame Game.

“What was that all about?” Alexis said. She was visibly nervous, picking at her fingernails.

“They have Anita. They’re waiting in the Monkey House.”

Alexis sat down hard. “That place wasn’t real!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Roland said, and she looked at him, blue eyes wide. He realized his hands were clenched into trembling fists and he immediately opened them, cool air enveloping his sweating fingers.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s happening.”

Alexis pointed to the three pill bottles on the coffee table. “Take your Halcyon. This could get ugly fast.”

“I’m afraid to take it,” he said. “I don’t even know what the hell it is.”

“You’re on Seethe, Roland.”

“Seethe?” The word rang a distant alarm in Roland’s head, but it was in a mental vault he didn’t want to enter.

“The trigger. The drug that stimulates fear response. Seethe shocks the amygdala and floods the nervous system with neurochemicals.”

He couldn’t avoid sarcasm. “Thanks, Doctor. Maybe you were sleeping with Briggs, too.”

She was angry, but Roland didn’t care. If she had a hand in all this, maybe she should have been the one to die instead of Susan. But maybe it wasn’t too late to set things right.