Scott Nicholson - Liquid fear

“Sure you are,” the man said. “And you brought the Easter Bunny and Hillary Clinton with you, didn’t you?”

Mark wondered if he should have mentioned Sebastian Briggs, but Briggs was the kind of guy people didn’t like to talk about.

“You’ re one of the people from the trials, aren’t you?” the man said. “You’re about the right age for it.”

“Yeah,” Mark said, wondering whether the lie would keep him alive or amp up the danger. Whatever happened, he figured it would get him to wherever Alexis was.

“How come you’re not freaking out like the rest of them?”

“I’m freaking on the inside.”

The man gave a bark of laughter and pulled out an old-fashioned key ring. He opened the door and stepped back. “Welcome to the Monkey House.”

“This complicates things,” Briggs said, though secretly he was pleased. If circumstances warranted, he’d synthesized enough Seethe to dose them all, one way or another.

You always have to keep an ace up your sleeve.

But Briggs had two aces and a joker stashed away. While Burchfield knew about the serum that was deliverable via injection and oral delivery, he wasn’t aware that Briggs had developed a gas version as well.

The military loved chemical agents that could be dispensed from afar, because that added extra layers of plausible deniability, reduced resource risk, and always seemed more humane. After all, it wasn’t the military leaders of the world who had called for the banning of mustard gas. No, it was the do-gooders and the self-righteous. And Briggs suspected those do-gooders wanted to keep their killing up close and personal.

Briggs certainly did.

And so did his little monkeys.

“What’s going on down here, Briggs?” Burchfield said, glancing warily at the hulking machinery. “You promised delivery of Halcyon and a lot of people are waiting.”

“I’ll have it next week. The FDA already has the data on the animal testing. Once we prove the efficacy and safety in the human clinicals, we can move into formal trials. You know the drill.” Briggs couldn’t resist reverting to the quasi-Marine talk Burchfield loved to employ, even though Burchfield’s military experience had been limited to three years in the Boy Scouts.

“And you’re sure they can’t trace all this back to ten years ago?” Burchfield said.

“Names have been changed because mistakes were made,” Briggs said, now employing passive voice in a parody of bureaucratic doublespeak.

Burchfield’s scared. An interesting development.

The fire-breathing defender of American principals was famous for his televised rhetoric and advocacy of a U.S. military presence in the Middle East. It could be the influence of the little white-haired man standing beside him, Wallace Forsyth, whose moral compass always pointed straight to God.

Forsyth’s gaze was focused on the charcoal sketch of the naked Wendy Leng, his mouth puckered in distaste but his eyes exhibiting a decadent glow of hunger.

Ooh, Mr. Forsyth, the things I could do with you, given time. But I don’t think we’ll have much time. Besides, she’s spoken for.

Now where is Mr. Kleingarten, my dim-witted insurance policy?

Briggs secretly glanced at the bank of monitors, letting his unexpected guests study the bizarre scrap-metal maze Briggs had constructed with the help of his illegal Mexican friends. From their vantage point, Burchfield and Forsyth couldn’t see the monitors.

On screen, Kleingarten stood at the front door, his gun leveled at a man in running clothes. The man’s back was turned to the camera.

Another agent? The partner of the man Kleingarten had murdered earlier?

On the screen, the limousine door opened and Burchfield’s driver got out. Kleingarten spoke to the driver, who also had the look of a federal agent, impassive and steely-eyed.

“Senator, how many bodyguards did you bring with you?” Briggs asked.

“Just Winston, my driver,” he said, approaching the bank of monitors. “What’s wrong?”

“It appears I’ll need to put out another place setting for our mad little tea party.”

As they watched, Kleingarten shifted his gun toward the driver, who went for the inside flap of his jacket. There was a silent flash from the muzzle and Winston collapsed. The report echoed dully inside the big, open building, rattling off the steel and rotted rubber.

“Goddamn it,” Burchfield said. “I told Winston to keep it holstered.”

“I don’t think it’s Winston you need to be worried about,” Briggs said.

The noise upset David Underwood, who began howling and shrieking from the depths of the building. His cell was dark, so the monitor showed only the dim greenish outlines from the infrared camera. Anita was asleep or catatonic, exhausted from her encounter with Briggs, who’d played a delicious but dastardly game of “Let’s make some amateur porn” using a few toys he’d saved for the occasion.

“What’s that wailing?” Burchfield said.

“Sounds like somebody opened the gates of hell and called the devil to supper,” Forsyth said.

“Winston?” Burchfield shouted, filling the factory.

Kleingarten and Mark Morgan emerged from around a tall sorting machine that dangled rusty chains from its array of pulleys. Under the dim glow of the high fluorescent lights, Mark’s face looked green.

“Mark!” Burchfield said, losing his characteristic poise. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Mark shrugged. “You told me to keep an eye on things.”

“All these people just keep asking to be killed,” Kleingarten said, his gun held down near his hip.

“Drummond,” Burchfield said, with the indignant anger of a man who was never crossed. “You’re supposed to stay on the perimeter.”

“Well, that’s what you were paying me to do,” Kleingarten said, then nodded at Briggs. “He paid me for something else. And you can drop the ‘Drummond’ bit. I’m my own man now.”

“What’s going on here, Daniel?” Forsyth asked. The man’s wrinkled hands flexed in dismay.

“Hello, Mark,” Briggs said. “I guess you didn’t believe me when I said your wife would probably survive.”

“You can’t blame me for not trusting you,” Mark said. “Your goon here just killed a Secret Service agent in cold blood. That’s not going to be so easy to cover up.”

“Hey,” Kleingarten said. “He was going for his gun. And if he wasn’t, he would have sooner or later. That’s just what those guys do. You better be glad you’re such an amateur, or I’d be covering you up, too.”

Briggs smiled. Kleingarten no doubt had a juvenile jealousy of real cops and agents, since he’d only risen as high as night watchman. But the man was behaving erratically, even for a hired killer.

Maybe he saved a little of that Seethe dose meant for Alexis. Maybe he’d wanted to see what all the fuss was about. In which case, the night might prove even more interesting than I predicted.

Ah, the scientific method. Always with the unexpected outcomes.

“Look here, Briggs,” Burchfield said. “We’re wrapping up Halcyon. Now.”

The broken, demented wails of David Underwood provided the soundtrack to Burchfield’s last power play. The five men stood in Briggs’s high-tech cage, Forsyth shrinking away from the confrontation. Mark, to his credit, was keeping his wits about him. He appeared to be taking in all the equipment and hiding his amazement at the scope of the operation.

Briggs decided there was little to be gained by a power struggle, since he still needed both the senator and the killer. At least for a while.

“Senator,” Briggs said. “You don’t understand the full implications of our work here. As Mark no doubt told you, we’re not just developing drugs to help veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder. We’ve discovered something far more valuable.”