R. Ruggiero - Brushfire Plague

Dranko winked, “That assumes there will be another lottery, my eternally hopeful friend.”

Cooper shrugged dismissively and returned to surveying Admonitus’ headquarters. Only a few other cars were scattered about the facility’s parking lot. A white security guard pickup drove in a wide arc around the parking lot. It appeared to be circling the campus in a lazy, random pattern.

There was no other traffic on the road, so the guard could not have helped but notice their pickup. Dranko did his best to accelerate imperceptibly and continue past their entrance.

As they stopped, a quarter mile down the road, Dranko leaned onto the steering wheel and turned towards Cooper, “What’s the plan, boss?”

“A bum rush. We park where we can watch that security pickup. Once it passes the front entrance and rounds the corner, we go in fast and tight. We try to find someone in charge and demand some answers. I don’t see another way. There’s no way to blend in and infiltrate because there’s no one else out here!”

Dranko nodded his head slowly, reasoning to the same conclusion.

They performed one last weapons check and then Dranko drifted the pickup behind a bank of bushes where Cooper could see the front of the Admonitus headquarters. They timed one full circuit of the security truck. It took about ten minutes to make the route around the dispersed cluster of buildings and parking lots.

“Since we have to wait for it to round the far right corner, we should have about eight minutes before it comes back around and he sees our pickup truck. We should plan on him coming in to investigate,” Cooper noted.

“Got it,” Dranko responded. He set the alarm on his wrist watch to seven minutes, “This will give us a one minute warning.”

The security guard’s pickup rounded the far corner for the second time and Dranko gunned the motor of Cooper’s truck. Dirt kicked up as they surged forward. Dranko expertly guided the pickup through the parking lot, driving at a breakneck speed, but not so fast as to cause a loud squeal of tires on pavement. The truck lurched to a stop in a parking spot near the front door and the two men bounded out, slamming the pickup’s doors behind them. Thirty seconds gone.

They had decided not to go in with guns drawn, as that might invite trouble that they could avoid, but they moved in a two-man tandem that was unmistakably martial. Both men had a ready hand on a firearm, for any needed quick draw. Dranko’s right hand remained snaked underneath the brown leather jacket, with a firm hold on the pistol grip. Cooper kept his right hand halfway back towards his pistol that was holstered at the 3:30 position, just behind his right hip.

Dranko reached the door first and held it open as Cooper raced inside. The lobby that greeted them was empty. The receptionist’s desk and waiting area looked as if they might have been occupied yesterday. Magazines were scattered on the low table that was surrounded by office chairs. The lights were only halfway on, in dimmed mode. They paused for a moment and listened.

The silence was tomblike. They could, however, hear the mutterings coming from an office at the end of the hallway. A bright wash of light from that office filled the dimmed hallway outside of it.

Using hand signals, Dranko motioned Cooper to move down the hallway.

Cooper hugged the left-hand wall and moved on the balls of his feet to minimize any noise. Dranko followed about five yards behind him. He kept a lookout to their rear as they moved.

Within seconds, Cooper was at that entrance to the room. He caught a furtive glance into the room. What he saw was overwhelming.

A lone man stood behind a large metal desk. The man looked unimpressive. He stood several shades under an average man’s height and was pudgy around the middle. He looked to be in his later fifties. He was bald, with a short-cropped ring of hair circling his head. He had a flat-face, devoid of any single feature standing out. He was, however, dressed impeccably. He wore a navy blue, pinstriped, three-piece suit. An expensive looking black fedora lay resting on the desk.

To the man’s right was a large electronic map of the United States with lights of varying colors and intensities. Despite the pell-mell of lighting, it was clear that the largest cities were swathed in bright red circles. The wall opposite from where he was standing was a whiteboard with markings that Cooper could not see from his angle. Finally, to the man’s left was a long table with multiple printers. One came to life and spat out a page as Cooper looked in.

Cooper turned to Dranko to give him the “go” sign. With that, he stepped into the room.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

The short man looked up at him; a flash of surprise crossed his face. Almost instantly, he returned to a controlled, sober look.

Cooper drew his pistol and barked, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” as the man’s right hand motioned toward a corner of his desk, likely an alarm. “I’ll have to blow your brains out if you do that.”

“Please, don’t insult me. We both know you cannot do that,” the short man responded with a steady voice.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because you want something from me. You can’t get it if I’m dead,” the man’s self-assuredness grated on Cooper.

Cooper nodded deliberately, “You’re right. Thank you for that correction. I won’t blow your brains out. Instead, I’ll put a round into your right leg,” Cooper lowered the pistol to point there to reinforce his words.

The other man couldn’t help it as his leg reflexively flinched. He cleared his throat a little too deliberately, “Why don’t we start over. I’m Ethan Mitchell, President of Admonitus corporation and you fine gentlemen are?” He made a sweeping gesture with his right hand. Like most men in power, he’s used to being in charge and doesn’t like it when the tables are turned on him.

Cooper decided not to play his game. He jerked a thumb at Dranko, who stood at the doorway looking back into the hallway, “He’s a man that is a good shot. Best of all, he shoots when and who I tell him to.” Dranko looked over his shoulder and nodded firmly, a sinister grin revealing a thin line of gleaming white teeth.

Then, he brought the thumb to his own chest, “I’m a man who’s lost his wife to this plague. So, I have nothing to live for except getting some answers. You got it?”

Mr. Mitchell’s stolid façade was shaken. A dollop of nervousness showed through his nod. He shuffled his feet, as if to gain surer footing, “You do have something to live for though. Your child, perhaps.”

Baffled, Cooper blurted, “How’d you?”

“Know? I wouldn’t be where I am today if I wasn’t an adept reader of people. First, I know you’re not the nervous type. You wouldn’t be in my office waving a pistol around if you were. So, that leaves only one explanation for the worry lines that cross your face. You’re a father.”

Cooper laughed, “You’re good. I’ll give you that. If you can see all that, I’m betting you can see that I’ve killed men before?”

Mr. Mitchell eyed him again and swallowed hard, “Yes, I can see that.”

Cooper maintained a steadfast stare, “Recently?”

Ethan gulped and only nodded in agreement.

“Furthermore, I’m guessing you can see that I’m a serious man. A deliberate man. A man who gets what he needs, when he needs it, yeah?”

“Yes, I see that too.”

“Good. So, let’s start with what you know about this plague.”

A long silence followed as a slow, smug, grin took shape on Mr. Mitchell’s face, “Maybe a better question would be: what do I not know about it?”

Cooper tried to hide his surprise, and did a poor job of it, “Sure, why don’t you start there then?”