Jonathan Maberry - Patient Zero

I have to admit that I debated going in quick and dirty, knocking these guys on their asses and coming up on Church out of a shadow… but I didn’t. It was a cute thought but not a good one and it probably wouldn’t do Rudy or me any good. So I drove right up to the gate and let them take a good look at my face.

“May I see some identification, sir?”

I didn’t make a fuss, just flashed them my badge and picture ID. The guard barely looked at it. He already knew who I was. He waved me through and told me to park by the staff entrance on the far side. I did as instructed, aware that they were watching me; and in my sideview mirror I caught a glimpse of a guard walking the perimeter of the roof. I strolled over to the door, taking only enough time to see other new features, like the tidy little security camera above the door and keycard lock. I didn’t need a key, though, because the door opened before I could knock. Inside the entrance was one of the most striking women I’d ever seen. She had gold-flecked brown eyes, and an athletic figure that looked hard in the right places and soft in the right places. Her hair was cut short and she wore black fatigue pants and a gray T-shirt with no markings. Nothing like “DMS” stenciled on the front. No sign of rank, either, but her bearing was officer level. You could tell that right off. She had a Sig Sauer .9 in a shoulder rig and the grips looked worn from hard use.

“Thanks for coming, Detective Ledger,” she said in a London accent. Her face showed signs of sleep deprivation and strain, and her eyes were red-rimmed as if she’d been crying. It could have been allergies, but under the circumstances I didn’t think so. I wondered what had happened to upset her; was it the same thing that had caused Church to send his invitation? Whatever it was it didn’t take a genius to get the idea that it wasn’t good.

The woman didn’t offer her name, give me a salute, or want to shake hands. She also didn’t ask me to surrender my piece.

So I said, “Church.”

“He’s waiting for you.”

She led the way down a series of short hallways to the conference room where my tac team had run into the trigger-happy terrorists. The same room where Javad had first attacked me during the raid. The big blue case was gone and the bullet-riddled conference table had been replaced with some generic government desks and computer workstations. A flat-panel TV screen filled a good portion of one wall. Décor change notwithstanding, the room gave me a serious case of the creeps. I could still feel the bruise on my forearm where Javad had bitten me—and there but for the grace of Kevlar.

The woman nodded toward a wheeled office chair in one corner. “Please have a seat. Mr. Church will be with you in—”

“Who are you?” I interrupted.

She gave me a three-count before she said, “Major Grace Courtland.”

“Major?” I asked. “SAS?”

That got the tiniest flicker, a microsecond’s widening of her eyes, but she recovered fast. “Make yourself comfortable, Detective Ledger,” she said and left.

I turned in a slow circle and took in the room, looked for and found the three microcameras. They looked expensive and of a kind I hadn’t seen before. I’d bet a year’s pay that Church was sitting in another room watching me. I was tempted to scratch my balls. This whole thing was bringing out the screw-you fifteen-year-old in me, and I had to watch that. Give in to any kind of pettiness and you lose your edge real damn fast.

So instead I strolled the room and learned what I could, even with Cookie Monster watching. There was a second and much heavier door at the far end of the room that looked brand-new—I remembered it being a regular office door before—and when I inspected it I could see the recent carpentry and smell the fresh paint. I tapped it. Wood veneer over steel, and it was dollars to doughnuts that the wall had been reinforced, too.

I heard the door behind me open and I turned as Mr. Church entered with the British woman behind him. He was dressed in a charcoal suit, polished shoes, and the same tinted glasses. He made no comment about my investigation of the room, he just pulled up a chair and sat. Major Courtland remained standing, her face a study in disapproval.

I took a step toward him. “Where the fuck is Dr. Sanchez?”

He brushed lint from his tie. If he was threatened by me in any way he did a workmanlike job of not showing it. Courtland shifted to a flanking position with her hands folded across her stomach, perfectly positioned to make a fast grab for her pistol.

“Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Ledger?”

“I can make a few guesses,” I said, “but you can go stick them up your ass. Where is Rudy Sanchez?”

Church’s mouth twitched in what I think was an attempt not to smile. He said, “Grace?”

Courtland walked over to the wall with the TV screen and hit a button. A picture popped on at once and it showed an office with a desk and a chair. A man sat on the chair with his hands cuffed behind him and a blindfold around his eyes. Rudy. A second man stood behind him. He held a pistol barrel against the back of my friend’s head.

Rage was a howling thing in my head and my heart was throbbing in my throat like it was trying to escape. It took everything I had to stand there and hold my tongue.

After a moment Church said, “Tell me why I shouldn’t have the sergeant put two in the back of Dr. Sanchez’s head.”

I forced myself to turn away from the screen. “He dies you die,” I said.

“Yawn,” he said. “Try again.”

“What good would it do you or your organization to kill him? He’s an innocent, he’s a civilian.”

“He stopped being a civilian when you told him about the DMS and about our patient zero. You put that gun to his head, Mr. Ledger.”

“That’s a crock of shit and you know it. Nine-eleven may have wrinkled the Constitution but it didn’t run it through a shredder.”

Church spread his hands. “I repeat my question. Tell me why I shouldn’t have Sergeant Dietrich shoot Dr. Sanchez. We’re a secret organization and we’re playing for the highest possible stakes. Nothing, not even the Bill of Rights, matters more than what we’re doing and that is in no way an exaggeration.”

I said nothing.

“Mr. Ledger, if terrorists had a truck filled with suitcase nukes and one of them went off in each of twenty cities around the country it would do less damage to America as a whole, and to its people, than if another carrier like Javad got out into the population. If a plague of this kind starts we could not stop it. The infection rate and aggression factor would make it uncontrollable within minutes.” He chewed his gum for a minute and then repeated that. “Minutes.”

I held my tongue.

“If we cannot count on your complete loyalty and complete cooperation, you are worthless to us. You would be useless to me. ” Even behind his tinted glasses I could feel the impact of his stare.

“What is it you want?”

“Time is very short, so this is the deal, Mr. Ledger: we have a need to put a new tactical team into operation asap. Ordinary military and even our standard special forces units are not appropriate for this, for reasons we can discuss later. Major Courtland already has one team at operational readiness; our other team is on the West Coast involved in something of nearly equal importance. One local team isn’t enough. I need a third team. I need it to be tight and I need it yesterday. I also need someone to lead that team into the field. I’ve narrowed the list of possibles down to six candidates. Five others and you.”

“Hooray for me. What does this have to do with Rudy Sanchez?”

“I want you to give me your word that you will join us and become one of us. Not some reckless outsider. You are either DMS or you’re not.”