Lori L. Harris - Set Up With The Agent

“Does this stuff have a name?” Rogers asked.

Larson had just stepped past Mark to grab a hazmat suit. “Yeah. Scary.”

Even as Rogers offered a tight nod and turned away, Mark sensed the local cop’s frustration at being asked to respond to a situation where critical information was being withheld.

Not that Mark had any choice in the matter.

They were under orders to avoid full disclosure of MX141’s capabilities, something that made him extremely uncomfortable. But if everything went well in the next few minutes, if the MX141 was recovered without incident, the decision to withhold certain facts could turn out to be the right one.

At least, that’s what he was hoping.

Grabbing the twelve-gauge he’d left on the sedan’s floorboard, Mark spilled the box of shotgun shells onto the floor mat. After collecting six of them, he backed out of Larson’s way and then waited while the other man did the same. They’d worked together often enough that there was no need for discussion.

With his chest already beginning to tighten with tension, Mark glanced across the hood of the Taurus and toward the residence. Still no sign of life. Maybe he should at least be thankful for that.

Mark took the lead, and by the time they reached the front door, a SWAT officer was already in place. Mark and Larson tugged down their night-vision goggles and adjusted their breathing apparatuses before lowering their hazmat hoods into place.

At Mark’s nod, the officer inserted the pick gun into the first of two locks. In seconds the door was unlocked, but it took another few to dispense with the safety chain.

As the SWAT officer stepped out of the way, Mark moved inside, intent on reaching the bedroom hallway as quickly and as soundlessly as possible.

The door to the first bedroom was open. A home office. Unoccupied. The doors to the other two remained closed. Mark stopped next to the nearest of them, and then waited for Larson to reach the other one.

At Mark’s signal, both men checked to see if their door was unlocked. Larson offered a slight nod, indicating that his was. Mark did the same. On Mark’s next signal they entered their assigned rooms as silently as possible, twelve-gauge shotguns leading the way.

Mark did a quick sweep before focusing on the double bed covered in unfolded clothes. He made sure Thesing wasn’t buried beneath the laundry, and then did a fast inspection of the closet. He hooked up with Larson in the hallway again.

Taking the point position, Mark moved cautiously toward the living areas. The element of surprise was off the table now. If Thesing was in the house, even if he was in the basement, it was unlikely that he’d still be unaware of their presence. Which made it more likely they’d be facing an armed suspect.

Motioning Larson to hang back, Mark skirted the dining room table. Cardboard moving boxes sealed with tape surrounded the table, and a mountain of newspapers covered it.

Because of the hazmat gear, Mark was drowning in sweat, but his breathing was still slow and easy. Like the bedroom he’d just left, the kitchen was a mess. Trash overflowed the fifty-five-gallon waste can in the center of the room, and a healthy roach population was chowing down on the food remnants covering pots and pans and plates. For a man worried about the environment, it looked as if he was well on the way to creating his very own toxic-waste site.

The family room was just beyond and appeared to be in the same condition as the rest of the house.

Backtracking, Mark returned to the kitchen where he waited for Larson to get into position before opening what Mark had correctly assumed would be the door to the basement.

Positioned just to the left of the opening, he peered into the lower level, looking for any hint of movement. Seeing none, he slowly lowered his foot onto the first tread, allowing the wood to absorb his weight.

As he continued to work his way down the stairs, his breathing became less smooth, less even. He kept his back pressed to the wall. Larson was covering him from the head of the stairs, but Mark was still in a very exposed position.

Halfway down, a single tread gave under his weight, the resulting sharp squeal enough to wake anyone. Seeing it as his only option, Mark took the remaining steps quickly and noisily. At the bottom, he dropped into a crouch next to the wall.

The conditions in the basement were even worse than those above stairs. Along with stacks of junk, there were more piles of newspapers and cardboard boxes and bags of trash. Why in the hell would Thesing hoard garbage? What kind of nut case were they dealing with here?

Larson had made it to the bottom of the steps and spread out slightly to Mark’s left as both men moved forward cautiously.

A workbench stretched along the closest wall and was the only relatively neat area. A washer and dryer occupied the opposite wall. In between was a gauntlet of every type of imaginable junk—a tricycle, a dollhouse, an old sewing machine. A rolling cabinet for tools. More sealed plastic bags.

It wasn’t until Mark got past them that he saw the bed tucked back in the far corner. And Harvey Thesing’s body on the floor next to it. Even from his current position, Mark was fairly certain the chemist was dead, but kept his weapon leveled on him as he closed the distance.

It looked as if a shotgun had been used, the blast to Thesing’s midsection nearly cutting him in two, while the one to his head had taken off half his skull.

Knowing it was a waste of time, he checked for a pulse and found none. But as he started to pull his hand away, he realized that, given the cool conditions of the basement the body was warmer than he would have anticipated. He checked the facial muscles—the first place that any signs of rigor mortis would appear—but found no rigidity.

“How long?” Larson asked.

“If I had to make a guess?” Using the method to determine time of death was risky at best. “I’d say only a short time—possibly less than an hour.”

Mark desperately wanted to plow his fist into something—into anything. If the damn lab hadn’t been trying to cover their asses…If they’d made the call an hour earlier…

Talk about being screwed. Even the relatively short lead time wasn’t going to help them. For the moment at least, they were chasing a ghost.

A ghost armed with the most lethal chemical weapon ever developed.

Four Months Later

Leaving her dark, wool coat and white scarf draped across the chair, FBI Special Agent Beth Benedict paced to the bookcase and scanned the titles. Experimental Psychology, Evaluation of Sexual Disorders, The Problem of Maladaptive Behavior —a bevy of volumes detailing human psychoses. Exactly what she would expect to find on a psychologist’s shelf.

As with her previous two sessions, she was the last patient of the day. The receptionist had shown her into Dr. Carmichael’s office, indicating that she should take a seat in one of the high-backed contemporary chairs. Dr. Carmichael would be with her shortly.

But since Beth had been released from the hospital, she’d found it very difficult to sit still for any length of time. Another reason that she needed to be out in the field and not trapped behind a desk.

She took a deep breath in preparation for the coming confrontation. The FBI had trained her how to deceive criminals, how to gain their trust, so scamming one psychologist shouldn’t be all that hard. She just needed to stick with the plan, with her “blueprint of progress.”

This week she’d remain calm and in control, no tears, no outbursts. And no more stony silences that suggested she was bucking authority. By her next appointment, the claustrophobia issue would be nearly resolved.