Jamie Freveletti - Running Dark

“Nothing is ever that simple.” Stark strode to the lab door. “Inform the guard when you’re done here. The door will lock behind you.” He was gone in an instant.

Emma sighed. The day was getting worse by the moment. She returned to the task at hand. She’d worry about Stark later. Right now she was far more concerned about herself. Filling the vials was much more difficult now that she was alone. She watched as the red plasma rose in each one. She still felt normal, which was impossible if she’d been injected with a chemical weapon on the level of what she suspected. Each hour she didn’t react was further evidence that whatever had been pumped into her wasn’t going to cause immediate, catastrophic harm. So not a fast-acting chemical weapon—then what?

Several street drugs caused some of the same symptoms she was having, absent the extreme endurance boost, but something told her that the EpiPen contained nothing so ubiquitous. The injecting device itself showed a level of sophistication that wouldn’t be found in conjunction with a street drug. In that case one could simply hit her with a needle and achieve the same result. She finished, tossed the sharp into a hazardous-waste container on the wall, and applied the Band-Aid to the injection site. She took the vials to another workstation to begin testing.

Anxiety usually entailed a level of stress, this much she knew. Stress released chemicals into one’s bloodstream; hormones triggered cortisol, cortisol triggered epinephrine. Too much of any of this would overwhelm her system, but one’s body also had a mechanism in place to moderate the reaction. Hers, though, was charging ahead full bore. It was as if her moderating switch had been deactivated. An adjunct Rapidtest existed that could reveal the levels of stress chemicals circulating in her veins. She prepared to check for catecholamines: dopamine, norepinephrine, and epinephrine. She finished the test, then waited.

Forty-five minutes later, she had her answer. She was awash in epinephrine and dopamine. Her levels were so high that she was surprised she wasn’t banging her body against the walls to try to alleviate the effects. In fact, she couldn’t believe that such levels could exist without causing major physiological harm. One’s body wasn’t geared to accept this saturation of fight-or-flight chemicals. Had she been any less fit, she probably would have had a heart attack.

She labeled the remaining vials and brought them to a nearby workstation. A piece of paper taped to the wall above the station listed the name of one of the Price scientists that she knew. She tore off a Post-it to write a note, then hesitated, not sure just what she wanted. She scribbled on the pad, asking the chemist to test for ricin, anthrax, HIV, and botulinum toxin. She also requested information on dopamine uptake and wrote Banner’s number as a contact.

Emma left the lab, making sure the door locked behind her. When the elevator doors shushed open, darkness greeted her. The soft African night held the sound of township music playing far in the distance. There was a pull about Africa that one was unable to ignore. Something vibrant, elemental, and dangerous all at the same time. Emma paused. She wanted to stay, to dance to the native music, let the magic take her. A post-race celebration was scheduled at a local nightspot, but she wasn’t sure it was the safest place to be that evening. She unlocked her rental car, tossed the duffel into the trunk, and started her drive to the airport.

7

SUMNER WATCHED THE PIRATES PREPARE TO FIRE.

“Hit them again,” Wainwright said. The LRAD blared. The pirates were closer now, and its beam worked much better at close range. Sumner watched the pirate holding the grenade launcher lower it and shake his head, like a dog flapping its ears, attempting to ward off the unbearable noise. They’d bought themselves some time, but not much else. The emergency sirens blared throughout the ship. Sumner watched the passengers surging onto the decks.

Wainwright snorted in disgust. “I’d love to know which idiot pulled the fire alarm. Carter”—he waved at a nearby officer—“tell the security detail to get those people into the center of the ship. They’re sitting ducks on the decks.” Carter nodded and jogged off the bridge. Wainwright turned to the other crew members. “I want this ship moving as fast as it can go, and I want it now.”

Wainwright’s crew responded with a calm that Sumner found impressive. The ship, all twenty-eight thousand tons of it, would never outrun the cigarette boats, but the added speed would help make it difficult to board.

“Why don’t you just blow the bastards out of the water?” Block’s voice held a note of hysteria.

Sumner gritted his teeth. The last thing he needed was a three-hundred-pound beef head panicking. Wainwright seemed to have the same concern, because he cut Block off at the knees.

“Mr. Block, maritime law does not allow us to carry heavy weapons. I asked you to leave. Don’t add to my troubles here by asking stupid questions.” Wainwright turned to Sumner. “Mr. Sumner? Any ideas?”

“You’re asking a cabin boy what to do? What the hell kind of captain are you?” Block’s voice had risen an octave. His face was flushed with anger or fear—Sumner didn’t know the man well enough to determine which—and he thrust it at Wainwright.

Sumner stepped between the two men and faced Wainwright. “I have a gun.”

“Now you’re talkin’,” Block said.

Wainwright ignored him. “What kind of gun?”

Sumner hesitated. The gun was a sniper rifle and banned on board a cruise liner. Using it would be a last resort. Before he could respond, the ship’s radio crackled.

“ Kaiser Franz, this is the USS Redoubtable. We’ve received a distress signal. Please advise.”

Wainwright grabbed the radio. “Captain Wainwright, Kaiser Franz. We’re in a standoff attack. Two cigarette boats armed with RPGs are preparing to fire on the ship.”

“We’re on our way. Six hours.”

“Hell, we’ll be dead in six hours,” Block said. “Let Sumner here shoot ’em!”

Sumner had his binoculars out. He watched the pirate put the RPG back on his shoulder. “They’re getting ready to fire.”

Wainwright turned to the crew member manning the LRAD. “Put it on the highest level. Hit them three times, four seconds apart.” He handed Sumner some earplugs. “They’re close enough now that this level will damage their eardrums. We’re behind the beam, so it won’t be as bad, but no sense taking a risk.” Sumner shoved them into his ears.

“What about me?” Block sounded petulant.

“Use your hands,” Wainwright said. Block covered his ears with his palms.

The LRAD blasted. The two pirates in the second boat grabbed at their ears, covering them, but the pirate in the first boat, the one holding the RPG, didn’t flinch. He aimed and fired.

The grenade slammed into the side of the ship, high up, above the waterline. It shuddered with the impact. Sumner didn’t stay to watch any more. He sprinted off the bridge, back down the stairs, and ran belowdecks.

He ran through the halls listening to the voice blaring over the intercom, instructing all passengers to head to the casino immediately. The voice repeated the information in calm, slow tones. The casino was located in the ship’s center, hemmed in by hallways on either side. Like all casinos, it lacked windows, so the gamblers would not be distracted by the rising or falling of the sun.

Sumner fought his way past frightened passengers who streamed through the narrow corridors. He ran past closed stateroom doors but stopped at the entrance to the casino. The majority of the Kaiser Franz ’s 350 passengers huddled in the interior space. They lay on the floor, arms over their heads. Cindy Block sat nearest the door. Through force of habit, Sumner looked for the German family. He found the girl under a roulette table, shivering in a fetal position next to her mother, who had her arms wrapped around her. The father was absent. Sumner scanned the room, looking for the Russian and his mistress. The Russian sat at the bar swallowing a shot; the mistress sat next to him, looking terrified.