The second group of filing cabinets was no more helpful than the first. The files here contained personnel information, time sheets, equipment requisitions and quality control reports. Again, there were hints that seemed to back their assumptions, but nothing concrete. Nothing that would finger any of the key players and certainly nothing to identify who ultimately was responsible for the project.

  The last group of filing cabinets was topped by a series of gray binders. And it was here that Nick finally found something that might lead to confirmation of their theories. The binders contained research data not only on batrachotoxin, but on the frogs themselves. There were studies of the amphibians’ genetic makeup, the chemical and biological connection between the frogs and the poison they emitted.

  A woman in Madagascar had evidently discovered a similar toxin in the feathers of birds, and a study in Papua New Guinea had confirmed her theory that the larger animals, be they frogs or birds, had ingested the poison and through genetic adaptation had managed to create internal systems that allowed them to excrete the toxin without damage to themselves.

  There were also articles on the chemical structure of batrachotoxin and its lack of antidote. Key passages highlighted, with notes in the margins, indicated that the reader or readers had been the same as those who’d authored the scientific reports and diagrams in the first group of files.

  He replaced the last of the binders and opened a file drawer, reading through the titles. It started innocently enough with Batrachotoxin, the file revealing notations on toxicity, symptomology and diagnostics on time of death, based on the amount of toxin delivered. The test subjects ranged from mice to monkeys.

  The second file was labeled A-1. The pages within it were almost exactly the same as those for batrachotoxin. Except the chemical diagram had clearly been modified, the notations within the file indicating that there had been success in dissolving the new toxin in alcohol to create an aerosol.

  The next was labeled A-2, the next A-3, the A files terminating at A-9. From there the files switched to B-1, the chemical combination again slightly modified to create a newer, more potent version.

  The files continued, drawer after drawer, letter by letter with ascending numbers — each manila folder holding documentation of increased success with newly synthesized versions of batrachotoxin. From a toxin with limited range and no ability to permeate skin beyond a direct puncture, the scientists had modified and restructured it until they wound up with K-19.

  The last file.

  According to the documentation, the final version had a toxicity increased tenfold from its parent, batrachotoxin, with the added benefits of aerosolisation capable of entering the human body through skin absorption and/or inhalation. It differed from the previous K versions in that it killed in minutes, and thanks to further chemical manipulation, dissipated in less than an hour, leaving the area safe for immediate occupation.

  K-19 was the perfect weapon. It destroyed human life, not infrastructure, allowing an army to hit an enemy fortification or town, eliminate the opposition and occupy or confiscate the remaining buildings, tanks or weapons without fear of being exposed to the toxin themselves.

  “You found it.” Mia’s voice pulled him from his contemplations. “K-19.” She nodded toward the file he held. “It’s documented on their computers, too. There are even 3D models showing the effect at varying ranges. And I found production notes as well. I’m printing them now. They were definitely manufacturing the stuff.”

  “Near Cedar Branch,” Matt said, joining them, a piece of paper in his hand. “I found a budget for construction of the facility.”

  Nick took the document, scanning the page, while Mia read over his shoulder.

  “Look at the bottom paragraphs,” Matt said, his tone grim. “Where it says ‘contingencies.’”

  Nick read the words, then forced himself to read them again, just to be certain.

  “My God,” Mia whispered. “Intellectually, I knew it was true, but in my heart I wanted to be wrong.”

  Outlined in the last few paragraphs were security procedures for the new plant, including a list of adverse conditions that could potentially occur, a summary of the corresponding action that would be taken and a reference to numbered reports containing the actual plan.

  The last one was titled Contamination:

  Although all efforts have been made to secure the production of K-19, should accidental release result in contamination of the local population, measures will be taken to assure that, once autopsied, all casualties are destroyed, and the area cleansed using measures laid out in Report 7862, Appendix XV-8. Any additional action must be cleared through assigned security personnel or the CIA’s S&C.

  “They killed them,” Mia said, her voice trembling with the effort to hang on to her emotions. “And they blew up the town to cover their mistake.”

  “At least we have verification,” Matt offered, his face tight with anger.

  “We’ve got proof that Kresky was involved, and through the memo, indirect confirmation that Davies was part of things, but there’s still nothing here to tie it to Tucker,” Nick said, fighting his own rage. It was hard to swallow the idea that Americans had died on American soil because some bastard decided to take nature in his own hands for the supposed benefit of the nation.

  “So we keep looking,” Mia said, her hands clenched. “I want to nail these bastards — all of them.”

  “We’ve got enough. We need to get out while we can.” Matt looked to Nick for agreement.

  “Matt’s right. We’ve been here too long already.”

  “Just give me five more minutes with the computer. Please.” She waited, watching them both.

  Matt nodded first, and Nick had just opened his mouth to concur when the glass partition next to him shattered, a second round slamming into a file cabinet, the metal screeching in protest.

  “Get down,” Nick yelled, grabbing his gun, scrambling back over broken glass, trying to assess which direction the bullets had come from.

  Matt popped up from behind a computer console a row or so away, firing toward the door. Answering volleys blew out the computer, but Matt had already scrambled out of range and Nick’s vision.

  Pinned for the moment, he waited to move, searching for Mia and some sign that she was still okay. Finally he saw her, behind him to the left, crawling along the floor, using the furniture for cover.

  She lifted her gaze, her eyes meeting his. “My gun,” she mouthed, pointing toward the center of the room.

  He nodded, then popped up from the desk, shooting in the direction of the earlier shots, giving her cover. He dropped back, releasing a breath when he saw that she’d made it as far as the large lab table flanking the computer console.

  He crawled forward, listening for anything that might give away the location of the intruders. The room was quiet. Then off to his left, at the corner of his peripheral vision, he saw a shadow shift across the front windows of the lab. Moving on instinct alone, he dove free of cover, firing at the window, shards of glass raining down into the room.

  The shadow materialized, and he recognized Davies. Enraged, he rose up to shoot again, but before he could get the shot, a second gunman fired from somewhere just inside the front door. The bullet slammed into Nick’s injured shoulder, the pain stunning him for a moment.

  Matt materialized on the other side of the aisle created by the tables, firing over the top of one of the glass partitions, the distraction working long enough for Nick to pull back behind the comparative safety of a large metal desk.

  Fighting to regain control, he managed to rip a strip from the bottom of his shirt. Using his teeth and good hand, he tied it around the upper part of his arm. The cloth immediately turned crimson, the improvised tourniquet only partially stanching the blood.

  Shots rang out again, this time in the direction Mia had disappeared. He staggered to his feet, his head spinning with the effort, but he managed to fire in the direction the shots had emanated from.

  “Hang on,” Matt mouthed, popping up to fire again, another glass panel shattering on the far side of the room. He dashed across the distance between them, managing somehow to avoid the flying bullets. He slid down beside Nick. “How bad is it?”

  “Not good. It might have nicked an artery. I can’t tell, but there’s a lot of blood.”

  Matt was already pulling off his T-shirt, ripping it neatly in two. Moving with a skill acquired on the battlefield, he quickly bound the wound again, his field dressing far superior to the one Nick had attempted.

  “We need to get you out of here,” Matt said.

  “No. I can hold my own.” Nick fought another wave of dizziness. “You’ve got to find Mia. I’ll keep you covered.”

  “Any idea where she’s gone?”

  As if in answer, gunfire rang out again, this time coming from somewhere toward the back of the room. “Sounds like she found her gun,” Nick said, grimacing as he shifted position. “Go get her. Then we’ll get out of here.”

  “You sure you’re going to be okay?” Matt hesitated, clearly not happy to be leaving him on his own.

  “I’m fine. Just go.” Nick pushed up to his knees, firing as a second shadow detached from the wall. The man turned and fired, the shot going wide. Nick fired again, this time sending the other man crashing back through the remaining glass partition.

  He turned to look behind him, searching for signs of Mia or Matt.

  Another round of gunfire erupted from somewhere off to his left. Moving with grim determination, he crawled closer to the third gunman.

  Ahead of him against the white of the far wall, he saw Mia stand up, saw her turn in his direction — the gunman’s direction.

  “Mia,” he yelled, adrenaline pulling him to his feet. “Get down.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  MIA HIT THE FLOOR, crawling backward through an open door behind her, the image of Nick covered in blood burned on her brain. Gunfire echoed through the main room, coming from two directions at once. Which meant that at least Nick and Matt were still alive.

  Every instinct inside her was screaming for her to run to Nick, but she knew the gunmen would have the door covered. They’d seen her go in, which meant that they’d be waiting for her to come out. Or worse still, they’d come in to get her. She needed to be ready.

  Inching deeper into the room, keeping her back to the wall, she searched the shadows for another way out. The room was cluttered. A table, a desk and a couple of bookshelves. She could see the shadows of other objects, but in the half-light she couldn’t quite make out what they were.

  Across from her on the far wall, she could see the glimmer of what looked to be a mirror. Careful to stay out of range of the gunmen, she shifted so that she had a better view, the reflection disappearing with her movement. It was a window, not a mirror, and the window was part of a door.

  A second way out.

  To reach it she’d have to cross the line of sight, but it seemed worth the risk if the doorway led to the hallway outside. She moved deeper into the room, crouching beside a desk.

  Three quick steps and she’d be across the swath of light made by the open door. It was possible that this far in the gunman wouldn’t be able to see her or even detect the motion. Taking a deep breath, she pushed off the ground to her feet and dashed across the open floor, almost upsetting a stack of cages in the process, the mice inside frantically scurrying, no doubt as startled as she was.

  At least she wasn’t completely alone.

  A shadow filled the doorway, bullets strafing the cages, the mice now squeaking in protest. Mia dove for cover behind a bookcase, waiting and listening, her heart pounding in her throat.

  “Miss Kearney?” a voice called. “I know you’re in here.”

  She pressed against the hardwood back of the shelving, trying to identify the voice. But although it seemed vaguely familiar, it didn’t evoke a name.

  “Your friends are dead,” the voice continued.

  Her stomach dropped, but she maintained control. No matter what, Nick would want her to keep fighting.

  “You might as well come out. It’ll go easier for you if you do.”

  Like hell.

  She popped up, firing a round. Stunned when the gun clicked harmlessly, the chamber empty. Matt had the extra ammo, which meant she was shit out of luck. But she’d be damned if she was going to go down easily.

  “No bullets?” the voice asked, his tone taunting. “I’m afraid that means it’s time to give up.”

  She couldn’t see him, but his shadow stretched across the floor just to her right. She pushed lightly on the bookshelf, delighted to feel it give. Now all she had to do was wait.

  “Come on, Mia,” the gunman said, taking a step closer, his shoes clicking against the tile floor. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  The shadow shifted until it disappeared, blocked by the shelving. Summoning all of her strength, Mia counted silently to three and pushed. The bookshelf teetered for a moment and then went crashing down, the man cursing as it caught him full in the chest, dragging him to the floor.

  Not waiting to see the extent of the damage, she shot across the room to the second door, yanking it open, sliding through, and slamming it behind her. She turned to run, dismayed to find that it wasn’t a hallway after all. Instead she was in a small lab of some kind. A table sat in the center, with what looked to be an empty aquarium on top.

  On closer examination it proved to be a cage of some kind. Mouse feces littering the bottom. It was hooked to a large machine, gauges and dials with LED readouts shining red and green in the half-shadows of the room. A canister sat on the opposite side, the burnished metal lit up like a Christmas tree with the reflected colors of the machinery around it.

  Turning back to the door, she searched for a lock, but there was nothing but the knob. Risking a quick glance through the window, she saw her assailant push the bookshelf aside and reach for his gun.

  Moving on adrenaline and instinct, she grabbed the canister, testing its weight, satisfied that it was hefty enough to give the guy a hell of a headache. A face appeared in the window, dark and angry. Mia moved to the wall beside the door, raising the canister, ready to strike.

  The door slammed open, the man springing into the room, leading with his gun. Mia swung downward with the canister, the blow landing on his shoulder, just missing his head. His fingers closed around her wrist as he yanked her from her position against the wall.

  Still holding the canister, she swung again, this time connecting with his gut. He bent over with a gasp and she ran for the door, but he was faster, grabbing her arm and slinging her against the far wall. Her head slammed against wallboard and she lost her balance, slipping to the floor, the canister landing in her lap.

  “You’ve caused me a lot of trouble,” the man said.

  “Good.” She blinked to clear her vision, recognition finally kicking in. He looked older than the photograph she’d seen. His dark hair was dotted with gray, the creases around his mouth and eyes signaling that he’d clearly seen the other side of sixty. In all honesty he didn’t look the part of murderous thug — except for the lethal Walther PPK in his hand. “My life hasn’t exactly been a picnic, either, Senator Tucker.”

  His mouth twitched as he contained a smile. “I wondered if you’d recognize me.”

  “You look older than the pictures I saw.” She shrugged. “But the likeness is there.”

  “How very astute of you. But then you’ve proven to be very good at ferreting out information, haven’t you?”

  “I had a little help.”

  “From Nicholas Price.” He said the name as if it were a curse. “Didn’t really do you much good, though, did it? Considering I’m the one with the gun. You know, if you’d just stayed in our facility none of this would have happened.”

  “If I’d stayed in your facility, I’d be dead.” She glared up at him, her brain scrambling to find a way out.

  “Which would have made my life a lot simpler. As it is, you’ve cost the American people one hell of a lot.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “K-19 has the power to bring our enemies to their knees. And thanks to you and your friends, the program has been set back at least a year.”

  “After what you did to the people of Cedar Branch, the program should be disbanded!” Her hand closed around the canister, the cold metal comforting.

  “I didn’t do anything. And my colleagues certainly didn’t release K-19 on purpose. It was a tragic mistake in calculation — a blown valve that resulted in the explosion that released the toxin.”

  “With horrifying results. Innocent people were killed, an entire town was destroyed.”

  “Cedar Branch wasn’t a town. It was a bump in the road. A café, a feed store and gas station.”

  “Owned by human beings. People who didn’t deserve to be guinea pigs.”

  “They were sacrificed for the greater good. If America is going to survive we have to play hardball. And that means we have to have an arsenal capable of annihilating the enemy. It was true in 1945 when Little Boy was dropped on Hiroshima. And it will be true again when K-19 is used to defeat the Arab extremists who dare to threaten the greatest nation on earth. Their isolated acts of aggression are akin to poking a sleeping tiger, Miss Kearney. Sooner or later the animal will awaken, and with a wave of its massive paw, destroy its tormentors.”

  “Might over right?” She shifted slightly, trying to gauge the best angle for smashing the canister into his shins.

  “Might is right,” he said. “It’s been that way for centuries. The strongest always win. And K-19 is my contribution to American supremacy.”

 

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