Biofire, p.44
Biofire, page 44
Moving away from them, P.W. continued to sweep the beam of the flashlight back and forth to cut through the darkness, like a jungle explorer slicing through the brush with a machete. And it was not long before he found what he was looking for.
McNolte. Lying motionless on his back. Arms splayed. Mouth open. Eyes closed. A large bruise discoloring his throat and neck.
“Oh, God, kid,” P.W. said, his voice as small as a child’s. “Oh, Jesus, God, McNolte. Kid.”
P.W. reached down and touched McNolte’s hand and found the flesh cold. He growled—actually released an animal-like growl—because of what McNolte had done to save Emma, because of what he had done to subvert the rich and powerful people who had wanted Emma dead, or at least captured and incapacitated.
“Jesus, kid,” he said, “I’m so sorry.”
39.
Losing Control
* * *
The orange light of dawn was creeping into the sky behind onyx clouds, bleeding through fissures here and there by the time Shaw got to the OdysseyCorp building. Emma was slumped beside him in the passenger seat, unconscious.
The black-and-white-striped security arm was not raised for him as usual because he was still driving the borrowed Buick, and as he approached the gate, he shoved Emma down so her face was not visible; he did not want any of the guards to recognize her.
“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Shaw,” the guard said, quickly throwing the switch that made the arm swing up.
“Don’t let anyone in here until I say otherwise,” Shaw said, rolling down his window.
“No one?” the guard said, tossing a single glance at the limp body in the seat beside Shaw.
“No one, unless you get word from me. And I want more men on the gate. Anybody gives you any trouble, shoot them.” He powered the window up as he zipped into the parking lot.
On his way back to the lab, Shaw had called ahead and talked to Dr. Benjamin Mason, who had replaced Jorgan on Project Biofire. He had told Mason to prepare one of the isolation chambers and to have a gurney ready and waiting at the back entrance. He had also given the order to double security in and around the building, just in case Leo and his goons showed up before he did; he wanted to hold that particular problem off as long as possible.
As he pulled around the corner of the building and into his parking space, the door opened and two tech assistants came out, one of them pushing the gurney.
Shaw did not speak to them as he hurried from his car and into the building, leaving Emma for them to handle. Just inside, Dr. Mason stood with his hands in his lab coat pockets. He looked tired, and Shaw liked that; it meant he had been working hard. Dr. Mason opened his mouth to speak, but Shaw did not give him a chance.
“She’s all yours, Ben,” he said, patting the doctor’s shoulder once as he sidled past him, heading for the nearest elevator in a rush.
Shaw’s clothes were soaked and filthy, his hair a wild mess, and he drew more than a few curious stares in the corridor. At the elevator, Shaw punched his code into the keypad on the wall, then placed his palm over the glossy rectangular scanner, ignoring the guard seated nearby who said, “Good morning, Mr. Shaw.” He stepped inside the elevator and hit the top button, then the button to quickly close the doors.
Shaw had made good use of the time it had taken to drive back to the lab. First, he had called his chief publicist, awakened him out of a deep sleep, and told him the story they would be using to explain the events of the past several hours.
An unbalanced and disgruntled employee of OdysseyCorp Labs, Dr. Alan Jorgan, after being dismissed due to erratic behavior brought on by growing mental illness for which he had refused to seek treatment, had stolen two canisters of an experimental gas and released that gas in the South Street Mission, hoping the blame would be placed on OdysseyCorp and Landon Shaw, thus casting them in a bad light in the media. Any resulting damage or necessary medical bills would be covered by OdysseyCorp, though it was unlikely that the gas had caused any harm to those exposed to it.
Then he had given the publicist a personal statement in which he had expressed regret about the unfortunate condition of Dr. Jorgan, who had disappeared, along with assurances that OdysseyCorp would cooperate in every way with the police to apprehend him.
Then he had called the chief of police and told him the same story. Shaw did not expect the chief to believe it; he did not pay the man to believe anything, he only paid him to cooperate, and that was what Shaw expected him to do.
The elevator stopped and the doors slid open with a whisper. Shaw hurried down the corridor, absently fumbling with the change and keys in his pocket.
He was eager to get into his office, lock the door behind him, put on some soothing music, and sit alone for a while with a brandy. He craved relaxation, solitude. He had to give some thought to his problem with Leo Trafficante.
He also needed to call a number that had been busy every time he had tried it from the car. He had an acquaintance in the EPA whose services were easily bought, and Shaw had planned to get the guy out of bed and use him to hold off the county and state people who had been sniffing around the mission earlier. Apparently, the son of a bitch was already awake, but not in step with the times enough to have Call Waiting. Shaw’s connection in the EPA would be able to help only so much, and more would have to be done to keep Leo’s botched job from turning into a major disaster for both Leo and himself. That would require a great deal of thought and planning, which was what Shaw hoped to accomplish in the privacy of his office with that calming music and brandy.
Given enough time, Leo might cool off on his own and forget the whole thing, then they could go on with their deal and the status quo would be restored. Then again, he might not.
Shaw turned down a short, narrow corridor which had only one door down at the end. He opened it and entered the outer office, passed his secretary’s unoccupied desk, and stopped at his office door. He punched his code into the keypad and placed his hand on the screen. There was a soft, muted beep, and the door’s lock made a chunking sound. Shaw opened it and stepped inside.
“Hello, Landon.”
Shaw froze. His already weary knees weakened for a moment, almost to the point of collapsing beneath him, and he clutched the doorknob, leaning on it heavily as he stared slack-jawed at Leo Trafficante, who was leaning back in the chair behind Shaw’s desk, smiling around the cigar clenched between his teeth.
The leather-upholstered chair in front of Shaw’s desk had been turned so that it was facing the south wall, and sitting in it with his legs crossed and his large hands dangling loosely over the ends of the armrests was Leo’s secretary and shadow, Ollie.
Anger moved like mercury through Shaw and he squeezed the doorknob until his white knuckles cracked loudly.
“You son of a bitch,” he whispered, because his shock, mixed with his fatigue, prevented him from mustering his full voice. He glared at Leo. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you,” Leo said, plucking the cigar from his mouth between the knuckles of his first two fingers. He looked away from Shaw and said, “Tubo. Clean him.”
Another man—as big as Ollie, maybe bigger, with a small, balding head atop enormous shoulders, and eyes that would have met if it were not for his nose—emerged from around the open door and grabbed Shaw’s arms, lifting them roughly. Once Shaw’s arms were outstretched, Tubo frisked him, slapping his body harder than necessary as he worked his way down, then up again, groping his legs from his crotch to his ankles and back. Then he checked Shaw’s overcoat. He removed the squirt gun, holding it up and firing a few spurts of water into the air before saying, “Good thing we checked. He coulda killed us all.”
Trafficante laughed heartily. “Tubo’s a card. Cracks me up.”
Tubo tossed the squirt gun onto the desk, followed by Shaw’s cell phone. He turned to Trafficante, dangling Shaw’s .380 caliber SIG 320 by the trigger guard between thumb and forefinger, and said, “He’s clean now.” Then he stepped away quickly, as if he did not want to obstruct Leo’s view of Shaw, keeping the gun.
Leo was still smiling when he said, “Ollie, get up and give the man a seat.”
Ollie rose and stepped aside.
Shaw did not move, just continued to stare at Leo. He was so angry that he thought he might throw up. But he fought to control his anger because he knew it would get him nowhere with Leo right now, not with two of his gorillas standing at the ready. But Shaw knew there was a chance something positive might come out of the situation, as ugly as it appeared to be at the moment, so he was not about to show his anger, or any other feelings, for that matter. Once he had closed his mouth and recovered from the initial shock of finding Leo in his office, his face became, and remained, stonily expressionless, his posture relaxed and casual.
“What, you don’t want to sit down?” Leo said.
“Sure,” Shaw said, “sure, I’ll sit down.”
He moved forward and eased himself in the chair slowly, never taking his eyes from Leo. Ollie stood to his right, Tubo to his left, both of them slightly behind him.
Leo leaned forward, put his elbows on the desktop, and rolled his cigar between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “So, Landon,” he said. “Where is she?”
“I told you before, Leo, I don’t know.” Even as he said the words, he knew that Leo knew they were not true.
Leo grinned, chuckled. “I know that’s bullshit, Landon. When I asked you where she is, I meant…where in this building. Because I know she’s here.”
“Okay,” Shaw said. “But I’d like you to answer a question of mine first. Just because I’m curious. Okay, Leo?”
“Sure,” Leo said. “Ask away.”
“How did you get in here? Into this building? Into my office?”
Leo loose a big laugh then, as if someone had just told him a hilarious joke. “Landon, you poor, naive son of a bitch. You just haven’t been able to see the big picture, have you? We’ve been working together all these years and you’re still blind as a bat.”
Leo’s condescending tone made Shaw’s insides boil, but he held it in, did not let it show. He glanced at the squirt gun on the desk, then his eyes returned to Leo. “Blind to what?” he said.
“Landon, your entire security force was working for me long before you even hired them.”
Shaw’s teeth clenched behind his expressionless face, but he said nothing.
Leo said, “Do you really think that I would do the kind of business with you that we’ve been doing without keeping an extremely close eye on you, Landon? I hope you know me better than that. I really do.”
Shaw’s anger remained coiled tightly inside him like a tense snake, but he showed nothing. He believed Leo’s claim—it was the only way he could think of that Leo could have gotten into his office. It enraged him, made him realize that a great deal of the control he had thought he’d had over his business was nothing more than an illusion. He wanted to scream at Leo, throw things, break glass—but he was intensely conscious of Ollie and Tubo, whose eyes had not left him. Shaw could feel their threatening glares burning into him.
“Where is she, Landon?” Leo said. “What have you done with your wife now?”
“She’s in isolation. She’s quarantined. I told you before, she’s contagious, Leo. I know you don’t believe me, but that doesn’t change the facts. She’s comfortable and safe right now, Leo, so you don’t have to worry about her.”
“As long as she’s in your care,” Leo said, mouth curling into a sneer around his small teeth, “then I’m worried about her. But she’s not really in your hands, that’s why I’m so calm right now. My people are taking care of it. I’ll have her out of here in no time.”
“That would be an extraordinarily big mistake, Leo. Look, you don’t have to believe me. I put a new doctor on the project and he’s been going over all the records for the last couple of days. Talk to him. He’ll tell you.”
Leo said nothing. His eyes narrowed as he puffed on his cigar.
Shaw’s gaze wandered once again to the squirt gun on Leo’s desk but lingered only for a moment.
“Well, I’m just wasting my time here,” Leo said, standing behind the desk. “Tubo, why don’t you take care of Mr. Shaw so we can be on our way.”
Tubo slipped his hand beneath his coat and produced a silencer-equipped Beretta 9mm. Fear burned in Shaw’s throat. Tensing in the chair, he turned to Leo again, mouth dry, heart pounding now like jungle drums.
“Leo, this is a mistake,” he said. “You need me. I’m the only one who can clean up the mess your idiots made at that mission. I was just coming in here to call a friend of mine, a guy at the EPA who can—”
“Think about it, Landon. If you’re dead, what do I have to worry about?”
“You have to worry about the guy who called and threatened to tell General Horner that you’ve been buying the Pentagon’s goods from me, that’s what.”
“What, you don’t think I can take care of him?”
“Are you sure you can?”
Leo gave a look of utter contempt and shook his head slowly, as if amazed by Shaw’s tenacity. Then he looked at Tubo and said, “Kill this sick fuck.”
Shaw knew he did not have a fraction of a second to spare, so he took no time to think, did not even entertain the most vaporous of thoughts, he simply threw himself out of the chair at the desk, grabbed the squirt gun, spun to his left, and shot it into Tubo’s face before the man could even raise his gun.
Tubo sputtered wetly as he stumbled backward, his small eyes wide with surprise as he gawked at Shaw. Those small eyes darted from Shaw to Ollie to Leo, then back to Shaw again, and he smiled. Then he laughed.
Then Ollie laughed, too.
Even Leo smiled as he looked at Shaw with an odd expression; it took Shaw a moment to recognize it as one of pity.
“I’m afraid you’ve really broken under the pressure, Landon,” Leo said quietly, even a little sadly. “Using a squirt gun when you know—”
Tubo made a horrible vomiting sound and startled the others, who turned as his eyes grew wider. He dropped his gun and slapped one hand to his abdomen and the other to his throat, mouth open, lips working, tongue wriggling as it jutted from the center of his mouth. He coughed once and spittle flew; when he coughed again, a dull orange flash came from between his lips with a puff of smoke, and he fell backward onto a glass-topped coffee table. Glass shattered and the wood frame splintered, and Tubo was a raging fire, flames roaring with the fury of a gasoline fire, or worse, as if gas jets were powering the flames. Black smoke billowed from the fire, and a moment later, the alarm bell began to ring shrilly and discreetly concealed sprinklers rained water down on Shaw, Leo, and Ollie with a snake-like hiss.
“What the fuck!” Leo bellowed as he reached into his coat and removed his gun.
Shaw turned the squirt gun on Ollie as Ollie fumbled for his own gun and muttered, “Oh, Jesus, oh, Juh-Jesus,” while Shaw pumped the trigger and splattered his face.
Ollie dropped the gun and began crying out like a small boy in terror as he backed away, slammed into the wall and began slapping at his face, trying to wipe off the clear fluid that had splashed into his eyes.
Shaw turned the squirt gun on Leo as Leo lifted his own gun and aimed at Shaw. Instead of firing, Leo opted to take cover and dropped behind the desk an instant before Shaw sent a stream of clear liquid in his direction.
Walking backward, Shaw groped for the doorknob as Ollie whimpered one last time before being consumed by an oxygen-sucking rush of flames.
The fire that a moment ago had been Tubo had caught on the sofa next to him, and the cushions were producing even more black smoke.
“You goddamned son of a bitch!” Leo bellowed from beneath the desk. He fired his gun once and a bullet hole appeared in the front of the desk.
Shaw tensed, stopped breathing for a couple of heartbeats, then, when he knew he had not been shot, he spun around, opened the door, stumbled out of the office, and ran squarely into a large man with a bushy white beard who stood just outside the office, ran into him hard. Shaw fell backward and when his ass hit the floor, the squirt gun tumbled from his hand and bounced over the floor. Shaw scrambled to his feet, hoping to get the squirt gun, but once he was standing, he did not move. The white-bearded man pressed the barrel of the gun to Shaw’s forehead so hard that it bent Shaw’s head back.
“Landon Shaw,” the man said with a weary smile.
Shaw was so surprised, he could not move.
The man stepped over to the gun and picked it up. He did not seem to notice it was a squirt gun, did not even look at it, just dropped it into the pocket of his down jacket.
Smoke poured from the open door and began to fill the outer office. It made Shaw cough, made his eyes burn and tear up.
“You been playin’ with matches?” the man said quietly, smirking.
“Who the hell are you?” Shaw said. “How did you get in here? The security guards should—”
“Your security guards ain’t in any shape to do nothin’, my friend.”
Shaw gawked at him, wondering how so much could go so wrong so fast.
Something about the man’s voice was just familiar enough to break through Shaw’s pounding rush of adrenaline, but not enough for him to identify it. The man’s face was filthy and dripping sweat, and there was blood on his down jacket. When he coughed from the smoke, his wincing face registered pain. He was hurt. And fatigued. But he still had a gun to Shaw’s forehead.
The relentless wail of the smoke alarm and the pealing of the fire alarm in the corridors outside bored into Shaw’s head like drills…but he heard no voices, no running footsteps. No one was reacting to the fire.
Behind him, in the burning office, Shaw could hear Leo coughing and retching. The sound was getting closer. Leo was coming out.
Shrill panic began to rise in Shaw. Leo with a gun behind him, and this Neanderthal shoving one in his face.
