Dark Cure: A Covid Thriller (Dark Plague Book 1) Page 9

  “We drive three hours up to Gualala to find Burns’ wife and that baby. We bring it back and ransom him for the full amount. Then you get the fuck out of my life and I will never, ever look at your stupid face again.”

  Melvin was relieved at that light punishment. “What about Burns?”

  “If he stays out of our way, nothing. If he interferes, we deal with him.” Muller swerved to the side of the road and stopped. “Get your ass into the front seat: I need you to program the kid’s location into the GPS. Find us dinner along the way. I’m starved and you’re buying.”

  * * * * *

  Barb looked at her phone and jumped up: Jaime had been released. Her Marine walked out of the ER, head bandaged but otherwise intact. He’d refused the recommendation to remain under observation for twenty-four hours as part of the concussion protocol. Even if he didn’t have an infant to rescue, he’d heard enough dry coughs in the treatment area to get the hell out of that death trap. Barb ran to her man and they embraced.

  Travis approached with caution, unsure where he stood in Jaime’s spectrum of friends and enemies. Jaime broke contact with Barb and said, “Just the man I need to see. We gotta get our fucken stories straight.”

  As they spoke, the rest of the Maggio family went about their business. Steph rested in the backseat of the Audi. Pat stormed into the hospital to see whether Greg was out of surgery and if someone was available to check Steph’s stitches. Carla collected dinner orders for In-and-Out and drove off.

  The first black and white was followed in short order by unmarked cop cars. Travis spotted a familiar face and instructed Jaime to stay on his tail as he speed-limped toward the federal officer. He’d closed to within ten feet when a uniformed Greenbrae policeman tried to strong-arm him. Travis removed the policeman’s hands with an iron grip and measured calm. “Officer, there’s no call for force.” The cop decided not to call this confident man’s bluff and took a step back.

  Special Agent in Charge Myron Fillmore shared his credentials and declared the FBI’s primacy in the kidnapping, which made the lead detective on the scene turn an even deeper shade of red. Fillmore asked Travis about the baby’s mother, and the former SEAL pointed to the backseat of Pat’s car.

  “She has a phone the kidnappers gave her,” Travis added. “Maybe you can run a trace?”

  “Travis Crockett Ryder?” Detective Mahoney asked.

  “That’s what Ma used to call me, but only when she was angry.”

  “Oh, a wise guy. Cuff him and read him his rights.” The detective turned to Jaime. “This makes you Jaime Gonzalez. You’re under arrest for premeditated murder. Cuff him and put him in the back. Confiscate all their weapons. I want to speak with Ryder first.”

  Travis had been around this particular block before. He reckoned that Fillmore would be the one who called the final shots and let Mahoney bluster and bluff his way through a fanciful recreation of the evening’s events. However, all the blarney in this cop’s Irish blood couldn’t explain away the Black Ice employee in the shrubbery with a fired sniper rifle in his hands and a hole in his forehead.

  Travis was still being harangued when Fillmore walked back over. “Mr. Ryder, I heard from Mrs. Ferguson how you were instrumental in engineering a good outcome despite the failed ransom attempt. Did you fire a weapon, even in self-defense?”

  “I did not, and the gunshot residue swabs the Greenbrae PD took will bear that out. I drove a truck across a city park and maybe left a crime scene to take two gunshot victims to the hospital. They can write me a ticket; I don’t much care.”

  “What about the men who shot dead the two kidnappers?” Fillmore asked. “Alf Cramden was shot through the head with a high-powered bullet, almost certainly a 5.56 round. Len MacWilliams, also of Black Ice, was shot once each by different weapons. Firing angles also support two shooters. Gonzalez is one and we had you as the other.”

  “I didn’t shoot anyone tonight. Someone did, and I’m grateful to them because they prevented further loss of life and the abduction of Mrs. Ferguson. As it is, Mr. Ferguson was badly wounded, and Mr. Gonzalez is alive by an inch. Once you confirm it wasn’t fired, I’ll be needing my Glock back tonight.”

  “Well, given that you own Ride Out Security, the other shooters were obviously your men,” Mahoney said. “How many guards does your company employ?”

  “Nine security professionals, plus a secretary.”

  “We’ll check their alibis and if you lied to me, you’ll face additional charges. What about Gonzalez? He was one of the snipers, right?”

  “I met Jaime Gonzalez for the first time earlier today. He is a Marine Corps veteran who was concerned about Tyson Ferguson’s abduction. He lent me his vehicle and said he would try to offer protection to Mrs. Ferguson. I have no knowledge of his actions other than he suffered a bullet wound to the head, and I drove him to this hospital for treatment. His long gun is in the front of his F-150 over there.”

  Fillmore stepped in. “Detective Mahoney, the Bureau has reason to believe that rogue Black Ice operatives, including one of the two men still at large, are remnants of a domestic terrorist organization uncovered in 2016. The Black Ice San Francisco office head, Rolf Muller, may be linked to this group. This is a national security issue, and I need to debrief Ryder in private. I’ll assume temporary custody of your prisoner while you determine whether the DA wishes to bring charges.”

  Mahoney snorted and stalked off.

  Travis and Fillmore watched him roust Jaime, who’d been sleeping in the backseat of the squad car. “Was that an allusion to Higher Love?” Travis asked.

  Fillmore raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s an unusual question from a retired SEAL. When and where did you run across Higher Love?”

  “How much time do you have?”

  Yet another police car pulled up and discharged a dirtied and disheveled Sal Maggio. Other than bandaged hands, he appeared intact. The Maggio family gathered around, and questions flew. Pat planted a big wet kiss on the returned hero’s masked mouth. Sal pushed free and said, “There’s something wrong on the kidnappers’ side. Tyson was at the house in Stinson Beach earlier today, but he wasn’t there, and the kidnappers don’t have him. Burns must have the baby.”

  chapter twelve

  BETRAYALS

  Saturday, July 11: Gualala and Novato California, after midnight

  Lindy followed the hand-drawn, not-to-scale map, having ignored the owner’s warning that the hilltop cabin was more easily found in daylight. A six-hour wait until dawn wasn’t on the cards, not with a newborn in the car and the onset of a case of the punies. After two premature turns down random driveways that ended at the wrong houses, she was fuming.

  The third time was a tainted charm. Lindy pulled up yet another long driveway to find the lights on and the warm glow of a television emanating through the window. She hammered on the front door as if it were the old woman’s fault for having the temerity to live where Lindy hoped the rental cabin would be.

  “Settle down! I’m coming!”

  That just made Lindy even angrier. The porch light flickered on and a stooped woman opened the door. Cloudy eyes peered over bifocals and looked Lindy up and down. Lindy didn’t appreciate being given the once-over, but she needed directions and thrust out her map.

  “Back to the main road, turn right up the hill and take the next right four hundred yards away. Two hundred yards on is the Starkey place.”

  Lindy snatched her map back and mumbled a thank you. That would have been the end of it, but Clancy started to bawl.

  “What kind of mother leaves a baby in the car and the door open?” the old woman asked in a scornful tone. “You could lose him to a coyote or a fox.”

  Lindy wasn’t in the mood for criticism. “Fuck you!” She turned to go.

  “Why I never! In all my eighty-four years, no one’s used such language on me in my own home. If I was younger, I’d take a switch to your legs. As it stands, I have half a mind to call the police.”
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br />   Lindy whirled around, took two steps and slapped the hag in the face. She fell hard and her head struck something protruding from the porch floor. It turned out to be an antique boot scraper, but for the damage it did, it may as well have been a swung shovel. Goddamnit. Just what I need. As the TV droned on, Lindy closed the front door and let Grandma lay where she’d fallen. If she wasn’t yet dead, maybe her pet coyotes and foxes would finish the job.

  The Starkey house at the top of the steep drive wasn’t much to look at in the Benz’s high beams, but it was cozy inside and nicely furnished. She paced back and forth across the living room with the baby in her arms, willing him to stop crying. Clancy wouldn’t feed, wouldn’t sleep and he didn’t want to be held. CNN’s latest take on the apocalypse wasn’t helping her mood either. The room swayed and did a slow spin. Alarmed, she sat on the couch and put Clancy down. Perhaps he sensed Mommy’s alarm because he clammed up.

  Her hands trembled as she shook a Marlboro free. Her lighter eluded her clumsy fingers. Fuck it. She needed a drink and something stronger than Advil. A glass of water, a perc and twenty minutes later she awoke with a start. What was that? Clancy’s renewed histrionics took on a new intensity. She found the baby on the floor below the sofa: Somehow, he’d rolled off or she’d nudged him off. She picked him up saw that his upper lip was swelling. Shit, shit, shit. She retrieved the breast milk bottle and jammed the rubber nipple into his mouth, but he didn’t want it and averted his head. She carried him to the bedroom and laid him on the middle of the bedspread. He continued to cry almost hard enough to suffocate. Yesterday she’d vowed to lavish him with the love she’d missed as a child. Tonight, she might choke him to death if he didn’t do it to himself.

  Back in the living room, she headed to the tiny bar and poured an artisanal vodka into a dusty glass and added a freezer-burned ice cube. The room did two circuits and her hot forehead pulsed. Damn it to hell. She couldn’t afford to get sick. What should she do? Call Fraser. She’d been away less than five hours. She’d tell him where she was, and he’d take care of them. Once he knew Clancy better, he’d see that the baby belonged to her. To cherish and to hold, till death did them part.

  That thought brought a pair of tears to her eyes. There was much she wanted to experience with Clancy, to tell him, to share. Walk him past that succession of Denver group homes and declare outside each one, “You’ll never have to spend a night in there.” Her little boy would never feel the terrors she experienced, never lie awake at night in a foster home as a young teen, not certain who might creep up the back stairs.

  Her cell phone showed zero coverage. The router was unplugged, and it took five minutes for the lights to blink green. Her mind jumped between thoughts of sunny afternoons in parks, dark movie theaters with buttered popcorn, and helium balloons at endless birthday parties. She recollected that the groceries were still out in the car but was too tired to fetch them. Did she turn off the engine? The headlights? It could wait.

  Finally, the Wi-Fi limped to life and she was online. She kept her email to Fraser short since her dull fingers struggled to find the keys. Exhausted, she sat on the sofa and stared at her vodka, too spent even to hoist the glass. She shut her eyes to stabilize the surroundings. She opened one eye and saw her husband’s reply: “On the way.” It was hard to breathe. In the other room, Clancy was quiet. She slept.

  * * * * *

  The last two hours had been anxious ones. Burns’ trek north had begun with a detour to pick up his biotech hired hand. Next, they were stuck in diabolical traffic as news spread of the Covid-19/20 outbreak and governor’s decree. Thanks to Muller—he of the wicked scar and volatile disposition—Burns’ phone now mapped out the last one hundred miles to where Lindy had holed up. He felt the tension in his shoulders melt as his hands lessened their grip on the wheel. “Ms. Kiel, my wife doesn’t like you,” he said.

  “From what you’ve told me, you don’t like her much either,” Katerina said.

  “Steady! We’re newlyweds with teething problems. Nothing that can’t be worked out, I’m confident.” Burns’ sarcasm undermined his words, but he also knew that neurotic Lindy wielded magic over his penis that other women didn’t. Before her, he hadn’t come during sex in a long time. With Lindy, he was good for one and sometimes two pops a night. Strange, as there were plenty of younger, equally attractive and less nutty women at his disposal.

  Katerina found herself taken by early-forties Fraser Burns. Gray sideburns and silver flecks in his swept-back chestnut hair signaled maturity, but also, he sported a younger man’s skin, a quick laugh and a grin that dazzled. He featured a Northumberland baritone tuned to wet panties and he drove a fancy car. She’d allowed his rake’s charm to persuade her, but it hadn’t been a tough sell: She liked handsome, clever men who could help her.

  In retrospect, Burns had awarded her consultant’s contract under false pretenses. After she resigned from her postdoctoral fellowship program at Berkeley, he swooped in to offer a project with a large lab equipment budget and fees to match. Ostensibly she’d been hired to perform quality checks on an array of novel drugs produced by an unnamed biotech startup. They had tried to recruit Burns as an angel investor and maybe even as the CEO. Before he committed, he told her he needed independent, expert advice on their first drug. Instead, he had instructed her to pack on short notice a combination of Covid-19 tests and lab equipment to synthesize prototype vaccines. The only thing certain about this Chinese puzzle box was that he’d deposited into her account one hundred thousand dollars for the first month.

  She decided to change the subject. “Lindy ran off with a newborn that you’re supposed to be babysitting. That’s strange enough, but who leaves their baby so they can go on vacation?”

  “It’s complicated. The mother suffers from postnatal depression and may be suicidal. Her husband took her to a clinic for a full workup.”

  Katerina nodded. “So why doesn’t Lindy like me?”

  Burns flashed his high beams at an SUV that obstructed the passing lane. Its cabin overflowed with Covid refugees and enough baggage was piled on the roof that it resembled a Moroccan taxi-van. “Well, I told her about the experiments on the undergrads . . . the ones that got you kicked out of Cal. She says you’re an evil bitch.”

  “What? I never told you about anything like that. Those charges were lies. I only gave up my fellowship to avoid the publicity, and I have several other top programs that want me.”

  “Don’t worry, that scandal’s why I hired you. I don’t pay this kind of money for something legit.”

  She snorted. “What do you want me to do, run experiments on the baby?”

  “You’re a sharp one, aren’t you?” Burns turned to gauge her reaction on those chiseled cheekbones and full lips. He liked what he saw, a beautiful pixie with plenty of spunk.

  * * * * *

  Greg emerged from surgery without complications and was warded on the sole non-Covid wing left in the hospital. Pat wanted to stand vigil overnight but was overruled by hospital staff. She didn’t do her cause any favors by crying as she fought to have Stephanie admitted and put in the bed next to her husband. As a compromise, one of the ER doctors gave her daughter four new stitches just to shut her up.

  Ryder spoke with Arkar and Maung, turned his men around once again, and told them to alibi-up. Northern California’s Burma expatriate community was small, but rich in perjurers. As always, they didn’t question their boss, though Maung did grumble that they’d blown through ten bucks of gas driving aimlessly back and forth.

  Meanwhile, Barb was determined to see that her sister would be looked after by someone handy with a gun. No matter how unlikely, the chance that the kidnappers might come looking couldn’t be ignored, and a pissed-off Jaime seemed eager for another scrap if it came to that. She handed him the keys to the Caprice with instructions to pack their bags for a month’s stay at her parents’.

  Sal was engrossed in conversation with Carla. “The best thing for you is to retu
rn to the lab and convert that dose into a vaccine,” he insisted. “We don’t know where Tyson is, or even if he’s alive. We have to be realistic.”

  Carla shook her head. “If Burns has Tyson, he’ll want the real dosage and the data before he gives him up.”

  “With the FBI involved, it’s useless to him,” Sal said as Travis limped over. “All he can do now is run. Meanwhile, Covid-20 may kill millions.”

  “Before you arrived, Carla and I had a similar discussion,” Travis said. “Give my codebreaker friend twelve hours to see if he can decrypt the files. If so, Carla will look everything over. In the meantime, she’ll hold off on reverse-engineering the last dose in case you have a chance to swap it for Tyson.”

  “I’ll lock it in my lab until I hear from you,” Carla said.

  Sal nodded and left to find Pat. He needed to stop off at CVS to replace his prescriptions. He hadn’t begun to absorb what had happened in his absence: Greg and Jaime shot, Steph’s near abduction, and the FBI and police involved. It had been one hell of a day, and his grandson was still held hostage.

  Alone again, Travis winked at Carla. “There’s one last double-double animal style in the bag. I’ll split it with you on the drive back. Sal said he’d drop us by Steph and Greg’s to collect your car.”

  “It’s a deal, but there’s still a steak dinner at my place after this is over.”

  * * * * *

  Burns parked beside his wife’s blue E200 with the white interior. The driver’s and passenger’s doors were open, the interior lights ablaze. He walked over and looked inside.

  “Stop! Don’t touch anything,” Katerina said. “Your wife might be infected. Let me suit up and go in first.” She opened the Jag’s trunk and pulled out decontamination gear.

  Burns walked up the porch steps. Lights glowed a soft yellow through the living room curtains. He stood to the side and peered through a crack. “She’s on the couch, dressed and passed out.” He tapped on the window.