Cold Blooded by Toni Anderson
Prologue
He entered the lab, wearing full protective gear. The screeches and rattling of cage bars reassured him the animals were alive. He held his breath as he went around each cage, noting the individual demeanors and facial expressions of the rhesus macaques. He fed them fruit and made sure their water supply was sufficient, noting the bright eyes and interested gazes of these fascinating creatures. Sometimes they appeared so human he had to look away in shame, but not today.
There were no dead monkeys.
A frisson of excitement shot through his nerves. Even more exhilarating, there were no sick monkeys. In all his past experiments, the monkeys who’d been exposed to SAHCAM45-65 had died within twenty four hours despite being given the vaccine. But this new vaccine worked.
It worked!
Finally.
Finally, he’d figured it out, but he held back the feeling of triumph.
It was the weekend and he’d offered to care for all the animals in the lab which he did periodically when he didn’t want any prying eyes. Officially no experiments were going on, so someone simply needed to feed and check the animals at regular intervals.
He took blood samples then exited the monkey room, showering in his suit before heading into another restricted area. An emergency isolation unit that few knew existed and even fewer could access.
Macaques shared ninety-three percent of their DNA with humans but there was enough difference in the remaining seven percent that more extensive tests needed to be done with the vaccine before it would be declared safe for people to use. Unfortunately, the law prohibited testing efficacy on human beings.
The light above his head buzzed and flickered, making him pause.
He peered through the glass into the shadowy isolation chamber, the small secure room shrouded in darkness. The primate lay on a bed inside a plastic tent, restrained, inert, face averted from the window. It looked dead.
His heart thumped disturbingly hard.
Disappointment? Frustration? Anger?
No one ever said science was easy.
He heaved a great sigh that fogged up the inside of his mask.
It looked dead.
Just like all the other test subjects.
Pushing the despondency aside, he entered the room through a locked, sealed door. The subtle brush of air being drawn into the room felt like an indrawn breath and prevented the escape of any microbes.
The rustle of sheets had him freezing in place. A movement from the bed as the creature attempted to sit up almost made him piss his pants.
“Where am I? What happened?” Her voice was small and scared.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my fucking God! It worked. He’d gotten it to work. He wanted to pump his fists but held on to his decorum.
His pulse pounded. This was it. This was it!
“Who are you?” she asked. “Where am I?”
Thankfully she wouldn’t remember anything, this runaway he’d picked up off the street and offered a warm meal. She’d offered to suck his cock in payment but he’d wanted something else. Something far more valuable. He’d brought her here, tranquilized her, infected her and never expected her to live past midnight.
She started to struggle against the restraints as her panic bloomed.
“You’re okay. You’re okay now,” he told her calmly. “You were sick. Very sick but I made you better. You’re going to be just fine.”
He withdrew his hand inside his suit and used a small digital camera to take a short video as proof of life, then stepped forward and picked up another dose of anesthetic, injecting it into the cannula he’d inserted into her vein on Friday night. She stared at the needle but was hopeless to
do anything except watch the clear liquid enter her vasculature.
“You’re going to be okay,” he assured her. “Actually, you’re going to be absolutely fantastic.”
She smiled slightly before her eyes drifted shut.
This changed everything.
He closed his eyes for a moment. Everything would be okay. He wouldn’t be a failure anymore.
He took blood samples with clinical efficiency, storing them in small vials that he’d analyze along with the monkey blood. He checked the subject’s pulse. Waited for her heart to slow. Slower and slower until it was barely a murmur. He gave her another dose, just to be certain she wouldn’t wake up again.
He unzipped the plastic tent and removed the cannula, undoing the restraints which clicked open.
He lifted her limp body. She was light, easy to carry. He held her tightly as they entered the chemical shower, getting dowsed and sanitized, turning them so every micrometer of their surface was sterilized. After two minutes the spray stopped. He opened the door into the suiting up room, then placed the girl on a metal gurney while he stripped off and hung up his suit before wheeling her into the next shower station. Once they were thoroughly clean, he dried them both and covered her in two big towels. The biggest danger was bumping into someone unexpectedly so he peeked out into the changing area before he brought the gurney.
No one was here.
And that was why he worked in the middle of the night.
He quickly got dressed and grabbed his belongings. Then he checked the corridor before pushing his precious cargo down to the incinerator. He touched the delicate blue vein of her wrist. Traced his finger over the tip of her nose and across her soft lips. Memorizing her features so he never forgot this moment of triumph.
He placed her inside, trying to be respectful. She was so tiny there was plenty of room.
He closed the door and turned the machine on. It took time to reach 1500 degrees and he made himself wait patiently just as he had with the others, although the others had been hidden inside doubled up amorphous black body bags to contain their deadly cargo of germs. This one
posed no danger though he wished he had more time to study her.
Once the incinerator hit the necessary temperature to burn bone, he turned and walked away.
Everything was about to change.
Chapter One
The sound of magazines being snapped into place echoed around the bullpen in a metallic symphony of governmental firepower. Anticipation tightened his gut as he checked his SIG Sauer and backup Glock. FBI Special Agent Hunt Kincaid of the Atlanta Field Office was locked and loaded and ready to party.
Hunt reached down for the arrest and search warrants and handed them over to Agent Mandy Fuller.
“Thank you kindly, Agent Kincaid.” She batted her eyes dramatically as she took the documents. Fuller was blonde and pretty and deceptively sweet looking. She’d been undercover for the past four months and deserved to be the one to put their main suspect in cuffs after the number of times the elected official had fondled her ass.
“My pleasure, Agent Fuller.”
Today was the culmination of a fourteen-month-long investigation into corruption at City Hall. It had been a long and laborious process that involved thousands of hours of stakeouts, surveillance, poring over bank details, electronic communications, and chasing down smaller prey to get them to flip on larger targets—all without the man at the top of their suspect list becoming suspicious. Fuller’s work had produced a cooperating witness, and surveillance had
finally garnered enough rock-solid evidence for a judge to sign off on warrants.
Councilor Jim Crowley and four of his lackeys were going down.
Hunt checked his spare ammo and put another three magazines into his vest pocket. He wasn’t expecting trouble but he sure as hell was prepared for it.
His buddy, Agent Will Griffin, came over and gave him a nod. Will was on the Enhanced FBI SWAT team and surreptitiously checked over Fuller’s vest and equipment. Fuller gave her boyfriend a pointed look and the other agent heroically managed to suck back whatever piece of
advice he’d stupidly been about to offer.
Hunt and Fuller might currently be assigned to the whit-
collar crime squad but they were both field agents with extensive experience. SWAT would act only as backup during these arrests.
Fuller headed over to their immediate boss, the Supervisory Special Agent of Atlanta FBI’s White-Collar Crime Unit and showed him the paperwork.
Hunt smirked at Will who stood watching the female agent leave. “Did you want to check my vest, too?”
“I was actually thinking of confirming its bullet resistance capacity.” Will’s teeth flashed in a forced smile that quickly faded. “I used to be okay with Mandy going out there every day, but...”
“That’s what love does to you, pal. Makes you weak.”
Will rolled his eyes at the suggestion, his brown cheeks darkening with heat. He was still in denial about the depth of his feelings but Hunt had seen it before. The guy was toast.
“What does she think of you applying to HRT?”
Will grimaced.
“You didn’t tell her yet?”
“I haven’t found the right moment.”
Hunt snorted. “She’s gonna know as soon as the call goes out. Especially with all this training we’re doing.”
Will stared at him miserably.
Hunt backed off. He didn’t intend to get caught in the middle of the personal lives of two agents he liked and respected, but he for one, had no intention of being caught in the relationship trap.
Eyes on the prize, and that prize was making it into the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team.
The head of his squad shouted across the bullpen. “Time to go.”
Adrenaline spiked through Hunt’s veins as he checked the chamber one last time. Didn’t matter how often he’d arrested people during his five-year tenure with the Bureau. This never got old. He grabbed his raid jacket off the back of his chair. Strode down the corridor toward the
stairs of the new field office. Twenty other agents joining them in addition to the SWAT guys. This was gonna be fun.
“Kincaid!”
The strident bellow startled him out of the zone and stopped him in his tracks. He turned.
Shit.
Caleb Bourne, Special Agent in Charge of the FBI Atlanta Field Office, stood yelling down the hallway at him.
Hunt hadn’t realized the SAC even knew his name. Neither did anyone else, judging from the surprised glances people were throwing his way. He didn’t have time for this. Surely the SAC knew what was happening? Suppressing a curse, Hunt broke away from the gang and headed back toward the bullpen.
“Boss?”
SAC Bourne raised his voice at the rest of the team. “You guys are going to have to go on without Kincaid.”
What?
Hunt drew in a deep breath and held on to the words that would get him another letter of censure in his file if he didn’t rein it in. “With all due respect, sir, I’ve worked on this case for over a year. I deserve to be on that arrest team.”
“Yes, you do.
” Bourne’s cool gaze settled on his face, but the man’s expression didn’t alter. “Unfortunately, it’s not gonna happen. I need you with me.”
The SAC turned on his heel and strode away.
Hunt threw a pissed-off glance at Will who was staring at him open-mouthed with a what-the-fuck expression.
Left with little choice, Hunt followed Bourne, catching up just as the elevator doors opened. He calmed his anger long enough to wonder what the hell was going on. Since when did the SAC run his own errands? Since when
did the SAC take an agent away from a potentially dangerous, high-profile takedown where a show of overwhelming force was the best way of making sure the suspects came quietly?
Had Hunt fucked up?
He tried to think of any rules he’d bent lately but came up
with nothing.
Dammit, he wanted to see the look on Crowley’s face when Fuller slapped on the cuffs. Wanted to see the fat bastard sweat when he realized the FBI had him on the corruption charges, threatening behavior, abuse of power, RICO counts—
This couldn’t wait a fucking hour?
Hunt kept his mouth shut.
As a former member of the FBI’s Crisis Negotiation Unit, the SAC of the Atlanta office was notorious for using silence to his advantage. Bourne simply stared at people and they started confessing sins he’d had no idea they’d committed. Hunt wasn’t going to blow everything by opening his big mouth. He checked his wristwatch. With luck he might be able to rejoin the team in time to make the arrests.
Hunt strode after the SAC and past curious faces of the
assistants and secretaries who helped run this massive field office to the big corner office with a fantastic view of Mercer University campus and surrounding woodlands. A view Hunt had never before had the privilege of seeing.
Bourne sat down behind his desk. “Shut the door. Sit down. Shut up.”
Okay then.
It didn’t sound like he was up for any awards.
Bourne pressed some buttons on his laptop and a screen on the wall sprang to life. On it, a guy in a dark suit, hands in his pockets, lounged in front of an array of monitors showing various maps behind him. He straightened when the feed went live, eyes careful and shrewd.
“Agent Hunt Kincaid meet ASAC Steve McKenzie from SIOC.”
Pronounced “sigh-och,” SIOC was the Strategic Information and Operations Center based at headquarters in DC.
What the hell was going on here?
A small smile quirked ASAC McKenzie’s face. “Sorry to drag you away from your other duties. It looks like you were about to have some fun.”
Agents didn’t usually sport Kevlar and thigh holsters in the office. Hunt nodded, not bothering to hide his frustration. The video link split in two and Hunt recognized the legend that was Lincoln Frazer appear on the right-hand side of the monitor.
Frazer was a big deal in the FBI. He’d taught their classes
on serial killers during New Agent Training five years ago. Hunt got a tickly feeling between his shoulder blades that usually meant something major was about to take place. Whatever this was, it was serious.
A gorgeous, dark-haired Asian woman in jeans and t-shirt climbed up from beneath Frazer’s desk.
“That should work now,” she told Frazer. “Don’t fiddle with anything.”
Fraser cleared his throat a little self-consciously as he became aware of his audience. “Thank you, Agent Chen. Tell everyone the team meeting is delayed until noon.”
The woman raised an eyebrow in what Hunt interpreted as a “do I look like your secretary” face, but diplomacy won the day, “Yes, boss.”
Hunt was obviously working in the wrong office.
Bourne formally introduced them, then said, “Gentleman, Agent Kincaid is Atlanta’s WMD coordinator, as requested.”
Hunt cocked his head and narrowed his gaze. Every office had a WMD coordinator. Weapons of Mass Destruction—
because people needed bigger and better ways of killing other people. Hunt had taken over the WMD coordinator role a month ago when one of his colleagues had gone on maternity leave. Rose Geddy had told him not to get comfortable and he’d replied he had no desire to sit in endless Public Health planning meetings, especially after this stint in white-collar crime. He’d rather bathe his eyes in acid.
McKenzie, McKenzie...
The name clicked into place and Hunt sat up straighter. McKenzie and Frazer had both been involved in foiling the attempt to bomb FBI HQ back in February. That tickly feeling turned to a full-on itch that he couldn’t scratch through the impeding layers of nylon, cotton and Kevlar.
“What do you know about anthrax?” McKenzie asked abruptly.
Hunt snapped to attention. “It’s a Category A biological agent, sir.”
Category A signified the most potent bioweapons— terrible, insidious, death machines. Other Category A agents included such dainties as smallpox and Marburg virus. Nasty shit.
“The anthrax sent through the US Postal System in 2001 caused eleven people to develop the inhalation form of the disease.” McKenzie’s tone suggested this information was going to be relevant to the rest of Hunt’s day and a chill stole over him. “Five of those people died.”
Hunt nodded. The AMERITHRAX case had been studied in detail at the academy. The investigation had lasted more than eight years and the FBI were convinced the bioterrorism was the work of an Army scientist out of Fort Detrick.
Not everyone concurred. The scientist had killed himself before he’d gone to trial.
Hunt wasn’t about to mention the merit of that case as career suicide wasn’t on today’s to-do list. Then again, neither was a lecture on anthrax.
“What you’re about to hear is strictly confidential and on a need-to-know basis. You’re getting read into this case as is every other WMD coordinator in the country,” McKenzie told him.
So, it wasn’t just him, though Hunt had a feeling he was amongst the first to be briefed. His location probably had a lot to do with that. At least two maximum biosafety level containment laboratories (BSL-4) were within a short drive of where he sat, one of which was at the CDC, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the other, Georgia State.
“A few grams of normal Bacillus anthracis dispersed in a certain way have the potential to kill up to a hundred thousand people.” McKenzie looked grim.
Normal Bacillus anthracis?
Frazer took over. “Less than a week ago, an illegal arms broker named Ahmed Masook tried to sell what he claimed was weaponized anthrax on the black market.”
“Weaponized?” asked Hunt.
“Heated up in the lab.” Frazer pressed his lips together as if containing his anger. “They claimed it was faster acting and more virulent than natural strains. Disperses more easily on the wind. And is resistant to current vaccines.”
Unease scratched deeper down Hunt’s spine.
“Last week we got lucky. We intercepted the transaction and prevented the sale of the bioweapon. Unfortunately, the arms dealers didn’t survive the experience so we couldn’t question him about the supplier.” Frazer’s smile grew razor sharp.
But if that was the end of the story Hunt wouldn’t be here while the rest of his squad conducted the most important arrests of the year.
“One of the conversations we overheard suggested this new strain came from a US source. We found some on
line correspondence but the supplier made a big effort to cover their tracks.” Frazer was being frustratingly frugal with specific details.
Hunt sat forward. “If you prevented the arms deal I assume you have whatever it was they were trying to sell?”
Frazer nodded cautiously.
“And you’ve had it since last week. So, I presume you had it tested?” Hunt wasn’t sure of his position in this room. Didn’t even know if he should be opening his mouth or just nodding and doffing his cap. But the FBI hadn’t hired him for his looks.
“Not yet.” Frazer’s cool blue gaze frosted over. “The bioweapon and the vaccine that accompanied it were...appropriated...by an agent from a foreign nation. We exerted considerable pressure and they finally sent us samples to analyze.”
“Can you trust them to send the real thing?”
Frazer nodded. “I believe so. Our interests align and we have considerable leverage. We’re waiting on special transportation permits from CDC and USDA. As soon as they are approved, samples should be hand-couriered and in-country by tomorrow morning.”
Frazer continued. “One sample is going to USAMRIID.” The United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. “Another to the CDC. CDC will organize a subsample for DNA sequencing, see if we can track the genetic fingerprint of the anthrax in question.”
It made sense to take precautions and also not to send the samples to just one lab. Last time the FBI had run this sort of investigation some initial help had come from the man who’d ultimately become their prime suspect. FBI expertise and preparedness regarding bioterrorism had increased dramatically since that time, but no one wanted to leave anything to chance.
Technology had been radically refined and accelerated because of the AMERITHRAX case.
“Do you believe this supplier has sold previous batches of weaponized anthrax to terrorists?” Which might explain the sudden urgency. Not that the idea of someone heating up anthrax to sell to terrorists wasn’t horrifying enough.
“We don’t believe so.” McKenzie twisted his lips to one side. “The sort of money being discussed during this exchange suggested a high value was being put on the product and part of that value would come from exclusivity—presumably of both the bacterial strain and the vaccine. We’d have heard about a cluster of victims if the material had been released. The intelligence community is pursuing the possibility though. We are digging deeper into communications and bank records of all the people we know are involved, searching for a link.”
Okay. “So how did the anthrax supplier contact the arms broker?” It wasn’t like these people hung a shingle over the door.
“Dark web. We have leads we’re tracking there,” McKenzie told him. “We’re obviously coordinating with the WMD Directorate, but POTUS ordered a Joint Terrorist Task Force to be set up for this investigation and I’m in charge. Initial signs are pointing to the Southern US.”
Hunt’s eyes widened. POTUS? The President of the United States, Joshua Hague, was involved? This was a real and ongoing threat.
“What do you need from us?” Bourne interrupted. Technically he was senior to the two men on the screen, but it was obvious he wasn’t calling the shots.
“We want FBI WMD coordinators from around the country to reach out to everyone whose work involves or has involved Bacillus anthracis. The CDC maintains a current list.”
“Won’t that send the bad guy to ground?” Hunt tapped his index finger on his boss’s desk. “They might get rid of evidence.”
“We’d rather them destroy any stocks of anthrax than produce more of it.” Frazer’s tone was grim.
“Unless the suspects are computer hackers, it’s only a matter of time before we figure out who is involved,” said McKenzie.
Lincoln Frazer eyed Hunt critically. “We want you to check onsite records to see who is spending a lot of time in labs working on anthrax and to make sure they know you noticed. Look for any potential red flags in their behavior.”
“We’ve got numerous high-level government facilities, universities and private biotech companies within a stone’s throw of this office,” Bourne pointed out.
McKenzie nodded. “And you don’t even need a level four lab to work with anthrax. Level two labs can work with inactive strains.”
“Inactive strains aren’t worth millions on the black market,” Frazer argued.
Bourne ran his hand over his short hair. “Do you have any idea how many highly trained microbiologists reside in our jurisdiction with the knowledge and capability to produce large batches of this microbe?”
“Hundreds,” said Frazer.
“If not thousands,” Hunt said helpfully.
“We need more people,” Bourne suggested.
McKenzie shook his head. “Not yet. We don’t want to start a mass panic so we need all the WMD coordinators to reach out to researchers as part of their normal duties. We’re prioritizing coordinators who live in areas with BSL-4 labs and working our way down the list. That means you’re first. Agent Kincaid is new. He can go introduce himself and suggest the FBI is thinking of overhauling the rules of who will be allowed to work on these substances in the future. That normally gets people extolling the virtues of their research. As soon as you leave they’ll be on the phone or email to their cronies asking what the hell is going on and how to stop it. Word will spread. The bad guys might panic, in fact we’re counting on it. We’ve got a room full of analysts at SIOC poring over data and monitoring activities. We’ll track your contacts with the scientists and examine the ripple effect.”
“Track?” Hunt said, startled. “You’re monitoring my work cell?”
“Not hot-mic-ing,” Frazer assured him. “But logging GPS, call times and emails so we can map your movements and communications in relation to the activity of the scientists. It’s more efficient. We will monitor the activities of all our WMDs with a little help from a supercomputer and our friends at the NSA. Any objections?” Frazer raised an imperious eyebrow.
“No, sir.” Even though it was gonna be a little weird to be tracked.
McKenzie checked the time. “You have a meeting with a unit chief at the CDC in thirty minutes to triage which individuals to talk to first and then begin your enquiries. A Dr. Jez Place. I’ve sent the details to your cell. Contact me directly if anyone raises your suspicions. The WMD
coordinator in San Antonio is up next on our list. Stay vigilant.”
Hunt relaxed a little. Georgia wasn’t the only state to be saturated with mad scientists, although they had more than their fair share.
Anthrax was an invisible, indiscriminate killer. How could someone create something that could potentially kill thousands of innocents, for cash? The thought was an anathema to decent human beings and made him uneasy in a way he couldn’t pin down.
He waited to be dismissed, then changed out of tactical gear and back into one of his many business suits, adjusting his tie in the eerie quiet of the building.
It looked like he was back behind a desk or in the field, talking to scientists. Hell, he might not survive the excitement. The sooner HRT selection began the better.
That tingling feeling was back between his shoulder blades, though, and he scratched the hell out of it. It didn’t disappear and he finally figured out what it was.
Dread.
