The Devil's Pitchfork Read Online Free
her cell phone number on the palm of Stillwater’s hand. “Good luck.”
He grinned, clutched a chain around his neck for a moment, then tipped a salute to the other guardsman and jumped out of the chopper, GO Packs over each shoulder.
3
T HE C OAST G UARD HELICOPTER lifted off into the azure sky and Derek ran about thirty yards when he was surrounded by tense, armed men. Three of them wore suits, but four were decked out in military fatigues. All of them were aiming their weapons—a variety of rifles and hand guns—directly down his throat.
He froze. “Whoa! I’m not moving! I. Am. Not . Moving!”
One of the suits said, “Identify yourself!”
Still unmoving, he said, “Derek Stillwater. Department of Homeland Security. My wallet and ID are in my right rear pocket.”
Some sort of silent communication spun around the circle, then one of the Army guys lowered his M-16, stepped over and plucked Derek’s ID from his pocket.
He flipped it open and read. “Okay. He’s legit. Says you’re a troubleshooter.”
The men lowered their weapons. “That’s the job title,” Derek said. “Who’s running things?”
The head suit, a slender blond guy wearing wire-rimmed glasses, said, “Spigotta. Hang on. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”
Two of the suits led Derek to the building’s entrance. It didn’t take a trained eye to see that it had been shot to pieces. Derek paused to take in the destruction. His gaze lingered on the human-shaped mounds beneath blood-soaked white sheets. The odor of death and blood and cordite lingered in the air. He flinched. Images of war zones flashed in his head. Iraq. Panama. Bodies rotting in the sun, flies buzzing in swarms. For a moment he swayed, then took a deep breath, returning to the present, which wasn’t much better. He’d come after the photographs and triage, but before they could move the bodies out. He felt something clench in his stomach, thought, Good God, what do we have here?
The Blond Suit, who hadn’t bothered to ID himself, described what they thought had happened, the three vans, the automatic weapons, the penetration of the building. “We’ve got guys going over the security tapes now.”
“How many casualties?”
“Looks like 23 dead, 18 wounded. Let’s go.”
Before following, Derek turned around and scanned past the chain-link fence. There were mobs of TV crews, onlookers and cop cars. He realized he’d probably make the news with his dramatic entrance and hoped everyone had the sense to keep their mouths shut about him.
Blond Suit was looking at him impatiently. “Spigotta’s debriefing a couple of the scientists. Hope we can figure out what this is all about.”
I’m afraid I already know exactly what this is all about , Derek thought, and followed the agent into the facility. He processed the sight of all the vent stacks on top of the building. He knew that meant heavy-duty air filtering and treatment. Usually it meant negative air pressure and infectious agents and chemicals that God should never have invented, that human beings should never have discovered.
“What time did this go down?” Derek asked.
“11:43.”
It was 1:30. Derek reflected that the response time had been pretty good overall. He was led down a tiled corridor that seemed too utilitarian to be a for-profit company. The place was swarming with crime scene people who looked federal, maybe military. He’d already figured some sort of military involvement from the soldiers outside, but had never heard of this place.
Blond Suit knocked on a door and pushed it open. Three people were inside what appeared to be a conference room. There was a projection screen, three tables pushed together to form a large conference area and a mish-mash of chairs. Low budget, he guessed.
Two people were seated, a man and a woman. The man was in a white shirt and dark tie and khaki slacks. His hair was gray and short, almost military in style. There was something about his
He grinned, clutched a chain around his neck for a moment, then tipped a salute to the other guardsman and jumped out of the chopper, GO Packs over each shoulder.
3
T HE C OAST G UARD HELICOPTER lifted off into the azure sky and Derek ran about thirty yards when he was surrounded by tense, armed men. Three of them wore suits, but four were decked out in military fatigues. All of them were aiming their weapons—a variety of rifles and hand guns—directly down his throat.
He froze. “Whoa! I’m not moving! I. Am. Not . Moving!”
One of the suits said, “Identify yourself!”
Still unmoving, he said, “Derek Stillwater. Department of Homeland Security. My wallet and ID are in my right rear pocket.”
Some sort of silent communication spun around the circle, then one of the Army guys lowered his M-16, stepped over and plucked Derek’s ID from his pocket.
He flipped it open and read. “Okay. He’s legit. Says you’re a troubleshooter.”
The men lowered their weapons. “That’s the job title,” Derek said. “Who’s running things?”
The head suit, a slender blond guy wearing wire-rimmed glasses, said, “Spigotta. Hang on. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”
Two of the suits led Derek to the building’s entrance. It didn’t take a trained eye to see that it had been shot to pieces. Derek paused to take in the destruction. His gaze lingered on the human-shaped mounds beneath blood-soaked white sheets. The odor of death and blood and cordite lingered in the air. He flinched. Images of war zones flashed in his head. Iraq. Panama. Bodies rotting in the sun, flies buzzing in swarms. For a moment he swayed, then took a deep breath, returning to the present, which wasn’t much better. He’d come after the photographs and triage, but before they could move the bodies out. He felt something clench in his stomach, thought, Good God, what do we have here?
The Blond Suit, who hadn’t bothered to ID himself, described what they thought had happened, the three vans, the automatic weapons, the penetration of the building. “We’ve got guys going over the security tapes now.”
“How many casualties?”
“Looks like 23 dead, 18 wounded. Let’s go.”
Before following, Derek turned around and scanned past the chain-link fence. There were mobs of TV crews, onlookers and cop cars. He realized he’d probably make the news with his dramatic entrance and hoped everyone had the sense to keep their mouths shut about him.
Blond Suit was looking at him impatiently. “Spigotta’s debriefing a couple of the scientists. Hope we can figure out what this is all about.”
I’m afraid I already know exactly what this is all about , Derek thought, and followed the agent into the facility. He processed the sight of all the vent stacks on top of the building. He knew that meant heavy-duty air filtering and treatment. Usually it meant negative air pressure and infectious agents and chemicals that God should never have invented, that human beings should never have discovered.
“What time did this go down?” Derek asked.
“11:43.”
It was 1:30. Derek reflected that the response time had been pretty good overall. He was led down a tiled corridor that seemed too utilitarian to be a for-profit company. The place was swarming with crime scene people who looked federal, maybe military. He’d already figured some sort of military involvement from the soldiers outside, but had never heard of this place.
Blond Suit knocked on a door and pushed it open. Three people were inside what appeared to be a conference room. There was a projection screen, three tables pushed together to form a large conference area and a mish-mash of chairs. Low budget, he guessed.
Two people were seated, a man and a woman. The man was in a white shirt and dark tie and khaki slacks. His hair was gray and short, almost military in style. There was something about his
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