The Devil's Pitchfork Read Online Free Page A

bearing that shouted military, the stiff back, the square shoulders. He looked tired, impatient, his big hands tapping on his chair’s armrest.
    The woman was blonde and looked like she was in shock. Her blue eyes had that deer-in-the-headlights look and her complexion was gray. But she seemed to focus on him with interest. The other guy didn’t. He just looked impatient.
    The guy standing looked big and muscular like he lifted weights. Maybe in his fifties, his face was craggy, jaw square, accustomed to being in charge. He snapped, “You from Homeland?”
    Derek set his gear down and proffered first his ID, then his hand.
    “Huh.” The guy took his hand. “Agent Rick Spigotta, FBI.” He pointed to the two others. “Dr. Frank Halloran, head of this facility, and Dr. Elizabeth Vargas. We were just going over some things. Here’s what we got so far. Three white vans merged on the facility right around 11:45, give or take. Two went through the front gate using automatic weapons to take out the guard. At the same time a van took out the rear entrance. Looks nicely coordinated. Two guys went in the back way, the loading dock, taking out everyone they saw. ATF and the Bureau people are working the scenes now.”
    “What is this place?” Derek interrupted.
    Spigotta glared at him. “Why don’t you sit down, Dr. Stillwater. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover and it’d be best if you saved your questions for the end. Or am I going to have trouble with you?”
    Derek slid into a seat at an angle from Halloran and Vargas. “No, no trouble. Sorry.”
    Liz Vargas said, “We’re a biological warfare think tank. Kind of a practical one. We try to come up with vaccines and cures for typical biowarfare agents. Our funding is largely through the Pentagon.”
    “Any relationship with USAMRIID?” The United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases at Fort Detrick in Frederick, Maryland was the heart of the U.S. Army’s research into biowarfare.
    “We consult with—”
    Spigotta spat out, “Later, dammit.” To Derek: “There are people from Detrick on the way. We’ll get to that.”
    “Go on,” Derek said.
    Spigotta described how the commandos entered the building, rode up in the elevator and penetrated Hot Level 4. Which is when he let Liz Vargas talk.
    Liz didn’t think she had been out for very long when she regained consciousness. For a few disoriented seconds she didn’t know where she was, then she realized with horror that she was in the hot zone and the last few minutes flooded in on her. Sitting up abruptly—too abruptly in a spacesuit—she looked over at Michael, then scuttled over to him. Dead. Without a shadow of a doubt dead. Not only had the bullets stitched a bloody zipper from beltline to collar, Michael’s plastic faceplate had been shattered.
    She looked away, panting, knowing that to vomit in the spacesuit would be a major problem. Slowly her gorge receded and she felt herself edge back under control.
    The intruders had been in the storage room. What had they taken? Walking slowly toward the room, booted feet kicking aside spent shell casings, she stepped into the bare cinder block space. The walls had been covered with thick white goop, as had all the walls and floors in the hot zone, to prevent pathogens from seeping through the concrete. There were three chest freezers capable of -70 degrees Celsius. But it was the waist-high liquid nitrogen tanks that drew her attention. All three were plastered with biohazard warnings and the blood red biohazard petal symbol. This was the heart of Hot Level 4, where the worst bugs on the planet were stored. But how to inventory?
    And then she saw it.
    A black binder, pages encased in acetate. It lay open on the counter. Normally it would be on a shelf, one of seven such books documenting the contents of each nitrogen tank and freezer.
    She stared at the open page. Beads of sweat began to roll down her forehead, into her eyes, burning.