Carmellini took a small battery-powered camcorder from Chance’s backpack. He held it under the security camera for about a minute, filming the view down the hallway, then pushed the play button. The device now replayed the same scene on a continuous loop, and would do so until the batteries were exhausted. He slid a collar around the coaxial cable leading from the camera, tightened it, then used a pair of wire cutters to slice the coax away from the security camera.
The door into the lab had an alarm on it, one mounted high.
“The alarm rings if the circuit is broken,” Carmellini whispered. “It’s designed to prevent unauthorized exit from the lab, not entry. Won’t take a minute.”
He worked swiftly with a penknife and length of wire. By wiring around the contact on the door and jamb, he made the contact impossible to break.
Sixty seconds later he gingerly tried the door. Reached for the handle and—
Locked!
Now to work with the picks.
“They locked an emergency exit?” Chance demanded.
“Yeah. Real bastards, huh?”
Tommy Carmellini knew his business. When the lock clicked, he put his picks back in his knapsack, pulled the knapsack into position, and palmed his pistol.
“You ready?”
“Yeah.”
Carmellini eased the door open, looked quickly each way with just one eye around the jamb.
The door opened into a well-lit foyer. The entire opposite wall of the room was made of thick glass, which formed a wall of a large, well-equipped laboratory. No people in sight. And no security cameras or motion detectors.
Both men came in, pistols in their hands and pointed at the floor. Chance pulled the door shut behind them.
They knelt by the long window and with just their heads sticking up, surveyed the scene.
Row after row of culture trays, units for mixing chemicals, deep sinks, storage cabinets, big sterilizing units, stainless steel containers by the dozen, analysis equipment, retorts, microscopes …
“Holy damn,” Carmellini said softly. “They are sure as hell growing something in there.”
“Something,” Chance agreed.
On the end of the room to their left was a large air lock.
“That’s the way in.”
“Do we have to go in?”
“We need samples from those culture trays.”
Chance led the way. He walked, holding the pistol down by his right thigh.
Around the corner slowly, looking first.
There were actually two air locks. After they went through the first one, they found themselves in a dressing room with a variety of white one-piece coveralls hanging on nails. Each man donned one, pulling it on over his clothes, then zipping it tightly, fastening the cuffs with Velcro strips. Gas masks were there too, but they were already wearing masks.
The second lock was equipped with a large vacuum machine which suctioned dust and microorganisms from the white coveralls.
They opened the door to the lab and stepped inside.
“The culture trays,” Chance said, and led the way. From his backpack he took syringes, quickly screwed on needles.
The glass trays sat on mobile racks, three dozen to a rack. They were readily transparent, so he could look inside, see the bacteria growing on the food mix at the bottom of the tray.
He selected a rack of trays, pulled one tray from the rack and laid it on the marble-topped counter nearby. He opened it. Used a syringe. With the syringe about half-full, he unscrewed the needle, deposited the syringe in a plastic freezer bag and sealed it.
Meanwhile Carmellini had been exploring. As Chance sealed up his second sample from this rack of trays, Carmellini came back, motioning with his hand. “Better come look. Looks like they are growing several kinds of cultures.”
The second kind looked similar to the first, but the organisms were of a slightly different color. Chance selected a tray, took a sample, then replaced the tray on the rack, as he had the first one.
He was finishing his second sample from this batch when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Carmellini motion for him to get down.
He dropped to a sitting position, finished sealing the syringe bag.
He put the samples into his knapsack, reached up on the countertop for his pistol.
Carmellini was creeping along below the counter with his pistol in his hand.
Someone was in the air lock. By looking down the aisle between the counters Chance could just see the top of his head as he pulled on the gas mask in the dressing room.
Whoever it was was coming in.
Carmellini looked at Chance, lifted his hands in a query: Now what?
Chance made a downward motion. Maybe this person would just come in, get something, then leave.
It would be impossible, he decided, to sneak out while the person was in the lab. Although the lab was large, at least a hundred feet long, anyone in the air locks could be seen from anywhere in the lab unless the viewer was behind a piece of large equipment.
Shit!
Well, the Cubans were about to discover that their lab was no longer a secret. That was not a disaster; unfortunate, perhaps. Perhaps not.
The person coming in wore a complete protection suit and mask. Not a square inch of skin was exposed.
Large for a woman. A man, probably. Almost six feet. Hard to tell body weight under a bag suit like that, but at least 180 pounds.
He checked the safety on the pistol. On. With his thumb he moved it to the off position, checked it visually.
Now the person was coming out of the air lock, walking purposefully down the aisle between the counters and trays of cultures.
William Henry Chance stood up, pointed the pistol straight in the face of the masked person walking toward him.
The man froze. If it was a man. Stopped dead and slowly raised his hands.
Out of the corner of his eye Chance saw Tommy Carmellini moving toward the Cuban.
“Find something to tie him with,” he said loudly, hoping Carmellini would understand his muffled voice.
Carmellini seemed to. He held up a roll of duct tape. He moved toward the man, who turned his head so that he could get a good look at Carmellini.
Carmellini had his pistol in his hand. His holster was under the white coverall, as was Chance’s, so both men had carried their pistols with them in their hands.
Now Carmellini placed the pistol on a counter, well out of the man’s reach. He walked behind him.
The man pushed backward, slamming Carmellini against a counter.
Damnation! Chance couldn’t shoot for fear of hitting Carmellini. As if the .22-caliber bullets in the Ruger would drop a big man at this distance.
Chance walked around the counter, up the aisle, intending to shoot the Cuban in the head from as close as he could get.
Carmellini kicked violently and the Cuban went flying back into a rack of culture trays. Three or four of the trays fell from the rack and shattered on the floor.
The man launched himself at Carmellini, who ducked under a right cross. The man kept right on going, heading for the pistol lying on the counter.
Carmellini caught him by the back of his coverall and swung him bodily around. With a mighty punch he sent the man reeling backward, straight into the rack of culture trays he had already hit. The man slipped, fell amid the broken glass.
Without sights, wearing the silencer, the Ruger was hard to aim. Chance squeezed off a round anyway. Where the bullet went he never knew.
Before he could fire again the man screamed in agony. All his muscles went rigid. He bent over backward, screaming in a high-pitched wail.
“Let’s go!” Carmellini yelled.
The man got control of an arm. He tore at his mask, trying to get it off, all the while screaming and thrashing around on the floor amid the broken glass.