He left the room. Spigotta came after him, closing the door behind him. “Destroy the tape, Aaron.”
Pilcher cocked his head. It hadn’t been an act. “What’re you going to do?”
“Whatever I have to do. It’s none of your concern. Just do it.”
Pilcher set his jaw. “Rick, if this blows up you could lose your career.”
Spigotta slammed the palm of his hand against Pilcher’s chest, knocking him back against the wall. Up and down the corridor heads turned. Spigotta’s voice was a low rasp filled with anger. “Listen to me, Aaron. We are at war. Most of the heads of our government have been killed in a terrorist attack. The Joint Chiefs are dead. The Director of FEMA, HHS, the FAA, the National Security Advisor, the FBI and the CIA, just to name a few. If these Fallen Angels are behind it, we can’t sit around worrying about anybody’s fucking civil liberties because there’s been less than nine hours between attacks. What’s next? We need to know now. The rest of the government’s going to be running around like herd of frightened sheep trying to figure out who’s in charge, not to mention the inevitable political infighting as the politicians jockey for position. So you do what you have to do and I’ll do what I have to do.”
Pilcher stared at Spigotta and slowly nodded. “Yes sir.”
“Understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“Go.”
Pilcher turned his back on Spigotta and went next door to the room containing the taping equipment. On the monitor he watched as Spigotta walked back in the room. Khournikova looked up at him. In her accented voice she said, “So, the Bad Cop is back. Where’s your rubber hose, Agent Spigotta?”
Spigotta reached out and slapped her so hard her head snapped back against the wall. “We’ll get to that if we have to, Ms. Khournikova. We’ll get to it if we have to. It’s up to you.”
Pilcher’s finger hovered over the off button.
32
Derek crashed through the trees, hands held above his face to protect his eyes from the clawing fingers of tree branches. Still, they whipped his face and snagged his hair and tore at his arms. Stumbling through a creek up to his knees in water muck, he staggered away from the sounds of his pursuers.
The night vision goggles were gone. The Colt assault rifle was gone. His phone was gone. He realized, swatting at his hip, that his Colt .45 was gone as well, lost in one of his struggles with Dalton.
He was caught in the trees, unarmed except his wits, his juju beads and four-leaf clover, being hunted by what he thought were four well-armed, highly-trained and utterly ruthless killers. And he didn’t believe that Sam Dalton had been telling the truth. He did not believe that Richard Coffee, a madman from his past, wanted to take him a live. Maybe once. Maybe earlier. But not now.
And even if he was wrong… why risk your life on the desperate bargaining of a traitor?
He heard footfalls off to his right and veered left. Occasionally a sliver moon peeped through the trees, but otherwise the woods were dense and dark, a wild place in the heart of Washington, D.C.
He broke unexpectedly into the open, crossing onto one of the many hiking paths in the park. This one was about six feet wide, a foot path of packed dirt created by the hard rubber soles of a thousand hikers.
Derek froze, considering. As best he could tell, the path ran roughly north and south. His pursuers were to the east. Should he cut back into the woods or should he take the path, striving for a faster pace?
He strained to hear above the thunderous pounding of his own heart. There were the small sounds of scuttling nocturnal animals: raccoons, opossums, squirrels, chipmunks, and their hunters, hawks and owls, maybe fox or feral cats. Small branches creaked and groaned in the light breeze. Further off was the sound of D.C., the rumble of cars, a distant siren… many sirens, he thought, too many.
Behind him a dark figure appeared on the path.
Startled, Derek leapt into the cover of the trees, the decision made for him. There was the sharp rattle of gunfire and something plucked at his leg. He staggered, fell, clambered to his feet, the sting in his leg growing into a hot blade of pain.
He pushed on, tree to tree, boulder to boulder, slowing.
Another rattle of gunfire. Bark splintered near his head. He turned, breath burning in his chest. He fingered the juju beads around his neck, wondering…
Two figures materialized around him, rifles raised.
Slowly, reluctantly, Derek raised his hands in surrender, hoping that Coffee — Fallen — still wanted him alive.
One of the men spoke into a throat mic with a thick Slavic accent. “Omega 3 and 4 have secured subject.”
Derek didn’t hear a response. All he could hear was the rushing of blood in his ears and the hard thud of his heart in his chest, his breath burning in his throat.
“Let’s go,” one of the men said, and shoved Derek toward the trees. Stumbling in the dark, he moved in the direction they told him to go, wondering bitterly just how long he had to live.
33
Aaron Pilcher felt overwhelmed by events. Donning a biohazard protective suit, he was being primed by an FBI agent on the Hazardous Materials Removal Unit. She was an aggressive forty-something with thick glasses, mouse brown hair that looked cut with a kitchen knife, and all the tact of a four-year-old.
“Don’t touch anything. Look and get out. Are you claustrophobic?”
“A little,” Pilcher said, already starting to sweat in the heavy rubber suit lined with activated charcoal. Chem suits didn’t breathe — that was the point.
“Don’t panic. Keep calm. Take deep breaths. If you start to panic, leave, get out of the building. Do not open the suit.” She brandished a finger in his face. “Do not open the suit. If you open the suit, you die. Period. Understand me?”
“Yes. Open the suit. Die. Got it.” His stomach churned, but he ignored it.
“Once you’re outside, either way, whether because you’re panicking or because it’s time to go, wait to be washed down. Can you handle this?”
Pilcher wasn’t sure he could, but he said he was fine. Then he said, “How long will it take to decontaminate The White House?”
Agent Brettano fixed her hazel eye on him. “It’s VX gas,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“You’re looking at the former resident of Presidents, Agent Pilcher. We’ll probably never be able to decontaminate it.”
He blinked, imagining it. What would they have to do? Incinerate it, one piece at a time? Block it off? Burn it to the ground and bury it in concrete, like Chernobyl? Involuntarily he felt a wave of rage wash over him. Dalton, that bastard. They were going to get him for this.
Brettano snapped her fingers in his face. “Are you paying attention?”
He was now. “Yes,” he said.
“Good. Listen closely. Your life isn’t the only one you risk if you panic in there, understand? You put my teams at risk and all the other people in there if you freak out. So I’m going to ask you again. Can you handle this?”
Pilcher looked her in the eye. “Yes. I can handle it.”
“Okay. Suit up.”
The suit was hot and awkward. The air from the tank smelled and tasted stale and metallic. He could smell his own sweat, bitter and acidic, the stench of fear.
The West Wing was well lit… for a graveyard. Pilcher had been told the body count was over one hundred. The VX gas had been released directly into the White House ventilation system through a cold air intake. Brettano had said in an ominous voice pinched with anger, “In DHS Deputy Director Samuel Dalton’s office.” The missing man. Hundreds of agents hunted him now, but so far, nothing.