Sound came to him as if he had stuffed his fingers in his ears. Shouts. A few screams.
Gunfire.
Suddenly explosions ripped the air as doors on opposite sides of the warehouse blew inward, followed by armed men.
Automatic gunfire chattered in return.
From his hiding spot Derek saw the tall thin figure of Dr. Ling creeping toward a doorway, about to make his escape during the chaos.
With a flare of rage, Derek dropped the vaccine and lunged from beneath the trailer and sprinted toward the torturous Asian. Ling must have sensed something because he spun just as Derek reached him. His eyes widened his recognition. His hand darted inside his jacket and withdrew a stiletto. “So, Dr. Stillwater. You live.”
Derek slowed, hands up, dropping into a defensive martial arts stance.
Ling shifted the blade from hand to hand, moving in a circle. Around them was chaos, flames and gunfire. “I assume you are responsible for this.”
Derek didn’t comment. Ling’s hands were very fast. It was difficult keeping his eyes on the blade. He needed to keep his concentration on Ling’s center of gravity, on his hips and stomach because that was where he would get a clue as to the man’s intentions. Not the hands, the waist, the thighs. But he also needed to know where the blade was.
Ling lunged with his left hand. His empty left hand.
Derek spun, slamming his arm down to block the right hand that held the blade. He caught Ling’s wrist. With his left hand Ling jabbed his stiffened fingers into Derek’s shoulder. Derek’s arm grew numb.
Derek twisted Ling’s right wrist, grinding the bones, and snapped his bare foot into Ling’s knee. Ling grunted and lunged with the knife blade, up, toward Derek’s wrist.
Derek kicked Ling’s knee again. Ling dropped to the ground, bringing Derek with him, the knife point close to his wrist.
Derek tried to use his right arm, but it was numb. Ling jabbed his free hand at Derek’s eyes. Derek flinched back, still clutching Ling’s knife hand.
Ling’s free hand curved into what Derek recognized as a shape called “the rooster’s head.” Fingers joined and curved downward, wrist up. It could be used to block, to strike, and could be used to strike with the joined fingertips or the blunt edge of the wrist.
Derek fell foward toward Ling, using gravity, and swung his numb arm upward, slamming his elbow into Ling’s face.
Ling stumbled backward, thrashing out of Derek’s grasp, rolling smoothly and coming up on his feet. The stiletto was back in his hands. The Asian’s eyes narrowed and he moved cautiously, the blade moving back and forth, back and forth.
Derek lunged right as if to go for the knife, then dropped to the floor and swept Ling’s feet out from under him, spinning as he did, bringing his fist down on Ling’s wrist with an audible crack. The knife dropped to the pavement. Ling snatched it up in his other hand and lunged with a scream at Derek, who shuffled backward before the attack. Ling kept coming, backing Derek against the hard surface of a trailer.
A familiar voice shouted, “Freeze,” but neither man paid any attention.
Ling thrust the blade at Derek’s throat. At the last second Derek shifted. Just a few inches. The knife plunged past him and into the thin aluminum skin of the trailer.
For just a fraction of a section the knife stuck as Ling struggled to pull the blade out of the plywood and aluminum wall.
Derek struck Ling in the throat with a closed fist. There was the nauseating sound of cartilage crushing. Ling, eyes wide, let go of the stiletto and staggered backward, fingers scrabbling at his ruined throat. He tried to speak, but the only sound was a harsh gurgle followed by blood spewing from his mouth.
Before Derek could take another step James Johnston stepped forward, placed a gun to Ling’s head and pulled the trigger. Ling collapsed to the floor, most of his head gone, very much dead.
Johnston walked over to Derek. “Are you okay?”
Derek held out his hand. “Can I borrow your gun?”
Johnston, a baffled expression, handed over the Glock. Derek took it, stepped over to the corpse of Ling, and emptied every round in the magazine into the Asian’s body. Each round made the body jump and Derek felt something surge inside him at each twitch. When he had spent each round he felt the anger seep away, leaving scar tissue like a burn on his soul.
With an angry jerk Derek dropped the empty magazine from the weapon and held out his hand. “Got more?”
“Not to do that.”
“I need a weapon.”
“You need to go home and sleep it off. You need some R&R. We’ve got it under control here.”
“Coffee’s gone. Dulles. He’s got the virus and plans to let it loose on a plane. Even with instructions on how to make the vaccine it might be too late if we don’t stop him. This virus acts too fast and getting it distributed will take too long. Millions might still die. I’m going after him. I need a gun.”
Then Derek reached under his scrub shirt and retrieved the computer disks and leaned down to pick up the box containing the vaccine. “Get this to USAMRIID.” He quickly explained what they were.
Johnston took the disks and the vials. “I’ll get this over there right away. But don’t go after Coffee alone—”
“Spare magazine. Now.” Derek raised the gun in his hand and held out his other for the spare magazine. Reluctantly Johnston dropped it into his hand.
Derek said, “I need clothes.” His eyes darted. He forced his way into the nearest trailer, the one he had hidden beneath. There was broken glass on the floor. Furniture. A TV. It was almost homey. In the living area he found a closet with men’s and women’s clothing. He quickly drew on jeans, a denim shirt, socks and a pair of running shoes. They were all a little big on him, but they would do. “Where are we?” he asked Johnston, who had silently followed him in.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Arlington. By the river. Derek, I’ll alert the Bureau. Don’t go after him—”
But his words fell on thin air as Derek rushed from the trailer and sprinted across the warehouse toward a rank of cars, Jeeps and motorcycles. Derek jumped on a cycle, kicked it into life and roared out of the headquarters of The Fallen Angels.
60
Derek raced across town on the motorcycle, in and out among cars, shifting onto the shoulder when the morning traffic clogged. Dulles was a long way from the warehouse in Alexandria, more than twenty miles west. He sped down Braddock to King Street through Sleepy Hollow and Falls Church, charging onto 66 to 267, The Dulles Airport Access Road. Cars, buildings, trees, parks, business were all a blur out of the corners of his eyes. All he felt was an urgency, adrenaline coursing through his veins like an electrical wire in his blood.
As he approached Dulles, his mind registered the signs indicating airlines. Dulles was huge. Probably about a million square feet.
The Air France sign was the most obvious clue. If Richard Coffee was actually heading toward France, that was the way to go, concourse B.
He parked the bike and stopped to take a deep breath. Security was going to be tight. He didn’t have ID and he looked like a wreck. What the hell had he been thinking?
He went in, browsing the computer screens behind the ticket counters. Dulles was a babble of voices in all languages. Flights to Paris…
There was one leaving in an hour.
His gaze scanned the crowd. Hundreds of people, men, women, children. All on the move. Waiting in line, in and out of bathrooms, in and out of the bars and lounges and restaurants. People brushed past him carrying laptop computers and carry-on luggage, hauling wheeled suitcases like reluctant overweight dogs.