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People ran amok through the business district. Some fought one another with their bare hands, while others swung machetes with vicious effect. Muffled gunshots accompanied the symphony of chaos like an offbeat snare drum. Wails for help were accented by the calls for mercy and screams of pain. The opera of agony never stopped. New voices would pick up as others faded out, each person below contributing their piece of the destruction song. The most unnerving part were the screams, dampened by the thick embassy glass, but still audible.

  Joseph stared at the people dying outside the embassy gates. It made him sick to his stomach, but he couldn’t turn away. There is going to be a long line for therapy after this. Like a horror film in real time, he knew death stalked them, yet he continued to watch. A man chopped a machete into another’s neck, cleaving a jagged wound, his blood spilling in the street. The woman next to him covered her mouth in horror. A man placed a hand over his daughter’s eyes turning her away from the ghastly scene.

  “Joseph, maybe this isn’t a good time. When we get you back home, we will get you to see the department psychologist. Let’s take a seat,” Harkin said, pulling him back toward the tables like a child.

  “Not now, Harkin,” Joseph mumbled. He brushed off Harkin’s hand. He wanted to see it. It drew him in. Humanity collapsed and he had a front row seat. Joseph stared in silence as the violence continued to unfold in front of him.

  Marine guards shot tear gas into the streets the canisters clinking off the pavement. “Please disperse,” clamored a megaphone over and over in French and English. Neither the gas nor the warnings seemed to have any impact on the civilians that had crowded around the gate. Arms reached through the gate trying to grasp the soldiers that defended the compound.

  The DRC’s military detachment to the embassy had abandoned their post, no sign of them remained. A body dangled from the concertina razor wire, blood flowing freely from numerous bullet wounds. Marines scrambled below with their gas masks on. However, their numbers were small compared with the swarms of people outside. Not enough if they break through. A mere speed bump in the face of a tidal wave of people.

  He glanced over at Deborah, a Foreign Service officer, crying into the sleeve of John, a tall linguist. She bore her face into his arm, terrified. Joseph would never be the rock for someone. He just didn’t have the machismo to be considered a pillar of strength in times of danger.

  The whispers of alarm grew louder as four more Marine guards rushed towards the gate, lashing out with the butts of their rifles at hands that stretched wantonly for them through the fence.

  “Attention,” boomed Master Sergeant Snow, his presence startling Joseph. He had entered the room quietly, flanked on either side by two Marines and two DS agents in civilian clothing covered with tactical vests and Heckler & Koch MP5 9mms. Gas masks hung at their waists.

  Snow continued: “As you’ve been watching outside, things are getting pretty bad. It looks like we have an all-out civil war on our hands. We have currently evacuated the Ambassador to the airport with his detail. We tried to get as many people out as early as possible, but this situation escalated quickly. You will all be evacuated to safety in due time. You have my word that no one will be left behind.” His hands clasped behind his back, his stance wide and powerful.

  “Things were getting bad” was an understatement. Joseph knew what was happening, but he would never have dared imagine that it could happen so fast. If these people were infected, the virus must be mutating exponentially. It would be like the small village on the scale of a megacity, with millions of people potentially infected.

  Their prospects were grim, at best. The medical infrastructure of the DRC could never treat a large number of people, and even if they could, they did not have a working treatment. Sweat beaded on Joseph’s forehead and his gut churned. He hugged his stomach trying to calm himself.

  The staffers had edged their way toward Snow in an effort to glean information. People always wanted to know more, and were ever suspicious of somebody in uniform telling them that everything was fine when they could clearly see that it was not.

  “You need to get us out of here,” yelled a man from the back of the room.

  “Yeah,” a few more staffers took up the cause, fists clenched, a people’s movement of protest.

  Snow raised his hands in defense. “You have my word that you will be safe inside the compound until you can be evacuated. If we rush the evacuation it could be more dangerous for everyone involved. We need everyone to remain calm and to follow our orders. We have a detachment of twenty-five Marines here who have been trained for exactly this type of situation.”

  “You’re supposed to keep us safe,” shouted a short heavy-set blonde from the human resources staff. Angry, terrified energy ebbed from the crowd. Joseph felt the herd mentality rising up like spooked gazelle watching the lion, knowing that danger lurked near, but frozen in indecision, not knowing which way to run. It oozed from them, driven by one factor: fear.

  Snow curtly nodded no, a short, purposeful head maneuver, and then pierced her with his ice like blue eyes. “No one is in immediate danger. Washington knows this is happening. You will all be evacuated to a safe location.”

  The fat woman snapped her mouth closed. Anger settled on her red rotund face.

  “I will be filing a complaint against you,” she said, trying to get the last word.

  “I can’t wait,” Snow’s lip curled into a semi-smile.

  Joseph wanted to rip his hair out. They didn’t understand. Snow didn’t understand, Harkin didn’t understand and Brinkley, that rat bastard, didn’t understand. We don’t have time. We need to get out of here.

  “What about the airport? You should be taking us there,” voiced a portly, bearded man near the front. Joseph had often seen him eating in the cafeteria.

  “All I can do is tell you to sit tight,” said Snow. He turned abruptly and left the room with his militant entourage.

  That’s it? Joseph didn’t feel any better about the situation. There were too many similarities to Kombarka for it to be a coincidence. The outbreak had spread to the African capital.

  He ran toward the Marine Master Sergeant. “Please wait, Sir,” Joseph called after him. He reached out and grabbed the hardened soldier by his shirtsleeve.

  Snow glared down at his sleeve before prying it from Joseph’s grasp. “Yes, doctor? And it’s Sergeant; I work for a living,” Snow barked, his eyes glaring. This man was a pit bull.

  Joseph met his hard gaze as best he could, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He looked away before he started speaking. “I. Sorry,” he stammered, grimacing from the altercation.

  Snow threw daggers with his eyes, waiting.

  “Don’t let your men be bitten by any of those people out there,” Joseph warned. Joseph forced the words out, hurrying while he still had the commander’s attention. “That’s how it spreads. One infection within this compound and it will spread like wildfire,” he said.

  Snow fixed him with a gaze so cold it could have frozen the devil himself. “We have it under control, Dr. Jackowski. Good day,” he said. Turning, he moved with purpose down the hall.

  STEELE

  Undisclosed building, VA

  Steele and Mauser scanned their ID badges to gain access to the Washington Field Office, a secure facility, before making their way to a small SCIF. The walls were encased in special metal and soundproof doors to block people and devices from eavesdropping. Here, they could discuss and hold classified information, without risk from phones, pagers, and other transmitting devices.

  By the time Steele and Mauser arrived, three other agents were already prepping their gear inside. Agent Carling loaded her magazines while she talked with a colossal man, her thumb gliding each round into the magazine with practiced efficiency.

  A salt-and-pepper-haired man, in his forties, signed paperwork near the front, his tactical badge clipped on his belt. He checked his watch as the agents walked in and tapped the watch face. Then h
e held his fingers about an inch apart. Apparently, Team Leader Wheeler thinks we’re cutting it a little close. Steele pointed accusingly at Mauser and the man went back to his work, shaking his head.

  Two unknown suits and the Special Agent in Charge of the Washington Field Office conversed in low tones near the front. Steele eyed them warily. Unknown suits were always a sign of trouble. They could potentially be upper management, swooping into the field office to raise hell about some trivial policy, or maybe trying to make a name for themselves by adding yet another layer of bureaucratic red tape to an already bogged-down system.

  Best not worry about things that are out of my control.

  Steele and Mauser claimed a table and set out their gear. Wheeler approached them. He was dressed in regular, everyday garb, just like them: jeans, a shirt and a light jacket. A warrior concealed by civilian dressings.

  “I need you two to sign this paperwork,” he said, dropping a stack on the table in front of them.

  “Gotta keep the suits happy.” He plopped a pen on top as if he worked in an ice cream shop.

  “Jesus, you got something against trees, Wheeler?”

  “Where I’m from we could use a little global warming,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Well, I just don’t have time to sign all of these. You’re interfering with my Zen time,” Mauser said mockingly, hefting the pen. “You know I need at least thirty minutes of zero paperwork before I can start my day.”

  “Trust me. If there was a way around this, I would be doing it.”

  “I can think of one way around this. You think we can take him?” Mauser arched an eyebrow in Steele’s direction.

  Steele cracked his knuckles. “If it means we don’t have to sign all these fucking forms, I think it’s worth a shot.” They all laughed as Wheeler took a step back with a wide grin.

  “Wouldn’t be work unless bullshit came with it.” He turned to Mauser.

  “How’s my favorite puddle pirate? Been a few months since we’ve worked together. How’s Amanda?” The older man grinned.

  “Amanda? I don’t recall a Amanda, sir,” Mauser said with an evil smile as he scribbled his signature across the paperwork.

  “Must be a Kelly or a Sarah in there somewhere?”

  “No sir, just flying solo,” Mauser retorted, tossing the pen to Steele. He preloaded his handcuffs with a click, click, click.

  “And how about our youngest member of our justice league? Captain America himself. How’s Gwen?” he inquired.

  “We are more like avengers, sir,” Mauser said.

  “She’s good, sir. Doing the usual, saving the world one disaster at a time.” Steele knew Wheeler well. Everyone in the service knew, or at least heard of, this man. The legendary ‘Captain’ Don Wheeler. A veteran of hundreds of deployments and ghost wars that wouldn’t be released for public consumption until 2060. Senior CT agent Wheeler had been with the Division long before 9/11. Somalia, Kosovo, Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya and countless others. If someone were declaring war officially or unofficially against the United States, you can bet he’d been there.

  “You put a ring on it yet, son?” Wheeler asked.

  “Not yet, sir. But she keeps hounding me for it,” he replied.

  “That she will son. That she will. She will until she’s got ya’ by the balls, and by then its too late, and you’ll have gray hair, a few kids, and a fat belly,” Wheeler reminisced.

  “Like you,” Steele joked.

  “Careful there son. I've been offing terrorists since you were in diapers.” They laughed.

  Andrea hollered at them from across the room. “You better lock that shit up Steele. She has got to be a saint for putting up with your hairy caveman ass. How can she even find you through that thick mane of fur, anyway? If you break her heart, I swear to God.” She shook a fist at him.

  “All right, everyone calm down. Her hand will be asked for in due time. Everything has to be perfect.”

  He scratched his signature across a pile of paperwork, acknowledging that he knew the risks of the business. It seemed a little redundant, but they did it before every single mission. If he didn’t come home, they could deny he worked for them. Or if he was horribly maimed he couldn’t come after them for liabilities. All in the fine print.

  Wheeler collected his papers and worked his way back toward the front of the room. Within a moment, he changed the subject.

  “Oh, sir. Do you happen to know the score of the Tigers game last night?” Steele asked with mock innocence. The Detroit Tigers had just swept the Minnesota Twins.

  “We’ve only lost a few games. The season’s a marathon, not a sprint. I smell a pennant in the near future,” Wheeler said defiantly.

  Steele chuckled. “Dementia must have set in early with this one,” he said to Mauser, slapping him in the chest.

  Steele had always thought of Wheeler as a mentor. Wheeler had taken a liking to the mature young agent as soon as he entered the Division straight from college six years prior. Wheeler had made it his duty to teach Steele everything he knew.

  “Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Steele come on up here. There is something I need to talk to you about.” Mauser gave his friend a wide-eyed look.

  “Shut up. I’ll be back.”

  Steele approached Wheeler uninhibited. He trusted this man.

  “What’s up?” Steele asked.

  Wheeler’s posture emitted a seriousness that made Steele straighten up. He can’t possibly be mad about the previous exchange.

  “This mission is vital to national security. Where we’re headed isn’t nice, and we can’t accept anything other than success. But I would expect no less from you. This is for real. The big boys are out to play. That’s why I’ve chosen you to be my assistant team leader.”

  Steele beamed. He had been waiting for this opportunity. The ATL spot usually went to an older, more experienced, agent. This meant Steele never got the opportunity because of his age. But he knew that as long as he stayed locked on, it would happen.

  “Now, if you can’t handle it, it’s okay. No one will think less of you,” Wheeler started.

  Steele nodded. “No, no, of course I can handle it.”

  “You know the rules. If I go down, you’re in charge. Complete the mission at all costs.”

  “I got it Cap,” Steele said.

  “Good, because I picked you all for a reason: you to be my number two; Jarl for his experience in protection details; Andrea for her ability to blend in; and Mauser for his…” Wheeler hesitated, thinking of something to say. “…And Mauser for his charming good looks. I’ll let you conduct your checks,” he said with a nod, taking his leave.

  Steele surveyed his teammates. They were a strong unit. Each could hold his or her own in the shit, but together they were a terrorist’s nightmare. Smart, discreet and ready to broach any conflict with speed, surprise and aggression.

  Inwardly Steele smiled at Wheeler’s choices, as they were almost definitely against the SAC’s preferences. Everyone at WFO knew that the SAC didn’t get along with Wheeler and would much rather have handpicked his cronies for this priority mission, given the opportunity. Contrary to set standards, favoritism ran deep throughout the government even within the elite Counterterrorism Division.

  The SPD must have come down from a department head with a special request for Wheeler to lead it. The longstanding rumor within the Division was that Wheeler previously had a fling with the female Deputy Director back in the day. He vehemently denied the rumor, but his denial made his colleagues even more suspicious.

  As a backup to Wheeler, Steele’s responsibility was to complete any rudimentary administrative tasks that Wheeler didn’t want to do. His duties included ensuring equipment was prepped and ready. It was a pointless job, considering that everyone was squared away and responsible for his or her own equipment, but since the big wigs were in the room, formalities were conducted.

  After safety-checking Mauser’s gear, Steele walked over to the giant of a m
an wearing a black compression Under Armor shirt. He had twenty-two inch arms covered in Norse runic inscription tattoos. Two black ravens flew on his arm: one upward and the other downward on either side of a symbol of three interlocking triangles which in turn interlocked on each other. He could have been a fabled Viking warrior like Bjorn Ironside or Ragnar Lothbrok. He towered head and shoulders above everyone else in the room. Glad this guy is on our team.

  “What’s up, Jarl? I thought Chip was rolling out with us?” he said, inspecting the man’s gear.

  Jarl peered down at Steele through a bushy beard. “Boar tusk,” he boomed, placing a meaty paw on Steele’s shoulder.

  “Boar tusk, friend,” Steele repeated.

  The term ‘boar tusk’ had become a greeting between the two men. They would utter to one another like a secret password into their warrior society. Jarl claimed the ancient saying originated from his family’s homeland, Sweden.

  “It’s good to see you, brother. Wheeler say Chip’s sick,” Jarl said with an accent.

  “How’s that book I saw you writing earlier coming?” Steele poked at the man.

  “You know I hate computers, but my boss keeps making me do action reports,” Jarl growled, a scowl settling across his face at the thought of writing more reports.

  “I feel ya’ man. You have all your mags?” Steele asked, making a mental checklist of everything.

  “I brought a couple extra mags for you, little boss,” the big man boomed down at him.

  “Hopefully we won’t need them.”

  Steele meandered his way over to Agent Carling’s table. Her gear was laid out neatly for inspection; organized and tidy, without a single piece an inch out of place. He glanced at her and then back at her gear. Her brown hair hung freely along her shoulders, a small smirk settling on her lips as if she dared him to find a piece missing. She was pretty and the moment you underestimated her she took you out. Andrea was to be the lone female in the group, and it wasn’t unusual for females within the Division to work with all-male teams. Former military, especially special forces, dominated their workforce.