Perfect Weapon. Amy J. Fetzer

voice was muffled, whispered. “Not authorized.”

      Jack battled for a second then said, “Decker, Lyons, and Martinez are dead, Hutch. Murdered while we were hunting at Luray. She’s the reason.”

      “I’ll get back to you on that.” The line went dead.

      Hutch would come through. He owed Jack for pulling him out of a little mess in Iraq a few years back.

      With NSA swinging the big dick around, trying to sweep the murders under the carpet of national security, he had to back up and regroup. He’d already tossed the dead deer in a Dumpster near the park, and went to a self-serve car wash to rinse out the blood. The ranger’s clothes joined the carcass and Jack was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt he’d planned to change into after the hunt and had stashed in a duffel in the truck.

      He was freezing his ass off. He scanned the area, his two-bedroom house outside Quantico and was locked as he’d left it. Most of his neighbors were still at work. He couldn’t wait till nightfall. People would be coming home, kids would be near and vulnerable. If the intelligence network connected, they’d be looking for him before morning. He was a material witness, and when NSA figured it out, Jack would have to turn himself in. He was hoping his military record spoke loudly enough for him when NSA learned he’d slipped away from the rangers. Breaking the rules wasn’t something Jack did easily. Ever. But three dead Marines made the difference.

      Leaving his truck and edging down the alley, he slipped in his back door.

      Inside, he didn’t turn on lights. He pulled the shades, feeling like an escapee from prison. He kept his cell phone near. After a quick shower, he changed, then took inventory of his Ops gear, and stuffed it into duffels and packs, loading it by the door. He started to dial Lyons’s wife, then stopped and dropped into a chair. What would he say? He’d lost men before. When they knew the enemy and saw them coming. But this?

      A goddamn massacre. And he couldn’t give their families answers yet.

      He stared at the phone, then laid it down, and gripped his head, fought the grief, the images of shattered skull and blood. The expressions and tears he knew he’d see when he told his friends’ loved ones their husbands and sons were dead. It was his duty to be the one to inform them. But with the sad news, he needed to tell them why, and that the murderers were behind bars. In caskets, would be better.

      Pushing out of the chair, Jack went to his liquor stash over the stove, and poured himself two fingers of twenty-year-old scotch. He held it up in salute, murmured, “Semper Fi,” then tossed it back in one shot. It burned over the ache swelling his throat. He gripped the glass, his vision burning.

      It should have been me. Dammit. The glass popped in his fist. He stared down at the shattered glass, the blood blooming on his thumb. You’re alive for a reason, he thought. Get control. He rinsed his hand, gave it a quick first aid, then sitting in front of his computer in the darkened house, he went online to search for Doctor Sydney Hale.

      College photos and newspaper clippings of numerous awards digitized on the screen. Child prodigy, gifted. A masters in microchemistry at Clemson, another in microbiology, then a freaking doctorate from Johns Hopkins in chemical immunology. Jesus, did this woman even have a life beyond school? Then, five years ago, everything stopped. Using his access codes he had only because he was a team leader, Jack bent a few more rules, skewered his ethics, and accessed files few could. Still, nothing came up in the last five years. No water bill, no mortgage, not even a driver’s license. She’d been wiped out, and that meant someone didn’t want Sydney Hale to exist.

      Her image gelled on the screen again, and Jack memorized her face, the curvy body and bright eyes. The man in him recognized her beauty. The Marine in him saw the answers to his friends’ death.

      Who are you, Dr. Hale? What were you making up there?

      The cell phone rang. Jack looked at the number and answered.

      Hutch spoke briefly, then cut the line.

      Cisco sat alone inside a long, black windowless van, the satellite communications phone to his ear. His skin turned a slightly darker shade as the director raked him over the coals. Mother had failed and it was Cisco’s responsibility. “I’m looking at the satellite thermal shots now, sir,” Cisco argued. “Three escaped. No sir, the two bodies we have were wearing thermal liners.” The director asked how he knew only three escaped. “Aside the bike track, those men were running uphill, and their body temp didn’t keep up with the cold liner suits under their clothes. Obviously they’d planned to ride double.”

      Cisco scanned the photos, the doors of the van closed. Outside, several agents waited in the cold evening. Gabe wished they were in here facing the big guns instead of him. “I’d ask that you not inform anyone of the dead Marines, sir.” Cisco didn’t want to tip any hands just yet.

      “The council and the Under Secretary must be informed,” the director said.

      “We have a leak, sir, and until I cap it, I insist. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s best that the country doesn’t know that three Marines—on leave—were murdered anywhere near the Cradle.”

      “Agreed, however, watch yourself. You’re inches from accusing a member of the council of a criminal act.”

      “With the exception of you and the Under Secretary, everyone is a suspect…sir.”

      There was a long silence as the director weighed the options and scenarios. As Cisco had done since dawn this morning. “Agreed.”

      “I’ve accounted for the five researchers not on that shift. All have valid alibis, but can’t be undisputedly proven. It was dawn. They were sleeping.”

      “And Dr. Hale?”

      “Alive and secured. I’ll be questioning her soon.”

      “She’s a valuable resource, Cisco. Her brain child garnered a billion dollar project funding.”

      “I understand that, sir, but she is the only living witness.” Cisco pressed his advantage. “I’m aware the R & D team was working on Sarin countermeasures sir, but what type exactly?”

      “You’re tasked with finding the terrorists and the vials,” was his boss’s answer.

      “You’re tying my hands, sir. How can I hunt if I don’t know what to look for?”

      The director made a frustrated sound. “It can’t be helped.”

      “Then don’t expect miracles.”

      “I’ll see what I can do.”

      “Yes, sir.” Shit. He needed more information to work this.

      The director cut the call and Cisco did the same, tapping the heavy satellite phone against his knee before sliding the door open. He inclined his head and agents climbed in. “Wick, get the car.”

      Wickum looked forlornly at the warm van, then hunched in his coat, and obeyed.

      Cisco shut the door and stared at the men crowding the van.

      “Get comfortable, no one leaves.” No one balked, either. “When CBC gives the go ahead, excavate. We need to get down there.” The Chemical Biohazard Control Unit would clear the air for toxins before anyone was close enough to be affected. Cisco silently deliberated, then spoke. “The Cradle was a working lab for Sarin gas countermeasures.”

      Expressions changed, eyes widened.

      “It’s a level five, no discussion without secure locations. We have whisper devices; they can, too. I want everyone to be suited up if they go near the entrances. There were vials of gas stored six hundred feet below. We don’t know if they got to them or what else they might have seized. We have to work from a clear objective.” He held up a finger. “One, they took the gas and will use it to blackmail the U.S. Two, everyone below is dead and possibly the research data destroyed or stolen. These attackers easily killed three hunters; they won’t hesitate in killing anyone else.