Page 19 of Dead Drift

The air was warm and sticky as Finley followed Griffin through the exhaust-filled parking structure to their rental car, her heels clicking along the concrete a few inches behind him, the sound of her presence soothing. A black Chevy Equinox was waiting for them in slot C3 with keys in the ignition.

Griffin glanced at his watch. They had an hour before their arranged meeting with Special Agent Lance Thornton, the federal agent assigned to Chelsea Miller’s case. The same agent who’d stopped the investigation within three months of opening it, pronouncing all leads dead.

From Griff’s brief conversation with him over the phone, Agent Thornton still sounded unwilling to acknowledge a pattern in the cases. How any law enforcement official worth their salt could deny the obvious connection once the evidence was presented to them was beyond him. To Griff, it sounded like Chelsea Miller’s case was fully closed in Thornton’s mind and he had zero interest in reopening it. Griffin prayed he was wrong.

After a round of quick calls to the various detectives, and a few return calls, their meetings for the next couple days were set.

Today, after meeting with Thornton, they’d make the hour-and-a-half drive southwest of Houston to Edna, Texas, to speak with Detectives Clint Eason and Joel Hood. Then they’d be on their way to Pasadena, Texas, which was only twenty minutes outside of Houston, where they’d meet with homicide detective Gil Crest. It wasn’t the most efficient route drive-wise, but Detective Crest wasn’t free until early evening, and it allowed them to work the murders in reverse order. Plus, it would bring them back toward Houston for dinner and their night at their hotel.

Tomorrow’s lineup included the final two detectives and speaking with the victims’ families. That was the aspect of the investigation Griffin was dreading most, knowing the pain he’d be resurrecting. He wished there was some way to avoid it, but he wouldn’t be conducting a thorough investigation without those interviews.

Declan strode to the front of the briefing room, his perfectly shined leather loafers squeaking on the faded white tile floor. Declan had grown from a medium-built youth into a solidly built man—his shoulder breadth and handspan surely intimidating to most people.

Luke had been trained to handle himself in any situation, but Declan’s rugged build had given him a moment of pause upon first sight—not out of fear, but out of surprise and a bit of admiration.

And Kate . . . She’d grown into the beautiful, complex, fascinating woman he’d always known she’d become. And he’d missed the joy of seeing her go from a twenty-two-year-old student to a spectacular woman who made his heart thud in a way he hadn’t thought still possible. Every nerve ending sparked to life when she entered a room.

“As Alan said”—Declan’s deep timbre pulled Luke back into focus—“I fear we are facing one of our greatest terrorist threats yet, comparable to 9/11, and with potential for even more devastating effects.”

A murmur trickled through the room, and then a hush fell over the group. Everyone’s attention was riveted on Declan, who paced back and forth in front of the LED screen as a photograph—one, strangely enough, Luke had taken in the field—appeared upon it.

“This threat,” Declan continued, “has the potential to spread like wildfire.” He turned and indicated the image on the wall behind him. “Dr. Isaiah Bedan—a foremost scientist in the realm of biological warfare—is in the country, and six ounces of anthrax were stolen en route from Fort Detrick to the CDC. I don’t believe Dr. Bedan’s arrival in the States the same day the anthrax was hijacked is a coincidence. The two are undoubtedly intertwined and are being coordinated by Dr. Khaled Ebeid of the Islamic Cultural Institute of the Mid-Atlantic—a front for a vast terrorist network of sleeper cells here in the U.S.

“Thankfully, we have an incredible asset on our team,” Declan said, his gaze falling on Luke. He indicated for him to step forward. “CIA operative Luke Gallagher is partnering with us.” He gestured for Luke to take the floor as he took a seat in the first row.

Luke stepped to the front of the room. “I’m in full agreement with Agent Grey,” he said. “We are facing our fiercest biological warfare terrorist threat on American soil yet.” He looked back at Ebeid’s picture—the man his world had centered on for years. “To give you some background,” he continued, “we first learned of Dr. Khaled Ebeid’s extremist ties and activities seven years ago—eight this coming May, to be precise.”

He looked at Kate. Her expression indicated she understood this was the operation that he’d left for. Not that it’d make the fact of his leaving any easier to bear, but maybe she’d better understand what he believed he had been fighting—was still fighting—only now on U.S. soil.

“I was first assigned to a team focused on Khaled Ebeid in Ebil, Iraq. Back then, he was co-founder of the Iraqi Heritage Institute. The Agency flagged him when they discovered his loyalty and ties to Osama bin Laden. After bin Laden’s death, Ebeid fled the country, moving, fortuitously for him, to Paris, where he took a position as the cultural attaché at the Middle Eastern Antiquities Museum.

“Five car bombings and one subway bombing occurred during his two-year tenure there. Upon deep investigation in conjunction with local authorities and Interpol, all suicide bombers tracked loosely back to Ebeid, and Interpol continued to work with us. Yet despite their thorough inquest into Ebeid, nothing concrete could officially tie him to the bombings, and again, with perfect timing, he moved. This time to Baltimore, where he set up shop. Though here on U.S. soil he has been more patient and far subtler in his terrorist actions—waiting, building, preparing.

“We, of course, alerted Langley to his presence and background, and the NSA has been keeping close tabs on him. While Ebeid has become less aggressive in his approach, at least on the surface, he’s no less dangerous. I fear he’s even more deadly a threat. He’s still putting on a cultural attaché front, which suits his background and degrees, but he’s using the cultural institute as a buffer for his continued terrorist activities and extremist ties. We know Ebeid has been bringing over young Southeast Asian recruits and forming a network of sleeper cells.”

He cleared his throat. “As I’m sure you’re all aware, Agent Grey had a direct encounter with one of these recruits—a man by the name of Anajay Darmadi. Prior to that encounter, I had been following Anajay in Asia—first in Thailand, and then in Malaysia. I was tracking the funnel Ebeid was using to recruit and then smuggle the young men over.

“But all of this has simply been preparation for what is about to occur. As Declan said, yesterday Dr. Ebeid managed to smuggle Dr. Isaiah Bedan into the country.”

Declan flipped the LED image to one of Bedan.

Luke nodded his thanks and continued. “Dr. Bedan is a U.S.-trained microbiologist at the top of his field, or at least he was until his fall from glory two years ago, when he recruited a young student to release anthrax into the air in Munich by dumping it from the top of a four-story building. Fortunately, a security guard noticed the man headed for the roof, and while he was unable to fully prevent the attack, he did intervene in time to keep the death toll to a minimum. Though six deaths, including the guard’s, is hardly inconsequential.”

“How do you know Bedan recruited him?” a female agent in the second row asked.

“Because the young man proudly confessed before he died from the anthrax he exposed himself to.” Luke’s jaw tightened, the defiance and lack of any remorse in that young man still tugging at him, filling him with righteous anger. Burning anger to protect the country he loved. “After deeper investigation,” he said, shifting his gait to the right, “we discovered this wasn’t the first time Bedan conducted biological warfare. Horrifyingly enough, it appears Bedan had been refining what he refers to as ‘his craft’ by performing human biological warfare experiments for numerous years leading up to the anthrax attack in Munich.”

Shocked expressions and gasps swept through the room.

Luke looked at Kate, whose eyes were wide and her shoulders squared—always ready to take on injustice.

A sea of hands rose like a wave spreading across the room. This was going to be a long and heavy discussion, though he had expected it and, to be fully honest, hoped for no less. The agents present were taking the threat as seriously as it deserved to be taken, though serious didn’t come close to describing just how horrific Bedan, Ebeid, and their plans were.

Luke pointed to the hand farthest away and would work his way forward. Every agent had some form of note-taking device in hand, their full attention on him.

“You said Bedan is a U.S.-trained microbiologist?” an agent with blond wavy hair cropped above his ears asked.

“Yes. Bedan’s background is . . .” Luke exhaled. “I’ll let you judge for yourselves. His family immigrated to the U.S. right after World War II, because his grandfather, Abel Bedan, an Austrian Nazi scientist, was part of Operation Paperclip.”