Page 2 of Dead Drift

“Fort Detrick was transporting a supply of anthrax to the CDC, and it was just hijacked. The guards are dead, and the truck carrying somewhere in the neighborhood of six ounces of anthrax is gone.”

“Why didn’t we know about that transfer?”

“We did, but we didn’t consider it a target.”

He was so sick of being given only bits of intel when there was a far bigger game at play. His frustration with Malcolm soared. “And you can’t find the truck?” Surely helicopters were searching, but why hadn’t he been notified about the anthrax transport? If only he’d known. . . . Of course Ebeid would go for the anthrax. Dr. Kemel’s transport was just another diversion. Ebeid had been feeding them false intel. Righteous anger flared hotter than the flames dancing a hundred yards from him as fire trucks converged on what remained of the convoy.

He covered his free ear, trying to hear as Malcolm continued. “We believe they must have switched vehicles somewhere undercover, but we’re still looking.”

His chest compressed. Both the bridge and Kemel’s transfer were diversions. Ebeid and his team had just outmaneuvered them. But how did he know to play them? Did he have a man on the inside, or had Ebeid discovered their man on the inside and fed him false intel?

Either way, Ebeid and his crew now had six ounces of anthrax along with Dr. Bedan. Luke fought the urge to stagger backward. Instead, he leaned against his car, which was still warm from the blaze that had engulfed it only moments ago. It was mind-numbing to think the convoy explosion and the bombing attempt on the Bay Bridge were nothing compared to what anthrax could do. A few grams were deadly, and Ebeid now had six ounces in his control.

Luke swallowed. He couldn’t even begin to fathom the level of destruction Ebeid could cause or what deployment method he was planning. This case had just shifted gears—and the ramifications were terrifying. “We need to bring in the FBI. I’m sure they’ve already been alerted to the hijacked anthrax.”

“Yes. I’ll make sure the case is directed to Declan Grey, as he’s already somewhat looped in. Looks like you’ll be reunited with your old friends after all. Guess we’re going to see how well trained you actually are in not letting attachments come into play.”

Elation and unease churned inside Luke. The idea of working side by side with Katie and the guys thrilled him, yet it also terrified him. He wasn’t the same man they’d once known, and he was nervous that they wouldn’t like who he’d become. He didn’t like who he’d become half the time, and yet he knew he was doing what the job required.

“I need you to come in. We need to talk.”

Luke gazed back at the remnants of a war zone—shattered debris littering the scorched ground, gray smoke plumes funneling into the hazy air, flames dancing in the carcass of the transport van.

He swallowed at the sight of the charred remains, regretting the action as pain shot down his parched throat, the smoke sucking the oxygen from the air. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

Dr. Isaiah Bedan entered the lab Ebeid built for him—designed, it appeared, to his exact specifications. A combination of trepidation and searing joy surged through his limbs. This is it. This one act would be regarded as the zenith of his life’s work. He was creating something others had only dreamt about. Yes, it would cause destruction, but that’s what they deserved—destruction and decimation.

Bedan appraised the finest in lab equipment and, much to his pleasure, adequate space and light. Everything he needed to make his mark on history. To be history.

“Your living quarters are this way,” Cyrus said, gesturing to the back of the lab.

The living space consisted of a small galley kitchen, a desk, sofa, and armchair, and a bedroom with a twin bed and full bath.

“It will suffice?” Cyrus asked.

Bedan nodded. Not the luxury accommodations he’d expect from a man like Ebeid, but it was sufficient.

“If you require anything we have not provided”—he handed Bedan his business card—“call me and I will see you get it. The kitchen is fully stocked,” he said, opening the refrigerator door to reveal shelves stuffed with food. “The pantry is equally full.”

Bedan nodded his thanks.

“How soon can we expect results?”

“If everything goes smoothly, the finished product will be ready in a matter of days.”

“Meaning?”

“In time for the anniversary.” He’d had a working prototype before Ebeid moved him to the States. Now he had a privately funded lab and the opportunity to fully concentrate on putting the finishing touches on his design. He narrowed his eyes at Cyrus’s displeased look. “Has something changed in the timeline?”

“No. The date stands, but we don’t want to wait until the last minute to make certain it works. We need time for testing.”

“Of course.” Bedan set down his bag and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “I’ll get started right away.” A day or two of concentrated time, and he’d be finished. “You may tell Ebeid he will have his retribution.”

Luke strode across the leaf-covered grounds of his alma mater. Seven and a half years since he’d been a student here. His mentor, Malcolm Warner, had recruited him into the Agency just prior to graduation. He’d still gotten his degree—Malcolm saw to that—but he’d never walked across the stage or seen Katie do so.

He blinked, his mind flashing back to a simpler time, when the dreams he and Kate Maxwell had were the same. Join the Bureau, get married, fight injustice, and make a life together. But all that had changed during a conversation with Malcolm. Instead of embarking on a life with Katie, he’d gone through advanced training at the Farm and had been sent into the field in a black ops unit under the leadership of Lauren Graham. Talk about someone who was not quite right. . . .

Passing a couple clearly in love jolted his mind and heart back to Katie. But she was his past. Ebeid was his present. And the future . . . ? That was up to him to define—not Malcolm.