Indispensable Party (Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller No. 4) (30 page)

A French correspondent was
reporting that research that could be misused with disastrous consequences was
reportedly missing from a Level Four laboratory at the Pasteur Institute.
Neither the Institute nor the French government had returned calls for comment.
The reporter cautioned that the report was unsubstantiated.

The report didn’t mention the
Doomsday virus by name. Leo was impressed by how effectively the task force
seemed to have suppressed the details of the theft. The host tied the story
back to an ongoing series about the ethical issues surrounding “dual-use”
research into deadly pathogens and then moved on to the next news item.

Sasha weaved through the early
rush hour traffic with a furrowed brow but said nothing.

It was time to call Hank, Leo
thought to himself.

He pulled out his phone to make
the call, but Sasha’s phone rang before he had the chance.

“Could you get that?” she asked,
chewing on her lip and inching past a PAT bus that was picking up passengers
who had to navigate a mountain of snow to board.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Sasha McCandless’s
phone,” a male voice answered.

Gavin couldn’t be sure, because
the voice was distorted by the tinny speakerphone, but it sounded like Leo.

He glanced away from the iPhone
and met Anna’s troubled gaze. “It’s okay,” he stage whispered, “It’s her boyfriend.”

Anna nodded and made a frantic
motion with her hand to indicate he should hurry up.

She’d said hardly anything since
she’d returned to the cabin. He could tell from her red, puffy eyes that she’d
been crying. But, she hadn’t confided in him—she’d just thrust the phone at him
and said, “Make the call.”

Gavin cleared his sore throat. “Leo,
it’s Gavin Russell. I really need to talk to Sasha.”

“Hang on, I’m going to put you on
speaker. She’s driving.”

A moment later, Sasha’s clear but
distant voice came through the speaker.

“Gavin? Are you okay? I’ve been
worried about you.”

“Sasha, I don’t have much time.
Just listen carefully: Celia is dead, I’m sick with the flu and being held in
quarantine by the preppers. They’re planning to attack Pittsburgh.”

He waited a moment for her to
process the information.

Sasha pelted him with questions. “What
kind of attack? When? Do you know the precise location?”

 “I don’t, but Anna might. She’s
married to the head guy.”

“Can we trust her?”

Gavin looked at Anna, whose eyes
kept darting to the closed cabin door.

“I don’t know. But I don’t have
any other choice,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Anna met his gaze and swallowed
hard.

“This is Anna Bricker. Jeffrey—my
husband—somehow gained possession of a vial of the Doomsday virus. He’s
planning to release it sometime after midnight at the big nativity display in
downtown Pittsburgh.” She spoke in a stilted, formal voice.

“The crèche in Steel Plaza?”
Sasha asked.

“I guess. He said some school
group will be singing there in the morning,” Anna responded.

Gavin could hear murmured voices
as Sasha consulted with Leo. Sasha’s was soft and urgent. Leo’s deeper voice
rumbled calmly.

“Gavin,” Leo said louder, “are
you and Ms. Bricker in a safe location?”

“Negative. We’re at the compound.
I’m being held in a locked room against my will. Anna is one of the preppers
tending to me medically, but if they find out she’s helping me—” Gavin
answered.

Anna shook her head at him,
rejecting what he’d left unsaid. But Gavin knew he was right. He’d seen his
share of men like Bricker posture and rail in front of Judge Paulson. Strip
away the delusions of grandeur and the ideological bullcrap, and Bricker was no
different from the meth-heads who beat their wives because the kids were
crying.

“Can you get out of there?” Sasha
asked.

“Not without Anna’s help. I’ve
turned a corner, but I’m still pretty weak,” Gavin admitted.

Anna kept her eyes fixed on the
floor and said, “I can’t put my children in danger by trying to leave. Just …
get someone up here, fast. Please.”

The call came in
to the Dogwood Station. But after the caller clarified the location, the
operator determined the area in question was served by the Elk Run Station and
transferred the call, where it was answered by Tanner Royerson. He was fresh
out of the Marines and had returned home to Clear Brook County to get some
civil law enforcement experience while he put in his applications with the
various federal government agencies.

The caller gave her name as Sasha
McCandless and reported a man being held against his will at the old Department
of Natural Resources camp up by the state game lands. Tanner dropped his
half-eaten energy bar on his desk and started pecking out notes on his ancient
computer.

He made it a habit to surf the
government websites for bulletins and alerts every day at the start of his
shift. The veteran troopers got a big kick out of it because they claimed
nothing that interesting ever happened way out where they were. But, Tanner was
undeterred. He figured it was like the advice his girlfriend Melanie always
followed: Dress for the job you want, not the job you have. If he kept acting
like he was on the front lines of homeland security, maybe, eventually, he
would be.

So the location at the campsite
set off a bell for Tanner, and when the woman on the phone mentioned the
Preppers PA group, the alarm in his head rang louder.

He listened intently to the
information the caller imparted, even though it was hard to hear her over the
drumbeat of his heart. She spoke in a measured voice, managing to convey
urgency without resorting to hysteria. He figured her for a doctor or maybe an
EMT, not because she said anything that led him to believe she had any medical
training, but for the simple reason that she wasn’t freaking out.

She explained there was a sick
man—possibly infected with a deadly, contagious virus—being quarantined by the
preppers. She also said some of the other individuals at the site might not be
there completely voluntarily.

He asked how many other
individuals were on site, and she hesitated. She said she couldn’t estimate with
any accuracy but there could be dozens, if not hundreds, of preppers, including
women and children and that most of the adults of both sexes would likely be
armed.

He typed quickly and
inaccurately. His fingers shook from all the adrenaline coursing through his
body. He thanked her, hung up the phone, and rocked his metal desk chair back
on two legs.

He pulled up his browser history.
There it was—an alert flashing across the top of the Department of Homeland
Security’s page: Possible kidnapping/hostage situation at Pennsylvania
campsite. Militia group involved. Contact Hank Richardson directly with
information.

“Hot damn!” he said to no one in
particular. Then he brought his chair back down on all four legs with a bang,
and fumbled around with the phone until he managed to punch in the mobile
number that appeared beside Hank Richardson’s name on the website.

Sasha’s joy at
seeing Connelly was severely dampened by the call with Gavin and Anna. A weight
was settling between her shoulder blades.

She changed out of her sheath and
jacket and rolled her shoulders while she surveyed the contents of her closet.
Jeans and a sweater seemed like the logical choice for the post-sledding
get-together at her parents’ place. Instead, she reached for black wool running
tights, a dark gray shirt, and a black fleece jacket.

She walked into her bedroom to
see that Connelly had traded his suit and tie for black athletic pants and a
black hooded sweatshirt.

It was almost as if they had
chosen clothes suitable for skulking around in the woods in the dead of winter
rather than a family dinner. They exchanged knowing looks, but Connelly didn’t
mention the cat burglar attire, so neither did she.

Connelly’s phone rang and
vibrated on the window sill. He palmed it and checked the display.

“It’s Hank.”

He answered the call and activated
the speakerphone.

“Leo, I got your message. I also
had a call with a Trooper Royerson, who tells me your girlfriend called to
report a hostage situation at that prepper camp,” Hank said, skipping the small
talk.

“That’s right, Hank. I’m in
Pittsburgh with Sasha now. You’re on the speakerphone,” Connelly told him.

Sasha heard an irritated cluck
and pictured Hank sucking air in between his teeth on the other end of the
phone, not sure whether to be candid now that he knew she was listening.

“Hank, let me just put your mind
at ease—in light of Leo’s recent detention, he’s asked me to advise him as to
his legal rights and obligations. So, I’m present in my capacity as his counsel
and am bound by attorney-client privilege not to divulge the substance of any
conversation the three of us may have,” she said.

Connelly shot her a curious look,
which she interpreted as asking whether any of what she had just said was even
remotely true.

She raised both hands and
shrugged. She didn’t have the faintest idea. People seemed to keep forgetting she
was a civil litigator who specialized in complex commercial disputes.

“Hmm. It’s not like I’m calling
in my official capacity, anyway,” Hank reasoned.

“You’re not?” Connelly asked.

“No. This conversation isn’t
happening.”

Connelly gave her a puzzled look
that she suspected mirrored her own and said, “Understood. You said Trooper
Royerson called you? Now, why would he do that? Sasha reported a hostage
situation. That doesn’t fall under your purview.”

“Ordinarily it wouldn’t, but the
rookie who caught Sasha’s call is one Trooper Tanner Royerson, recently
honorably discharged from the Marine Corps, home in Clear Brook County, and
dreaming of bigger things. He has enough ambition to troll the alerts on the
website and he saw my alert regarding Ms. Gerig.”

Gerig?
Sasha mouthed.

 “Did you say Gerig?” Connelly
asked.

“Sure, your missing employee.
After you and Sasha met with the task force and shared what you knew, I did
some digging. We’d been looking at ViraGene very closely for the theft of the
Doomsday virus, and Celia Gerig’s name hadn’t popped. So, I was pretty sure you
were barking up the wrong tree with the theory that ViraGene was behind the
stolen vaccines.”

“Gee, thanks for letting me know,”
Connelly deadpanned.

“Now you know that’s not how
things work. I couldn’t tell you without compromising an existing bioterrorism
investigation. Frankly, I’m surprised you two didn’t put it together when that
Judge Minella deep-sixed your temporary restraining order. We think ViraGene’s
good for the stolen virus, not the stolen vaccines. In fact, that was the
mission I wanted you to help out with—we’re sitting on ViraGene’s CEO, but you
decided to run off to Pittsburgh instead.”

Connelly opened his mouth, but
Sasha spoke over him.

“So, your alert is for Celia, not
Gavin Russell?” she asked.

“We learned that Gerig had last
been seen on Saturday, in the company of two known preppers, buying gasoline at
a station en route to that campground they maintain. It seemed prudent to treat
her as a victim until we found her. Most people who disappear voluntarily tell
someone they’re leaving. Who in blue blazes is Russell?” Hank said.

“Gavin Russell is a private
investigator in Springport and a former sheriff’s deputy. Sasha and I know
him—knew him—from that whole fracking scandal. It turns out he also went to
high school with Celia Gerig. He agreed to try to locate her. And, he did. He
found her at the compound, alone, and apparently very sick. Now, she’s dead,
and he’s sick, being held in what the preppers are calling quarantine.”

“Gerig’s dead?”

“Yes. We believe from natural
causes,” Leo confirmed.

“I told Royerson to drive out to
the compound and watch it from the road. He’s to sit there until we get a team
up there. It’s going to take a while. The campsite is about four hours north of
the closest trained SWAT unit. If we get lucky, we should be able to extract
your friend.”

“You’re going to want to have that
team on the ground here,” Sasha said.

“There? You mean, in Pittsburgh?”

“Right. A man by the name of
Jeffrey Bricker is the head of the prepper organization. According to Bricker’s
wife and Gavin, Bricker obtained a vial of the virus and plans to release it
sometime between midnight and tomorrow morning at a Christmas display in
Downtown Pittsburgh,” Connelly said in a low, serious voice.

“It’s called the Pittsburgh
Crèche. It’s a big display at Steel Plaza in front of the USX Tower,” Sasha
added.

Hank was silent.

“Hank?” Connelly prompted after a
moment. He dragged his hand through his hair.

“I’m here. I’m trying to figure
out how to deploy my resources. The SWAT unit assigned to the Pittsburgh field
office is already mobilizing—I was planning to send them to the compound. But
if there’s an imminent attack planned for their backyard, I can’t send them
four hours away. I’ll need them at that crèche. How far away is Philly? Or
Baltimore? Buffalo? I could activate one of those teams. I can’t send the
Washington team, they have to protect high-value targets located there.”

“Too far, Hank. There’s no time.
You’ll have to loop in the State Police,” Connelly told him.

“I don’t think Dogwood Station
has the specialized tactical response team I’m going to want up there, son.
And, more to the point, I need to keep this situation out of the media for as
long as possible. I can’t risk adding law enforcement officers outside my
control if it means I’m going to see the governor on television reassuring his
constituents that he’s got the planned terrorist attack under control,” Hank
said.