Darkness Falls, page 20
"I'm going to correct our mistake. I am going to kill Jenna and Erin Neal."
"How do you propose to find them? They're working with the government in the United States."
"I will make them come to me."
Teague nodded silently. Jonas, like the other weapons in that cabinet, was a useful tool. There was no way to predict exactly the path society's collapse would take and how quickly or violently it would happen. And in the face of that kind of uncertainty, someone like Jonas could be useful.
On the other hand, he was becoming increasingly difficult to control. At first, Teague hadn't been concerned because Udo seemed to hold sway over his brother. But now, he was afraid the relationship was having the opposite effect, that Jonas was making his older brother more defiant.
Perhaps this was for the best. If he kept Jonas here, his anger and frustration could further contaminate his brother. And for what? An unpredictable enforcer who would almost certainly not be needed.
What would happen if he let the German go? Perhaps he would succeed in dealing with Erin and Jenna -- and although getting rid of them was probably not critical, it certainly would eliminate one of the most prominent threats to them. On the other hand, if Jonas failed, it would likely be the end of him, and that had the potential to solve a number of other nagging problems.
Teague turned and walked back to where Udo had attached the thermos to the top of the pipe jutting from the floor. It looked like some kind of modern sculpture -- the graceful stainless curves of the thermos gleaming against the dirty rust of the industrial pipe.
Udo held out a large wrench and Teague took it, sliding it around the valve release and throwing his weight against it. For a moment it didn't move, but then it submitted, sending the bacteria into the pipe in a barely audible rush.
Finally, it was done.
Chapter 38.
The wind blew the hair across Jenna Kalin's face, but she didn't bother to push it away, instead letting it fill her mouth and eyes along with the foul air.
She stood alone at the crumbling edge of a large concrete reservoir, hands shoved deeply into the pockets of her down jacket, and watched clouds swirling over the endless oil-soaked dunes. Canada's tar sands, now universally seen as humanity's savior, would more likely be the cause of its demise. And once again, it was her fault.
The rusting industrial building a quarter mile away had been one of the first facilities to extract oil from the area -- washing it from the sand, collecting it, and then transporting it to far away refineries. As technology had improved, though, it had become obsolete and finally was abandoned to decay in what had once been a vast emptiness stretching from horizon to horizon.
The first helicopters to land had been filled with Canadian special forces, who quickly secured the area but found no one. Now, two hours later, the landscape was dotted with helicopters and people were everywhere -- studying derelict pipes and machinery, taking soil samples, shouting into satellite phones.
The initial sweep confirmed their worst-case scenario. Not only were Michael and the Metzgers not there, but it looked like no one had been for years.
Did she really think it would be this easy? That she could swoop in and save the day? No. But she hoped she would. And other than Erin, hope was all she had anymore.
She squinted into the distance, finally finding him standing behind a partially collapsed trailer to keep out of the wind. He was kicking at the ground, head down, while Mark Beamon talked heatedly with someone she didn't recognize.
They'd decided to leave her alone, mostly because neither seemed to know what else to do. Erin made the occasional awkward attempt to make her feel better, but he still couldn't decide whether to comfort her or to strangle her. The funny thing was that strangling her would have probably been better for both of them in the long run.
Their feelings for each other had the potential to further complicate an already impossible situation. The truth was that she didn't have much of a future. Maybe no one did.
Mark Beamon waved to her and she reluctantly started picking her way through the industrial debris littering the ground. The wind died down and as she got closer she slowed, trying to pick up what was being said.
"Look, I don't know what you want from me," Beamon protested. "I --"
The man in front of him cut him off. "Do you know how difficult it was to get you this kind of access, Mark? To get our people to cooperate with you at all? Your press is telling the world that we're hoarding our oil and trying to starve you. Our embassy's been attacked. And do you know what your government's doing?"
"Nothing," Beamon said. "I know. But it's just the press. They say what sells papers. What can we do?"
"Your president could get on television and tell the American people everything we're doing to try to help. He could --"
"Bullshit, Carl. How long have you and I known each other? More than a decade? And I don't remember ever thinking you were stupid. Politicians love diversions, and you're the diversion du jour. As long as the American voters are pissed at you, they don't have time to get pissed at the people who actually got them into this."
Beamon looked relieved when Jenna finally reached them and he put a hand on her shoulder in what she knew was an honest attempt to be reassuring. "Jenna, this is Carl Fournier. He's my counterpart here in Canada."
Fournier didn't offer his hand, instead folding his arms and staring at her with an expression too opaque to read. He was much more imposing than Beamon probably six foot four -- with a narrow waist, well-defined features, and a precision haircut that seemed impervious to the elements.
"And what if we don't think that your government standing by doing nothing is good enough?" he said, looking at her, but talking to Beamon.
"You've got to be kidding me, Carl. You're giving me an ultimatum? Now? If this bug gets loose, the few Canadians that are left will be living in caves and hunting moose with spears."
"You don't make it easy, though, do you, Mark? It's not enough for you to come here and start making demands when the relationship between our countries is at an all-time low, but you bring the woman responsible. How do you think that looks to the people I work for?"
As far as Jenna was concerned, the Canadian's reservations about her were completely justified. Even she couldn't completely understand why she was still roaming around free. When she'd asked, Beamon told her not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but the complete silence on the matter was becoming increasingly eerie -- as though someone was lurking just out of sight, waiting for the moment she was no longer useful.
"I'm not trying to bark orders, here," Beamon said. "I'm offering my help. And all the PR crap aside, so is the American government."
"Oh, right. You've been so generous in offering military assistance to secure our energy reserves. Seems a bit convenient, though, doesn't it? I wonder how hard it would be for us to get those reserves back if we accepted your help?"
Beamon didn't immediately answer, his unwillingness to deny Fornier's accusation clearly not an oversight. "What's the bottom line here, Carl? Do you think I'm here to screw you?"
Fournier considered the question for a moment. "You personally? No."
"Then can we move on?"
Fournier's expression suggested that he knew he had no choice but to cooperate, and he turned to Erin. "You've searched the building. Have you learned anything at all?"
"That there's nothing here."
"Well, that's helpful, isn't it?"
"There are a few old factories like this in the tar sands," Beamon said, cutting Erin off before he could respond. "What makes this one unique is that it was bought by a company we can't get a handle on. The deeper we dig, the more confusing the ownership gets. Basically, a classic front corporation."
A fighter jet screamed overhead, drowning out even the wind, and they all looked up as it angled north and began to climb.
"Are you sure you didn't miss anything?" Beamon said as the sound of the engines faded.
Erin shook his head. "Look around you. The place is falling down. There's no power, no containers left that aren't rusted through, and even if they weren't, they aren't big enough to do what Michael needs to do."
"Maybe we're totally wrong," Jenna said.
"Maybe he is in Russia. Or maybe he's come up with something we haven't even imagined. I mean, he's had years to think about this. We've had a few days. We're wasting our time. We don't have a chance . . ."
She fell silent when Fournier's phone began to ring. He turned his back and moved out of the shelter provided by the trailer.
Beamon put his hand on her shoulder again. "You've got to do me a favor and forget the past. You can't change it and it's just going to cloud your judgment. If Teague wins, you'll most likely get your opportunity to die horribly and pay for your sins. Until then, though, I need you to stay focused."
She nodded, but couldn't bring herself to look at either Beamon or Erin. "You're right. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Just keep it together, okay?"
"Oka "
y.
"Mark!" Fournier shouted, jogging back up to them a bit out of breath. "The company that owns this place just rented a building in Calgary and had a bunch of lab equipment shipped to it." He slapped his hands together and rubbed them against the cold. "We've got them."
Chapter 39.
"We have people stationed here and here," Fournier said, pointing to a couple of blurry figures on the screens lining the inside of the van.
Beamon tried to adjust himself into a position where Erin's elbow wasn't digging into his ribs, but could barely move in the confines of the vehicle. "That's it? Two people?"
"It's the best we can do, Mark. It's more or less an industrial area with no sidewalk and a street that doesn't go anywhere. If it was suddenly full of pedestrians, it would be obvious. Just getting these cameras in place was a nightmare."
"Which building is it?" Jenna asked.
"The green one on the right. It used to be a veterinary clinic and a lot of the medical infrastructure is still inside, so it's ideal for Teague and his people. None of the neighbors have seen anyone go in or out, but they admit they haven't been paying much attention."
It started raining, the heavy drops ringing against the top of the van and partially obscuring the images.
"Any sign of life inside?" Erin asked.
"Nothing at all," Fournier said. "But with the shades closed there's no way to be certain."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Jenna said. "They could be in there right now. Why are we just sitting here?"
Beamon watched the rain running down the rear windows of the van, once again trying to come up with a plan that didn't involve getting everyone killed. And, once again, drawing a blank.
"Okay," he said finally. "Send your guys in."
"We're a go," Fournier said into his walkie-talkie.
Screens that had been blank suddenly came to life as the helmet cameras of men waiting a block away were switched on and began following their careful progress toward the target building. The two people Fournier had in the street moved as casually as they could in the direction of the vet clinic, their slow pace somewhat forced in light of the rain. If Beamon was right, though, it wouldn't matter if they went in with a high school marching band.
"This is Team Leader. We're in position," came a voice over the van's speakers.
Beamon shrugged. "Go ahead."
Fournier's men were better than he had expected. The two people in front rushed the door, kicking it in on the first try as a group of well-placed men with assault rifles swept out to cover them. The sturdier rear door was collapsed with a battering ram only a few seconds later, and a number of the screens took on the dim, jerky feel of a computer game as the tiny building was efficiently searched.
"We're clear," came the voice over the speakers. "There's no one here."
"Shit!" Fournier said as Beamon leaned back against the wall of the van and glanced over at Erin and Jenna. Her head sunk into her hands and she stared at her feet, trying to control her breathing. Erin seemed far away -- as though he'd given up on all this long ago and was trying to find another way out.
"Did you get the stuff I asked for, Carl?" Fournier nodded. "But I'm not sure they're going to be able to walk."
before enough rain got in her mouth to force her to swallow. "There could be something in there that'll tell us where Michael is. We don't have time for this!"
Fournier attached the back plate to the body armor she was wearing and her knees sagged dangerously. It was soaking wet, adding to the weight, but in the end, the rain was a gift from God. One of the few Beamon had received lately.
"Better safe than sorry," Fournier pointed out.
Erin grimaced as shin guards were strapped to his legs. "Yeah, if we were expecting a fucking air strike. If this is so dangerous, why isn't Mark wearing any of this crap?"
The light, police-issue vest Beamon had on looked anemic beside the full military armor covering Erin and Jenna. With the unfortunate exception of their heads and a few joints necessary for movement, they were more or less bulletproof -- assuming normal bullet varieties and muzzle velocities, of course. But what choice did he have? A tank would be a little obvious.
"Walk for me, Jenna. Let's see how you do."
She scowled, but did as he asked, teetering unsteadily alongside the van. She looked a bit like an old wind-up children's toy, but by the time she turned and started back, her gait wasn't much worse than his had been after letting Carrie talk him into playing tennis.
"It'll do."
The car stopped about twenty yards from the veterinary clinic and Jenna threw the back door open, swinging her legs to the ground only to find herself stuck. The weight of the body armor had been manageable, but the addition of the fireman's jacket that Beamon insisted she wear to cover it up put her over the edge.
She started to take it off, but then felt Beamon's foot in her back. With that lessthan-gentle nudge, she managed to haul herself onto the pavement and stand there swaying unsteadily in the strengthening wind. Fournier was a few yards away, talking heatedly with a uniformed man holding the leash of a Labrador retriever.
"What've we got?" Beamon said, joining Fournier as Erin came around the car and took a position next to Jenna. Not too close, she noticed, but not as far away as the day before.
"We've run a check for incendiary devices, but didn't find anything."
"Incendiary devices?" Erin said. "Bombs? Why would there be bombs?"
"Relax," Beamon said. "There are certain procedures we follow in situations like this. That's just one of about fifty." He glanced back at them through the rain, the relaxed smile on his face looking less reassuring than it did desperate. Not all that surprising after listening to their bleak prediction for the future. Or, more precisely, the lack of one.
"Okay, let's get you to work," Beamon said, motioning them forward. "See if there's anything in there that can help us."
Erin started toward the building, moving quickly, but Jenna had to break into an awkward jog in an effort to catch up.
"Jenna, wait!" Beamon shouted. "Don't run!"
Other than that warning and the rain, no sound preceded the explosion of pain in her left shoulder blade. She pitched forward, her increased weight magnifying her momentum as she crashed into Erin's back. He managed to turn and get a hand beneath one of her arms and would probably have been able to keep them from falling if it hadn't been for a second impact from behind.
Erin went down first, partially sinking in a deep puddle as she landed on top of him. A moment later, Beamon's weight came down on the both of them and she realized that he was responsible for the blow that had actually sent them to the ground. She was aware of shouting and a barrage of gunfire that turned the raindrops into flashing crystals. But it all became increasingly distant as her mind focused on the seemingly impossible task of getting air into her lungs.
At first she thought it was because of Beamon's weight pressing down on her back, but then realized that had nothing to do with it. The reason she couldn't breathe was that she'd been shot. She was dying.
The police closed in on a Dumpster with the lid thrown open and she saw someone firing a gun from inside, causing small chunks of asphalt to explode around her. She paid no real attention, though, trying to move into a position from which she could see Erin. Since the bullet's impact had nearly lifted her off her feet, she doubted she had much time left.
A hand grasped the collar of her coat and she felt herself being dragged slowly across the wet pavement. A moment later, someone Erin she guessed -- grabbed her wrist and nearly ripped her arm from its socket in his effort to help get her to cover.
Another flash from the Dumpster and Erin toppled forward, landing hard and not moving. The image of his still body sent a surge of adrenaline through her powerful enough to overcome her slow suffocation. She managed to get hold of his coat and crawl on top of him in an effort to protect him from the gunfire.
"Goddamnit, Jenna!" she heard Beamon shout. "Let go! I can't pull you both!"
But she continued to spread herself out across his back as her peripheral vision slowly went blank.
"He shot himself," Fournier said, showing a phenomenal grasp of the obvious as Beamon peered into the Dumpster at the body of Jonas Metzger. His changed appearance and the blood splattered across his face should have made him difficult to identify, but his eyes gave him away. Even staring sightlessly into the dark sky, they had lost none of their fanatical intensity.
"Shit!" Beamon shouted, and kicked the side of the Dumpster. It felt so good that he did it again. And then he found he couldn't stop.
"Mark, are you alright? You should try to
He held up a hand, silencing Fournier, and then limped off toward an ambulance idling in the middle of the parking lot.
The rain had stopped and Jenna was lying face down on a stretcher with a couple of paramedics hovering over her. Erin hadn't been hit as cleanly and was sitting on the wet asphalt a few feet away.
When he spotted Beamon, he jumped to his feet and rushed forward, only stopping when he found himself staring into the barrel of Beamon's pistol.
