Critical Effect

“Ease up there, soldier,” McCarter said, also alert to James’s plan. “We need him for interrogation, and we’re going to stick with that.”

James came to an immediate halt and the others followed suit. Everyone knew their part and they would just follow James’s lead. It wasn’t the first time they had pulled a stunt like this, and given its past effectiveness it wouldn’t hurt to try it again. McCarter had agreed to defer to James’s approach beforehand but kept it from the others so things would unfold in a more spontaneous way. The only thing that would make the whole thing pointless would be if their captive didn’t speak English. James had decided to play those odds.

“What difference does it make?” James demanded of McCarter.

“What?” the Phoenix Force leader asked, putting some edge in his voice.

“I asked you what differences it makes.” James gestured at the prisoner with the muzzle of his M-16 A-2. “He doesn’t look to be in real good shape, which means he probably won’t survive the effects of the drugs I gave him during the interrogation. Since it could be a while before we get to where we’re going, why not just take the time now to question him?”

James turned and looked straight at the prisoner now. “We could just beat it out of him, you know. I think that would be faster. He doesn’t like my kind, anyway. And since there isn’t a soul in sight, we could do it all right here and nobody would ever be the wiser.”

Hawkins emitted a laugh. “You know something, he’s right. Why not just get what we need and then move on? Leave his corpse here for the bears to pick clean. He’s just slowing us down, anyway.”

“Look, both of you,” McCarter said. “I’m in charge of the squad, and I’m telling you we’ll do this the right way. And that’s all the discussion it needs. Get me?”

“I’m with them,” Manning said. He looked at the prisoner and then got up close, towering a few inches over him. He pulled the rope taut and added, “He’s probably just another German warmonger, hates anything or anyone that’s not part of his alleged superior race. He’s not going to talk, especially not to a black man.”

Encizo stepped up to join the production. “He probably hates Spanish people, too!”

James looked McCarter in the eyes and shrugged, then broke into a broad smile. “Looks like maybe you’re outnumbered on this one, pal. Nobody likes this guy and nobody wants him around.”

McCarter exchanged glances with each of his comrades and then made a dramatic show of reaching to his holster, thumbing away the safety strap and drawing his 9 mm Browning Hi-Power. A wicked glint flared in his eyes as he held the pistol high for all to see, then pulled back the slide. McCarter paused a moment for effect, then chambered a round. He extended his arm and aimed the pistol straight at the prisoner’s head.

“You guys are bloody well nuts if you think I’m going to let you beat this guy to death,” McCarter said. “I’ll just blow his brains out before that.”

“No!” the man cried. “Please don’t kill me. I will talk. I will talk to you! See…see how good English I speak?”

“I don’t believe him,” McCarter said.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” James said, and he raised his M-16 A-2. “Maybe we should just get this done and over with. Not risk it.”

“No!” The man began to plead with them.

“Now wait a minute,” Manning said, raising his hands. “Let’s be reasonable, gentleman. If the guy’s willing to talk, maybe we should hear what he has to say.”

“Yeah?” Hawkins queried. “Well, how in the world can ya’ll be sure he’ll tell the truth?”

“Aw, I don’t think he’d lie to us,” James said, lowering his rifle. McCarter had holstered his pistol, as well. James turned to their prisoner and smiled. “Now, would you?”

T HE MEN OF A BLE T EAM touched down in St. Louis, Missouri, just after noon, and took the Ford Expedition arranged by Stony Man straight to Our Lady of the Resurrection Hospital near the Washington University campus. The OLR physicians who’d been caring for the two ill college youths had immediately consulted the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention when they determined no potential causes for the illness, and the fact that both patients had come from the same school.

“It’s going to be hard to keep this under wraps for long,” Schwarz said from behind the wheel.

“Yeah, well, we’d best act fast, then,” Lyons replied.

The three men arrived forty minutes later and headed right to the second floor. Their credentials as agents with the FBI would only buy them so much latitude, but that didn’t bother Able Team. They were really there on more of a fact-finding mission than anything else. The place and time to be tough wasn’t the hospital; they had planned to save that for Delmico if their investigation revealed any foul play.

Able Team reached the third floor of the MedSurg ward, infectious diseases section. A pert young woman with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail buzzed them through the access doors. A large red strip with a sign warned all unauthorized personnel not to advance past the desk without being fully protected by isolation equipment.

“Agent Irons with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Lyons said, flashing his credentials at the dark-haired woman whose tag identified her as the charge nurse. He whipped out his mini notebook, made a show of flipping through it and said, “Um, we’re looking for…Just one moment, got it here somewhere…Uh, hmm. Ah! Here it is, yes. We’d like to speak with Dr. Kingsley or Dr. Corvasce. Is either of them available?”

The charge nurse eyed the three men warily. “Dr. Kingsley’s off today and Dr. Corvasce is in with a patient right now. Is there some way I can help you?”

“Nope,” Lyons said shortly. “I doubt it.”

Blancanales smiled and immediately wedged himself between Lyons and the counter. Clearly this would take something with less frostiness and a bit more tact, the former of which his good friend possessed plenty and the latter almost none at all.

“Good day, Nurse…Bluesilk.” Blancanales smiled. “That’s a very nice name.”

The nurse’s demeanor changed almost immediately. In fact, she appeared to melt under the twinkling dark eyes of the Politician. “Thanks. It’s Native American, actually.”

“Interesting,” Blancanales replied. “Actually, it’s very important we speak to Dr. Corvasce as soon as possible.”

“I can certainly see if he has a moment. Would you be able to maybe tell me what it’s regarding?”

“I’m sorry, but that’s confidential.” Blancanales looked around and then leaned over the counter and gestured with his head for her to come a bit closer. “Although I can tell you it’s about the college boys who came in here ill. You see, Atlanta contacted us and we’re just making sure this isn’t related to any, well, you know…We don’t want some major scare on our hands. We’d prefer someone not go off the deep end and start guessing wildly about how this might be anthrax or some other terrible thing. Since Katrina, we’ve uh, well, we’ve had to change the way we do things.”

The nurse looked for any sign of tomfoolery in Blancanales’s expression, but obviously she could only detect altruism in those legitimate lines.

“Why don’t you gentlemen have a seat in the lobby, and I’ll see if I can get Dr. Corvasce to come talk with you.”

“That would be great,” Blancanales said. As his cohorts turned and headed for the door, Blancanales gestured toward Lyons’s retreating form and added quietly, “Don’t mind Irons there. They don’t let him out much.”

She smiled, giggled and quietly replied, “I can see why.”

Blancanales winked and then retreated to join his friends.

A LMOST AN HOUR HAD PASSED before a tall, distinguished man exited through the double set of hermetically sealed doors leading from the infectious disease ward. His lanky form strode toward Able Team in confidence, the gray eyes studying them resolutely on approach. The three men got to their feet as the man reached them. After handshakes and introductions all around, Dr. Michael Corvasce led the trio to a nearby coffee bar with an outdoor veranda.

Gray afternoon clouds had rolled in and brought the smell of rain with them. It felt as if the humidity levels had doubled in just the few short hours since they had arrived, and it had only served to sour Lyons’s mood. He’d decided to let Blancanales and Schwarz do most of the talking, content to just sit back and listen.

“I’m a little surprised to see the CDC got you boys involved,” Corvasce said pleasantly as they sat at an umbrella-covered table.

“It’s not really such a big surprise,” Schwarz said. “We understand they didn’t seem too interested.”

“You can say that again,” Corvasce replied with a frown. “Hence why I can’t understand your interest in the case.”

Blancanales cleared his throat. “Listen, Doctor, we realize you’re probably not at liberty to tell us a whole lot about the condition of either of these patients. But we would appreciate any latitude you could show us.”

“Well, between us, I’ll save the politics for Dr. Kingsley. We’ve been trying to contact my patient’s parents since he arrived, but apparently they’re on vacation somewhere in South America and their housekeeper barely speaks English. I’ve had to pull in the hospital administration and work through an interpreter, who is now calling all over the Western Hemisphere trying to locate these people. So, I’m not going to worry about patient confidentiality at this point if you can assure me you’re here strictly in the best interests of the public health.”

“I can promise you that is definitely one certainty,” Blancanales said.

Corvasce nodded. “That’s good enough for me. Basically, Willis Mallow is a twenty-year-old male who came into the emergency room night before last almost unconscious after complaining of a stomach ache and then collapsing. At first we thought your standard, run-of-the-mill frat party, but we quickly realized something else was going on when his tox screen came back negative. Not that that means anything. These days, kids are into all kinds of stuff, including a combination of legitimate pharmacological agents that produce a short and intense euphoria just before they kill you.

“Dr. Kingsley was actually on call that night, but I got involved because it was right during shift change report and I was the oncoming attending. We went down to the ER and I agreed to examine Willis because a second emergency had been brought in and they were immediately calling for Kingsley, stating the patient was exhibiting many of the same signs and symptoms as Mallow. By the time we got done stabilizing both boys, we’d come to the conclusion they were suffering from the same problem. What we didn’t know was exactly what the hell that problem was.”

“Are you any closer to a diagnosis?” Schwarz asked.

Corvasce shook his head and took a sip of coffee before continuing. “Frankly, both of us are completely stumped. Once we’d ruled out drugs or alcohol, we obtained thorough histories. Both kids were athletes in good health, and neither had traveled recently to any foreign countries. They’re regularly screened for steroid use, so coupled with their negative drug testing, we were able to rule that out immediately. Tell me, are you guys at all familiar with cholinesterase poisoning?”

All three nodded. They had once faced a terrorist group bent on launching poisonous chemicals against targets all over the world simultaneously using stolen missiles. They had nearly failed in that mission, and none of them had ever forgotten the effects that would have impacted millions of people if they hadn’t stopped the terrorists in time.

“Ah.” Corvasce shook his head. “Acetylcholine is produced from nerve endings to stimulate smooth muscle and parasympathetic nervous response. In cholinesterase poisoning, the patient suffers from excessive vomiting, diarrhea and profuse sweating. Body temperature and blood pressure fall rapidly, heart rate increases. If the condition goes untreated, the patient will suffer a condition known as disseminated intravascular coagulation. Third-stage shock in simplest terms. Multiple organ failure usually follows shortly thereafter.

“In both of these cases, that’s the way they acted, except there were some opposite signs I’d never seen before. Urticaria, high fever and polycythemia vera, which is typically an idiopathic condition only seen in patients suffering from congenital heart disease. Neither youth has such a disease, and right now they’re both at very high risk for clots or severe hemorrhaging. That’s why we’ve had to admit them to the ICU wing.”

“If you could put your finger on this at all,” Blancanales interjected, “would you say these kids were poisoned?”

Corvasce shrugged. “Possibly, but if so, it’s unlike any poison I’ve ever seen. It’s almost as if they’re suffering from part cardiac disease, part allergic reaction. But the sudden onset and other environmental factors, coupled with their age and unremarkable past medical histories, does certainly suggest exposure to some type of pathogen.”

“Would somebody with experience in microbiology have the expertise to concoct a pathogen of this nature?” Lyons queried.

“Oh, most certainly,” Corvasce replied immediately. “Why? Do you think this was purposeful?”

“I never said that.”

“But we have to consider it a possibility,” Blancanales added quickly, throwing his blond friend a furious look. “For the good of the public health, you understand.”

Corvasce rendered a thin smile. “Yes. I understand.”

Something in the physician’s eyes told Able Team he understood all too well. While Lyons had played a good game with the nurse—passing himself as more of a fumbling bureaucrat than a highly trained antiterrorist—he’d studied the files of both doctors thoroughly during the trip to St. Louis. All of Able Team admitted they would have expected more cooperation from Corvasce than Kingsley. Of the two doctors, Corvasce had attended medical school at a university of significantly lesser prestige, and had not nearly as many awards and credentials. It was always easier to get the down-to-earth folks to spill their guts than some stuffy, high-brow type who wore monogrammed shirts and drove a BMW with vanity plates. For now, they had enough information to go on. The four men made a little small talk before thanking Corvasce and leaving the hospital. As they drove toward the college, they talked over what he’d told them.

“Sounds like this would be right up the alley of a schizoid like Simon Delmico,” Lyons began.

“Now, Ironman,” Blancanales chided him, “you know better than to believe everything you read in a person’s psych profile. I mean, we never believed any of the stuff the shrinks at Stony Man Farm have said about you.”

“Ah, yes, that did make for some fun reading, didn’t it?” Schwarz quipped. “Besides the fact, they said they thought Delmico was more of a paranoid-delusional.”

Lyons threw up his hands with a scoffing laugh. “Now you’d think the guys in the government who know this kind of stuff would lock up somebody like that instead of letting him run around on the streets. And with college students, no less.”

“They probably didn’t think a guy with one foot could be much of a threat,” Schwarz said.

“There are a lot of dead terrorists I know who thought the same thing about a sixty-something Israeli with one arm,” Lyons countered.

The other men fell silent for a time, more out of respect than anything else. The Ironman’s reference to the former leader of Phoenix Force had hit close to the mark. Katz had lost his life battling the heinous Abu Nidal Organization. Although he’d gone like a true warrior, the loss of such a man was still felt.

“Whatever’s going on here,” Blancanales said after a time of silence, “I’d have to agree with Carl. It seems highly probable Simon Delmico’s involved in this somehow. It begs the question of why, though. What’s the motive?”

“Maybe Phoenix Force’s mission into Germany will uncover some answers,” Schwarz replied.

He brought the vehicle to a halt in the parking lot adjacent to the Natural Sciences building on the campus of Washington U. It had started to sprinkle minutes before they arrived, which would make it more difficult to spot Delmico when he came out of the building. Lyons checked his watch as he removed a piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and spread it across his left leg with a noisy crinkle.

Schwarz looked at it. “What’s that?”

“Class schedule. I had Bear hack it out of the school’s computer mainframe. Looks like there’s still about ten minutes to go in Delmico’s last class.”

“Hey, um, fellas?” Blancanales said from the back seat.

The pair turned to see their friend staring through the right rear window. “I make about six guys in a Lincoln SUV parked over there near the fire lane. You see them?”

Lyons turned and cracked his window enough to see over the top. “I got them, too. What do you make of it?”

“They’re a bit old to be local fraternity just looking for a place to happen on Friday afternoon.”

“Yeah,” Schwarz agreed. “Something about the headpiece that driver’s wearing just doesn’t add up.”

Lyons reached beneath his windbreaker and withdrew a stainless-steel .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda. He flipped out the cylinder and checked the action, then locked it in place and holstered the weapon. Blancanales and Schwarz performed similar action checks on their SIG P-239 and Beretta 92-F semiautomatic pistols. And they waited.

CHAPTER SIX

They didn’t have to wait long. Fifteen minutes later Simon Delmico emerged from the building, and the SUV left the curb at a crawl.

“It’s going down,” Schwarz said slowly and evenly.

“Stay sharp!” Lyons told him. “Pol, with me!”

Lyons and Blancanales bailed from their vehicle and sprinted toward Delmico. At the same moment, the Lincoln increased speed and reached the scientist first. Students were crossing the walkway, chatting and laughing, or hanging around shelters to avoid the risk of getting drenched in another sudden torrent of showers. Lyons shouted for everyone to find cover as he withdrew his Colt Anaconda on the run.

Blancanales saw the barrel of an SMG protrude abruptly from a slit in the rear passenger window, Lyons apparently oblivious in his focus on Delmico. Blancanales shouted a warning and pushed his friend out of the line of fire as flame spit from the muzzle. A Kalash-nikov cut loose, one of the rounds intended for Lyons ripping through Blancanales’s forearm.

The former Black Beret went low and rolled to avoid certain death. Lyons staggered but kept his feet, then raised the Anaconda. He snap-aimed just above the muzzle of the barking assault rifle and squeezed the trigger twice. A pair of 300-grain slugs punched through the glass of the window. A head exploded as the slug rounds punched through the gunner’s skull in a spray of blood and brain matter.

The tail door swung upward and two men in turbans, blue jeans and black leather jackets jumped from the back. They swung their vehicles toward Lyons and Blancanales, but then something roared between them in a blur of smoking rubber and dust. The front of Able Team’s Ford SUV T-boned the Lincoln, effectively pinning it to the curb. Autofire resounded through the air as the driver’s door shot open and appeared to vomit Hermann Schwarz. The lithe warrior landed on his hands and knees as glass shards, vinyl and cushion filling sliced through the air like ticker tape at a Macy’s parade.

“Perhaps we were a bit rash,” Blancanales noted.

Schwarz looked at his friend in amazement. “Ya think?”

“Split up!” Lyons commanded.

The trio did as ordered. It would be difficult for their opponents to take all of them at once if they headed in different directions. The time it took the pair of gunners to clear the Ford bought Able Team what they needed to find adequate cover. Lyons secured safety behind a purple PT Cruiser, while Schwarz charged in the direction of a metal bus shelter.

Blancanales opted to skirt the front of the Lincoln, keeping below the driver’s line of sight until he reached the curbside fender. He arrived in time to see another pair of gunners trying to hustle Delmico through the rear passenger door. Blancanales stood, raised his SIG P-239, aimed directly at the driver and squeezed the trigger three times. The man’s eyes widened as a trio of .40 S&W hardball rounds first made short work of the windshield and then his face. The impact slammed what was left of the man’s skull backward and the reciprocal force drove it forward to rest on the steering wheel.

Blancanales turned the pistol on the pair just as they got Delmico inside the SUV in time to realize their enemy had them dead to rights. The pair foolishly pawed for their weapons, but they were too late. At that range, the Able Team warrior couldn’t miss. Blancanales dispatched the closer man with a single round through the chest. It perforated his heart and exited his left shoulder blade. Blancanales swung into acquisition on the second gunner as the man brought his weapon to bear, and ended the face-off with a double-tap center mass and number three to the head. The impact lifted him from his feet and slammed him against the open passenger door.

The door swung backward as Delmico burst from the rear seat. The scientist’s suit snagged on the catch and the door pinned it there. He slid from the jacket and started to run. Blancanales started after him but suddenly went prone when a second Lincoln crew wagon pulled up.

Blancanales rolled as their weapons opened up.

H ERMANN S CHWARZ REACHED the bus shelter, got behind the corrugated metal and crouched. A screech caused him to turn and he found himself staring at a pair of wide-eyed college girls.

He gestured in the opposite direction with his pistol. “Get out of here! Run! ”

He didn’t have to tell them twice. They burst from the shelter like a pair of spooked gazelles.

Schwarz returned his attention to the matters at hand. Two gunners appeared at the rear of the Expedition and swept the area with their weapons. The Able Team commando braced his right wrist against the shelter post, steadied his Beretta 92-F in a Weaver’s grip and squeezed the trigger twice. Twin 9 mm Parabellum rounds struck one of the gunners’ weapons and knocked it from his grasp. A lucky ricochet grazed the man’s neck, and his hand slapped at the spurting blood as if he’d killed a mosquito. Schwarz swore under his breath as he reacquired and sent a third round booming from the pistol. This one drilled through the terrorist’s chest and drove his back against the Ford. The man slid to the ground as the light left his open eyes.

The other terrorist never stood a chance under the crack marksmanship of Carl Lyons. The Able Team leader got it done with a single squeeze of the Anaconda’s trigger. The .44 Magnum weapon reported thunderously, even from that distance, its message to the hardman plain and simple: game over. Lyons’s round caught the guy square in the chest and dumped him on the pavement next to his deceased partner.

Schwarz turned in time to see Blancanales had bought himself some fresh trouble. He broke cover and beelined to help his friend, signaling Lyons with a loud whistle between thumb and forefinger on the move. Lyons waved and burst from behind the PT Cruiser. Schwarz came up the sidewalk on the passenger side of the smashed Lincoln in time to see Blancanales find sanctuary behind a small brick alcove near the building entrance.

The electronics expert reached the rear bumper, dropped and squeezed off a volley of rounds in the direction of the new arrivals. He didn’t have anywhere near the firepower of the enemy, but what he lacked in quantity Schwarz made up in quality. The combat veteran put two rounds in the chest of the closest gunner. The 9 mm slugs ripped through the tender flesh of lungs and pink, frothy sputum erupted from the man’s mouth. The impact spun him into a second gunner who had been a bit too close. The falling corpse tied up the second man long enough for Schwarz to draw a bead. He finished their dance with a single skull-buster to the forehead.