Joe Ledger Read online

  A second team crowded into the room and now we had the numbers to turn the place into a shooting gallery.

  I heard gunfire coming from a different part of the warehouse so I peeled off from the pack to see what was happening and immediately spotted a trio of hostiles in a nice shooting-blind laying down a lot of fire at one of the other teams. The team under fire had a wooden crate for cover, and the automatic fire was chopping it to kindling. The hostiles knew their business, too: they fired in sequence so that there was always a continuous barrage while the others reloaded.

  Screw this, I thought as I raced forward. I ran as fast as silence would allow, well out of their line of sight. I had my pistol out, but to open fire from that distance would have been suicide. I might get one or two but the other would turn and chop me up. There was no cover at all between me and the hostiles, but I hugged the wall, running on cat feet, making no noise that could have been heard above the din of the gunfire.

  When I was ten feet out I opened fire. My first shot caught one of the hostiles in the back of the neck, and the impact slammed him into the crates. As the other two turned I closed to zero distance and fired one more shot, which hurled the second hostile backward, but then the slide on my gun locked open. There was no time to change magazines. The third shooter instantly lunged at me, swinging his rifle barrel to bear. I parried it one-handed with my gun arm, and while I was still in full stride I used the empty pistol to check the swing of his rifle while simultaneously jabbing forward with my left hand, fingers folded in half and stiffened so that the secondary line of knuckles drove into the attacker’s windpipe. A Leopard Paw punch, nasty but useful. As this was happening I made a quick change midstep so that my left foot went from a regular running step into a longer lunge and the tip of my combat boot crunched into the cartilage under the hostile’s kneecap. I brought my gun hand up and jabbed the exposed barrel of the pistol into the hostile’s left eye socket.

  The attacker flew backward as if he’d been hit by a shotgun blast.

  As I completed my step I reached to my belt for a fresh magazine.

  But this alley fight was over and all the dogs were down. The main warehouse doors blew open and a second wave of SWAT came in like a swarm of pissed-off scorpions and anyone dumb enough to be still holding a gun went to meet Jesus—or whoever—in nothing flat.

  Chap. 4

  In the end, eleven alleged terrorists were shot, six fatally, including the cowboy with the Chinese assault rifle and the biter I nailed in the back—who according to his false ID was named Javad Mustapha. A terrorist with ties to El Mujahid. Turned out that none of our team was killed, though eight of them needed treatment, mostly for broken ribs. We were all rattled, but in the end it was a damn good day’s work.

  I checked on Jerry. Kevlar stops bullets but it can’t stop foot-pounds of impact. Jerry had a cracked sternum and was one hurting pup.

  “How you feeling, ya old fart?” I asked, squatting next to the gurney to which the EMTs had strapped him.

  “Steal me that Cigarette boat and I’ll feel right as rain.” He ticked his chin toward my arm. “Hey, how’s your arm? EMT said you got bit.”

  “Didn’t even break the skin. Weird sumbitch though, wasn’t he?”

  “Looked to me like he came out of that blue box. The lock blew off and he stepped out, batshit crazy and looking at us like we’re Sunday dinner. McGoran said you popped him.”

  “Seemed like the thing to do at the time.”

  Jerry nodded, then gave me a faint smile. “Everybody’s talking about you, Joe. You saved some fellow officers today. I been hearing the ‘H’ word floating around.” When I looked puzzled he explained, “’Hero,’ son. That’s what they’re calling you.”

  “Oh, please. I’m just one of the crowd, doing my job.”

  He gave me a funny look, but it might have been the painkillers.

  The EMTs took him away, and I watched as a bunch of federal agents in unmarked black BDUs came in to take over the crime scene.

  Far as I was concerned it was all over.

  Funny how wrong you can be about some things.

  Chap. 5

  Nobody who worked for him or with him knew his real name. The President called him Mr. Church, and that would do for now. He sat in a temporary office in a disused records storage warehouse in Easton, Maryland. He had a laptop on his desk, a glass of water, and a plate of cookies. Nothing else.

  Mr. Church selected a vanilla wafer and munched it thoughtfully as he watched the replay of the video feeds from the raid in Baltimore. He punched the pause button and turned the laptop around toward the three big federal agents who sat across from him. A man’s face filled the screen.

  “His name is Detective Joe Ledger,” said Mr. Church. His eyes were almost invisible behind the tinted lenses of his glasses, and his face wore no expression. “Baltimore PD, attached to a Homeland task force. This footage was taken two days ago. This is the one I want. Bring him in.”

  The agents exchanged looks, but they left without comment. Questioning Mr. Church was never fruitful.

  When they were gone, Mr. Church restarted the video and watched it again.

  And again.

  ~The End~

  Zero Tolerance

  NOTE: This story takes place a few weeks after the events of Patient Zero.

  Chap. 1

  Battalion Aide Station

  Near Helmand River Valley, Afghanistan

  One Hour Ago

  “I never thought that anyone that beautiful could scare the shit out of me.”

  “Tell me about her, Sergeant,” I said.

  He looked away so quickly that I knew he’d been waiting for that request. He tried to keep a poker face, but he was a couple of tics off his game. Sleep deprivation, pain, and the certain knowledge that his ass was in a sling can do that. Even to a tough son of a bitch like Sergeant Harper. As he turned I saw the way guilt and shame twisted his mouth, but his eyes had a different expression. One I couldn’t quite nail down.

  “Tell you what? That I can’t bear to close my eyes ’cause when I do I see her! That I’ve had the shivering shits ever since we found her out there in the sand! I don’t mind admitting it,” said the sergeant. He started to say more, then closed his mouth and shook his head.

  The sergeant’s uninjured hand was freckled with powder burns and skin was missing from two knuckles. He ran his trembling fingers through his sandy hair as he spoke. He did it two or three times each minute. His other hand lay in his lap, cocooned in gauze wrappings.

  I waited. I had more time.

  After a full minute, though, I said, “Where did she come from?”

  Harper sighed. “She was a refugee. We found her staggering in the foothills.”

  “A refugee from what?”

  “From the big meltdown out in the desert.”

  “In the Helmand River Valley?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t tack on “sir.” He was fucking with me, and I was okay with that for now. He didn’t know me, didn’t really know how much shit he was in, or how deep a hole he’d dug for himself. All he knew was that his career in the Marines had hit a guard rail at seventy miles an hour, and now he was sitting across a small table from a guy wearing captain’s bars and no other military insignia. No medals or unit patch. No name tag. Harper had to be measuring that against the deferential way the colonel treated me. Like I outranked him, which I don’t. I’m not even in the military anymore. But in this particular matter I was able to throw more weight than the base commander. More weight than anyone else in or out of uniform on the continent. As far as Harper was concerned, when it came to throwing him a lifeline it was me and then God, and God was off the clock.

  Harper couldn’t really know any of that, but he was smart enough and sly enough to know that I had some juice. On one hand, he rightly figured that I could drop him into a hole deeper than the one he’d dug for himself. On the other hand, he had information that I wanted, and he was stalling to see ho
w to play his only good card.

  “How long are they going to keep me here?”

  “To be determined, Sergeant. Do you feel you’re being inconvenienced?”

  He didn’t rise to the bait.

  “It’s been three days.”

  “Not quite. Forty-seven hours and change.”

  “Seems longer.” He didn’t even know that we’d already met. Not sure when I was going to spring that on him. It wouldn’t do anything to calm him down.

  I opened my briefcase and took out a file folder.

  “I’d like you to look at some photos,” I said and took two color eight-by-tens from my briefcase and laid them on the table. If I’d tossed a scorpion on the table he couldn’t have jerked back faster.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  I nodded at the print. “That’s her?”

  “Fuck me,” muttered the sergeant. “Oh fuck me fuck me fuck me.”

  Take that as a yes.

  I sat back and waited him out. Sweat popped all along his forehead and leaked out from his hairline. He smelled like urine, cigarette smoke, and testosterone; but I could smell fear, too. A whole lot of it. I used to think that was a myth, or something only dogs and horses could smell; but lately I’ve learned different. The kind of shit I deal with I smell it a lot, and on myself, too. Like now, but I wasn’t going to let this asshole know it.

  “Could…could you turn the pictures over? I don’t mean to be a pussy, but I don’t want her staring at me the whole time, y’know?”

  “Sure,” I said, and did so. But I left them on the table. “Try to relax. Smoke one if you got any.”

  He shook his head. “Never took it up. Jesus H. Christ. Wish I had.”

  I opened my briefcase and took out two bottles of spring water, unscrewed one, and handed it to him. He drank half of it down. Then I took some airline bottles of Jack Daniels and lined them up in front of him. One, two, three.

  “If it helps,” I said.

  He snatched one off the edge of the table, twisted off the cap and chugged it, then coughed. More bravado than brains.

  “Tell me about the woman,” I said. “And what happened in the cave.”

  He gave that some thought, drank half of the second bottle of Jack.

  “Do you know my outfit? Second Marine Expeditionary Brigade, Light Armored Reconnaissance Battalion. We were part of Operation Khanjar, working that corner of Helmand Province, doing some recon stuff up in the hills,” he began. “Counterinsurgency work, and some fox hunts to flush the Taliban teams running opium through the area. That whole part of the province is nothing but dead rock riddled with a million caves. You could hide a hundred thousand people in there, camels and all, and it would take us fifty years to find half of them. That’s why this war was fucked from the snap. The Russians couldn’t do it twenty years ago, and we can’t do it now. Besides, nine out of ten people you meet are friendlies who look and dress just like the hostiles, so how you going to know?”

  “Skip the politics, Sergeant. Talk about the woman.”

  He shrugged. “It was weird out there because last week the whole place was lit up by some kind of underground explosion. We got word that some Taliban lab blew up, but the blast wasn’t nuclear. Something to do with geo-thermal chambers or shifting plates or some bullshit like that. A whole section of desert just fell into itself, and there was this spike of fire that shot a couple hundred feet in the air.”

  “No radiation?”

  “No. Most of us still had TLD badges and the badges stayed neutral. The area was hot, though…not with radiation, but actually hot. Like a furnace. When we reached the outer perimeter of the event zone we could see a weird shimmer, and I realized that big sections of the desert had been melted to glass. It looked like a lava flow, rippled and dark.”

  “And is that where you found the woman?”

  He drank the rest of the second bottle of Jack Daniels and chased it with a long pull on the water bottle. He was pale, his eyes sunken and dark, his lips dry. He looked like shit and probably felt worse. Just mentioning the “woman” made his eyes jump.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Locals started calling in sightings of burned people, and then word came down to scramble a couple of recon teams. We went in…and after that everything went to shit.” He turned away to hide wet eyes.

  Chap. 2

  The Warehouse

  DMS Tactical Field Office / Baltimore

  Ninety-two Hours Ago

  I was on the mats with Echo Team’s newest members—replacements for the guys we lost in Philadelphia. There were four of them, two Rangers, a jarhead, and a former SWAT guy from L.A. For the last couple of hours Bunny and I had taken turns beating on them, chasing them with paintball guns, trying to carve our initials in them with live blades, swinging at them with baseball bats. Everything we could think of. Actually, let me rephrase that. There were ten of them this morning. The four who were left were the ones who hadn’t been taken to the infirmary or told to go the fuck back to where they came from.

  We were just about to enter a practical discussion on pain tolerance when my boss, Mr. Church, came into the gym at a fast walk. He only ever hurries when the real shit is coming down the pike. I crossed to meet him.

  “Good evening, Captain Ledger,” said Church. He nodded toward the recruits. “Are these four men in or out?”

  “Is something up?”

  “Yes, and it’s on a high boil.”

  “They’re in.”

  Church turned to Bunny. “Sergeant Rabbit, get these men kitted out. Afghanistan. No ID, no patches. You’re wheels up in fifteen.”

  Bunny flicked a glance at me, but he didn’t question the order. Instead he turned and hustled them all toward the locker room. Bunny was a nice kid most of the time, but he was still a sergeant. And we’d been through some shit together, so he knew my views on hesitation. Don’t.

  “What’s the op?”

  Church handed me the file. “This came in as an email attachment. Two photos, two separate sources.”

  I flipped open the folder and looked at two photos of an incredibly beautiful woman. Iraqi, probably. Black hair, full lips, and the most arresting eyes I’d ever seen. Eyes so powerful that despite the low res of the photos and graininess of the printout, they radiated heat. Her face was streaked with dirt and there was some blood crusted around her nose and the corner of her mouth.

  I looked at him.

  “These were relayed to us by the people we have seeded into a Swiss seismology team studying an underground explosion in the Helmand River Valley. We ran facial recognition on them and MindReader kicked out a ninety-seven percent confidence that this is Amirah.”

  My mouth went dry as dust.

  Holy shit.

  When I was brought into the DMS a month ago my first gig was to stop a team of terrorists who had a bioweapon that still gives me nightmares. I’m not kidding. Couple times a week I wake up with the shivers, cold sweat running down my skin, and clenched teeth that are the only things between a silent room and a gut-buster of a scream.

  There were three people behind that scheme. A British pharmaceutical mogul named Gault, a religious fanatic from Yemen called El Mujahid, and his wife, Amirah. She was the molecular biologist who conceived and created the Seif al Din pathogen. The Sword of the Faithful. They test-drove the pathogen with limited release in remote Afghani villages, trying out different strains until they had one that couldn’t be stopped. Seif al Din. An actual doomsday plague. El Mujahid brought it here, and Echo Team stopped him. But only just. If you factor in the dead Afghani villagers and the people killed here, the body count was north of twelve hundred. Even so, Mr. Church and his science geeks figured we caught a break. It could have been more. Could have been millions, even billions. It came down to that kind of a photo finish.

  Most of the victims turned into mindless killers whose metabolism had been so drastically altered by the plague that they could not think, had no personalities, didn’t react to pain, and we
re hard as balls to kill. The pathogen reduced most organ functions to such a minimal level that they appeared to be dead. Or…maybe they were dead. The scientists are still sorting it out. We called them “walkers.” A bad pun, short for “dead men walking.” The DMS science chief is a pop-culture geek. My guys in Echo Team called the infected by another name. Yeah. The “Z” word.

  And you wonder why I get night terrors. Six weeks ago I was a Baltimore cop doing scut work for Homeland. Sitting wiretaps, that sort of thing. Now I was top dog for a crew of first-team shooters. Do not ask me how one thing led to another, but here I am.

  I looked at the photos.

  Amirah.

  “The rumors of her demise have been greatly exaggerated,” I said.

  Church managed not to smile.

  “If you’re sending us then she hasn’t been apprehended.”

  “No,” he said. “Spotted only. I arranged for two Marine Recon squads to locate and detain.”

  “What if Amirah’s infected?”

  “I shared a limited amount of information with the appropriate officers in the chain of command, Captain. If anyone reports certain kinds of activity—from Amirah or anyone—then the whole area gets lit up.”

  “Lit up as in—”

  “A nuclear option falls within the parameters of ‘acceptable losses.’”

  “Can you at least wait until me and my guys reach minimum safe distance?”

  He didn’t smile. Neither did I.

  “You’ll be operating with an Executive Order, so you’ll have complete freedom of movement.”

  “You got the President to sign an order that fast?”

  He just looked at me.

  “What are my orders?”

  “Our primary concern is to determine if anyone infected with the Seif al Din pathogen is loose in Afghanistan.”

  “Yeah, that’ll be about as easy to establish as Bin Laden’s zip code.”