sideways at Kilmer with his eyebrows askance.
“Ease down, mates,” Kilmer replied. “Ya heard right…I had no choice. I don’t like this any more than ya’ll. Suffice it to say, Holloway’ll be pissin’ ‘imself the op was successful. The Feds’ll finger Marshall in the breach of ‘is cousin’s office and that scientist’ll think he saw two commandos liftin’ nuke fuel. The guard got in the way is all. He’s collateral damage. Now quit bitchin’ and let’s git home. I could use a grog. Anyone else?” he asked, sounding nonchalant, hoping to cut the tension he could feel from Colt and Weaver.
Kilmer knew it wasn’t going to be as easy as that. He still had to explain to Alastair Holloway how terribly wrong everything went down this evening. He knew he would have to suffer the wrath of this egomaniac, but also knew with equal measure that Holloway’s facile imagination would surely create some rational explanation to turn the events to his advantage. Kilmer decided to have a couple beers to decompress before placing the call to Holloway.
Upon reflection, Kilmer wondered if the dead security guard had a family. Unfortunate, he thought. Richard Kilmer knew that the mark of a good warrior lay in the ability to resist the regrets of battle, regardless how cruel or odious the outcome. He had never harbored personal regrets from any of the dozens of deaths he had executed through his years of service as a military officer, but civilians were different, and he considered the security guard a civilian. He was an unintended casualty of an operation gone wrong. Richard Kilmer knew that at some point he would be held accountable for the man’s untimely demise. Karma aside, Kilmer believed that changing the life path of another individual was not without meaning.
“We got the info ya ordered,” Kilmer said nonchalantly to the man paying for his services.
“Outstanding. When can you provide the data?” replied the terse but urgent voice on the other end of the scrambled personal PDA phone.
“T’morrow,” Kilmer replied. “Weaver’ll hand the disc off to Aldin Mills at his lab in Redwood Shores. No clue how much time he’ll need to program the equations…maybe a couple of days. But that’s out o’ my hands.”
“Confirm that we now have everything to make this thing work- you’ve retrieved Conrad’s formulas. I expect a fully functional machine this time,” demanded the surly voice on the phone.
“Aldin’ll get everythin’ we lifted from Conrad’s computer. And Weaver planted all the info for the Feds…as specified. This’ll finger Marshall. That part of the op was good as gold,” he concluded, hinting that everything hadn’t gone flawlessly.
“Elaborate,” said Holloway, the irritation in his voice almost palpable through the phone line.
“I had to off a guard,” Kilmer replied apologetically. He told Holloway the remainder of the story surrounding their bungled evacuation from the Quantum Building.
“I guess I didn’t make myself perfectly clear when I told you not to mess this up! ” Holloway angrily replied, making no pretense at disguising his rage. “So…let me get this straight. We have a dead guard and an eyewitness that can put you and Weaver at the scene of a double theft and homicide at the Quantum Building. And after breaking into a second lab, you hung around long enough to kill some fat bastard that fancies himself a guard. Are you out of your goddamned mind?” he yelled into the phone.
“You assured me this would be done exactly as planned,” Holloway continued, the vitriol oozing from his voice. “I supplied the reconnaissance detail you requested; procured the password to get past the firewall; established the timeline for conducting the operation; even arranged the air evacuation…” he seethed, lacking any modicum of restraint in excoriating Richard Kilmer. “Next time I want a cluster fuck, I’ll be sure to call a goddamned Australian commando.”
Kilmer tried like hell to maintain his composure. “It was a command decision,” Kilmer replied steadily, refusing to be unnerved. “My only choice was to save the lab rat. Yer dodgy recon should o’ clued us there might be someone cruisin’ the halls that late. Killin’ ‘im would’ve implicated Ryan Marshall in a murder. Is that what ya wanted? Ya weren’t there, Mr. Holloway.”
Kilmer fully understood that this was Alastair Holloway’s modus operandi: a gifted individual always in control and without peer, invariably the smartest one in the room, bitingly caustic, belittling anyone who made even the smallest of errors. His behavior was irritating under the best of circumstances, but he tolerated it for the money Holloway provided for his singular services. But when he felt the sting of his whip, there was only so much Kilmer would stomach.
“None of this is what I wanted, you arrogant ass,” Holloway replied. “Make sure you get my data to Mills tomorrow… without any further complications,” he shouted.
The phone went dead in Kilmer’s ear.
AUGUST FOURTH
FOUR
Stanford University
01:30 HOURS
The Quantum Building was swarming with activity. Crimson flashing lights rhythmically flooded the structure’s exterior. Response vehicles from every emergency service agency-from sheriff to coroner-had all responded to the 911 call from the chief security guard. Palo Alto police surrounded Quantum and completed a thorough search of each quarter of the building. The Santa Clara Sheriff’s SWAT unit coordinated a search along the streets leading from the murder scene; several more SWAT members took positions atop adjacent buildings. The crackle of sporadic radio transmissions permeated the surrounding area from the multiple jurisdictions responding to the incident.
The county EMS coordinating team was activated and quickly established a command center on the first floor. A single radio frequency was assigned to the multi-agency coordinating team so that each member could communicate directly with the incident command center. The MAC streamlined emergency response protocols that would be in conflict were it not for prior training amongst the members. The years of training paid handsome dividends at an incident like Quantum, and Captain Clay Hawkley swelled with pride at how well the MAC was functioning.
Captain Hawkley established the incident command shortly after his arrival on scene. He was well versed in the role, having been the chief architect who created the MAC in Santa Clara County. The IC was kept insulated from interference, but in direct contact with every ranking officer in the unit. In this way, information coming from the field was filtered, processed, and analyzed, making command decisions responsive to only the most current information.
Captain Hawkley awaited breaking information from his field commanders: Lieutenant Morris from division headquarters was investigating the crime scene; Sergeant Cristobel from SWAT was covering the perimeter of the building; Lieutenant Pomeroy from homicide was interviewing the surviving guard. Captain Hawkley patiently anticipated reports from these three seasoned professionals.
On the third floor, Lieutenant David Morris was busily taking notes from his first impression of the crime scene. The county coroner pronounced the victim dead at the scene and took possession of the remains. The scene of the crime was a gruesome affair, but not unlike most homicides that involved a shooting. The victim lay on his back in the middle of the corridor, immediately in front of lab 313. There was a large pool of blood surrounding the victim, which had discharged from a massive head wound. Looking down at the corpse, Lieutenant Morris recognized the amazed look on his face; the expression and open eyes conveyed surprise. He marveled at the surfeit of forensic evidence available from the initial examination of a murder victim. A trained eye could usually detect the circumstances immediately preceding the crime-whether an argument or struggle precipitated the murder, or as in this case, it was completely unexpected.
A small hole directly in the center of the victim’s forehead proved that the shooter was an expert marksman. Even though this was a close-range shooting, it was rare to see a murder committed in passion where a bullet hole was so perfectly centered. Morris concluded that the shooter was a professional, and while he had been clearly caught off-guard, he made an instant decision that killing the intruder was the most expedient course of action. Cold, calculating, and remorseless. All trademarks of a trained professional assassin, Morris thought.
The hole in the victim’s forehead confirmed that a small caliber weapon was used. But the massive exit
