through the asphalt beyond the fence, a sign that the complex had not been used much. The front gate was likely monitored, which meant he’d have to find a way through or over the fence.
At least the scrub vegetation grew right up against the wire, a sign of long neglect that meant he could probably buy enough time to find a way in. He was tugging on the bottom of the chain links when he heard the crackle of tires.
Mark ducked low and scrambled through the brush, which tore at his exposed wrists, until he found an opening in the clusters of honeysuckle vines girding the entrance. He peered through and saw a black limousine idling in front of the fenced gate, headlights cutting blue-white swathes.
He recognized the limo, even though its windows were tinted as well.
Burchfield. Checking up on his investment.
He wondered if Burchfield had shown up without an invitation. Either way, Briggs would have to let the senator in. Assuming Briggs was inside.
The question resolved itself with the hum of an electric motor and the clanking of chain as the fenced gate was tugged to one side along a slotted steel track. Mark timed the opening, counting down in the dark rather than risking his watch light.
Seventeen seconds.
The gate clanged into place and the limousine entered the grounds. Mark wasn’t sure whether a monitor camera or laser had revealed the car’s arrival, but he was betting on the limousine diverting attention from inside, and the limo driver-what was his name? Something butler-sounding-would be focused on the narrow, overgrown approach. The car was through the gate and fifty feet down the bumpy driveway when Mark made his move.
He tore through the honeysuckle, discovering it had grown over a series of long steel poles that bruised his shin. He clambered over and kept as close to the fence as possible. The gate began retracting, and he had to expose himself to run ahead of it.
He moved, ducking low, half-expecting a gunshot or a megaphone blare of warning. Instead, he hurtled through and rolled just before the gate locked back into place.
The forest inside the fence was sparser, with taller, spindly trees that made for easier progress yet offered less concealment. The meager landscaping had long since gone wild, and the asphalt lot was spider-webbed with weaving rows of tall grass and weeds. Mark wondered if maybe he shouldn’t have flagged down Burchfield’s limousine and rode in with the boss, but the chill that had swept over him upon seeing the limo affirmed his instinct to hide.
The road was easy to follow while still remaining in the trees, and he heard the distant echo of car doors closing. He couldn’t make out the voices but there were at least two, and maybe three, men talking. He moved through the darkness as fast as he dared.
The voices had stopped, which led Mark to assume everyone was inside. Unless there were guards on the grounds.
Mark didn’t think so, because of the secretive nature of the project. A show of security would have aroused suspicion both from competing pharmaceutical companies and from the government agencies Burchfield hoped to avoid.
He reached the edge of the woods and an expanse of rough lawn about twenty yards wide separated him from the building. A high band of light marked a row of windows near the top, and he estimated the facility at about an acre in size. A solitary spotlight projected from the front of the building, revealing the shadowed alcove of an entrance with a steel door. The limousine was parked near the door, and Mark saw no sign of movement.
Great. What do I do now? Knock?
He turned to sneak around back and check for additional entrances when something moved to his right.
“Looking for your jogging buddy?” came a brusque voice.
“Uh, I’m…uh…”
“Yeah, I know,” the big man said, moving just out of the shadows so Mark could make out his square face and small eyes in the floodlight. His mouth sagged to one side as he spoke. “You’re lost. That happens a lot around here.”
“I guess this road is the way out?” The gun seemed like a stupid idea now, but still Mark debated fishing it from his waistband. In the gloom, the man probably wouldn’t even notice until he already had it out.
But then what? It wasn’t like Mark was going to shoot him, and he couldn’t see forcing the man to let him in the building.
“Well, it would be the way out if you were leaving,” the man said.
And then the gun was out, but it wasn’t Mark’s. The man pointed his gun at Mark and then waved the barrel toward the building. “If you’re so curious, let’s go have a tour of the place.”
Mark had never been threatened with a gun before. All the movies made it seem like no big deal. You banter with the shooter, and before you know it, he drops his guard and you jump him. Mark had seen it dozens of times.
Except the cold, black eye of the gun seemed to be peering deep into his soul.
As Mark headed for the limo and the factory door, the man came close behind him and yanked the Glock out of the back of his waistband. “Careful with this. You don’t want a new asshole.”
“I’m a friend of Senator Burchfield’s,” Mark said.
“Sure you are,” the man said. “And you brought the Easter Bunny and Hillary Clinton with you, didn’t you?”
Mark wondered if he should have mentioned Sebastian Briggs, but Briggs was the kind of guy people didn’t like to talk about.
“You’ re one of the people from the trials, aren’t you?” the man said. “You’re about the right age for it.”
“Yeah,” Mark said, wondering whether the lie would keep him alive or amp up the danger. Whatever happened, he figured it would get him to wherever Alexis was.
“How come you’re not freaking out like the rest of them?”
“I’m freaking on the inside.”
The man gave a bark of laughter and pulled out an old-fashioned key ring. He opened the door and stepped back. “Welcome to the Monkey House.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“This complicates things,” Briggs said, though secretly he was pleased. If circumstances warranted, he’d synthesized enough Seethe to dose them all, one way or another.
You always have to keep an ace up your sleeve.
But Briggs had two aces and a joker stashed away. While Burchfield knew about the serum that was deliverable via injection and oral delivery, he wasn’t aware that Briggs had developed a gas version as well.
The military loved chemical agents that could be dispensed from afar, because that added extra layers of plausible deniability, reduced resource risk, and always seemed more humane. After all, it wasn’t the military leaders of the world who had called for the banning of mustard gas. No, it was the do-gooders and the self- righteous. And Briggs suspected those do-gooders wanted to keep their killing up close and personal.
Briggs certainly did.
And so did his little monkeys.
“What’s going on down here, Briggs?” Burchfield said, glancing warily at the hulking machinery. “You promised delivery of Halcyon and a lot of people are waiting.”
“I’ll have it next week. The FDA already has the data on the animal testing. Once we prove the efficacy and safety in the human clinicals, we can move into formal trials. You know the drill.” Briggs couldn’t resist reverting to the quasi-Marine talk Burchfield loved to employ, even though Burchfield’s military experience had been limited to three years in the Boy Scouts.
“And you’re sure they can’t trace all this back to ten years ago?” Burchfield said.
“Names have been changed because mistakes were made,” Briggs said, now employing passive voice in a parody of bureaucratic doublespeak.
