MIND FIELDS Read online

  “There’s been a breach in my office. Somebody’s hacked into my PC and accessed my files. The Phase Three files are in there.”

  “Christ!” JT yelped, jumping up out of bed. Who is it?”

  “How the hell do I know? I’m half way across the country, but I suggest you find out...fast.”

  “Right.” JT disconnected the call.

  “Computer: Tie in to security at BNI.”

  The computer used a voiceprint ID to authenticate Anderson’s voice and access security at BNI. “Connection completed.”

  “Security,” the night guard answered with a yawn. Harry Finch had been working the early morning weekend shift at BNI for over a year and this was the first time the phone had ever rung.

  “This is JT Anderson.”

  Finch sat up in his chair and straightened his tie. “Yes, sir. Finch here. What can I do for you Mr. Anderson?”

  “Close down all access in and out of the Nanobot Research Unit. Lock it up tight. Someone’s broken into Dr. Lightbourne’s office.”

  “But, sir, no one’s come by here this morning except for Dr. Hingston.”

  “Hingston?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Look, Finch. Lock up that lab and shut down the elevators. Lock down access to the stairwells too.”

  “Can’t do that sir. Fire Department regulations; the system won’t allow us to do that.”

  “Shit. Then make sure you deactivate Hingston’s ID badge. Don’t give him access to anything, and make sure you watch the stairwells. I don’t want him leaving until I get there, understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  JT wasn’t going to be called a wimp by O’Grady, not this time. He could handle Paul Hingston. He dressed quickly and grabbed his semi-automatic 22 pistol. What the hell are you doing, Paul? he thought as he ran out the door.

  ___

  “Got it,” Paul said as he grabbed the microdisc out of the disc drive, stuffed it in his pocket and shut down the computer. As he stood, he heard the click of the deadbolt locking the door to the lab.

  “Shit,” he muttered, realizing that he was not alone. He hurried out of Sean’s office and over to the double glass doors at the entry to the lab. He gave them a tug, and as he suspected, they were locked down tight. He fumbled through his pockets and pulled out his ID badge. It slipped easily through the optical scanner, but with no results. After three tries, it was obvious that this was not a coincidence.

  Through the glass doors, Paul could just make out the numbers above the elevators to his left. Under normal circumstances, unoccupied elevators would all be down at the lobby, but the numbers indicated that they were all stopped on the top floor of the building, a security precaution used during a manual shutdown of the system. He glanced nervously toward the stairwells at either end of the hall; they were his only way out…if he could just find a way to get out of the lab. Paul shook the doors, but they were latched tight. His eyes darted around the room, searching desperately for another exit, although he knew there was none. A steel-legged stool next to the workbench caught his attention and he raced over to it. Grasping it tightly in both hands he paused briefly. Taking a few quick, deep breaths to focus his mind and body, he hoisted the heavy stool up into the air and let out a roar that crescendoed as he raced toward the entry and hurled his makeshift battering-ram at the glass doors.

  The steel legs hit the right hand door squarely, and it shattered out into the hallway. Paul picked up the stool, wedged halfway through the door, and used it to bang out the remaining shards of glass that stuck to the metal frame. He tossed the stool aside and darted through the open frame of the door, then ran down the hall to the left, past the elevators and toward the stairwell. Opening the door slowly, he held his breath and carefully listened for footsteps. In the silence, all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart.

  Paul was sure the guard would be waiting for him in the lobby, keeping an eye on both stairwells; they were the only exits to the building. He stopped at the second floor and exited into the dining area, which looked out over the grounds of BNI. Floor to ceiling windows wrapped around the room. The one on the far left was directly over the roof of the overhang that connected the parking lot to the main building. Paul picked up one of the chairs and threw it at the window, turning to shield his face from the flying shards of glass. He hoped that the guard waiting vigilantly in the lobby below wouldn’t hear the high-pitched rattling of glass against the marble floor. Paul was no athlete, but it was a short drop to the flat asphalt shingled roof below, made easier by the adrenaline rushing through his system.

  Harry Finch waited nervously in the lobby by stairwell B, holding his gun in both hands to steady his grip, trying to remember whether the safety was off when it was up or when it was down, Harry had only shot at a man once, and that was a dummy in a firing range. He was hoping that JT would arrive soon. Glancing frequently toward the front entrance and then over at the doors that led in from the parking garage, he saw Paul Hingston drop from the top of the overhand and duck into the walkway that connected BNI to the employee garage.

  Anderson’s car screeched to a halt just outside the main entrance. “Have you seen him yet?” JT yelled as he ran through the front door.

  “Out there, Dr. Anderson,” he motioned toward the double glass doors leading to the garage. “He just dropped down from the roof; must have busted out a window on the second floor.”

  “Go!” JT yelled as he ran toward Finch and pointed to the door.

  The two men burst through the door simultaneously as Paul was opening a door at the other end of the walkway leading into the garage.

  “Freeze,” yelled Finch, struggling to steady the gun that he was pointing at Paul Hingston.

  Paul glanced over his shoulder and saw the gun. He hesitated briefly, but he was not ready to die. Slowly he let go of the door and raised his hands.

  JT walked up to Paul, puffing to catch his breath and grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Well, well. I guess I was wrong about you, Paul. I’m disappointed. I was sure that I could count on greed to sway your conscience.”

  “This is just too wrong, JT. This whole Phase Three thing, it goes against everything we’ve been working for.”

  “You’re looking at it all wrong, Paul. Don’t think of it as medical research, think of it as national security. This will give us an edge unlike any we’ve had since Oppenheimer came up with the A-Bomb. It’ll strike a blow for democracy.”

  “It’ll strike a blow against democracy.”

  JT shook his head. “Like I said, you’re looking at this from the wrong side, my friend. Just give me the disc.”

  Paul hesitated.

  “I know you downloaded Sean’s files. You’re hacking skills could use a little polish. Now give me the disc.”

  Finch, standing just behind JT’s right shoulder, waved the gun slightly in Paul’s direction.

  Paul sighed and reached into his pocket.

  “Hold it,” Finch said nervously, thrusting the gun forward.

  “Whoa, trigger-boy,” Paul said. “Take it easy, it’s only a disc.” He raised his hands again, realizing that his life hung at the end of a sweaty trigger finger.

  “Shirt pocket,” he said to JT. “Why don’t you get it?”

  Anderson reached inside Paul’s jacket and pulled the microdisc out of the left shirt pocket. “Let’s make sure this is the right one. You wouldn’t be trying to pull a fast one on me now, would you, buddy?” He chuckled.

  JT reached into his jacket and pulled out a pocket computer. The microdisc slipped into the side slot and a list of files came up on the screen.

  “Pretty impressive, Paul. I guess your hacking skills are a little better than I gave you credit for.”

  Paul watched Harry Finch closely. It
was unnerving being at the business end of a loaded pistol. As Anderson perused the list of files, Finch looked over to see what was on the screen. Paul seized the moment and lunged at Anderson, knocking him back into Harry Finch, and the two of them sprawled over backwards onto the ground, Finch inadvertently squeezing off a round of ammunition as he fell. The bullet ricocheted off the ceiling of the overhang, causing the two men on the ground to squirm like freshly dug earthworms. They struggled to untangle themselves from each other, Finch desperately trying to discern where his gun had landed.

  Paul Hingston didn’t stay to find out. He bolted through the door into the garage and pressed the keyless remote to his Jag. The engine roared to a start and the driver’s side door slid open. Paul threw himself into the driver’s seat and watched the two men scrambling to their feet as he desperately tried to get the car into gear.

  “The door is open,” the pleasantly feminine computer voice reminded him. “The drive gear cannot be engaged until the door is closed.”

  “Well close it, God-damn it. Close it.”

  “The door is closing,” the voice announced as the door slowly slid shut.

  “Christ, technology,” Paul muttered. As soon as the door latched, Paul shoved the lever into drive. The gears engaged just as Harry Finch pushed the doors open and raised his pistol. Paul jammed his foot down on the accelerator and the Jag raced off, tires squealing, as Finch pulled the trigger. He got off two shots, neither of which hit their target, before the Jag was around the corner and out of range.

  Anderson and Finch stood helplessly amidst the smell of burnt rubber from the tires that had just carried away their prey. Finch pulled out his cell phone and dialed the guardhouse at the front gate.

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah. That you, Harry?”

  “Yeah. Listen, close the gate...now!”

  “But Doc Hingston’s on his way out. Look’s like he’s in a mighty big hurry, too.”

  “No shit. Just close the damned gate. Don’t let him out.”

  Jack didn’t understand, but he could tell by the stressed tone in Harry Finch’s voice that there had to be a darned good reason. He pushed the button and the main gate started to close. Paul saw it closing and jammed down harder on the pedal, racing toward the exit. Jack saw the Jag coming his way and ran out of the guardhouse to get as far as possible from the inevitable crash. The gate was nearly closed and about to engage the latches when the Jag hit it at ninety miles per hour. The iron gates flew open and the badly scraped green Jaguar raced away.

  JT Anderson had run out of the garage, hoping to see Hingston’s car stopped at the gate. A black sedan, waiting at the main entrance to the building lurched forward and accelerated toward Anderson and Finch. JT jumped back as the car squealed to a halt next to him.

  “Was that him?” the driver yelled out.

  Anderson didn’t recognize the man, but his demeanor had federal agent written all over it. Obviously, Sean had called O’Grady after he called Anderson. This had to be O’Grady’s man.

  JT nodded to the driver. “But I’ve got the...”

  The car sped off after Paul Hingston’s dented Jaguar before JT Anderson could finish the sentence. JT figured Hingston was harmless without the proof that was on the disc, now safely inside of Anderson’s pocket computer, but the NSA wouldn’t want any loose cannons. Hingston knew too much, and was obviously playing for the other team.

  Paul Hingston knew these roads better than anyone. When Kincade had first convinced him that he was in over his head at BNI, Paul pulled out a map and went over possible escape routes, roads that he had driven dozens of times over the years. One route in particular had the most promise. Over the past few weeks, he had driven it several times; he had every twist and turn memorized, and one of the fastest road cars on the planet to negotiate it with.

  Paul sped away from BNI into the Maryland countryside, looking back in his mirror frequently. He spotted the black sedan in the distance and figured he had about a half mile on it. Paul drove the winding country road with as much speed as he could handle, but the sedan was gradually closing the distance; the NSA agent was not new to this sort of thing and it was easier to negotiate a new route when one had a pace car to follow.

  The Jag made a sharp left, then about a quarter of a mile up the road, turned back to the right, heading up an unpaved switchback on the hillside. Paul slowed as he passed a familiar section of the road, a small clearing on the left used as a parking area for day hikers. On the right, there was a sharp drop-off leading to a creek fifty yards below. He stopped just past the passage, where a trail led off the road into the woods, and carefully backed the Jag down into the trail. He had staked out the terrain just two days earlier and knew that the ground was solid enough to ride on. Maneuvering the car about fifty yards into the trail, Paul angled in behind some low-lying tree branches to provide camouflage, then turned off the engine and waited.

  The driver of the black sedan negotiated the hilly terrain cautiously, no longer able to see the Jag he was chasing. He drove slowly by the spot where Paul had turned off, then stopped. As Paul held his breath, hoping the deception had worked, the sedan slowly backed down the road and stopped at the end of the trail. Paul could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He strained to see the driver through the branches. The man was rather large, and from this distance, Paul could swear that he had no neck. The man peered out the window, using one of his massive hands as a shield against the sun, straining to focus his vision down into the shaded trail.

  Paul felt like a fawn being hunted by a tiger. The sweat made his hands slip ever so slightly along the steering wheel, which he was unwittingly grasping like a vice. He tried to wipe them dry on his jacket as he kept vigil, hoping the man with no neck would not spot him, and move on. He felt helpless, backed into the woods in a parked car.

  The man in the black sedan pulled his hand back into the car. A moment later, it emerged back through the window. A glint of sunlight reflected off the barrel of the gun in his hand, as No-neck turned to point it down the trail.

  Paul’s mind began to race. It was foolish just to sit there; he would be no match for No-neck. Should he get out of the car and run through the woods, or start the engine and race against the gun? Neither idea was particularly appealing.

  The NSA agent struggled to focus, squinting into the sunlight. He tried to get his left arm up out of the window to use as a sun visor, while he brandished the gun with his right. He couldn’t quite twist his large body enough to accomplish the task, and reached down to unfasten his seatbelt, trying to give himself more slack.

  Paul saw No-neck pull the gun back. Quickly, he reached down and turned the key in the ignition. The engine of the Jag roared to life. No-neck looked up, startled. Paul shoved the gearshift into drive and jammed the pedal to the floor. The Jag lunged out of the woods like a tiger pouncing on its prey. No-neck raised his pistol in the direction of the oncoming car and fired off one round, piercing the windshield and narrowly missing Paul, who flinched ever so slightly, keeping focused on his quarry. The hunted had become the hunter. Before the man with no neck could get off a second shot, the green sportster slammed into the sedan at full speed. Paul could see the driver’s face, a trained assassin, never turning from his target. No-neck lurched toward him as the speeding Jag rammed the sedan. The pistol flew into the air and bounced off the roof of Paul’s car.

  Paul was stunned by the impact as his head ricocheted off the air bag, but kept his foot pressed to the accelerator, tires burning as the Jag struggled forward, forcing the sedan across the narrow dirt road toward the precarious drop-off to the creek below. No-neck pulled himself back into his seat and hit the gas, trying desperately to regain control of his car, just as it began to slip off the road. The rear wheels spun aimlessly as the black sedan rolled down the hillside, plunging into the rocky creek.
r />   Paul hit the brakes and pawed helplessly at the airbag, trying to clear his view. Groping with his right hand, he managed to open the center console and retrieve a small pocketknife. He flipped it open and tore into the side of the airbag; the gas hissed out as it shriveled into his lap.

  Through the partially shattered windshield, there was nothing to see except for the sky and the trees in the distance. He was unaware that his car was precariously balanced over the precipice at the edge of the road. Momentarily disoriented, he looked around for a point of reference. Glancing over his left shoulder out the driver’s side window, he could see the creek flowing in the distance beneath him, and the black sedan resting on the boulders of the riverbed. His mind began to race again, pulling him back into the life or death confrontation he had just escaped. His gaze fixed on the mangled car, looking for any motion, unsure if the relentless agent was really finished hunting him.

  As time passed and the sedan lay motionless amongst the rocks, Paul began to let his guard down and he became aware of his predicament. He held his breath, realizing that his car’s front end was protruding off the edge of the road, and that any shift in the center of gravity might send him toward the same fate as the man with no neck. He slipped the car into reverse and slowly gave it some gas. Nothing. The wheels were spinning in mid-air. At that moment, Paul was thankful that the Jaguar salesman had talked him into forking over the extra two grand for the four-wheel drive option. He pressed the button on the side of the gearshift lever.

  “Four-wheel drive engaged,” the car’s computer announced pleasantly.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” Paul said. He pressed the pedal again and the Jag’s rear wheels began to pull it back onto the road. A few minutes later, Paul was driving home, thankful to be alive.

  ___

  Agent John Mason was awakened to the trickle of cold water across his face. The lullaby of the creek meandering past his car was calming, yet disorienting. Still dazed, it took a few minutes for him to focus on his surroundings. The black sedan was lying sideways at a forty-five degree angle in the shallow river, the water just barely deep enough to find its way in through the shattered driver’s side window.