Missing You

Two-1

Two

The moon was a recent memory in the night sky. A few stars broke the cloud cover that added a layer of cool to the shrubbery surrounding the laboratory. The night smells of shrub and flower filled the air, a symbolic reminder of what they were there to protect—Mother Nature herself.

Green One, a darker shadow in a sea of shadows, scanned the area through his night vision glasses. A guard strolled around a corner, pausing to light a cigarette. Not far from him, One could see Green Two’s heat signature, also waiting for the guard to move on. When the guard resumed his patrol, One moved forward a few steps, crouched for another scan of the area, then forward again. Against the side of the building, Two and Three joined him. Four was elsewhere, neutralizing the electronic security system.

No one spoke. No one needed to. They had their assigned target inside the laboratory. Only he knew the real names of the members of the team. This was a world at war, with too few soldiers signed up on Mother Nature’s behalf. Green was his brain child, his underground army, modeled after the French Resistance of World War II. At first, Green had been small with few cells, hitting environmental polluters in a few isolated incidents and then vanishing into the night, but it had grown in the last five years. Gore had made it “in” to be green, and it had also helped his cause when he established a legitimate non-profit front that lobbied Congress, raised money, conducted peaceful protests—and found him recruits for his more aggressive goals. Gore was gone, but it didn’t matter now. Green was a mighty oak now, with strong, deep roots able to withstand the winds of change.

From his unique perspective as its gardener, it had been fascinating to see his sapling grow and flourish. The battle was like a living chessboard, with him controlling the white pieces and big business in charge of the black. The government tried to referee this unequal match, but the money that flowed from the anti-green forces to the open hands of elected officials had neutered it. Soft money for softer brains.

Despite the power inequity, he controlled his forces with a single purpose, while big business was controlled by many minds with diverging goals. He couldn’t save the world, but he could focus on the small piece of the earth he could save.

He wasn’t strong on patience, but he’d been forced to learn it. When patience wasn’t possible, he worked off his restless energy by freeing prisoners of war. He needed only to be patient a little longer. Even as he and his cohorts moved in on their objective here in California, other players had opened a new offensive back in Colorado—one that would strike a serious blow for the world's green stuff and, as an added bonus, royally screw his father. The best of both worlds.

Like him, dark figures moved through the guts of his father’s favorite company, Merryweather Biotechnologies, in Denver. This time their special task force would be successful in securing the prototype and the technology data. This time they wouldn’t fail, because this time they knew when and where to strike. Knight would fall, he thought with a grin, on the technology and on good old dad. And Knight’s daughter would play her role, then die. Everyone knew trouble came in threes. Dad was going to get a pointed and painful reminder of that little truth.

Though he was Green One, for tonight's diversionary attack he followed Four’s lead. This team had been pulled together from three separate cells to minimize exposure. He was careful to ensure that even if the Feds tracked one of his cells back to the source, they’d have no evidence he was the leader of, let alone the mastermind behind, Green. They’d believe his carefully projected image of a rich, rebellious dilettante playing at environmentalist. He smiled. Only one person knew the truth, and he’d never tell. Their mutual passion and their mutual secret bound them more securely than any oath of loyalty.

His earpiece crackled. Two, using the latest in stealth technology, verified that Four had taken down the security system. Two breached the door. They were armed, but with tranquilizer guns, not bullets. Lost lives could cost them the PR war, which was almost as important as their hidden battles to free the hostages to technology. Distraction and delay weren’t as inspiring as big headlines in the short term, but they were in this for the long term.

They padded down the hall with Three on point. A guard rounded a corner, and Three fired. The guard collapsed without a sound. When they reached the labs where the POWs were caged, they split up. One entered his target lab and headed straight for the windows. After opening them, he turned to the cages. His lab was a prison camp for several apes used in medical research. No wire cutters for his teams. They were all armed with the latest in high-tech portable lasers that cut through wire and padlocks like butter.

In minutes he’d freed the POWs and herded them out the window. He followed, then crouched and stared across the lawn for a last scan of the area before jogging across the lawn. He’d almost reached the cover of the trees when he heard a shout. One turned toward the sound, firing a tranquilizer in the guard’s direction as he ran backwards. The dart hit the guard in the chest. He stumbled forward a few steps and then fell on his face. Without further incident, One reached cover, the trees closing round to shelter him from hostile eyes like the loving arms of his mother, had his mother actually had arms even remotely loving.

The small wooded area was alive with the chatter of their freed POW’s. One smiled. It sounded like he’d suddenly been transported to the jungle. He jogged deeper into the trees, glad for the night vision goggles. He didn’t want to step on any of the freed hostages, darting about as they adjusted to their new freedom.

He didn’t see the others on his team. It wasn’t part of the plan. There’d be no risky rendezvous to gloat or celebrate. Just a swift, silent strike and a swifter, more silent retreat, with each man disappearing into the night.

At the edge of the woods, not far from the Los Angeles estate where his dad was being honored yet again for his rape of the environment, Leslie Merryweather shed his gear, stuffing it into the duffle he’d left stashed behind a rock. In a short time, he was back in his tux. He pulled the flask from the pocket and sprinkled a bit on his clothes, then drank a bit, gargled and spit it out. He’d parked his car with the rear toward the trees, so it was a simple matter to unlock the trunk, stow his gear and close it again without being spotted by any of the valets working the host’s party. This lab hadn’t been on their original strike list until he’d seen its proximity to the gala. Sometimes fate was kind.

He adjusted his tie to a crooked angle, mussed his hair, and then staggered out of cover. A young woman in an almost transparent dress spotted him.

“Looking for a place to puke, Leslie?” Her gaze raked his tall, dashing figure, her body angled so the light would shine through her clothes.

He lifted the flask in a mocking toast. “Love the new—” He gestured towards her chest. “Who did them?”

“Go to hell.” She turned and stalked away, everything bouncing in agitation.

He laughed, then pretended to take a drink. A white-coated man approached from the house.

“Your father is looking for you, Mr. Merryweather.”

“Is he?” Leslie straightened up. “Tell him I’ve already left. I have a golf game in Denver tomorrow.” Had to keep up his image as a useless waste of space. And he wasn’t sure he could keep the triumph out of his eyes in his dad’s presence. The old man had always known when his only son was up to something. This wasn’t the time. Soon, but not yet. He veered back to his Jag. Inside, with the motor racing, he applied serious pressure to the pedal, spewing gravel at the parked cars as he sped away. Once out of sight of the house, he slowed. Not the night to get picked up for driving drunk, not with what he had in his trunk. His plane waited at his father’s private airstrip. At the other end, not far from another airstrip, his new chess piece should be waiting for him.

“I’ll see what I can turn up, but a storm is shutting us down as I speak,” Bryn Bailey said. She looked at her watch and winced. She was already late for the Kirby clan dinner party, and the storm would slow her down even more, assuming she ever got on the road. “Whole city may be closed tomorrow.”

Bryn had been with the Bureau since graduating from college twelve years ago and could have been their poster girl—had they had one. Vigorous and driven, she was beautiful, but much less high gloss after a year in the wild, wild west. Her power suits had given way to designer jeans that were comfortable and collected an impressive collection of wolf whistles. The spiked heels were now snakeskin cowboy boots that had changed her walk from stabbing to kick-butt.

She told herself it was the wind that had softened her sleek, dark hairstyle, but her dark, less-steely gaze couldn’t be explained away by wind gusts. Bryn blamed it on Jake Kirby, a colleague and a friend, despite his choice to join the U.S. Marshals Service instead of the FBI. And riding herd on Dewey Hyatt. The two of them had managed to take the edge off her “take no prisoners” approach to law enforcement. She’d never expected to feel comfortable in a West she’d considered irretrievably chauvinistic. At first she’d put a penny in a jar every time someone called her “little lady,” but quit when she realized that it was a habit, not a put down. Inherent in their recognition that she was different from them was an appreciation for that difference that she liked. If she hadn’t partnered with Jake a year ago, she’d still be in DC, bitching her way through her usual cases.

She didn’t miss it. She liked that she didn’t have to act like a man to succeed here. Whatever perks she lost by being female were balanced by the benefits of being female. There was a growing satisfaction in doing her job without worrying about who was ahead of her and who was closing in from behind. Not long after she moved here, she’d felt a tectonic plate shift inside as she realized that having it “all” was driving her crazy, not happy. She now sang along with the country music station, the only thing her new SUV seemed able to pick up as she drove down the freeway, and she had learned how to “push her tush,” something Dani Kirby, Jake’s sister-in-law, insisted was the key to happiness.

After a few more assurances to the voice droning in her ear—why did men have to say the same thing three ways before they could move on?—she was able to ring off. The reports coming in on the lab strikes were brief, details scarce, but her gut, her instincts, were telling her there was more to this than the usual grandstanding. If only the facts backed her up. Phagan had told her he thought Green was planning an offensive for later this year, but hadn’t learned what. After six months, he still hovered on the outside of their magic inner circle. Outside that circle, Green operated in tight, isolated cells. It wasn’t clear which cell member was the contact with their control either. He was impressed with their security—and Phagan wasn’t easy to impress

Not the result she’d hoped for when she inched out on a limb for him a year ago. He’d contacted her online, inviting her into VR—virtual reality—as was his habit. That time, though, there’d been a difference. He came, not to court, but to ask a favor. A huge favor.

“I need access to Pathphinder,” he told her. Pathphinder was the Internet “handle” for his former partner in crime, Phoebe Mentel Kirby. Like Dewey Hyatt, Phoebe was on probation for those criminal activities. She was also Jake’s wife, and Jake wasn’t about to let any unhallowed contact with her former partners jeopardize her probation. He liked having her around too much.