Having satisfied himself that Agent Morwood was no longer a threat, Lime glanced around the laboratory. The compound he’d injected Morwood with—similar to vecuronium bromide in its paralyzing effects, but undetectable in an autopsy—would do its work in fifteen to twenty minutes; perhaps less, given the man’s already labored breathing. His preparations were almost complete; timing should not be a problem. If he hurried.
He moved toward a black bag of ballistic nylon, lying unzipped atop one of the metal examination tables; rummaged inside; and removed a few small tools and a sealed baggie containing what looked like brown, oversize grains of rice—rat shit, to be specific. Then he walked over to a far corner of the lab, used a stepstool to reach and unscrew a grille near the ceiling, and—balancing a penlight on the cavity within—began working quickly but efficiently. Within eight minutes he was done, the grille and step stool back in their places and the latter wiped clean of any footprints.
Lime glanced at his watch. He was on time, and the preparations were almost complete. Just one more thing.
A small screwdriver appeared in his hand, and he went to a battered round machine sitting in a dusty corner—the lab’s autoclave. Working with speed and efficiency, he knelt and unscrewed a metal plate in the side of the machine. Setting the plate aside, he reached in with a penknife and worked for all of twenty seconds; then he placed the plate back on and screwed it into place.
Finally, he double-checked everything: a mental checklist exercise he had been conditioned to perform. He walked over to the door through which Morwood had entered, made sure it was securely closed and that its automatic lock re-engaged. Then he returned to Morwood, motionless on the floor. Kneeling once again, he determined the agent was now fully unconscious, his body still struggling to breathe but well on its way to death. That, at least, was a mercy: although the drug was Lime’s preferred method for such business, suffocation by paralysis was an unpleasant way to go. Still, smoke had to be found in the man’s lungs.
It was a shame, really: everything he knew about Morwood, based on the man’s official dossier, would have made him a good candidate. Certainly, his character, beliefs, and outlook were in line with the Atropos creed. It was his unfortunate medical condition that had disqualified him from being approached.
More quickly now, Lime went through Morwood’s pockets. He riffled through his wallet, checked his keys, then replaced both. There was a folded piece of notepaper with his wallet that he checked, glanced at its contents, then replaced it as well. Rule 7: Whenever possible, take nothing, leave nothing.
A muffled popping sound from the autoclave signaled that his operation was now underway. A moment later, this was confirmed by an acrid smell of smoke. Rising, Lime returned to the examination table that held his bag. He dropped his tools into it, made one more quick but thorough check of the lab. And then—with a rapidity born of familiarity—Lime removed his jacket and trousers and turned them inside out, revealing linings of black felt. He put them on again, then pulled a balaclava from the bag and rolled it down over his head. Smoke was now quickly filling the room, but there was no alarm, no drop-and-turn dance of the ceiling sprinkler heads.
Satisfied, Lime zipped up the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked back to the shuttered loading dock and the small service door that stood beside it. The door was slightly ajar, just as he had left it. He paused at the jamb for one last moment, then slipped out into the night, closing the door to the lab behind him. Then he turned and—moving away from the scattered lights of the business park—disappeared quickly into the dark.
22
THE CELL PHONE rang so loud and abruptly that Corrie jerked awake beneath the covers. Even in bed, she was still on edge. She’d felt restless and uneasy all evening—without knowing why—and tossed in bed for ages before finally drifting into a fitful doze.
Sitting up on one elbow, she plucked the phone from her nightstand. It was half past two. Shit, that meant she’d been asleep less than an hour. The caller ID came through as private: probably some robocall. Unbelievable. As she answered, she made a private promise to track down the bastard who owned the company responsible and drape his ballsack over her bathroom door.
“Yes?” she said, hearing the sleepy croak of her own voice.
“Agent Swanson?” came a male voice: urgent, abrupt.
Something in the authoritative tone made her flash back for a second to a night a decade earlier, when a Kansas sheriff was beating on the door of the trailer she’d shared with her mother.