Ransom by Callie Rhodes

Chapter Two

Gretchen was jerked out of fitful sleep by the roar of helicopter blades.

She wasn't sure what time she'd dozed off, but her body felt stiff and achy. She'd tossed and turned so much in her cramped backseat that her blanket was now tangled around her legs.

Gretchen would have gotten more sleep if she hadn't wasted so much time trying to convince the police to take a look at the footprints she'd spotted in the grass. She'd thought they'd take more interest in the possibility of arsonists on the run, but they'd been too preoccupied with the spectacle in front of them to listen to a word she said.

She freed herself from the blanket with considerable effort and peered out the windshield. The fire was still going strong, everything in sight coated with a layer of ash. Through the shimmering waves of heat emanating from the flames, she spotted helicopters—two, no three of them—landing on the other side of the blaze. Her eyes widened to see that these were no ordinary helicopters carrying firefighters or news crews but huge, black military-style craft.

So this had been a government site. Gretchen couldn't help but wonder what they'd been keeping in those tunnels to warrant this kind of response. Whatever it was, somebody was obviously very concerned about its destruction.

Soldiers spilled out of the choppers as the first light of dawn turned the sky pink near the horizon. There had to be at least a dozen men in each helicopter, dressed in camouflage fatigues bearing the insignia of the United States Beta Army. They hit the ground running and immediately started pushing everyone back from the site, even the firefighters.

Within five minutes, they'd established three concentric zones around the fire: the innermost for their own ranks, the next for first responders who were already being debriefed, and the furthest out for members of the press. While Gretchen had dozed, three or four crews from local stations had arrived and started shooting, and she straightened her hair and clothes as best she could before joining them.

Then it was a game of hurry up and wait, with no one paying attention to Gretchen and her colleagues unless one of them breached the circle—and then only to order them back in no uncertain terms.

The story was clearly becoming a big one, and as more and more media continued to arrive, Gretchen steeled herself for the arrival of her replacement once Jeremy realized what was at stake. By noon there was even a national outlet present.

But no one seemed to have any new information, and the army officers didn't appear in any hurry to share. Gretchen wasn't the only one trying to identify who was in charge, but the troops worked with such coordinated efficiency that it was impossible. A reporter from a Des Moines station let her take a look through his telephoto lens at the command tent being set up. However, when it was still empty by late afternoon, she resigned herself to the possibility that the day would be a complete bust.

But then a rumor went flying through the ranks of reporters. Someone had said that the operation’s commander would be coming out soon to make a statement.

‘Soon’ must have held a different meaning in army parlance, because it was another hour and twenty minutes before a clutch of heavily decorated officers finally approached the microphone, trailed by a lone civilian in a wrinkled black suit, a man in his fifties who kept to the background.

The officer who stepped up to the mic and cleared his throat was pure Hollywood: granite-jawed, ruggedly handsome with a silver brush cut, and wearing enough medals to weigh down a mob informant at the bottom of the river.

"Good evening," the officer boomed in a deep voice. "My name is Colonel Bernard Beringer, and I'll be overseeing this cleanup operation. Here's everything we know right now: at approximately 13:00 yesterday, there was an electrical malfunction in a wiring system here at the Central Infectious Disease Research Facility, which was scheduled to be shut down later this month due to cuts in federal funding. After today's preliminary investigation, we can safely say that no staff were present during the incident. There were no injuries or casualties. Additionally, all potentially hazardous materials, including contagious pathogens, had previously been moved to another secure location."

Gretchen's brows knit together in confusion. Until the fire was extinguished and they could search for remains, how could they be sure that no one was hurt?

"While there is no evidence of an immediate threat to public safety," the colonel continued, "an abundance of caution compels me to mandate the evacuation of all persons in a fifty-mile radius."

A murmur of outrage went through the assembled reporters. Just like the rest of her colleagues, Gretchen knew bullshit when she heard it. More than that, she had a suspicion that this colonel wasn't really the one leading the operation, but only the mouthpiece.

So who was in charge?

Gretchen studied the brass standing at attention behind the speaker, but she kept going back to the civilian in the bad suit. There was just something…off about him. Maybe it was the calculation in his eyes as he scanned the crowd, or the deep grooves in his face around his scowl.

He wasn't much to look at with his combover and weak chin and paunch. He kept his hands jammed into his pockets as he rocked impatiently on his heels. Whoever he was, Gretchen was certain he wasn't military, but he wasn't intimidated by them either.

The colonel wrapped up his remarks with no mention of what had become of the population of the town of Arrowhead or how a glitch in the wiring could cause a fire of this magnitude, or indeed why it was still burning nearly twenty-four hours later. Like the footprints she’d tried to bring the cops’ attention to, these details seemed to be none of the military’s concern.

As reporters started hurling questions, the colonel held up his hands. "One at a time," he boomed.

"What caused the explosion?"

"Right now, evidence points to the initial explosion being sparked by the electrical fire reaching a tunnel used as storage for oxygen tanks."

"What about the diseases that were being studied here? Isn't there a danger of them being released into the air and reaching population centers?"

The colonel shook his head emphatically. "As I said previously, all pathogens had already been removed from the facility in preparation for its closure. No toxic materials remained on the premises. There is zero cause for alarm."

Gretchen exchanged a dubious glance with the Des Moines reporter. If that was the case, why were they evacuating everyone for fifty miles around? Nothing about this story was adding up.

But vague suspicions and accusations wouldn't make the front page. If she wanted to nail this story, Gretchen needed more.

Before she could lose her nerve, she clambered up onto the hood of her car and shouted above the crowd.

"Is there any indication that this fire could have been set deliberately?"

The colonel hesitated for the first time, then glanced behind him at the man in the black suit—who was glaring at Gretchen with a murderous scowl.

So, her intuition had been correct. The civilian was the real head of this operation, though he didn't appear to want anyone to know it. Without taking his eyes off her, he gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head.

"There is absolutely no evidence to support that theory," the colonel said confidently.

"Yesterday afternoon, I documented fresh footprints leading away from facility, in at least a dozen directions," Gretchen plowed on. "How do you explain those if the building was indeed empty? Who was really in the facility, Colonel, and how can you be sure no one was trapped inside?”

The colonel glared at her, making an obvious effort not to look to the civilian for help. It was clear he'd only been briefed only on the most basic questions, and it was just as obvious that the civilian was content to let him flounder.

"I'm sorry, miss, who are you?" the colonel demanded, calling attention to the fact that she was the only female reporter present—and making it sound like an insult.

"Gretchen Conrad with the Omaha Register."

The colonel gave a dismissive shake of his head. "Next question?"

Oh, hell no. Her mother wouldn't have been scared off a story by a misogynistic blowhard and a couple of dirty looks, and Gretchen wasn’t about to be either.

"The gentleman in the black suit," she shouted, ignoring the colonel. "What's your name, and how are you involved with this investigation?"

The civilian's eyes blazed with pure fury before he dropped his gaze and made a show of looking at his watch, then turned on his heel and strode away as if he was late for a meeting.

With his departure, some of the tension eased. Everyone seemed to have concluded that there was nothing more to be learned from the colonel, who exchanged a word with the other officers before addressing the crowd.

"That's all the information we have for you right now. No further questions."

* * *

Thirty minutes later, the forced evacuation began.

Two dozen soldiers armed with bullhorns and assault rifles fanned out in front of the press, barking commands to pack up and leave. A few of Gretchen's colleagues meekly complied, but the mood among the crowd had shifted. The remaining reporters continued to question the soldiers, who escorted them roughly to their cars without responding.

On the far edge of the press area, Gretchen sat on the hood of her beat-up old car, waiting her turn to be kicked out. She knew digging in her heels would be pointless, but she couldn't shake the feeling that if she didn't do something, her brief career as a hard news journalist would be finished before it ever really started.

At least she had a few leads. She could try tracking down former CIDRF employees when she got back to the Omaha office. She could call up the county and see what they had to say about Arrowhead. And even though they were way out in the boondocks, there had to be someone who lived nearby and would have spotted a stampede of arsonists hauling ass.

Gretchen had decided that was indeed her best course of action and was getting into her car when three soldiers approached.

"Miss Conrad," the solidly-built, flinty-eyed redhead in the lead barked.

She hesitated. She didn't remember seeing these men at the press conference, so how did they know her name? "Yes…?"

"Ma'am, you need to come with us."

Gretchen frowned, figuring that the nature of her questioning had earned her an official warning or some such bullshit. She'd heard enough of her mother's stories to know that when the government wanted to suppress the truth, they weren't exactly subtle about it.

"I thought I needed to evacuate," she said snidely, crossing her arms and leaning against her car door. "You know, for my own safety."

"Colonel Beringer would like a word with you first."

"Oh, is that right?" Gretchen injected a healthy dose of skepticism into her voice. They both knew who was really in charge, so it seemed pretty unlikely that his mouthpiece had anything to say to her.

"That's what I said, ma'am." The red-headed soldier shifted so she was looking directly at the assault rifle slung across his chest.

Gretchen resisted the urge to laugh. If he thought that he could intimidate her with such a crude show of force, he was in for a surprise.

She was a female journalist in what was rapidly regressing into a man's world. She'd been threatened, harassed, and berated more times than she could count. She'd been dismissed and overlooked by editors, ridiculed by bystanders, sabotaged by colleagues. But just like her mother, she wasn't going anywhere.

"Sorry, but I'm going to have to refuse your invitation," she said, reaching for the door handle.

Red lunged forward and slapped her hand away. "Refusal isn't an option," he said coldly.

Something hard poked into the small of her back. Oh, shit—Gretchen knew without looking that it was the barrel of a handgun.

Suddenly, even thoughts of her mother's legacy weren't enough to bolster her courage. She had never been held at gunpoint before, and her knees threatened to give out underneath her.

It's just a scare tactic, she told herself, no different from the threats she'd received so often in the past. She was determined to deny this guy the satisfaction of knowing it was working.

"Okay, okay," she said in a bored voice, rolling her eyes as she raised her hands. The man in the black suit probably just wanted to know how much she'd seen and what she'd pieced together so far.

Besides, it wasn't like Red was going to actually shoot her. This whole operation might be super shady, and trying to frighten the crap out of her for asking too many questions was scandalous in itself, but the military still had to play by some rules.

For once, Gretchen appreciated the belligerence of some of her colleagues. As long as they were hanging around and refusing to leave, she could be reasonably certain she wasn't about to be shot in front of witnesses.

But then Red grabbed her arm, digging his fingers painfully into her flesh. "Get in the car."

"I thought you were taking me to see the colonel," Gretchen protested, swallowing down her panic.

"We are." The other two soldiers were already getting into her back seat. "But not here. This is a private conversation, and the director wants to have it in the field."

This wasn't good, even if Red had dropped the ruse that she was just going to have a chat with the colonel. Whoever he was, the director didn't want an audience…or witnesses. "And if I say no?"

Red shoved the gun barrel harder into her back. "Then all your friends will get to report on what happens when someone attacks a soldier carrying out a critical evacuation."

“But I’m not—“

Gretchen snapped her mouth shut. It didn't matter that she hadn't done anything; she was pretty sure this guy could make it look like she had. As the henchman of the mysterious director, he probably had all kinds of talents.

She got in behind the wheel without another word while Red took the passenger seat.

"Where am I going?" she asked woodenly.

Red pointed vaguely into the field, away from the road.

"He wants to meet in the middle of an empty field?" Even as her heart pounded and her hands turned to ice, Gretchen felt a spark of pride that her voice remained steady, even scornful.

Red didn't bother answering. As Gretchen started to slowly drive away from the safety of the crowd, the awful truth of what was about to happen washed over her. She'd read enough spy novels to know what this was—a goddamn assassination.

But even as terror took hold of her, a part of Gretchen's mind was spinning. She had to come up with a way to get out of this mess so she could get the truth out. But how? She had no weapons and no plan. Even if she dove out of the moving car, there was nowhere to run, no place to hide.

Unless...

Gretchen suddenly remembered the gully she'd nearly driven straight into yesterday. She hadn't seen it coming, and chances were neither would these guys.

Sure, the ditch wasn't deep, and even if she drove the car into it at full speed, these guys would probably survive the crash. All she could hope was that luck would be on her side and the impact would break all their legs.

Slowly, she began to ease the wheel toward the trees. As if to confirm her worst fears, the soldiers didn't seem to care or even notice. The destination didn't matter because nothing was waiting her except for a bullet.

Gretchen pressed down on the gas pedal, picking up speed. "I don't see anyone," she said, trying to distract Red. "I guess the Director is way the hell out here. All this dust can't be good for that suit."

No reply. The trees were coming up fast, slightly to her left. It was going to be tight—she'd have only seconds after she jerked the wheel—and she didn't like the odds of testing her reflexes against Red’s…but she didn't have a choice.

Her heart pounding, she eased her left hand off the wheel and took a deep breath.

Then she floored it.

"What the—"

"Oh God, the brakes!" Gretchen screamed, at Red stared at her in shock. "I should have listened to my mechanic!"

Red grabbed for the wheel and wrenched it just as Gretchen threw open the door. The sharp turn tossed her from the car, but—God bless her old clunker's terrible handling—the tires didn't turn far enough to avoid the gully.

As Gretchen hit the ground and rolled, she heard the sounds of crumpling metal and breaking glass.

Pain radiated up the side of her body where she'd landed, but Gretchen ignored it as she staggered to her feet. Nothing was broken. Nothing even seemed to be sprained.

Down in the gully, though, it was another story. There was an agonized scream, but no sign of movement from the overturned wreck of a car other than a single wheel slowly spinning to a stop.

Maybe—just maybe—she'd be able to make her escape after all.

But the sound of boots pounding against jammed doors and windows dashed Gretchen’s hopes. It was just her luck that she'd only injured one of the three soldiers—and given the other two a reason to be way more pissed off.

But she wasn’t going down without a fight. She turned and limped as fast as she could through the trees, back toward the tower of smoke. If she could get someone's attention on the road—if one of the other journalists saw her waving her arms—

But there wasn't time. Gretchen could hear the two men cursing as they climbed out of the gully behind her, leaving the third screaming in the wreckage. A loud crack tore through the air, then another.

Holy shit, these guys were shooting at her.

This was really happening—these men were going to kill her—all for asking a few questions.

But Gretchen for damn sure wasn't going to make it easy for them.

Adrenaline surged in her veins as she pushed herself to the limit, dodging back and forth as she ran. She prayed that a piece of jagged metal had torn off the screamer's balls. That Red's girlfriend would give him a hideous venereal disease. That the director would step into a bucket of toxic waste that had somehow been overlooked.

More gunshots, none of them finding their target...yet. But Gretchen knew her luck wouldn’t last. They were closing in on her fast.

Suddenly, the air was filled with a roar so loud, so fierce and primal that she stumbled and almost fell. Forget the gunfire or the injured soldier’s screaming—that sound was the most terrifying thing she’d ever heard, making every hair on her body stand on end.

The shooting stopped. For the briefest moment, there was only the sound of the wind—and then more screaming, right behind her.

Terror paralyzed Gretchen, gluing her feet to the spot. Someone—something—had attacked her would-be murderers.

The rustling in the brush yesterday. The fresh footprints that ended in the ditch. Whatever she'd run from yesterday was still here. And after it finished with the soldiers, it would be coming for her.

Gretchen forced herself to slowly turn around, and nearly fainted. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

It couldn't be true. There was no way. It wasn't possible.

Standing a hundred feet away was the biggest man she'd ever seen. He was holding Red by the shirtfront in one hand and the other soldier in the other, lifting them clear off the ground as they thrashed and kicked. But it was no use.

With one final roar, the man smashed the soldiers' heads together with enough force to shatter their skulls. Bone shards and bloody pulp exploded in a red mist as the man tossed their lifeless bodies to the ground.

No…not a man.

An alpha.