Firestorm: Book III of the Wildfire Saga Read online

  Contents

  Title Page/Copyright

  Books by Marcus Richardson

  Dedication

  Half title

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Call to Action

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by Marcus Richardson

  Half title copy

  MARCUS RICHARDSON

  © 2016 Marcus Richardson.

  All Rights Reserved.

  1st Printing, April 2016.

  This is a work of fiction.

  The people and events in this book have been written

  for entertainment purposes only. Any similarity to living

  and/or deceased people is purely coincidental and not intentional.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopying, recording, or by any information

  storage and retrieval system without prior written consent by the author.

  Want to get an e-mail when my next book is released?

  SIGN UP here: http://eepurl.com/4sLYj

  Books by Marcus Richardson

  The Future History of America

  Alea Jacta Est

  Sic Semper Tyrannis

  Dux Bellorum (2016)

  The Wildfire Saga

  Apache Dawn

  False Prey (Novella)

  The Shift

  Firestorm

  For KJ.

  CHAPTER 1

  Kursk, Russia.

  VASILY ANDROPOV STOOD IN the first line of ten applicants with forty other men and women arrayed behind him in orderly rows. They had been waiting in the gymnasium for what seemed like an hour. He glanced around at the crumbling facility. A huge faded red star marred the concrete of the far wall behind a rusted basketball hoop. The chipped mural displayed what remained of a golden hammer and sickle, cracked and crumbling like the old empire it represented.

  Vasily turned to looked at the two men on either side of him. Both were of middle height with neatly trimmed brown hair. Just jeans and a casual shirt, no beards or stubble. They looked as if they would be comfortable on any city street in Russia. Vasily frowned. Their casual clothes were the equal of his best shirt and trousers. As the son of a poor farmer, Vasily didn't stroll down the streets of any city.

  “How much longer will they make us wait for the results?” he asked. Talking eased his anxiety—securing the job would mean more money than he could ever hope to make on the farm.

  The man on his right fixed cold blue eyes on him and turned away with a grunt and a shrug. The one on his left offered a tight smile. “I want to know why they have armed guards in here.”

  “Sssh!” a woman behind them hissed. “They said no talking.”

  The man on Vasily’s left winked. “Aleksei.”

  They shook hands. “Vasily.”

  “You think we failed?" asked Vasily's new acquaintance under his breath. "Maybe they’re waiting to dismiss us?”

  Vasily eyed the impassive men with AK-47s at the gym's three exits. They wore uniforms he couldn’t place and stared straight ahead, ready but not staring at any one person in particular.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps they’re—”

  The main double doors, directly across the gymnasium opened and bright light temporarily blinded the applicants. More than one hand flew up to shield dark-adapted eyes.

  A loud clanging accompanied the return of semi-darkness as the doors closed. Vasily’s eyes struggled to re-adapt to the dim lighting in the dreary gym but his ears worked just fine: people in heavy boots tromped across the chipped and scuffed wooden floor.

  “Hello and congratulations!” called out a cheerful male voice. “I am Igor Voroshilov.”

  The speaker stepped closer. He stood examining the applicants for a moment and nodded to himself. “They are certified? All of them?” he called over his shoulder. A woman in a lab coat flipped through the pages on her clipboard as she stepped forward.

  “Yes. All of them." She frowned. "The best candidates available.”

  "Will it be enough?” asked a man in the group behind Voroshilov. His voice echoed in the silence.

  “It will have to be, nyet?” Voroshilov replied.

  "You don't give us enough time—” the man complained.

  "Do not worry,” soothed Voroshilov. “I am sure they will be fine.” He focused on the ranks of waiting applicants and smiled. “Worry not, my friends—everyone in this room has passed the test! You are all hired!”

  Spontaneous cheers erupted but Vasily felt only cautiously optimistic. He’d been told there were a very limited number of positions available. He glanced up and down the line of people in the first row, shaking hands and laughing.

  “Okay, please calm down everyone. There are still some things—” Voroshilov began. He laughed, arms spread wide. "Settle down, please."

  “Will we still be paid the full amount?” someone called out.

  “I thought there were only a few positions…?” another voice added cautiously. A murmur of agreement followed the question.

  Voroshilov raised his voice over the noise: “Yes! You will all be paid the full amount—$175,000 American.”

  More cheering. Vasily couldn’t believe his luck. After all the medical tests and the barrage of mental exams, he was sure he’d flunk out of the program.

  “Why do those men have guns?” asked the woman who’d sssshed Vasily a few moments earlier. The crowd fell silent.

  Voroshilov never missed a beat. His smile never wavered. “When dealing with the amount of money we are, one learns to take precautions. Hence meeting in this dreadful place,” he said. “My company requires the highest security in this matter. The amount of money involved in the overall program is more than you can imagine. Remember, you are just a small piece. Onnei is a global corporation—we have programs like this all over Europe and Asia, North America too.” Voroshilov shifted his attention back to the entire group. “And this is only the beginning! When you complete each assigned tasks, the bonuses will increase.”

  He turned and waved a hand to the guards by the doors. A platoon of unarmed men marched in, each carrying two silver briefcases. The doors on the right side of the gym opened and another group entered wearing surgical scrubs. They wheeled IV stands and carried bulky equipment bags.

  “You are
wondering what is happening,” said Voroshilov above the noise of the new arrivals. “First, you will each receive a series of travel vaccinations administered by our medical staff," he nodded in their direction then gestured toward the men with briefcases. "Then each of you will then meet with one of our veteran couriers to discuss the details of your first assignments."

  “Vaccinations? What for?” demanded the man on Vasily’s right.

  “On your applications, you indicated international travel was acceptable to you—to all of you, yes?” asked Voroshilov. “The European Union has strict travel restrictions in place to combat the American Flu in Berlin and Cordoba." He clasped his hands behind his back and smiled. "You are the lucky ones—you will get the vaccine and a special immune system booster we created to make sure you stay healthy on your travels for Onnei Systems. I assure you, the vaccine is quite safe—I have had it myself.”

  “But why—”

  “Do you honestly think Onnei will send you out into the world with a case full of money and corporate secrets, only for you to fall sick in some foreign country?" He waited until he had every eye in the room trained on him. "Our rivals would love that. No—our Directors have spared no expense—after all, you are now part of the Onnei family.” Voroshilov’s smiled. “Now—who wants to get paid?”

  Vasily smiled in his train seat. He'd just left Brussels en route for Paris. He was on the next to last leg of his journey from Moscow to London. He leaned back in his seat and admired the idyllic French countryside as it rolled by his window. The rhythmic swaying of the train car combined with a belly full of food made him drowsy.

  The green fields outside his window made him miss home. It was late afternoon—Father would be bringing in the animals soon. There would only be a few hours of sunlight left to wrap up the daily chores.

  He sighed and pulled out his itinerary for the tenth time to rescan the list. His next stop: Paris, where he’d pick up a reserved ticket on the TGV. Then came London, where his first call was mid-morning tomorrow at Onnei's British headquarters.

  The train jostled for a moment then settled again. The metal briefcase between his legs fell against his shin. He reached down to right it and reassure himself it was still there. He had stopped at a bank in Moscow before he left to wire his parents a quarter of his new-hire money. He was a fortunate man indeed. The bonus he would receive for completing his mission would make him rich.

  Even the vaccines the pretty company nurse had injected into his arm had brightened his mood. At first he had to admit, he hadn’t been happy—he’d always hated needles and his family distrusted doctors and academics in general for generations. His grandfather—his wise dedushka—always said there were three people never to trust: doctors, Americans, and Party Members.

  But now, Vasily thought, I’ll be one of the elite. A half-million dollar bonus! On top of the money they already gave me…I don’t even know what to do first. Get a house? Party? Maybe find a girl…maybe a British girl? Vasily grinned. Maybe two?

  Vasily had never counted himself among those blessed with good looks. His body had been bred for manual labor. He had his father's broad face and thick hands. Yet as he examined his distorted reflection in the window, he imagined there were more than enough girls in London willing to party with him and his money.

  A sudden itch in his throat made him cough. The smartly dressed babushka next to him leveled a look of mild disdain in his direction and leaned away, pretending to try for better light to read her newspaper. She ruffled the papers and did her best to ignore the outside world. Vasily didn’t care. The nurse had told him he might cough or sneeze a little—it was a common side effect of the travel vaccine. He would feel better in a day or two.

  The newspaper fluttering indignantly a foot away from him turned out to be the day’s copy of Le Monde. He glanced at the headlines—there before him was the reason he'd taken a train all the way from Moscow to London rather than just fly. The lead story lamented Great Britain's decision to block all air travel in an attempt to prevent transmission of the flu across the Atlantic. The article bemoaned closure of the TGV train line must surely be next.

  Vasily smiled. He’d seen the skyrocketing prices of train tickets when he’d reached the terminal in Brussels. Onnei had spared no expense, but had specific language requirements for their couriers. Vasily spoke passable French—at least that’s what he told them. In reality, if he worked at it, he could make himself understood to native French-speakers well enough to find a water closet. He understood written French better, which made his assignment to London confusing since he spoke no English.

  Vasily coughed again and as he covered his mouth, his fingers brushed the stubble along his chin. The first thing I need to do is get a hotel room and shave. I must not walk into my first assignment looking like a slack-jawed podenshcik. His leg brushed the expensive silver case again. Ah, but no day laborer would walk off a train carrying such a valuable briefcase!

  CHAPTER 2

  The Swiss Alps.

  Chalet Tillcott.

  REGINALD TILLCOTT, 7th EARL Dunkeith, looked down at the paper in his hands and smiled. The test results had arrived and proved the serum his scientists had created using blood stolen from Denver had been a success. According to the results, he was now immune to the weaponized virus. Antibodies taken from the Source had been injected into his own immune system and successfully replicated.

  Reginald smiled and tossed the pages into the crackling fire. He watched for a moment as the paper curled and turned black before moving back to the cluttered desk. There was still so much to sort through—so much to destroy—before he left his Swiss residence. The trip to his fortified ancestral home on the Isle of Skye would not be a long one, but it was an unnecessary complication he laid at Jayne's feet.

  If she’d been able to control Barron a little better, things would not have progressed as fast as they had. He laid equal blame at the feet of the Russians. If they’d not lost the Source from their base in South Carolina in the first place, everything would still be proceeding according to plan.

  Reginald sighed. If you want something done right…

  The intercom on his desk buzzed. "Apologies, my lord, but your call is ready to go through."

  Reginald turned on his camera. "Very good, Stefan, patch them through."

  Reginald cleared his throat, squared his shoulders and waited for the screen to brighten. When the image resolved itself, the pudgy face of the newest Council representative from China, Yan Liaoping, filled the screen with nervous energy. The man did not look pleased.

  "I assume you've heard?" asked the businessman.

  "Heard what?" asked Reginald. "I'm not here to discuss today's headlines with you—I’m here to conduct a business transaction."

  "As am I. I just hope you can deliver. The World Health Organization found a suspected case of the Korean Flu on the southeast coast."

  Reginald arched an eyebrow. "Already? My, that was fast. I wonder, however, how it was possible someone arrived on your shores so quickly…"

  The man on the screen narrowed his eyes. "Do not be coy with me. Do you have the vaccine or not?"

  Reginald smiled. "I do indeed. As it happens, the price is going to have to increase slightly–"

  “Do not try to swindle me, Dunkeith!”

  "I'm not trying anything, Yan. I’m merely informing you of a price increase. Are you interested or not?"

  The man on the screen frowned, his jaw clenched. He seemed ready to argue further but ultimately self-preservation won out. "Very well. How much?"

  "There, there, Yan, I'm not completely heartless. Look—not only will I give you the doses I promised, I'll also give you the antibody template. You'll be able to recreate the serum faster than anyone else on the planet.”

  Yan regarded Reginald out the corner of his eye. "And why would you do that?"

  Reginald smiled again. “Let's just say I enjoy gathering friends about me. If I happened to call upon you for a favor�
�say after this unpleasantness burns itself out…I expect you would be amenable?”

  He tapped a few keys on his tablet and sent detailed instructions on the money transfer and delivery times. "That is, of course, if you find everything agreeable?"

  The man on the screen received the instructions and quickly skimmed them. He met Reginald's eye and nodded his assent. "Agreed. You drive a hard bargain, Dunkeith. I shall have the monies transferred in the next few minutes."

  "I assure you, Yan Liaoping, the pleasure is all mine," said Reginald in a smooth voice.

  Yan nodded. He signed off, and the screen went dark.

  Reginald dropped his hands and drummed his fingers on the desk. He hadn't heard from Jayne in more than 24 hours. It was unsettling. He’d given her explicit instructions, yet he’d heard nothing but silence.

  He frowned. If you want something done right…

  Reginald shifted back to his computer and pulled up the latest reports on his operation. Time ran short—the money from China had already appeared in his international accounts.

  That’s an awful lot of zeros. Pleasure doing business with you, indeed.

  He started his laundering algorithm and within moments, the money siphoned into several shell corporations and foreign accounts in countries friendly to the Council. It would take any investigating authority years to track down where all the digital currency had gone. Nothing would ever be traced back to him.

  Finances squared away, Reginald turned to the screens recording events in the lab. He watched scientists from all over Europe—some of the best in their fields—move about in containment suits, preparing samples.

  They have no idea their lives are about to end. Pity.

  His hand hovered over an ugly metal box with a large red button containing a wireless transmitter. Reginald took the key that had been so often around his neck over the past two years and inserted in the box. When he turned it, the red button glowed from within.