Chapter Nine – Holding Down the Fort
Ron wasn't up to much. Following Kim's hasty departure he had wandered aimlessly around the hospital complex before taking up residence in the business center. With the arrival of Shego and her extensive police complement a gaggle of highly placed political and military figures had followed to check in on any new developments concerning one of the worlds most highly sought after criminals. Arrivals peaked with the linking of the Paris bombing to Grim and his smallpox threat; and everyone had since returned to their offices upon realizing that Shego wasn't talking to anyone other than Kim or Ron. But while they had waited in the various visitor's lounges, reading files and rifling through reports, these influential persons necessitated the installment of a secure communications center. The British government wanted to keep Shego's apprehension under wraps for as long as possible and knew that even with the most up-to-date encryption systems, secure cellular phones were a contradiction in terms.
So a pair of London Metropolitan Police communications experts had commandeered the business center and transformed it into a miniature version of their central communications room back at the Yard. Secure phones and computers, high speed internet connections to intelligence services around the world; everything was shipped in within a matter of hours. Now, the small room had become an interim information clearinghouse for all messages concerning Grim until a more concrete base of operations was established. The two police 'techies' were replaced by their MI6 counterparts; men with security clearances high enough to read any and all traffic which passed before their eyes. Ron thought it the best place he could be to obtain the most current, accurate take on what he now called 'the Grim sitch', and so had taken up residence in the room's only unoccupied chair.
Unfortunately keeping one's finger on the pulse of the world's intelligence community wasn't the most thrilling of duties, contrary to the Hollywood status quo. Most of the incoming calls and emails were of little interest to Ron since the majority were from agents reporting that there was nothing new to report. Briefs from other intelligence services were of a similar nature – 'the hunt for Grim is still on, but no new developments at this moment' was the most common of phrases. Though every half an hour a new update came in, the reports differed only in their times of arrival. As the minutes dragged on into hours, Ron began to wonder why – in the rush of packing before the flight to London – he had opted not to bring his CD player; or at least a pack of cards. The novel he'd picked up on an impulse at Middleton Airport was quickly proving to be the most boring collection of printed pages he'd ever laid eyes on. Not only was it a sappy love story, but an extremely bad one too. The characters were so predictable that he was almost to a point where he could guess the next line of dialogue and be right every time. Finally, he set the novel down and decided to search the hospital for a pack of crayons and a pad of paper to keep him amused, when the phone rang.
One of the communications experts answered it. "Yes... One moment sir." He turned and held out the handset to Ron. "It's Mr. Finch."
"Hello?" Ron said, placing the receiver to his ear.
"Mr. Stoppable – I thought you might be interested to know that we've just received word of a possible Grim supporter here in London." Ron's ears perked at these words. "We're organizing a take-down operation, and I've got a spot open on the team. If you like, you can join them as an observer."
"What kind of take-down operation are we talking about here?" Ron asked warily, visions of gunfights and house-leveling explosions filling his head. "Are we going up against some psycho wearing clothes made by DuPont [1], or what?"
"We're not too firm on his mental disposition," Finch answered. "But our intelligence rates him as a minimal threat – he's probably just an intermediary, a middle-man for Grim's businesses."
"So, we're not talking about some psycho with a bomb strapped to his chest and a will to kill that cannot be denied?"
"Our sources say the most dangerous thing he could have in his house is a steak knife."
"All right – I'm in," Ron accepted, knowing that watching a police raid was a whole lot more fun than reading some corny love story. "Where do I need to go?"
"I'll have a team member swing by and pick you up. He'll take you to the Yard, where we'll get you suited up and briefed on the op."
"And then on to this guy's house?"
"Apartment, actually," Finch corrected him. "But yes. We plan to break in at 2 PM."
"Sounds like a bon-diggity way to spend an afternoon," Ron observed.
"Excuse me?"
"Never mind."
"Very well. Your ride should be at the hospital within twenty minutes, at the service entrance."
"Gotcha," Ron said and placed the phone back in its cradle on the desk. "See ya guys," he said to the two men scrolling through reports. Nodding in reply, they didn't even notice he'd left until one got up to re-fill the teapot ten minutes later.
* * *
Post thirty minutes, Ron was sitting in the front passenger seat of the team leader's Alfa Romeo chatting while they drove across town to police headquarters at Scotland Yard. Andrew Johnson – the man sitting in the driver's seat – Ron learned, had been working in the counter-terror unit for the past few years, so he was the perfect choice for a break-in operation. Once at the Yard, he and Ron headed up to one of the many briefing rooms, where the rest of the team and Finch awaited them.
"Sorry to be late, old chap," Johnson greeted Finch amicably. "Traffic was hell."
"Don't worry – we've just started."
Finch motioned for Ron to take a seat at one of the school-style desk-cum- chairs near the front while Johnson remained standing; nodding hello to his teammates. Finch, a metal pointer in his hand, turned back to a blown-up, monochrome satellite image of an apartment block and the surrounding area. A red circle highlighted the block in which their target resided, and superimposed arrows showed the planned entry into the structure. "We'll enter the parking lot from Highgate Lane," Finch pointed to the road that skirted one side of the block, "and park at the rear of the building. From there, one team enters through the fire escape, and the other through the rear door, here." He tapped two points on the map, one a set of metal stairs running up one end of the building and the other a doorway on the ground floor.
Johnson took over from here, having read the surveillance report before he left his home in Luton. "Our target is on the third floor, about halfway down the corridor in number 317. The building's blueprints say the door is made mainly of plywood, and the landlord hasn't seen anyone installing a new one recently. According to his neighbors the target's completely harmless. They report no signs of a security system or reinforced doors, so this'll be a simple 'thrust and bust' break-in, lads." He pointed to a heavyset man, probably the largest in the room, sitting about three rows from the front. "Roberts, you'll be our lead man, with Lin and Higgins next. Two members will immobilize the subject, while the rest search the apartment. We're looking for anything on where this Grim chap might be hiding, along with any weapons the target has stashed away. It's a four room apartment, with the study and toilet to the left of the entrance, the kitchen and living area directly in front of the door. We expect the subject to be in the sitting room when we enter, but if not, the bedroom's off to the right."
"Surveillance since nine this morning shows he's been sitting watching television in the living area since he woke up," Finch said, pointing to snapshots of the subject taken from an adjacent apartment building. The man was wearing a plaid bathrobe and boxer shorts, but little else. His mop of thinning brown hair and sagging, overweight body made him look harmless. 'But then, aren't all criminals at some stage in their lives?' Ron reminded himself. "He called in sick at eight, and his employer said he's been off work for the past two days – his excuse is a cold," Finch added with a smirk, clearly of the impression that Grim had ordered this man to take a few days off work.
"We expect minimal violence from this target, but that's not one-hundred percent certain," Johnson warned. "We meet back here in thirty minutes for a final briefing and then over to Highgate Lane. All clear?"
"All clear," the team responded as one, rising from their seats to go change in the adjoining prep room. Meanwhile, Ron waited in the briefing room as Johnson went down the hallway to pick him up some clothes. He came back with a pair of black pants and an equally dark ribbed sweater. From an equipment cupboard he procured gloves, a helmet, goggles and a pair of combat boots; all of which fit Ron exactly.
By the time he was fully re-dressed – gloves and goggles in his pants' pockets, helmet in hand – and his day-clothes stowed in a locker, the rest of the team was back in their seats. With little new information on their target, the final briefing was short, and the team quickly headed outside to pile into an unmarked blue van. Ron sat back with the team, who introduced themselves one by one as the vehicle began to move out into the city streets. None of them seemed very tense or worried about the mission. From what Ron gathered from their faces this op was going to be a walk in the park, which was exactly what he wanted. Even though he hung out with Kim, action and adventure were never a favorite pastime of his. But as they drew nearer to the apartment block, the back of the van slowly grew more and more silent. None of the men joked, or tried to strike up a conversation with their teammates. The few minutes before a mission were each man's own, a time for him to prepare himself for what may lie ahead. Not a single one of them could predict exactly what might happen during the takedown, so it was best if they went in expecting anything and everything.
When the van stopped at the end of Highgate Lane, Johnson turned back and checked his team was good to go. The answer was a unanimous, loud 'Yessir!' They were ready. Following the crackled 'go' from Finch over the radio, the driver hit the accelerator and sped down the road towards the apartment. They swerved into the parking lot, and circled to the rear of the building and stopped at its service entrance. A report from the surveillance team confirmed that the subject was still sitting in his pyjamas on the couch sipping a cup of tea and watching 'Eastenders'. Once out of the van the team split into two equal groups, one skirting the edge of the building to the fire-stairs while the rest entered through the service door. Like most other low cost apartments around London, it was unattractively simple, with the entire structure looking as if it had been built of large, slate-grey Lego blocks. Ron followed the second group in through the rear entrance, and up the central flight of stairs to the third floor. There they met the rest of the team waiting in the corridor across from apartment 317, with Roberts standing patiently at the head of the group, ready to break through the cheap plywood with a stiff shoulder.
Once all the team was assembled around the door, Ron standing back watching, Johnson pumped his fist up and down silently to signal the commencement of the break-in. Roberts nodded in acknowledgement, and shifted his weight to his left foot before pivoting to the side and he kicking out with his right. With a loud crack, the sole of his boot connecting with the door's lock mechanism. The entire section of wood around the handle and lock were blown off by the force of the impact, and the door itself flew open to slam against the wall. It began to swing back into the doorway, but was rammed into the wall by Roberts' massive frame as he entered the apartment. Lin and Higgins, both almost a head shorter than Roberts but clearly the speediest members of the team, followed immediately after – both heading across the room to the target.
"ON THE FLOOR!" they screamed in unison, pointing their submachine guns in the man's face. He quickly fell to his knees, his hands above his head and a mixed look of confusion and sheer terror plastered across his face. Roberts quickly pushed him to the floor, cuffing his hands and frisking his body for weapons while the rest of the team began to search the apartment.
"Subject in custody, subject in custody," Johnson repeated into the radio clipped to his shoulder – his words transmitted instantaneously to Finch back at the Yard. "Proceeding to search the premises."
Once the policemen fanned out from the cramped doorway, Ron entered the apartment to take a quick look around. It was the habitat of a blue-collar bachelor, filled with bland, uninteresting furniture and posters of scantily clad women on the walls. He looked over to see a pile of dirty dishes lying in the sink, along with a half eaten piece of buttered toast slowly staling on the counter. Seeing such an everyday abode both surprised and frightened Ron. He was used to dealing with villains who did nothing to hide their less-reputable tendencies, who liked living in underground lairs and foreboding castles – not low-rent, suburban apartments. But now he was faced with a new breed of villain – the quietly typical kind of guy, who went to work every day, had a beer with a few friends every evening, and planned how to exterminate all humanity during his free time. What Ron saw was the kind of person who could kill tens of thousands of people with a single vial or test tube, and no one would ever suspect him. To him, villains were supposed to be grandiose figures easily found and caught – not your local video store clerk or secretary. The man in front of him was someone he would have maybe suspected of small time shoplifting or double parking, not in the employ of a man bent on of decimating the world's population.
"Sir, we've found something!" a team member yelled from the bedroom, interrupting Ron's thoughts. "I think you should take a look."
Johnson entered the room, with a curious Ron right behind him. What had been a reasonably neat sleeping area had been completely dismantled by the takedown team. Drawers had been pulled out and rifled through, cupboards and closets emptied and searched. Even the bed had been moved, and the loose floorboards underneath it pried up with a crowbar. Everyone was gathered round one of these newly created holes, all eyes on something that lay in the shallow cavity beneath the hardwood floor. The team leader shouldered his way through, creating enough space for him and his observer to get to the source of all the commotion. What he and Ron saw puzzled one and terrified the other.
It was a small, brushed metal canister; cylindrical and about the same length as a medium sized [2] Coke bottle. The twist off cap was sealed tightly shut, hints of a rubber gasket visible along its edges. But this wasn't what frightened Ron, who had raced back into the living room and was examining the captured subject. It was the small sign that had been spray painted in red on its side that made his stomach heave in terror as he looked at the pale, sickly face of the cuffed man. A set of three curved Y's superimposed on a small circle, their tails converging at the center of the circle and a single word beneath the insignia was what Ron was now vomiting in the bathroom over. The word on the canister – biohazard. Next to it lay something even more distressing – a small syringe, one usually found in a hospital, packed in a sealed Ziploc bag. Though he couldn't be sure whether it was imagined or real, Johnson thought he could see the glint of a liquid on the tip of needle.
Ron was trying to calm himself down when Johnson reentered the living room, the rest of the team behind him. He said nothing to the teen, but instead quickly inspected the bound man still on his knees by the sofa. As Ron had, he found no definitive answer to what he was looking for; but like Ron, it scared him. Unlike the teenager he did not hesitate or lose control once he realized what his men might be facing. Instead he turned to his team and began issuing orders; his voice confident and restrained.
"I want two people at every entrance to this building. No one comes in, no one goes out. If anyone gets within five meters of you, keep them at the entrance until either I or emergency personnel tell you otherwise. The rest of you need to go around to every room in this building and explain to the tenants that they are, under no circumstances, allowed to leave the area until I say so. If people are already out, find out who they are and when they will be back. I want a full list of residents – both here and absent – within half an hour." He then unclipped the radio receiver from his shoulder and brought it to his mouth. "This is Johnson. I have a possible bio-terror threat at 33, Highgate Lane. Suspected release of smallpox disease, unable to confirm at this moment. Requesting immediate assistance from Hat-Mat. Repeat – this is Captain Johnson of London Metropolitan Police. I have a possible bio-terror threat at 33, Highgate Lane. Suspected release of smallpox disease. Requesting immediate Haz-Mat assistance."
"Copy that," Finch replied quickly, not wasting any time asking Johnson for more information. He knew what was going on; they'd just found the first of Grim's smallpox carriers. "Haz-Mat team on its way, ETA: six minutes. They request that you seal off the building and begin getting a list of residents."
"Done."
"Where's the virus? What's the release system?"
"The subject looks sick sir – he's pale and has a slight fever," Johnson admitted, looking around at the horrified expressions on his team's faces. "We found a sealed metal container labeled biohazard underneath the subject's bed, hidden beneath a floorboard. There's a small syringe, no more than 50 cc's, lying in a Ziploc back next to it, but I have no idea if either have been opened."
"Do we know how virulent this strand is?"
"Nothing yet sir. Until we get the canister back to the boys at the lab, we just have to assume the worst."
"What's that?" Finch asked already half-knowing and dreading the answer.
"If it's variola major [3], only one third of people in this area will die," recalled Johnson from bio-terror reports he'd read constantly while on the police's counter-terror squad. "Flat or hemorrhagic though, will mean almost a ninety percent fatality rate. Even if we manage to quarantine the building, the disease will still spread around the city – and one infected person on an airliner will mean a worldwide pandemic."
"Keep everything sealed off until the Haz-Mats get there," Finch ordered, trying not to dwell on the gruesome prediction. "I'll be along shortly."
"Copy that," Johnson replied, ending the conversation. Placing the radio back on its shoulder clip, he turned to Ron. "You all right?"
"I think so, yeah," Ron replied, trying to relax. "What do we do now?"
"Wait. Just keep still and wait." The man paused for a minute, staring through the doorway at the canister lying beneath the bedroom floor. "Praying might help too," he added somberly.
[1] 'Wearing clothes made by DuPont' is slang for being a suicide bomber. No clue where Ron picked this term up, he just did.
[2] About half a liter.
[3] The most common strain of smallpox. Check the Center for Disease Control (CDC) website if you want more information.
Author's Note: Finally, the story perked up a little! If any of you noticed a slight slump in the plot (dialogue and not much else), don't worry, I did too. Just needed to fill in some background information and get characters moved around a little bit. I'll try not to do that again – you have no idea how monotonous it was to write, so there's pretty much zero chance of it happening a second time. Anyways, just want to thank all of those who're reading this story, even after the huge gap in updates. Oh, and review? I love 'em, so thanks to everyone who bothered. Next chapter up soon!
Ron wasn't up to much. Following Kim's hasty departure he had wandered aimlessly around the hospital complex before taking up residence in the business center. With the arrival of Shego and her extensive police complement a gaggle of highly placed political and military figures had followed to check in on any new developments concerning one of the worlds most highly sought after criminals. Arrivals peaked with the linking of the Paris bombing to Grim and his smallpox threat; and everyone had since returned to their offices upon realizing that Shego wasn't talking to anyone other than Kim or Ron. But while they had waited in the various visitor's lounges, reading files and rifling through reports, these influential persons necessitated the installment of a secure communications center. The British government wanted to keep Shego's apprehension under wraps for as long as possible and knew that even with the most up-to-date encryption systems, secure cellular phones were a contradiction in terms.
So a pair of London Metropolitan Police communications experts had commandeered the business center and transformed it into a miniature version of their central communications room back at the Yard. Secure phones and computers, high speed internet connections to intelligence services around the world; everything was shipped in within a matter of hours. Now, the small room had become an interim information clearinghouse for all messages concerning Grim until a more concrete base of operations was established. The two police 'techies' were replaced by their MI6 counterparts; men with security clearances high enough to read any and all traffic which passed before their eyes. Ron thought it the best place he could be to obtain the most current, accurate take on what he now called 'the Grim sitch', and so had taken up residence in the room's only unoccupied chair.
Unfortunately keeping one's finger on the pulse of the world's intelligence community wasn't the most thrilling of duties, contrary to the Hollywood status quo. Most of the incoming calls and emails were of little interest to Ron since the majority were from agents reporting that there was nothing new to report. Briefs from other intelligence services were of a similar nature – 'the hunt for Grim is still on, but no new developments at this moment' was the most common of phrases. Though every half an hour a new update came in, the reports differed only in their times of arrival. As the minutes dragged on into hours, Ron began to wonder why – in the rush of packing before the flight to London – he had opted not to bring his CD player; or at least a pack of cards. The novel he'd picked up on an impulse at Middleton Airport was quickly proving to be the most boring collection of printed pages he'd ever laid eyes on. Not only was it a sappy love story, but an extremely bad one too. The characters were so predictable that he was almost to a point where he could guess the next line of dialogue and be right every time. Finally, he set the novel down and decided to search the hospital for a pack of crayons and a pad of paper to keep him amused, when the phone rang.
One of the communications experts answered it. "Yes... One moment sir." He turned and held out the handset to Ron. "It's Mr. Finch."
"Hello?" Ron said, placing the receiver to his ear.
"Mr. Stoppable – I thought you might be interested to know that we've just received word of a possible Grim supporter here in London." Ron's ears perked at these words. "We're organizing a take-down operation, and I've got a spot open on the team. If you like, you can join them as an observer."
"What kind of take-down operation are we talking about here?" Ron asked warily, visions of gunfights and house-leveling explosions filling his head. "Are we going up against some psycho wearing clothes made by DuPont [1], or what?"
"We're not too firm on his mental disposition," Finch answered. "But our intelligence rates him as a minimal threat – he's probably just an intermediary, a middle-man for Grim's businesses."
"So, we're not talking about some psycho with a bomb strapped to his chest and a will to kill that cannot be denied?"
"Our sources say the most dangerous thing he could have in his house is a steak knife."
"All right – I'm in," Ron accepted, knowing that watching a police raid was a whole lot more fun than reading some corny love story. "Where do I need to go?"
"I'll have a team member swing by and pick you up. He'll take you to the Yard, where we'll get you suited up and briefed on the op."
"And then on to this guy's house?"
"Apartment, actually," Finch corrected him. "But yes. We plan to break in at 2 PM."
"Sounds like a bon-diggity way to spend an afternoon," Ron observed.
"Excuse me?"
"Never mind."
"Very well. Your ride should be at the hospital within twenty minutes, at the service entrance."
"Gotcha," Ron said and placed the phone back in its cradle on the desk. "See ya guys," he said to the two men scrolling through reports. Nodding in reply, they didn't even notice he'd left until one got up to re-fill the teapot ten minutes later.
* * *
Post thirty minutes, Ron was sitting in the front passenger seat of the team leader's Alfa Romeo chatting while they drove across town to police headquarters at Scotland Yard. Andrew Johnson – the man sitting in the driver's seat – Ron learned, had been working in the counter-terror unit for the past few years, so he was the perfect choice for a break-in operation. Once at the Yard, he and Ron headed up to one of the many briefing rooms, where the rest of the team and Finch awaited them.
"Sorry to be late, old chap," Johnson greeted Finch amicably. "Traffic was hell."
"Don't worry – we've just started."
Finch motioned for Ron to take a seat at one of the school-style desk-cum- chairs near the front while Johnson remained standing; nodding hello to his teammates. Finch, a metal pointer in his hand, turned back to a blown-up, monochrome satellite image of an apartment block and the surrounding area. A red circle highlighted the block in which their target resided, and superimposed arrows showed the planned entry into the structure. "We'll enter the parking lot from Highgate Lane," Finch pointed to the road that skirted one side of the block, "and park at the rear of the building. From there, one team enters through the fire escape, and the other through the rear door, here." He tapped two points on the map, one a set of metal stairs running up one end of the building and the other a doorway on the ground floor.
Johnson took over from here, having read the surveillance report before he left his home in Luton. "Our target is on the third floor, about halfway down the corridor in number 317. The building's blueprints say the door is made mainly of plywood, and the landlord hasn't seen anyone installing a new one recently. According to his neighbors the target's completely harmless. They report no signs of a security system or reinforced doors, so this'll be a simple 'thrust and bust' break-in, lads." He pointed to a heavyset man, probably the largest in the room, sitting about three rows from the front. "Roberts, you'll be our lead man, with Lin and Higgins next. Two members will immobilize the subject, while the rest search the apartment. We're looking for anything on where this Grim chap might be hiding, along with any weapons the target has stashed away. It's a four room apartment, with the study and toilet to the left of the entrance, the kitchen and living area directly in front of the door. We expect the subject to be in the sitting room when we enter, but if not, the bedroom's off to the right."
"Surveillance since nine this morning shows he's been sitting watching television in the living area since he woke up," Finch said, pointing to snapshots of the subject taken from an adjacent apartment building. The man was wearing a plaid bathrobe and boxer shorts, but little else. His mop of thinning brown hair and sagging, overweight body made him look harmless. 'But then, aren't all criminals at some stage in their lives?' Ron reminded himself. "He called in sick at eight, and his employer said he's been off work for the past two days – his excuse is a cold," Finch added with a smirk, clearly of the impression that Grim had ordered this man to take a few days off work.
"We expect minimal violence from this target, but that's not one-hundred percent certain," Johnson warned. "We meet back here in thirty minutes for a final briefing and then over to Highgate Lane. All clear?"
"All clear," the team responded as one, rising from their seats to go change in the adjoining prep room. Meanwhile, Ron waited in the briefing room as Johnson went down the hallway to pick him up some clothes. He came back with a pair of black pants and an equally dark ribbed sweater. From an equipment cupboard he procured gloves, a helmet, goggles and a pair of combat boots; all of which fit Ron exactly.
By the time he was fully re-dressed – gloves and goggles in his pants' pockets, helmet in hand – and his day-clothes stowed in a locker, the rest of the team was back in their seats. With little new information on their target, the final briefing was short, and the team quickly headed outside to pile into an unmarked blue van. Ron sat back with the team, who introduced themselves one by one as the vehicle began to move out into the city streets. None of them seemed very tense or worried about the mission. From what Ron gathered from their faces this op was going to be a walk in the park, which was exactly what he wanted. Even though he hung out with Kim, action and adventure were never a favorite pastime of his. But as they drew nearer to the apartment block, the back of the van slowly grew more and more silent. None of the men joked, or tried to strike up a conversation with their teammates. The few minutes before a mission were each man's own, a time for him to prepare himself for what may lie ahead. Not a single one of them could predict exactly what might happen during the takedown, so it was best if they went in expecting anything and everything.
When the van stopped at the end of Highgate Lane, Johnson turned back and checked his team was good to go. The answer was a unanimous, loud 'Yessir!' They were ready. Following the crackled 'go' from Finch over the radio, the driver hit the accelerator and sped down the road towards the apartment. They swerved into the parking lot, and circled to the rear of the building and stopped at its service entrance. A report from the surveillance team confirmed that the subject was still sitting in his pyjamas on the couch sipping a cup of tea and watching 'Eastenders'. Once out of the van the team split into two equal groups, one skirting the edge of the building to the fire-stairs while the rest entered through the service door. Like most other low cost apartments around London, it was unattractively simple, with the entire structure looking as if it had been built of large, slate-grey Lego blocks. Ron followed the second group in through the rear entrance, and up the central flight of stairs to the third floor. There they met the rest of the team waiting in the corridor across from apartment 317, with Roberts standing patiently at the head of the group, ready to break through the cheap plywood with a stiff shoulder.
Once all the team was assembled around the door, Ron standing back watching, Johnson pumped his fist up and down silently to signal the commencement of the break-in. Roberts nodded in acknowledgement, and shifted his weight to his left foot before pivoting to the side and he kicking out with his right. With a loud crack, the sole of his boot connecting with the door's lock mechanism. The entire section of wood around the handle and lock were blown off by the force of the impact, and the door itself flew open to slam against the wall. It began to swing back into the doorway, but was rammed into the wall by Roberts' massive frame as he entered the apartment. Lin and Higgins, both almost a head shorter than Roberts but clearly the speediest members of the team, followed immediately after – both heading across the room to the target.
"ON THE FLOOR!" they screamed in unison, pointing their submachine guns in the man's face. He quickly fell to his knees, his hands above his head and a mixed look of confusion and sheer terror plastered across his face. Roberts quickly pushed him to the floor, cuffing his hands and frisking his body for weapons while the rest of the team began to search the apartment.
"Subject in custody, subject in custody," Johnson repeated into the radio clipped to his shoulder – his words transmitted instantaneously to Finch back at the Yard. "Proceeding to search the premises."
Once the policemen fanned out from the cramped doorway, Ron entered the apartment to take a quick look around. It was the habitat of a blue-collar bachelor, filled with bland, uninteresting furniture and posters of scantily clad women on the walls. He looked over to see a pile of dirty dishes lying in the sink, along with a half eaten piece of buttered toast slowly staling on the counter. Seeing such an everyday abode both surprised and frightened Ron. He was used to dealing with villains who did nothing to hide their less-reputable tendencies, who liked living in underground lairs and foreboding castles – not low-rent, suburban apartments. But now he was faced with a new breed of villain – the quietly typical kind of guy, who went to work every day, had a beer with a few friends every evening, and planned how to exterminate all humanity during his free time. What Ron saw was the kind of person who could kill tens of thousands of people with a single vial or test tube, and no one would ever suspect him. To him, villains were supposed to be grandiose figures easily found and caught – not your local video store clerk or secretary. The man in front of him was someone he would have maybe suspected of small time shoplifting or double parking, not in the employ of a man bent on of decimating the world's population.
"Sir, we've found something!" a team member yelled from the bedroom, interrupting Ron's thoughts. "I think you should take a look."
Johnson entered the room, with a curious Ron right behind him. What had been a reasonably neat sleeping area had been completely dismantled by the takedown team. Drawers had been pulled out and rifled through, cupboards and closets emptied and searched. Even the bed had been moved, and the loose floorboards underneath it pried up with a crowbar. Everyone was gathered round one of these newly created holes, all eyes on something that lay in the shallow cavity beneath the hardwood floor. The team leader shouldered his way through, creating enough space for him and his observer to get to the source of all the commotion. What he and Ron saw puzzled one and terrified the other.
It was a small, brushed metal canister; cylindrical and about the same length as a medium sized [2] Coke bottle. The twist off cap was sealed tightly shut, hints of a rubber gasket visible along its edges. But this wasn't what frightened Ron, who had raced back into the living room and was examining the captured subject. It was the small sign that had been spray painted in red on its side that made his stomach heave in terror as he looked at the pale, sickly face of the cuffed man. A set of three curved Y's superimposed on a small circle, their tails converging at the center of the circle and a single word beneath the insignia was what Ron was now vomiting in the bathroom over. The word on the canister – biohazard. Next to it lay something even more distressing – a small syringe, one usually found in a hospital, packed in a sealed Ziploc bag. Though he couldn't be sure whether it was imagined or real, Johnson thought he could see the glint of a liquid on the tip of needle.
Ron was trying to calm himself down when Johnson reentered the living room, the rest of the team behind him. He said nothing to the teen, but instead quickly inspected the bound man still on his knees by the sofa. As Ron had, he found no definitive answer to what he was looking for; but like Ron, it scared him. Unlike the teenager he did not hesitate or lose control once he realized what his men might be facing. Instead he turned to his team and began issuing orders; his voice confident and restrained.
"I want two people at every entrance to this building. No one comes in, no one goes out. If anyone gets within five meters of you, keep them at the entrance until either I or emergency personnel tell you otherwise. The rest of you need to go around to every room in this building and explain to the tenants that they are, under no circumstances, allowed to leave the area until I say so. If people are already out, find out who they are and when they will be back. I want a full list of residents – both here and absent – within half an hour." He then unclipped the radio receiver from his shoulder and brought it to his mouth. "This is Johnson. I have a possible bio-terror threat at 33, Highgate Lane. Suspected release of smallpox disease, unable to confirm at this moment. Requesting immediate assistance from Hat-Mat. Repeat – this is Captain Johnson of London Metropolitan Police. I have a possible bio-terror threat at 33, Highgate Lane. Suspected release of smallpox disease. Requesting immediate Haz-Mat assistance."
"Copy that," Finch replied quickly, not wasting any time asking Johnson for more information. He knew what was going on; they'd just found the first of Grim's smallpox carriers. "Haz-Mat team on its way, ETA: six minutes. They request that you seal off the building and begin getting a list of residents."
"Done."
"Where's the virus? What's the release system?"
"The subject looks sick sir – he's pale and has a slight fever," Johnson admitted, looking around at the horrified expressions on his team's faces. "We found a sealed metal container labeled biohazard underneath the subject's bed, hidden beneath a floorboard. There's a small syringe, no more than 50 cc's, lying in a Ziploc back next to it, but I have no idea if either have been opened."
"Do we know how virulent this strand is?"
"Nothing yet sir. Until we get the canister back to the boys at the lab, we just have to assume the worst."
"What's that?" Finch asked already half-knowing and dreading the answer.
"If it's variola major [3], only one third of people in this area will die," recalled Johnson from bio-terror reports he'd read constantly while on the police's counter-terror squad. "Flat or hemorrhagic though, will mean almost a ninety percent fatality rate. Even if we manage to quarantine the building, the disease will still spread around the city – and one infected person on an airliner will mean a worldwide pandemic."
"Keep everything sealed off until the Haz-Mats get there," Finch ordered, trying not to dwell on the gruesome prediction. "I'll be along shortly."
"Copy that," Johnson replied, ending the conversation. Placing the radio back on its shoulder clip, he turned to Ron. "You all right?"
"I think so, yeah," Ron replied, trying to relax. "What do we do now?"
"Wait. Just keep still and wait." The man paused for a minute, staring through the doorway at the canister lying beneath the bedroom floor. "Praying might help too," he added somberly.
[1] 'Wearing clothes made by DuPont' is slang for being a suicide bomber. No clue where Ron picked this term up, he just did.
[2] About half a liter.
[3] The most common strain of smallpox. Check the Center for Disease Control (CDC) website if you want more information.
Author's Note: Finally, the story perked up a little! If any of you noticed a slight slump in the plot (dialogue and not much else), don't worry, I did too. Just needed to fill in some background information and get characters moved around a little bit. I'll try not to do that again – you have no idea how monotonous it was to write, so there's pretty much zero chance of it happening a second time. Anyways, just want to thank all of those who're reading this story, even after the huge gap in updates. Oh, and review? I love 'em, so thanks to everyone who bothered. Next chapter up soon!