Black Harvest

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Harold Dansinger looked at the papers displayed in the hotel lobby and smiled. Every paper carried a variation of the same story.

One popular daily featured full color aerial shots of homes and cropland in flames. There were pictures of confused and angry people herded together at the FEMA shelters. Armed soldiers kept a watchful eye on the crowds. Martial law was in effect for the entire state.

Rice is finished, Dansinger thought.

He stepped from the entrance to his hotel and adjusted his famous Stetson. It was early evening in Washington, still light. He was mildly annoyed. His car wasn't here yet and for some reason he hadn't been able to reach Utah.

While he waited he thought about Nebraska. He planned to let the virus spread for a few more days. Then he would announce the discovery of an airborne antidote. He still didn't know how the virus had gotten loose, but it didn't matter. He'd be seen as a savior by the American people.

By then at least a million acres or more of prime American farmland would be a blackened waste. Studying the spread of the virus on a larger scale would allow him to refine the attack on Russia. That was a bonus. Also there would be profit opportunities for his genetic crops right here at home. So, perhaps it wasn't all bad.

The front of the hotel was graced by a high, sweeping portico. His car would be here at any moment. The afternoon was pleasant. Dansinger stepped toward the curb, looking for his driver. He saw two men coming toward him. Both had a military look. They were about the same size. One was blond, the other dark haired. Both wore suits. Both were armed, he could see the bulges under their jackets. The blond man seemed vaguely foreign.

"Harold Dansinger. Stop where you are." One of the men held up a credential holder with a picture and a gold badge.

Where was his car? He turned to look for it. There was a distant sound like a dull pop and that was when the bullet took him. The white Stetson turned red. His skull exploded like a melon. He slammed backward onto the pavement. People began screaming.

"Sniper," Nick yelled to Korov. They ducked behind a fat, round pillar holding up the portico. Chaos erupted in front of the hotel

They both had their guns out. Korov risked a glance. No one shot at him. They waited. There were no more shots.

Nick holstered his pistol. "He's gone. He wasn't after us."

Dansinger lay on his back in a spreading pool of blood. His head was oddly flat against the pavement.

Nick looked at the blood stained white Stetson. "Wrong color. It should have been black."

"What?"

"Never mind. Guess someone didn't want him answering any questions."

"This is something I would expect in Chechnya. I thought Washington was different."

"I guess not."