The Serpent's Kiss

4

Derek Stillwater limped across the salon of his cabin cruiser, The Salacious Sally, and inspected the contents of his two partially-packed GO Packs. His passport, he thought, and did a slow turn around the salon, looking to see where he had left it. There it was, on the end table next to the brown leather couch. He walked over, favoring his leg, which was causing him a lot more problems then he wished it were. It had been five weeks since the surgery, but he wasn’t recuperating as fast as he wanted to. The surgeon was thinking they might have to go in and do more work.

Derek was afraid that it wouldn’t heal all the way. That was his Inner Pessimist talking, he thought. Tell that gloomy prick to butt out, he told himself, and picked up the passport and crossed back to the backpack and duffel bag he called his GO Packs — for Get-Up-And-Go Packs. He kept them ready 24/7/365, just waiting to be called in for some national emergency or threat of Armageddon. But no, not this time. Not any more. He had something else to do. Unfinished business.

The special cellular phone wailed. He stared at where it rested next to the backpack. Derek ignored it, and checked his Colt.

The phone continued to wail, a loud siren sound, intermittent. Persistent.

It stopped ringing.

He shoved the Colt into the pack alongside the passport. He had made arrangements so he could take it with him to Mexico. It had been a hassle, but he had pulled strings, insisting.

On the table were a few more items. Bottled water. Money in several different currencies — pesos, euros, dollars, pounds. A pair of binoculars. A bottle of water purification tablets. Spare batteries. A box of Granola bars. An atropine injector, an antidote for a variety of biological and chemical warfare agents.

The special phone rang again. This time he picked it up and clicked on the receive button. General James Johnston said, “Derek, we’ve got—”

”No,” Derek said, and clicked off. He put the phone back on the table and carefully packed the last of his equipment into his GO Packs. He thought he could hear the thrum-thrum of an approaching helicopter. The Salacious Sally was berthed at Bayman’s Marina on the Chesapeake Bay, just outside Baltimore. Helicopters weren’t that unusual.

The special phone rang yet again, the high-pitched wail impossible to ignore. Derek picked it up. “You forget,” he said into the phone. “I quit. I don’t work for you any more.”

General James Johnston, now the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, said, “We’ve got a situation in Detroit that we need you for. HMRU’s on their way to pick you up now.”

“Tell them the detour’s not necessary. I’m not going. I’m going to Mexico. My flight leaves in four hours. I plan to be on it.”

“We’ve got people working on Fallen,” Johnston said. “Everybody in the world’s looking for him. You don’t need to chase him down yourself. Especially alone.”

“He’ll contact me down there. It’s a game to him.”

“We need you in Detroit.”

“You miss the part where I resigned, Jim? Five weeks ago. Letter of resignation. I quit. You remember? Not on the motherfucking payroll! I’m going to Mexico—”

”Sarin gas,” Johnston said. “Somebody let loose sarin gas in a restaurant in Detroit less than an hour ago. Looks like about seventy people dead.”

The sound of the rotors of the battered Huey the FBI’s Hazardous Materials Recovery Unit used, was roaring toward him. Derek clutched the phone, cursing to himself. Why couldn’t he let go of this tiger’s tail?

“When this is done—”

”Mexico,” Johnston agreed, his deep, rough voice not showing any smugness or satisfaction. “With full backing of DHS.”

“Damn you, Jim. Damn you to hell.”

“Godspeed, Derek. Take care of yourself. Keep me informed.”