Indispensable Party (Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller No. 4) by Melissa F Miller Page A
Authors: Melissa F Miller
Ads: Link
Homeland Security, he’d participated in
more national security disaster war game scenarios than he could count:
terrorists taking hostages; unhinged militia groups storming the Federal
Reserve; jihadists seizing control of nuclear power plants; the list went on.
The scenarios that had worried him the most were the natural
disasters—hurricanes, meteor strikes, and, most worrisome of all to him was the
pandemic. A government could stop a madman, or a dozen madmen, but one vial of
death slipped into a pocket and released on a New York subway car would have
unstoppable consequences that rippled across the country and, eventually, the globe.
In addition to the painful deaths those who were infected would suffer (which
he could now imagine in Technicolor detail, thanks to his time working at
Serumceutical), the infrastructure would break down quickly. The rule of thumb
was that it could take up to seventy-two hours for the government to respond to
an affected area. But in three days, the public would be hit with food and
medicine shortages, followed by rioting and looting, freeways clogged with
desperate residents fleeing urban areas, overcrowded hospitals, emptied banks,
corpses stacked like firewood on the roadside—the list of horribles was
virtually endless. And, human nature being what it was, Leo expected the
citizenry to turn on one another in a violent struggle pitting the strong against
the weak, the wealthy against the poor.
“Worse than you can imagine. End
of the world bad,” he said.
Sasha was silent. Her green eyes
narrowed as she considered the implications of what he’d said. Then she
straightened herself, squared her narrow shoulders, and nodded. As if she’d
imagined the end of the world and was now ready to move on to prevent it.
“So, what’s our first step?” she
asked. Her voice was clear and firm, without a hint of fear or hesitation.
“Well, the first step is to get the
board up to speed and see what Tate wants to do. Then tomorrow, you and I should
head to D.C. and try to set up a meeting with the task force for Monday.”
“There’s a task force?”
A chuckle surprised Leo by
bubbling up from his throat in the midst of his dread. “There’s always a task
force, Sasha.”
CHAPTER 11
Colton did not appreciate
being kept waiting. Not by a pretend military officer, not by anyone. He
checked the time and stifled a sigh. It would be a weakness to show his
irritation, so he merely returned to his book.
The bartender must have sensed
his impatience, though, because he came over and swabbed the scarred bar in
front of Colton with a filthy rag. Without looking up, he said in a low voice, “The
captain’s on his way, sir. It shouldn’t be long now. Can I get you a refill?”
Colton marked his page with a
finger and declined the offer of a second glass of watered-down no-name
whiskey.
“I’m fine,” he said with a tight
smile.
The bartender nodded and returned
to staring vacantly at the football game on the television screen mounted above
the bar.
Colton tuned out his surroundings
and focused on Steve Jobs’ biography. He believed he could learn something from
any successful leader, although he had yet to find anything in Jobs’ story that
was new to him.
The door swung open and a tall
man with a crew-cut bustled in, bringing a burst of cold air with him. Colton
would have pegged the man for Bricker based on how he carried himself, but the
bartender’s posture confirmed it: he went from slouching against the bar to
ramrod straight in a flash.
“Sir,” the bartender said to
Bricker.
Bricker favored him with a flash
of white teeth. “Charlie.”
The bartender inclined his head
toward Colton, as if Bricker couldn’t figure it out himself. Colton wondered
which of the flannel-shirted roughnecks trading oil rigging stories over
bottles of beer the bartender thought Bricker might mistake for the CEO of a
publicly traded, international pharmaceutical corporation.
Colton
more national security disaster war game scenarios than he could count:
terrorists taking hostages; unhinged militia groups storming the Federal
Reserve; jihadists seizing control of nuclear power plants; the list went on.
The scenarios that had worried him the most were the natural
disasters—hurricanes, meteor strikes, and, most worrisome of all to him was the
pandemic. A government could stop a madman, or a dozen madmen, but one vial of
death slipped into a pocket and released on a New York subway car would have
unstoppable consequences that rippled across the country and, eventually, the globe.
In addition to the painful deaths those who were infected would suffer (which
he could now imagine in Technicolor detail, thanks to his time working at
Serumceutical), the infrastructure would break down quickly. The rule of thumb
was that it could take up to seventy-two hours for the government to respond to
an affected area. But in three days, the public would be hit with food and
medicine shortages, followed by rioting and looting, freeways clogged with
desperate residents fleeing urban areas, overcrowded hospitals, emptied banks,
corpses stacked like firewood on the roadside—the list of horribles was
virtually endless. And, human nature being what it was, Leo expected the
citizenry to turn on one another in a violent struggle pitting the strong against
the weak, the wealthy against the poor.
“Worse than you can imagine. End
of the world bad,” he said.
Sasha was silent. Her green eyes
narrowed as she considered the implications of what he’d said. Then she
straightened herself, squared her narrow shoulders, and nodded. As if she’d
imagined the end of the world and was now ready to move on to prevent it.
“So, what’s our first step?” she
asked. Her voice was clear and firm, without a hint of fear or hesitation.
“Well, the first step is to get the
board up to speed and see what Tate wants to do. Then tomorrow, you and I should
head to D.C. and try to set up a meeting with the task force for Monday.”
“There’s a task force?”
A chuckle surprised Leo by
bubbling up from his throat in the midst of his dread. “There’s always a task
force, Sasha.”
CHAPTER 11
Colton did not appreciate
being kept waiting. Not by a pretend military officer, not by anyone. He
checked the time and stifled a sigh. It would be a weakness to show his
irritation, so he merely returned to his book.
The bartender must have sensed
his impatience, though, because he came over and swabbed the scarred bar in
front of Colton with a filthy rag. Without looking up, he said in a low voice, “The
captain’s on his way, sir. It shouldn’t be long now. Can I get you a refill?”
Colton marked his page with a
finger and declined the offer of a second glass of watered-down no-name
whiskey.
“I’m fine,” he said with a tight
smile.
The bartender nodded and returned
to staring vacantly at the football game on the television screen mounted above
the bar.
Colton tuned out his surroundings
and focused on Steve Jobs’ biography. He believed he could learn something from
any successful leader, although he had yet to find anything in Jobs’ story that
was new to him.
The door swung open and a tall
man with a crew-cut bustled in, bringing a burst of cold air with him. Colton
would have pegged the man for Bricker based on how he carried himself, but the
bartender’s posture confirmed it: he went from slouching against the bar to
ramrod straight in a flash.
“Sir,” the bartender said to
Bricker.
Bricker favored him with a flash
of white teeth. “Charlie.”
The bartender inclined his head
toward Colton, as if Bricker couldn’t figure it out himself. Colton wondered
which of the flannel-shirted roughnecks trading oil rigging stories over
bottles of beer the bartender thought Bricker might mistake for the CEO of a
publicly traded, international pharmaceutical corporation.
Colton
Similar Books
