Medusa

“I wasn’t aware there was another lab,” Gamay said.

“It was secret. They called it Davy Jones’s Locker. Dr. Kane and Lois Mitchell, his assistant, left Bonefish Key and took a number of scientists and technicians with them. Dr. Mayhew and the remaining staff stayed on to make sure there were no flaws in the original research. I was charting the probable spread of the virus and how best to contain it.”

“How effective was the toxin-derived drug?” Paul said.

“It was limited at first,” Lee said. “The medusae toxin is incredibly unpredictable. Even a small amount could kill a human, and at first more lab animals died than were cured. Then we made a huge breakthrough in identifying the molecular makeup of the microbe that produces the toxin. We were on the verge of synthesis. And clinical tests would have been the next step.”

Song Lee’s eyelids had been drooping as she talked, and Gamay suggested she lie down on the sofa. Then she and Paul stepped out of the trailer into the warm Florida night.

“Thanks for coming to our rescue, Galahad,” Gamay said.

“Sorry if Sir Dooley and I cut it too close,” Paul said. “What’s your reaction to Song Lee’s story?”

“I know for a fact that she didn’t make up the man she killed or his trigger-happy pals, so I assume that everything else she said is true.”

“I’ll talk to Dooley. Maybe he can fill in the gaps.”

As Trout approached the dock, he smelled cigar smoke before he saw Dooley. Trout started to speak but Dooley shushed him. Trout listened, and he heard the murmur of an engine echoing off the canal. Dooley mashed his cigar out with his shoe, grabbed Trout, and pulled him down behind a pile of wooden fish boxes.

The engine sound came closer, and a boat nosed into the canal. It was moving at a crawl, its spotlight sweeping back and forth, until it came to the end of the canal, where it made a U-turn and headed back to open water.

Dooley’s 16-gauge followed the boat until the sound of its engine could no longer be heard. He lit up another cigar.

“I’ll keep watch, but I think maybe we’d better get Dr. Lee out of here,” he said.

“No argument there,” Trout agreed.

Trout went back to the trailer. As he was telling Gamay about the suspicious boat, his cell phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID. Austin was calling to check on Gamay.

“I’m in Florida now,” Trout said. “Gamay is all right. But we ran into trouble off Bonefish Key.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Gamay was attacked along with a Bonefish Key scientist named Dr. Song Lee, who was working on something called the blue medusa.”

“I want to talk to Dr. Lee in person,” Austin said. “Call NUMA and have them send a plane down right away to pick you up. Joe and I will be leaving town in a few hours. Meet me at the airport.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

“Thanks. I’ve got another favor.” He gave Trout a phone number. “Call Cate Lyons, Joe’s friend at the FBI, and extend my apologies for cutting her off. Tell her I’m heading for the Good Luck Fortune Cookie factory in Falls Church. Got to go.”

Moments later, Trout relayed Austin’s message to Lyons, who thanked him and hung up. As he tapped out the number to co

Gamay shook her head.

“Kurt’s instincts were right on the mark as usual,” she said. “He said to look for something fu

“This is about as fu

Gamay glanced over at the slumbering Chinese woman, thinking of their close call in the abandoned boat, and then looked at the serious expression on her husband’s face.

“If it’s so fu

CHAPTER 28

A FEW MINUTES BEFORE AUSTIN CALLED THE TROUTS, HE had driven past the Corvette parked near the Eden Center clock tower and thought that Zavala must have had a good reason to leave his pride and joy unattended. He drove onto Wilson Boulevard and joined the traffic that moved at an agonizing crawl. Eventually, the suburban malls and neighborhoods petered out, and he was moving through an industrial-commercial area.

The GPS unit indicated that he was about a block from his goal. Reasoning that a turquoise Cherokee might attract unwanted attention, Austin parked it in an alley between two buildings. He made his way on foot to the front gate of the Good Luck Fortune Cookie Company. The parking lot was empty, and the only light came from above the door to the office.

The gate was locked. Austin walked the perimeter of the chain-link fence to the rear gate. He pushed the gate open and made his way to a rear loading dock lit by a single bulb. He kept to the shadows as much as possible.

He wondered if he had the right address. Those doubts vanished when a figure stepped out from behind a Dumpster and blinded Austin with a powerful flashlight.

A deep voice said, “Hold it right there, soldier. Put your hands in the air.”

Austin stopped in his tracks and did as he was told. He sensed rather than saw someone creeping up behind him and felt his pistol slip from its holster.

“That’s better,” said the voice. “Turn around . . . real slow. I’m giving you friendly warning. These guys call themselves Ghost Devils, and they mean it. I wouldn’t screw with them.”

At least a half dozen other figures had materialized from the shadows.

“Are you a ghost or a devil?” Austin asked.

The man stepped closer.

“Just a guy doing his job. The name is Phelps.” He turned the flashlight beam up to show his face, the angle turning his droopy smile into a Halloween mask. “This place is loaded with cameras. A moth couldn’t get close without being picked up. We’ve been watching you ever since you showed up at the front door. Thanks for making my work so easy.”

“My pleasure. But how do you know I didn’t let myself get caught on purpose?”

“I don’t, which is why we’re being real careful handling you.”

“Where’s Joe?” Austin asked.

Phelps pointed his flashlight at the loading-dock door.

“That way,” he said.

The door slid up. Phelps led the way up the stairs to the dock and herded Austin through the door into the dark warehouse. Phelps hit a switch, and the interior was flooded with light. The big space was empty except for a pile of smashed cardboard cartons against one wall and two chairs side by side facing a screen.

“Fortune cookie business must not be very good,” Austin said.

“That’s a cover,” Phelps said. “Place is used mostly to hold smuggled illegal aliens. Besides, you don’t want to know your fortune. The folks I work for aren’t too happy with you.”

Austin would have agreed that his prospects for a long and happy life were slim. In addition to Phelps, he was guarded by the tough-faced Asians, all men in their twenties, dressed in black ru

Phelps was a tall man in his late forties. He wore jeans, Doc Martens boots, and a black T-shirt that displayed his ropy arms. He wore a U.S. NAVY SEALS baseball cap on his head. And he had Austin’s Bowen, which he examined with appraising eyes.

“Nice piece,” he said.

“Thanks. When do I get it back?”

Phelps chuckled, and slid the pistol into its holster, which he clipped to his belt. He glanced at his watch and called to a couple of Ghost Devils. They went through a door leading to the front of the building and came back after a minute with Zavala. They shoved him over into one of the chairs and motioned Austin into the other. Both men were then handcuffed to the armrests.