Free The Dragon Factory by Jonathan Maberry Page A

clipped his liver and one kidney. There must be lung damage, but it’s not sucking.”
    “Is that bad?”
    “It’s not good. Lung could be filled with blood already.”
    The sirens were louder now, outside. He heard people yelling and then the pounding of feet as EMTs and uniformed cops ran down the hall toward them. The EMTs pushed past them and began their own wound care, but they listened to Top’s professional assessments.
    “We’ll take over from here, sir,” they said, and the agents backed off.
    The cops circled them and Bunny flashed his credentials. Somebody at the DMS must have made the right call, because the police deferred to them, even to the point of staying outside the crime scene. The DMS operator had assured Top that Jerry Spencer, the head of the DMS’s high-tech forensics division, would be on the next thing smoking.
    Top stood in the doorway and looked at the carnage.
    “This don’t make sense,” Bunny said, looking over Top’s shoulder. “I mean, am I crazy or were these clowns speaking Russian?”
    “Sounded like it to me. Or close enough.”
    “Russian Mafia?” Bunny ventured.
    “Shit if I know, Farmboy. But these guys were pros of some kind. Ex-police or ex-Russian military. They knew how to ambush a door knock.”
    On the floor by the overturned table was a device that looked like a PDA. Someone, presumably one of the Russians, had attached it to Gilpin’s hard drive with narrow cables.
    “Looks like they were downloading his shit,” said Bunny. He nudged the device. The PDA and the hard drive had been smashed to junk by gunfire.
    “No way to know if they were downloading the data to take it or forwarding it on. Maybe they tortured him to get his passwords.”
    “All this for a computer hacker?”
    “I think we just stepped in somebody else’s shit.”
    Bunny grunted. “It’s our shit now. Big Bob makes it or not, I’m going to want a piece of somebody’s ass for this. Whoever ordered this.”
    “Hooah,” murmured Top. “The captain’s going to take this amiss.”
    “We’d better call him.”
    “He’s at the cemetery this morning.”
    “He’ll want to know about this,” Bunny said, but before he could punch in a number Top’s phone rang.
    Top looked at the code. “Uh-oh,” he said. “It’s the big man.” He flipped open his phone. “Sir.”
    Mr. Church said, “Operations just informed me that there’s been an incident, that one of ours is down. Give me a sit rep.”
    Top told him everything. “EMTs don’t like what they’re seeing. Big Bob’s in the ambulance now. We were just about to call Captain Ledger.”
    “Scratch that, First Sergeant. We have a more pressing problem.”
    “Sir?”
    Church told him about the NSA. “It’s possible you men are off their radar because you’ve been operating with Bureau credentials, but now that this has happened the bloodhounds will be running.”
    “What do you want us to do?”
    “As soon as Captain Ledger surfaces we’ll find you some air transport and the three of you will head west. We’ve lost track of the Denver team and that incident may be separate from this—and it may be a lot more important,” Church said. “I want you two to vanish. Get off the radar and stay off until you make contact with Major Courtland, Captain Ledger, or myself. Don’t get taken. You may use any methods short of lethal force.” He read off a string of possible locations and made Top read them back. “Go to each one in order. Wait ten minutes. If Captain Ledger does not come, proceed to the next one until you rendezvous. He’ll have further instructions.”
    “Yes, sir.” Top paused. “But what about Big Bob? We were going to go to the hospital once Jerry Spencer gets here.”
    “Agent Spencer will neither need nor want your help, First Sergeant; and as for Sergeant Faraday . . . he’ll be protected. I have some friends in Wilmington who will watchdog him. I want you and Sergeant Rabbit to get mobile and