Free Tenderloin (Abby Kane FBI Thriller) by Ty Hutchinson Page B

David.”
    “Okay, David. You said his body was found at eight the next morning.”
    “That is correct.”
    “No car?”
    “We don’t rent cars. It’s easier to hire a taxi,” Cabrera answered.
    “Was he attempting to walk back to Mitú?”
    Gómez shrugged. “An employee from the bar said he was drunk when he left.”
    What I had heard so far all seemed plausible, but it made no sense for a DEA agent to operate this way. Why go to the rest stop for dinner and some drinks? Why not stay in Mitú? It’s easier. A drunk man walking home doesn’t seem strange if the walk isn’t far. The rest stop was a thirty-minute drive from town. That’s not walking distance.
    “Well, if Riggs came out here to meet with an informant, then we have a problem.”
    “Why’s that?” Cabrera asked.
    “No one in town saw him meet with anyone.”

 
     
    Chapter 17
     
    Outside of Mitú, the silver sedan sped along the two-lane highway, barely missing a crossing rabbit. The rear lights burned bright as the vehicle slowed abruptly and made a left turn onto a dirt road. It rapidly gained speed and left a brown plume in its wake as it headed straight toward a large, windowless building.
    A few minutes later, the vehicle slid to a stop, and a thin man wearing wire-framed glasses jumped out of the driver’s seat. He swiftly approached the concrete building. There were no commercial markings on the building’s façade, and there appeared to be only one entrance: a steel door. Two men dressed in fatigues and brandishing AK-47s manned the entrance while on the rooftop in a crow’s nest were a couple of snipers with three-hundred-sixty-degree views.
    The building sat back about a hundred fifty feet from the main road, surrounded by trees and brush. One could easily drive past without noticing it. The locals had learned to stay away from buildings like that.
    The man waved to the guards at ground level and quickly punched a security code into a keypad. Three beeps later, the door opened, and he disappeared inside.
    The interior fit that of a typical warehouse facility—plenty of empty space. Along one wall, large, wooden crates were stacked three high and marked with stenciling that read Coffee . Another side of the building had floor-to-ceiling shelving filled with various machinery but mostly bags of fertilizer. Up above was a crisscross of catwalks.
    The visitor crossed the width of the building to the side where the large crates were stacked. He stood in front of one and looked up toward the ceiling. With closer inspection, one could see armed men patrolling the catwalks that led to a small office at the far end of the building. He waved at the office.
    Suddenly, the crate in front of him swung open, revealing a hidden chamber with an opening in the floor. The man entered and climbed down a metal ladder, roughly twenty-five feet, until he stood in a brightly lit corridor. He walked to the end of the hall and opened the door leading to a large laboratory. As he reached for a lab coat near the entrance, a voice called out to him.
    “Julio, over here.”
    Julio Ortega turned toward the sound and saw his younger brother bent over a microscope. He quickly made his way over while he slipped on the coat. “Is it true?” he asked.
    Elan looked up from the scope. “I believe so. We still need to conduct live trials, but I think we’ve stabilized the growth of the cells. Come, take a look.” He motioned with his hand.
    Julio and Elan Ortega specialized in human genome research. More specifically, they loved messing around with human DNA. They studied what others in the scientific community called “fringe science.” As they became more involved with this sort of research, they pulled further away from the establishment. They were now experimenting with no governing boards or peers, in a realm of questionable morals and very little allegiance to any type of Hippocratic Oath of responsibility toward mankind.
    Julio looked into the