Free The Biofab War by Stephen Ames Berry

narrowed in suspicion. There was a stubborn set to his mouth.
    “It’s issued by a federal judge who agrees with me that some of Leurre’s staff conspired to kill one of my men,” he continued easily. “We’re empowered to detain anyone we believe part of that conspiracy. You’re obstructing our investigation, which makes you an accessory after the fact and subject to arrest. Understand?”
    “Yeah.” A corner of his mouth curled up—more grimace than smile.
    “So why not cooperate? It’ll save FBI Special Agent Flannigan here”—he nodded to his right—“from having to haul you in.” Tall, thirtyish, black Irish good looks, Flannigan stood with Tuckman, Bakunin and Sutherland’s team in the deserted lobby of the Leurre Institute. The guard was the only other human being they’d seen since their arrival.
    Sullenly answering Bill’s questions, he’d given nothing away. No, he didn’t know where Dr. Langston was. No, there was no one here today. Yes, the Institute was usually open on Friday. No, he would not look at their search warrant. They’d have to wait until he could locate someone in authority.
    Bill’s soft persuasion seemed to work. “Okay”—the guard shrugged—“if you have to search, search. There’s nothing I can do. But there really isn’t anyone here. And I don’t know where the Director is.”
    Sutherland turned to his men. “Okay, let’s begin. You all know where to go and what to look for. Remember, we don’t have to uncover the whole iceberg—the tip will do for now. Anything on Foxfire, Antonucchi’s murder, the Goose Hill site. By tonight we’ll have fifty men down here helping us. You’ve all got handsets.” He held up his own small handset. “If you find something, tell us. I’ll be here in the lobby with the DCI and Colonel Bakunin, in case any of the staff show up.”
    “Why weren’t your people at Otis, Bill?” asked the Director as the agents boarded an elevator.
    His deputy shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe Langston caught up with them—an unpleasant possibility. Or maybe they went back to the site.” His face brightened. “Of course, that’s just what they’d do! McShane would want to poke around in there before we sealed it off.”
    Tuckman nodded. “Let’s finish the preliminaries here, then get to the site.” Turning to the guard, he asked, “How do we get to Goose Hill from here?”
    “It’d be easier if I drew you a map.” The man opened a drawer as Tuckman turned back to Sutherland.
    “This reminds me of an operation we ran in Vienna after the war,” he said. “We didn’t know . . .”
    Impaled on a brilliant shaft of purest indigo, Tuckman stood for a surprised instant, then fell to the floor, his chest a charred smoking ruin. A high-pitched whine pierced the air. The guard turned his strange weapon on Sutherland, then slid from sight beneath the big teak desk, a faint pop heralding his disappearance.
    Bakunin holstered his slim, silenced Italian automatic.
    Dazed and pale, Sutherland closed Tuckman’s sightless eyes. Walking to the security station, he retrieved the strange long-barreled pistol from the desktop—then saw the guard’s body.
    “Bakunin,” he croaked, gesturing. The Russian followed him behind the desk. They stood looking down at the dead six-foot insectoid: deep-green, bulbous-eyed, it faintly resembled a huge praying mantis, except for the tentacles tapering from its two upper limbs, the tentacles still twitching in death. A webbed belt hung with unfamiliar equipment girdled its thorax, viscous green liquid oozing from a neat hole between its eyes.
    Standing there over the dead alien, the stench of Tuckman’s burnt flesh filling the room, the small, high moments of Bill Sutherland’s life touched his mind. The clapboard Indiana farmhouse, acres of white unfurled behind it on washday. Dad, Grandpa and the uncles playing around the cribbage board on Christmas Eve, sipping bourbon, the air heavy with