The Lethal Bones Read online

  “I would expect nothing less. Have to catch a plane to Helsinki?”

  “No, no. Not this time. This is local. And it’s for him — I need something for my friend here. Something he can sneak into anywhere, use unnoticed, and leave behind if he has to move fast. It’s got to work the first time, one time, no possibility for error.”

  “Of course, of course.” The man rubbed his chin a few times, his eyes searching the ceiling. Then, his face brightened. “Come with me. I think you’ll like what I’ve got for you.”

  The big man flipped the sign on the front from open to closed, and then he scanned the parking lot before waving them toward the back curtain. In the back room were stacks of boxes with metal and gems, tables with vices and cutting equipment, and lots of other things Ben assumed were related to the craft of jewelry, but he didn't recognize.

  “Looking for something instant and lethal?” the big man asked.

  Ember nodded. “And tiny. Has to be able to get past Mile High security. Our friend here isn’t experienced.”

  “She’s talking about me,” Ben said as he stuck out a hand. “Ben.”

  “Jack Rothman,” the big guy said as he shook Ben’s hand. “I know exactly what you need. Don’t you worry. It’s foolproof.”

  The man sat at a desk and opened the top drawer. He took out what looked like a sewing kit but removed only a needle from it, which he held up to the light. Ben wasn’t sure what the man saw on the needle, but the man’s lips moved, whispering to himself as he squinted into the light. Then he reached behind the desk again and from a different drawer withdrew a syringe and a bottle of liquid.

  Ben recognized the syringe as an auto-injector, similar to the tiny “pens” of epinephrine he’d seen people use in the park. A cheap, plastic pen-like sheath that covered an automatic injection container powered by a spring.

  The shop owner pushed the syringe into a rubber seal topping the container of liquid and then transferred some to the needle, jabbing it into the larger end. Then, he took great care to set the needle on top of a tissue.

  “Ricin?” Ben asked. He wasn’t well-versed in poisons, but he had heard about the Bulgarian defector who had been killed by a Ricin-laced bullet fired from a tiny umbrella gun.

  “Good guess, but no. This is Botulinum Toxin, Type A. Better known as Botox.”

  “Botox? Like the stuff Hollywood types are injecting into their faces?”

  “One and the same, although it works far better as a nerve agent than it does to make people look good. 0.3 micrograms of the stuff is fatal, and even less than that causes nerve paralysis."

  “Wow. And I’m supposed to use that?”

  The man looked over his glasses at Ben. "Got someplace to put it?"

  “I, uh…” Ben wasn’t sure what that meant. Can it go in my pocket? He’d never seen a spy-grade assassination syringe, or whatever the hell these things were called, but he figured it needed to be in a bit safer place than just tucked behind his ear or something.

  Ember nodded. “Take off one of your shoes, Ben.”

  He did as he was told and handed his tennis shoe to the guy. The man inserted his hand into Ben’s shoe, then poked the needle out the front of the sole. Only the very tip of the needle stuck out, and it was completely invisible if Ben wasn’t focusing on it. All the while the man’s lips moved, inaudibly whispering. “It’ll be under your foot inside the shoe, but only the tip is lethal. Be careful not to squeeze too hard, and you certainly don’t want to get any of it on your skin. If you do, you can try to get to a sink to wash your hands, but it’ll probably be too late.”

  Ben's heart raced as he accepted his shoe and slipped it back on. The long shaft of the needle felt awkward under his toes at first, but then it, like the tip, seemed to disappear. In a few seconds, he hardly felt it.

  The man clapped his hands together. “Okay. I assume you two need to talk. I’ll let you have the room.”

  After the big man waddled away, Ben glared at Ember. “It’s time to start telling me what’s going on. A poisoned needle? Mile High Stadium?”

  “The good news? Dalton is going to show his stupid face in public this afternoon. He’s going to a preseason Broncos game, in a private box. I’ll text you exactly where and how to find it once you’re in the stadium.”

  “What does this have to do with the needle in my shoe?”

  “It’s easy. He won’t have a crew of Five Points people around him, so he’ll be easy to reach. You get into his private box with the fake credentials I’ll have for you, then you jab him with the needle. Back of the leg should be fine, or even an ankle. If not, just get close enough to him to get the needle to contact his skin. A minute later and he’s dead. His heart seizes up, and he stops breathing. It looks like an accident, and as long as you skedaddle away as quickly as you can, no one there can connect you to it.”

  “Sounds so simple.”

  She shrugged. “Yeah. Don’t make it complicated.”

  “What if he’s expecting me?”

  Ember shook her head. "He knows you're gunning for him, but he won't know you'll be there too. Even if he does, it won't matter. He won't have backup or guns, so there's not much he can do. All you have to do is get close and stick him. Then, turn and walk away. Then, it's game over."

  “And where will you be?”

  “I can’t help you do this, Ben. You’re on your own.”

  Ben set his jaw. “You’re seriously not going to help me?”

  She flicked her eyes left and right. “I can’t officially help you out with this. Not from anywhere I could be seen.”

  She held his eye contact long enough for him to understand what she meant. Hopefully, that she would be somewhere nearby, making sure everything went according to plan. Or, at least, there to save his butt if things went south.

  “Are you okay with this? It’s our best and quickest option. This needs to be done today, so we don’t have time to go over practice scenarios or hours of poison-handling training.”

  “It has to be this way?”

  Ember nodded. “We do this now, and your little brother is out of danger. It ends here, with Dalton.”

  Ben looked down at the tiny dot sticking out of the front of his shoe, the point of the needle. “I’m okay with this. Let’s get it done.”

  26

  Ember strode up the walkway inside Mile High Stadium. The concrete rumbled, not only from the hundreds of other people on the walkway, but from the general rumble of the inside of the stadium. The Broncos were about to kick off against the Raiders, and thousands of preseason fans were stomping their feet in the stands.

  The air smelled of hot dogs and beer. A sea of orange and blue, loud and proud, to compliment the general roar of the fans.

  She'd made it past security with her suitcase with no problem — a simple trick, to strap it her back and put on a raincoat. The raincoat wasn't suspicious, given the unseasonably wet late summer in Denver this last week. Then, stand in the most crowded line and toss flirty eyes at the security guards eager to rush everyone through. As the game approached, the lines grew thicker and the stadium workers more impatient. It worked every time.

  The hardest part of the whole thing was through the gates, but she’d long ago learned that the best way to get through the gates at a public event was the simplest: just buy a ticket. She’d had to spend nearly $200 that she hoped would be reimbursable, but it was a small price to pay to be close to the action.

  Now she was inside the stadium with a sniper rifle. Just a woman in a green raincoat and black hat, face obscured, looking plain, not standing out or making eye contact with anyone. Nobody saw her or noticed anything. Ember wondered why more terrorist attacks weren’t carried out at sporting events. They were the perfect place to be in public where no one paid any attention to you. Half the attendees were drunk, and the other half were laughing about their friends who were drunk. She could probably unpack the rifle, assemble it right here on the walkway, then carry it five-hundred f
eet before anyone noticed.

  She slowed as she reached the turnoff for section 529. A lone security guard stood in front of the door that led out to the exterior maintenance access. The thick crowd moved toward the openings, shifting as one large organism. Ember's eyes tracked the security guard. A heavyset white man, hands clasped and eyes forward. Keys on a magnetized ring attached to his belt loop. Perfect.

  “You need help finding your seat, ma’am?”

  She shook her head and averted her eyes, then took out her phone to appear occupied. After a moment, the security guard stopped looking at her, and she took a couple of steps back in the other direction.

  Ember drew the palm-sized mirror from her pocket. A few more seconds to let the security guard forget about her. She stepped behind a much taller man to hide, then she flicked the mirror upward. It flew into a light above her head, causing a crack and sparks and bits of glass to cascade down onto a dozen walkers. They all ducked and put up their hands, many of them giving a quick yelp or scream. She ducked along with them, hands up to shield her face.

  Not enough glass fell to seriously hurt anyone. But it was a worthy distraction. The noise and chaos caused a ripple effect through the closest twenty people. Everyone chattered, looked around, making that part of the crowd into one blurry organism of obstruction.

  The security guard left his post. Ember crawled through the thick crowd and then hurried toward him as the nearby people continued to devolve into disorganized confusion. She snatched the guard's keys from his waistband and eyed them as she headed for the door. He was looking the other way. But, if he reached for his walkie, his hands might brush against where he would expect his keys to be, and he could notice them missing.

  Only a few seconds to identify the right key.

  She picked one with a letter “E” engraved on the side and jabbed it into the lock, but it did not open the door. Next, she tried one with no markings except for a red dot on the side. Still didn’t work.

  Ember flashed her eyes to the security guard, and he was still standing at the edge of the glass fall area, directing people to step back and away from the glass.

  She picked another key at random and shoved it into the door. It turned. With a look back she confirmed she was still in the clear. She thought about twisting the key to break the lock but decided that would look too suspicious when the guard realized his keys were missing.

  Ember hurried through the door and shut it behind her.

  A short walkway led to the exterior of the stadium, a caged metal walkway with maintenance access. Above her were the massive metal supports that led to the banks of lights shining down on the field.

  Ember tightened the straps of the case on her back. If it fell while she was climbing, then it would all be for nothing.

  She approached the ladder and started to work her way up. The day was cloudy and mild, with little wind. Perfect for climbing above a stadium to assemble a sniper rifle. A perfect day to provide a failsafe, in case Ben wasn’t able to accomplish his goal.

  Two minutes later, she was at the top of the ladder, a hundred feet above the stadium. The lights were on due to the clouds, and she could feel their pulsing warmth as soon as she'd reached the walkway — another benefit of the weather. No one would accidentally look up here and discover her, because the power of these lights would ward off any errant eyes.

  She dropped and took the case off her back, then assembled the sniper rifle. A .308 with AAC Sound Suppressor and subsonic ammo. It wouldn’t be totally silent, but it should be quiet enough that no one would likely be able to place the sound, much less trace the source of the gun blast to her.

  At least not at first.

  Hopefully, she wouldn't have to fire the rifle at all. If she had to step in to save his life, it would be bad for everyone.

  Her boots clanked across the grated metal walkway as she eased out among the lights. The hum of their massive power made her head buzz. Still, she kept focused and went down to one knee.

  Through the scope, she scanned from one private box to the next on the other side of the stadium. Men in suits and women in expensive dresses sipped champagne and ate from plates hoisted by waiters in tuxedos. How the rich watched football. Box after box, filled with Denver’s elite.

  Then she saw Dalton. He was in a box near the end, alone. Sitting, hands tented in front of him, eyes on the field below.

  She examined his box and realized then that he wasn’t alone.

  Oh, shit.

  There was one other person in the box with him. A woman, although Ember couldn’t see much of her. She was wearing a thick hoodie, despite the mild weather. And she appeared to have something around her neck. Ember used the scope on her rifle to get a better look. It looked like a choker necklace, except it seemed to be made of metal and too thick to be a necklace. Her eyes were blank, staring at the floor. She didn’t seem happy.

  “Who is your date, Dalton?” Ember asked the open air.

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she set the sniper rifle down to check it. She had one bar of service, which flickered in and out — a text message.

  E- D has located ZB. He’s in Ft Collins at CSU. Presently at the Molecular & Radiological Biosciences Building, third floor. Hurry. -R

  The R was for Rachel, a sympathetic person inside the Five Points Branch. One of Fagan’s circle of spies. D for Dalton, and ZB had to be Zachary Bennett. Dalton was making a move against Ben’s little brother. Kidnapping, assassination.

  Or worse.

  With the spotty service, there was no way to know how long ago this text had been sent. Could have been thirty minutes already.

  “Shit,” Ember said, then she switched over to the phone app to call Ben. But a warning message flashed, telling her she had no service.

  No time to debate. She had to get to the helicopter.

  “Sorry, Ben, you’re on your own.”

  Ember used a rag from the case to wipe her prints off the rifle, then she left it there. It would probably still be here later when she returned. Maybe she could make it back before the end of the game, but it probably wouldn’t matter by then. Ben was supposed to take out Dalton in the first quarter.

  She didn’t want to leave him alone, but she had to trust he could handle himself. Right now, the only thing that mattered was getting to Fort Collins first and preventing Dalton’s assassin from finding Zach Bennett.

  27

  Ben’s heart thudded in his chest as he ascended the escalator to the private suites section of Mile High Stadium. The needle filled with poison had been implanted in the sole of his shoe, tiny and imperceptible, but Ben could swear he felt it every time he set his foot down. He was wearing a lanyard around his neck with an all-access pass that was supposed to get him into any room or hallway in the entire stadium.

  The interior of this fancy section of Mile High astounded him. Compared to the concrete stairs of the regular section, this place seemed like a five-star hotel. Chandeliers above, carpet, huge viewing screens showing the pre-game festivities. Ben had never seen anything like this before.

  Another thing that made it weird was the cold Beretta pistol in the back of his waistband, which reminded Ben it was there every time he turned and could feel it pressing into his back. The Beretta was only in case of emergencies because he was supposed to make it look like an accidental death. He'd had no trouble sneaking it in — apparently this section of the stadium had a lot more inherent trust in its patrons. He worked through the plan. It couldn't be simpler: prick Dalton with the needle, which would — hopefully — induce a heart attack within one minute.

  But he knew the old quote: no plan survives first contact with the enemy. He needed to be prepared. Years ago, when he was working with a senior ranger to help regulate bear encounters and keep both grizzlies and humans safe in the park, his boss had taught him that having a plan wasn't ever enough. A plan untrained is a plan undone, he would always say, in his cryptic, ‘wisened old sage’ way. Ben had laughed it
off at first, but he’d come to appreciate the quote’s meaning: it’s not enough to have a plan. You have to train the plan and know the plan inherently. Because, the man had explained, when a quarter-ton killing machine has you in your sights and wants you dead, you’d better be able to work the plan without pissing your pants.

  Ember had gone over that plan with him numerous times, and she’d assured him the all-access pass would mean he wouldn’t be searched. So far, that had proven to be true, although it hadn’t helped the anxiety fueling his every step. Plans can always fail. Even if I think I’ve covered all my bases.

  Then, in another portion of his mind: Doesn’t matter. This is the plan. We work the plan.

  Ben neared the suite and showed his pass to the two security guards standing outside the door.

  “Right this way, sir,” said one of the guards. He touched a keycard to a pad outside the suite, which clicked and opened. Ben hesitated, but neither of the guards reached in to search him. In fact, neither seemed particularly interested at all in Ben.

  "Enjoy the game," said the other one, and Ben couldn't read the blank expression on his face. Ben supposed these guys were paid to be invisible, so he tried not to make eye contact. Ben came to the strange realization that the guards downstairs were supposed to keep these rich patrons safe from the ‘normal' ticket holders, while these guards were supposed to make the rich guests feel safe.

  Ben kept his head down and hurried through the doorway. Every second he interacted with people increased his chances of getting caught.

  Ben entered a small antechamber and then took off his jacket, his waiter uniform clingy with sweat underneath. He set his clothes on top of the server station on one side of the room and picked up a tray. A few deep breaths to calm himself, or to at least lower his racing heart enough to hear himself think.

  Ben rehearsed the plan again. The idea was that Dalton wouldn’t look up from the game to notice Ben until it was too late. He might see the uniform and the tray of drinks and not bother to check the person holding the tray. Ember had said Dalton was the sort of person to whom waitstaff and service people were unimportant, so there was a good chance he would never see Ben coming.