Blood List(78)

Marty teared up. "Not Gene—"

She cut him off. "Last I heard, the boys were in California," Sam said. Marty sighed with relief. "Something weird's going on out there, Marty. I think they're stuck in San Francisco, and I need to find a way to get them out past the barricades."

Marty's reply sounded hopeful, but puzzled. "They can't just leave? Why not?"

She explained. "It's a setup, Marty. The terror threat is fake, a front to set up a manhunt for them."





"Um…." His voice slurred. "Can't you just publish the fucking evidence we have so far, exonerate them?"

"Marty, I can't go to work. Someone tried to kill me last night." She reached up with her right arm and tugged her jacket down, showing the large bandage made with supplies from a convenience store.

"Holy fuck, Sam. Why?"

She put her hand on his arm. "I know who hired those mercs from Martha's Vineyard, who tried to kill Lefkowitz and Renner." Marty's face darkened at the name. He motioned for her to continue. "He's a government official named Emile Frank." He didn't reply. "Doctor Emile Frank?" she asked.

"Fucking hell, Sam, I've been stabbed, cut open by doctors, given several fucking gallons of other peoples' blood, and shouldn't even be conscious. I can barely fucking think with all these fucking painkillers coursing through me." He grimaced and hammered the button taped into his right hand, which sent even more morphine into his IV. "And I don't need you playing fucking coy with me. Spit. It. Out."

Sam gave him a half-hearted smile and patted his cheek affectionately. "He's the Director of Antiterrorism, Bioweapons, at DHS."

Marty mouthed a silent wow, his eyes starting to glaze as the morphine kicked in. "That's not good, Sam. You need to lie low."

"I know, Marty. I also need to tell Gene."

His eyes widened as he fought to stay conscious. "You haven't told him yet? What the fuck, Sam?" His eyelids drooped as he finished.

She patted his cheek, just hard enough to wake him back up. It mostly worked.

"Marty. Hey. I need you to tell me how you'd contact Gene in an emergency."

He opened his eyes and smiled at her. "Hi, Sam."

"Hi, Marty. How do I get a hold of Gene?"

"Try the COM, babe. Fucker's always wearing it, unless he's sleeping. He's the boss, after all." He scowled, then smiled again. "Hi, Sam."

She enunciated every word, hoping she'd get through the opium haze and into his thick skull. "No COM, no phone. How do I contact him if he's gone under the radar? How would you do it?"

He tried to lean forward. She bent down to listen, and he grabbed her jacket with his left hand. "Ummmm…. E-mail."

"Okay. What address, Marty?"

"A secret one. Never use it unless there's a big trouble thing, Gene says. I told him it's stupid. But who's stupid now?" He nodded, as if sharing brilliant wisdom. "Little bro's got the smarts, you know?"

She nodded back. He copied her with ten times the enthusiasm. "I know, Marty, I know." He was still nodding when his eyes closed.

"What's the address, Marty? To contact Gene?"

He told her and passed out.

Let's hope this works, kids! She walked out of emergency by way of the main desk and passed another fifty to the head nurse. "I wasn't here."

The woman took the fifty. "Who wasn't where?"



* * *



February 6th, 9:18 PM PST; Home of Margaret VanDeSande; San Francisco, California.



Gene shook his head at Doug, his face blank. They were playing Russian Pinochle, a card game they'd learned in the service that was neither Russian nor Pinochle. They'd tried to teach it to Carl two days earlier, but he'd found it incomprehensible. They'd been holed up for three long and frustrating days after two near-misses with the authorities, so Gene and Doug were stuck playing cards while Carl looked for a way to contact Sam.

Margaret VanDeSande smiled at the two FBI agents from the doorway to the den. "Are you sure you boys don't want more tea and cookies?" she asked.

"No, thank you," Gene said. He could have gone for more of both, but was too polite to say so. They'd taken too much from this woman already.

Mrs. VanDeSande was a ninety-year-old Dutch widow with curlers in her hair and a faded pink nightgown. She was the proud owner of a large farmhouse built in 1947 by her dearly departed husband, bless his soul, and cared for most weekends by three of her eighteen grandchildren. The city of San Francisco had enveloped it four decades back.

Carl, Doug, and Gene had rented two rooms from her. They'd paid her a hundred dollars for the next week, with a promise of more once the lockdown had lifted. She took their hundred dollars and their promise of payment, and in return gave them not only a place to stay, but all the tea and cookies they could possibly want.