Chapter 12 - The Contaminated Fleet
The rain had turned into a thick,
freezing sleet by five o'clock in the morning,
coating the asphalt of the New Jersey Turnpike in a treacherous sheet of black ice.
Our three-vehicle convoy roared down the northbound lanes at eighty miles an hour,
their heavy diesel engines screaming against the wind.
Gabriel sat beside me in the back of the lead Suburban,
his dark face illuminated by the green glow of the tactical radio monitors mounted on the dashboard.
Carmine was driving,
his massive hands gripping the steering wheel with absolute focus as the heavy vehicle cut through the swirling sleet.
"We have three target trucks,"
I reported,
my fingers flying across my laptop keyboard as I tracked the GPS signals of the hijacked medical delivery fleet.
"Truck One is heading toward Saint Joseph's University Medical Center in Paterson,"
"Truck Two is fifty miles south,"
"bound for Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital in New Brunswick,"
"and Truck Three is currently crossing the George Washington Bridge toward Mount Sinai in Manhattan."
"If those boxes cross the hospital loading docks,"
Gabriel said,
his voice grim and heavy,
"the supply rooms will mix the contaminated sutures with standard surgical stock within an hour."
"We will never be able to recall them all."
"We split up,"
Carmine suggested instantly,
his eyes scanning the rear-view mirror.
"I'll take Team B down to New Brunswick,"
"Gabriel,"
"you and Elena take the Paterson truck."
"What about the truck heading into Manhattan?"
I asked,
my heart hammering against my ribs.
Gabriel pulled a satellite phone from his coat pocket,
speed-dialing a secure number.
"Don Moretti,"
Gabriel spoke into the phone as soon as the line connected.
"I need your Brooklyn crew to shut down the upper deck of the George Washington Bridge immediately."
"Force every commercial delivery vehicle into the Fort Lee inspection plaza."
"Don't ask questions,"
"just block the bridge."
He snapped the phone shut,
looking back at me with sharp,
unwavering determination.
"Carmine,"
"take the second Suburban and hit the southern route."
"Elena and I will handle Paterson."
Carmine slammed on the brakes,
bringing the heavy SUV to a skidding stop on the icy shoulder of the highway.
He grabbed his heavy tactical rifle from the rack,
nodded grimly to Gabriel,
and jumped out into the freezing sleet to join the second vehicle.
Our Suburban surged forward again,
racing toward the Paterson exit as the gray dawn began to break over the industrialized landscape of Passaic County.
Ten minutes later,
we spotted the white,
unmarked box truck barreling down Route 20 toward the city center.
The truck was driving recklessly,
swerving through morning commuter traffic without headlights.
"He knows we're behind him!"
our driver yelled,
flooring the accelerator as we pulled alongside the speeding delivery vehicle.
Through the blurred,
rain-slicked side window of the truck cab,
I caught a glimpse of the driver—a heavily tattooed man wearing a black tactical headset.
Suddenly,
the passenger side door of the box truck swung open,
and a gunman leaned out holding a submachine gun.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
A hail of 9mm rounds slammed into our reinforced windshield,
spider-webbing the heavy armored glass with white starburst fractures.
Gabriel instinctively grabbed my shoulder,
pulling me down onto the floorboards behind his seat.
"Hold on!"
our driver screamed,
swerving hard to the right and slamming our heavy steel bumper directly into the rear axle of the box truck.
The impact sounded like a bomb exploding.
The white delivery truck fishtailed wildly across three lanes of icy pavement,
sparks flying from its undercarriage as it slammed sideways into a concrete highway barrier.
The heavy vehicle tipped onto its side,
sliding fifty yards on the metal bodywork before coming to a grinding,
screaming halt across the entrance ramp of Saint Joseph's Hospital.
Our Suburban skidded to a stop twenty feet away.
Gabriel was out of the vehicle before the smoke cleared,
his pistol drawn,
his long coat flying in the freezing wind.
I scrambled out behind him,
holding my chemical detection unit.
We rushed to the rear cargo doors of the overturned truck.
Gabriel kicked the bent locking bar twice until the heavy steel latch snapped open.
Inside the cargo bay,
dozens of wooden crates had shattered against the metal walls,
spilling thousands of sterile surgical packages onto the floor.
I dropped to my knees,
tearing open a crate marked ST. JOSEPH'S TRAUMA UNIT — EMERGENCY SUTURES.
I ripped open the outer paper casing of the top suture pack and pressed my sensor against the thread.
The screen flashed red instantly:
PHANTOM WEAVE DETECTED — TOXIN ACTIVE.
"We got it,"
I gasped,
looking up at Gabriel through the freezing rain.
"We intercepted the shipment before it reached the hospital doors."
Gabriel looked up at the towering brick facade of Saint Joseph's Hospital,
then down at the ruined truck.
"One down,"
Gabriel said softly,
May you like
his face dark with quiet fury.
"Now it's time to go back to where this poison was born."
