of that. Sounds like a real meaningful existence, huh? Or …” I said, my lips curling into a smile. “You could just give me the fucking bomb.”
Gruber stared at me open mouthed, and I felt completely satisfied that I had a biological terrorist lost for words in under one minute flat.
“Shall we?” I asked, tilting my head to the side.
----
T he facility where Gruber had the bomb stored was a plain, boring concrete warehouse on the outskirts of Berlin.
Like a lot of the buildings in the capital, it was Russian-made during the Cold War. That meant it was made entirely from concrete slabs because it was cheap and easy to construct.
It didn’t look like anyone was at home, but that was kinda the point. Assholes like Gruber hid in plain sight, covering their tracks with legitimate business projects. They could bury the paper trail of their bomb-making scheme in among lawful chemical testing. One of the more tasty tidbits I’d learned while training with Section Seven.
The car came to an abrupt halt, gravel sliding underneath the wheels.
“Steady,” I said, shoving my gun harder against Gruber’s ribs. “You don’t want my finger to slip.”
“That would be a shame,” he drawled.
“Get out of the car, Gruber,” I snapped.
Sliding out, I never once lowered my gun, ready to shoot the fucker if he tried to run. He led me inside without complaint, and I was extra vigilant for anything out of the ordinary. This was way too easy, and the air was ripe for a double-cross.
“Tell me about the facility,” I ordered as we moved through the building.
Gruber eyed me but didn’t try any funny business. “It’s a first-class chemical testing and development facility,” he said. “State-of-the-art clean rooms, biohazard containment, and laboratories.”
“What else is stored here?”
When we reached a locked door, he slid his keycard through a reader and opened the mechanism with his thumbprint. “Viruses, pesticides, pathogens, industrial solvents… All kinds of chemicals for all kinds of applications.” All kinds of applications, including chemical bombs designed for maximum carnage.
The door opened with a click that echoed through the empty hallway.
“Where is everyone?” I asked, nudging him forward with the muzzle of my gun.
“It’s Sunday,” Gruber retorted. “Even I don’t make my staff work on God’s day.”
I snorted at the irony that a man like him would even think about going to church.
He led me through the dark corridors until we reached a high-security clearance checkpoint. He let us through with his thumbprints and then again through a set of fortified double doors. Stepping inside the room behind Gruber, I realized we were in a laboratory. At one end was a containment chamber that was separated from the rest of the space with floor to ceiling glass and a metal door that most likely sealed airtight once engaged. Within the space was a clear table and on top was a strange looking device.
“There,” Gruber said, nodding at the device on the other side of the glass. “Is that what you’re looking for?”
“That’s the bomb?” I glanced over it again, and it didn’t look anything like I’d been expecting. Then again, I wasn’t entirely sure what a chemical bomb was meant to look like.
It was the shape of a football with a flat bottom, a clear container filled with what looked like a clear gel or liquid. The top section was metallic silver in color, a computerized screen set into the side, a few exposed wires traveling from the screen into the device itself.
“What does Moltke want with it?” I asked.
“How should I know?” Gruber shot back. “I make them. I get paid. I don’t ask questions. Once the weapon is out of my hands, it’s none of my business.”
“You don’t care something you make kills innocent people?”
He narrowed his eyes, his lip curling into a sly smirk. “Like I said, pretty girl. It’s none of my business .”
I’d dealt with a lot
Gruber stared at me open mouthed, and I felt completely satisfied that I had a biological terrorist lost for words in under one minute flat.
“Shall we?” I asked, tilting my head to the side.
----
T he facility where Gruber had the bomb stored was a plain, boring concrete warehouse on the outskirts of Berlin.
Like a lot of the buildings in the capital, it was Russian-made during the Cold War. That meant it was made entirely from concrete slabs because it was cheap and easy to construct.
It didn’t look like anyone was at home, but that was kinda the point. Assholes like Gruber hid in plain sight, covering their tracks with legitimate business projects. They could bury the paper trail of their bomb-making scheme in among lawful chemical testing. One of the more tasty tidbits I’d learned while training with Section Seven.
The car came to an abrupt halt, gravel sliding underneath the wheels.
“Steady,” I said, shoving my gun harder against Gruber’s ribs. “You don’t want my finger to slip.”
“That would be a shame,” he drawled.
“Get out of the car, Gruber,” I snapped.
Sliding out, I never once lowered my gun, ready to shoot the fucker if he tried to run. He led me inside without complaint, and I was extra vigilant for anything out of the ordinary. This was way too easy, and the air was ripe for a double-cross.
“Tell me about the facility,” I ordered as we moved through the building.
Gruber eyed me but didn’t try any funny business. “It’s a first-class chemical testing and development facility,” he said. “State-of-the-art clean rooms, biohazard containment, and laboratories.”
“What else is stored here?”
When we reached a locked door, he slid his keycard through a reader and opened the mechanism with his thumbprint. “Viruses, pesticides, pathogens, industrial solvents… All kinds of chemicals for all kinds of applications.” All kinds of applications, including chemical bombs designed for maximum carnage.
The door opened with a click that echoed through the empty hallway.
“Where is everyone?” I asked, nudging him forward with the muzzle of my gun.
“It’s Sunday,” Gruber retorted. “Even I don’t make my staff work on God’s day.”
I snorted at the irony that a man like him would even think about going to church.
He led me through the dark corridors until we reached a high-security clearance checkpoint. He let us through with his thumbprints and then again through a set of fortified double doors. Stepping inside the room behind Gruber, I realized we were in a laboratory. At one end was a containment chamber that was separated from the rest of the space with floor to ceiling glass and a metal door that most likely sealed airtight once engaged. Within the space was a clear table and on top was a strange looking device.
“There,” Gruber said, nodding at the device on the other side of the glass. “Is that what you’re looking for?”
“That’s the bomb?” I glanced over it again, and it didn’t look anything like I’d been expecting. Then again, I wasn’t entirely sure what a chemical bomb was meant to look like.
It was the shape of a football with a flat bottom, a clear container filled with what looked like a clear gel or liquid. The top section was metallic silver in color, a computerized screen set into the side, a few exposed wires traveling from the screen into the device itself.
“What does Moltke want with it?” I asked.
“How should I know?” Gruber shot back. “I make them. I get paid. I don’t ask questions. Once the weapon is out of my hands, it’s none of my business.”
“You don’t care something you make kills innocent people?”
He narrowed his eyes, his lip curling into a sly smirk. “Like I said, pretty girl. It’s none of my business .”
I’d dealt with a lot
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