Chapter 8 - Number Zero
For the first time, the snakes stopped being the scariest part of the case.
Aurora Biotech’s public profile looked harmless.
Medical research.
Pain treatments.
Antivenom support.
Rare-disease programs.
Dr. Elaine Voss appeared in charity photographs beside children.
Hospital boards.
Universities.
Politicians.
Nobody looking at her biography would imagine an illegal venom supply chain.
Then we opened Project Zero.
The documents were incomplete.
Some deleted.
Some encrypted.
Enough remained.
Aurora had been developing a concentrated aerosolized compound derived from multiple venom proteins.
Official purpose:
Rapid-delivery laboratory research.
Unofficial testing notes told a different story.
Animal exposure chambers.
Respiratory impact.
Neurological response.
Fast onset.
Highly experimental.
Highly illegal outside controlled research.
Maya read the reports twice.
“This wouldn’t work like movies.”
“What does that mean?”
“It wouldn’t instantly kill everyone in a room.”
“Good.”
“But high concentration could cause serious injury.”
“Children?”
“Potentially worse.”
“What does Derek have?”
“We don’t know.”
“The silver case?”
“Possibly precursor material.”
I stared at the city map.
Public event locations.
Civic Center.
Hospital.
Schools.
Festival.
Maybe the snakes were never the real attack.
Maybe they were distractions.
Fear generators.
Ways to force evacuations.
Move police.
Move people.
Create predictable crowd patterns.
Derek was using reptiles to control the city’s movement.
Number Zero was what he intended to place where those crowds ended up.
The thought made me sick.
“Where would he use it?”
Ramirez asked.
Maya pointed toward the canceled children’s festival.
“Centennial Park was originally Friday.”
“But canceled.”
“Yes.”
“Then he needs another crowd.”
“Or he needs us to create one.”
That mattered.
Every time we evacuated a building, people gathered outside.
Parking lots.
Transit stations.
Designated emergency zones.
Derek could predict our response.
He didn’t need to attack the venue.
He could attack the evacuation site.
We immediately changed city protocols.
No centralized staging.
No predictable external assembly.
But Derek already knew we were adapting.
That afternoon, he proved it.
Three venomous snakes appeared at three different locations within forty minutes.
A hotel lobby.
A hospital parking garage.
A school bus depot.
No injuries.
Each animal came with a note.
YOU MOVE WHERE I WANT.
Then:
FRIDAY STILL HAPPENS.
I looked at Ramirez.
“What happens Friday now?”
The children’s festival was canceled.
Public events reduced.
Police presence increased.
Nothing obvious.
Then Noah called from federal protection.
“You forgot.”
“What?”
“Friday.”
“I didn’t forget.”
“Yes, you did.”
“What happens Friday?”
He sounded almost annoyed.
“The ferry parade.”
I froze.
Seattle waterfront charity event.
Boats.
Television.
Thousands of spectators.
Not officially canceled because it involved multiple jurisdictions.
And Number Zero’s potential delivery?
Air.
Wind.
Crowd.
Waterfront.
The perfect stage.
Then Titan barked behind me.
I turned.
He was supposed to be resting in the veterinary rehabilitation room.
Instead, he had slipped through the open door.
Bandaged shoulder.
Slow gait.
Leash dragging behind him.
Maya stared.
“How did he get out?”
“Because apparently doors are suggestions.”
Titan approached the evidence table.
Sniffed.
Then stopped beside the florist packaging recovered from Sunday.
He pawed at one corner.
“What?”
I lifted the cardboard.
Nothing.
He pawed again.
Maya took it.
Peeling back the inner insulation.
A thin metallic strip fell out.
Tracking tag.
Not GPS.
Radio-frequency identification.
She scanned it.
A code.
FERRY-06.
We looked at one another.
Derek had marked shipments by target.
May you like
Titan had just found the first hard link to Friday.
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