Page 13 of S.O.S. Mizzay

“You’ll get nothing out of me,” she hissed, before her body convulsed, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she went limp.

Missy scrambled for the call button, depressed it, then dropped to her knees beside the culprit and began administering CPR

“Come on you bitch. Don’t die. We need answers.”

Bad Romanceplayed in Missy’s head as she matched her compressions to the song’s beat.

Staff began scrambling in, but she ignored them until the young orderly she’d spoken to in the hall earlier, indicated he would take over for her. But by that time, it was clear to Missy that there’d be no reviving this one, but she swapped positions anyway.

Damn the dead woman. She’d gone out by suicide rather than answer questions.

Security eventually arrived, then the local police, all of whom postured and brandished their guns around, scowling at everyone in the room like they were all criminals, until Smalley had finally had it, and snapped.

“Enough!” he shouted.

Everyone instantly obeyed; such was the power in his voice.

“Who’s in charge, here?” he barked.

One officer stepped forward, and Missy bit back a groan. The guy didn’t look old enough to shave. She knew that’s what you often got when a new regime came to power. Out with the old and in with the new, even if the fresh forces weren’t at all qualified for their jobs.

“Sargent Deng, sir.” The boy/cop saluted, and Smalley glanced at the ceiling as if gathering patience.

“Agent Charles Smalley with the United States FBI,” he finally informed the officer, flipping out his credentials as if he’d done it hundreds, if not thousands of times. “I’ve been in touch with your new President Kiir, and have been given top security clearance by him and his cabinet. What I need from you should be simple. I hope,” he muttered. “We require a detective, and a forensics team.”

“I understand,” the young officer acknowledged. “Our NPS has such things, but they are in Juba.”

Again, with Juba, Missy sighed. She knew that NPS meant the National Police Service, but Juba? It seemed like it was the seat of everything, and if you were as far outside that city as they were, you were pretty much on your own.

Smalley immediately dismissed that avenue of action.

“Lieutenant?” The agent addressed her. “Do you have a local Army unit that can investigate this?”

Well, she did. But considered how they’d brushed over the ambush of her platoon, she didn’t have much confidence in them. How did she let Smalley know that?

“I, uh… They’re pretty busy with what they deem are priorities these days, so…depending on them for help might not be your best bet.”

“Goddammit,” Smalley barked. “Doesn’t anyone…? You.” He pointed at a doctor who at least had gray hair. “Do you have a chemist or a pharmacist on staff?”

“We do,” the man answered evenly. He eyed the syringe which had been knocked from the woman’s thigh, onto the floor. “You want to know what is, or was, in that, I assume?”

“That would be a good place to start,” Smalley nodded.

Cobble’s cousin went to the counter in the corner of the room and withdrew a pair of Nitrile gloves from a box sitting there. Snapping them on, he handed another pair to the doctor who’d responded, then went over and picked up the spent,polypropylene cartridge. He gave over the evidence to the doc while addressing the young officer. “We’ll find out what substance we’re dealing with, then I’ll notify your superiors. In return, I want an ID on this woman from you. Do I make myself clear?”

The FBI agent’s toneandhis face brooked no argument.

If Smalley were giving Missy that look, she’d jump fences to do what he wanted.

Apparently, the officer in charge came to the same conclusion.

“It will be done, sir.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Twelve years ago: Boston…

“Close the door behind you,” Director Baskins told the last person in. “Now that everybody’s here, we have things to discuss regarding the South Sudan case.” The Boston head of the FBI had called the meeting in his office, including not only his personnel who were involved, buttheir DOJ liaisons as well.

---