By six-twelve, the sun was peeking over the eastern regions of Orlando. Streetlamps on timers switched off and traffic lights reverted back from in-ground sensors to timed operations. City crews pulled out of the lots and the first morning flights readied for departure at Orlando International. All in all, it was just another normal Tuesday morning in the city that was host to Walt Disney World. Everywhere except on a quiet stretch of Dowden Road.
Sixty-four law-enforcement officers, forty-one from the Orlando PD and twenty-three FBI agents, were in position and waiting for the word from Jim Allenby, who was directly across the street on the second floor of a similar industrial warehouse. At six-seventeen, Allenby had the two-way radio in his hand and was preparing to give the order when a Cadillac Escalade pulled into the parking lot and parked directly in front of the access door to the bay. A solitary figure was in the car. The backup lights flashed as the driver shifted the SUV into park, and a second later the door opened. Ismail Zehaden exited the vehicle.
“Everyone hold your positions,” Allenby said. “Our guy just showed up. Let’s wait for him to get inside.”
Zehaden glanced about, walked to the main door, fumbled with his keys, opened the door, and entered the warehouse. A light went on in the front office and Allenby watched as Zehaden moved through the open space to the door that led to the rear of the bay. He opened the door and disappeared from view.
“All units go,” Allenby said. “And be advised we have one hostile in the rear of the building.”
Seven vehicles appeared in the next few seconds. Dark Bureau cars filled with FBI agents, marked Orlando police cars, and a SWAT van careened into position outside the front of the building and men poured from the vehicles, moving quickly into the target bay. Allenby’s radio squawked and a voice came across the air informing him that the second team was moving into the rear of the building. He left his listening post and scrambled down the stairs. As he ran across the street, the reports came over the walkie-talkie. The building was secure, Ismail Zehaden in custody. He raced through the front door, crossed the office space, and entered the rear of the building.
Against the far side of the industrial bay was a series of five glass-enclosed tables, each one covered with radically differing types of glassware and three Acculab scales. A number of polarizing microscopes lined one table and two Eberbach shakers and a Turner spectrophotometer were among the highly technical electronic equipment. A HEPA filter was attached to each of the five glass structures. Adjacent to the five enclosed labs was a series of unprotected tables, some piled with black containers about one cubic foot each. Standing alone and in front of one of the tables was Ismail Zehaden. At least thirty guns were trained on the man.
“Ismail Zehaden?” Allenby asked as he walked into the open area between the SWAT troops and FBI agents and the terrorist.
“Yes, I am Ismail Zehaden,” the man said. “What is going on here?”
“Good question,” Allenby said. “What’s with all the equipment?”
Zehaden glanced over his shoulder at the lab, then back to Allenby. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen this stuff before.”
“Do you own this warehouse?” Allenby asked.
“Yes.”
“Then who else would have set up this operation?”
The man’s response was angry. “I don’t know. I have nothing to do with any of this. And I want your men to stop pointing their guns at me immediately.”
“What you want is quite unimportant right now,” Allenby said. “Step away from the table.”
“What is all this stuff?” Zehaden said. “I demand to know what the hell is going on.”
“Step away from the table,” Allenby said. “Now.”
“I’m not moving until someone tells me what this is all about.” Zehaden turned and looked over the containers piled on the table behind him. “Where did all this equipment come from?”
“Mr. Zehaden, it’s imperative you move away from that table and put your hands over your head immediately.”
Zehaden reached over and made a motion to pick up one of the containers. Allenby yelled for him to stop, but the man was intent on grabbing the closest box.
“It could contain the virus,” Allenby yelled. “Don’t let him pick it up.”
There was only one option open to the SWAT team. No one could get to Zehaden before he reached the containers. At least ten SWAT team members opened fire simultaneously, each with a single killing shot. Zehaden took every bullet in the chest, his body jerking spasmodically as the slugs tore through his flesh and ripped into his heart and lungs. The shots came from different angles, pushing his body one way then the other, the impacts canceling each other. The net result was a corpse, still standing where a live person had stood two seconds before. The gunfire, which sounded almost like a single shot, diminished and the echoes inside the warehouse died out. For another second or two, Zehaden remained upright, then gravity went to work and he collapsed in a bloody heap a couple of feet from the table with the containers.
Allenby was the first agent to reach the body. He stared down at the Arab with disgust and gave the corpse a nudge with the toe of his shoe. There was no movement. Blood was spreading out on the concrete, and he moved back so the thick brown liquid didn’t soil his shoes.
“Secure the area,” he said to the leader of the SWAT team. He turned to his second in command. “Get the experts in here and let’s find out if we’ve got the right place. I want to know if the virus is here, and if it is, in what quantity.”
“Yes, sir,” the agent said.
Allenby let his eyes run over the glass-enclosed lab. The operation was definitely high-tech. The tables were polished steel, with solid tubular legs and one stainless-steel chair in each enclosure. The equipment was clean and well organized, with rows upon rows of tubes and beakers, culture dishes, and state-of-the-art centrifuges. Including the HEPA filters, millions of dollars in hardware.
Millions of dollars spent with one goal in mind. To kill innocent people.
Jim Allenby turned his back on the scene and walked out. His people could clean up. He would wait for the experts to determine whether they had the right lab, then he would make a phone call. And right now, one man sat next to his phone in L’Enfant Plaza, wondering when that call would come, and when it did, what would be the news.