Sign up to my no-spam newsletter to stay up to date on new releases, participate in special contests, and receive exclusive discounts.

  Just point your browser to www.PTLBOOKS.com to get started!

  Also be sure to check out my Facebook group to discuss my books, and anything horror or thriller related: www.facebook.com/groups/LogansInsatiableReaders/

  Deadly Cargo

  A Chase Adams FBI Thriller

  Book 13

  Patrick Logan

  Prologue

  PART I – Seven Bodies

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  PART II – Measles

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Part III – The Path to Eden

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  END

  Author’s Note

  Other Books by Patrick Logan

  Deadly Cargo

  Prologue

  The truck driver wiped sweat from his brow. It was hot, and the sun filtering in through the windshield was bright. The cab was air-conditioned, and even though the vehicle was long past its prime, he could still feel cool air pumping through the vents.

  And yet, he was forced to continually wipe sweat from his eyes and forehead every few seconds. The front of his T-shirt—he’d long since removed and tossed aside the flannel shirt he’d been wearing over top—was soaked from the collar to the small of his back.

  The man reached for the bottle of water in the cup holder, put it to his lips, and then frowned.

  It was empty.

  He shook the plastic as if trying to make more liquid appear out of nothing, and then ran his tacky tongue over the surface, dipping it inside several times in an attempt to salvage any and every last drop.

  The man threw the bottle onto his flannel shirt and then aimed his eyes at the road ahead.

  “Shit!” he shouted, yanking the wheel to the left. He heard the cargo shifting in the back, culminating with a hard thump on the thin wall separating the cab from the trailer.

  For the entire two hours he’d been driving on the winding mountain pass, he’d not seen a single car.

  He hadn’t seen much of anything, in fact. Just dirt and gravel and dust.

  Until now.

  In the center of the road was a large, female Lynx. Its mottled fur, patchy and thin, seemed almost too large for its frail body, highlighting the desperation in its eyes.

  As the 18-wheeler swerved to avoid running the animal over, the driver saw two cubs nestled against its bony ribs.

  He pressed the brake hard, and the cab lurched forward, the truck’s tires struggled to gain traction on the soft road.

  Again, there was a thud behind, this time accompanied by a low moan.

  It could have been the worn brake pads protesting the heat or it could have been something else entirely.

  Either way, it took a good twenty yards before the truck came to a complete stop. And when it finally did, the man sat with his hands firmly planted on the wheel, his breathing heavy and shallow.

  That was close, he thought. That was really close.

  The man, slowly recovering from the shock, moved his eyes from the windshield to the driver-side window.

  “What the hell?”

  The lynx was gone, as were the cubs.

  The man whipped his head around rapidly, trying to figure out where it could have possibly gone. The animals were notorious for blending into their surroundings, as well as being lightning quick, but there was nowhere to hide on this road. Come to think of it, there was nowhere to come or go, either.

  Had it gotten lost? It looked sick—maybe not feral, but definitely malnourished. Maybe it had gotten confused and wandered down from one of the mountains and was too disoriented to find its way back to its nest.

  The man continued to glance around, and as he did, he felt pressure building behind his eyes.

  He chalked this up to dehydration.

  Why didn’t I grab more water at the last truck stop? He cursed his own stupidity. And then he cocked his head. Is there water in the back?

  No, just keep going. You don’t have time to stop.

  He had a delivery to make, several of them, in fact. But the last thing he wanted to do was run the animal over. Not because he cared about the mangy Lynx’s safety, but blowing a tire or snapping an axle would spell disaster. It wasn’t as if he could just call AAA.

  The man who had hired him had made the rules explicitly clear. Nobody, including him, was to look in the back of the truck until the first delivery. And even then, it was best if he averted his eyes.

  He knew the drill. Don’t ask questions, just mind your own fucking business, and do your job.

  Simple.

  The second rule was that all deliveries must be made or none of the significant sums of money he’d been promised would ever find his bank account.

  His mind immediately went to drugs. And if he was transporting narcotics, then a little bump might be all he needed to get rid of this damn headache and keep him awake.

  No—don’t fuck this up, he scolded himself.

  Still, running over the Lynx would be a nightmare. Arriving at the first stop with blood and intestines trailing behind him would only raise questions.

  His employer didn’t strike him as a man who liked questions.

  The driver reached into the glove box and pulled out a pistol. It was old, nearly as worn as ancient as the truck itself, but it would be more than sufficient to scare off a sick Lynx.

  He grabbed the door handle but then stopped when his head suddenly exploded with pain. This was unlike the dull throb of a headache he’d had for at least the past hour. This was a lightning bolt inside his skull.

  What the actual fuck?

  The pain was so intense that his vision blurred. Once, during a similar delivery, his truck had broken down in the middle of nowhere. It had been nearly eight hours before someone found him. He’d been dehydrated then, his piss thick like maple syrup. It was also a similar shade of brown.

  This was not that.

  The man clenched his jaw and opened the door.

  Can’t stop… need to make… deliveries…

  His headache worsened the instant the bright sunlight flooded his eyes.

  “Here… kitty… cat. Here… cat…” His words were staccato. Even thinking them proved difficult.

  He waved the gun in front of him as he shuffled along the length of the unmarked truck.

  “Where did you go?”

  The man dropped his considerable belly to the ground and peered underneath the truck.

  No Lynx.

  Where the fuck did you go?

  It was a struggle to get back up again and twice the man thought about just rolling beneath the trailer for a nap.

  Just a short… cat nap.

  He laughed.

  It hurt.

  It might just have been a mirage, the man thought. God damn it, I’m so fucking thirsty.

  Convinced that wherever the animal had gone, if there, indeed, had been an animal at all, it wouldn’t ruin his truck, he started back toward his open door.

  Then he heard something.

  A distinct thump.

  The man’s movements were labored as he went to investigate, thoughts of don’t ask, don’t tell buried beneath the throbbing in his head. Every time he lifted his leg, hell, every heartbeat caused more blinding pain.

  The dust was messing with his breathing, making him wheeze.

  Without thinking, he unlatched the rear doors and lifted the lever. And then he jumped back as something inside the truck pushed its way out.

  A zombie.

  A fucking zombie.

  Red eyes, swollen, pock-marked cheek, a single hand ending in tetanic digits outstretched.

  “Fucking hell!” he shouted.

  The zombie took one step and then fell to the ground, sending a giant puff of dirt into the air.

  With that same twisted hand, it tried to drag itself forward.

  The driver watched in horror as the thing’s entire body seemed to tense.

  And then it went still.

  Forgetting all about the gun, the man’s eyes lifted from the fallen corpse to the back of the trailer.

  And then he screamed and ran.

  There were more of them in there.

  At least five, but there could have been dozens or even hundreds waiting in the shadows.

  Begging for him to come closer.

  No way. No fucking way.

  He didn’t care how much he was being paid or if
there was a rabid Lynx roaming the area.

  He ran as hard as he could.

  Despite his determination, the man only made it about a hundred yards before something in his head exploded. His vision bloomed red and then he collapsed.

  The man was dead before he hit the ground his last thought incomprehensible.

  They’re going to get me. They’re going to get me and consume my flesh.

  PART I – Seven Bodies

  Chapter 1

  I hate you, Chase Adams.

  The thought came out of nowhere, and it lingered.

  I hate you, Chase Adams.

  “Hurry up! We gotta go!” Chase hollered.

  Tate Abernathy cursed, lowered his chin to his chest, and pumped his arms and legs even faster.

  He despised running. He loathed it nearly as much as he loathed Chase Adams.

  She’d lied to him.

  After everything they’d been through and the countless times they’d promised each other to tell the truth, she was nothing but a boldfaced liar.

  She told him—no, not told him, but assured him, that the first few times he went on a run, it would hurt, and it would suck. But after a while, he’d grow to enjoy it.

  Yet, after nearly three full years of running a minimum of two times a week, but usually three or four, he didn’t enjoy it at all.

  If anything, he hated it more now than ever.

  Tate lifted his eyes and swiped his bare arm across his forehead.

  Chase was already home, standing on the front porch of their shared three-bedroom townhouse. What made everything worse was that look on her face.

  She was actually smiling.

  Using his hatred as fuel, Tate finished the run and then put his hands on his knees and bent at the waist. He felt like puking, and almost did, only that wasn’t possible; he needed to catch his breath first.

  The feeling eventually passed and, still doubled over, he glanced up at Chase. He stared into her sparkling green eyes and said the words that he’d been thinking for the entirety of the five-mile run: “I hate you.”

  Chase threw her head back and laughed.

  He didn’t understand how she was barely breathing heavily while he was at death’s door. Chase looked fresh, her pretty face a healthy pink.

  “Shut up,” she said. “You love me.”

  Tate opened his mouth to refute this claim, but instead, spat something that looked almost alive onto the ground.

  “Gross,” Chase said, putting a hand on his back and helping him to stand. “Now, come on, we don’t have much time. Get showered up.”

  Oh, how I despise you, Chase Adams.

  ***

  Tate hated to run, but there was no denying that all this exercise was having a positive effect on his body.

  The paunch that he typically held around his waist, the thickness to the back of his arms, and the little bit of extra skin hanging from his chin was all but gone now. He would never be an Instagram model, nor did he have any aspirations to become one. But at nearly 50 years old, Tate couldn’t help but think that he was in the best shape of his life.

  Sure, he had more gray in his hair at the temples than ever before, and his mustache, which he kept trimmed short, was now more salt and pepper than oak colored.

  But he didn’t mind.

  Neither did Chase; she told him that it made him look distinguished—a euphemism for old if there ever was one.

  But at least Tate didn’t feel old.

  Unless he was running. When he was running, Tate felt like a geriatric man in desperate need of both hip and knee replacements.

  Tate shaved his chin and cheeks, and then put some cream on his face, part of a simple skin care regimen that Chase had introduced him to and encouraged.

  “Dad? We’re going to be late!” Rachel yellow from below.

  “Tate, hurry up!” Georgina reiterated.

  “I’m coming,” Tate grumbled. “I’m coming.”

  He quickly retreated to his room and got dressed in what everyone referred to as his uniform: a pair of dark slacks, a white button-down with a soft collar, and an unstructured blazer.

  Like his diet, his exercise regime, and his skin care routine, Chase had attempted to change his style, too. She wanted him to wear jeans more often and if he was dead set on a shirt with a collar, to switch to polos.

  He declined.

  After all, he had to put his foot down somewhere.

  Tate found everyone waiting in the front hall and was struck by how much they looked like a real family. After the car accident that had seen his then-wife Robin convicted of a crime she didn’t commit and Rachel being paralyzed from the waist down, he thought that things would never get better.

  Fast forward a couple of years and his life was almost unrecognizable. While his ex-wife was still incarcerated, he’d met someone, someone for whom the love he felt rivaled that of the feelings he’d had for Robin when they first met. And, after innumerable physiotherapy appointments—damned expensive appointments that weren’t covered by the FBI’s shitty health plan—Rachel had managed to rebuild and repair some of the neural pathways that had been damaged. She wasn’t one hundred percent, not close to it, and he doubted that she ever would be. But he was damn proud of his daughter. Rachel had made so much progress that she’d lost the need for her wheelchair entirely and now relied on poles with wrist attachments to get around.

  Then there was Georgina Adams.

  When he’d first met the girl, he’d immediately pegged her as an intelligent, smart-mouthed, witty, and well-adjusted young girl. She had fiery red hair and perhaps the most intense green eyes that he’d ever seen. Her hair was the same color now, but her look had matured significantly. Georgina Adams, like her aunt, had always been good-looking, in a cute sort of way. But now, as she entered her middle teens, Georgina was bordering on beautiful. In a few years, she would be drop-dead gorgeous.

  “What are you smiling at?” Chase asked, her brow furrowing.

  Ah, Chase.

  Always in exceptional shape, she almost seemed to be aging backward, a real-life Benjamin Button.

  Except for her hair.

  Tate often complained about the white in his mustache and on his head, but Chase never did. It was difficult to describe the exact shade of her shoulder-length hair. It wasn’t white, not exactly, not like that of a prestigious elderly woman.

  It was more… an absence of color. Over the years, Chase had tried to dye it many times. But no matter how good a job the hairdresser did, she always ended up reverting back to her natural shade—or lack thereof.

  And Tate liked it. She might placate him with claims that his own salt-and-pepper look made him appear distinguished—old—but with Chase, her hair color added an element of mystery.

  “I was just thinking—”

  “Well, do your thinking later,” Rachel snapped. “We’re gonna be late and I don’t want to be the last person to arrive at Virginia Tech. It’s bad enough that you insist on driving me when everyone else is just taking the bus or carpooling. Don’t be cringe, dad.”

  “I—”

  Chase leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Yeah, dad,” she joked. “Don’t be cringe, all right?”

  Chapter 2

  “Dad, please,” Rachel whined. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  Tate didn’t seem to care. Chase watched as he continued to squeeze his daughter so tightly that the poles attached to her wrists splayed awkwardly out to her sides. Rachel grimaced and tried to push her father away, but while she had added a little meat to her bones, she was far from a large woman.

  Woman…

  It was hard to believe that this was the same girl who used to be frail and wheelchair-bound, the same girl who woke up every night shrieking.

  Awkward gait and aids aside, Rachel had developed into a pretty young woman.

  “Anytime,” she heard Tate whisper, “Anytime you want to call me, if you’re having trouble sleeping or if—”

  “I know,” Rachel said. She rolled her eyes in Georgina’s direction, but despite this, she gave her dad an appreciative squeeze.

  It wasn’t easy raising a child on your own—Chase knew this firsthand. There were undeniable differences between what Georgina and Rachel had been through, but there were countless similarities, as well. Most important of which included that they’d both suffered great tragedies and their mothers were out of the picture.

  It made Chase’s and Tate’s relationship a near-perfect match. A supporting, well-adjusted mother figure and a transparent, self-aware father figure.