facility.
Sarie felt a wave of elation at the sight of men with guns engaging the guards but then felt some of it fade when she saw that it wasn’t the Americans. They appeared to be Iranians, and even she could pick out their lack of cohesiveness. Some didn’t even seem to be looking in the direction they were shooting.
Omidi was on the move again, running to a refrigerated safe and entering a lengthy code into the keypad on the front. It opened with a puff of frosty air, and he retrieved a rack of glass vials, carefully transferring them to a foam-lined briefcase.
Less and less attention was being paid to her, and she edged over to a desk a few meters away. She felt around behind her for the scissors lying on it and was in the process of slipping them down the back of her pants when Omidi closed the briefcase and ran at her with three guards in tow.
He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the hall, pausing in the doorway to shout a few last orders at the two remaining security men in the room. They slid the guns from their shoulders and she watched in horror as they opened up on the scientists still working to destroy the evidence of their work.
It was over in a few brief seconds. Smoke hung in the room and the stench of gunpowder filled her nostrils as she looked down at the dead researchers, at the men who had murdered them, and at the three parasite victims still trying to get through the glass.
When Omidi began pulling again, she no longer had any strength to resist.
They came to the end of the corridor amid the echo of continuing gunfire behind them. One of Omidi’s men punched a code into a pad mounted to the wall, and a steel door slid open to reveal an enormous cave hung with lights and reinforced with concrete pillars. She was shoved into the cab of a military truck, followed by Omidi, who was cradling his briefcase as though it contained the cure for cancer.
He noticed her staring at it and smiled humorlessly. “My people have kept the parasite alive outside the body for almost forty-eight hours. Plenty of time to get it to Mexico and smuggle it over the U.S. border.”
One of the guards slipped into the driver’s seat carrying a laptop that she recognized as belonging to Yousef Zarin. Omidi started the computer as another of his men jumped into the back of the vehicle to take control of a machine gun mounted to the bed.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Omidi said. “That the program you created to destroy us will be the thing that saves us?”
The engine started and a moment later they were reversing out of the parking space. There was no more time. She had to do something.
The scissors were still in her waistband and she grabbed them, swinging the blade into the driver’s ribs with one hand while using the other to take hold of the wheel. He shouted in surprise and pain, but the scissors penetrated only a few millimeters and left him with the strength to slam on the brakes.
They were thrown forward, and she instinctively reached for the handle of Omidi’s door. It flew open and she pushed off, sending them both through it. They hit the ground hard, but she’d been ready for it and managed to tuck into a roll, while Omidi landed square on his back.
The impact knocked the briefcase from his grip and sent it skittering across the dirt. She made a grab for it, catching the handle and letting her momentum carry her back to her feet.
There was no point in looking back, and instead she sprinted toward the door they’d come through. Shouts rose behind her, followed by the static of the gun mounted on the bed of the truck, but the rounds went wide.
It didn’t take as long as she had hoped for the guard to swing the gun into position, and she was forced to dive behind a support pillar as he zeroed in. The powerful rounds hammered it for a few moments, tearing away enough concrete to expose the rebar inside. Then suddenly everything went quiet.
“Dr. van Keuren,” Omidi called, breaking the silence. “Listen to me. There’s nowhere for you to go. Come out and I will guarantee your safety. Do you hear me?”
She poked her head from behind the column and then pulled it immediately back. The man she’d stabbed was working his way right with a pistol in his hand and a bloodstain spreading across his shirt. Omidi was on the ground typing on the laptop, which apparently hadn’t been smashed into the million pieces she’d counted on.
His offer of safety was complete bull — he’d called off his gunner only because he was afraid of damaging the briefcase. Given the chance, Omidi would either kill her and unleash the parasite on America or take her prisoner again and set her back to weaponizing it. Neither was a particularly attractive scenario.
She heard a creak behind her and saw the door leading back into the facility begin to close. He was running Zarin’s program — trying to seal in the force attacking them and set the infected animals loose.
With no other choice, she ran for the closing door, gripping the briefcase tightly to her chest as she broke into the open. She ignored the sound of gunshots behind her, focusing entirely on getting to the door before the gap became too small to pass through.
A searing pain flared in her leg and she went down, sliding uncontrollably forward as the briefcase flew from her hand. She came to a stop halfway across the threshold and made a move back toward the case but was forced to stop when a bullet exploded against the rock wall next to her.
The door hit her in the shoulder and she shoved uselessly back against the powerful motor closing it. The man she’d stabbed was running hard in her direction, and the barrel of the mounted machine gun was aimed directly at her. There was nothing she could do. They were going to get the briefcase. But hell if they were going to get her.
She dragged herself the rest of the way through the door, barely managing to clear her feet before it sealed, and then just lay there trying to get control of her breathing.
The wound in her leg was only a graze, and she tore off one of her sleeves to use as a bandage. There was no way to know who was attacking the facility, but whoever they were, they were her best — only — hope.
Sarie pushed herself to her knees and was trying to get to her feet when she froze, straining to decipher a faint buzz just beginning to rise above the ringing in her ears.
It was the monkeys. They were free.
80
Jon Smith looked over the edge of the dry moat and studied the tower on the northeastern edge of the fence line, searching for the sniper ensconced there. Hakim’s truck tipping over had been a complete disaster, pinning down Farrokh’s team and potentially turning the entire operation into an unwinnable war of attrition.
Howell was prone on the bridge above, using his freakish marksmanship to cover the men huddled behind the capsized truck. Farrokh was crawling back and forth among them, patting shoulders and delivering words of encouragement, but most still looked like they were about thirty seconds from melting down.
The distance between them and the remaining towers had neutralized the advantage of elevated machine guns, and the men in them had switched to rifles. They were good, but not particularly great shots — with one exception. There was a sniper in the northeastern tower who was a damn prodigy. He’d already taken out three of their men and was throwing an extremely large wrench into what little was left of their machine.
His bearded face appeared over the rim of the tower, and Smith was unable to adjust his aim before the muzzle flash. The round ricocheted off the bridge and he turned to see that it had knocked loose a chunk of concrete near Howell’s shoulder. The Brit remained completely still, eye glued to his scope.
“I’d be much obliged if you’d
“Working on it.”
A bullet kicked up some sand two feet from Smith’s head, and Howell fired off a few rounds in the general direction it had come from. Sitting there waiting for the Iranians to find their range and call in reinforcements wasn’t an option. If they broke cover, though, the sniper to the northeast would have a field day.
And so it was a guessing game. On what part of the tower would he appear next? In order to have time to get off an accurate shot, Smith would have to anticipate his position within about a foot.
“I think I’m starting to get a sunburn,” Howell said, making the point that he hadn’t come there to get involved in a deadly stalemate.
