what it said. Ideally, there should have been a number of other contamination control measures-a negative air pressure system, rubber seals on the door, plastic sheeting at the very least-but as both Abdullah and Nakamura had stated, there was no reason to believe that the patient was sick with a contagious disease. She nodded to the men, and then tugged the suit’s cowl over her head and zippered herself in. The hospital odor vanished as oxygen began to flow from the suit’s self-contained breathing apparatus. All three men conspicuously took a step back as she reached for the door handle.
Beyond that portal was an ordinary hospital room. A tall, dark-skinned woman, covered in a simple white sheet, lay supine upon a very ordinary hospital bed. Sara listened to the gentle hiss of air in her suit for a moment, waiting to see if the woman would stir-she did not-then moved forward.
Her eyes were drawn immediately to the object the woman held protectively to her breast. Through the patient’s splayed fingers, Sara was able to make out that it was indeed a skull, and that it was certainly not human; the heavy brow ridges and flatter aspect seemed to verify Dr. Abdullah’s supposition that it belonged to an ape, but it was beyond the scope of Sara’s knowledge to identify the species. The skull was discolored with age, almost certainly something unearthed many centuries after the animal it had once been part of had died, but it did not automatically follow that the skull was harmless. Some viruses could remain dormant for long periods, just waiting for exposure to a new host. Sara decided that, regardless of whether a pathogen could be identified from the patient’s labs, the skull needed further scrutiny, and she made a mental note to write orders for a sedative in order to pry it from the woman’s hands.
With that determination made, she began a head-to-toe assessment of the patient. She saw immediately that the woman looked thin and fragile, even though a nasal-gastric tube was supplying her with a solution of food, and an intravenous drip delivered fluids-Sara noted that the IV bag contained 5% dextrose in saline. Whatever ordeal this woman had suffered had left a deep mark, and Sara found herself wondering what had become of the rest of her expedition. But despite the appearance of frailty, the woman was breathing steadily, and showed none of the typical signs of a viral infection. Sara placed an aural thermometer probe in the woman’s ear; though not always the most accurate instrument, it was easier to employ when wearing a hazmat suit. The thermometer beeped after a couple seconds and Sara saw that woman’s body temperature was actually a degree below normal; no fever, no infection. Sara went down the checklist of possible symptoms, but there was no escaping the simple fact that, aside from being inexplicably unconscious, the woman was healthy.
What did Fulbright know that had prompted him to call in the CDC?
Sara vowed to get to the bottom of that mystery, but she wasn’t ready to completely dismiss the idea that the patient had been exposed to something. She methodically drew off thirty ccs of blood from the IV, collected in three separate vials, and placed them in the specimen kit. If the woman had a virus, even one that was presently dormant, there would be evidence of an immune response.
With her work done, Sara left the room. As soon as the door was closed behind her, she doffed the hazmat suit.
Fulbright hastened forward. “Well?”
Sara ignored him and instead addressed Abdullah. “I’d like to get that skull away from her. Just to do some tests on it. Sedate her if you have to.”
The Ethiopian doctor frowned, but nodded.
“I don’t think there’s any risk here,” she continued, “but we’ll…”
She trailed off as a strange sensation rippled through her. She struggled to interpret the sensory response. It seemed vaguely familiar, and though she couldn’t pin it down, she knew it was associated with something bad.
Fulbright picked up on her behavior immediately. “What’s wrong?”
His roguish smile had been replaced by something else-grim determination. His expression reminded Sara of Jack Sigler…not as her boyfriend, but as the lethal leader of Chess Team, and that was when she remembered when and where she’d felt this way before.
“Did you hear it? An explosion?”
“I heard nothing,” said Abdullah, looking perplexed.
Suddenly, the quiet environment of the hospital ward was shattered by a wailing fire alarm siren.
Fulbright drew a compact semi-automatic pistol from a holster concealed beneath his shirt. “We need to get out of here,” he declared. “It’s an attack.”
Even though she knew better, her first impulse was incredulity. Denial. It’s just a coincidence… He’s being paranoid… Everything is going to be okay…
But the appearance of two men at the end of the hall, dressed head-to-toe in black combat gear and brandishing guns, swept away all trace of doubt.
3.
The taxi rolled three times.
King was sure of that. His perceptions were heightened by the rush of adrenaline through his bloodstream, and everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Even curled as he was in a protective ball, he watched as the interior of the cab rotated around him, batting him around like a wet sock in a tumble dryer. Each impact was like getting hit by a linebacker in a football game.
But then, after an eternity of spinning and slamming into nearly every surface in the taxi’s interior, the cacophony of the Corolla’s destruction ceased, and King found himself jammed against the passenger side door, with something heavy pressing down on him.
He lay there for a moment, surprised to still be conscious, grateful to be alive, and vaguely certain that there was something important he should be doing.
Get moving…
Even though the motion had ceased, he felt like his brain was still spinning, flinging his thoughts away before he could string them together in a coherent fashion.
I’m in a taxi, he thought. There was a rollover accident… What’s this holding me down?
It was a body; a dead man.
Get moving…
A dead man that got shot by…who again?
It doesn’t matter. Someone killed him and they’re coming from you. Get moving!
“Get moving, soldier.” He said it aloud, like a boot camp drill sergeant, and something inside him clicked. Reaching down past the pain and disorientation, he willed himself to action. He squirmed out from under the weight of the dead driver and took a quick look around.
The taxi had come to rest on its right side. The broken windshield was completely gone, and beyond it he saw the Dodge pick-up that had caused the wreck. It had also rolled, and had come to rest upside-down, only a few feet away. The reinforced roll-cage had prevented anything more serious than cosmetic damage to the vehicle, but the men inside did not appear to have faired as well. King could see the driver through the open window and resting on the inverted headliner. He assumed it was the driver because the man was entangled with the steering column, which had sheared away during the wreck.
King stared at the man, as if in the twisted limbs and blood, he might find some hint of what to do next, and then he remembered; there was a second truck.
The realization galvanized him. He squirmed through the windshield and, propelling himself on elbows and knees, crawled into the overturned Dodge. He scraped past the unmoving-dead?-driver and got a look at the passenger, likewise motionless in a heap on the truck’s ceiling. The man still clutched the weapon he had used to strafe the taxi and kill its driver, a Heckler amp; Koch MP5, fitted with a noise suppressor.
When King tried to wrestle the machine pistol free, the man’s eyes fluttered open and he instinctively tried to jerk the gun away. Without a moment’s hesitation, King punched the man in the Adam’s apple, crushing his trachea. The gun fell from the man’s grasp, forgotten, as he commenced clawing at his throat, an activity which occupied him for the last few seconds of his life.
With the MP5 in hand, King wormed through the window opening on the passenger side and onto the hot
