just kept screaming, even as I got to my feet.
“Stop,” Pembrooke said. “I don’t want to have to shoot you, but I will.”
The man I’d stabbed with the needle started to sob.
“Get in the decon shower,” Pembrooke ordered.
“But she got the last dose of vaccine—”
“Get. In. The shower. Now.”
The sobbing man hurried out of the room.
And then there was one.
Of course, the one remaining—the doctor himself—had a pistol pointed at me. And even though he looked to be inexperienced with a firearm, a man with a firearm was still a man who had to be respected.
But only as long as he still held said firearm.
Careful not to take his eyes or the gun barrel off me, he stooped to pick up one of the syringes from the floor. He tossed it to me. I caught it and stared at the fluid inside.
“It’s a sedative. You know how to give yourself a shot?”
I couldn’t suppress a laugh and didn’t try.
“You expect me to knock myself out so you can, what? Study me?”
“Study how your body managed to avoid contracting the Ebola. Yes.”
This guy was a piece of work. People could die all around him, and all that mattered were the next tests he might be able to perform.
I supposed it was handy for a scientist who worked on biological weapons to also be a psychopath.
An awful scenario washed through my mind.
“Am I a carrier now?”
“With biology, you can never be sure. But, I don’t expect you are. A blood sample should prove it, one way or another.”
“So test it,” I said.
“I will, after you give yourself that shot.”
“I’m not letting you put me under.”
“You’re not in a position to be making deals.”
“You’re not very experienced with handguns.”
A brief flash of uncertainty flinched behind his eyes. He recovered quickly, but he’d told me what I needed to know.
I took a step forward.
“I hope your first shot is a good one,” I said softly. “Because you won’t get the chance to take another.”
He extended the gun, aiming right at my center mass. “I can perform my tests on you whether you’re dead or alive.”
There was only a meter between us, and he wouldn’t miss. I was fast, but bullets were faster.
This wasn’t the moment. I had to catch him off guard.
“Why Julie?” I asked. “Why is she the carrier?”
Ask a man about something important to him, and he’ll never shut up.
“She’s one in a million. One in a billion. I theorized that someone with her unique genetic markers might exist. Someone who could carry the virus and remain asymptomatic. You have no idea how much blood we tested, how many false starts we had.”
“You tried this before,” I stated. “With others.”
Pembrooke nodded, seemingly proud of the fact.
“Many others. Those free clinics are funded by tax dollars, but used by those who contribute nothing to this country. It’s about time those freeloaders gave something back.”
I’d met a few psychos in my time, but never one who looked like someone’s grandfather.
“How many people have you killed while trying to find a Julie, Pembrooke?”
He shrugged. “You know the saying. To make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs. Now inject yourself.”
I shook my head. “No way.”
“Either you let me sedate you, or I kill you.”
I held the syringe in both hands—
—then snapped it in half.
“That did nothing. I have more.”
“So go get it. I promise I’ll stay here and wait for you.”
I could see him working it out in his head, wondering what to do next.
I was wondering the same thing.
Then the obvious hit me.
Pembrooke wasn’t a pro. So I didn’t have to treat him like one.
I looked over his shoulder at someone who wasn’t there and made my eyes wide.
“Do it!” I yelled at my imaginary savior. “Now!”
I sold it well. And like any amateur, Pembrooke bought the act, craning his neck around to see who was there.
I moved forward, to the side of the gun, putting my palm on the hammer and squeezing so Pembrooke couldn’t fire, then twisting my body around and snapping my elbow against Pembrooke’s faceplate.
He went down, falling onto his ass as he released the gun.
I pointed it at his head.
“How many people are at this facility?”
“What?”
“Who else is here?”
“No one. Just us.”
“No guards?”
Pembrooke motioned to the men on the floor behind me. “Those were the guards. Them and Johnson, in the decon shower.”
“If you’re lying to me—”
“I’m not lying. The full team won’t be here until tomorrow. We have to take steps to make sure there are no accidents, like there were last time.”
I searched his face, judged him sincere.
“Where’s Julie?”
“The other side of the facility. She’s sedated.”
“Thanks. That’s all I need from you.”
His eye went wide, and I had to admit to some base satisfaction watching him piss himself.
“Please! You can’t kill me. Our country needs me! I’m the only one who can protect us! I’m a brilliant man!”
“You’re not brilliant, Pembrooke. You want to know what you are?” I put the gun to his eye, let him see his own death down the barrel. “You’re an omelet. And I’m about to break a few eggs.”
“NO!”
I raised the gun, then clubbed him across the side of the head. He collapsed onto his side.
I checked the two men I’d put down earlier. They were both gone. I searched them, found some plastic zip ties.
I pulled Pembrooke over to Kirk’s bed, and bound his wrists to the railing.
Then I took Kirk’s hand—the one that an hour ago was touching me—and jammed the blood-soaked fingers into Pembrooke’s mouth.
“There you go, Kirk,” I said. “I didn’t have to kill him. You did it yourself.”
I found Julie where Pembrooke said she’d be. As he’d also stated, there didn’t seem to be anyone else at the facility. By the time I found Johnson, in the decontamination shower, he was already starting to hemorrhage from the virus.
I put a bullet in his head to ease his passing.
