I stayed put, picturing the room around me inmy mind’s eye, cataloguing what tools were at my disposal. Once theman at my bedside replaced the catheter in the back of my hand, hewould have to reconnect the drip. For a second, he would be facingaway from me, and that’s when I would make my move.
He stuck the needle in the back of my hand,and I braced myself against the pain. For several seconds he pokedand jabbed, searching for a vein. Finding none, he slid the needleout and tried again.
Still no luck.
And no one had left the room. Although myeyes were closed, I could hear four distinct respirations, foursets of shuffling movement. I didn’t know if these guys weremedical personnel, lab techs, or soldiers, but judging from theskill set of the one prodding me, I was leaning toward soldiers.They would know how to fight.
But when he stuck the needle in for a thirdtime and started digging around, I knew I couldn’t take it anylonger.
Focused on poking the hell out of my lefthand, my torturer didn’t see my right until it was too late.
I brought the heel up fast and plowed it intohis nose, driving upward.
CBRN suits are designed for soldiers to wearin combat. Hazmat suits, like these, were not.
The face shield collapsed under my blow. Theguy made a grunting noise and flew backward, hitting the floorhard.
A human being’s reaction to a swift violentassault is to freeze. Like a deer in the headlights, the bodybiologically seeks to hide in plain sight in hopes the predatorwill pass them by. It takes years of training to shorten thisnatural reaction. Even then, training wasn’t the same as engagingin the real thing.
I’d engaged in the real thing more than Iliked to think about.
I was moving before they’d realized the firstman was down.
Grabbing the stainless steel IV pole—a solidbar with some serious heft—I pulled the adjustable portion from thebed and started swinging.
The second man hadn’t had the chance to turnaround, and I hit him hard in back of the neck, connecting with thecervical vertebrae. He went down immediately, leaving me with onlytwo to go.
The odds were getting better.
I went after the third.
He managed to step backward, making my nextswing miss. Then threw a right hook. The move was clumsy, the suitslowing him down, and I blocked the blow and retaliated with anelbow strike that dented his face mask and exploded his nose,coating the inside of his visor with blood.
The fourth man—the oldest of the group—ranfrom the room.
The first man had staggered to his feet. Hecame at me from behind with a bear hug.
I drilled the back end of the pole into hisgut. He doubled over, choking and gasping.
I went after him again, clanging him in thehead with everything I had, putting him out before man number threetackled me from behind.
I sprawled forward, hitting the floor onhands and knees, the brute landing on top of me. Air was suckedfrom my lungs. He grabbed my hair, lifted my head with a yank, thensmashed my forehead against the tile.
Sparks of light blossomed behind my eyes.
I had to get him off me. One more hit to mybrain pan and I wouldn’t be able to function.
Face pressed to the cold floor, I willed thedizziness back and searched for something I could use as aweapon.
There.
I reached out my hand, skimming it over thetile until I hit something slick and wet—the remnants of Kirk.
Then I snaked my arm back to the hand tangledin my hair. The hazmat suit was thick and strong, made in layers tokeep out the smallest biological agents, viruses. But the gloveswere attached with nothing more than duct tape.
I sank the bloody IV needle into the meat ofhis wrist.
A bellow echoed through the room. He releasedmy hair and scrambled off my back.
The door opened, and the man who’d fledstepped back inside, a pistol in his gloved hand.
“Dr. Pembrooke! She put an infected needle inmy arm,” the one I stabbed began to scream. He didn’t move, justkept screaming, even as I got to my feet.
“Stop,” Pembrooke said. “I don’t want to haveto shoot you, but I will.”
The man I’d stabbed with the needle startedto sob.
“Get in the decon shower,” Pembrookeordered.
“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 doctorhimself—had a pistol pointed at me. And even though he looked to beinexperienced with a firearm, a man with a firearm was still a manwho had to be respected.
But only as long as he still held saidfirearm.
Careful not to take his eyes or the gunbarrel off me, he stooped to pick up one of the syringes from thefloor. He tossed it to me. I caught it and stared at the fluidinside.
“It’s a sedative. You know how to giveyourself a shot?”
I couldn’t suppress a laugh and didn’ttry.
“You expect me to knock myself out so youcan, what? Study me?”
“Study how your body managed to avoidcontracting the Ebola. Yes.”
This guy was a piece of work. People coulddie all around him, and all that mattered were the next tests hemight be able to perform.
I supposed it was handy for a scientist whoworked 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, Idon’t expect you are. A blood sample should prove it, one way oranother.”
“So test it,” I said.
“I will, after you give yourself thatshot.”
“I’m not letting you put me under.”
“You’re not in a position to be makingdeals.”
“You’re not very experienced withhandguns.”
A brief flash of uncertainty flinched behindhis eyes. He recovered quickly, but he’d told me what I needed toknow.
I took a step forward.
“I hope your first shot is a good one,” Isaid softly. “Because you won’t get the chance to takeanother.”
He extended the gun, aiming right at mycenter mass. “I can perform my tests on you whether you’re dead oralive.”
There was only a meter between us, and hewouldn’t miss. I
