The little boy stepped forward, then turned to look at Lock.
‘I’m going back, Josh. I have to go take care of your dad, remember?’
Josh almost managed a smile before taking to his heels and rushing towards a JTTF agent in a bio-suit posted on what was left of the gate. The agent approached the boy tentatively, put his arms around him, patting him down in the process.
‘Lock!’
Lock glanced over his shoulder to see Frisk. He was waving him forward. Lock raised a thumb back towards the complex.
Frisk broke from the ranks and darted into no-man’s land. Lock moved quickly to stay between him and the buildings. A shot from the detainees at Frisk and they’d both be toast.
‘What’s going on in there?’ he said, winded after the brief sprint.
‘They wouldn’t release Hulme.’
‘How about Van Straten and Stafford?’
‘You saw them, huh?’
‘They were reported missing about a half-hour after your buddy picked them up.’
Good, Lock thought. Croft must have decided to gift Ty a proper start.
‘I gave the detainees what they want.’
‘Which was?’
‘The people responsible for this mess.’
‘You mean the Van Stratens?’
Lock nodded.
‘And what do we get?’ Frisk asked him.
‘Everyone out alive.’
‘And you believe that crazy bitch?’
‘Look, Frisk, we don’t have much of a choice right now.’
‘And while you’re here, what’s with your girlfriend showing up?’
Lock scanned the circus on the perimeter, taking in the press and emergency personnel drawn in like moths. ‘Incidentally, what are you telling the media?’
‘Non-specific security breach.’
‘That should stand up for all of two seconds.’
‘Which is why it’s important we get this resolved as soon as possible,’ Frisk said. ‘One way or another.’
‘No argument from me.’
Just before he turned back towards the building, Lock glimpsed Josh, covered in the kind of foil blanket usually handed out at the end of a marathon, being helped into the back of an ambulance by two people in bio-suits. At least he’s safe, he told himself. That had to count for something.
‘Hold up. You’re not going back in there?’ Frisk asked, screwing up his face.
Lock kept walking. He waited for Frisk to start after him. For someone to try to stop him. But no one did.
Seventy-nine
Stripped to the waist, cuffed and in leg chains, Nicholas and Stafford Van Straten, along with the remaining guards captured by the escapees, stood to attention. Mareta hobbled along the line, a black Sharpie in her right hand. She stopped at Nicholas and drew the number one on his chest with the marker. Stafford was marked number two. Just like cattle.
As she reached the third man, one of the guards, Lock spoke up. ‘This is bullshit. They’re hired hands. And what you’re doing is no better than what they were going to do to you.’
‘Except we’re not terrorists,’ Stafford chipped in.
She ignored them both, etched the number three on the man’s chest. Once all the men were numbered, Mareta stepped back to admire her handiwork. ‘Now, let’s begin.’
Two of the escapees stepped either side of Nicholas Van Straten and ushered him out of the room.
They gathered behind the glass partition, Mareta, Lock, Ty, the remaining terrorists and guards and, standing in the centre, with the same look of interest he’d reserved for Lock, Stafford. ‘Finally, someone’s found an actual use for the old man,’ he observed.
Lock glanced over at him as Richard, now clad in a bio-suit, emerged on the other side of the partition and walked towards Nicholas. ‘Don’t worry, Stafford,’ he said, ‘your turn’s coming real soon.’
‘Do I look worried?’
Lock had to concede that Stafford was a whole lot more composed than he’d imagined. Certainly more than when Lock had led him up on to the roof that night.
‘I’ve seen all the data, remember,’ Stafford continued. ‘The vaccine’ll work.’
‘Makes for a pretty damn solid endorsement if it does work,’ said Ty as on the other side of the screen Richard gingerly opened the container and filled a syringe from one of the vials. His hands were shaking.
‘I want you to know that I am administering this entirely against my will,’ he said as he pressed down on the plunger and forced the liquid into Nicholas Van Straten’s bloodstream.
A few minutes later, as Van Straten was led out, Stafford was led in. Nicholas looked straight past his son. His face was pale, his lips were edged white.
‘For God’s sake, it’s only vaccine,’ Stafford said. ‘It’s already been given to the trial subjects and they’ve shown no ill effects.’ He rolled his neck, as if working out some kinks left by a particularly strenuous set of tennis as two of Mareta’s men pushed him down on to the gurney. ‘I’ll stand, thanks.’
The two men forced him down on to the gurney and strapped him in as Lock and Ty shared a look of surprise.
‘Hey, could be worse,’ said Ty, ‘least he ain’t face down. Then he’d really be screaming for mommy.’
‘Not a show I’d be buying a ticket for,’ Lock said.
Behind Stafford, Richard walked over to a large refrigerator, opened the door and retrieved a stainless-steel vial with a rubber stopper from a large white cooler on the second shelf. His hands were steady now as he popped a fresh syringe from its sterile packet.
‘Come on, Hulme, let’s get this over with,’ Stafford taunted.
‘Yes, let’s,’ said Richard from behind the helmet of the bio-suit, filling the barrel.
Stafford raised his head as far as he could and stared, defiant, at the screen. ‘I mean, they’ve all had the vaccine, and they’ve suffered no ill effects.’
‘That’s correct,’ said Richard, emptying the contents into Stafford’s bloodstream.
‘So what do I have to worry about? Nothing, right?’
Richard paused. ‘Nothing at all, apart from the fact that I’ve just injected you with live Ebola variant.’
Eighty
Stafford’s stomach lurched with fear. He knew that the Ebola virus emptied your body from both ends. And when you had no more vomit or faeces left to expel, and you felt like things couldn’t get any worse, that was when the bleeding started. Ears, nose, mouth, anus. When multiple organ failure or hypovolemic shock showed up to put you out of your misery, it came as a relief.
But the process wasn’t instantaneous. Far from it. The virus took its time to take up residence in your body, secreting itself in your cells, lying in wait, giving you plenty of time to think about what lay ahead. And, as he stared at Richard’s upside-down features, unyielding behind the bio-suit, Stafford swore he could feel the Ebola variant dispersing through his body, hunkering down before it began its assault.
‘Give me the vaccine, Richard,’ he begged.
