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  A moment later, a dozen figures emerged from the red dust cloud. They wore black body armor and held assault rifles before them. Two of Colonel Magoro’s men fell as bullets struck them.

  Peyton heard Jonas yell, “Contact! Intruders!”

  Around her, the camp erupted in chaos.

  Chapter 33

  The first shots were deadly. The Kenyan troops dedicated to protecting Peyton, Jonas, and their team fell in waves as the invading soldiers advanced. In seconds, half of Colonel Magoro’s men were dead. Bullets ripped through the white tent complex. Return fire shredded the thatched-roof huts of the village.

  “Run!” Magoro yelled. “Get to the trucks and go!”

  But instead of running away from the tent complex, Peyton ran back into it, to the biocontainment room where the three survivors from the Kenyan village were looking on with fear. She opened the room and pointed away from the camp.

  “Go. Hide, like before. Don’t come out until one of us comes for you.”

  Peyton felt a hand clamp around her bicep. She turned to see Jonas, panic in his eyes. “Peyton, we need to go.”

  Together, they ran toward the three Toyota SUVs parked on the outskirts of the camp. Hannah was ahead of them, already halfway there. She ran in the open, gunfire sounding all around her. Soft pops from the attackers’ suppressed weapons interrupted the automatic rifle reports from Magoro’s men. Bullets raked across the first two SUVs, carving a line of holes in their sides and shattering windows.

  “Make for the last one!” Jonas called out.

  Peyton put her head down and ran for her life. Her heart pounded in her chest, a bass drum out of tune with the symphony of death the rifles played.

  A scream ahead—a woman’s voice. Peyton looked up in time to see Hannah fall. Blood instantly flowed from the young physician. Peyton was at her side in seconds, kneeling, inspecting the gunshot wound in her shoulder. Tears filled Hannah’s eyes, but she was already pushing back up, her teeth gritted. Peyton wrapped an arm around her, and they rushed to the SUV, where Jonas held the back door open.

  He slammed it shut when they were inside and yelled, “Stay down!”

  He got in the driver’s seat, cranked the SUV, and floored it.

  An explosion rocked the tent complex, sending white canvas and red dirt into the air. Remnants of the blast rained down on the SUV like hail.

  Jonas was making for the main road away from the village, pushing the vehicle to its limits. It stormed along the rutted road, bouncing, each violent movement bringing a scream from Hannah. Peyton wrapped one arm around her neck, the other around her side, and pulled her student on top of her, trying to cushion her. Their faces were together now, and Peyton could feel Hannah’s tears flowing down her own face, the salty taste touching her lips. Above them, a bullet shattered the back window, spraying tiny bits of glass. Peyton covered Hannah’s face with her hands.

  More bullets struck the side of the SUV, a few at first, then a full barrage.

  “Hang on!” Jonas yelled.

  The SUV turned sharply, bounced twice, then powered ahead, the engine screaming.

  A deafening explosion rocked the vehicle, tossing it into the air. Peyton felt herself float for a second. The sensation was sickening, like the moment at the summit of a roller coaster, before it begins its rapid descent.

  The SUV crashed to the ground on the driver’s side, throwing Peyton and Hannah’s intertwined bodies into the ceiling and then depositing them in a crumpled mass against the side wall. When the sound of twisting metal and breaking glass stopped, Peyton heard Hannah screaming at the top of her lungs.

  Up front, Jonas unsnapped his seat belt and reached for the passenger side glovebox, which was now above him. He popped it open, took out a handgun, and pulled the slide back, chambering a round.

  “No, Jonas!” Peyton cried out, but it was too late. He stood, his feet on the driver’s-side door, his head and shoulders poking out through the passenger side window, which was now on the top of the SUV. He began firing, but only got three rounds out before automatic gunfire erupted, ripping into him, his red blood spattering the seats. He fell, and the gun dropped from his hand into the back seat, within Peyton’s reach.

  Hannah cried and shook, the pain clearly overwhelming her. Peyton wrapped her arms around her while she eyed the gun.

  A second later, the SUV’s back gate swung open. Hands reached inside and dragged the two women out.

  Chapter 34

  Desmond stared at his legs. For the first time since he had woken up in that hotel room in Berlin, he knew how he had gotten the scars. The memory had left him wanting to know more. At the moment, however, he had a more pressing issue: escaping his makeshift cell.

  He lay on his back and listened for a few minutes, hoping for any clues about where he was or who might be around. But the barn was completely quiet, the other stalls apparently empty.

  He looked around for something he could use as a weapon. His best option was to pry one of the rebar rods free. He moved around the cell, studying the bases of the rods, searching for a weak link. He settled on a rod on the left wall, then swept his hands across the floor, searching for anything he could use to dig with. He found a rock that was almost two inches long, and went to work scraping the dirt aside.

  When he’d moved enough dirt to allow the rebar to be wiggled, he planted his feet, grabbed the rebar with both hands, and pulled. His aching body sent waves of pain through him. He rhythmically pushed out and returned, hoping the change in pressure would crack the weld.

  Ten minutes later, his head was drenched in sweat, his body spent, and the weld was just as solid as it had been when he’d started.

  He sat down against the wall, panting. He picked up the rock and turned it in his fingers. Without thinking, he turned to the dark wood and scratched the words: Desmond Hughes was here. He sat back on the dirt floor, studying his own name carved in jagged white letters on the wall. He leaned forward and added a second line: I’m innocent.

  He had written the line without even really considering it. He wondered if it was true. In his memories, he had seen himself in a warehouse where people were being treated in makeshift hospital cells. But treated for what? He knew there was an outbreak in Africa—possibly of Ebola—and that Peyton Shaw was there. Peyton, the woman he, or someone else, had instructed him to warn.

  Had he known this outbreak was coming?

  Someone did. In another memory, he had seen a man with a badly scarred face, standing before a group, telling them the world would soon change.

  Desmond lay on his back in the cell, his mind wandering. Wherever he was, it was hot and arid, easily seventy-five degrees in the dead of night. He was in the tropics, in a very dry region: Africa, or maybe an island in the Caribbean. No, an island was unlikely—he didn’t smell the salt of the sea. In fact, there was no breeze at all blowing through the open central lane of the barn.

  He began assembling an escape plan. He knew his adversaries were pros. They had taken him alive for a reason. That meant they wanted to keep him alive.

  The sweat covering his face might work in his favor. He spat on the jagged rock and wiped it on his pants, attempting to clean it. Then he lifted his shirt and scratched the rock against his side, just enough to break the skin and bring blood to the surface. He spread the blood around, then held his shirt to the wound, letting the dark red soak through.

  The sound of boots marching down the corridor focused him. He lay on his bad side and slowed his breathing, trying to look more vulnerable. His best chance was to lure the visitor into his cell. If he couldn’t do that, he’d have to attack the man through the bars and hope he could reach for the key. Perhaps he could throw the rock. With his hands bound together, it would be difficult to throw very hard, but if he could make the man stumble closer to the bars, Desmond might be able to reach through and get his hands on him.

  The soldier stopped square in front of his stall. He wore full body armor, including a black he
lmet with a visor.

  “I need a doctor,” Desmond said, his voice weak. “Somebody ripped my side open dragging me in here.”

  The sweat on his face supported the lie, but the soldier made no movement or response.

  “You hear me? I need a doctor.”

  The man’s voice was gruff, hard. “This look like a hospital to you?”

  “No. Apparently it’s a home for idiot mercenaries. Incidentally, what do you think your employer will do to you when I die of sepsis shortly after delivery?” Desmond paused. “Gotta think your life expectancy plummets.”

  “Show me.” Some of the bravado was gone from the man’s voice.

  “Doctor.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Desmond turned and moved his right arm slightly, revealing part of his blood-soaked side. He made his words come out even more labored. “I figure they’ll kill me anyway. Least I’ll take you with me.”

  “Walk to me.”

  “Screw you,” Desmond spat.

  For a moment he thought the man was going to open the cell. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked out.

  He returned ten minutes later, carrying a tray full of food and a small case. Hope filled Desmond until the man slid the tray through the bars. It was flimsy, Styrofoam—useless.

  “Eat,” the suited man said.

  “Not hungry. Too busy dying.” Desmond was incredibly hungry, but he knew what was in the food; he’d be unconscious shortly after his first bite. Then they would inspect his wound, discover his deception, and regard everything he said afterward with complete disbelief, ruining his chances of escape.

  “You really want to do this the hard way?”

  “I thought we already were.”

  The soldier set the case on the ground, opened it, and prepped something. Desmond rose, ready to throw the rock and charge the iron bars, but the soldier was quick: he drew a pistol from the case and fired once, striking Desmond in the chest.

  Chapter 35

  Millen came to with a start. His torso ached, but it was a sensation at his leg that caught his attention: something slithering around his left calf. He lay still, waiting to see if whatever it was would move on. Instead, it closed tightly, squeezing like a vise. He thought it was no larger than an inch around, but it was strong, and with each passing second, it cut off more of his circulation.

  He had fallen down a vertical shaft; he wasn’t sure how far. He was surrounded by absolute darkness, except for a single point of light in the distance, like a penlight in a train tunnel.

  The thing closed more tightly around his leg. To Millen’s surprise, it pulled with incredible force, dragging him across the rock, into the wall.

  The light shone brighter, raked across his body. He saw what had ensnared him: a rope, tied in a loop, lassoed around his leg.

  “Stop!” he yelled.

  The rope continued pulling at him, lifting him into the air. The pressure on his left ankle, where the rope had settled, was excruciating. His shoulders were still on the ground, but with each passing second, he rose.

  They couldn’t hear him. He still had his suit on, and it was muffling his voice.

  He had no choice. He knew it might end his life, but he tore his helmet off and shouted as loud as he could, “Stop!”

  The reaction, unfortunately, was instantaneous. He fell immediately back to the jagged rock floor. A shock of pain swept through his body. He rolled over, but it made the hurt even worse. He lay still, wishing it would end. For a moment, he thought he would throw up. The nausea passed, and slowly the voice calling down from above came into focus. “Dr. Thomas! Are you all right?”

  “Not really,” he mumbled.

  “What?” It was Kito, his local guide and interpreter.

  “Just… give me a minute,” Millen yelled.

  By degrees, he sat up and took stock. The fall had banged him up pretty badly. He had what felt like a bruised rib, and he doubted there was a single part of his body that wasn’t either skinned up or bruised. On the whole, however, he was okay. He would live. He could hike out. He counted himself very, very lucky. The bulky suit had provided some padding.

  But the shaft he had fallen into was at least twenty feet deep, and the bruised rib would make it difficult for him to climb.

  Thankfully, Kito had called the camp for backup. He had four men with him, and together, they were able to pull Millen up—though the process was far from pain-free.

  As soon as he caught his breath, Millen thanked the men at length. They had brought food and water into the cave, and Millen was glad. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he took the first bite. When the MRE was half gone, an idea came to him. He placed his helmet back on and stood.

  “Can you hike out?” Kito asked.

  “I won’t set any land speed records, but I can manage,” Millen said. “But first, I’m going to finish what I came here for.”

  Twenty minutes later, Millen watched the bat land near the open MRE and begin nibbling at it. He took aim, pulled the trigger, and tranquilized the animal. It jerked for a moment or two, then fell limp. Millen scooped it up and placed it in the sack.

  “Now we can go.”

  When the six men reached the green chemlight, they made radio contact with two more Kenyan soldiers waiting by the SUVs at the entrance to the cave. Kito informed Millen that the two soldiers that had originally driven them here had gone missing—along with the SUV.

  “Probably deserted,” Kito said. “They have families too. They’re no doubt worried about the virus reaching them.”

  The men at the SUVs relayed more troubling news: as soon as they had arrived at the caves, they had attempted to check in with the camp at the village, but no one had responded.

  Millen’s mind instantly went to Hannah, and the memory of her sleeping peacefully on the cot that morning. Despite the pain in his ribs and legs, he picked up his pace. The five Africans matched him easily, and less than fifteen minutes later, they cleared the cave.

  Millen tore his helmet off.

  “Let’s hurry,” he said.

  The drive back to the camp was a red-line, grueling affair. In the back seat, Millen held the handle on the roof and gritted his teeth.

  When the SUV’s headlights caught sight of the white tents, the vehicles screeched to a halt, sending a plume of dust forward like a ghost wandering from the car toward the camp. When the cloud cleared, Millen’s worst fears were confirmed: there was no movement anywhere. He had hoped the communication blackout was only an equipment failure.

  The eight men exited the vehicles. Kito called in to the Ministry of Health to apprise them of the situation. One of the Kenyan army officers updated their command post at the Mandera airport. The remaining six men, including Millen, approached the camp cautiously. The Kenyan soldiers held their semi-automatic rifles out, their fingers on the triggers.

  The camp was a horror show. Dead bodies were everywhere: soldiers, WHO staff, CDC employees, and Kenyan Ministry of Health workers. Whoever had invaded the camp had left no survivors. There was no sign of Hannah—yet. If by some miracle she was still alive, she wasn’t crying out.

  The men spread out, searching the camp, but found only more death. Millen’s fear mounted with every step. Still, he clung to the hope that she was alive, that Hannah had somehow escaped. He held his breath when he drew the flaps back on their tent.

  Empty.

  Quickly, Millen counted the SUVs. One was missing. There was still a chance she had gotten out.

  One of the soldiers yelled from beyond the camp. Millen was at his side a minute later, staring in horror.

  Dr. Jonas Becker’s body lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom of an overturned SUV.

  He died fighting, Millen thought. But whom had he been fighting? Al-Shabaab?

  “Dr. Thomas,” the soldier called from the back of the SUV.

  The vehicle’s rear door was open, and the ground behind it was covered in a massive pool of blood. Shattered glass wa
s everywhere.

  Millen got out his satphone and dialed a number in Atlanta. During the flight in, Dr. Shaw had been adamant that if the worst happened, the EIS members should bypass the EOC and call Elliott Shapiro directly.

  It was five thirty p.m. in Atlanta, and the call connected on the first ring.

  “Shapiro.”

  “Dr. Shapiro, my name is Millen Thomas. I’m a first-year EIS agent deployed in Mandera.”

  “Sure,” Elliott said. Millen could hear him walking in the background, a cacophony of voices and people typing on keyboards. “What can I do for you, Millen?”

  “Sir, we have a problem.”

  Chapter 36

  The call had rattled Elliott. He had been doing his final rounds before leaving for the day, but now he sat at his desk, thinking through his next moves. What he did now could well determine whether his people in Kenya lived or died—including one young woman in particular who was very special to him.

  Elliott and his wife, Rose, had been blessed with two sons. One had died at the age of three in their pool. They had filled it in and planted a garden in its place as a memorial. The other son was an anesthesiologist in Austin, and they saw him a few times a year. Peyton was a regular at their home, however, and over the years, both Elliott and Rose had begun to think of her—to treat her—as if she were the daughter they’d never had.

  He knew that the hours immediately after her abduction were the most crucial to ensuring her safe return, that acting quickly and decisively was the only way to protect her, to prevent any truly evil act from occurring.

  His first call was to the National Reconnaissance Office, where his request was met with immediate resistance.