A Heartbeat Away (27 page)

“I’m planning to work.”

“I am not stupid. You think I didn’t notice you and Melvin, here, trying to have a sidebar conversation in front of us? Roger, I want very much for you to meet with this fellow about the video footage, since he asked so politely. I will be contacting President Allaire and letting him know we are here and on top of the situation. Dr. Rhodes, I also intend to tell him that progress is being made.”

“Tell him whatever you wish.”

“As soon as I am finished with the president and some other business, we are all going to take a trip down to the lab.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Griff asked, focused on the ventilation shaft, and his upcoming thirty-minute crawl through darkness to the heavy grate beyond the installation’s fenced perimeter. “I mean, soon enough you’ll have your cameras and recording devices in place to keep watch over me.”

“I want to see for myself what it is you are doing down there,” Rappaport answered coolly. “And more importantly, I want to make sure that you are down there doing it.”

CHAPTER 51

DAY 6
3:00 P.M. (CST)

Griff lay prone on the floor of the Kitchen, with a spin ratchet, a screwdriver, and a flashlight beside him. Working with any sort of tools in a biocontainment suit was like swimming in molasses—possible, but certainly no fun. The targets were the screws securing the slotted front grate of the ventilation shaft. The heavy screwdriver turned awkwardly in his gloved hand, falling again and again. Most of the lab equipment in the Kitchen was specially designed for the decreased mobility of BL-4 laboratory work, and the extra effort and concentration required to maneuver the tool had Griff’s heart racing. Droplets of sweat condensed on the inside of his faceplate, reducing visibility in the already dimly lit workspace. But turn by turn he was making progress.

Two screws out.… Now, three …

One to go.

The groove of the final screw was nearly gone, and the body was stripped, making the already difficult task nearly impossible. Griff needed some sort of lubricating spray, but there was none. The five minutes he and Melvin had allotted for this phase of the escape had already taken triple that. How ironic to have the fate of the country hinging on a tiny bit of rust. The notion brought a rueful smile.

Griff had overheard Stafford say that patrols along the roads bordering Kalvesta were being increased in response to the secretary’s unexpected arrival. Any delay on his part risked Melvin being spotted by one of those patrols—assuming, of course, that Melvin ended his Staghorn meeting in time to make their rendezvous. With his anxiety escalating, Griff brought in a small hammer and chisel to loosen the stripped screw.

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost,
he said to himself, tapping on the chisel to the rhythm of the proverbial poem.
For want of a shoe, the horse was lost.…

Another try with the screwdriver. Griff figured he could change the angle of the blade to improve the leverage.

For want of a horse, the rider was lost.
…

The handle shook as Griff strained to turn it. The shank slipped free of the mangled screw head, and he felt the blade tear across the fabric of his suit. Hyperventilating, and fearing the worst, he checked the puncture. The suit’s several protective layers seemed to be intact.

For want of a rider the battle was lost.…

Griff tried another approach, gripping the sides of the vent with his gloved hands and twisting the already loose metal plate as he pulled. Home run! The troublesome screw budged, then creaked a fraction of a millimeter, then suddenly turned. For the moment, at least, the kingdom was saved.

The pre-filters removed easily enough, but the much larger HEPA filter looked to be a serious challenge. The angle required to use the spin ratchet on the stainless steel bolts seemed designed for a contortionist. Sweat continued dripping down Griff’s brow and stinging his eyes, until he was working nearly blind. To make matters worse, again and again his elbows displaced his flashlight.

He finally managed to unplug the connectors powering the fan, and held his breath. Despite Melvin’s assurance, he still worried about the alarm. The loud rush of air being sucked up the vent stopped suddenly. The only sound was his heart pounding in his ears. An inch at a time, he worked the cumbersome fan free from the aluminum duct. The razor-sharp edges of the filter’s metal casing were a continuous threat to the integrity of his suit, but he handled them well.

Finally, he took in a single deep breath and pulled until the heavy filter came free of the duct. He let it fall to the floor of the Kitchen with a loud, satisfying crash.

Buoyed by a second wind, he removed the remaining components—blowers and bags—with a great deal less effort. Now, it was time to get Rappaport out of the picture. In a short while, a powerful animosity had developed between the two of them. Rappaport was convinced of Griff’s guilt and lack of patriotism, and Griff was uncomfortable around the man’s arrogance and self-assuredness. In addition, more and more, thoughts were taking shape regarding the fact that until it became clear why Genesis was undertaking their reign of terror, Paul Rappaport seemed to be at the forefront of those who would benefit from it.

Griff’s joints ached from his having stayed so long in such an awkward position. He crossed to the wall-mounted control panel for the Kitchen’s Environment Status System—its ESS. His goal was to make the place seem even more potentially lethal than it already was.

Of the three buttons on the panel’s front face, the green one was lit, and the yellow and red ones were not. Griff keyed the input code required to change environment status, and with a push of a button the Kitchen went from a green safety level to yellow. The yellow status alerted topside communication of a potential exposure risk in the labs. Nothing too alarming, like the total evacuation and shutdown mandated by red, but nothing they would risk Rappaport being exposed to, either. It would certainly buy some time. How much, Griff had no way of knowing.

He went back to the ventilation shaft and used his Maglite flashlight to penetrate the darkness of the metal tunnel, scanning for sharp edges between duct joints that could slice open his suit before he cleared the hot zone. Fortunately, the engineers had injected sealant between the joints. The passage would be relatively smooth.

With thoughts of Angie and of what might lie ahead in Wichita, he set the flashlight down. He would need both hands free to work his way up the steep rise at the far end of the system. Detaching the air hose from his suit, he positioned himself facedown on the metal and snaked his way into the blackness.

Space in the duct was unpleasantly tight. Griff worked forward in a military crawl. The shaft was roughly the diameter of the opening in an MRI machine. His back scraped against the top of it every time he arched his hips. The darkness was now total, and the accompanying claustrophobia was becoming oppressive. His helmet and face mask made the situation even more difficult and unsettling.

Breathing through his nose, eyes closed, he wriggled ahead, feeling for any incline.

Breathe in … breathe out … breathe in … breathe out …

The tube seemed interminable, the air stale. Then, just as he was wondering if Melvin had given him misinformation about the course of the system, he sensed an incline beginning. At first the rise was subtle. Griff opened his eyes, but he was still engulfed in absolute darkness.

Breathe in … breathe out …

Suddenly, the incline became more severe. The shaft bent upward at an angle that was at least forty-five degrees. Instantly, the rhythm Griff had established disappeared. Movement ahead and upward became awkward, and required every bit of his strength. Without the air hose to help cool him, his suit trapped much of his body heat. He kept himself wedged in the shaft, moving through the blackness only a few inches at a time. Fatigue became a serious problem. The climb was far more difficult than he had anticipated. He fought off the increasingly desperate urge to try crawling backward to the opening.

Visions of giving up—of just stopping and dying there—began to dominate his thoughts. He drove himself ahead by remembering the guards at Florence, beating on the soles of his feet and calling him a traitor and a terrorist. He allowed his mind to relive the electric total-body pain and the blood of his Ebola infection.

The rise in the shaft increased. Griff slid backward. Frantically, he pressed his palms against the metal, finally managing to regain his leverage. Again he shimmied ahead, his arms shaking from supporting what amounted to his full body weight. Still, he managed to inch higher. He guessed the angle of the shaft to be at least seventy degrees, now.

Angie … the guards … Louisa … Rappaport … the cell … Allaire … Africa …

He was nearly upright now, wedged in place, but able to use his knees for support and thrust. As Melvin had warned, this part of the ascent
was
like rock climbing. But nothing had prepared him for the consuming blackness. His forearms were on fire.

I’ve beaten Ebola.… I’ve outlasted Florence.… I can do this.…

Tears of pain mixed with the sweat and salted his lips. He kept his gaze fixed upward, searching for the end. Then, suddenly, his glove hit metal—the rung of the ladder! Above him, the utter darkness had given way to the gloom of dusk. He bent his head back as much as space would allow and saw the squares of the access grate, silhouetted against a darkening sky.

One rung, then another. Finally, his fingers closed on the heavy steel grate. As Melvin had warned, there was no way he would be able to shove it aside. Clutching the ladder to keep from falling back down the shaft, he cried out to the world overhead.

“Melvin! Forbush, are you there? Get me out of here! Melvin, for God’s sake, help me!”

Griff feared the suit was muffling his cries. He let go with one hand and slammed the base of his palm against the grate. Nothing. Then he heard a motor engage. An instant later, one edge of the heavy obstruction was lifted by a hook he hadn’t noticed, and the grate was dragged clear of the opening. Dizzy with exhaustion, Griff tried to lift himself out of the shaft. But the strength wasn’t there. A pair of hands reached down and grabbed Griff by his wrists.

Melvin!

Forbush lifted him clear of the shaft, disconnected his helmet, and pulled it off.

Gasping, Griff flopped over onto his back and squinted up at the fading light. His chest was heaving, desperately sucking in the wintry air. Forbush next unzipped the biocontainment suit. Underneath it, Griff was wearing only scrubs and booties. He felt a wave of frozen air envelop him, stinging his skin. His sweat instantly cooled, forming a chilling sheen that grew colder every second. Now out of his suit, Griff began shivering.

“You made it, buddy,” Forbush said. “You made it.”

“Yes, he did,” a deep voice said from behind his friend. “Good job, sport. Bloody good job.”

A huge man emerged from the far side of Melvin’s Taurus and slashed the gangly lab assistant across the back of the head with the barrel of a submachine gun. Forbush dropped like an anvil and lay on the frozen ground, rolling from side to side, moaning, and pawing at his head.

The behemoth leveled his gun at a spot between Griff’s eyes.

“Welcome to the world above, Dr. Rhodes,” he said. “You and I have some business to discuss.”

CHAPTER 52

DAY 6
4:00 P.M. (CST)

Matt Fink pulled a tangle of rope from the open trunk of the Taurus and tossed it by Griff’s feet.

“Tie him up,” he ordered.

Melvin had made it unsteadily to his knees. Through the gloom, Griff could see blood cascading around one of his ears and down his neck.

“Shit,” Forbush said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I said tie him up!”

“How did you know we were here?” Griff asked, stalling, but also desperate to learn the answer.

Genesis had somehow been aware when Angie left the compound. Now, it appeared, they were once again a step ahead.

“I’ll ask the questions here,” the man said. “Now do as I say or I swear, I’ll shoot this jerk in the eye.”

“Why do you need me to tie him up? What do you want with us?”

“Do I look like someone you should be fucking around with, sport? You’re going to tell me where you are headed and why, or things are going to get mighty painful for both of you.”

Griff’s teeth were beginning to chatter. He rubbed at his arms to keep his circulation going. The icy wind was cutting through his thin scrubs like a scalpel.

“Didn’t he bring a jacket for me?” he asked. “I … I need one.”

“My patience is wearing thin, sport. Now, do as I say and you’ll get your jacket. Don’t do it and watch your friend here die a painful death while you become an icicle.”

Griff quickly surveyed their surroundings. To the west was the lab—a series of tiny lights on the horizon, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. To the north and east the flat, frozen ground was interrupted only by the scattered silhouettes of rolled hay. The south, however, held some promise. In fact, the distant farmhouse, outbuildings, and enormous barn told him precisely where they were—on the vast Cahill Bar-B Ranch, home to one of the largest herds of bison in western Kansas.

During his initial time at the lab, he had actually driven past this field a number of times. Once he had stopped to walk to within just a few yards of the magnificent beasts before a ranch hand on horseback warned him that, even though herds of wild bison had given way to ranch-bred, the animals were still fast, unpredictably temperamental, and at two thousand pounds, with horns, hooves, and a massive, battering-ram head, more deadly than a grizzly.

“I’ve had it with you, Rhodes,” the man was saying. “You’re a wise guy, and you don’t care what happens to your pal, here. Well, maybe you care about what happens to yourself.”

He jammed the muzzle of the submachine gun with force into Griff’s kidney, sending him down to one knee. Just as quickly, Griff was up, refusing even to rub at the spot.

“Who are you?” he asked, searching for an opening, any opening, through which to attack or to run.

“I’m a bad man, sport. That’s all you need to know,” he said, pressing the muzzle against the back of Forbush’s head for emphasis.

Like the killer who had tracked Angie to New York, this was a professional. Griff knew with certainty that there was no way either he or Melvin was going to leave this place alive.

Griff’s vision had adjusted to the gloom, and he could see a portion of the bison herd itself, huddled together against the cold. His best chance, likely his only chance, was to find a moment’s break and to run weaving in that direction.

“Are you Genesis?” he asked.

“Tie him the fuck up!”

“I won’t do it.”

Griff’s shivering was becoming more intense. He had to do something while he was still able.

But before he could make any move, the huge man charged at him, lowering his shoulder and driving it hard into Griff’s sternum. Griff heard the popping of his ribs separating from cartilage or breaking. The pain was explosive. The fury of the surprise attack lifted him off of his feet and sent him flying backward onto the rock-hard ground. He landed heavily, gasping, his lungs unable to take in air. Through dizzying pain, he rolled onto his stomach, and forced himself onto his knees. Then he glared up at the figure towering above him. Death for Melvin and for him was getting closer. The man’s temper and intense anger were the only weapons they had left.

“I’ve had it with you, sport,” he said. “You can just stand there until you freeze solid. I’ll enjoy watching.”

Teeth clenched, Griff maneuvered one leg underneath him, and was working painfully on the other when he saw movement from behind the man.

Melvin!

The gangly virologist was a specter, blood smeared across his face, rising up behind their assailant like Phoenix from the ashes. The wildness in his eyes shone through the mounting darkness like lasers.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Griff cried out, grunting around the words, but still heightening the distraction. “I’ll tie him up!… I’ll tie him up!”

At that instant, with the shriek of a banshee, Forbush leapt onto the man’s back, his hands clawing frantically at his face, his fingernails digging into his cheeks. The giant swung his body around, but Forbush held his grip like a rodeo cowboy on a bull. The submachine gun fell. Griff dragged himself toward the weapon, but the man kicked it out of reach. Then, in a blaze of motion, he pulled an enormous hunting knife from his boot.

“Nooo!” Griff screamed.

In a single, practiced move, the killer drove the blade up and back into the taller man’s shoulder.

Still, Forbush held on, yelling for Griff to run.

Then, bellowing and stumbling awkwardly, the man whirled and buried the knife almost to the hilt at the base of Forbush’s neck. Blood spewed from the wound. Forbush screamed, released his grip, and fell limply.

Griff was on his feet now, staring in disbelief at the scene. Melvin lay motionless, blood pulsing from his neck and pooling beneath him. Griff’s eyes clouded over. He felt weak and disoriented, immobile and unwilling to believe his friend’s wound was mortal.

Get the gun!

Griff heard the words in his mind as if Melvin had hollered them.

The gun!

Two agonizing strides and Griff had the submachine gun in his hands. He whirled and aimed at the center of the man’s chest. His index finger pulled the trigger, and the assailant, who was clumsily trying to stand, dove to his right in evasion.

The gun did not erupt.

Griff aimed at the man’s back and pulled the trigger once again.

Nothing.

Griff’s experience with guns was a single, unpleasant session many years before at a firing range with a friend and his target pistols. Now, he panicked.

Had the gun jammed?… Was there a safety he needed to release?

Either way, Griff knew his ignorance was about to be lethal. The man was back on his feet, no more than ten feet away, clutching the heavy knife. Griff glanced down at Melvin, who was unmoving and silent, his eyes wide open and staring unblinking at the blackness. Dark blood was pooled on the frozen ground beneath his head.

For a moment, Griff stopped caring. He wanted desperately to charge the beast, who had perhaps killed the most harmless, gentle man he had ever known. He wanted the whole thing just to be over.

Finally, with the man moving unsteadily toward him, Griff took a single step backward and looked to the south. The plains there were divided by stretches of wood-post fencing that extended in every direction. The distant farmhouse seemed unlit—five hundred yards away, he estimated. Maybe farther.

His chest was throbbing mercilessly, but he could no longer feel the painful cold in his feet. Still, clutching the useless weapon, he shambled awkwardly across the field. The solid, frost-coated ground was pocked with divots that made every step a danger. The surgical booties made traction even worse. Now, from behind him, Griff heard footsteps crunching on the frozen ground. The footfalls were steady but uneven, suggesting the assassin might be limping.

But they were also getting closer.

“You’re a dead man, Rhodes!” the killer bellowed from behind him. “This knife is going to love finding a resting place in your heart!”