Exposed - A Thriller Novella (Chandler Series) by J.A. Konrath & Ann Voss Peterson (14 page)

Coughing.

Coughing blood.

Vomiting blood.

Kirk didn’t despair. He didn’t complain. He
didn’t cry. He didn’t do any talking, other than two softly
whispered words.

“Kill him.”

I promised I would, wanting to squeeze his
hand, not being able to because his skin tore as easily as tissue
paper.

By the time I moved to sit on my own hospital
bed, Kirk didn’t even notice. He stared into space, his red eyes
blank, the muscles of his face slack. The parts of his brain that
made him who he was were gone, liquefied by the virus. Only the
illness’s final stage remained.

Death.

That word echoed through my mind as I
witnessed the last moments of Jonathan Kirk.

“
When it comes to survival, violence often
isn’t the best option,” said The Instructor. “But when you choose
to use it, strike hard and fast and destroy your enemy. There is no
winning and losing in a fight, only living and dying.”

The room smelled like a slaughterhouse.

There was a sink, and I did my best to wash
Kirk’s blood off me.

I checked myself for new bruises.

Didn’t find any.

Chilled, I pulled my hospital gown around my
naked skin. My hands trembled, events of the past day catching up
to me, overwhelming me. Tears brimmed my eyes, turning the world
into a blurry mosaic of white and red.

I blinked them back.

Focus.

I am ice. Cold. Hard. A blow torch couldn’t
thaw me.

The camera eye stared down from the ceiling.
The heart monitor had been turned off, the room silent now except
for the drip of Kirk’s blood on tile.

And a soft hiss …

A soft, smoky hiss, coming through the
overhead vent.

I scooped in a breath, held it, then
staggered and collapsed to the floor.

The hiss continued, long after my lungs had
started to scream for oxygen. But I was damn good at holding my
breath, and soon the tone of the sound changed to the hum of a
ventilation system at work.

I let my air out slow, made my lungs take in
big, deep breaths like I was asleep.

A short time later, the door opened, and four
people in full, pressurized hazmat gear lumbered into the room. I
heard the soft sound of wheels, as if they were pushing a tray or
gurney, and the suck and release of their SCBA.

“Put her on the bed. I need some blood.”

The voice was muffled, but I could tell it
was the same voice that had spoken to us over the intercom.

“Then where do you want her?”

“In the room with the girl.”

“And him?” another asked.

“You can clean that mess up later.”

Two sets of hands lifted me from the floor
and dropped me onto the mattress. I caught a glimpse through my
lashes, a tray filled with needles and vials. One of them grabbed
my arm and wrapped a rubber tourniquet around my biceps. I felt the
sting of a needle on the inside of my elbow, then a clumsy shifting
as they filled tubes with my blood.

“Okay, got it. I don’t want her waking up.
Stick that IV back in and get her sedated. And tie her hands to the
bed rails this time. No sense in taking chances.”

I would have preferred to let them take me to
Julie before making my move, at least then I’d know her location,
but I couldn’t let them put me under. Still if I could bide my
time, take them by surprise, hope that some left to perform other
jobs, I’d have a better chance. If even one stepped out of the
room, I’d increase my odds by twenty-five percent.

I stayed put, picturing the room around me in
my mind’s eye, cataloguing what tools were at my disposal. Once the
man at my bedside replaced the catheter in the back of my hand, he
would have to reconnect the drip. For a second, he would be facing
away 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 poked
and jabbed, searching for a vein. Finding none, he slid the needle
out and tried again.

Still no luck.

And no one had left the room. Although my
eyes were closed, I could hear four distinct respirations, four
sets of shuffling movement. I didn’t know if these guys were
medical personnel, lab techs, or soldiers, but judging from the
skill 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 third
time and started digging around, I knew I couldn’t take it any
longer.

Focused on poking the hell out of my left
hand, my torturer didn’t see my right until it was too late.

I brought the heel up fast and plowed it into
his nose, driving upward.

CBRN suits are designed for soldiers to wear
in combat. Hazmat suits, like these, were not.

The face shield collapsed under my blow. The
guy made a grunting noise and flew backward, hitting the floor
hard.

A human being’s reaction to a swift violent
assault is to freeze. Like a deer in the headlights, the body
biologically seeks to hide in plain sight in hopes the predator
will pass them by. It takes years of training to shorten this
natural reaction. Even then, training wasn’t the same as engaging
in the real thing.

I’d engaged in the real thing more than I
liked to think about.

I was moving before they’d realized the first
man was down.

Grabbing the stainless steel IV pole—a solid
bar with some serious heft—I pulled the adjustable portion from the
bed and started swinging.

The second man hadn’t had the chance to turn
around, and I hit him hard in back of the neck, connecting with the
cervical vertebrae. He went down immediately, leaving me with only
two to go.

The odds were getting better.

I went after the third.

He managed to step backward, making my next
swing miss. Then threw a right hook. The move was clumsy, the suit
slowing him down, and I blocked the blow and retaliated with an
elbow 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—ran
from the room.

The first man had staggered to his feet. He
came at me from behind with a bear hug.

I drilled the back end of the pole into his
gut. He doubled over, choking and gasping.

I went after him again, clanging him in the
head with everything I had, putting him out before man number three
tackled me from behind.

I sprawled forward, hitting the floor on
hands and knees, the brute landing on top of me. Air was sucked
from my lungs. He grabbed my hair, lifted my head with a yank, then
smashed my forehead against the tile.

Sparks of light blossomed behind my eyes.

I had to get him off me. One more hit to my
brain pan and I wouldn’t be able to function.

Face pressed to the cold floor, I willed the
dizziness back and searched for something I could use as a
weapon.

There.

I reached out my hand, skimming it over the
tile until I hit something slick and wet—the remnants of Kirk.

Then I snaked my arm back to the hand tangled
in my hair. The hazmat suit was thick and strong, made in layers to
keep out the smallest biological agents, viruses. But the gloves
were attached with nothing more than duct tape.

I sank the bloody IV needle into the meat of
his wrist.

A bellow echoed through the room. He released
my hair and scrambled off my back.

The door opened, and the man who’d fled
stepped back inside, a pistol in his gloved hand.

“Dr. Pembrooke! She put an infected needle in
my arm,” the one I stabbed began to scream. He didn’t move, 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.