side. She watched as he pulled it out and gritted her teeth at the pain flaring in her head. A paring knife. In her panic, she’d grabbed the smallest thing in the block.
He rushed her, and she tried to stand but didn’t have the strength even to bring a hand up to deflect the bloody knife coming at her.
He shouted, spittle hitting her in the face as he shook her and pressed the blade to her neck.
“Why don’t you just shut up and do it,” she said, her voice sounding strangely distant.
He backed away, his rage clearly growing to the point that he was having a hard time putting together coherent thoughts. He dropped the knife and picked up a floor lamp, holding it above his head just like her father had in the dream. But instead of crushing her skull with it, he hesitated and let it fall to the ground.
A moment later she was being dragged through her front door by the hair, her hands clawing weakly at the man’s forearm.
The sight of her dead dogs lying in the driveway robbed her of what little strength she had left, and she didn’t resist when she was dragged onto the asphalt and rolled onto her stomach. Consciousness came and went with her only vaguely aware of the sound of tape being pulled from a roll and the sensation of it being wound around her wrists.
Maybe she wasn’t supposed to have survived all those years ago. Maybe fate had finally come back for her.
12
Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, USA
November 13—1826 Hours GMT–5
D R. RONALD BLANKENSHIP PUSHED through the metal door, and Jon Smith followed him into an empty stairwell at the Camp Lejeune Naval Hospital.
“So what’s Fort Detrick’s interest in a beat-up SEAL?”
When he didn’t get an answer, Blankenship stopped and leaned against the railing. “I mean, I reviewed the kid’s chart, and beyond looking like he spent a few hours in a washing machine with his bowling ball collection, he couldn’t be healthier. Not so much as a sniffle to get one of you virus hunters excited.”
Smith just smiled amiably.
“Don’t even give me that look, Jon. Am I helping you out here or what?”
They’d known each other for years, having done part of their residency together and serving in MASH units all over the world. Smith had called him from the airport and asked him to make sure his discussion with the injured sailor was kept quiet. Or better yet, dead silent.
Ironically, it wasn’t his association with Covert-One that was the problem this time; it was his day job at USAMRIID, the army’s infectious disease research group. While details of the SEAL’s operation were classified beyond top secret, it was impossible to keep the fact that he’d been in Africa from the medical team treating him. The sudden appearance of an army microbiologist charged with tracking deadly diseases and bioweapons was bound to raise eyebrows.
“Yeah. You’re helping me out,” Smith said. “But there isn’t much to tell. My guess is that all this is nothing but a waste of perfectly good tax dollars.”
Blankenship frowned and started up the stairs again. “You’re back in intelligence, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Come on, Jon. I went from MASH units to three kids and a pool that leaks no matter how much I spend to fix it. Do you know what the most exciting thing that happened to me in the last month was? My wife told me she wants to quit her job and become a full-time artist. And that’s not exciting in a good way, you know? So throw me a bone, here. Tell me how the other half lives.”
Smith enunciated carefully. “I swear to you that I am not working for Military Intelligence.”
“And this guy isn’t carrying some supersecret bug we should know about.”
“I think you’re moving into tinfoil-hat territory now, Ron.”
Blankenship slammed the bar handle of a door leading to an empty hallway. “You win, Jon. Just like always. Go down there and take a left. It’s the second door on the right.”
“I owe you one, Ron.”
They
He rushed her, and she tried to stand but didn’t have the strength even to bring a hand up to deflect the bloody knife coming at her.
He shouted, spittle hitting her in the face as he shook her and pressed the blade to her neck.
“Why don’t you just shut up and do it,” she said, her voice sounding strangely distant.
He backed away, his rage clearly growing to the point that he was having a hard time putting together coherent thoughts. He dropped the knife and picked up a floor lamp, holding it above his head just like her father had in the dream. But instead of crushing her skull with it, he hesitated and let it fall to the ground.
A moment later she was being dragged through her front door by the hair, her hands clawing weakly at the man’s forearm.
The sight of her dead dogs lying in the driveway robbed her of what little strength she had left, and she didn’t resist when she was dragged onto the asphalt and rolled onto her stomach. Consciousness came and went with her only vaguely aware of the sound of tape being pulled from a roll and the sensation of it being wound around her wrists.
Maybe she wasn’t supposed to have survived all those years ago. Maybe fate had finally come back for her.
12
Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, USA
November 13—1826 Hours GMT–5
D R. RONALD BLANKENSHIP PUSHED through the metal door, and Jon Smith followed him into an empty stairwell at the Camp Lejeune Naval Hospital.
“So what’s Fort Detrick’s interest in a beat-up SEAL?”
When he didn’t get an answer, Blankenship stopped and leaned against the railing. “I mean, I reviewed the kid’s chart, and beyond looking like he spent a few hours in a washing machine with his bowling ball collection, he couldn’t be healthier. Not so much as a sniffle to get one of you virus hunters excited.”
Smith just smiled amiably.
“Don’t even give me that look, Jon. Am I helping you out here or what?”
They’d known each other for years, having done part of their residency together and serving in MASH units all over the world. Smith had called him from the airport and asked him to make sure his discussion with the injured sailor was kept quiet. Or better yet, dead silent.
Ironically, it wasn’t his association with Covert-One that was the problem this time; it was his day job at USAMRIID, the army’s infectious disease research group. While details of the SEAL’s operation were classified beyond top secret, it was impossible to keep the fact that he’d been in Africa from the medical team treating him. The sudden appearance of an army microbiologist charged with tracking deadly diseases and bioweapons was bound to raise eyebrows.
“Yeah. You’re helping me out,” Smith said. “But there isn’t much to tell. My guess is that all this is nothing but a waste of perfectly good tax dollars.”
Blankenship frowned and started up the stairs again. “You’re back in intelligence, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Come on, Jon. I went from MASH units to three kids and a pool that leaks no matter how much I spend to fix it. Do you know what the most exciting thing that happened to me in the last month was? My wife told me she wants to quit her job and become a full-time artist. And that’s not exciting in a good way, you know? So throw me a bone, here. Tell me how the other half lives.”
Smith enunciated carefully. “I swear to you that I am not working for Military Intelligence.”
“And this guy isn’t carrying some supersecret bug we should know about.”
“I think you’re moving into tinfoil-hat territory now, Ron.”
Blankenship slammed the bar handle of a door leading to an empty hallway. “You win, Jon. Just like always. Go down there and take a left. It’s the second door on the right.”
“I owe you one, Ron.”
They
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