Page 79 of Viral Justice

A lump blocked the bottom of Max’s throat.

Ali, who’d stayed by the door, led the way out, but Max stopped her before they reached the OR.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“No, but I think I’m the best one for the task.”

“I agree, but we both need more sleep. After you take the samples, I want you back here for some rest.”

She rolled her eyes. “Max, stop mother-henning me. You don’t have the right equipment for it.”

He smiled under his mask. “I’ll take that under advisement. Carry on.”

She saluted smartly and headed out.

In the OR, Hunt had covered the other counter and was going through the bags. He glanced up as Max came in. “This is an impressive setup, Colonel.”

“Every man needs a hobby.” Max began removing items from the duffel bags and placing them on the counters.

Identifying flu viruses was easy up to a point. There were a number of faster testing methods available to positively identify influenza. Some of those tests could also differentiate between influenza A, B and C. But determining the specific subtype of influenza—the most common of which were H1N1, H1N2, H3N2, including various strains of swine or human flu—required testing that was neither easy nor cheap. Determining the specific genetic code of a virus to ascertain if it had the potential to become a pandemic threat required a very well-equipped lab.

Max was using one of a handful of analyzers that could accurately determine the specific subtype or strain of flu of a sample in very little time. The genetic testing would have to wait.

By the time he had all his equipment unpacked, plugged into the rechargeable batteries and ready to go, Ali was back with the half-dozen samples she’d volunteered to collect.

Her face, what he could see of it, was pale, her eyes almost black.

“What’s wrong? You look...” he studied her face “...sick.”

“I found a lot of dead people,” she said, her voice heavy with sadness and a note of fear. “A lot more of them are sick and soon to be dead.”

“How many dead? Sick?”

“I counted fifty dead and twenty or thirty sick, just collecting those samples.” She met his gaze. “I stayed close by. I have no idea what’s happening on the other side of the village or in the tents.” She swallowed hard. “I also found one body in the street, not far from here with a note written on a piece of cloth covering the dead man’s face.”

A note? Horror’s frozen fingers took hold of Max’s vocal cords. “What did it say?”

“‘Hello Max, welcome to hell. It was signed by The wrath of God,’ in Arabic.”

The ice circling his throat squeezed, but he still managed to choke out, “Akbar. This whole situation is a trap.”

Pinpricks of pain punctured his skin in a sickening rush. They sliced up his throat, and threw his brain back into the past when he was certain he was going to die.

No. Too many people were relying on him, too many innocent men, women, and children.

He flexed his fingers and closed his fists around the fear and horror invading his mind and crushed them in his grip.

“...that change our plan?” Ali asked, her voice a little fuzzy with exhaustion.

He blinked a couple of times, took in a deep breath. “A valid question,” he said, shocked at his own level tone. “We don’t have enough information. He’s playing head-games. We should know if there are extremists holding hostages soon from Nolan.”

“Don’t expect good news, Max.” She walked to the wall, leaned her back against it and slid down to sit on the floor. “I’m just going to rest here, if that’s okay.”

“Ah, yes,” Max said sagely. “The first rule of bodyguarding is to stay with the body. Of course you can stay.”

“Is that the reason you’re here, Stone? As the colonel’s bodyguard?” Hunt asked.

Ali gave him a sideways glance. “No, I’m after his Italian recipe collection.” She frowned. “Why did you think I was here?”

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