by Gail Barrett
“And my sister?” Dante asked, his voice dangerously flat.
“I needed proof that the sample worked. So I gave her a massive dose. That sped the process up.” He looked at Dante again. “I didn’t realize she had her cell phone with her. A minor slipup there.”
His cold-blooded rendering of the murder shocked her. And in that moment she knew without a doubt he’d intentionally killed their brother Felipe and let her take the blame.
And the irony of it all struck her hard. By dedicating her life to helping Tristan, she’d done more than play the fool and waste herself on an unworthy cause. She’d harmed her country, enabling a madman to become the future ruler and hurt the very people she was trying to protect.
And she realized something else. Tristan’s evil nature was not her fault. Despite his clean-cut looks and refined upbringing, he had been born a monster, a freak, some sort of genetic aberration. Nothing she could have done would have changed that fact.
Tristan wiped his nose on his sleeve, leaving a bloody streak across his cheek, and her heart kicked up a beat. He had to have the virus. He had the signs. But did he know it? Could she use it to their advantage somehow?
“And the casino owner?” she asked, still stalling for time. “What happened to him?”
“That idiot.” Tristan’s lip curled. “He panicked. When El Fantasma here started nosing around and asking questions, he was afraid his role in the girl’s death would come out. He wanted me to stop the shipment of the virus. He tried to blackmail me.” His voice ran with outrage.
“So you killed him.”
“No. I was going to after you confiscated the evidence, but he died on his own. One of life’s ironies, I suppose.”
“He caught the disease.”
Tristan shrugged, the man’s death apparently no more important to him than a pesky fly’s.
“And how about you?” she said carefully. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll catch it, too?”
“I took the antidote.”
She caught Dante’s eye and realized he’d recognized the symptoms, too. “Where did you get that?” she asked Tristan.
“The same guy who gave me the sample.”
Then the terrorist had double-crossed him. The irony made her want to laugh. But Tristan didn’t know he had the disease. And all of a sudden, she knew what she had to do.
But before she could even inhale, Tristan lunged forward and whipped her around. Wedging his arm against her windpipe, he held her fast to his chest, his gun barrel pressed to her head.
“Into the closet,” he told Dante. “Right now. Or I’ll kill her.”
Dante didn’t move. His black eyes burned into Tristan’s, his rage sparking the air. Paloma didn’t breathe, terrified that he wouldn’t listen, that he would try to do something heroic and cause Tristan to shoot. But after several tense seconds, Dante walked to the closet and opened the door.
“Get in,” Tristan ordered.
His jaw clenched, his eyes deadly, Dante stepped inside.
Then Tristan shoved her toward him. She stumbled, staggered upright and spun around.
And suddenly she’d had enough. Maybe he was going to shoot her. Or maybe she would die of the disease. But she intended to make him suffer before she did. “You do know the symptoms of the disease, don’t you, Tristan? Headache, fever, chills. Sound familiar?”
His eyes narrowed, but she forged on. “The flushed skin. The bloodshot eyes. That bloody nose. I’ll bet your lower back aches, too.”
He bobbled the gun, his eyes flashing with fury and fear. “I don’t have it. I took the antidote.”
“Your friend gave you a fake.” She laughed. “He screwed you, Tristan. You’re going to die like Dante’s sister. Did you see how she looked when you killed her, the way her skin puffed up? The way she bled? How does it feel to know you’re going to die like that? How much do you think it’ll hurt?”
Tristan’s face turned a mottled red. The veins bulged in his neck. His eyes blazing with murderous intent, he strode toward her and cocked the gun. But Dante reached out, jerked her into the closet behind him and slammed the door. Then he shoved her down to the floor.
Shots broke out. Tristan fired again and again at the door, the deafening sound thundering through her skull. She covered her ears, terrified that the bullets would hit them, unable to breathe with Dante’s heavy body smashing her into the floor.
Then, mercifully, the shooting stopped. Silence rang in her ears. Tristan locked the closet door with an ominous click.
And then his footsteps faded away.
“What the hell were you trying to do?” Dante demanded, still lying atop her. “Do you have a death wish? Why did you bait him like that?”
“I thought… I was hoping I could distract him so we could disarm him.”
“Distract him?” He shuddered, unable to get the image of Tristan pointing the gun at her out of his head. “He nearly killed you!”
“I know.”
The quivering in her voice penetrated his anger, and he struggled to get himself back under control. But the sight of Tristan bearing down on her, that insane rage in his eyes, had taken years off his life. “We were lucky his aim was off,” he said, shifting off her. “If he’d shot a few inches lower, we’d both be dead.”
He rose to his knees, then helped her to her feet, shoving aside the clothes crowding the space. Bullet holes peppered the door, bringing pinpricks of light into the closet, illustrating just how close to death they’d come.
Inhaling to calm his chaotic pulse, he met her eyes. “Are you all right?”
“Define all right.”
“Yeah.”
It had been one hell of a night so far. And it wasn’t over yet.
“Let’s get out of here.” He twisted the doorknob and pushed. Locked.
“Stand back,” he said, then kicked it several times, but the thick door wouldn’t budge. He dropped to one knee and examined the lock—a typical pin tumbler, easy enough to pick with the right tools.
Wishing he still had his lock picks, he glanced around. The closet was six feet wide and a few feet deep. A rod ran the length of it, crowded with hangers bearing clothes. He grabbed a couple of wire hangers and removed the shirts, then started straightening the ends.
“What are you going to do?” Paloma asked.
“Pick the lock.”
“Can I help?”
“Yeah. Get that pole down.”
While he continued straightening the hangers, Paloma lifted the rod from out of its brackets and turned to him. “What now?”
“Here, hold this.” He handed her one of the straightened hangers. Then he took the rod, stood it on its end and wrapped the other hanger he’d straightened around it to form a loop. He curved the ends of the wire into a triangle, putting some tension into it to create a spring. Slipping it off the pole, he worked in a few more bends.
Satisfied, he took the other hanger and created a rudimentary tension wrench. “Give me a little space,” he said, and she backed up again.
Kneeling, he inserted both tools into the lock and began manipulating the pins. The tumblers broke in quick succession. That done, he rotated the cylinder and opened the door.
“Impressive,” Paloma said as they stumbled out. “If we survive this, I’m going to insist my father make you a knight for that.”
“We’re going to survive, all right.” There wasn’t a chance in hell he’d let Tristan win—or Paloma die. “You’d better take the lead,” he added. “Since you know the way.”
“Right.” Her eyes somber, she hurried across the chamber to the door. Then they slipped into the hallway, running as fast as they could on the polished stone floor. At the end of the hallway, they reached a wide stone staircase and ra
ced down several flights. “This way,” she said, sounding breathless.
Keeping one eye out for trouble, he followed her down another hall. How she could run in her condition, he didn’t know. She was injured, exhausted, infected with a deadly virus that had to make her feel like hell. But through sheer determination she sprinted along.
His admiration for her rising, he rushed with her past several bedrooms, then passed through a cavernous room decorated with medieval pendants and swords. After running down another hallway, they stopped at an arched wooden door. Dante swept a nervous gaze behind him, hoping they hadn’t triggered any alarms.
“We need to go across the wall walk,” Paloma told him, breathing hard. “It’s a shortcut to the tower. That will lead us right down to the dining room where the dinner is.”
She opened the door and slipped out. His tension building, he followed her into the crisp night air. Then they sprinted across the battlement, their feet thudding on the stones.
The crenellated wall blurred past. The tower loomed ahead. The silver glow from the ground-level spotlights illuminated the stones.
Suddenly a shout broke out from behind. “You! Stop!”
His pulse accelerating, Dante ducked his head and sped up. Praying the guards wouldn’t shoot and injure Paloma, he pounded behind her toward the tower door.
Paloma flung open the door and dove inside. Dante followed on her heels just as shots rang out.
Perfect. Now they’d have the entire royal guard in pursuit.
Paloma flew down another hallway, this one lined with portraits in gilded frames. They made it to another wide staircase, and the dull roar of voices arose from the banquet room below. He trailed her down the stairs to the dining room door and stopped.
His breath rasping, Dante peered over her head into an enormous room, where hundreds of people sat at the longest tables he’d ever seen. Huge chandeliers hung from the frescoed ceilings. Murals covered the walls. His gaze went to the raised dais just to the right of the door. The king sat in the center, Tristan on his right. Other dignitaries he didn’t recognize sat on either side. Armed guards stood at intervals along the wall.
“What’s your plan?” he whispered.
Her worried eyes met his. “I need to reach my father. But Tristan’s sitting next to him, and we know that he’s got a gun.”
“Would he try to shoot you, with all these people around?”
“I don’t know. He’s desperate, and he’ll try to stop me somehow. Unless I can get to the microphone… Then everyone can hear me speak.”
Dante shifted his gaze to the podium at the front of the room, and his blood ran cold. “Forget it. You’ll be too exposed. He’ll have a clear shot from there.”
“I don’t have a choice. It’s the only way to get my father’s attention.”
“No, it’s not. I’ll create distraction while you get to the king.”
Sudden fear filed her eyes. “No. They’ll shoot you if you try.”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, I do! Listen, Dante. You need to find a reporter and give him that disk.” She coughed again, a raw, wrenching cough that scared him more than those gunshots had. The virus was progressing.
She was almost out of time.
“Paloma…” His voice broke.
Her bloodshot eyes turned fierce. “Listen to me, Dante. People have to see the truth. Promise me you’ll do it if anything happens to me.”
His heart raced. A week ago he wouldn’t have hesitated. This was everything he’d wanted. He could finally destroy the royal family and achieve his goal, getting justice for his sister’s death.
But he didn’t care about that now. Desperation surged inside him, the overpowering need to make sure this woman survived.
Footsteps pounded behind them, and his sense of urgency rose. The guards were nearly here.
Without warning, Paloma bolted into the room, heading toward the podium, and his heart careened to a halt. A loud murmur broke out as people began to notice her rushing down the aisle.
“Arrest the prince!” she shouted suddenly. “He’s unleashed a deadly virus. He’s trying to kill us all!”
Tristan rose from his seat and whipped out his gun.
A woman screamed. Pandemonium erupted as shocked people lunged beneath their tables and fled toward doors. Dante battled his way into the room, shoving through the frenzied people toward the dais, where the guards had surrounded the king.
Shots barked out. More people shouted and screamed. Praying Paloma hadn’t been hit, Dante leaped over a table and charged through the panicked crowd, trying to get at the prince.
Suddenly Tristan came into view. Dante didn’t hesitate. He sprinted straight toward him. His eyes wild, Tristan raised his gun and fired. But he was out of ammunition.
Confusion entered his eyes, then fear. He tossed aside the gun but whipped out an aerosol can. “Stop right there!” he shouted. “This contains the virus.”
Years of pent-up fury inside him, Dante didn’t break his stride. He slammed his fist under the prince’s jaw, an undercut that took him off his feet. Tristan hit the wall, then collapsed.
Guards instantly surrounded Dante and grabbed his arms, roughing him up as they handcuffed him. But Paloma had reached the podium, and her voice rose above the din.
“Stop, everyone! Guards, secure the room. We have a national emergency on our hands. We’ve uncovered a terrorist plot led by the prince. You need to restrain him right now. But don’t get too close. He has Ebola, a deadly, contagious virus that he has unleashed in País Vell.”
Shock rippled through the room. More murmurs and cries broke out.
“We need to put an immediate quarantine in place,” she continued. “The lives of thousands, even millions of people could be at stake.”
The king stood. He wavered on his feet, looking shocked. His gaze went from Tristan, who was lying on the floor, to the gun he’d tossed aside. Then he raised his eyes to Paloma on the podium.
Her face was flushed; her long hair in wild disarray. And then she hiccupped.
And in that moment Dante knew it was too late. She’d missed the opportunity to take the antidote. She’d chosen to sacrifice herself to save her people.
If he had any lingering doubts about her altruism, they’d disappeared. She believed in honor and justice, the qualities her brother had mocked her for. She epitomized everything a leader should be.
And he realized something else. He loved her. Desperately. Frantically. Permanently.
And now she was going to die.
Chapter 14
Desperate for news about Paloma, Dante walked through the gates of the royal hospital a week later and worked his way through the crowds of reporters swarming the grounds. They’d set up their command posts outside the hospital, camping in trailers and tents as they waited for updates about the disease. As the biggest news event in decades, the Ebola-chimera virus had attracted worldwide attention, and journalists had streamed into País Vell from across the globe.
But with the country now in lockdown, they were stuck. All roads in and out of País Vell were closed. No planes were allowed to take off or land. The only aircraft allowed in the restricted airspace were the helicopters bringing in supplies—and even those couldn’t touch down.
Dante stepped around a newscaster lugging a video-camera just as a chopper came into view, its rotor blades drumming the air. It hovered over the quarantine area—the building directly behind the main hospital—then started lowering supplies via a longline to the workers waiting below.
He paused, his gaze stalling on the building where the most severe cases, including Paloma, were housed. Three layers of barbed wire walled it off. Armed soldiers patrolled the perimeter, keeping unauthorized personnel
away. They’d even installed guard towers at regular intervals, making the compound look more like a maximum security prison than a hospital ward.
Dante sucked in a breath, the thought of Paloma wasting away in that hellish compound driving him wild. He wanted to storm the doors, blast past any barriers and do something, anything, to keep her safe.
The cameraman jostled his shoulder. Dante shook himself out of his daze, then continued walking to the hospital’s main entrance and climbed the steps. Paloma had been quarantined since the night of the state dinner. When she’d leave—or whether she’d be alive when she did—no one knew.
Two soldiers wearing protective face masks and brandishing semiautomatic rifles guarded the hospital doors. “We need to see your clearance card,” one demanded.
Dante pulled out the card that proved he’d received the antidote and that he was authorized to leave his house. Military vehicles patrolled the country’s deserted streets, enforcing the lockdown in effect until the virus’s three-week incubation period had passed.
“This way, please.” The guard led him inside the building, to the receptionist’s desk, and handed her the card.
“I have an appointment with Dr. Sanz,” Dante told her.
She nodded, only her tired eyes visible behind her mask. She checked her computer, then slid him back his card. “You’re clear. Room 105, down the hall to the left.”
The guard returned to his post outside. Dante headed down the hall into a scene straight out of a war zone. Doctors shouting orders dashed past. People huddled in the corridors, crying and looking distressed. He glanced into rooms overcrowded with cots. The harsh odor of disinfectant permeated the air.
And if this was bad, he could only imagine the hell in the quarantine ward.
He reached Dr. Sanz’s office and knocked. No one answered, but a nurse scurried by.
“I saw him heading this way,” she told him, her voice muffled in her mask. “He’ll be right here. You can wait inside.”
“Thanks.” Dante opened the door and went in. He strode to the window facing the back of the hospital, then stared out at the barbed-wire fence, the injustice of it all hitting him hard. Why Paloma had caught the disease and he hadn’t, no one could say. It appeared to be a random quirk of fate.