“Drop the gun,” I commanded.
Behind me I could hear Top and Skip moving closer. O’Brien was outnumbered and outgunned.
And still the son of a bitch made a try for it. He raised his head and smiled at me, and I could see that there was something odd about his face. The heavy sweat that soaked his face seemed to be washing the color out of him. His freckles looked like they were melting, and I could see a faint jagged line beneath his skin as if he had a thick scar running diagonally across his face. Was he wearing… makeup?
O’Brien looked at me, his eyes going in and out of focus. Then I saw the muscles around his eyes tighten as he suddenly whipped his gun up and screamed: “Allah akbar!”
I shot him twice in the chest.
The impact slammed him back through the doorway and he collapsed into the darkness of the office beyond. He went down hard and I could hear the crunch of elbows, skull, and heels as he struck the linoleum floor.
The moment stretched as a haze of gun smoke washed the air with a faint gray.
All I could see was the soles of his shoes, but after a single twitch he stopped moving. I didn’t trust it, though, and I kept my pistol on him as I moved into the room, crouched and pressed fingers to his throat.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I felt some of the tension leave me and I rose and went back into the main room, but I was frowning. The tips of the fingers I’d used to check his pulse were smeared with color and I sniffed it. I was right: stage makeup.
“Nice shot, boss,” Top said. He lowered his piece but didn’t put it away. He knelt down to check on Ollie, but his face showed his distaste for the effort wasted. “He’s alive. Maybe he’ll live long enough to hang. Traitorous prick.”
Skip was standing behind him, staring past me. He bent and picked up Ollie’s pistol and then retreated to stand beside the First Lady, who was staring in renewed horror.
“Jesus,” Skip breathed, his eyes fixed on O’Brien. “You actually killed him.”
“Yeah,” I said, “that sometimes happens when you shoot someone.”
“Shame you can’t collect the reward,” Skip said.
“What reward?”
He gave me a quirky grin. “For bagging El Mujahid, boss. Last I heard there was a million-dollar reward for him.”
I frowned, puzzled. “The hell are you talking about?”
Skip nodded past me. “O’Brien. He’s El Mujahid. You didn’t figure that out?”
I turned and glanced down at the big corpse, then looked back at Skip. “How the hell do you know that?”
Skip raised both guns. He put the barrel of one against the First Lady’s temple and pointed the other at my face.
“A little bird told me,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
Son of a bitch.
Chapter One Hundred Nineteen
Gault and Amirah / The Bunker
GAULT TURNED BACK to face Amirah. Her hunger and hate were so strong that the metal wall between them felt paper-thin. He glanced down at his watch and felt his heart skip a beat. The team from Global Security should have been here by now.
“Are you expecting someone, Sebastian?” Amirah purred.
“You can’t win this,” he retorted. “I won’t let you destroy everything.”
Her face darkened. “Won’t let me? What does it matter what you want? It is the will of Allah that matters. That is the only thing that matters.”
Fury was beginning to burn away his grief. “You know, I’m getting so bloody tired of religious tirades, my dear. Why don’t I shoot you and then you can go and see your god.”
She ignored the threat. “There’s someone out here who wants to talk to you, Sebastian.”
He took a cautious half step forward as she moved back to allow him a better view. Down below the moans and screams had intensified. There was blood splashed on the walls as the infected who had transitioned first had now turned on those who had not yet succumbed. What he saw was a picture out of a nightmare, a Hieronymus Bosch painting come to terrible life; but that wasn’t what Amirah wanted to show him. Instead a second figure stepped into view.
It was Anah, a young woman Gault knew to be a cousin of El Mujahid. She had the same dreamy half-mad look as Amirah, and the same gray skin, but the young woman’s mouth was smeared with red and in her hands she held something so grotesque that Gault had to clamp a hand to his mouth to keep from vomiting.
Anah carried the head of Captain Zeller. The leader of the Global Security rescue team.
Gagging, Gault thrust the barrel of the pistol through the observation slot and fired shot after shot into Anah, punching holes through her chest and face, staggering her back to the metal rail and then blasting her over. Anah fell without a scream and crashed down into the mass of creatures fighting below.
“You mad bitch!” he screamed at Amirah and shot her. His first bullet hit her in the stomach. Amirah staggered back and her face twisted into a grimace of agony.
No…
Not pain. Amirah was laughing. She whirled and ran along the corridor as Gault fired after her, trying to hit her, needing to kill her, wanting her death. He hit her at least three more times until she was so far down the corridor that he could no longer get an angle for a useful shot. He knew that he’d hit her, he’d seen her robes fluff out with the impacts, had seen blood splash the walls. But Amirah hadn’t even slowed down… and as she ran she called his name in a mocking laugh.
The slide on Gault’s pistol locked back and he reeled away from the slot, gasping, blood roaring in his ears. With trembling fingers he fumbled for a new magazine and slapped it into place. Sweat coursed down his face and chest.
He had a flash of panic and pulled out his sat phone, but Toys did not answer. No help was coming. He was alone. Panic howled in his head.
Amirah knew about the secret passages he’d built into the place. If she and El Mujahid had been playing him then there was a good chance she’d somehow hacked into his computer. The network of hidden passages was on there. And, dammit, so were the detonation codes he had created to blow this place to atoms. Okay, that option was gone. Just as the rescue was gone.
He had two full magazines plus the one in the gun, which gave him about a third as many bullets as he would need even if every shot was a kill, and that was unlikely.
“Head shots, you bloody fool.” He cursed himself for wasting a chance to kill that witch.
Witch. He’d called her that so many times that now it came back to haunt him. It was more accurate a label than he had ever known. What she had done was the blackest kind of sorcery. A true deal with the devil, and it occurred to Gault that it hadn’t been cuckold’s horns that El Mujahid had worn. They were the king and queen of Hell. Damn them both.
He paused at a T-juncture in the corridor. To his left he could hear the hiss of hydraulics as someone—Amirah or one of her monsters—opened a doorway to his right. Okay, he thought, that simplifies things; and he took the other fork of the juncture.
There was only one more thing that he could do. One final chance left to stop Amirah’s doomsday scheme. At least the part of it that she wanted to launch here in the Middle East. He only hoped the American had been able to somehow warn the authorities before things got out of control over there. He rushed down the hallway, knowing that his one chance was slim, and even then he had almost no hope of surviving. Somehow it amused him to think that he might actually sacrifice himself to save the world.
“God… they really will think I’m a saint now,” he mused. He almost laughed as he raced along through the shadows.
Chapter One Hundred Twenty
The Liberty Bell Center / Saturday, July 4; 12:16 P.M.
I STARED AT Skip. “You?”
“Yeah,” he said. “What… you thought it was Dudley Do-Right over there?” He jerked his head at Ollie.
“You piece of shit,” growled Top, but Skip jabbed the First Lady with the pistol. She sat rigid and terrified, her eyes locked o
n mine, pleading silently for me to do something. But Skip held all the best cards.
“Put your piece down, boss,” Skip ordered. “Two fingers, nice and slow. Now kick it away. Good. The knife, too. You, too, Top. You even think about doing anything funny and I pop the lady first.”
“Why?” I demanded. “What’s your stake in all this?”
“Well,” he said with a grin, “if you’re wondering if I’ve embraced the teachings of the prophet Mohammad, then no. I’ve pretty much embraced ten million dollars in an offshore account.”
“You’re doing this for money?”
“Of course I’m doing it for money.”
“That doesn’t make sense… you fought side by side with us against these things.”
“Yeah, and it’s the best cover story in the world. And that whole ‘Taser’ thing was a setup. Cute, huh? Once you and the others went to explore the crab plant I slipped into the hidden passage. Oh, don’t look surprised. They downloaded the whole floor plan to me before we ever set out. We planned the whole thing via text messages—it went off like clockwork. I told them to take out one of the other guys with a liquid Taser and then I faked my own abduction. I had to fake my own burn with a lighter, but we all make sacrifices. The rest was window dressing to confuse things. I pop caps in a bunch of walkers, rub dust in my eyes to get the tears flowing, and then wait to be rescued. I should get a frickin’ Academy Award. That Courtland bitch bought it hook, line, and sinker. And if you’re wondering about the fight in the laboratory, I’d have made it out of there, too. There was an exit door behind the last meds chest, right near where I was standing. I’m sure Jerry Spencer will probably find it eventually, not that it’ll matter now. If that asswipe Dietrich had been another ten seconds slower I’d have ducked out as soon as you guys started getting chomped.”
“You’re a real piece of work.”
“Just doing my job. Funny thing is, I wasn’t even supposed to be the point man for this gig. Lieutenant Colonel Hanley was supposed to step up and lead Echo Team, with me as his backup, but then you come along and go all Jackie Chan on him. Ah well. More cash for me.”
“And Room Twelve…?”
He shrugged. “Couldn’t let you interrogate the tech from the Delaware lab. That hit hadn’t been part of the plan and they weren’t ready for you. I never even got a chance to send a warning ’cause we were wheels up so fast. So I opened Room Twelve, popped a cap in the prisoner, and let the walkers out to play. If you guys hadn’t cleaned it up so fast I would have gotten there and played hero… but it worked out okay.”
“Don’t you realize the people you’re working with are trying to start a plague that will wipe out—”
He cut me off with a laugh. “Oh come on, Captain… you don’t buy any of that shit, do you. We fed you the clues. This was even timed to happen right before the Fourth so that there would be some concerns about this event. I was tickled pink when I heard that we were coming down here ’cause it meant that absolutely everything was falling into place. We gave you everything you need to stop the plague before it goes anywhere. All you have to do is spend a shitload of money on research and inoculation. That Chink doctor from the DMS is already working on a treatment. There are enough agents and cops here in Philly to keep the infection contained. None of this was ever going to get out of the center. You’ll be happy to know that was the last planned release of the plague. Nah… this isn’t about the end of the world, it’s just about the moolah. Always has been, always will be.”
“Ten million dollars sounds like a cheap price tag for your soul, Skip.”
“It’ll do. Especially where I’m going. I can live well and stay off the radar for the rest of my life.”
“What about all the people who’ve died? All the DMS agents, the people they turned into walkers at the crab plant…”
I looked for a flicker of conscience in his eyes but there was nothing. He was as dead inside as one of the walkers. “The fuck do I care? I’m only a player. You want to lay a guilt trip on someone, boss, blame the asshole you just shot. Yeah, that really is El Mujahid. Made up to look like a Secret Service agent. I worked on getting his papers and ID ready before my boss transferred me to the DMS. Everything worked fine, too.”
“Your boss. You mean Robert Howell Lee?”
Skip blinked but recovered quickly. “Good call. Maybe you’re better than I thought, not that it matters. You can have Lee. I don’t give a shit. He’s a weasel. Me… I’m outta here.”
“At least tell me something, Skip,” I said. “Who started all of this? I’m betting on some pharmaceutical company, with the terrorists as hired help.”
He blinked again. “Okay, points for that. Yeah, this is all big-business shit.”
“Care to share which companies?”
“As if,” he said, then half shrugged. He kept one gun on me but lowered the other and moved forward a couple of paces and put the barrel of his second piece against the back of Top’s head. “Actually, I don’t know much more than you do. All I was told is that some big pharmacy company is footing the bill.” Again he nodded past me to where El Mujahid lay in a pool of blood. “Somebody’s going to make a lot of money.”
“Maybe, but they won’t be able to spend much of it. We’ll catch them.”
He snorted. “The DMS might, Captain, but you won’t. And even if they do, what’s it to me? I’m a contract player here. I got no personal stake in this no matter how it turns out, and when the shit really hits the fan I’ll be far, far away in Happily Ever After Land. I’ll bet it won’t even make the papers where I’ll be.”
“I get out of this, kid,” said Top softly, “you’d better keep looking over your shoulder ’cause one of these days I’ll be right there.”
“Wow. I’m really scared.” He jabbed Top again with the gun. “You take a run at me, old man, and I’ll cut off your balls and make you eat them.”
There was a renewed rattle of gunfire from down the hall. Out in the Bell Chamber.
Grace.
Skip smiled. “I’ll bet we can all guess what’s happening out there. Zombie madness, and on national TV. That’s gonna be some real shit. But that’s also my cue to get the hell out of Dodge. A little hysteria is very useful, don’t you think, Captain?”
“For someone who’s supposed to be a cold-blooded killer you’re doing a lot of talking. What’s the problem, Skip? You getting cold feet about capping your teammates?”
He laughed. “Man, that’s precious. You’re right out of Psychology 101. Try to manipulate the emotions of the hostage taker by establishing a bond between him and his captives. Please. No, Captain, I wanted to make sure that I got the chance to get a little payback for you kicking my ass the other day. I’m not huge on the whole forgive-and-forget thing.”
“You want to go another round? Sure. You want to do it hand to hand or are you looking for a knife fight? According to your file you’re quite a hotshot with a blade…”
“Get real. You think I’m an idiot? I know you can take me in a fair fight. Why do you think I’m not fighting fair, asshole?”
“Okay… then you have me confused here, kid. What do you have in mind?”
“I want to see you get your ass kicked by someone you can’t take.”
“Oh? And who would that be?”
“Me…” hissed a guttural voice behind me.
I whirled.
El Mujahid stood hulking in the doorway. And, yes, he was dead. Not that it much mattered at the moment. He smiled at me and bared his teeth.
From behind me, in a mocking voice, Skip said, “Now ain’t that a bitch.”
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-One
Gault and Amirah / The Bunker
GAULT HAD TO crawl through two access tunnels and climb down four cold metal ladders to reach the very heart of the facility, far below the Bunker. He was making for a set of controls that he’d had built into the Bunker from the beginning, just in case all other options failed. He was careful not to mak
e a sound in case Amirah or some of her creatures—alive or dead—had followed him. It was nearly black down here, with security lights spaced out only every hundred feet, so he had to pick his way. It was also terribly hot down here.
Below the Bunker was a deep drill hole that had punched into a lava stream buried far beneath the desert. The geothermal energy that powered the Bunker was virtually limitless, and a series of six vents—each a half-mile-long segment of reinforced piping—kept the heat converters from building up too much of a charge. If even half of them collapsed the venting would still keep the station safe from a critical overload. But there was a single point where they all joined: a huge vertical shaft that was bored straight down into the cathedral roof of the lava chamber. Superheated gasses rose up into the shaft and then dispersed through the six upward-slanting vents. Heat always rises, and that kept the engines turning and at the same time created a vulnerability because heat could only vent if nothing prevented it. Block the vents—all of them—and the heat would be trapped below the generators. With lava funneling that much heat it would be a matter of minutes before the generators either melted to slag or blew up. In either case it would trip all of the Bunker’s fail-safe devices—protocols that were hardwired into the station’s structure with so many redundancies that even a deliberate attempt to disable them would trigger them. Once triggered the fail-safe would send electrical signals to explosive bolts that would slam every door shut and then burst-weld them into place. The fail-safe system would then start a series of asbestos-coated alloy fans that would take the superheated gasses and blow them into every room and chamber in the Bunker. Gault had designed the Bunker that way to keep his pathogens from escaping. He really did not want to destroy the world. All he wanted was to become the richest man in it.
He crawled along the tunnel, pouring sweat, inching toward a spot that could only be found by touch: markings like Braille that Gault himself had etched into the plate steel. Behind that plate were six hydraulic levers. Each one would cause about a ton of rock to crash down onto a separate vent pipe. Easy as pie.
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