Reckless Creed (19 page)

C
hristina had fallen asleep. For the first time in weeks she dreamed instead of tossing and turning.

She was lying on a beach in a luxuriously comfortable lounger. The sun felt warm and soothing. Within her reach on the side table were iced beverages with tiny umbrellas and slices of fruit on the rims. She could hear the waves, a lovely soft rolling sound muffling the caws and squawks of the seagulls.

When she reached for one of the drinks her hand slipped and suddenly there was glass everywhere, including a chunk stabbing into the palm of her hand. She grabbed at it and pulled it out, but now she could see dozens of tiny glass capsules buried deep in her hand. Frantically she started plucking at them. She used one of the shards of glass to dig deeper. She didn't even notice the blood until it was everywhere, dripping down her arms and legs and into the sand.

The sun had turned into a heat lamp beating down on her. Now so hot that she was burning up. She wiped at her forehead
with the back of her wrist and when she brought it back down she saw that instead of perspiration she was sweating blood.

When Christina finally startled herself awake, she was so relieved to find herself in the familiar hotel room that she didn't even mind that her muscles felt like rusted armor. She looked at her hands, and she breathed in a deep sigh that was immediately interrupted by coughing.

Again her sheets were drenched in sweat, but there was no blood. Actually that wasn't true. Her pillowcase was spattered with blood from her coughing fits. But nowhere else was she bleeding and, for now, that was a small victory.

She noticed the dark outside her window and her eyes darted to find the time.

Almost nine o'clock!

She needed to be there when the shows let out. She couldn't be late. She needed to hurry. But it hurt to move. She heard an annoying chuffing sound and realized it was coming from her. When had it become so difficult to breathe?

Somehow she managed to get herself to the bathroom and assess the damage. Hollowed-out cheeks and dark-rimmed eyes. Her skin was so pale, as if life had already drained out of her. She ran warm water, cupped it in her hands, and brought it to her face over and over. She thought about a shower and dismissed the idea immediately. She had too little time but most of all she couldn't imagine how painful it would be to have the water hitting her aching body.

She made herself as presentable as possible and pulled on fresh clothes. She stuffed everything she'd need into the zippered tote
bag, even going through her suitcase one last time and taking whatever she couldn't bear to part with. If the biologist didn't show up, Christina wanted to at least have the alternative of going somewhere else.

She had already checked out several other hotels. She had enough cash to pay for a week, maybe more. If she could lose the watchers even for a short time, she could take a train or a bus or a flight. But that was when it got trickier. Where would she go? She couldn't go back home to North Carolina. They'd find her.

It was exhausting just thinking about it. And although she hated to admit it, her hotel room at the Grand Hyatt had become a safe haven. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad place to die.

Stop it!
She scolded herself.
She was not sick enough to die.

She couldn't start to think that way.

She chugged the last of her cough syrup and popped four Tylenol. She made herself eat a protein bar, though even chewing was becoming painful. She drank a bottle of water, gagging on the last sips.

Then she finished packing up her tote bag and checked to make sure the glass capsule—the microchip that helped track her—was still inside the zippered pocket and within easy reach.

Outside the hotel, down on the street Christina walked for several blocks, keeping an eye out for any watchers. They weren't accustomed to her going out this late, so it might take a little longer for them to follow. That was perfect.

She unzipped the pocket and carefully pinched the glass capsule, pulling it out and cupping it in the palm of her hand. She flagged down a taxicab. She climbed into the back but kept the
door open. As she chatted with the driver she slipped the glass capsule down in between the seat and the back.

“You know what,” she told the driver. “It looks like the rain's stopped. I think I'm going to walk after all.” And she handed him a twenty-dollar bill before he could complain.

She wondered how long it would take her watcher to figure out that she had tricked him. How much longer would it take to find her again? She had to believe she had bought herself at least an hour, maybe two.

She walked around the corner, continued for two blocks, then flagged down another cab. This time she told him where she needed to go. She sat back and prayed that the motion and car exhaust wouldn't burst open the panic that was already swarming inside her head and her stomach.

A
phone started ringing and startled Christina. She was gripping the door handle of the cab and willing her stomach to not send up its contents. She checked the driver's eyes, but he wasn't paying any attention to her.

She dug in the tote bag and pulled out the phone. She'd completely forgotten about the burner, so much so that she hadn't shut it off. And now she held it like a live grenade.

What if it was her watcher? What if they'd already discovered that she had ditched the microchip? Could they have found a way to use the phone to track her?

No, it was a familiar phone number. It was the one she had committed to memory. Still, she answered apprehensively.

“Hello?”

“Christina, it's Amee Rief. I'm sorry, I know you said not to call, but I wanted to let you know I'm here.”

“I'm on my way.” She almost wanted to cry with relief.

“I brought my colleague with me,” Rief said. “Maggie O'Dell.
The woman who was on the television news report with me. I hope that's okay. I just don't know New York City very well.”

“I have the item with me,” Christina said.

She'd almost forgotten the reason for this meeting. For the last twenty-four hours all she cared about was getting away from the watchers and keeping strong enough to hide. But now she realized that wouldn't be enough.

“There's something else,” she said, then was surprised at the catch in her voice.

She didn't know this woman, and yet she remembered her kind eyes during that newscast as she talked about all those poor dead birds. And her voice sounded sincere and kind.

“What is it?” Rief asked after Christina had let too much silence go in between.

“When I give you the item . . .” She wasn't sure how to say this. “I'm just so sick,” she whispered though, again, the cabdriver didn't seem to be paying any attention to her. “When I give you the flash drive, can you take me with you?”

There was a hesitation, but before Christina could regret her decision, Rief said, “Absolutely. That's what we intend to do, Christina. But you need to listen to me carefully. You're going to need to do exactly what I tell you. And Christina—”

“Yes?”

“You're going to need to trust me.”

O
'Dell was already questioning Wurth's plan. The streets were jammed bumper to bumper, and in between the lines of vehicles, crowds of people spilled out of the theaters.

Wurth avoided glancing back at her. He was in the passenger seat of the white van, driven by one of his men. The guy actually looked like he belonged to the electrical company whose logo decorated the outside panels.

Rief and O'Dell sat in the windowless back on a bench seat that faced the sliding door. It was a bit claustrophobic with all the spools of cable and equipment. Wurth had actually arranged to borrow what looked to be a real company van. Instead of being impressed, O'Dell wanted to ask him how he thought they could make a quick getaway stuck in traffic that inched along.

They were all wearing white overalls and latex gloves, and surgical masks dangled from their necks ready to be put in place. It was a slapped-together operation, but with major resources already in use, they would have to make do. O'Dell had been in tighter situations.

“She's going to need to find us,” Wurth said over his shoulder to Rief. “Get her back on the phone. It's time to give her the description of our vehicle.”

Rief did as told.

“Ask if she sees her watcher,” Wurth said.

“Christina, do you know if you were followed?”

Rief listened, then shook her head. She asked what the woman was wearing. After a few seconds she said, “A gray hoodie with ‘New York' on the back, blue jeans, and a black baseball cap.”

“Great.” Wurth cursed under his breath. “That narrows it down to about three dozen people.”

“Wait,” Rief said. “She sees us. She's up in front of us. Under the billboard for
Wicked
.”

O'Dell caught herself smiling. Somehow that seemed appropriate for a victim carrying a deadly virus and being stalked by a potential killer. Although as she looked at the crowd under the sign, it was still difficult to pinpoint Christina.

“Oh no,” Rief suddenly said. “Are you sure?” Then to Wurth, the biologist said, “She sees the watcher.”

“Where? And does he see her?”

“He's across the street.”

“What does he look like?” O'Dell asked as she started to scan the crowd on that side. Her view was limited as she leaned forward to see through the windshield. She saw that Wurth's focus was still trying to pick out Christina.

“He's wearing a military fatigue jacket,” Rief said. “Short cropped hair. Muscular. She doesn't think he's seen her yet. Said he's looking at the people on his side of the street.”

“There!” O'Dell pointed. The guy's chin was up as he tried to
look over the crowd. He was directly across the street from where Christina said she was.

“Tell her when we get in front of the sign she needs to approach the curb,” Wurth instructed. “Slowly.”

The biologist relayed the message.

“He's starting to look across the street,” O'Dell warned. “Looks like he's thinking about crossing over.”

“Crap!” Wurth muttered. To the driver he said, “Can't you edge up faster?”

“Not without drawing attention.”

“He's coming across,” O'Dell told them.

“She needs to come to the van. Now! Everyone put your face masks on.”

O'Dell did so as she kept her eyes on the watcher. He was trying not to shove at the crowd as he made his way into the street. She glanced under the billboard and still didn't see a woman approaching the van.

“Where the hell is she?” Wurth asked. He turned around to Rief. “Did she get spooked? Did she bolt?”

Rief didn't lift her head. Her surgical mask still dangled around her neck. She plugged a finger into her ear and pressed her cell phone closer to the other.

“Okay,” she was saying. “Just stay calm.”

“He's halfway across the street,” O'Dell reported, watching as the man weaved between the bumpers of vehicles.

“Open the door,” Rief suddenly said. When no one moved, she said it more forcefully. “Open the doors. Right now.”

O'Dell jumped up and grabbed the handle. The van had been
inching along but came to a full stop. She pulled and the doors opened.

A woman with a cell phone still pressed to her ear appeared from behind the backside of the vehicle. O'Dell reached a gloved hand out. She took it and hopped in. Then O'Dell squeezed the door shut and the van started inching again. She glanced out the window to see the watcher cross in front of the vehicle ahead of them. He continued up the curb and started shouldering through the crowd, making his way up the sidewalk and walking away from the van.

“Christina Lomax,” O'Dell finally said to the woman, who seemed small and frail inside the oversized hoodie. “You're safe now.”

She couldn't, however, tell her that everything would be okay. She had no idea how sick the woman was or if she'd even survive. Dark circles made her eyes looked bruised, and her face was gaunt.

She nodded as tears streamed down her face. Her eyes hadn't left Rief's even though O'Dell had been the one helping her into the van. She was hugging her arms around her chest as she sat down—or rather collapsed—onto the floor of the van. O'Dell wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. Even as she shivered she pulled something out of her pocket and handed it to Rief.

It was the flash
drive.

OUTSIDE ATLANTA, GEORGIA

I
t was almost three o'clock in the morning. The ringing woke Stephen Bishop from an unusually deep sleep.

“The carrier in New York disappeared.”

“How is this my problem? I thought the watchers were reporting to
your man
.” But this news brought panic to Bishop, enough to jump off the sofa and begin to pace. “What happened?”

“Her watcher lost her around nine o'clock last night. She went out again. Caught a cab. He said she never goes out that late.”

“Is it possible she went to a hospital?”

“He doesn't think so. He thought he was following the right taxi but when he caught up with it the carrier wasn't inside.”

“Wait a minute.” Bishop rubbed at exhausted eyes. “The New York carrier has a microchip.”

“There must have been a glitch.”

“That's impossible.”

It didn't make sense.

“He checked the area around Times Square,” Hess continued. “He thought maybe that's where she may have gone—he'd followed her there before. Some people like the lights, the crowds, the excitement. He never found her. He returned to her hotel room and waited. She never showed.”

Bishop's mind was reeling. If the woman bolted, where would she go? This was one of the problems with using human carriers. There was always the chance they would follow their survival instincts and seek out medical attention.

“Your people need to start checking hospitals and urgent care centers.”

“We're already doing that,” Hess said. “There's something else.” And he paused long enough that Bishop started gripping the phone.

“What is it?”

“Did you know that Dr. Getz was in New York two days ago?”

“He claimed there was a family emergency.”

“All of his family is in Oregon and northern California.”

Bishop didn't need to ask how the colonel knew this. He was the one who had brought Howard Getz on this project. Of course he would know everything there was to know about the man.

When Hess took too long to respond, Bishop said, “I never trusted the man. He's always been too concerned with creating vaccines. I knew he didn't have the stomach for this.”

“At the most, he might have contacted the girl, said something that scared her,” Hess said, and his voice sounded almost too calm, as if Bishop had just reaffirmed what Hess had already been thinking about the scientist.

“Please don't tell me we need to delay phase two.”

“No, absolutely not.”

“But what if Getz—”

“Not to worry,” Hess told Bishop. “I'll send Tabor to take care of him.”