as soon as Evyn vanished from sight. She clasped her hands and put
them between her knees. She wasn’t cold, but her fingers were icy.
She wondered if that was her imagination. The temperature had fallen
rapidly in the face of the approaching storm, but she was used to cold
weather. She shivered and peered into the near-empty lot, a creeping
unease making her twitch.
Evyn had left the headlights on, and the halos from the slanting
beams seemed to be keeping the circle of darkness at bay. She’d never
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been afraid of the dark and didn’t get spooked by unknown terrain.
She was a naval officer and an emergency physician—she was trained
to handle imminent danger. The headlights dimmed and the darkness
drew closer. Her breath came a little faster and a heaviness pervaded
her chest.
She closed her eyes and she was upside down again, swirling in an
endless void that sucked her down into cold, dark silence. Gasping, she
shot up straight and opened her eyes. Outside her fogged window, the
snow fell thicker, a white blanket screening the world from view. She
couldn’t see the motel. She couldn’t see where Evyn had gone. Evyn.
Evyn was solid and real and warm. She fought the urge to get out of the
car and look for her.
“Okay,” Wes whispered aloud, “you know what this is. Fatigue,
residual hypothermic confusion, delayed stress reaction. You’re entitled
to all of it—for an hour or so.”
Cataloging her symptoms helped relieve the pressure in her chest
some. She took a deep breath, heard the faint wheeze of constricted
bronchioles. Evyn was right, she wasn’t fit to fly. She needed to replenish
the fuel she’d burned off while struggling against the killer current. She
needed to sleep. Evyn had to be in nearly the same shape—she’d been
in the water almost as long. And she’d fought the current for both of
them.The car door opened and Wes jumped. Evyn dropped into the seat
beside her.
“Okay,” Evyn said, wiping traces of melting snow from her cheeks
with one hand. “I called over for pizza and they said it would be ready
in fifteen. We can get settled and I’ll run over and get it.”
“Maybe we should forget that,” Wes said, her voice sounding
hoarse and foreign.
Evyn backed the Jeep out of the slot and headed farther into the
lot. The long, low motel came into view again as she coasted forward.
“Why? I thought you were hungry?”
Wes swiped at her forehead. She wasn’t hot, but she was sweating.
She wasn’t cold, but she was shivering. “Sorry. I—”
“What’s going on?” Evyn stopped in front of a green metal door
just barely visible through the falling flakes. A cockeyed 12 made
from white stick-on, glow-in-the-dark numbers identified the room.
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She downshifted into neutral and pulled the parking brake, leaving the
lights on. “You okay?”
“Yes—sorry. Just jumpy. Sorry.”
Evyn rested her palm on the back of Wes’s neck. Her fingers
were hot as banked coals. “Nothing unusual. You had a hell of a shock
earlier.”
“So did you. You need to stay warm and eat and—”
“Hey,” Evyn said. “That’s all in the plan, Doc. You can relax.
Really.”
“I know. You’re right. I’ll be fine.” Wes closed her eyes and let
her head fall back into the secure cradle of Evyn’s hand. Evyn’s fingers
glided up and down the muscles on either side of her spine, easing the
tension, sending warmth through her. She sighed. “I don’t think the
weather is going to get any better. We ought to make a run for it.”
“Let me get the door open and you get inside—keep dry,” Evyn
murmured, continuing the gentle massage. “I’ll bring in our gear.”
“I appreciate it, but I can help carry our stuff.”
“This is the part where you practice letting me take care of you.”
A tingle of unease skittered down Wes’s spine—she’d been
looking after her own needs most of her life, and her need for Evyn’s
touch, her presence, made her feel exposed and vulnerable. She didn’t
want Evyn’s attention just because Evyn felt guilty. “None of this is
your fault.”
Evyn frowned. “I suck at connect-the-dots, and I’m missing this
picture.”
“You don’t have to look after me because you feel responsible.”
“Wow. Okay.” Evyn’s hand fell away. “I’ll just let you fend for
yourself, then—and when you finally do collapse—”
Beneath the edge of anger in Evyn’s voice, Wes heard hurt. She
didn’t want to hurt her. She didn’t want the cold distance between them
that had nothing to do with the storm or the dark either. “So maybe that
came out a little wrong. I guess I suck at the being taken care of thing. I
had two little sisters who couldn’t even remember our dad. Things were
harder for them, and my mother had only so much energy to spread
around between the four of us.”
“Okay.” Evyn’s shoulders relaxed and the tightness around her
mouth softened. The red highlights in her hair gleamed against the glow
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of snow cocooning them, an ethereal image that imprinted on Wes’s
brain. She was beautiful—not model perfect but strong and bold.
Wes wanted to erase the last vestiges of wariness in Evyn’s gaze.
She wanted to trace the line of her jaw, but instead she grazed her
fingertips over the back of Evyn’s hand where it rested on Evyn’s knee.
“Can we try that again?”
A moment passed and Wes held her breath. Evyn’s hand turned
over and their fingers entwined.
“How about we get you settled and I’ll go for pizza?” Evyn
asked.The heavy weight crushing Wes’s chest dissolved. Evyn’s hand
was warm and solid. She tightened her hold. “I’d like that.”
v
The day shift had all left hours ago, and the corridor outside the
Level 4 isolation lab was deserted. Her footsteps fell soundlessly on the
white tile floor as she made her way to the airlock at the end of the hall.
She pressed her palm on the identification plate and leaned down for
the retinal scan. The light above the passage flashed from red to green,
and the hydraulic door slid open with a faint whoosh. She stepped into
the UV chamber, the outer door behind her closed, and she slipped
on a pair of protective glasses. When she input her entry code on the
wall panel, a hum accompanied the pulse of UV, and the next door
in the chain opened. She deposited her protective glasses on the shelf
and passed into the inner isolation room, where she methodically went
through the routine of testing her positive pressure protective suit—
sealing the cuffs at ankles and wrists, zipping the neck, and attaching
the air hose to the one-way valve in the center of the back. She twisted
the dial and compressed air flowed in. The pressure on the wall gauge
held steady at 1 atm. No leaks. She closed the inflow
valve and opened
the vents along the neck. Air hissed out. She was ready to go to work.
Removing her shoes, she carefully stepped into the bright yellow
suit and, after closing the seals, pulled on the calf-high impervious
rubber boots. She wore no jewelry to work, not even a watch. She’d
only have to remove it—she couldn’t risk any snag or tear that might
violate the PPPS. Even a microscopic rent in the isolation suit could
allow a contagion to enter, where it might be absorbed by her skin or
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inhaled into her respiratory system. The biological agents they worked
with inside the BSL-4 lab were either highly transmissible or uniformly
fatal or both. The suit was her only shield.
Once the suit was secure, she covered the fluid-resistant boots
with disposable booties, fit the head shield into place, and pulled on her
gloves. She wasn’t concerned for her safety. She was always prepared
for any emergency. Caution was a way of life for her, and she’d been
trained since birth to be composed under extreme circumstances.
With a bulky gloved finger, she pressed the entrance code, and the
chamber pressurized. The inner door opened and she stepped into the
lab. She nodded to a colleague working at a nearby station, sequencing
a variant of Ebola. After connecting an overhead airline to the suit’s
port, she made her way down the aisle, the line following behind her
like a colorful yellow umbilicus. She’d volunteered for the night shift
six months previously, establishing her routine, arriving a little early,
leaving a little later. Her colleagues appreciated her diligence and
her willingness to take the graveyard shift for longer than the usual
mandatory rotations. At her station, she booted up her computer and
retrieved the samples she planned to run on the gel plates that night,
along with a second rack of tubes. Over the past six months she’d been
carefully siphoning off micro-aliquots of avian flu stock, too tiny to be
noticed by anyone else, until she had a single test tube half-full of one
of the most virulent synthetic contagions ever produced.
When she left at the end of her shift, she’d slide the tube into a
fold in her suit beneath her arm and secure it in place with a strip of
the special adhesive they kept for emergency repairs if one of the suits
should be accidentally torn. Like a tire patch, the instantly self-sealing
adhesive would provide enough protection until the lab worker could
get to the decontamination chamber. Tonight, the lifesaving material
would allow her to secrete out a virus capable of killing thousands. She
wasn’t really interested in the deaths of thousands, however, only one.
President Andrew Powell stood for everything she despised—a
spokesman for the rich, a defender of the privileged, a champion of
those without morals or values. Her father had taught her and her
brothers and sisters the right path, raising them to be survivors. He’d
encouraged them to excel, schooling them at the camp with the children
of other survivalists, setting them on the path to positions where they
could someday make a difference. She’d always known she had a
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mission, and now she was going to fulfill it. She would help him make
his message heard—America for Americans—and now that a leader
had emerged, they would have a president who would speak for the
righteous. She would help make that possible.
The digital clocks at the far end of the room simultaneously
projected the time and date in New York City, Washington DC, Los
Angeles, Hong Kong, Sydney, New Delhi, Berlin, London. Seven p.m.
in Atlanta. Twelve more hours and the first stage of her mission would
be complete. Soon the reclaiming of America would begin.
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chapter twenty
Evyn handed Wes the last slice of pizza. “You finish it.”
“I’m stuffed.” Wes sat on the bed with her back propped
against the wall. Some of the shadows around her eyes had faded, but
her cheeks were still hollow, and her fingers trembled slightly as she
reached for a napkin.
“You need the carbs—eat.” She hated seeing Wes hurt. Wes didn’t
complain—she wouldn’t, and her attempt to feign normalcy only
made Evyn want to punch something. She had to do something, even
something mindless, or she’d do something they’d both regret. She
stacked the remains of their meal—crumpled paper napkins, a couple
of paper plates, the pizza box. “I’ll take the empty box to the trash. The
pizza was great, but I’d rather not smell the aftermath all night.”
The room was generous by motel standards—two slightly larger
than single beds separated by a two-drawer nightstand with a peeling
brown lacquer finish. A goosenecked reading light, dusty shade askew,
sat on the water-stained top. The bathroom had been carved out of the
closet area—a small toilet jammed in next to the sink, a two-and-a-half
square foot shower stall, and a solitary overhead light. The closet held a
few bent wire hangers and nothing else. Neither she nor Wes had taken
anything from their go bags other than toiletries.
“Need a hand?” Wes asked.
“I got it,” Evyn said, not looking at Wes. She’d sat on the far end
of the bed during their takeout dinner, a meal she’d shared a hundred
been as grateful for the pizza box sitting open between them as she had
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been tonight, though—every time she looked at Wes and remembered
the way she had looked slowly spinning deeper underwater, she wanted
to touch her. Just to assure herself Wes was warm and safe.
She gathered the trash and stood. “Need anything?”
“Nope. I’m going to grab another shower.”
“Still cold?”
Wes grinned wryly. “I’m not really sure. Feels that way, but it
might just be my imagination.”
Evyn checked the thermostat on the wall above the dresser, a
vintage fifties maple affair with wooden knobs on the drawers and a
rickety mirror. Seventy degrees. The room was toasty. Wes still wasn’t
fully recovered. “Take your time—use all the hot water if you need to.
I’m good.”
“Okay.” Wes rose, glanced at the door. A frisson of anxiety shot
along her nerve endings. She’d never minded being alone, but she
didn’t want Evyn to walk out that door. She’d paced the room during
the ten minutes Evyn had been gone getting the pizza and hadn’t been
able to relax until Evyn appeared again, a spark of triumph in her eyes
as she’d held the pizza box aloft like a trophy. She’d looked vibrant
and vital and sexy. Wes clamped down on the surge of heat that tingled
down her thighs. “So I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
“Right.” Evyn reached behind her and fumbled for the doorknob,
her gaze locked on Wes. “I’ll be here.”
Wes broke eye contact first and di
sappeared into the bathroom.
A second later the water came on in the shower. Evyn imagined Wes
sliding out of her clothes and stepping naked into the heat. She’d seen
enough of Wes’s body through that thin, damp white towel back in
the locker room to have a pretty good idea of exactly what Wes would
look like naked. Ordinarily she didn’t have any problem populating
her fantasies with women she knew, but she chased the enticing image
of Wes’s body from her mind. She didn’t want to fantasize about her.
What she wanted to do was kiss her. She almost had—would have, just
then, if they’d been any closer. She had quite a lot of practice reading
women’s eyes, and she’d read desire in Wes’s. All the same, she hadn’t
had such a bad idea in longer than she could remember. Sleeping with
Louise when she hadn’t been one hundred percent present didn’t hold a
candle to the insanity of kissing Wes.
Wes had had a serious shock just a few hours ago—had almost
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drowned. She was vulnerable. Physically depleted. Battered and bruised.
By her own admission, not really on top of her game. She didn’t need
Evyn coming on to her—she needed a solid night’s sleep and probably
a talk with someone about what had happened. Evyn wasn’t one of
those agents who found psych support to be intrusive or threatening.
Her older sister was a psychologist and one of the best listeners she’d
ever met. She’d learned when she was struggling with the kinds of
identity issues all adolescents face that talking with her sister helped.
And when she’d told Chris she was a lesbian, her sister had been cool.
Hell, she talked to Gary when things got really hairy—when the stress
and the insane schedules and the lack of a personal life started to make
her crazy. She wanted Wes to get any help she needed—and making a
move on her did not qualify as helping.
Evyn pulled on Wes’s jacket, not so much because she wanted to
keep dry in the still-falling snow but because she liked wearing it. An
unusual intimacy for her—wearing someone else’s clothes. Silly, but no
one needed to know. The jacket was a little big. Wes’s shoulders were
a little wider, her arms a little longer, but she wasn’t so much bigger
their bodies wouldn’t fit together seamlessly. Wes’s breasts were just
the right size for their torsos to meld perfectly, Wes’s thighs just long