Germ

At one time, the air base must have housed a good-sized army, Julia thought. Three rows of Quonset huts were arranged in a grid, with dirt roads running between the rows. A large field and the airstrip separated the Quonsets from a single row of five airplane hangars—now ripped apart and burning. Whatever function the Quonsets once served—barracks, infirmary, mess hall, armory, chapel, administrative offices, warehouses—today they were rusty scraps, like half-buried barrels.

Julia crouched low beside one of the Quonsets, trying to guess the current position of the three assassins who chased her. She assumed they had split up, as they had done in Pedro Juan Caballero. She crept to the edge of the building, peered around. One of the killers was three Quonsets away, boldly strolling her direction, his head cocked to look between each building as he passed. She sprang out, running for the next row. He spotted her, raised his pistol. She squeezed off a round, then another. He didn't dodge away. As far as she could tell, he didn't even flinch. Then she was out of his sight and running full-force to the end of the building. Her plan was simple: lead the Atroposes far away from the stairs, then double back, find Stephen, find Allen, and get out of Dodge before the killers caught up with them.

Or before the bombs pounded them all deep into the Paraguayan soil for archeologists to find a hundred years from now.

She hadn't seen a plane or an explosion for a few minutes. The last one she spotted had been an FA-18 with U.S. insignias—her father had built model jets and she recognized the twin tail fins. It had swooped low without releasing its ordnance. She wondered if the air strike was over. Could its sole intention have been to disable any getaway aircraft? Would the commando team she had hoped Kendrick would send now arrive?

She had reached the opposite corner of the array of Quonsets from the stairs. It was time to circle back around. She had seen only one Atropos since running from them when they first converged on her. That made her more nervous than if they had stayed on her tail. It dawned on her that she had not seen anyone in the past five minutes. The people escaping the base had drained through the gate and were gone. What she wouldn't give to be with them, Stephen and Allen at her side.

She clutched her pistol and ran back along the front of the first Quonset. She stopped at the corner to inspect the space between the buildings, then darted across. She tacked around a stack of wooden crates that leaned against the half-moon facade. Bulging burlap sacks squatted beside it like fat trolls. She crossed the next gap and then ran to the back of the building.

Her progress was slow, but finally she found herself at the rear of the Quonset with the stairs. She came around the corner in a strobe-like dance of deadly efficiency, swinging her pistol toward the door . . . the arching roofs . . . the crates . . . the corners of the buildings . . . She reached the front, kicked through the door, and moved into the stifling darkness. Her pistol covered the near corners . . . the far corners . . . the overhead beams. She stopped, listening.

A plane approached, followed by explosions—dozens, maybe hundreds of them. They didn't sound like the kind of bombs planes dropped, but smaller, like hand grenades. Still, she heard metal ripping and felt the ground tremble.

So the pause had been a mere respite after all. How could Kendrick Reynolds be so cold? She had told him they were heading here to rescue Allen. Was this his idea of taking care of business—eliminating a threat and cleaning up loose ends all at once? She understood that stopping Karl Litt was more important than three civilian lives, more important than a hundred . . . a thousand. She only wished he'd found another way—sending in a pre-strike ground team, for instance, to pull out the innocent. Or did he think there were no innocents in war? As it was, she felt a bit like Slim Pickens riding an H-bomb to Earth.

Picking up the pace, she moved deeper into the shadows and made out a door at the back of the big room. As she approached, it opened. Her gun snapped up. Stephen stumbled out with Allen over his shoulder. She took her finger off the trigger. Stephen's eyes acknowledged her with compassion, but there was no smile. He fell on his one knee and slid Allen off his shoulder. Allen sat like a rag doll for a moment, then slumped onto his side.

Julia gasped, seeing his battered face, the blood everywhere. "What happened?"

"He's bad," Stephen said dismally. He turned pleading eyes on her. "I think they infected him. They . . . Julia, I think he has Ebola." Tears rimmed his eyes, spilled onto his cheeks.

"We'll find help for him," she said, trying to infuse her words with a faith she did not feel. "But we have to go. We have to leave right now."

"I can walk," Allen slurred, pushing himself up. "I can."