Germ

Stephen hoisted him by the armpits. Allen struggled to keep his head balanced on his neck, but with an effort Julia took to be equal parts strength and will, he raised his chin, pushed out his chest, and said, "Let's go."

Julia popped her head out the door and looked around. She shuffled out, gun ready. Stephen and Allen sidestepped through the doorway. Allen's foot came out from under him; he overcorrected and fell back into the front wall of the building. A flash of frustration wrinkled his brow. He shook off Stephen's grip, opting to steady himself by keeping only one hand on Stephen's shoulder.

"Same old Allen," Stephen whispered. "Bullheaded as ever."

They started moving south, toward the trash area and the mine-shaft. The ground quaked as Navy thunder pealed over the base, reverberating against the buildings' metal skin. Julia and Stephen realized at the same time that a noise at the end of this thunder was caused by something else—a slamming door behind them.

They turned to see a man darting across the road. He stopped and faced them. Julia's mouth went dry. A fleshless skull was glaring at her. Then she realized the black orbs of the eyeholes were a pair of sunglasses, and the face she thought fleshless was merely gaunt—but extremely so, as though it had gone through the Mayan ritual of tlachaki, in which dried facial skin was stretched over the skull after everything else had been stripped off. Brittle hair, unnaturally silver in sunlight, exploded back from an overly large forehead, framing the head like the halos of saints in Florentine paintings; to Julia, it heightened the sense of sacrilege this figure radiated.

"Litt," Allen said.

Pressed to his chest with both arms was a silver briefcase.

Julia raised the Sig Sauer, but Litt disappeared behind a building.

Julia reversed for the mine, but Stephen caught her arm.

"He had a case. We can't let him go."

"There's no time."

"We can't let him go," he repeated.

"We can't," Allen agreed. He wiped the back of a hand over his lips. "He won't let this die. He'll be back."

"Allen," Julia said, refusing to believe he would pass up the opportunity to get while the getting was good, "going after Litt may mean the difference between getting out alive . . . and not."

"Doesn't matter."

Stephen again: "We can't let him go."

They were right. Oh God, they were right. With bombs crashing down around his head, the only souvenir Litt could possibly want was whatever would allow him to continue his work in viral terrorism— money or formulae or specimens; probably all three.

Without a word, she took off after him.

ninety-six

They charged through the alley toward the large open area that split the base in half. On the other side, in front of one of the hangars, dozens of military vehicles squatted on rubberless rims, rusting. Despite the destruction, Litt had run in this direction.

When they emerged from the alley, Litt was waiting for them. He stood two buildings away, casting a chilling smile. His fingers were massaging the back of the hand that held the briefcase.

She leveled her pistol at him. "Freeze!" she yelled. "Drop the case!"

When he didn't, she repeated the command. Again he ignored her. She wondered if he was concealing a weapon. Slowly, she advanced, Allen and Stephen close behind.

"Shoot him," Allen whispered. His voice was raspy, and he was winded.

They stepped in front of a Quonset door. It burst open, spewing out the Atroposes in a frenzy of gauntleted fists, kicking legs, overwhelming bodies. A black arm lashed out and sent her pistol flying. Julia yelled out in surprise and pain as two of her fingers broke and split open. A hand ensnarled her hair and forced her head back. She swung her arm and hit nothing. She kicked back, felt her captor move

away, and struck nothing. She reached behind her head, found the flexing material of the gauntlet, and realized her efforts there would be pointless.

Let a missile hit us now, she prayed. Just take us all out, whatever good with all this evil.

She heaved forward, realizing in midfall that someone had planted a foot at the small of her back and kicked her away. She hit the ground hard and tumbled. A body fell on top of her—instinctively, she jabbed a fist into it. The man let out a painful breath of air, too labored to be one of the Atroposes. She pushed him off and found his face: Allen. Snapping her head up, she witnessed Stephen in the impossible task of taking on all three Atroposes. He had one pinned under his massive foot against the building's facade, and another in a stranglehold, gripping the killer's neck despite his captive's pounding fists. He had kicked or punched or shoved the third Atropos—this one was reeling back and falling.

Stephen's eyes found Julia's.

"Go!" he grunted. "Stop him!"