Germ

"What I do not want"—the malice in his voice was as plain as the stink of vomit on his breath—"is to chat."

She had recognized his weapon—the popular 1911 Colt .45. Though it was a semiautomatic, it sported a hammer that required cocking. His thumb pulled back on that hammer now.

"We know where Litt's money is . . . and his serum, the Ebola antidote." It was all she could think to say.

Just buy time, she thought.

She didn't know if the words that would save their lives would come to mind. She didn't know if he'd move an inch or look away and grant her a chance to plant an elbow in his throat. What she did know was that once he pulled the trigger, it was over. No more chances. No more hope.

Gregor pushed the barrel harder into her temple. "They're in the briefcase," he said. "I am not a fool."

But he sounded unsure.

Over Gregor's shoulder, she could see Allen. He stirred, then raised his head. He touched his hand to the tunnel wall behind him and pulled it away quickly. He was in front of an oddly flat section of wall, lighter in color from the surrounding rock surfaces. She saw a flicker of light at the floor, smoke streaming out, as if from a volcanic vent.

It was the fire door Tate had described, the abandoned emergency exit. Apparently a blast had taken out the second door Tate had said was at the end of a long corridor beyond this one. If she read Allen's reaction correctly, the door was scalding hot. She thought of the maelstrom of flame and heat that must be on the other side.

"Drop the case," Gregor said.

"The vials might break."

"Just drop it."

She did. It struck her foot and tipped over.

Allen caught her eye. He jerked his head to the side: Move! He raised his hand toward the door handle.

She shook her head gently.

He nodded, disagreeing. Of course.

"I already removed the vial," she told Gregor.

"I don't think so."

"Look for yourself. Then I'll take you to it."

He glanced down at the case. His arm came away from her neck.

"Back up slowly," he said. The barrel of his gun never wavered from her face.

She took a step back, then another.

He bent at the knees, keeping his aim and his eyes on her, reaching for the case.

She turned and dived, hit the floor and rolled.

Allen opened the door. Angry flames roared into the tunnel, growling like a beast as they sucked up oxygen and expanded at lightning speed.

Squinting, squatting, backpedaling away, Julia watched the fire engulf Gregor. It slammed him against the opposite wall and fanned out in both directions. As it lost momentum, flames fell to the floor, burning in a wide swath from the door across the width of the mine and ending at Gregor's burning corpse.

Julia's sneakers and the bottoms of her pant legs were ablaze. She kicked and rolled and finally sat on them to extinguish the flames. She quickly stood, feeling the pain of scorched flesh, and looked around.

"Allen!"

He was thirty feet farther into the mine. His hair was smoking, his shirt was on fire, and he wasn't moving. She threw herself on top of him and ran her hands through his hair.

"Is this your idea of romance?" he whispered.

She gripped his head between her hands, leaned close. "I can't believe you did that."

"I didn't know the door was going to just slam open like that. It batted me like a pinball flipper."

"If it hadn't, you'd have ended up like . . . what's-his-name."

"Gregor. Is he . . . ?"

"Oh yeah." She paused. "Thank you." A tear dropped from her eye and landed on his cheek. It left a white streak on his sooty skin.

"None of that, now," he said. "You'll ruin my image of you."

"Which is what, exactly?"

"Oh, someone who could take my lunch money anytime she wanted to."

"I can."

They laughed, more relieved than humored. It didn't last long. There were too many hurts on too many levels.

She lifted him, and he pretended to help. They made their way to the mouth of the mine leaning against each other, finally in perfect sync. The opening was bright and covered with green leaves. They stumbled to it and did not pause when they reached its lip.

Together, they fell into the cool arms of the jungle.

epilogue

His eyes fluttered against the stark sunlight breaching the blinds in his hospital room. As he came awake and his vision adjusted, he saw the blinds were wide Venetians, dated and dusty. The walls were drab brown and unadorned, except for wall-mounted medical instruments. Somewhere, an EKG machine beeped.

Allen took a deep breath. For the first time in as long as he could remember, nothing inside hurt.

He turned his head to examine the room, which looked different outside the veil of pain- and medication-induced grogginess that had enveloped him for . . . for . . . a long time. Perhaps the room seemed changed only because he wasn't only seeing it now but was finally lucid enough to pass judgment on it. He didn't like it much: an empty metal tray on wheels, stained acoustic ceiling tiles, the ugly walls.