"Litt! I said stop! I mean it. Don't think I won't end it all right here, right now."
She walked forward, and this time he held his ground. Behind her, Allen pushed himself along the wall of the hangar.
"Allen, stay there. Don't move."
"If you go, I go," he said weakly. She knew he was referring to a longer journey than the distance to Litt. "Besides, he . . . probably killed me anyway." He spat a red glob into the dirt. "Julia, you can get out of this. I know you can."
"Any ideas?"
"No. But I know you. You'll figure something out."
"You're giving me too much credit. I'm stumped."
They reached a gap between hangars. Allen hesitated and Julia moved close to him, not taking her eyes or her aim off Litt. "You're not up for this," she said.
"I'm feeling better. Really." He groaned, but she thought he did look stronger. Something inside was fighting hard. "Stephen shot me full of adrenaline. I'm feeling it."
"Take my shoulder, but don't jar me too much. If this is it for us, I want to take him along."
"I believe he's going the other direction." He grabbed hold of her and gently shifted a measure of weight to her.
They crossed the gap and he let go to continue his sad slide along the wall. They had halved the distance to Litt. This near, she could make out the blood that coated the remainder of his ear and where he had smeared it on his jaw and neck. It was stark against the whiteness of his face. Closer, she noticed that a scarlet trickle had followed his jawbone and formed a bead on his chin like a tiny goatee. An explosion hurled debris against the hangar hard enough to shake the entire wall, but she resisted the temptation to look. Hot air billowed her hair. The air strike had taken a giant step toward them.
A body length from Litt, she stopped. She pointed her gun at the left lens of his black sunglasses.
"You're not going to use that thing," he said, smiling thinly.
"In a heartbeat."
In her peripheral vision, she saw Allen slide down the wall, grunting when he hit the ground. He held one shoulder out at an uncomfortable angle, as if trying not to completely collapse. His head drooped; he appeared to have spotted something fascinating in the dirt. Litt appraised him.
"Well, Dr. Parker. Did you enjoy your stay with us?"
"You're a sick man, Litt," Julia said, not sure what to do next.
"So I've been told. Something about the pointless death of his family will do that to a man."
"That's what this is about? Revenge?"
"When you put it that way, it does sound petty, doesn't it?"
They were both stalling, trying to figure a way out.
"Other people have lost loved ones. They don't kill thousands in retaliation."
"I'm not other people."
Keeping his lenses pointed at her, he placed the remote control device into the breast pocket of his lab coat.
"Don't move. Not even a finger." Julia said, poking the gun at him. Her upper torso leaned into the movement.
"Or what, you'll shoot? Of course, you could pistol-whip me. Would you like that? Maybe this will dissuade you." His hand came out of the pocket with something that looked like a harmonica—
My mind's not working right, she thought. And if that's true, we're not going to survive.
Then a fat blade snapped out of the end. He held a stiletto.
ninety-eight
Litt began casually stirring the air with the knife.
It looked utterly ridiculous in his bony fingers, but she wasn't going to bet the farm he didn't know how to use it. That he kept it in motion told her something; a moving weapon was the hardest to take away.
"Don't worry, I have no intention of attacking you. I merely desire the same courtesy."
She raced through her options: Shoot and die . . . Jump him and risk the blade . . . Follow him and hope they moved out of the Deadeyes' sensors. The hangars all had people-sized rear doors. Litt could easily back to a door, then duck in and lock it before she could reach him. By the time she raced around, he'd be gone again. Maybe he had a plane waiting. Or a car. Something with bulletproof windows and bulletproof everything. If she attacked, he might cut her down and get away. The only certain way to stop him was to shoot.
But he didn't move; he watched her.
"You're the one, aren't you?" he said. "The information on the chip. You modified it. Hacked it, as they say."
She felt herself smile.
"Oh, you are cunning. The president's family was never targeted. You added them."
"As you said, best not mess with a man's family."
A plane flew over, followed by a tremendous explosion. It had hit well away from them, where the Quonsets were or even farther. Still, the ground shook hard enough to make Julia's feet unsteady for a few moments. Silt and ash drifted down on them. A hot wind blew past.
"Kendrick's final wave," Litt announced. "Annihilation of the base. We'd better resolve this, don't you think?"
"I'm not letting you leave."
"I can help him, you know." He cocked his head at Allen. "All of them."
"What are you talking about?"
"Ebola. I have the cure."
She didn't know whether to believe him. She wanted to see his eyes, but his glasses were too dark.
"It's reversible," he said, "at least in the early stages. Many people have recovered, even after experiencing severe hemorrhagic symptoms. Once the virus is gone, the body repairs itself rather quickly. The cure restores and accelerates intravascular coagulation, which give the endothelial cells time to reform."
She could not risk a glance at Allen, but she knew he looked as if a truck had hit him. That was repairable?
Her doubt must have shown on her face. Litt said, "Even Dr. Parker has a chance. On the scale of heart failure due to the Ebola virus, he is on the early side. His organs have not failed, but his heart is responding to the blood loss and hypotension. He has a chance," he repeated, "with this." He tapped the metal case with his toe.
Then she saw it: movement reflected in his glasses. Silhouettes of legs moving, heads bobbing, a swinging arm. The Atroposes were behind her, approaching slowly.
Litt was stalling, saying, "You can save his life. I'll give you the cure; you let me walk away. Simple as that."
A red light, as small as a paper cut, appeared among the reflected cluster of Atroposes. As it bounced and jiggled, another appeared . . . then another. The laser sites. They were turning on their pistols' lasers, and the smoke was making them visible. She counted three bodies, three lasers.
They won't risk my hearing them. They're going to shoot sooner, not later.
"In fact," Litt said, "I'll get you two out of here, drop you off at the hospital in . . ."
They don't know about the Deadeyes, and Litt isn't going to tell them. Their lives for his . . . what does he have to think about? And they don't care that Litt will go down with me, perhaps killed by the same bullets that kill me. No honor among thieves. Or murderers.
The silhouettes were now indistinguishable from the other shadow-and-light patterns on the lens, but the tiny red beams dancing at their sides were clear as neon. She remembered the shooting styles of the Atroposes she'd seen in action: they didn't pause, they didn't take time to aim. They didn't have to—they were marksmen. When they raised their weapons, they shot. One-second warning. No more.
". . . after that, I started producing antibodies."
"What?"
"It comes from my blood. The cure."
His glasses reflected what she had been waiting for: the lines of lasers rose and shortened as the Atroposes raised their pistols. The short lines of the beams became pinpricks.