“The carbon dioxide will kill any escaping bird. There’s your excuse for releasing the CO2 cloud.”
“And for delaying the UN evacuation.”
“You’re a blessed man, Colonel. To answer your question, in this weather the cloud should remain stagnant until dawn. We’d have to launch Phase II by then, or the sun’s rays will gradually burn it off. Figure 8 A.M., give or take a few minutes.”
Colonel Zwawa checked his watch. “Seven and a half hours. Can you pull everything together that soon?”
“It’ll be done, and that’s all you need to know. As for the infrastructure, it’s gonna be three to five months before anyone can move back in, but that’s your headache, not mine.”
“May I ask you a personal question, Doctor?”
“You want to know how I sleep at night.”
“Forget it.” Zwawa shook his head, turning for the steel doors.
“Guilt is for civilians, Colonel, blame is for the pundits and politicians. Down here, we make choices… it’s an old game we call us or them. You want my advice? Take a Vicodin and a shot of Captain Jack, and you’ll sleep like a baby.”
There were six of them, all Latinos, all in their teens, dressed in black jackets and red, white, and blue bandannas — the colors of the Dominican Republic’s flag. A violent group, the DDP (Dominicans Don’t Play) had carved out their territory in Washington Heights, Queens, and the Bronx, moving drugs through their connections in the Colombian crime cartel.
A cornrowed eighteen-year-old named Marquis Jackson-Horne straddled Shep, leaning in close. “No wallet or bling… whoa, what’s dis? Got somethin’ in your coat fo’ me?”
He tore open Shep’s jacket, revealing the polished wooden box. The gang leader grabbed it—
— Shep’s prosthetic arm jumped to life, its curved blade pressing against the muscular youth’s Adam’s apple, his right hand grabbing a fistful of Marquis’s leather coat, drawing him in close. “Sorry, friend, you can’t have that.”
Instantly, five 9mm handguns appeared, every barrel aimed at Shep’s face.
“Remove the blade, nice and slow, whitebread.”
“If they fire, I’ll still manage to slice open your throat. Tell your crew to back off, and I’ll let you go.”
No one moved.
“There’s no money in the box, just medicine… for my daughter. I know the world’s gone insane, and you could give a rat’s ass, but maybe just once before you meet your Maker, you and the homeboys here could do the right thing.”
The gang leader’s eyes widened, revealing an inner rage. “Do the right thing? You messin’ with the wrong gangbanger, Spike Lee. I’m a hater. I’m fightin’ a war.”
“I just got back from fighting a war. Four tours’ worth. Now I’m a hater, too, only you know what I just realized? Haters hate because they think they’ve been wronged, now all they want is justice… only justice and happiness don’t mix very well. My family hasn’t been in my life for eleven years. I blamed a lot of people for that. Now I just want them back.”
Marquis’s eyes lost their intensity. “Nobody move. You neither, Captain Hook.” Gently, he unlatched the box, revealing the vials of serum. The gang leader turns to his crew. “Ya stuvo.”
The Dominican teens looked at one another, unsure.
“You heard me. Roll out!”
Tucking their guns back into their waistbands, the teens walked away.
Shep waited until they’d reached Broadway before releasing their leader. “How old are you?”
“Old enough to kill.”
“I’ve killed, too. Trust me, there are better ways to live out your days.”
“Fuck you. You don’t know shit about me. My mother’s dead. Cousins, too. My little sister’s dyin’ in her bed, spittin’ up blood. Six years old, never did nuthin’ to hurt nobody.”
Shep reached inside the box, removing two vials. “Give this to your sister. Have her drink it, you do the same.”
“You crazy.”
“It’s plague vaccine. Take it. Tell no one about it.”
The gang leader stared at the vials. “This for real?”
“Yeah. Watch the side effects, it causes hallucinations. It probably won’t bother your sister, but it makes you see things about yourself you may not want to see.”
“Why you givin’ me this?”
“I have a daughter.”
“And me?”
“Call it a chance at transformation.”
“Maybe I should just take the whole box.”
“You’d never make it home. The military’s after me, no doubt they’re watching us by satellite as we speak. Go. Save your sister. The two of you find a way off this island.”
Marquis hesitated. Then he jogged off.
Shep turned—
— confronted by Virgil. “That was dangerous. He’ll come back with his gang to collect the rest of the vials. We have to go.”
“What about the Grim Reaper?”
“Pray your act of kindness buys us some time before he finds you again.”
Bertrand DeBorn waited in the back of the black Chevy Suburban, seated behind the driver. Both Ernest Lozano and the secretary of defense were wearing gas masks.
The former CIA operator glanced at his boss in the rearview mirror. The rebreather secured to DeBorn’s face had left his silky white hair unkempt, revealing patches of scalp and liver spots near the head straps. His gray-blue upturned eyes appeared menacing behind the plastic shield as they stared, unblinking, out the rear window.
Lozano saw Sheridan Ernstmeyer reappear beyond the secured perimeter, escorted by a man wearing a white Racal suit. The female assassin double-timed it back to the Suburban and climbed in the backseat. She was breathing heavily behind her mask.
“Well?”
“It’s bad. They gave up on containment twelve hours ago, now they’re just trying to organize an evacuation.”
“Can your contact get word to the president that I’m down here?”
“He’s just local PD; there’s no way he can reach him.”
DeBorn slammed his fist against the back of the driver’s seat. “I’m the damn secretary of defense!”
“Sir, all communications have been shut down, with the exception of a secured line between Washington and Kogelo’s suite. No one’s allowed on the president’s floor, not even the CDC.”
“Sonuvabitch.” DeBorn’s mask fogged up. He fought the urge to rip it from his face and heave it out the window.
“Sir, there’s something else. Special Ops is organizing an assault team, my contact’s one of the cops selected for their ground support. They’re after Shepherd.”
DeBorn’s gaunt face paled.
“It’s not what you think. Shepherd escaped the VA hospital with a case of Scythe vaccine.”
DeBorn sat up, his mind racing. “We need to find Shepherd before they do… he’s our ticket out.” The secretary searched his jacket pockets, retrieving a piece of folded notepad paper with Beatrice Shepherd’s address.
“Get us to Battery Park City… fast.”
Ernest Lozano turned around to face him. “Sir, every street in Manhattan’s stuck in endless gridlock. People have abandoned their cars—”
”Drive on the damn sidewalk if you have to, I don’t care. We need to get to Shepherd’s family before the military does.”