Vincenzo lifted his dive mask away from his face. “You…” he said between breaths, “owe me… one million euros.”
Zahra removed her own mask and patted her body as if searching for a wallet. “Apologies, but I’m a bit short.” She looked back toward the location of the wreck. “Sorry about that, Vincenzo. And thank you.”
He shrugged. “No life is less valuable.” He stood in the waist-high water and helped Zahra to her feet. “You have delivered your half of our deal. Now, it is time for me to do my part. Let us get you and your friends on your way.”
Chapter 53
Grant
Somewhere deep beneath The Pharaoh's Lounge, Grant Upton awoke from a horrifying nightmare. He was head-to-toe, dripping in sweat, and nauseous to the point of vomiting. He tried to sit up but couldn’t. Grant had been strapped down to whatever he was lying on. So, he turned his head and threw up right then and there. He felt particles slap against his bare shoulder.
It was then that Grant noticed that he had been relieved of all his clothes except of his boxers.
Through waves of nausea, he took in the space. If he didn’t know any better, he figured it was some kind of observation room. The only thing in the empty square space beside him was a single, wall-mounted TV, and the table he was attached to.
No, that wasn’t the only thing. He could hear the low hum of machinery somewhere out of sight and over his head.
In his hallucinogenic state, Grant spotted all manner of cables and hoses protruding from his body, arms, and legs. Even his scalp felt cold. Scalp? Grant panicked and noticed that the ceiling was mirrored. In it was his reflection. As he had suspected, his head had been shaved, and he was wearing some kind of monitoring device. The observation room was, in reality, a surgical suite.
And he was the patient.
The cables and tubes ran from his body to the machine responsible for the insistent humming. He attempted to crane his head in that direction but became too exhausted to execute the maneuver. He flopped his head back down to the hard metal table just as a door squeaked open somewhere over by the machinery. At this point, Grant didn’t care who had just entered the room. He was so sick that he was forced to keep his eyes shut and concentrate on his breathing. The only thing he could take solace in was that his stomach was empty. There would be no more vomiting from him.
Just dry heaves.
“What…what are you doing to me?” he asked the unknown person. “Why…do I feel…so awful?”
Soft footfalls answered him, as did the squeak of wheels. Soon, A blur stepped into view off to his right. It took everything in him to focus on the person’s face.
“You?”
It was Ifza Ayad, and she was holding a rolling IV pole in her left hand. Grant turned his head and followed a pair of IV tubes, starting from the bags down to his arms. One of each had been attached to each of his hands.
“What is in those?” he asked, slurring his speech.
Ifza gently caressed the first IV bag. “This one contains a standard saline-based IV fluid.”
“And the other one?”
Ifza smiled. “Something special we created just for you.”
Grant was too exhausted to ask for a deeper explanation. Ifza sensed as much and offered up the information willingly.
“This one,” she stroked the second bag as if it were her lover’s cheek, “is much of the same thing, but we’ve mixed in a heavy concentration of gluten.”
To the average person, the news of gluten being blended into IV fluid would be nothing more than an oddity. But to someone with Celiac — like Grant — it was a potential death sentence.
“Gluten?” he asked, terrified. “You’re poisoning me with gluten?”
Ifza nodded and stepped away from the rolling IV pole. “Yes, you have something special in common with our other test subjects.”
“Others?”
“Yes, others. You all have illnesses caused by an autoimmune disorder.” Grant couldn’t fathom why. “And as a result,” she continued, “it makes it very easy for you to contract nasty little viruses, yes?”
Grant’s feverish skin went cold.
Ifza’s face soured. “As it were, an individual with a typical, uncompromised immune system can fight off sickness at a much higher success rate. That is what you and the others are here to confirm. We believe that the ancient plague is far deadlier to someone like you.” She smiled. “We hope to correct that limitation.”
“But,” his mind swam, “why me? Out of all the people with Celiac, why me?”
“Oh,” Ifza replied, failing to hide her smile, “that is a simple explanation.” She leaned over Grant, lusting over his body. It wasn’t his fit body, or good looks, that attracted her to him. She was getting off on seeing him in his current condition. “You can blame your involvement here on Zahra Kane.” Ifza leaned away from Grant. “She killed some of my dearest friends back in London. The least I can do is return the favor.” Ifza headed off. “Welcome to the cause, Mr. Upton. Your eventual sacrifice will not be in vain. We will learn much from you. You should count yourself lucky.”
“Oh, yeah,” he asked, his head clunking back down to the table, “why’s that?”
Ifza gazed over her shoulder, her eyes alight with fire. “Because you have been kept alive for much longer than the others. If it were up to me, I would have already cut your head off and mailed it back to your family.”
Chapter 54
Zahra
The Cessna’s twin turbines came to life. Zahra shielded her eyes against the early afternoon sun, as well as the dirt rushing from the aircraft. She slipped on a pair of sunglasses and waited for Cork to give her the all-clear.
“Are we ready?” George asked, shouting over the noise.
Cork slid open her side window and stuck out a skyward pointing thumb.
Zahra patted her father’s shoulder and hefted her bag. “We are!”
The concussive sound died down as Cork killed the engines and climbed out of her plane. She rejoined her team over by the entrance to Vincenzo’s hangar. The local was smiling wide, and for good reason. He had just gotten off the phone with his buyer. The man, Giorgio, was supposed to be coming in by boat later in the day to collect his prize. In six or so hours, Vincenzo was going to become a millionaire.
Zahra, her father, and Cork packed up their gear, but still had one thing to take care of.
“What are we doing about a runway?” George asked.
Vincenzo climbed into his truck and started it up. His window slid down. “Stefano has taken care of it.”
“He has?” Zahra asked.
“Si, signorina.”
There was no further explanation. The mechanic threw the vehicle into reverse and carefully moved it to within inches of the Cessna’s front strut. He and Cork then went about hooking up his winch and tow cable to the plane, just as they had the day before. Wherever they were about to lug the plane, apparently, it was an area they could use as a makeshift airstrip.
After taking a right out of Vincenzo’s property, they drove for half a mile before taking a second right. Then, they took another right a mile after that. The rising sun was on Zahra’s right, telling her they were headed north. The two-lane road was in good condition, and based on the absence of traffic, she guessed it was from its lack of use, and not due to recent refurbishment. Up ahead the roadway split, and sitting directly in the middle of the fork, was a squad car with its rooftop lights flashing. No siren accompanied them. The vehicle’s owner was leaned up against the trunk lid, arms crossed.
Vincenzo rolled up to the officer and lowered the windows.