Lauren wore the beekeeper’s suit that had protected her earlier. The Marine unit wore matching outfits in woodland camo. The yet-to-be-identified man wore no such protection. Lauren was anxious to get him into the CT scanner to see what was inside of him, but based on his distended abdomen and the foul scent that radiated from the seepage in the seat of his pants, she had a pretty good idea of what she would find. Every few minutes, he doubled over in obvious pain, but always recovered and offered them the kind of smug, bloody-lipped grin she was certain the devil himself wore.
She turned the small metallic object over and over in her gloved hands. It was a simple device, one found at any pet store around the world, and yet one that was as deadly as any detonator.
“Give it a blow,” the soldier beside her said. “Just a little one. Let’s see what being eaten alive from the inside out does to that fucking smile.”
Lauren clenched the dog whistle in her fist and looked away. There was a part of her that wanted nothing more.
“Tied at seven, midway through the third quarter,” the driver said through the two-way intercom mounted overhead.
“Tight game and we’re missing it thanks to this douche bag,” the guard to the man’s right said. “You say this truck’s perfectly sealed, right doc?”
The man continued to stare directly at her with that horrible expression on his face. Lauren felt the same crawling sensation on her skin she remembered so well from the first time she wore this suit.
“We found your disposable cell phone. Hey, you listening to me, asshole? We’re tracing the number of the call you made right before we got you,” the guard to the man’s left said. He held the phone only inches from the man’s face. “Started celebrating a little early, didn’t you, Mohammed or Mahmud or whatever the hell your name is? It’s only a matter of time before we take out your whole damn terrorist cell. Maybe we’ll get you all together in a little room and blow that whistle of yours.”
“Aren’t you supposed to do one of those Jihadi loo-loo-loo-loo-loo whoops before you do yourself?”
The men in camo laughed, their faces shadows behind their netting.
The truck slowed and veered to the right. Lauren recognized the driveway leading deeper into the CDC complex by the gentle side-to-side swaying and the rocking of the speed bumps. They slowed, and then sped up again.
“Passing through perimeter security now,” the driver said from the other side of the steel-reinforced barrier. “You sure your guys are expecting us?”
“My people have been on stand-by since yesterday afternoon,” Lauren said. “Pull around to the rear entrance. There’ll be a team ready and waiting to assist with the prisoner transfer.”
“We’re staying with him every step of the way,” the man to her left said.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The Emerging Infectious Diseases Laboratory was in Building 18. Lauren had been driving this route for so long that she recognized each of the turns without being able to see them, right down to the swooping ramp that led up to the building. The truck slowed and stopped. The engine continued to idle.
“We’re at the service entrance, doc. But there’s no one waiting for us.”
“What are you talking about? Are you sure you’re at the right entrance?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Where are your people?” the man across from her asked. They were the first words he had spoken. His Arabic accent was affected by stilted British inflection. “Is this the point where I should say loo-loo-loo-loo-loo?”
His predatory smile grew impossibly wide, crocodilian.
“Let me out,” Lauren whispered.
“Convoy’s moving out, doc. Something’s not right. No way in hell we’re sticking around to find out—”
“Let me out!” Lauren screamed.
The rear door opened from the outside and Lauren scurried down onto the pavement in the midst of the twelve-vehicle convoy. There were military Jeeps and black SUVs. A helicopter thumped high above the treetops. She barely stepped to the side in time to keep from being run over by the transport vehicle in its hurry to back out. The other cars closed rank around it and hurriedly guided it back toward the main road with the squeal of rubber.
Two cars stayed with her; one a troop transport bearing a half-dozen armed soldiers, the other a federal SUV with the silhouettes of four agents behind the tinted windows.
She sprinted toward the glass doors and stopped dead in her tracks. A handful of wasps crawled on the inside of the glass, stinging at the transparent barrier. The tips of their abdomens left tiny smudges from the holes where their stingers had once been. As she watched, one of them dropped to the floor onto a mat of lifeless insect carcasses.
IV
Lauren’s horror gave way to a kind of detached numbness as she walked through the hallways toward her lab. Dead wasps crunched underfoot. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, punctuating the restless humming of the fluorescent tube lights. All else was silent. She passed the doorways of private offices, through which she saw the occasional body sprawled on the floor, head misshapen, clutching at its swollen throat. When she reached the lobby, she involuntarily stopped and stifled a gasp. The security officer at the desk had toppled backward in his chair. His face was so livid with fluid that his features were all but obscured. There were other corpses, felled in mid-stride, arms extended as though trying to drag themselves forward across the tile floor after their legs had failed them, but it was the lone figure at the epicenter of the nightmare, crumpled in a wide pool of shimmering blood, that drew Lauren’s attention. The woman’s abdomen had been torn open from sternum to pubis. The frayed edges of her dress framed the mess of macerated viscera that bloomed in sickly gray folds from her peritoneum. Despite the sheer number of stings to her face, Lauren recognized the woman immediately. It was the same raven-haired woman she had seen on the video, near the elephant pens, staring down at the sick pachyderm with terror etched onto her face. The woman she had erroneously mistaken for pregnant. A disposable cell phone—the twin to the one they had taken from the man at the game—rested only inches from her curled fingertips.
A cluster of wasps wheeled high above her, near the skylights. Several dropped to the floor and writhed at her feet.
The sound of footsteps reached her from behind as the soldiers thundered down the corridor in their heavy boots. They now wore camouflaged beekeeper’s suits and carried automatic rifles. They assumed command the moment they entered the lobby. One barked orders while the others scattered in surreal movements that made her feel like she was witnessing the scene from underwater. One of the soldiers spoke into his transceiver, then picked up the cell phone, held it away from his body, and waited. The view screen lit up with the incoming call, but there was no ringtone. At least not one that she could hear. The few surviving wasps up in the rafters descended upon the phone in the man’s hand. He allowed them to crawl on his glove as he scrolled through the list of incoming calls. He nodded pointedly to the soldier who appeared to be in charge.
“We were set up,” the man with the phone said. “They used the game as a ruse to get all of us in one place, out of their way.”
It took Lauren a moment to grasp the implications of the statement.
“No!” she cried.
She whirled and broke into a sprint toward her lab. Panic flooded her veins. She started to hyperventilate, felt the warmth of tears on her cheeks.