Bobby Adair - Ebola K

“It happens all the time here,” Dr. Littlefield added.

“It is a satellite phone,” Giovanni confirmed.

Dr. Littlefield turned to the Italian doctor, “You should go make that call.” He turned to Austin and in a quiet voice said, “Would you go outside and write down identifying information on those trucks they arrived in, just in case they decide to leave? I doubt they’ll follow proper decontamination procedures when they take off their gear. They could carry the virus with them when they go.”

Austin hurried toward the door. Before he got there, it opened, and he froze. Marching back inside were the men in the yellow Tyvek suits. One held a pistol, one a machete, two had AK-47s. The back door of the ward swung open. Three other yellow-suited men with AK-47s came in that way.

“Shit.”

The HAZMAT guy with the pistol came to a stop a few paces in front of the dumbfounded doctors and started talking. Austin knew it was Najid. It was the same terse tone he’d heard on the phone.

Najid pointed the pistol at the tall Italian doctor. “You have a phone. Tell me where it is.”

The Italian took a defiant stance. “Go away little man. This is a hospital.”

Najid raised his pistol higher and pointed it at the center of the Italian’s face.

Dr. Littlefield raised his hands. “This isn’t necess—”

“Quiet,” Najid shouted. Everyone who still had enough wits to understand hushed.

Austin, without even thinking, was backing up in small steps, away from the tension, away from the raised weapons.

Najid said to the Italian doctor. “The phone.”

“No.”

Austin admired him for his bravery.

Najid looked to his right. The HAZMAT man with the machete sprang forward. He raised the blade high and brought it down on Nurse Mary-Margaret, catching her where the neck meets the shoulder. It cut deep, with the sound of a breaking bone, a gasp, and a shriek. Nurse Mary-Margaret crumpled to the floor. A few of the patients screamed.

Austin was struck dumb—paralyzed—as were the two doctors. His eyes were wide with fear. Why would they attack her?

The machete man raised the blade back and hacked once again into Mary-Margaret’s back. She grunted from the impact and blood poured out of her mouth. The machete man then hacked twice more across the back of her neck, and Nurse Mary-Margaret’s head rolled to the side as a bloody fountain spewed into a growing puddle on the floor.

Najid looked at Austin, then back toward the Italian doctor.

Austin looked at the front door and judged his chances of making it through. Just about zero. But he wasn’t going to stand by helplessly and end up hacked with a machete.

Najid said, “Doctor, your phone. Where is it?”

The Italian doctor’s defiant stance sagged into a slump as he looked down at the bleeding body of Nurse Mary-Margaret.

“The phone.”

Seconds ticked by as Austin accepted that they were the last of his life as he prepared to run for the door.

The Italian doctor said, “It is in my pocket.”

“Give it to me.”

The Italian doctor pulled off his protective mask, pulled back his hood and put his hands on the seam down the front of his blue suit. He pulled the seam apart and dropped the suit down over his shoulder, emerging from his protective cocoon with his defiance reborn, glaring at Najid. He put his hand in his pocket, pulled out his phone, pushed a button, and started dialing a number.

For a moment, Najid did nothing, but when the muted ring sounded through the quiet ward and the Italian raised the phone to his ear, Najid pulled the trigger. A spray of blood exploded from the back of the Italian’s head. The phone hit the floor as the doctor fell on his back.

Najid smashed the phone with the heel of his rubber boot, crushing the glass, and rendering it useless.

Najid looked at Dr. Littlefield. “Your phone?”

He pointed to the exam room. “It’s in there in the drawer on the right. It’s not a satellite phone, and there’s no service out here.”

Najid motioned to the man with the machete, who turned and walked hastily into the exam room. Najid turned his attention to Austin.

Austin didn’t need any instructions. He immediately reached under his apron and into his pocket, sure that he was leaving plenty of virions on his clothes. He was already infected, so what did it matter? He dropped his phone on the floor and stomped on it.

“Good boy,” Najid turned away from Austin, said something in Arabic, and motioned toward the patients and the few African nurses. A few of the HAZMAT men went to work checking patients and their bedding for phones, showing no concern for the people themselves—pushing them aside, rolling them over, throwing blood-stained pillows and blankets out of their way. The phones they found were immediately destroyed.

“Why are you calling me?” Zameer asked.

Najid hesitated, looking for the right words. “An emergency.”

“What kind of emergency would you need my help with?”

“I need our special friends.”

There was a long pause. When Zameer spoke, he used a scolding tone. “You should not be calling me about this. You know who listens.”

“I know.” Najid knew there’d be some posturing and he was prepared to be patient—through some of it.

Zameer snorted. “Yet you call.”

“As I said, this is an emergency.”

“Tell me what you need so I can end this call before a drone flies over and kills my family.” Zameer was not pleased.

“You are not with your family,” replied Najid.

“You know which family I mean.”

“I do.” Najid was arriving at the end of his patience. “I need all of our special friends.”

Zameer forced a laugh. “You’re insane.”

“I am not.”

“It cannot happen, my friend. You know of their importance to his plans.”

Najid paused before answering. “I do.”

“And you ask as though you have the right. You may have a rich father—”

Najid felt a boldness rise in his chest. “A very rich father who may not live through the month. A father whose wealth I already control.”

“Why do I care about the wants of a rich boy who plays at hating the Americans, but rolls in their money?”

Najid thought about having Zameer killed by one of his contacts in the ISI, Pakistan’s intelligence agency. “I will get his approval. But I need our special friends on an airplane before the sun sets tomorrow.”

“That is impossible.” Zameer laughed again. “I told you. This is not for you to decide, but him.”

“He will agree.” Najid did little to mask his impatience. “I have a man on the way to speak with him now.”

“After your man speaks with him, I will be told in the usual way, and if he wants our special friends to go to you, they will. That is the end of it.”

Najid pretended to think about his next statement but he knew where the conversation would go before he dialed the number. “I will pay you fifty-thousand US for each.”

The offer had the desired effect. Zameer was speechless.

Sensing that he had found the sweet spot, Najid continued, “I will have the cash put in your hand personally to do with as you wish. It can be in your hands as early as tomorrow if you deliver our special friends to the airport in Lahore, dressed in the clothes that you received them in.”

“Their Western clothes?” Zameer asked.

“Yes.”

Zameer paused, “Even if I wanted—”

“Do not play that game with me. You want the money. Let us not disrespect one another with lies.”

“Do you know how much money we’re talking about?” Zameer’s skepticism was apparent.