Scott Sigler - Contagious

“You don’t know me,” Vanessa said. “You don’t know how I grew up.”

“Fine, then educate me. How many people have you killed?”

She said nothing.

“None? Okay, I’ll give you a free pass there. How many times have you held your friend’s head while he bled out, looked into his eyes and promised him you’d make sure his kids would grow up strong? None? Well then, surely you must have had to wipe your friend’s brains off your fucking face, right? How many times have you hidden in a rice paddy as your blood seeps into the filthy water? How many times have you had to kill a twelve-year-old girl because she was shooting her AK at you? Huh?

Maybe da hood don’t sound so tough now, does it ?”

“Murray!” Gutierrez barked. “Your service to this country is no small matter, but that’s enough .”

Murray realized he was breathing hard and sweating. In thirty years of being in this room, in front of six presidents, he’d never snapped like that.

This woman could push his buttons like no other. He pulled some Kleenex from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his head.

Vanessa didn’t look upset at all. Her poker face was good, but it couldn’t hide her main emotion—satisfaction. She’d won. She’d exposed his mistakes. She’d made him lose his temper, big-time. In her eyes he saw a crystal-clear message—if he was going to save any part of his career, he needed to cave in and back whatever she suggested.

Murray cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mister President.”

Gutierrez gave his political smile. “This is a rough situation. We’re all a little short-tempered.”

“Listen, Murray,” Vanessa said. “Believe me, I’m not some hippie who thinks you were a baby killer or something. I respect your service and your experience, but you’re from a different time. This is the reason we came into office. Because people like you think we can just forget someone’s civil rights if it fits the moment.”

Murray’s temper reignited, but he’d be damned if he’d lose it again. He locked his jaw shut. An uneasy silence filled the Oval Office. Gutierrez finally broke it.

“How controlled would this be, Murray? If we let them hatch, would anyone know?”

Vanessa’s head snapped around in confusion. She started to speak, but Gutierrez held up a finger, cutting her off.

“How controlled, Murray?”

All Murray had to do was steer Gutierrez away from allowing the triangles to hatch. All he had to do was fall in line behind Vanessa, and she’d back off.

But they still didn’t know the location of the next gate. For that they needed a hatchling. Dawsey would come through—he had to come through.

And besides… Murray fucking hated Vanessa Colburn.

“Well, sir, I’ll be blunt,” Murray said. “The media already knows about the flesh-eating bacteria. If someone dies from that…” He spread his hands. “These things happen.”

Vanessa shook her head patronizingly. “These things do not just happen.”

“Vanessa,” Gutierrez said, “do me a favor and shut the fuck up.”

The look on her face might be the same one she’d have if Murray whipped out his cock and asked for a blow job with whip cream and ice cubes.

“On a scale of one to ten, Murray,” Gutierrez said, “how bad do we need to know what we’re up against?”

“One to ten? Try four hundred thirty-two. We’re facing some kind of invasion here. I think the time for tea and crumpets is long past.”

He looked hard at the president. Just two weeks in, was John Gutierrez already seeing beyond his idealism?

Only one way to find out, and that was to force the issue. Murray pulled out his phone and held it up.

“Mister President, please, I have to get your decision or soon there won’t be any point to this discussion. Saying nothing is the same thing as telling me to let them hatch. If you don’t mind a little advice from an old man, sir, don’t let indecision decide things for you. Make a call and live with it.”

Gutierrez stared off into nothingness, looking at something not inside the room.

“Let them hatch,” he said.

Murray typed LET IT RIDE into his cell phone with a thumb speed that would have drawn admiration from Betty Jewell in her texting prime. He hit send .

Vanessa shook her head. She had the look of a person about to explain something obvious to a loved one who just doesn’t get it. “Mister President,” she said. “John, I… we can’t do this.”

Gutierrez laughed. Murray heard the anguish in that laugh. “Vanessa, are you flinching? I never thought I’d see the day. I always knew that sooner or later I’d have to send people to their deaths. Every now and then, I’d kid myself, let myself hope that maybe my administration would be the lucky one, that a decision of mine wouldn’t result in flag-draped caskets. Sending soldiers to die is difficult, but dying is part of a soldier’s job. They understand that when they sign up. You know what’s even harder to deal with? Realizing that there is an American woman named Bernadette Smith, age twenty-eight, mother of three, a Christian who volunteers at her church, and that I’m going to knowingly let her die in the most horrible way imaginable.”

Vanessa shook her head. “Mister President, I insist th—”

He pounded the desk with his right fist. “You insist? You insist? Who is the fucking president here?”

“You are, John,” she said quietly.

“That’s Mister President ,” Gutierrez said.

Vanessa looked down. “You are, Mister President.”

“Do you know why I’m the president of the United States of America, Vanessa?”

She shook her head.

“One, because I’m smart enough to hire and listen to people like you. And two, because I’m smart enough to know when not to listen to people like you. The hardest decision is usually the necessary decision, and that decision has just been made . Now get out.”

Vanessa looked at Murray, then back at the president. Murray wondered if she was going to cry.

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, then opened it again.

“You… you want us to leave?”

“No,” Gutierrez said. “Just you. I need to talk to Murray.”

She did the double look again, first at Murray, then at Gutierrez who stared back, his face immobile.

Vanessa Colburn stood and walked out of the Oval Office so fast she almost broke into a run. The door shut behind her. Silence hung in the air.

“What about Montoya’s weather report?” Gutierrez asked. “Any luck finding this invisible satellite?”

“Not yet,” Murray said. “But we’ve got a lot of resources focused on it, sir. We’re trying to extrapolate possible locations. We’re hopeful we can find something soon.”

Gutierrez nodded slowly. He’d asked about the satellite in almost a perfunctory manner.

Murray calmly waited. He’d done this dance before.

“Am I doing the right thing?” Gutierrez asked finally. His stony expression broke. Murray could see the pain, the indecisiveness on the man’s face. “Murray, tell me straight. You’ve been doing this for a long time, right?”

“Yes, Mister President.”

“Am I doing the right thing, letting that woman die?”

“I don’t decide right and wrong. You do, sir. I just give you the information to make decisions, then carry out those decisions.”

“I see. And does that gigantic line of bullshit help you sleep at night?”

“No sir,” Murray said. “But a Xanax or two sure as hell does.”

Gutierrez sank back in his chair. He drained the glass of scotch, then set it down so hard that one of the ice cubes shot out and skidded across the desk. Murray walked to the drink cart, grabbed the bottle of Macallan, then poured the president a double.