Jonathan Maberry - Patient Zero

“I’ll be finished in time for the next phase of the program,” the Fighter said. “I hope you have no worries about that.”

“Not at all. If I can’t trust you who can I trust?” They both smiled at that. “All of the transportation steps are locked down,” Gault added. “You’ll be in America by the second of July… the third at the very latest.”

“That cuts it close.”

Gault shook his head. “The timetable leaves less time for random events to interfere. Trust me on this, my friend. This is something I do very well.”

El Mujahid considered for a moment, then nodded. “Well… I have to go. A sword rusts in its sheath.”

“And an unfired arrow becomes brittle with disuse,” Gault said, completing the ancient aphorism.

They stood and embraced, and Gault suffered through the big man’s enthusiastic hugs and backslapping. The man was a foul-smelling oaf and as strong as a bear.

They swapped a few pleasantries and the Fighter strode out of the tent. Gault waited until he heard the growl of El Mujahid’s truck. He got up and stood in the tent’s opening and watched the Fighter and the last of his team disappear in swirls of brown dust and diesel exhaust as they crested a hill and dropped down the other side.

Now he could concentrate on his real work. Not plastics or polymers, not body armor for Yanks about whom he didn’t give a moment’s real thought. No, now he would meet with Amirah and visit her lab to see what his gorgeous little Dr. Frankenstein had on the slab.

His satellite phone vibrated in his pocket and he checked the screen display, smiled, and thumbed the button. “Is everything coded?”

“Of course,” said Toys, which is what he always said. Toys would forget to breathe before he’d forget to engage his phone scrambler.

“Good afternoon, Toys.”

“Good afternoon, sir. I hope you are well.”

“I’m visiting our friends. In fact, your favorite person just left.”

“And how is El Musclehead? I’m so sorry to have missed him,” Toys said with enough acid to burn through tank armor. Toys—born Alexander Chismer in Purfleet—never bothered to hide his contempt of El Mujahid. The Fighter was gruff, dirty, and politically expansive; Toys was none of those things. Toys was a slim and elegant young man, naturally fastidious, and, as far as Gault could tell, absolutely unburdened by any weight of morality. Toys had two loyalties—money and Gault. His love for the former bordered on the erotic; his love for the latter was in no way romantic. Toys was sexually omnivorous but his tastes ran to expensive fashion models of both sexes and of the kind once known as heroin chic. Besides, Toys was the ultimate business professional and he had steel walls between his personal affairs and his responsibilities as Gault’s personal assistant.

He was also the only person on earth Gault truly trusted.

“He sends his love,” Gault said; Toys gave a wicked laugh. “How are the travel arrangements coming along?”

“It’s all done, sir. Our sweaty friend will have a wonderful world tour without incident.”

Gault grinned. “You’re a marvel, Toys.”

“Yes,” Toys purred. “I am. And, by the way… have you seen her yet?” His voice dripped with cold venom.

“She’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“Mm, well, give her a big wet kiss from me.”

“I’m sure she’d be thrilled to hear that. Any news or are you just calling to chitchat?”

“Actually, the bloody Yank has been calling day and night.”

Gault’s smile flickered. “Oh? What’s the urgency?”

“He wouldn’t tell me, but I gather it has something to do with our friends abroad.”

“I’d better call him.”

“Probably best,” agreed Toys, and then added, “Sir? I’m not entirely confident that the Yank is, how should I put it? A reliable asset.”

“He’s usefully placed.”

“So is a rectum.”

Gault laughed. “Be nice. We need him for now.”

Toys said, “You need better friends.”

“He’s not a friend. He’s a tool.”

“Too right he is.”

“I’ll sort him out. In the meantime get your ass on a plane and meet me in Baghdad.”

“Where do you think I’m calling you from?” Toys asked dryly.

“Are you reading my mind now?” Gault said.

“I believe that’s in my job description.”

“I believe it is.”

Gault smiled as he disconnected the call. He punched in a new number and waited while it rang through.

“Department of Homeland Security,” said the voice at the other end.

U.S. Route 50 in Maryland / Saturday, June 27; 4:25 P.M.

THE DRIVE BACK to Baltimore gave me time to think, and the thoughts I had weren’t nice ones. I wanted to kick Church’s ass for busting a big wet hole in my peace of mind. He had made me fight a dead guy.

A. Dead. Guy.

I think I logged forty miles of my trip with that thought playing over and over like a skipping record. It’s kind of a hard thought to get past. Me. Dead guy. In a room. Dead guy wants a piece of me. Find a comfortable chair for that to sit in.

Javad was not alive when he attacked me. I may not be a scientist but one of those bottom-line factoids everyone—Eastern, Western, alternative health, all of them—will agree on is that dead guys don’t try to bite you. In movies, yeah okay. Not in Baltimore. But Javad was dead, so there was that. Another twenty miles blurred by.

What was it Church had said? Prions. I had to look that up when I got home. What little I knew was Discovery Channel stuff. Something related to Mad Cow maybe?

So, okay, Joe… if it’s real then make some sense of it. Mad Cow and dead terrorists. Bioweapons of some kind. With dead guys. DMS. Department of Military Sciences, sister org to Homeland. What kind of math does that make? I put the new White Stripes CD in the deck and tried to not think about it. Worked for nearly four seconds.

I pulled off the road, went into a Starbucks, ordered a Venti and a chocolate chunk cookie—screw Church, what does he know about cookies? I paid the tab, left my stuff on the counter, went into the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and then threw my guts up in the toilet.

I could feel the shakes starting to come back, so I washed my face, rinsed my mouth out with handfuls of tap water, pasted on my best I-didn’t-just-kill-a-zombie expression, and left with my coffee.

Sebastian Gault / Helmand Province, Afghanistan / Six days ago

INTO HIS PHONE Sebastian Gault said, “Line?”

“Clear,” the voice responded, indicating that both ends of the call were on active scramble.

“I hear you’ve been trying to call me. What’s the crisis this time?”

“I’ve been calling you for days.” The voice at the other end was male, American with a Southern accent. “It’s about the dockside warehouse.”

“I figured. Have they hit it yet?”

“Yes, just like you said they would. Full hit, total loss.” The American told Gault about the task force hit. He quoted directly from the official reports filed with Homeland and the NSA. He referred to Homeland as Big G.

Gault smiled, but he made his voice sound deeply worried. “Are you sure the entire cell is terminated? All of them?”

“The task force report said that some were killed during the raid and the rest died from what they’re calling ‘suicide drugs.’ They’ve got nobody to question. No one’s going to disappear to Guantánamo Bay for any friendly chats.”

“And the subject ? What about him?”

“KIA at the site.”

“Killed?” Gault asked, giving the word the kind of dubious inflection it now deserved. It wasn’t lost on the American, who hesitated before continuing with his report.