Caplan’s eyes narrowed to slits. “How nasty are we talking about?”
“Anyone exposed to it will die within eight hours of contact. Since dispersal happened mere minutes ago, that works out to roughly five o’clock.”
Caplan gawked at him. “Why would you allow something that dangerous at Hatcher?”
“The details aren’t important. Suffice it to say, HA-78 plays an important role in Research’s work.”
“Can your people shut down the gas?”
“They already did, but it’s too late. The valves released enough HA-78 to cover every inch of Hatcher Station and then some. Without the proper treatment, every person within that building will die in eight hours.”
Caplan closed his eyes. Took a deep breath.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Corbotch said. “But now that it has, I’m going to do everything in my power to save Amanda and every other person at Hatcher. Will you help me?”
Caplan thought about Tony’s death. He thought about his guilt and his self-imposed banishment to Manhattan. But most of all, he thought about Amanda Morgan. He thought about how he’d felt about her and how he owed her for what had happened to Tony.
“Okay.” He opened his eyes. “I’m in.”
Chapter 14
“Hold still.” The voice overflowed with disdain. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
A thick hypodermic needle slid into Caplan’s arm. It pierced his skin with excruciating slowness. Liquid eased out of the needle and trickled into his bloodstream.
Seconds later, the predator from the alley — real name, Julius Pearson — yanked the needle out of Caplan’s arm. He tossed some cotton balls, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a box of bandages onto Caplan’s lap before returning to his seat.
Caplan wet one of the cotton balls and swiped his arm. Then he used a bandage to plaster it to the pinprick. “Took you long enough.” Caplan ignored the urge to rub his aching arm. “What’s the matter? My skin too tough for you?”
“Possibly,” Pearson replied. “Let’s try one of your eyeballs next.”
Corbotch frowned. “Can the two of you please try to get along?”
Pearson hesitated before offering a hand across the aisle. Caplan took it and immediately found his fingers crushed by the man’s meaty grip.
“That’s better,” Corbotch said. “You know, I really think you’ll be friends before this is over.”
Caplan hid his pain behind a deadpan expression. “I can’t wait.”
“Yes, well…” Corbotch shot Pearson a cooperate-or-die look before glancing in Caplan’s direction. “That shot is fast acting. By the time we land, you’ll be fully immunized against HA-78.”
Pearson released the grip and Caplan retracted the wounded appendage to his body. At that exact moment, his seat jolted. Hard. A throbbing ache rippled through his forehead. He clenched his teeth, fighting it with all his strength. The pain subsided, only to be replaced by whirling dizziness.
God, he hated this. People didn’t belong in the sky. It was unnatural, an affront to evolution’s whims.
“I’ve got a question,” Caplan said. “Why didn’t you immunize Hatcher personnel before now?”
Corbotch sighed. “The HA-78 vaccine, along with the antibiotic treatment you’ll be carrying, just completed its last round of testing. We were scheduled to roll it out next week.”
“And the CDC was okay with that?”
Corbotch merely smiled.
Before Caplan could continue that line of questioning, his vision turned blurry. Concentrating hard, he twisted his head, studying the interior of the corporate helicopter. A Rexto 419R3, according to Corbotch. And from the looks of it, designed exclusively for the ultra-wealthy.
The cabin featured four extra-wide seats, two to a row. The rows faced each other, allowing for easy conversation. Corbotch, shrouded in shadows, sat across from him and with his back to the cockpit. Pearson sat to Corbotch’s right.
Looking down, Caplan saw an exquisite sand-colored leather seat beneath his jeans. The carpet was plush wool and carefully coordinated to match the seats. A minibar, stocked with top-shelf liquor, had been custom-made for the rotorcraft and built into one side of the cabin.
Caplan’s throat ran dry. Working his tongue, he tried like hell to get some moisture into his cottonmouth. “Where are we landing?” he asked.
“A small clearing, roughly half a mile from the station,” Corbotch replied.
“Which sector?”
“Sector 23. Not many animals live there and the clearing is free of cameras. As you can see, we’ve thought this through from every angle.”
“Good.” Although unbuttoned, the collar of Caplan’s black Henley shirt started to tighten around his neck. His jeans felt stiff and inflexible. His feet sweated buckets, soaking his long wool socks and sturdy trail-runners. “Very good.”
Reaching to the bar, Corbotch picked up a bottle of Hamron’s Horror. He dropped some ice cubes into a clean tumbler. Tipped the bottle toward the glass, filling it with copper-colored scotch. “Would you like some?” he asked.
Why the hell not? Caplan thought. “Sure.”
The helicopter vibrated again. Caplan clutched his plush armrests. He waited for the vibrations to settle down, but instead they increased in intensity.
“Hey Derek,” Corbotch shouted. “What’s the deal?”
“We’ve got high winds and a little turbulence, sir.” Derek Perkins — the curly-haired man from the alley — kept his gaze fixed on the front window and his hands on the controls. “A storm is on the horizon. Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s going to pass anytime soon.”
Corbotch exhaled an annoyed sigh. Then he picked up an empty tumbler. Filled it with ice cubes and scotch. Silently, he passed it across the aisle.
Caplan took the tumbler. Tipped it to his mouth. A swig of Hamron’s Horror swept over his tongue. It tasted smoky and burnt his throat as he swallowed it down.
“So, how do you like my little slice of nature?” Corbotch asked.
Caplan glanced out the side window. His eyes widened. How could they not? The Vallerio Forest, far beneath him, was widely regarded as one of the world’s most mysterious places. As a boy, he’d gobbled up numerous books about it, about the strange myths and legends surrounding it.
He gazed intensely upon the trees, the leaves. But his keen eyes failed to breach the outer foliage. Even after three years of living in its midst, he was still amazed by the forest’s darkness, its impenetrability. It seemed almost impervious to all forms of light.
“It’s just as I remembered it,” Caplan replied.
“And I assume you recall what we’re doing down there, right?”
Abruptly, a glint of brightness knifed its way through the foliage. Caplan did a double take as he traced the light to its origin. Oh, my God, he thought. The fence.
The glinting light vanished and Caplan’s brow furrowed into hard ridges. A giant electric fence famously cut off the Vallerio from the outside world. Similar fences, much smaller ones, surrounded Hatcher Station. But the fence below him, which marked the southern edge of Sector 48A, was another entity altogether. For Sector 48A — Tony’s name for it — didn’t exist, at least not on paper.
Caplan inhaled slow, sharp breaths. Images of that cold January day flitted quietly through his mind like an old black and white movie. “Sure,” he replied after a moment. “You’re running a private — and secretive — animal sanctuary. Lions, tigers, bears, and God knows what else.”