Focused on poking the hell out of my left hand, my torturer didn’t see my right until it was too late.
I brought the heel up fast and plowed it into his nose, driving upward.
CBRN suits are designed for soldiers to wear in combat. Hazmat suits, like these, were not.
The face shield collapsed under my blow. The guy made a grunting noise and flew backward, hitting the floor hard.
A human being’s reaction to a swift violent assault is to freeze. Like a deer in the headlights, the body biologically seeks to hide in plain sight in hopes the predator will pass them by. It takes years of training to shorten this natural reaction. Even then, training wasn’t the same as engaging in the real thing.
I’d engaged in the real thing more than I liked to think about.
I was moving before they’d realized the first man was down.
Grabbing the stainless steel IV pole—a solid bar with some serious heft—I pulled the adjustable portion from the bed and started swinging.
The second man hadn’t had the chance to turn around, and I hit him hard in back of the neck, connecting with the cervical vertebrae. He went down immediately, leaving me with only two to go.
The odds were getting better.
I went after the third.
He managed to step backward, making my next swing miss. Then threw a right hook. The move was clumsy, the suit slowing him down, and I blocked the blow and retaliated with an elbow strike that dented his face mask and exploded his nose, coating the inside of his visor with blood.
The fourth man—the oldest of the group—ran from the room.
The first man had staggered to his feet. He came at me from behind with a bear hug.
I drilled the back end of the pole into his gut. He doubled over, choking and gasping.
I went after him again, clanging him in the head with everything I had, putting him out before man number three tackled me from behind.
I sprawled forward, hitting the floor on hands and knees, the brute landing on top of me. Air was sucked from my lungs. He grabbed my hair, lifted my head with a yank, then smashed my forehead against the tile.
Sparks of light blossomed behind my eyes.
I had to get him off me. One more hit to my brain pan and I wouldn’t be able to function.
Face pressed to the cold floor, I willed the dizziness back and searched for something I could use as a weapon.
There.
I reached out my hand, skimming it over the tile until I hit something slick and wet—the remnants of Kirk.
Then I snaked my arm back to the hand tangled in my hair. The hazmat suit was thick and strong, made in layers to keep out the smallest biological agents, viruses. But the gloves were attached with nothing more than duct tape.
I sank the bloody IV needle into the meat of his wrist.
A bellow echoed through the room. He released my hair and scrambled off my back.
The door opened, and the man who’d fled stepped back inside, a pistol in his gloved hand.
“Dr. Pembrooke! She put an infected needle in my arm,” the one I stabbed began to scream. He didn’t move, just kept screaming, even as I got to my feet.
“Stop,” Pembrooke said. “I don’t want to have to shoot you, but I will.”
The man I’d stabbed with the needle started to sob.
“Get in the decon shower,” Pembrooke ordered.
“But she got the last dose of vaccine—”
“Get. In. The shower. Now.”
The sobbing man hurried out of the room.
And then there was one.
Of course, the one remaining—the doctor himself—had a pistol pointed at me. And even though he looked to be inexperienced with a firearm, a man with a firearm was still a man who had to be respected.
But only as long as he still held said firearm.
Careful not to take his eyes or the gun barrel off me, he stooped to pick up one of the syringes from the floor. He tossed it to me. I caught it and stared at the fluid inside.
“It’s a sedative. You know how to give yourself a shot?”
I couldn’t suppress a laugh and didn’t try.
“You expect me to knock myself out so you can, what? Study me?”
“Study how your body managed to avoid contracting the Ebola. Yes.”
This guy was a piece of work. People could die all around him, and all that mattered were the next tests he might be able to perform.
I supposed it was handy for a scientist who worked on biological weapons to also be a psychopath.
An awful scenario washed through my mind.
“Am I a carrier now?”
“With biology, you can never be sure. But, I don’t expect you are. A blood sample should prove it, one way or another.”
“So test it,” I said.
“I will, after you give yourself that shot.”
“I’m not letting you put me under.”
“You’re not in a position to be making deals.”
“You’re not very experienced with handguns.”
A brief flash of uncertainty flinched behind his eyes. He recovered quickly, but he’d told me what I needed to know.
I took a step forward.
“I hope your first shot is a good one,” I said softly. “Because you won’t get the chance to take another.”
He extended the gun, aiming right at my center mass. “I can perform my tests on you whether you’re dead or alive.”
There was only a meter between us, and he wouldn’t miss. I was fast, but bullets were faster.
This wasn’t the moment. I had to catch him off guard.
“Why Julie?” I asked. “Why is she the carrier?”
Ask a man about something important to him, and he’ll never shut up.
“She’s one in a million. One in a billion. I theorized that someone with her unique genetic markers might exist. Someone who could carry the virus and remain asymptomatic. You have no idea how much blood we tested, how many false starts we had.”
“You tried this before,” I stated. “With others.”
Pembrooke nodded, seemingly proud of the fact.
“Many others. Those free clinics are funded by tax dollars, but used by those who contribute nothing to this country. It’s about time those freeloaders gave something back.”
I’d met a few psychos in my time, but never one who looked like someone’s grandfather.
“How many people have you killed while trying to find a Julie, Pembrooke?”
He shrugged. “You know the saying. To make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs. Now inject yourself.”
I shook my head. “No way.”
“Either you let me sedate you, or I kill you.”
I held the syringe in both hands—
—then snapped it in half.
“That did nothing. I have more.”
“So go get it. I promise I’ll stay here and wait for you.”
I could see him working it out in his head, wondering what to do next.
I was wondering the same thing.
Then the obvious hit me.
Pembrooke wasn’t a pro. So I didn’t have to treat him like one.
I looked over his shoulder at someone who wasn’t there and made my eyes wide.
“Do it!” I yelled at my imaginary savior. “Now!”
I sold it well. And like any amateur, Pembrooke bought the act, craning his neck around to see who was there.
I moved forward, to the side of the gun, putting my palm on the hammer and squeezing so Pembrooke couldn’t fire, then twisting my body around and snapping my elbow against Pembrooke’s faceplate.
He went down, falling onto his ass as he released the gun.
I pointed it at his head.
“How many people are at this facility?”
“What?”
“Who else is here?”
“No one. Just us.”
“No guards?”
Pembrooke motioned to the men on the floor behind me. “Those were the guards. Them and Johnson, in the decon shower.”