“No one can hear you,” Castro said, twirling his gloved index finger, “the outer building has been soundproofed.”
He crossed to a refrigerator, opened it, and retrieved an eight-inch stainless-steel canister fitted with a hose and nozzle. Attached perpendicularly to the base of the nozzle was a four-inch-long green canister and a pressure gauge.
“What is that?” she asked, trying to squirm away as he came toward her with it.
“A modified airbrush system,” he said, and he gestured at the larger canister. “This contains a propellant.”
He pointed to the smaller one, said, “And this one contains rat blood infected with Hydra-9. I modified the airbrush so the propellant drives the blood through a series of screens inside the nozzle. Exiting under pressure, the blood will become an aerosol. Think of it like a virus cloud or fog.”
Luna stared at him, horrified, screamed, “You can’t do this!”
“I have to do this,” he said, fiddling with the control.
“Please, this isn’t right!”
“Lots of things aren’t right, Luna. Ask Antonio.”
“You know my husband?” she choked out.
“We’ve never met, but I’m acquainted with his work.”
The doctor grabbed Luna by her hair. She screamed, tried to fight, but he got the nozzle in front of her face and mashed some kind of trigger.
There was a whooshing sound. A short, sharp burst of fine pink haze blew out of the nozzle, coated her nose, lips, and eyes like sea spray.
“No!” Luna screeched and writhed. “No!”
Chapter 29
One hour and thirty-seven minutes postinfection, Luna was deteriorating rapidly. Sweating. Feverish. Borderline delirious. Dr. Castro had taken blood samples every fifteen minutes since the start of the experiment. Hydra-9 was definitely in her system, and wreaking havoc.
With each blood sample, Castro could see evidence of the virus spreading like a flame through Luna’s major organs, leaving in its wake those nine-headed husks; the Hydra-9 infection was like a horde of insects breeding and feeding. The virus invaded cells and spun cocoons inside them that cracked to yield multiple offspring of the virus that in turn invaded more cells. And so on.
It was an exponential assault that caused a cascading effect within the host’s system as one after another of the major organs burned out and shut down. The kidneys always seemed to be the first to go.
Luna’s temperature had hovered around one hundred and two but now began to climb. One hundred and three point one. One hundred and three point six. One hundred and four point zero.
Luna’s eyes were glazed. She looked over at the rat still moving in the tank and laughed madly. “You’re going to save me. That’s why you chose me, right?”
“That would be counterproductive, Luna,” Castro replied. “I really don’t know yet what Hydra-9 does to a human in the full course of an unchecked infection.”
“You’re insane,” she hissed weakly.
“Actually, I’m the sanest man I know.”
Her fever began to spike higher. One hundred and four point five. One hundred and four point seven. Luna trembled and twitched, closed her eyes.
“Why’re you doing this?” she said, gasping.
“Science.”
“You said ask Antonio.”
Castro paused, nodded. “Your husband played a significant part in the motivation behind the science. He and others stole precious things from me.”
“Stole? Antonio? Never.”
“Definitely.”
“What’d he steal?”
“My dignity,” Castro said. “And my wife.”
Luna’s glassy, bloodshot eyes snapped open. Sweating and shaking, she gaped at Castro as if he were a fading light on a dark highway. She moved her lips, tried to form words but couldn’t. Then she arched up into a convulsion and writhed, her eyes bugging out and unseeing. As suddenly as it had started, the neurological frying ended. Luna collapsed as if deflated and died with blood seeping from her eyes and nose.
Castro felt a pang of remorse but no regret. Luna’s death was just. It was fair. A way of restoring balance. And it served a nobler purpose. He looked to the clock and felt the remorse ebb away. Elapsed time from misting to last heartbeat: one hour, fifty-two minutes, and twenty seconds.
“Perfect,” he said.
Chapter 30
Saturday, July 30, 2016
4:20 a.m.
Tavia downshifted her BMW and weaved in and out of traffic in the tunnel that linked Copacabana to Botafogo. The fog I’d been in at Tavia’s apartment after we got the call was long gone.
She roared out of the tunnel and through the night toward the favelas while yelling into her cell phone’s mike, “Urso thinks he’s found the girls. Activate the response team. I’ll text the coordinates once we reach the location.”
She hung up, still speeding and weaving, said, “Do we notify the Wises?”
“Not until we have something to tell them,” I said.
“The Bear said he is positive he has the place; it’s got the chimes, proximity to the train, dogs, plus one of his guys says the whole building has recently been boarded up, no activity during the day.”
“I’d rather tell the Wises once we’ve got the girls,” I said. “Otherwise they’ll be second-guessing us at every turn.”
“Your call,” she said and took an exit off the highway that brought us northwest of Alemão and into an area of run-down, tin-roofed structures (auto-body shops, upholsterers, tool-and-die makers), warehouses, and abandoned factories.
We pulled over and parked.
“We’re not far,” she said. “We’ll go the rest of the way on foot.”
I got out. Tavia went around to the trunk, popped it, and took out two sets of body armor, two pairs of night-vision goggles, a 12-gauge Mossberg tactical shotgun, and a Beretta .380 with a short, fat sound suppressor.
She handed me the Beretta, wrapped the shotgun in a blanket. “People might get unhappy if they saw this. Easier to hide it until we need it.”
Tavia led us quickly through a maze of buildings. As I followed, I heard a train whistle blowing not far away. We rounded a corner. Urso stepped from the shadows.
“Anything change?” Tavia asked, catching her breath.
“Nada,” the Bear said. “My boys have the place locked down; you wanna hit it now?”
Tavia looked at me, said, “Full response team is fifteen minutes away.”
“Where are they?” I asked him.
Urso pointed to a two-story stone structure down the block. “Used to be a cigar factory when I was a kid.”
Dogs began barking nearby.
“Pit bulls,” he said. “They’re in the lumberyard beyond the cigar place.”
“You see any activity in the factory?”
“Heard movement inside, first floor and upstairs, about two hours ago.”
I checked my watch. Four forty-five. It wouldn’t be light for more than an hour, and the Marines had taught me to infiltrate before dawn.
“You and I go in now,” I said to Tavia. “Urso, put your men by the escape routes in case we flush something.”
“I went all around it,” the Bear said, showing us a crowbar. “Already found the best places to go in and out.”
Tavia unrolled the blanket, revealing the shotgun. She racked a shell into the chamber, and we set off. Urso led us behind the cigar factory to a boarded-up window above an alleyway. Down the alley, a single spotlight shone from a warehouse next door.
The Bear fitted the crowbar under the boards and slowly, quietly pried them free, leaving a black gaping hole where a windowpane used to be.