HAYWIRE: A Pandemic Thriller (The F.A.S.T. Series Book 2) (31 page)

‘Until what?’ asked Myers.

Justin shrugged and pocketed the metal timer. His mother might know.

Christov swiped open the door to the Captain’s suite with Bryant’s ID card.

‘Four of you, with me. You others guard the door.’

Christov thrust open the door and strode inside.

Although the Captain’s suite looked like a million dollar mansion had been squeezed into the ship, its finer points were wasted on Christov. He was here for just one thing.

He didn’t have to wait long.

A woman came sprinting toward him from across the suite, leaping over a plush leather couch in a single bound.

She was barefoot and naked. No, not naked. She wore a tiny beige bikini that couldn’t contain the assets of a well-endowed woman at full sprint.

She ran at Christov like some enraged Amazonian warrior he had disturbed bathing.

Christov unslung his weapon.

No shooting
, he reminded himself.

A moment before she reached him, he ducked aside and swung his rifle at her legs. He felt the steel rifle shatter her shin. More importantly, however, he knocked her flat to the floor among his four waiting gunmen.

His men pounded her senseless with their weapons.

Christov waited.

No one else rushed to attack him.

If that was the Captain’s girlfriend, then where is the Captain?

‘Find him,’ Christov ordered.

Within seconds Christov heard a struggle. His four men appeared from the main bedroom carrying the thrashing Captain between them. Each man held a limb.

Christov drew his trench knife.

He rarely had a chance to use the beautiful weapon these days. He waved his men to a huge mahogany desk overlooking the ocean.

‘Pin him down.’

The Captain put up a fight, but Christov jerked his arm across the desk. He placed his knife blade carefully on the Captain’s thumb.

‘Hold him still. He’s moving too much.’

His men threw all their weight down on the Captain.

In one smooth motion, Christov lifted a marble paperweight off the desk and…

Whack!

He pounded the heavy paperweight down on the back of his trench knife.

The razor sharp blade sliced right through flesh and bone before embedding itself in the desk.

Christov picked up the thumb and studied it.

Thumbs look smaller when they’re not connected to a hand.

‘Hold him down,’ ordered Christov as he carried the severed thumb to the safe. ‘If this thumb doesn’t work we’ll need his other one.’

Just like Bryant said, the safe wasn’t hidden. In the walk-in wardrobe, Christov pushed the Captain’s thumb against the biometric sensor.

Click.

He heard the safe unlock.

A small green light flashed.

Thank you, Officer Bryant.

Christov tossed aside the severed thumb and turned the handle. The door swung open. Inside, a large envelope rested on half a dozen boxes. Christov tore open the envelope. It contained the Captain’s passport and work papers.

Useless.

He dropped the envelope and checked the boxes, one after the other, throwing them aside because every box contained the same thing.

Watches?

The safe contained nothing but the Captain’s collection of Swiss watches.

Christov searched for false sides or a hidden compartment.

Nothing.

It’s not here.

Christov’s anger burned white hot. He wished he’d brought Bryant along. He wanted to slam Bryant’s head in the safe until the safe contained nothing but brains.

Now what?

Christov tried to think.

The Captain bellowed like a wounded animal.

Why do they need to be so loud? Can’t anyone go insane quietly?

Christov spun from the safe and strode back to the desk. He grabbed the Captain’s scalp and slammed his face down onto the desk.

The Captain bellowed even louder.

‘Shut up!’ hollered Christov, drawing his trench knife.

THUNK!

The Captain’s body offered little resistance. Christov felt the blade graze the Captain’s second rib, but not enough to slow its progress right through the Captain’s heart.

Christov closed his eyes and stood still for a moment. After appreciating a moment’s silence, he pulled his knife free.

The Captain slid off the desk and onto the expensive carpet.

‘Check his pockets,’ Christov ordered. ‘And the desk. Tear this cabin apart!’

As his men began searching, Christov checked the countdown on his watch. He’d started the countdown the moment he realized what Elizabeth Green had stolen. From that moment on, every second counted.

He felt for the special tool strapped to his vest.

I’ve still got time,
he reassured himself.
I won’t be beaten by her. Elizabeth didn’t know I had a backup plan. I’ve still got two hours.

While his men searched, Christov cleaned the blood from his knife. It had no welds. No joins. Nothing that could break or fail. Being forged from one solid block of carbon steel made the weapon practically indestructible.

Christov’s grandfather had carried the knife into World War I. Thirty years later his father had carried it in the trenches during World War II. Both wars had been lost, but both men had survived. The knife had been passed down the family line to Christov. Nearly one hundred years old, the weapon was antique by today’s standards.

It was also Christov’s good luck charm.

He paid careful attention to cleaning the grooves running down both sides of the blade. The grooves prevented the blade forming an airlock in a wound. Few knives had them these days, but most modern knives were designed as tools, not weapons.

‘It’s not here,’ Christov’s man reported.

Christov raised his radio. ‘Bolton. Where are you?’

Bolton answered immediately. He sounded slightly out of breath. ‘I’m just reaching the helipad now. We had some interruptions. Some of the infected passengers are forming into packs and working as groups. The flamethrowers worked though.’

Packs?
thought Christov. He’d never seen them cooperate before. But he’d never seen so many in one place before. His were always in cages or strapped down and sedated.

‘The Captain’s safe was empty,’ said Christov.

He let the news sink in.

‘Then the Marines already have it,’ replied Bolton. ‘Or they went to the hospital to collect it from Elizabeth Green.’

Christov agreed.

‘Those Marines won’t leave the hospital alive. And we won’t leave until they are ashes under our boots.’

Neve expected disbelief. She wouldn’t have believed it either.

A contagious drug sounded implausible.

It sounded like science fiction.

She held up a bundle of printouts. ‘These are facial swab results from the inner ears, mouth, throat and nasal cavity.’

Craigson entered and interrupted her train of thought. ‘Justin said you’d need this.’

Neve pointed at the pile of medical reports she still needed to examine.

‘Just put it there please.’

‘He said it was important.’

‘It’s all important,’ replied Neve, searching for a particular set of results. ‘Here they are. These are the nasal cavity swab results.’

She touched her forehead above her nose. ‘The nasal cavity is the air-filled space in your head behind your nose. Normal swabs of a healthy patient will show us all the varieties of bacteria that have colonized the cavity. Sinus bacteria are harmless. They’re not pathogenic. They just live in there like bacteria do all over your body.’

She held up the swab reports. ‘The infected patients’ nasal cavities have a thousand times more bacteria than normal. And it’s all only one single species.
Staphylococcus epidermidis.
That single species has been reproducing so quickly it out-colonized all the other bacteria that normally live in the sinuses.’

‘How does that prove the drug is contagious?’ asked Neve.

‘Because this strain of
Staphylococcus epidermidis
is producing the drug. The drug is a byproduct of its reproductive cycle. Whenever an infected person exhales, they are spreading their bacteria in the air. The next person to inhale that air is instantly infected.’

‘So the
bacteria
are infectious,’ said Coleman. ‘Not the drug.’