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  “They are,” Allen said. “I think they are. The way your partner put it was—and I’m not trying to embellish or interpret—‘bio … attack … filovirus …’ I asked when. He said, ‘Already happening.’”

  Julia said, “‘Under way’? That’s what he said.”

  “We’ve got to do something,” Stephen said, leaning in.

  “I agree,” she said. “But what?”

  Allen said, “The sooner this breaks open, the sooner the heat’s off us.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “The media. Newspapers, television. It’ll make headlines for a year.”

  “Allen, it’s not going to happen,” Stephen said with a dismissive wave of his hand. His frustrated tone told Julia the two had already covered this ground. “There’s not a news organization in the country that’ll touch this story without proof.”

  “Look!” Allen leaned on his elbows over the table, bringing his face to within a foot of Stephen’s.

  The wooden pole of the umbrella perfectly separated their firm profiles. The image reminded Julia of a billboard she’d seen outside Atlantic City for what promoters billed “the fight of the century.” The Parkers made credible standins for the boxers: handsome Allen would be the media darling—witty, enchanting, nimble of tongue and foot. But hulking Stephen would be the hands-down favorite, a monolith of unyielding muscle. She suspected that their discord ran deeper than the disagreement at hand.

  “I know people, media heavyweights, who could help,” Allen continued.

  “You could be joined at the hip to Katie Couric—it’s not gonna matter.”

  “You have a better idea?”

  Stephen turned to Julia. “You’re FBI?”

  “Sort of. Like a division of it.”

  “Can we go there?”

  Allen jumped in. “I told you, I’m not going to—”

  Julia held up her hand to stop him. “Yesterday morning, I would have said there wasn’t anyone in my agency or the Bureau I wouldn’t trust. Now I don’t know. What I do know is someone highjacked a satellite signal that’s supposedly impossible to highjack. At least one, maybe two, hit squads are in play; they’re not being discreet and they’re not afraid of killing federal agents. At least two of them were probably cops, so whoever hired them has connections within the law enforcement community. All of this may have something to do with a man-made virus, which means either terrorism or the military. It’s hard for me to imagine that the government isn’t involved in this at some level. The muscles that are flexing are way too big to be private.”

  “The media, then,” Allen said, leaning back, vindicated.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I agree with Stephen. Unless you have hard evidence to support your claims, no reputable news agency will come near this. Your connections might get you lunch and a pat on the back, but that’s all.”

  She raised her hand again to halt Allen’s objection. “I’m not saying this isn’t a huge story, but to newspeople, your saying that it is doesn’t mean squat.”

  It was clear to her that Allen was not accustomed to being contradicted. The flesh on his face seemed to harden. His tight lips pushed out a bit, sliding back and forth slowly, as though he were working on a jawbreaker. His eyes bore into hers, unflinching. He’d obviously perfected this countenance of wrath to a degree that caused nurses, med students, and even colleagues to acquiesce rather than endure the gaze.

  She leaned into it. “Contacting the media now will do nothing but tell our pursuers how much we know and where we are.”

  “The killings,” he said. “The condition of Donnelley’s body, his words …”

  “Just words,” Julia said, firm. “And nobody heard what he said but you, right?”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  She hesitated a beat. “I do, because Goody told me some of the same things. And I’m not the media. You’d have to convince some pretty jaded people whose livelihood depends on checking and double-checking the facts. Even if they were to give you the benefit of the doubt, they’d keep the story under wraps until they investigated, until they were sure. That would give the people after us time to do what they probably do best: silence nosy journalists and their informants.”

  Allen blinked slowly. He was listening.

  “Going to the press would put the spotlight on us, not them. Of course, you could sell the story to one of those grocery-store gossip rags. It’d be right next to a feature about the three-headed pig-boy who ate his neighbor.”

  His facial muscles relaxed. A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth formed into a shallow smile. This seemed to signal a kind of forgiveness of her insubordination. He glanced around, as if realizing for the first time where they were. He nodded. “So where does that leave us?”

  Julia looked at Stephen, his big hairy face open to her, anxious for an answer. She moved her attention back to Allen. He was more cynical than his brother, more cocksure, even now when he was scared and unsure.

  “Where that leaves us is alone.”

  thirty-nine

  “So what do you suggest?” Allen asked.

  She returned his gaze for a time, then turned her head to stare vacantly at the sidewalk beyond the patio’s perimeter. Feet clad in various forms of shoes strode across her field of vision, but her mind registered none of them. Their situation was like a hole, into which she tried to fit a myriad of solutions. As idea after idea flashed into her mind, she’d size it up, hold it next to the hole, discard it for the next one. After a minute she looked up.

  “Evidence. Whatever we eventually do—go to the media, go to the cops—we need to bring evidence. I have something from Vero, memory chip. It may be all we need, but it’s encoded. I may have fixed that, but until we know for sure, we should turn over a few rocks, see what we find.”

  “We’re going to investigate?” Allen’s voice was high with disbelief.

  “Have to,” said Julia, distracted by the plan forming inside. “I can pull some info off of various data banks, find out what the Bureau knows, maybe the status of the investigation in Chattanooga. That may lead us to more clues, more avenues of discovery. We don’t know yet what we’re looking for exactly, but that’s how all investigations.

  start. Before you know it, the pieces fall together, and you have enough to make a case.”

  “Where do we start?” Stephen asked, ready.

  “I’m thinking.

  “Well, no matter how you cut it, we’re on the run,” Allen said. “I’ve never been on the lam before, but I imagine it can get expensive—food, transportation, hotels.”

  “And no credit cards,” Julia said. She’d obtained her new car this morning from a rent-a-lemon place that accepted an extra fifty bucks and photocopies of her driver’s license and LED creds in lieu of a major credit card. Now she was almost out of cash, and she hadn’t considered where she would get more without leaving a paper trail.

  “How about this?” He nodded at a business across the street. “That’s a branch of a bank my dad uses. We called him this morning. He arranged a cash withdrawal in Stephen’s name. I don’t have my ID. We get the money, go somewhere, decide what to do.”

  “You’ve thought this through,” she said, impressed.

  “Leave it to Allen to nail the money angle,” Stephen quipped.

  “Speaking of which …” Allen’s eyes made a sweep of the dishes.

  Stephen pulled out his wallet and dropped two bills on the table, a big grin pushing away the hair around his mouth. “Allen sans cash,” he said. “I never thought I’d see the day. Be right back.”

  He stood, stepping back from under the umbrella to avoid pushing it up by his towering height. He stepped over the patio’s railing into the blazing sun. He squinted in one direction, then the other, waited for a car to pass, and jogged across the street. Julia marveled at the gracefulness of his movements.

  “I need to make a call,” she said. She tossed her napkin onto her plate and stood, pulling the
gym bag up by its strap. “I saw a phone inside.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  She tugged open the big French door that serviced the restaurant and stepped in. Over her shoulder, she said, “I’m only calling my mother. You don’t have to—”

  Then she saw him: crossing the street, as though he’d been watching them from a nearby storefront, and he’d seen Stephen go into the bank. Everything faded away. She saw only him, moving as if in slow motion, letting a car pass, darting behind it. Straight for the bank.

  “What? What?” Allen’s words sounded muffled, far away.

  Jet-black hair, sticking up in spots. Thick-framed glasses. Tall and muscular.

  “Julia, you’re pale as a ghost.”

  She pushed past him, back onto the patio.

  “Allen …” She pointed.

  The man was standing in front of the bank’s front window, peering in.

  “What? I …” Allen started, then: “That looks like … I thought you said he was dead. You said he got blown away. That can’t be him.”

  “It is him. That’s the guy I saw the cops kill last night.”

  Her hand went to her pistol. It rested on the handgrip as she watched the assassin pause for a woman exiting the bank. He slipped into the space behind her, and the glass door closed. He was inside.

  forty

  “It wasn’t him.” Allen was leaning close to her, his hand on her shoulder. Already they were drawing stares.

  “You know it was.” But how? She had not seen a bruise or cut or bullet wound.

  He echoed her thoughts: “How can that be?”

  “I don’t know. I just—don’t know.” Her mind poked at possibilities, but none of them made any sense. “We have to get Stephen out of there.” She pulled out her mobile phone, flipped it open, and dialed 411.

  “I thought we didn’t want to use cell phones.”

  “They already know where we are.” She recited the name of the bank. Ten seconds later, a computer voice informed her it was making the connection at no additional charge.

  Allen said, “He might follow Stephen into the bathroom. Or the way these guys are, just go after him right in the lobby.”

  “I know, Allen. Shut up a second.”

  The receptionist inside the bank answered. Julia made her voice low and gravelly. “There’s a bomb inside the building. In two minutes, you’re soup.” She flipped the phone shut. Two minutes would not give the bank manager time to consider his options.

  “Soup?” Allen asked.

  “Nice image, huh? If you were that receptionist, think you’d be giving the manager an earful about evacuating the building?”

  “I’d probably just leave.”

  She looked at him. If he was joking, he showed no sign of it.

  “Let’s hope she’s cut from a different bolt.”

  She hoisted the gym bag to her side, pulling the strap over her head to cross her body like a bandolier. She didn’t want to lose it if things got crazy. They walked around the tables in front of them and stepped over the railing. She hoped Stephen would pile out with the crowd and beeline it for them. She’d lead them around the corner to her car, staving off the killer with her pistol, if necessary.

  The bank doors swung open, and a nicely dressed woman shot out at the head of a massive knot of people. They pushed and shoved and exploded from the narrow doorway, spilling into the street. Cars braked and stopped. Somehow, the word had spread to the three-story building’s upper floors; Julia could see bodies moving quickly out of the front-facing offices.

  “Yell at him when he comes out,” she said. “Tell him to run, just run. Anywhere.”

  She stepped off the curb. She was considering going into the bank. A movement in a second-floor window caught her eye.

  It was Stephen.

  He was looking through the closed window at the insanity on the sidewalk below, then he raised his head, searching for Allen and Julia. She waved her arms. He spotted her and shrugged.

  Come on! she motioned.

  He nodded and pushed up on the frame. It wouldn’t budge. He leaned over and made a hammering gesture. Someone had nailed the windows shut, probably upon retrofitting the building with central air. He tried again. She could see his face contort. With a crack she could hear from across the street, the window frame splintered and the glass panel rose six inches … Another heave and it opened to a foot … then another two—enough for him to climb through.

  She ran to the street’s center line, sensing Allen behind her. Cars had stopped in both directions as bank customers and office workers milled about on the far side of the street. Heat radiated from the blacktop. Beads of perspiration sprang out on her forehead, her upper lip.

  “Get out now!” she yelled.

  The crowd, noticing the big man somehow stuck in the doomed building, joined in. Shouts rang out: “Come on, man!” “Get out!” “Jump!”

  But the second floor was too high above the concrete pavement.

  “He’s in the bank, Stephen!” Allen called. “The killer!”

  Stephen’s face changed from confusion to concern. He began assessing his options. He eyed the arching fabric canopy jutting out from an expensive perfume shop next door.

  “Hang from the ledge! Hang and fall! Now, Stephen, now!”

  He nodded and immediately swung his leg through the opening. The crowd roared its approval. Crouching on the ledge, facing the window, he assessed the distance down, scanned the edge for handholds. His right hand clutched an envelope. He began to lower himself from the ledge when a shadow flashed in the room behind him. Wood and glass exploded over him. A fist shot out, grabbing hold of the hair on top of his head. Stephen jerked his head around, tethered to the fist. He wrenched his head back hard and lunged away from the window as far as his arms would stretch. A black arm and fist came out of the window, missing his face by inches.

  Julia pulled in her breath. The fist bore hard spikes in the black knuckles—the killer was wearing the gauntlet she had retrieved from her mangled dashboard. Her hand dropped down to the gym bag hanging at her side. Through its nylon walls, she felt it, solid as a fossilized arm.

  Another gauntlet!

  This assailant was not merely similar to the one she’d seen killed; he was precisely the same.

  She drew her pistol and watched as Stephen kicked off of the building, flying backward.

  forty-one

  The gauntlet had not missed Stephen’s face. He felt it nick his brow. Warm liquid stung his eye. The black fist retreated, pistoning back for another strike. If the assailant leaned out, the fist would reach his head.

  Stephen released his grasp on the window frame, focused all his strength into his legs, and pushed out, cranking his body sideways as he did. The arm crashed through the remaining glass, reaching for him. Pellets of glass hit his face, flew past him. The attacker’s head and shoulders leaned out of the window. He had chiseled features, a twisted mouth, blazing green eyes behind nerdy glasses.

  Stephen hit the canopy with a great wbup! His left shoulder caught a rib of the iron frame; the awning buckled, following the downward momentum of his body. Pain flashed up his side into his jaw. Maroon canvas enveloped him, closing out the sky above. He slammed to a stop. He thought he’d hit the pavement, then realized he was cradled in a hammock of fabric, rocking slowly. He scrambled to break free, probing for the ground with his foot. He found it, not far away, and spilled out onto it. His shoulder radiated lightning bolts of pain, and his arm felt numb to the elbow. He realized he was still holding the envelope of cash. He shoved it into his back pocket.

  In the street to his left, Julia crouched in a target-shooting stance, holding her pistol in both hands and pointing it, lock-armed, at the window above. Stephen turned to look, saw nothing.

  “This way!” Julia yelled, pointing in a direction that would cause him to cross in front of the bank. Her eyes never left the shattered window.

  He
hesitated, puzzled. She had approached the cafe from the opposite direction. Then it came to him: the crowd he’d only half noticed from the window had grown exponentially in the brief time it took him to make it down to the street. Gawking people stood at least ten deep in a wide semicircle, of which the bank was the epicenter. But no one dared to approach the area in front of the bank or the sidewalk for thirty yards on either side; Julia had chosen the path of least resistance.

  Allen darted past her, toward the end of the block. That was enough to prompt Stephen to run as well. Julia moved sideways fast, keeping the gun poised at the window. She joined Stephen on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the bank from the canopied store.

  The crowd made a sharp sound as if they were catching their breath all at the same time, apparently seeing something that was out of Stephen’s view.

  Another window above him erupted.

  As the first fragments of debris struck his head, Stephen grabbed Julia’s arm, pitching her forward, away from the destruction.

  Then it came: big and heavy, smashing into the pavement behind him.

  He swung around. A body was crumpled low, covered in glass and wood chips. For a moment, he was certain the assailant had hurled somebody through the window, hoping to crush Stephen. Then the shoulders moved, shaking off the debris. A face turned up to him. it was his attacker. He rose, shedding glass. Blood trickled from cuts in his forehead and cheek.

  Stephen assessed the situation, realized that running was pointless. The man would overtake them all with predatory ease.

  Stephen took a step back and opened his arms, a gesture of peace. “What is this, man?” he asked.

  The assailant grinned, humorless and cold. But it was his eyes that convinced Stephen: he was here to kill. Nothing was going to stop him.

  Nothing but me, Stephen thought.

  He brought his left leg forward and shifted his hips back over his right leg—a hu kool chase stance. He was ready to kick or defend.

  “Stephen!” It was Julia. “I got him. Get out of the way!”

  The killer moved in, thrusting his armored fist forward, cat-quick.