Tucker drew the brim of his helmet lower, further shadowing his features, and set off toward the tumult around the flying tank.
Frank turned and hurried with Ndaye to the back of the church. Once there, Frank cut the zip ties off the man’s wrist and pointed through the trees toward the cluster of Quonset huts that constituted the compound’s research lab. He indicated the largest of them.
“Monk and Charlotte—Dr. Girard—are trying to secure a group of patients over there.”
Ndaye clearly struggled to follow his sudden change of circumstances, especially with the players involved. “Docteur Girard . . . comment cela est-il possible?”
Frank didn’t have time to explain and pushed him toward the tree line. “We’ll rendezvous there. Get moving but be careful.”
Ndaye stumbled off, but he quickly steadied and vanished into the woods.
Frank edged back around the corner of the church. He returned his attention to the square. He looked for Tucker among the rush of men but failed to spot him. Time stretched—or maybe it only seemed that way.
Where are—
A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind.
He flinched and jerked around. Tucker stood there, his face sheened with sweat, his eyes bright. He must have circled the other side of the church and come up from behind.
Tucker gave a shake of his head. “Not there.”
Frank sighed.
So, Draper is still MIA.
Tucker turned and brought around what he had hidden behind his back. “But I did find this,” he said with a savage grin.
He lifted up a rocket launcher, already fitted with an RPG. Frank knew exactly where Tucker planned to aim it. They both eyed the gunship.
“You can’t take it out yet,” Frank warned. “Not until we find that bastard and secure the code key. At the moment, we have the advantage of surprise. Blow that gunship up, and they’ll lock this place up tighter than a duck’s ass in a cold lake.”
“Not the plan.” Tucker nodded toward the guesthouse. “Draper has to be in there, likely finalizing the evacuation with the head honcho. We jump him, grab that thumb drive—then we’ll deal with that helicopter.”
Tucker set off toward the guesthouse, circling behind the empty armory. Once they neared the steps leading up to the front porch, Tucker sidestepped to a cluster of bushes flanking the stairs. He hid the rocket launcher there, but not too deeply, making it an easy grab.
Tucker straightened. “Backup,” he explained. “Just in case.”
Frank nodded and herded Tucker toward the stairs. The quicker they were through the door and out of sight, all the better. Tucker must’ve thought the same, clattering up the steps.
Before they could reach the porch, the door slammed open ahead of them.
A familiar figure barged out of the guesthouse, flanked by two soldiers.
Draper.
The man’s gaze immediately noted their upturned faces. He recognized Frank in a flash. Without any hesitation, Draper snatched a pistol from his holster, his motion a blur.
Tucker got his rifle up, but he was a touch too slow.
Draper fired.
Tucker was hit in the chest and flew backward from the impact. He crashed hard at the bottom of the stairs.
Draper leveled his gun at Frank’s head. All Frank could do was lift his arms. The two soldiers pounded down the steps and centered their rifles on Tucker as he sat back up, gasping, the wind knocked out of him. His body armor had saved his life.
Draper crossed to the edge of the porch and glared down at Frank. “Welcome back, Dr. Whitaker.”
8:38 A.M.
Another muffled gunshot cracked inside the medical ward.
Monk cringed, fearing the worst.
Goddamn it . . .
He hurried to the entrance but stopped at the threshold long enough to raise a palm toward Charlotte. “Stay with Kane,” he quietly urged her.
Fury shone in her eyes, along with determination. She crowded behind him and lifted her 9mm higher, clearly not intending to hang back.
He hoped another was more obedient. “STAY AND GUARD,” he ordered Kane, reinforcing the command with a hand signal taught to him by Tucker.
The Belgian Malinois settled forward, drawing closer to the wall.
Satisfied, Monk slipped to the door and glanced back at Charlotte. “Stay low. Let me take the lead.”
Another gunshot covered the creak of the door as Monk pulled it open. He rushed low into the sealed anteroom. He kept below the observation window that looked out into the ward. He nearly had to crawl to stay hidden. A quick glance around the enclosed anteroom showed that most of the protective gear—gowns and respirators—had already been cleared out. Not that it mattered. Isolation protocols had been abandoned. Even the door into the ward hung crookedly by one hinge.
Charlotte scooted next to Monk, leaning a palm and cradling her weapon near her chin. The door clapped quietly closed behind her as the pistol blasted yet again.
Monk edged up enough to peek over the window’s sill.
The ward looked like a storm had blown through it. Carts lay toppled. Drawers had been pulled out of cabinets and dumped haphazardly. Glass pipettes and flasks littered the floor, broken and trampled over in the haste to evacuate.
But not everything had been cleared out.
Patients still lay atop the cots. A figure in body armor and helmet stood in the middle of the hut. He held a smoking pistol in hand. Monk scowled with recognition. Ekon. The lieutenant stepped over to the next bed, leveled his weapon at an old man who stared unblinking at the ceiling, oblivious of the threat. The blast snapped the elder’s head back, exploding gore across the pillow.
Beyond the cot, the other beds were equally bloody. Closer at hand, another half-dozen patients cowered in their cots, staring in terror at their executioner.
Charlotte gasped and tried to push past Monk, but he stopped her with a raised arm. He needed a moment to assess the situation. It looked as if Ekon had taken out the patients in the deepest throes of the disease, those nearly comatose and immobile. The bastard had likely chosen the order of targets out of a sadistic maliciousness, savoring the remaining patients’ terror, those who were still in various stages of re sponsiveness. A teenage boy sobbed, covering his face. Others clutched sheets to their chins. Lips moved in prayers or begged for mercy. A mother guarded a child, shielding the baby with her body.
One of them must have tried to run for the exit earlier. A young woman lay facedown, her knee shattered by a round, her face cratered by a large exit wound.
Ekon moved on to the next bed, where the young mother turned her back, trying to further protect her baby.
Charlotte responded before Monk could stop her. She rose and fired through the window. The round punched through the plexiglass, but in doing so, it ruined her aim. Ekon smoothly ducked behind the cot, his cold expression never changing. He grabbed a fistful of the woman’s hair and used her as a shield.
“Disanka . . .” Charlotte moaned.
Cursing, Monk dove out of the anteroom. He slid on his shoulder across the broken glass and debris. He fired one-handed at Ekon—less in an attempt to strike him, and more in the hopes of chasing the bastard away from the woman.
His efforts failed.
Ekon simply pressed the hot muzzle of his pistol to the back of the woman’s head, dragging them both lower. As he did, he whispered in her ear.
Monk rolled behind a steel cabinet that had been toppled on its side. He sheltered there, gritting his teeth in frustration. He knew Ekon’s whispering wasn’t some threat to his captive. Monk had noted the microphone at the man’s chin.
He’s radioing for reinforcements.
By now, Charlotte had dropped back down. She looked guiltily toward Monk, but he couldn’t blame her. Her instincts had been to protect the innocent. Even now the woman—Disanka—clutched her baby to her bosom, a palm supporting his tiny head.
“Go,” Monk called to Charlotte. She could still back out the door and seek shelter with Kane in the woods.
She shook her head, refusing.