“Zoom in.”
Conner studied their faces. Desmond. Avery. William Moore. So Desmond had found the old man. Together, they could jeopardize everything he had worked for.
“How old is this footage?”
The agent checked the time stamp. “Fifteen minutes, sir.”
“Do you have cameras inside?”
The man worked the laptop, brought up the internal views, and rotated through them. On three of the feeds, he saw them moving through the building, searching.
They’ve separated, Conner thought.
“Do we have charges in the building?”
“Yes. Standard Looking Glass precautions. In the labs and file areas.” The young man paused. “Want us to blow them?”
“No.” Conner held a hand up. “Let’s wait.”
They sat in silence for ten minutes. When William reached the corner office, he stopped at the desk and looked at a picture frame. The night vision camera revealed the change in his expression. Recognition. Realization. Then he rushed to the filing cabinet and began searching through the files.
“Whose office is that?” Conner asked.
“Unknown.”
“Find out,” Conner snapped.
On the screen, William paused at the last drawer, studied a file, and said into his mic, “I’ve located the target.”
Conner stood. “Where’s Hughes?”
The screen switched to one of the quarantine wards. Hughes was holding a plastic curtain back, disgust on his face.
“And the girl?”
The view switched to the mechanical room, where Avery was trying to crank a generator.
“Blow the charge in the office.”
“Just the office?”
“Yes. And show me all the cameras.”
The screen switched to a split-view of thirty night-vision cameras. They were motion-activated and could run for up to thirty hours without power.
Six cameras went black. Two more showed smoke billowing into the corridors. Another showed the office in flames.
Desmond raced through the hallways. Avery, too.
Conner leaned back, wondering what the man would do.
Desmond stopped at the fire. He won’t go into it, Conner thought. He was sure of that. Avery gripped Desmond’s shoulder, but he threw her off, and to Conner’s shock and horror, he ran directly into the fire.
Conner stood and exited the office.
“Sir?”
He couldn’t watch. “I’ll be back. Don’t leave,” he said.
Conner made his way outside, wondering if he had made the right choice.
Ten minutes later, he returned to his office, where the agent was still watching the feeds.
Three figures stood outside the building: Peyton, William, and Desmond. So. He had made it out. And Peyton was with them. That further complicated things.
“What do you want to do, sir?”
“Let’s make a new plan. One with no chance of failure.”
Chapter 93
Standing in the falling snow, Desmond, Peyton, and William watched the building burn. They were too tired and too injured to walk.
Desmond activated his mic. “Avery, do you copy?”
No response.
Peyton eyed him.
“Avery—”
The roar of an engine pierced the silence. The vehicle was moving toward them at high speed. Desmond couldn’t make it out, but a cloud of dust rose from the road.
Headlights came into view, their yellow light fuzzy through the sheets of snow that blew in the wind. They crossed the threshold of the complex, past the iron gate, and into the courtyard, tires throwing gravel as they went, barreling directly for them.
The vehicle swung around and slid to a stop.
The driver door opened.
Avery stood and peered across the roof of the black Volga GAZ-21. The engine rattled like an ancient radiator on its last legs.
“Figured it wasn’t the best night for a walk.”
Desmond smiled as the three shivering passengers got in and the old Soviet-era sedan pulled away from the burning building.
They decided to take off immediately. If the explosions had been set off deliberately—instead of by an automated trigger—an incursion team might be inbound. They flew north initially, then banked east, then south, hoping to confuse anyone trying to track them across multiple satellites.
When they were at cruising altitude, William activated the autopilot and limped back to the passenger compartment. Peyton desperately wanted to examine his leg wound, but he waved her off. She had just now recovered from her time in the smoke-filled building. She was still getting sicker, and the physical exertion of the last hour hadn’t helped her situation. Her body ached all over.
To Avery, William said, “We need to figure out where we’re going. You have the folder?”
Avery handed it to him, and William threw open the manila cover and began rifling through the pages.
“I thought there was more here,” he mumbled.
“What is it?” Peyton asked.
“Requisitions. Shipping manifests. Medical supplies. Water. Food. Tents. Antibiotics. Rehydration salts.”
“Everything you’d need to test an outbreak,” Desmond said. “But no shipments of cure or virus? We assumed they were using boxes, packing tape, and water.”
“Water is on here,” William said, deep in thought. “And the manifests would probably be faked—the actual cure or virus would be labeled as something else.”
Peyton could tell he thought something was wrong.
Desmond took out his satphone. “What’s the nearest location?”
William looked up as if remembering they were all there. “Actually, they’re all to a single location.”
“Maybe that location was the distribution node to all the others. Aralsk-7 is landlocked and pretty out of the way.”
“Maybe,” William said, sounding unconvinced. “The address is in South Australia, near Adelaide. The destination is an organization called SARA: South Australia Relief Alliance.” He read out the address, which Desmond typed into his phone.
Peyton, William, and Avery crowded around him.