Anderson nodded. “Hughes clearly has some sort of backup plan. It’s tied to specific events or locations, or some signal that will activate his memories via the implant. So, what if we let him recover those memories? Then we collect him.”
“That’s a lot of assumptions, Doctor. The biggest being that we can simply ‘collect’ him when we’re ready. Bagging him in the first place wasn’t a walk in the park. When he recovers his memories—when he realizes what he’s capable of—it’ll be nearly impossible.”
“Then I’m afraid that leaves us with no options.”
“On the contrary. We have a very good option, gentlemen. And I’m going to take it.”
Chapter 41
The soldiers were rough when they jerked Peyton and Hannah out of the back of the SUV. Hannah’s screams didn’t slow them one bit. They placed black bags over their heads, bound their hands, and marched them to a helicopter, where their feet were bound as well. In the darkness, the drone of the engines and rotors was deafening. The helicopter landed some time later, and they were dragged out, lifted up, and tossed onto the flat metal bed of a truck.
The drive was brutal. The truck bounced along ruts in the road, slamming them into the bed. And with their hands and feet bound, there was nothing they could do to protect themselves. It was like being blindfolded and left to tumble in a drying machine on an endless cycle. Hannah sobbed periodically.
Peyton lost all sense of time. The pain ebbed after a while; perhaps the nerves in her body simply stopped responding to the pounding. She wondered if any permanent damage was being done.
At last the truck came to a stop, and she heard canvas flapping. A ray of sunlight beamed across the black bag, only partially seeping through.
Someone gripped Peyton’s feet, pulled her out of the truck, and caught her as she hit the ground. Her legs were weak, wobbly. Hands moved across her body, grabbing in places they had no right to. Peyton twisted, turned her shoulders quickly, trying in vain to fight them off. The action sparked loud voices, speaking in what she thought was Swahili. Laughs erupted.
She heard Hannah scream as they dragged her out.
“Don’t touch her!” Peyton yelled. “She needs medical attention. A doctor.”
A man responded in African-accented English. “She won’t be needin’ nothin’ soon. Take them.”
Hands reached under Peyton’s arms, lifted at her armpits, and pulled her forward. Her bound feet dragged across the dry, rocky ground. To her surprise, her captors removed the bag before tossing her down. The light was blinding. She heard metal slamming into metal and the turn of a key.
When her eyes adjusted, Peyton took stock of her surroundings.
Her abductors had put her in a stall in a barn. Metal rods reinforced the slat wood walls. She turned—and froze.
Two sentences were carved into the nearby planks:
Desmond Hughes was here
I’m innocent
Peyton stared in shock. Desmond was here? Why?
She heard clothes ripping and Hannah’s labored breaths. The young physician was close—perhaps in the next cell.
“Hannah,” Peyton called.
“Yeah.” Her voice was weak.
“How’re you doing?”
Hannah spoke slowly, quietly. “Got the bleeding stopped.” She paused to catch her breath. “Tied my shoulder up. Bullet went through. I think.” She drew another breath. “Lost a lot of blood. Cold.”
“Hang in there, Hannah. We’re going to get out of here, okay? Some very brave Americans are going to come for us. Save your strength and be ready for anything. You understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
At that moment something changed within Peyton Shaw. She had always lived a purpose-driven life, but it had been a life lived with a cold, clinical sort of passion. She never let her emotions master her. She was never out of control. She’d gotten that from her mother, she thought. Lin Shaw was always composed. And Peyton loved her for it. That same composure had served Peyton well during her professional life.
At work, keeping her emotions in check was imperative. Emotions clouded judgment, changed how a person looked at things. Becoming emotionally attached during an outbreak was a risk; she might be too focused on a particular patient or location, might miss the big picture, or a detail, a crucial contact or piece of information that could save lives. Her emotional detachment had saved lives, and had saved her a lot of grief over the years.
Now, however, in this makeshift cell, as she lay on the dirt floor, the wall of detachment Peyton Shaw had carefully built up over so many years fell. Her emotions broke through in a wave. They took the form of raw, unbridled rage. Rage against the people who had killed Jonas—her friend, her colleague, and someone who might have been much more. Rage against the people who had started the outbreak in Kenya that had killed Lucas Turner and thousands of others. She would find these people. She would stop them. And she would make them pay—even if it was the last thing she did.
Chapter 42
Millen Thomas heard the camp come alive outside his tent. Boots pounded the hard-packed Kenyan ground. Doors slammed. Body bags were tossed onto the bed of a truck.
He rose from his cot, threw the tent flap back, and walked out. The Kenyan army detail that had rescued him from the cave was scouring the village for their belongings—and for their fallen comrades who had died during the night raid on the camp.
Millen had known they would leave, but he hadn’t expected it to be so soon. Last night, the CDC and WHO had evacuated all their personnel from Kenya. A flight with the field teams had left from Mandera; another from Nairobi evacuated the support personnel. Millen had been ordered to be on the flight that left Mandera, but he had refused. Evacuating meant leaving Hannah and Dr. Shaw behind. He had decided to disobey orders—to stay, wait, and hope there was something he could do here.
And now, when the troops left, he would be alone in the village.
Kito approached him.
“We’re pulling out, Dr. Thomas. Orders.”
“Where?”