DR. CASTRO CAME awake slowly, groggily. He was still in the hazmat suit, lying on his back on the floor of his lab. How long had he been…
Castro bolted upright, feeling claustrophobic, and gazed around wildly until he saw the clock on the wall: 7:01 a.m. He’d been asleep—what, almost ten hours? At least that.
He had to move, now, leave this lab forever. Castro got to his feet, opened the lid of the freezer, and saw that Leah’s clothes had ice on them and that her strangled expression had frozen in place.
He shut the freezer, went to the refrigerator. He opened it and looked at all the vials and bags of blood, virus and mutation, virus and mutation, the whole history of Hydra-9’s development from the very beginning laid out on shelves, oldest on the bottom, state-of-the-art up top.
Castro took bags of Luna’s contaminated blood and used a funnel to make the transfer into a lightweight titanium cylinder, then he screwed on a pressurized fitting with a short, stout piece of hose dangling off it. He did the same thing with bags of Ricardo’s blood and then wiped down both cylinders with a bleach solution.
At 7:40 a.m., the doctor looked around, feeling like he’d forgotten something. But he couldn’t put his finger on it, decided it was nothing of real consequence, and left the lab.
After he stripped off the hazmat suit, Castro took the cylinders to his workbench and a green-gray North Face Cinder 55 internal-frame backpack that he’d bought online at Moosejaw.com. The Cinder 55 had 3,356 cubic inches of space inside and thick, rugged outer walls of abrasion-resistant nylon. Serious mountain climbers used these packs to lug gear to and from base camps.
The backpack was almost full already, but there was still room for the blood cylinders, a bota bag of wine, water, and dried meat and fruit. His last lunch. His last supper.
He put a rain jacket on top of his supplies and equipment, toggled shut the main compartment, and then turned the top flap over. He unzipped the top flap pocket, slid in a nine-millimeter pistol with two full clips, and cinched the pack tight.
Hoisting it onto his back, he guessed the weight at forty-five pounds, and he made adjustments to the shoulder straps and waist belt so it rode snugly above his hips, centered along his spine. He was satisfied with the Cinder 55 and the way he’d packed it.
And he was more than satisfied with the items inside it and all the details that had gone into their design and construction. Things were coming together now. Preparation was about to meet opportunity.
Dr. Castro took a shower. He shaved and dressed in dull gray pants with a belt that featured a figure-eight buckle that was really the handle of a three-inch dagger that slid and locked into a hidden sheath. He’d taken it in trade for stitching up the son of a gangster but had never had any use for it until now.
After putting on a gray work shirt with collar and cuffs, Castro set a gray ball cap on his head and eased on a pair of wraparound sunglasses. He picked up the pack, threw it over one shoulder, took one last look at his laboratory, and left, locking the place up tight.
After engaging the dead bolts on the outer door, he put the pack in the trunk of his car. With the keys he’d taken from Leah, he opened her car, started it, and drove it several blocks away. He left her cell phone on and placed it under the seat.
Castro ran back, got in his car, and pulled away. It was 8:15 a.m. He was behind his original timetable by fifteen minutes.
Chapter 83
Friday, August 5, 2016
10:30 a.m.
Eight and a Half Hours Before the Olympic Games Open
SOMEONE KNOCKED SHARPLY at the door to my suite. I opened my eyes a crack, feeling more rested than I had in days. Then the night before and the heartache returned, and I realized that for a long time to come, sleep would be my only refuge from the nightmare of being awake.
Tavia, my lover, my friend, was gone. The woman who might have become my wife was gone. It felt like someone had torn something out of me by the roots.
The knock again.
“Coming,” I said. I threw on a robe, went to the door, and peered through the peephole.
Justine Smith stood there, and my heart instantly felt better.
I opened the door, smiled wanly as she said, “Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah,” I said, and held out my arms. She came into them and the door swung shut.
“I know how much Tavia meant to you,” Justine said. “I got on a plane as soon as I heard, came straight here from the airport.”
All the emotions I’d kept bottled inside broke through, and I held on to one of the few women I’ve loved in life while I went to pieces over the loss of another. Justine held on and on, exuding deep and sincere empathy, rubbing my back while I mourned.
When it was out of me, I felt wrung out and embarrassed.
Justine put her hand on my cheek, gazed into my tortured eyes, and said, “I am here for you.”
I reached and held her hand there, said, “You’re a good friend, the best.”
“Keep remembering that.”