Drills.
The men broke their circle to allow Sara inside. Gwen was wringing her hands into her apron. She looked startled. They were all startled, as if it had never occurred to them while they were playing toy soldiers that one of their own could get hurt.
The injured man had clearly fallen from the upper floor. He was on his back, but not flat. He’d managed to land on the only furniture in sight, a metal desk with a rolling chair. His body curved backward over the pieces. His head had broken the plastic arm off of the chair. His tailbone wrapped around the edge of the desk. His legs dangled to the floor. A white shard of bone stuck out of his thigh like the dorsal fin of a shark. His left foot had twisted around the ankle. The toe of his boot pointed back toward the desk.
Sara took his hand. His skin was ice-cold. His fingers were straight and lifeless. “Hi,” she said, because no one had acknowledged him or tried to comfort him.
He stared at her. He was around eighteen years old with pale blond hair. Blood seeped from his eyes like tears. He had stopped screaming. His lips were purple. His quick, panicked breaths reminded Sara of Vale.
“I’m Sara.” She put her hand to his face. He obviously could not feel anything below his neck. “Tommy, can you look at me?”
His eyes started to roll back in his head. The lids fluttered.
Sara didn’t have to examine him to know that his back was broken. His ribs had crushed into his chest. His pelvis would be shattered. The open fracture in his leg was the most visibly disturbing injury, but it was also the least of his problems. Even with immediate surgical intervention, his foot would likely be amputated. And that was assuming he could be stabilized for transport.
There was no way Dash was going to life-flight this man off the mountain.
Gwen said, “I’ve sent for a splint so you can set the fracture.”
Sara felt her jaw tighten. She stroked Tommy’s hair. “And then?”
Dash said, “We’ll take him to the hospital, of course. We don’t leave men behind. We’re soldiers, not animals.”
Sara was so sick of hearing him spout these empty phrases. Tommy clearly believed him. The boy was visibly relieved. He was watching Dash with the devotion of a child.
“All right, brothers.” Dash turned to the assembled group, trying to calm them, “This is a terrible thing that’s happened to one of our best soldiers, but it doesn’t change our plans. We’ll continue drills later. We’re too close to compromise on preparation. But right now, brothers, I think you’ve earned some time away. Gerald, take the van. Let’s get these boys some red meat.”
“Yes, sir.” Gerald was the oldest in the group, early forties with a military bearing. The rest were around the same age as the broken boy on the desk. Their necks were scrawny, their limbs like sticks. Sara would’ve said they were boys playing dress-up, but this was not a game.
They had built this Structure to practice an infiltration, a siege, a terrorist attack. She looked up at the second-floor balcony. There were no distinguishing features. It could be a mock-up of a lobby to a hotel or office building, a movie theater—anything. All Sara knew for certain was that whatever they were planning was happening soon.
We’re too close to compromise on preparation.
“Let’s move, soldiers.” Gerald herded the young men out of the Structure. Their boots were heavy across the plywood floor. They disappeared down the slope of the hill.
Only Gwen, Dash and Sara were left with Tommy. Sara pressed her fingers to the side of his neck, searching for a pulse. It was like touching the wings of a butterfly.
“Well.” Dash adjusted his sling. He had yet to acknowledge Tommy. That fact alone told Sara exactly what kind of leader this man was. “I wonder what that desk was doing there.”
Gwen was staring at him. No words were exchanged, but something passed between them. Dash nodded before walking away.
Sara tasted blood in her mouth as he disappeared down the hill. Instead of sitting with a dying, terrified kid who clearly wanted nothing more than to please him, Dash was returning to his daughters so they would boost his ego.
Sara did not have the luxury of his cowardice. She kept her hand pressed to the side of Tommy’s face. She asked, “Tommy, can you open your eyes for me?”
Slowly, his eyelids opened. He focused on Sara. The white of his left eye was filled with dark blood. His mouth moved, but he couldn’t bring forth more than a murmur. Terror was his single, overriding emotion. He could not feel his limbs. Pain signals were misfiring up and down his brain stem. He was cognizant enough to understand he was not going to walk down from this mountain. He knew just as well as Sara that Dash had washed his hands of one of his best soldiers.
“Puh . . .” Tommy’s desperation was heartbreaking. “Please . . .”
Sara felt her eyes sting, but she would not let this boy see her cry. She kept herself outwardly composed. Her hand stayed pressed to his cheek. A drop of blood dribbled out of his ear.
She told Gwen, “We have to—”
Sara couldn’t say the words.
Tommy was going to die. It was only a matter of how and when. His brainstem could eventually swell enough to stop his breath. His lungs could collapse before that. It could take as long as three minutes for him to lose consciousness, another five minutes for him to suffocate to death. Or his organs could start shutting down, beginning the slow process of a grueling, fully cognizant decline. Tommy was young and strong. His body would not easily give up life. Absent outside help, the only way Sara could ease his terror was to hasten the inevitable.
Eighteen years old.
Sara asked Gwen, “Do you have potassium chloride, or morphine—”
Gwen shoved Sara so hard that she fell backward onto the ground.
At first, Sara was too stunned to get up. Then she scrambled to stop what she knew was coming.
Gwen’s hand clamped down over Tommy’s mouth. She pinched his nose closed with the other, cutting off his breath.
“Don’t!” Sara clawed at the woman’s hands, tried to pry up her fingers, but Gwen’s grip was too strong. “Please!” Sara cried, but she didn’t know why. It was pointless. All of this was pointless.
“We can’t—” Gwen’s voice caught from exertion, not emotion. Her arms shook as she pressed her full weight into her hands. “We can’t waste our supplies.”
Sara was struck dumb by her cold calculation. This was why Dash had sent the other men away. This was what Dash could not abide to witness.
Murder.
Tommy’s eyes were wide open. Adrenaline had brought him into full consciousness. His vocal cords vibrated with a reedy, sucking sound. He stared at Gwen, unblinking, terrified. His throat clenched for air. His useless arms and legs trembled as the nerves urgently tried to fire. He broke his gaze away from Gwen and looked for Sara.
“I’m here.” She knelt down beside him. She pressed the back of her hand against his cheek. His tears rolled over her fingers. Sara denied herself the luxury of looking away. She silently counted off the seconds, the minutes, that slowly stretched out between his life and death.
12
Monday, August 5, 2:30 p.m.
Faith scrolled through her emails as she waited in an empty conference room inside the CDC’s sprawling headquarters. The place was like Fort Knox. She’d had to check her gun at the gate. They’d made her pop open the trunk and hood of her car. A guy with a mirror on the end of a stick had swept underneath for bombs. Then a very disciplined Belgian Shepherd had ignored the Cheerios under the seats as he’d sniffed for explosive residue.
Considering all the nasty things percolating in their labs, it made sense that access into the facility was tightly controlled. Faith’s only question at this point was why her mysterious meeting was taking place at the CDC. Amanda had given her the usual prep—or lack thereof—texting Faith to be there at exactly two-thirty, but offering no additional details. Faith didn’t even have a contact name. By process of elimination, or just by plain duh, she could assume she was here to receive a confidential briefing on Michelle Spivey. The same group who had abducted Michelle had taken Sara. So maybe, possibly, hopefully, please God, Faith would be able to take a piece of information she learned here and spool it down a path that led straight to the asshole who was still holding them both hostage: Dash.
Dash.
Faith hated the man just for his stupid nickname. What was it short for, anyway? Or was he called Dash because he was a really fast runner, or worked as a delivery guy, or was he always in a hurry, or prone to diarrhea?