“Gotta get the cores back. Boss said.” Sampson reached for his sat phone and checked the satellite schedule taped to the wall. “I’ll check in with her. Let her know we’ll need to launch a full-scale—”
“Oh no.” Clive hurried to interrupt. “I’ll update her on—”
“Director.” The shithead had already dialed. “Sampson here.” He turned his back to the room, giving Clive the sudden urge to slide that enormous knife from the man’s sheath and plant it in the back of his neck. “Looks like the big guy took off with the cook. Yeah. Cooper. Took the ice cores, too.” The ring of excitement in Sampson’s voice was absolutely nauseating.
While the man listened to whatever the director had to say, Clive worked hard to slow his breathing, willing himself to calm. It didn’t matter, after all, who headed up this search, as long as the virus made it back to the Facility. Wherehewas king, not these thugs.
He pictured the Harper Facility’s pristine, high-tech labs, equipped with everything needed for viral replication. It was all ready and waiting. The only thing missing were the infectious materials themselves.
He’d have the entire winter to conduct his trials in peace, and though he wasn’t exactly pleased with the methods, he had what most people only dreamed of—a group of subjects entirely at his disposal.
“Yeah. Got to head back to the Facility to gear up first. But don’t worry. We’ll get ’em, boss.” He watched the idiot talk to Katherine Henley Harper as if she were some college girl he’d met in a bar instead of one of the most powerful women in the world. Perhaps he didn’t realize. Clive tilted his head. Maybe the trick was that Sampson didn’t care.
Okay. He’d do the same. Not care. So, rather than focus on these militarized idiots and the frigid hellhole around them, he let images of the future soothe him—the villa in France, the East Village loft. With the bonus he’d been promised, he’d be flying first class for the rest of his life. Not too shabby for a kid from Detroit.
“The doc?” Serene now, Clive focused back in on Sampson’s conversation. “I’m afraid he’s stepped out for the moment, ma’am.” The man’s hard eyes flicked to Clive’s outstretched hand and then away. “I’ll tell him you wanted a word.”
Clive worked hard to maintain a placid exterior, while inside he was boiling. Was the asshole making a play for power? Was that it?
Why? What good could it possibly do him to make enemies when they were ostensibly on the same side? It wasn’t like he could carry out the trials. Was this just some stupid, macho posturing, or was there something deeper happening here?
A shiver went through him as he thought of the months he’d be spending locked up with these men in that facility.
He’d have to keep his distance, he decided. It wasn’t the loudest who held the power, or the strongest. It was the man who delivered.
While these mercenaries strutted around bullying everyone in their path, the service Clive provided would change everything.
So they’d have to coexist peacefully for the next several months. He could do that. He could do anything given enough motivation.
As Sampson hung up, Clive did his best to channel one of the man’s easy, Sunday-morning smiles and stood. “So, it’s a-hunting we shall go, then?”
“That’s right.” Sampson smiled. “You ready?”
Chapter 19
Day 2—246 Miles to Volkov Station—20 Days of Food Remaining
“Get up, Angel. Gotta go.”
Something about Ford’s tone cleared the sleep from her mind with uncommon swiftness.
“Okay,” she mumbled, struggling out of the bag. “Up. Up. I’m up.” Half-out, she paused to squint around the now-familiar interior of the tent, one eye still closed, in search of whatever had him so agitated. “What’s going on?”
“There’s a plane.”
Adrenaline shot through her so fast she swayed. “Here?”
“Not far.”
“They see us?”
“Don’t think so.” He was throwing things into bags, packing sloppily when yesterday he’d warned her against just that. “Better leave.”
She nodded, grabbed the socks she’d hung above her head to dry the night before, and shoved her feet into them, then threw on her many layers.
“I’ve got the bedding.” He urged her toward the door, where she yanked on her boots. “You go out and eat. And here—drink this.”
She accepted a steaming cup of something, stumbled outside, and took a too-hot swig as she eyed the horizon, the freezing wind turning the cold bite of fear into something solid that slid in at the nape of her neck and worked its way down her spine. Her next sip was cold. Breathing hard, she searched the skyline. Where were they?
