Page 41 of Every Last Breath

Maddox clutched Cole’s forearm. “Are you okay? You took a pretty hard blow.”

Castle expelled a heavy sigh, reeling in everyone’s attention. He shook his head, mouth twisted like he was chewing on words made of jagged metal.

“I’m fine.” Cole pulled his arm away.

Sanborn sat and typed something on a touch screen on the smart table. “Cole, several NDAs should be on the screen in front of you. Read and sign while we go through the briefing. If you have questions, don’t hesitate to interrupt. This is Willow Harper.” He gestured to a petite young woman. “One of our analysts. She’ll give us an update.”

Just then, a man and woman entered.

“This is the rest of our analysis section. Amanda Woodrow is our lead analyst.”

A lean, lanky, attractive woman sat beside him and said, “Lead just means I get to handle the boring admin stuff like performance reports.”

Cole noticed a small white clump matted to her chestnut locks. “You’ve got something in your hair.”

She pulled it out and brushed it from her hands. “Part of Jaxi-bear’s breakfast. Oatmeal.”

“That’s Daniel Cutter.” Sanborn nodded to the one in need of a shave and sporting a rumpled suit. The young guy had a rugged build and looked like he should be out riding a wave or a bucking bull rather than sitting in the conference room.

“Happy to take any of those admin duties off your hands, Amanda,” Cutter said.

The woman sighed as if she’d heard and rejected the offer many times before.

“Proceed, Willow.” Sanborn gestured with his raised mug.

She cleared her throat and tapped the black glass-top table, bringing up a digital built-in screen. The brunette had a sexy librarian vibe with her tight bun, pencil skirt, silk blouse, and pearls. “The coordinates from the invitation are to Sparrows Point Shipyard in Maryland. It’s a forty-minute drive from Ilya Reznikov’s compound, which leads me to believe this isn’t the final location where the auction will take place but a pickup point.”

Cole paid attention as he went through the digital paperwork and signed. Apparently, this place was called the Gray Box and even its name was classified. Posh setup they had here. Although the federal ESIGN Act made an electronic signature legally binding, most places still used paper.

“Considering the other bidders live all over the world,” the analyst said, spouting information like water from a spigot on full blast, “I think everyone was given a specific meeting location within easy reach. I suspect whoever shows up for the auction will be transported to an alternate site from there.”

A satellite image popped up in front of everyone—a patch of bare land surrounded by small roads, adjacent to I-695 and the Patapsco River. “This is the shipyard. It’s been closed for some time. No structures to provide coverage for the backup team.”

“I’ve called in drone support, so we can monitor the situation at a distance,” Sanborn said. “Cole, you already know Castle. You’ve met John Reece.” He threw a nod at the guy with the dark hair and face partially hidden by a trucker hat that read Drinks Well with Others.

“And Gideon Stone, also known as Reaper around here.” Sanborn lifted his mug toward the one with all-American, apple-pie looks. “He’ll pilot the helo for the backup team. This”—he smiled at a strawberry blond, who had the aura of a flower child—“is our resident CDC scientist and part-time medic, Emily Duvall, but everyone calls her Doc.”

“Sorry to meet you under such circumstances,” Doc said, blue eyes radiating warmth.

“Any idea how we’ll be transported from the pickup site?” Maddox asked.

“It’s anyone’s guess.” Harper shrugged. “The river runs into the Atlantic. Air, ground, and water transport are all viable. Oh, and a video was posted on the darknet this afternoon. The biological weapon we’re dealing with is ten times worse than we suspected, but Doc will explain.”

“Simpler if you guys watched first.” Doc tapped a few buttons on the table, changing everyone’s individual screen.

A video played, showing a male, midtwenties, restrained to a metal-framed bed and hooked up to an IV. Filthy room. Paint-chipped walls. Somewhere abandoned. No audio. A person wearing a hazmat space suit held up a French newspaper, Le Monde, dated one week ago.

The camera zoomed in on a small canister beside the young man. A timer counted down for ten seconds. The container opened, dispersing a fine mist throughout the entire room.

The video jumped to four hours later. Large red pimples speckled the man’s face and arms. One day after initial onset, a rugged landscape of red blisters and bubbling pustules covered the guy’s body. Three days later, black blood ran from his nostrils and ears. The man was dead five days after exposure, the body incinerated with a flamethrower.

Cole’s blood turned to ice and he suppressed the urge to heave. He’d seen a lot in his life but nothing so vile. Aside from shifting her gaze from the screen, Maddox appeared unfazed, but he knew better. His hand was on her back, rubbing in small circles, before he had the sense to stop himself. Just couldn’t help it.

Not even Superman had the misfortune of being attracted to his kryptonite.

“This is proof of product, sent before the auction,” Doc said.

Maddox’s brows drew together. “The timeline on the video doesn’t match how the virus is supposed to work. It should take two weeks for symptoms of smallpox to first appear. Not four hours. Much less death in five days.”