Chapters (96)
- Cover
- Berkley titles by David Ricciardi
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- CHARACTER LIST
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- EIGHTY-FOUR
- EIGHTY-FIVE
- EIGHTY-SIX
- EIGHTY-SEVEN
- Children of Fallen Patriots Foundation
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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The nickname meant “snake” and the man had gotten it after being bitten by a highly venomous puff-adder. Subsequent necrosis of the face had left him with a ragged hole where his right cheek had been. He was one of Yaxaas’s men, angry at the world, and notoriously violent.
“Please.” Farida put her hand on the warlord’s arm. “Just help us get more medicine.”
“But he will do this again . . . and he is Darood.”
“Please,” she implored.
Badeed nodded.
Though the warlord was eager to avenge the killings and the theft, he had chosen the administrator of his clinic well.
FIFTY-THREE
THE MAN WITH the bandoliers was a descendant of the Masai warriors of Kenya. Intense and driven, he’d needed only two days to acquire all of the items on Yaxaas’s list—a remarkable feat given that most of them, including the doctor, had to be brought down from Mogadishu.
Only the test subjects had been sourced locally.
Everything was ready by sunrise on the third day. Yaxaas and Nacay were in camp, the equipment had been unpacked and tested, and all non-essential personnel had been dismissed. Three holding pens had been constructed fifty meters outside the western fence line. With corrugated metal roofs and chain-link walls, they resembled primitive jail cells, which would have been accurate—had they not been something infinitely worse.
The twelve test subjects were moved at gunpoint under blue skies and scattered clouds until each pen was filled with a juvenile and an adult of each gender. Obtaining a perfect distribution of age and sex had been easy—Yaxaas’s men had simply kidnapped who they’d needed off the streets of a neighboring town.
The warlord had recognized the biohazard symbol—three sets of pincers arrayed around a circle—when he’d first seen the plastic container packed in dry ice, but neither he nor anyone else in camp, including the doctor, knew precisely what they were dealing with. Everyone assumed it was a weapon because it had been found among weapons, but they had assembled today to test whatever it was inside the thirty-six sealed glass vials.
The doctor had come to Dujuma more or less willingly—one did not say no to an invitation from Yaxaas—but he did not know why he’d been summoned until he’d arrived in camp. Upon learning that his duties would likely result in the deaths of many, he hid his displeasure in order to minimize further loss of life.
Specifically, his.
He inspected the safety gear that Yaxaas’s men had procured: Soviet-era gas masks, a scuba tank and regulator, latex examination gloves, spray bottles, and several other well-intentioned but wholly inadequate items for handling a potentially weaponized pathogen.