“I’m sorry to take you away from your families,” Elliott said, “but I believe your families, and mine, will soon be in very real danger.”

Surprised, confused expressions stared back at him.

“What are you—”

Elliott held up a hand. “Just… give me a minute, Bill. It’ll all make sense.

“In 2004, Congress passed the Project Bioshield Act. On the surface, it was a bill that called for five billion dollars to spend on stockpiling vaccines and other countermeasures against bioterror and pandemics. But what the public doesn’t know is that there are secret provisions in the act—provisions that are only invoked in the event of a catastrophic biological event. I believe we are witnessing the beginning of such an event. I believe this respiratory virus—X1—may actually be the early stages of the Ebola-like hemorrhagic fever that is currently devastating Kenya. If they are one and the same virus, I believe that Project BioShield will soon be invoked to try to stop that outbreak.

“When that occurs, the America we know and love will change very drastically. What I’m about to tell you must never leave this room.”

When Elliott was done speaking, one of the men leaned forward and said, “Let’s say you’re right. What do we do?”

“That’s why you’re here. I have a plan. And I need your help.”

Chapter 47

Chapter 47

In the metal and glass cell, Desmond lay on the narrow bed, watching the never-ending slide show. A few of the photos were from his childhood, but the bulk of them depicted him at industry trade shows or at business meetings. They began in his early twenties and ran nearly up until the present. Either his captors didn’t have pictures of his personal life, or none existed. The people who came and went outside his cell asked him a range of questions, careful to never reveal anything about their cause and goals, but here and there, he gathered small clues, which he cataloged, hoping they would help him escape.

After they left, Desmond felt his stomach growl. They had fed him very little, perhaps hoping to keep him weak and docile.

Instead, the sensation brought back another memory.

For the first year that Desmond lived in Oklahoma, his uncle left him at a preschool when he was working on the rigs. The kids there were of varying ages, but at six years old Desmond was among the oldest. Several of the other oil workers left their children there too, and he made a few friends. But every time Orville returned to pick him up, he argued with the owners about the price, complaining that it was highway robbery.

One day, Orville announced that he was leaving Desmond at home. He put some money on the counter and told Desmond that if he had to come home to tend to him, he’d make him sorry.