“You’re smart enough to know the answer to that.”

“Why?”

“Fear.”

The pieces came together then. They had released the flu strain in isolated parts of Kenya a week before they had released it around the world. In the later stages of the virus, it presented like an Ebola-like hemorrhagic fever—an outbreak deadly enough to get every government’s attention. They had wanted to demonstrate what would happen around the world in a week if the virus wasn’t cured.

“You have a cure, don’t you?”

He flashed her a condescending smile. “We’re not monsters, Peyton. We have the means to stop the virus as soon as governments figure out their place in the new order.” He turned away from her. “Now as much as I’ve enjoyed our talk, I have some questions I need you to answer.”

“Screw you.”

“Your friend Dr. Watson has lost a lot of blood. My people tell me she needs surgery, urgently.”

Peyton stared at him, rage simmering. This man was responsible for Jonas’s death and Lucas Turner’s and so many others. He couldn’t be trusted.

“Give me answers, and we’ll help her,” Conner said.

“I don’t believe you.”

He turned the tablet around, showing Peyton a video feed of Hannah on an operating room table, a tube running from her mouth, the wound at her shoulder exposed and prepped for surgery.

Three people in masks and surgical gowns stood around the table, gloved hands held in the air.

“How do I know you’ll do it?”

“A show of good faith, Dr. Shaw.” Conner touched his collarbone. “Proceed.”

On the screen, the medical personnel sprang into action, converging on the wound. Others appeared from off-screen, pushing trays with instruments forward, within easy reach.

“You stop answering, or start lying, and we stop operating,” Conner said.

Peyton nodded, still watching the screen, her eyes locked on the blood pressure readings.

“Have you had any contact with Desmond Hughes?”

Peyton looked up. Desmond Hughes—the words were like a cattle prod. “Yes,” she said quietly.

“When?”

“Before I deployed.”

“How?”

“He called me.”

Conner looked confused. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not—”

“We tapped your mobile, Peyton.”

“He called me at home. On the landline.”

Conner spoke slowly, still suspicious. “What did he say?”

“Nothing—”

“Answer me,” Conner said, his tone hard.

“He was confused. He didn’t know who I was. He told me I was in danger. Then he hung up.”

“In danger of what?”

“He didn’t say.”

Conner considered her words for a moment. “When did you last speak with your mother?”

“What?”

“Answer.”

“When I landed in Nairobi.”

“What did she say to you?”

Peyton recounted the conversation, as best she could remember.

“When was the last time you spoke with your father?”

“My father? The eighties. I was six—”

“You haven’t spoken to him since then? No emails? No meetings?”

“Dead people don’t send emails.”