“We’re in,” the operator said over the radio.

“What do you see?” Conner asked. “Do they know yet?”

“No. The tests comparing the viruses have been delayed. Their infection models are way off.”

“Good. Download everything and get out.”

In his stateroom, he watched the video feeds. Desmond was in the middle of some push-ups. The three programmers were camped out beyond the glass, typing furiously. The area around them was starting to resemble the pigsty Conner had found them in: crushed Red Bull cans and microwave meal wrappers littered the floor.

Another feed showed the redheaded CDC physician. She was strapped to a bed in the medical wing. She’d been sleeping since the surgery.

Conner switched the feed to Peyton Shaw. She was just waking up. She staggered to the tiny bathroom in the cell and stood over the sink, bringing water to her face. She gagged once, then moved to the toilet, waiting, but nothing came up. She rested her back against the wall, staring at nothing for a long moment.

Slowly, she stood and stripped off her clothes. Water washed through her dark brown hair, over her curves, down her body. Conner studied her for a long moment. She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous—not like the girls every guy went for—but he thought she had something even more attractive: an unassuming confidence. It drew people like a magnet, put them at ease, compelled them to want to be around her.

He was the opposite. He repelled people. Repulsed them. He had since childhood. Everyone who saw him instantly had the same reaction. Smiles disappeared. Eyes grew wide, raking over the scars on his face.

Soon, he would create a world where that didn’t matter, where no child would have to grow up a monster, alone, rejected by every person who saw him.

After her shower, Peyton lay on the narrow bed, her wet hair soaking into the mattress. She was scared. For her own safety, for Hannah’s, and for everyone in Kenya and beyond. If the virus went global, it could claim millions of lives. Maybe more. It felt like her entire world had been turned upside down. She had felt that way only once, when she was six years old.

Her family had lived in London then, in a flat in Belgravia. She’d been asleep in her bedroom when the door flew open. Her mother rushed in, shook her, spoke urgently.

“Wake up, darling. We’re leaving.”

Her mother made her dress and leave home with only the clothes on her back. She crowded Peyton, her sister Madison, and her brother Andrew into a black cab, and they sped to Heathrow. The four of them left London forever that night.

The first flight took them to Amsterdam, the second to Paris. A private car drove them through the night to Le Mans. At daybreak, they boarded a small plane that flew them to America.