The rest of the drawer was filled with more research—documents of their trials. The drawer below that one had folders on distribution methods. They had tried air fresheners, hand soap, even cologne. All had proved either too expensive or ineffective.

The next drawer had folders marked with locations. Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Dakar, Senegal. Harare, Zimbabwe. Lusaka, Zambia. Bamako, Mali. Conakry, Guinea. This is it, William thought.

He opened the first folder, read quickly. It was a study of the location’s population, economy, transportation, and infrastructure. The page heading read, Index Site Study. These were places they had considered starting the outbreak. One of the files was marked Mandera.

William slammed the drawer shut, pulled open the last one.

A folder marked Supply Shipments sat in the very front. He pulled it out and let it fall open. Inside were shipping manifests—hundreds of them. Medical supplies. Water. Food. Were those words used as code for the virus, or the cure? They certainly wouldn’t list “virus” or “cure” on the shipping manifests. No. This had to be it.

Into his mic, he said, “Desmond, Avery. I’ve located the target. Level three, front left corner.”

He studied the folder, lost in thought.

Desmond’s voice came over the comm. “William, I’m almost to you.”

The explosion that ripped through the office threw William against the wall. The metal filing cabinet toppled over, trapping his leg.

In the home’s living room, Peyton heard the explosion. She leapt from the couch and raced into the street. The largest building in the complex was on fire. Another explosion went off, blasting brick and roof tiles from the facade like lava spewing from a volcano. She didn’t hesitate. She began running toward the building, coughing as she went, her lungs already burning.

Chapter 90

Chapter 90

The blast knocked Desmond off his feet. He rolled across the white tiled floor. Ceiling tiles rained down on him. He curled up, waiting for it to stop.

When the building fell quiet again, he had caught his breath. He rose and ran toward the blast location. In the corridor, long fluorescent lights hung by wires from the ceiling. Doors stood open. Plate glass windows were shattered. Shards crunched under Desmond’s boots.

In the stairwell, he felt warmth from above. He ascended, driving toward the blaze. When he pushed open the door to the office wing, a wave of heat blew past him.

A cubicle farm spread out before him; offices with exteriors windows lay along its perimeter. Smoke and flames filled all of it. The fire was finding plenty to consume: papers, old wooden furniture, and most concerning, the wood studs in the walls.

“William, do you copy?”

William’s voice was weak. “Copy, Desmond. I’m pinned. I found it. I’m going to read you the location where the supplies were sent—”

“Sit tight. Prep for evac.”