“You assume we have acted against humanity’s best interest.” Gretchen looked at Peyton now. “I assure you that is not the case. Our actions will save lives. It is you whom I should ask why.”

“I think distributing a deadly pathogen is just slightly against the human race’s best interest.”

“Your perspective is myopic.”

“You have killed millions of people in the last week.”

Gretchen looked away. “Something we regret. Many of the deaths were due to decisions by your government and others. But the end result will be the same. An outcome easily worth the price.”

“Which is—”

The Navy SEAL driving interrupted. “Look alive, ladies.”

The car exited the dirt road and moved onto a heavily wooded promenade with covered walkways, no doubt with camouflage images on top. A large covered parking area loomed to the left.

“Take any space,” Gretchen said.

As they parked, the SEAL in the passenger seat turned and said to her, “I want to remind you of our arrangement—and the consequences of deviating from it.”

“I require no reminder.”

LED lights on the dome of the canopy lit their way toward the lab complex. They walked in silence as other staffers joined them on the path.

Inside, a guard at a desk barely glanced at them. Gretchen led them to an elevator and pressed a button that read B4. At the house, Peyton had considered where to go first. The others had the primary mission: finding the warehouses where the existing cure was housed. But as a backup plan, Peyton’s job was to find where the cure was being created, and gather any information on its mechanism of action. If the others failed, and governments around the world were forced to try to manufacture the cure themselves, that information would be critical.

Gretchen led them to an office with plate-glass windows that looked down on the floor of a vast manufacturing plant. The facility was clearly underground, but it was the machinery that shocked Peyton the most.

“What is this?”

“What you requested.”

“This is where you manufacture the cure? Impossible.”

An amused smile crossed Gretchen’s lips. “Again, your premises are incorrect, Dr. Shaw.”

Peyton activated her comm. “Something’s wrong here.”

There was no response.

“Desmond? Avery?”

She waited.

“Dad, come in.”

No reply came.

Chapter 115

Chapter 115

On another lighted path, Desmond and Avery walked in silence. William and Carl were roughly ten feet ahead of them.

At the island bungalow, Desmond had changed clothes, wiped the paint off his face, and donned a wig with brown wavy hair. He wore a mustache that itched constantly. The polo shirt was a size too small, the shorts too big. Avery kept glancing over at him.

“What?” he whispered.

“Nothing.”

“Seriously.”

She smiled. “You look like a seventies porn star.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Thanks.”

“Looked like you were putting the moves on Peyton back at the house.”