“I think you don’t want to know what I think,” Juan said. “Let’s just say that if that’s what I think it is, we have an animal with an immune system that not only defends, but attacks. Which would also explain why there was no chemical toxicity detected after the host died.”

He shuddered at the thought of an immune system that could attack at the cellular level.

“It would probably look like a case of anaphylactic shock,” he said quietly. “And that’s a battle our bodies aren’t trained to win.”

###

As Juan walked out to his car—after yet another sixteen-hour day—Paul Hutchison jogged toward him from the parking lot and waved. “Dr. Gutierrez! Juan!”

Juan stopped. “Paul?”

Despite being in his sixties, the head of security for AgriMed jogged comfortably toward him and only stopped when he got to within ten feet. “Dr. Gutierrez, let’s have a talk.”

Hutchison spoke with a casual tone, but something about his body language set Juan on alert.

“What’s going on? Is there—?”

Hutchison put his finger to his lips and motioned for Juan to follow him away from the building.

A heavy foreboding weighed on Juan as they strode farther away from the sidewalks and parking lots that skirted the FBI buildings.

Once they’d reached some predetermined distance from any living beings, Hutchison stopped, motioning for Juan to get closer.

Juan approached until they were practically breathing each other’s air.

Hutchison pulled out a handheld electronic device.

“Juan, I’ve got something you need to hear. But before I play it, you need to understand something. Don’t ask where I got this, and never mention this to anyone. Because I can assure you, it’ll be your hide, not mine.”

“Wait a minute, maybe I don’t want to hear this.” Juan tensed with a wave of trepidation. What in the world could be so important compared to what he was already dealing with?

“You really don’t have much choice. This is something that reads on what you’re doing, and they’re not telling you everything.”

“They? Who? You mean the FBI?”

“They. I mean they. Listen, and you’ll understand.”

Hutchison pressed a button on the device, and a recording played.

“What’s our status? Is everyone rounded up?”

The man’s voice was familiar, but Juan couldn’t place it.

“Almost,” said a second voice, also a man. “We’ve collected nearly everyone out of South America, and the British have agreed to send theirs over as well. We’re expecting them all to be here by the end of next week. We have a few stragglers that we’re tracking down on the West Coast, but the quarantine site in Nevada should be able to house them without too many problems.”