With great effort, she raised her arm and touched a few of the vials containing a clear, liquid solution. “Rogue protein will slow the spread,” she said. “No cure, but may allow treatment to take hold.”

Carter smiled and squeezed her hand. “Thank you. You did the right thing. The good thing. Find comfort in that. We’re never defined by single choices or even the sum of those choices, but instead by what’s in our hearts. I can see you have a good heart, doctor.”

She tried to smile, but didn’t seem to have the strength. Carter called out for the team’s medic and for them to bring up a stretcher, but he knew that it was too late. The woman was at death’s door, and all that could be done was to comfort her in her final moments.

To Nic, he whispered, “Tell Burke that Kruger’s gone. Have him deduce where he may be headed. Then tell the commander to find the trail and pretend he’s a damn bloodhound. We just missed that bastard. Run him down.”

Chapter 97

When Burke had returned to the BearCat before Nic and Carter entered the casino, he noticed that Isabel’s hands were now bound in front of her. He could have sworn that she had previously had her hands behind her back, but he supposed it didn’t matter. He had a gun now and was no pushover. He was experienced and wasn’t about to let some foreign woman overpower him. If she had other plans, she would be sorely disappointed.

All he could do now was wait. He was out of the action, on babysitting duty. He hated waiting. Not because of the relativity of time, but because his mind couldn’t help but run through thousands of scenarios, most of which involved the worst possible outcomes. Reality was almost always less frightening than what he could imagine, but the thorns in his brain kept pressing in and making him assume the worst. He would be in a constant state of panic and grief until the true outcome was revealed. If only he had further data points to compare, but the only information he possessed was a strange question from Nic regarding infrared radiation.

Isabel shifted in her seat, and he said, “Don’t get any ideas, or I’ll plug ya.”

Stupid, he thought. Plug ya? When did he suddenly become a 1930s mobster?

She gave him a strange look and leaned against the window. “Are you a cop?” she asked.

“No. I’m a Criminal Patterns Analysis Consultant for the FBI.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He had been thinking about an answer to that question. “I’m a freak,” he said. “Most of the bad guys are freaks too. I can better understand their perspectives than all you ignorant neurotypicals who only see the world through a limited pinhole of your own viewpoints.”

The South African constable didn’t respond. Burke wasn’t sure whether that meant his explanation was an apt one or an appalling one. Either way, it stopped the conversation, which was always good. Regardless, further testing and refinement of his new job description was necessary.