“With about 30kb of the horsepox genome, yes. But we need to obtain it from a commercial provider—which is highly regulated, as you can imagine, with layers of paperwork. And we’ll need a strand of the ancient pox from McMaster to test it against.”

“Can they get it?”

“I’m sure the president has some pull.”

“And you can re-create the vaccine?”

“Yes. Now that I have access to Zoey’s notes. With the right equipment, we can resynthesize the horsepox, and thus, create the vaccine. Hopefully.”

“How long will it take?”

The plane slowed to a stop.

“Depends. Normally, years, to make sure the vaccine is safe for human trials, but we’ve done all the hard work. Now we just need to re-create it, and . . . well, test it.”

Colt unbuckled. Stood up. Held out his hand to her, maybe to help her out of her seat. “Let’s hope we won’t need it.”

She took his hand and found herself tucked up next to him in the narrow aisle. He let go, but then perched his hand on her shoulder to keep her from falling back into her seat. With his other hand, he grabbed his duffel bag from the overhead compartment.

The temptation to lean her head down on his chest, to put her arms around his waist, to close her eyes and hold on, hoping the world might just stop, swept over her.

Loving him now was worth it, even if she had to let him go later.

She sighed. Yes, love. Because she hadn’t a hope of putting the brakes on her heart. Especially when, as he put the strap over his head, wearing his bag cross-body, he also leaned in and kissed her forehead.

Then he met her eyes, taking hold of her heart with his smile.

“Ready to save the world?”

“Yes,” she said and took his hand again.

NINE

If Colt ever worked for the government again, it would definitely be as part of the Caleb Group, with their Gulfstreams and Escalades and beach safe houses slash mansions by the shore.

“Hel-lo, taxpayer money,” he said as he got out of the SUV and stood in the paved driveway of the three-story, um, small resort on the barrier island off Melbourne, Florida.

The L-shaped, all-white house sat back from the road, via a thin corridor edged with thick palm tree growth and tangled moss that was probably riddled with trained alligators that defended it from passersby. Across the highway was a never-ending stretch of beautiful, nearly white sand beach. The property faced the Indian River, but with the acreage around it, not to mention the tall cement fencing, it screamed, Stay away. And the high-security lights only added a “really, don’t even think about it, no—and I mean you—trespassing” vibe.