In the corridor David remained where Evan had left him, frozen against the wall, arms raised. In the barred sauna across the space, flames continued to crackle, but Marco’s screams had ceased.

As Evan approached, David held out his hands, shrinking away. “Please don’t kill me. I’m a victim, too. I’m—”

Evan grabbed his jacket, ripping the slender remote free from the inner pocket, taking the fabric along with it. The force of the motion spun David around, and Evan kicked him into the Korean mist room. He vanished into a billowy sheet of white haze, landing with a satisfying crash.

Up the corridor a Kalashnikov coughed out a burst and pebbled glass flew into sight, raining across the tile.

René’s men breaching the spa door.

Evan jogged back over the fake turf, upgrading his less-lethal shotgun to Calaca’s AK-47. On the bar the tray of snacks was gone, replaced by a basket of apples. Evan pocketed two. One of the guard’s heavy jackets was looped over the back of a lounge chair.

He grabbed it as he ran by, heading for the elevator.

The car was there and waiting, and he slid inside just as the cavalry spilled into view, weapons raised. Evan and René’s men had a half second to stare at one another.

Evan gave a little shrug as the doors rolled shut.

The elevator whirred its way slowly to the basement.

Arming sweat off his brow, he aimed the barrel of the Kalashnikov between the bumpers, waiting for them to part. They did.

He had expected almost anything.

But not this.

38. A Bad Night’s Work

38

A Bad Night’s Work

Bags of blood.

Dangling from mounts inside glass-fronted medical refrigerator units, the shiny IV bags bulged like glossy red fillets.

There was medical equipment, too, complex elephantine machines with tangles of cords and smooth beige casings. Enough gurneys for a warfront triage center. And Dr. Franklin sprawled across one of the mattresses, his jaws loose around a rubber strap, blinking languidly.

Evan threw the emergency stop lever, freezing the elevator, and stepped out into the basement. It seemed unreal, a warehouse of dream imagery. He stared through the refrigerator windows at the chilled bags, coded by date and donor name.

They hung like shiny fruits, an orchard of blood.

Evan stopped in his tracks in front of one of the blood-storage units. To his side rose a gleaming, chrome-plated industrial safe. Five feet tall, heavy-duty steel hinges, bolted to the floor.

Curious.

Beside the safe was a tall metal filing cabinet, one drawer slightly ajar. He flicked it the rest of the way out. Medical files, each tab with a “patient” name. He snapped one up from the rack, flipped it open. A full medical workup of a girl listed as seventeen years old. Blood screening and analysis, pathogen reduction and purification, red-blood-cell and platelet count.