Alana steps over the body to reach Monti. She peers over his shoulder into the canvas bag. The inside resembles the old mouse cage she remembers from her grade school, with a feeder and fleece-like material lining the bottom. There are three rats inside, dividers separating each of them. Two of the gray-black animals freeze in the light, while the third stands on its hind legs and sniffs the air.

Alana recognizes their distinct markings as similar to those of the rat from the necropsy Justine performed. She goes cold at being so close to the source of the Black Death. “How do we know if these are all the rats he brought on board?”

“We don’t.” Monti nods toward the sack. “There are six slots here.”

Alana turns her attention back to the dead man. She kneels closer to him. His open eyes are bloodshot and his lips are chapped and cracked at the corners. She palpates with her gloved hand along his neck, but feels nothing. Then she slides her hand under his arm. As soon as her fingers reach his armpit, she feels the golf ball–sized lump. “Plague!”

“You are certain?” Sergio asks.

“Absolutely.”

Monti barks something into the receiver of his headphones and spins away from the bed. He spouts something else as he races out the door.

“There is movement in one of the cargo bays. It could be Stefano,” Sergio translates as he starts after Monti. “Stay here, Alana, and secure the room. Contain the infection.”

Alana is tempted to follow, but she knows Sergio is right. She walks back over to the canvas bag that serves as a portable rat cage. She stares down at the nervous animals inside. “How many more of you are aboard?”

She knows Stefano could have freed other rats almost anywhere on the massive freighter. There are thousands of containers where he could conceal them. All they would need is a food source.

Food! The word hits her like a blow to the chest.

She turns and rushes for the door. “Where is the galley? The kitchen?” she asks of the lone soldier who stands guard outside.

He shakes his head, clearly not understanding what she is asking.

She struggles to think of the word. “Cucina!” she says.

The soldier frowns. “Il terzo piano.” He motions to the ceiling and then holds ups three fingers.

Alana bolts down the narrow corridor and flies up the stairs to the third deck. She runs past the mess hall and through a set of swinging doors into the galley. Inside, all the closet and cupboard doors are wide open. She assumes the soldiers must have already searched the area, but she has a quick look around. Nothing. She hurries through the open door into the large pantry.

Alana groans as she scans the scope of the storage area. A whole shelving unit is filled with boxes. It will take her forever to go through them. Then her eyes are drawn to a group of plastic bins, the size of large laundry baskets, stacked together in twos on the far wall. She steps over and lifts one off the top of the stacks. It’s heavier than she anticipated, and she struggles to lower it to the floor. She pries open the lid and sees that it is loaded with white flour.