Chapter Twenty-One

1:47 a.m.

Dozer saw Carmen sag onto her side, blood pooling beneath her.

Fear stabbed him in the gut. “Carmen!”

She didn’t respond.

He was moving before he realized it, holstering his gun and stepping around the body of the disillusioned doctor he’d just killed. He knelt next to Carmen and rolled her gently onto her back so he could see where the blood was coming from.

The front of her shirt had a bloodstain on it over her lower-right abdomen about the size of the palm of his hand. That didn’t match the amount of blood on the floor. He rolled her onto her side and glanced at her back.

Her clothing was soaked in blood from her neck to her butt.

“Medic,” he shouted, pulling her shirt up to see where the wound was. Blood poured out of a thumb-sized hole in her back.

Jesus.

He slapped his hand over it just as two pairs of booted feet arrived on either side of him. First aid equipment dropped to the floor, along with both responders.

“There’s so much blood,” he said, but he didn’t even recognize his own voice it was so strained.

“Was she shot?” a woman asked.

“Yes, a through and through, I think. It happened before I could get into the room. There’s a smaller entry wound on her front.”

“Keep the pressure up,” the other responder, a man, instructed.

“She’s bleeding out.” The skin on her face and her hands was already paler than he ever remembered seeing it.

“An air medevac is going to meet us outside,” the woman said. “We’re going to get her to a hospital in minutes.”

The female responder probably thought she sounded comforting. Confident. Caring.

All Dozer could see was the blood all over Carmen and, now, all over him.

Her blood.

He’d promised to protect her. He was supposed to keep her out of the line of fire. He was supposed to keep her safe.

So how the fuck did he get here? Kneeling on the floor of the Surgeon General’s office, trying to stop the woman he loved from bleeding to death?

He hadn’t even told her he loved her. Fucking moron.

A moron about too many things, including a goddamned measles outbreak started by so-called domestic terrorists and possibly helped by one disgruntled ex-CDC employee.

He glanced at the body of the man he’d just killed. From everything Dozer had been able to find out, Dr. Halverson had been a relatively normal guy. Smart, dedicated, and focused on his research. Until his wife left him. After that, he’d become aloof, secretive, and suspicious. That was still a long way from the paranoid asshole he’d put out of his misery.

The two paramedics put pressure bandages over Carmen’s entry and exit wounds, inserted an IV needle into a vein on the back of her left hand, and got her onto a stretcher. They managed to move around Dozer without getting themselves or him tangled in their gear or the IV tubing.

Because he wasn’t backing up or backing off.

He kept his hand on the pulse point of her right wrist. As long as that steady rhythm kept on thumping, she was okay. If she was okay, then he was okay.

She has to be okay.

“Sir,” the female paramedic said to him. “We need to move.”

He looked the competent middle-aged woman in the eyes and said, “I’m coming with you.”

“You’re welcome to come with us to meet the helicopter,” she said. “But there’s no room for you in the bird.”

He opened his mouth to tell her there wasn’t a force in hell that could keep him off that aircraft, but the Surgeon General appeared in his line of sight.

“Agent Dozer, I need you with me.” Then, he took Dozer by one elbow and tugged him away from the stretcher, allowing the two medics to rush Carmen out of the room.

Dozer took a step after them.

The SG got in his way again. “The danger isn’t over yet,” he said in a low voice. “All kinds of people are trying to kill us.” He wiped his face against one shirtsleeve and looked around furtively.

Sweating and suspicious? Dozer looked at the man, really looked, and noticed what he should have seen the moment he walked through the door—his white shirt was splattered with blood, his wrists were bruised and bloodied from whatever restraints Halverson had used, and he all but vibrated with indignant rage. “What do you mean?”

“Halverson…” He glanced at the body, then back at Dozer, and continued in an even lower voice: “is just the beginning. Someone turned him. Someone else pulled his strings.”

“The FAFO.” The name wasn’t enough. Dozer needed live people to question. To punish.

The SG paced away. The back of his dress-shirt collar was soaked.

Dozer had thought it was due to stress, but what if that wasn’t the only reason the other man was sweating? “Sir, are you okay?”

The SG swung back around, blinked at Dozer, then stumbled a few steps to one side and collapsed like every tendon in his body had been cut.

The paramedics were there almost before he hit the floor.

“Check for a rash under his arms,” Dozer ordered.

The paramedics glanced at him. “Measles?” one of them asked.

“Look and find out,” he suggested. If there was a rash, the SG had been contagious for days. Every person in this room had been exposed to it.

They tore open his shirt and looked under his arms.

The paramedics glanced at him and nodded.

The measles had infiltrated all the way to the Surgeon General. A man who spent time in every major government building in the city.

The FAFO didn’t have to drop a bomb anywhere. The fucking measles was about to explode through the population of Washington, D.C., and it would kill a lot more people than any one conventional bomb could.

The only problem was, Dozer still didn’t know what the fuck was going on, who the inside mole was, or how to stop the disease from killing thousands, and potentially millions, of people.

Rawley came up beside him. “What’s the verdict?”

Dozer glanced at him. “We’re fucked.”

“That’s not funny,” Ketner said, joining them.

“Does it look like I’m laughing?” Dozer shook his head. “He’s probably had a fever for a while. That means anyone who’s been in the same room with him in the last three or four days has been exposed.”

Rawley and Ketner watched the paramedics assess the Surgeon General. Then they turned to him.

“What do we do?” Rawley asked.

Even Ketner looked concerned and seemed ready to accept orders.

They were now in worst-case-scenario territory.

Dozer pulled out his cell phone. “I’m calling the Director of the CDC.”

Once he explained the situation, the director decided to take the nationwide response one step further. The shelter-in-place recommendation was changed to an order to be enforced by not just police, but the military and National Guard.

The director also decided to recommend every man, woman, and child in the country be given an additional MMR vaccination booster.

“What the hell use is another shot?” Ketner asked, pacing away, then back.

“It gives your immune system a kick in the pants or something like that.” He wasn’t the doctor.

“Millions of people are getting sick, and they’ve already been vaccinated.”

“People who get another shot appear to be faring better than people who don’t.”

Both Ketner and Rawley stared at him like he’d lost his mind.

Dozer raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m just repeating what I’ve experienced and what I heard Dr. Rodrigues tell others. I’m not the expert.”

“What are you talking about?” Ketner asked.

“Dr. Rodrigues ran a couple of test groups.” He gazed at the other men. “Gave them the extra booster. One of those people was me.”

“We should be trying one of the new anti-virals,” Ketner said.

“Maybe if things go on long enough, one of those new drugs will turn out useful, but everyone at the CDC was hesitant to use untried drugs. Especially when they cost so much. The MMR vaccine is cheap, available, and safe.”

Rawley nodded. “Those are very good reasons. Where do we get the vaccine?”

“The CDC is already on it.” Dozer’s phone pinged. He pulled it out to check it. It was a text from Henry.

Dr. Rodrigues is in surgery at D.C. General Hospital. Where the fuck are you?

On my way, Dozer texted back. The Surgeon General just collapsed—measles.

Proper face masks in use?

Nope.

Stupid fuckers.

Yup.

Get to Rodrigues. Guard her back.

Will do, boss.

Dozer looked at Rawley, then Ketner. “You got this?”

Rawley nodded. He’d already pulled out his phone and was texting rapidly.

Ketner’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you going? We need you here.”

“Officially, I’m not here at all. Unofficially, I’m just a bodyguard, and the body I’m guarding is in surgery.”

Ketner’s eyebrows rose. “I thought she died.”

Dozer had to stuff the anger down deep, or it would stab out of him and poke a whole lot of holes in the FBI agent’s body. “No, in surgery.”

Rawley studied Dozer for far too long. “I was told she was dead, too.”

“By who?” Dozer asked. She’d been shot only minutes ago.

Rawley stiffened. “That is a very good question.”

“It could have been a member of the SG’s staff,” Ketner suggested.

“That’s a hell of an assumption to make,” Dozer said.

“The whole office is in chaos,” Ketner said in a tentative tone. “Mistakes and misidentifications are more likely to happen.”

“I’m not sure I buy that explanation,” Dozer said. “Sharing sensitive information without corroboration will get your security clearance revoked. And, if they’re sharing that info with you, who else are they sharing it with?”

“That is a unique position to be in,” Rawley said. “Only a handful of people are privy to that much information so quickly.” He punched in some numbers on his phone. “I’ve got this.”

“Good, because I’m out of here,” Dozer said, walking toward the door.

“Wait,” Ketner said. “Which hospital are you going to?”

“The one with the best surgeons in town,” Dozer said, then strode out of the room before Ketner could ask another stupid question.

Dozer left the building but stopped as soon as he reached the sidewalk. The only vehicles in sight were emergency and law enforcement. Shit.

His phone pinged. Another message from Henry.

You ready to leave? Because a buddy of mine should be there any second to take you to the hospital. His name is Marco. He’s with the NSA. He’s blond and looks like he should be surfing the big waves.

A tan-colored SUV rolled up to him, the driver’s window came down, and the driver looked Dozer over. “You Dozer?” He raised an eyebrow. “I knew I should have put the plastic seat covers on. Henry never calls me unless there’s a mess to clean up.”

Dozer glanced down at himself. Carmen’s blood had soaked the front of his shirt near his waist and splattered all the way up to his collarbone. Just how much blood it took to do it almost took him to his knees. Only his need to make sure she was okay, safe, kept him on his feet.

“Get in.”

He got in the passenger side and shut the door.

“It’s going to take about fifteen minutes to get to the hospital.”

Dozer studied the other man. It was either that or pound his fists on the dash. He was big, blond, and scruffy. “You don’t look like a surfer.”

“Compared to Henry I do.”

Dozer grunted. He couldn’t argue with that. “John Dozer, Homeland Security.”

“Marco Blitzer, NSA, and I’m not just here to give you a ride.”

“Oh?”

“We’re all about information at the NSA. We monitor email, social media, texts. If you use it to communicate with someone, we’re watching it.”

“Have you heard something that pertains to the outbreak?”

“Quite a bit. It’s all everyone’s talking about. It’s who’s talking to who that’s interesting.”

The mole. “Who’s made themselves interesting?”

“Homeland Security admin, specifically Human Resources, talking to a couple of FBI agents in the New Orleans office. Multiple calls over the last three or four weeks.”

This news should have given him a shot of adrenaline, but he was so fucking tired there wasn’t any left. Of all the ridiculous shit that had happened, this was just the rancid icing on the damned poisoned cake. Ketner was from the New Orleans office.

He hadn’t always been pleasant, but he hadn’t struck Dozer as the kind of man who’d support bioterrorist attacks.

“What kind of information changed hands?” Dozer asked.

“Don’t have that yet. We’re working on a warrant, so we should know in the next few hours what they’ve been talking about or exchanging.”

Was the leak in the FBI? The fucking FBI?

Ketner’s girlfriend worked for a pharma company. Was he the leak?

No one could be that stupid.

Greed had made a lot of people stupid, however, and would continue to do so.

Dozer told Marco about Ketner’s connection.

Marco cleared his throat. “Henry saved my life back when we were in the Army together. And this shit…”—he indicated the quiet traffic, much too quiet for the middle of the day—“this shit is real. The NSA is on it now. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Dozer had to hold in a snort. That was what he’d said when this first started. All he’d found was either another dead end or another dead body. Over and over again. The pattern was set. Whoever was in danger of being discovered was going to end up dead.

Dozer glanced at Henry’s friend. The guy looked like he gave a shit, and if Henry trusted him… There was more to this than just the measles epidemic. Much more.

Summoning up some energy from somewhere, John Dozer—a man who trusted, truly trusted, few people—opened his mouth and let it all come out. He gave Marco a succinct summary of the entire investigation into the bioterror events the CDC believed the FAFO was involved in. Eight months of bombs, bacteria, and bodies piling up.

“It’s not just this outbreak,” Dozer said. “We’ve been playing a search-and-destroy game with the FAFO since they emerged. At first, they seemed like a single group or cell who, like some cults, recruited college-age kids. But, as time passed, they’ve shown themselves to be more sophisticated. They strike different cities or regions every time, and I think the college kids are used deliberately as cannon fodder. We’re not sure when Halverson stole the virus or if he only got involved with them after he was fired or what, but we’re losing the battle with these people.” He looked out at the empty streets. “Losing badly.”

Marco drove for a couple of minutes. The hospital was in sight ahead, and the NSA agent turned onto the road that looked like it would take them to the emergency entrance.

Where the rest of the city was quiet, here the road was jammed with ambulances, police cars, and even a couple of fire trucks.

“Where is she?” Dozer asked.

Marco started to shake his head.

Dozer leaned closer and said, “You need to go make sure no one assassinates Ketner before you can interrogate him. I need to make sure Dr. Rodrigues stays safe. That’s my only job here.”

Marco hesitated, then said, “Sounds like a plan. Keep yourself out of trouble, too.”

“That goes without saying. Where’s your phone?”

Marco handed it to him, then told him the location of the OR.

Dozer handed the phone back. “My contact info is in there. Stay in touch.”

“Ditto. Good luck.”

“Watch your back,” Dozer told him. “These fuckers like to put bullets in them.”

Marco waved, pulled a U-turn, and drove off.

Dozer made his way to the bank of elevators that would take him up to the fourth floor and the operating rooms. When the elevator doors opened and he strode out, a cluster of staff standing at the nursing desk turned to look at him.

“Sir, you can’t enter this ward without a mask on.”

“I’ve already had these measles, and I’m not contagious.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” one of them said. “Having measles when you were a kid—”

“I’ve had the new strain,” he said. “Had it, recovered from it, the whole shebang.” He paused to be sure they heard him. “I’m working with the CDC. Dr. Carmen Rodrigues is in surgery here. Can any of you tell me which OR she’s in?”

“Oh, I see,” the spokesperson for the group said. “That’s good to know. Um, she’s in…”

One of the other women whispered something in a voice too quiet for Dozer to catch.

“OR three. There’s a small waiting room close by. I’ll show you.” She led him down the hall to a door and opened it.

He stepped in and nodded at the older man already there.

“Hello, dump truck. Feeling better?”