“Let me get the door open and you get inside—keep dry,” Evyn murmured, continuing the gentle massage. “I’ll bring in our gear.”

“I appreciate it, but I can help carry our stuff.”

“This is the part where you practice letting me take care of you.”

A tingle of unease skittered down Wes’s spine—she’d been looking after her own needs most of her life, and her need for Evyn’s touch, her presence, made her feel exposed and vulnerable. She didn’t want Evyn’s attention just because Evyn felt guilty. “None of this is your fault.”

Evyn frowned. “I suck at connect-the-dots, and I’m missing this picture.”

“You don’t have to look after me because you feel responsible.”

“Wow. Okay.” Evyn’s hand fell away. “I’ll just let you fend for yourself, then—and when you finally do collapse—”

Beneath the edge of anger in Evyn’s voice, Wes heard hurt. She didn’t want to hurt her. She didn’t want the cold distance between them that had nothing to do with the storm or the dark either. “So maybe that came out a little wrong. I guess I suck at the being taken care of thing. I had two little sisters who couldn’t even remember our dad. Things were harder for them, and my mother had only so much energy to spread around between the four of us.”

“Okay.” Evyn’s shoulders relaxed and the tightness around her mouth softened. The red highlights in her hair gleamed against the glow of snow cocooning them, an ethereal image that imprinted on Wes’s brain. She was beautiful—not model perfect but strong and bold.

Wes wanted to erase the last vestiges of wariness in Evyn’s gaze. She wanted to trace the line of her jaw, but instead she grazed her fingertips over the back of Evyn’s hand where it rested on Evyn’s knee. “Can we try that again?”

A moment passed and Wes held her breath. Evyn’s hand turned over and their fingers entwined.

“How about we get you settled and I’ll go for pizza?” Evyn asked.

The heavy weight crushing Wes’s chest dissolved. Evyn’s hand was warm and solid. She tightened her hold. “I’d like that.”

*

The day shift had all left hours ago, and the corridor outside the Level 4 isolation lab was deserted. Her footsteps fell soundlessly on the white tile floor as she made her way to the airlock at the end of the hall. She pressed her palm on the identification plate and leaned down for the retinal scan. The light above the passage flashed from red to green, and the hydraulic door slid open with a faint whoosh. She stepped into the UV chamber, the outer door behind her closed, and she slipped on a pair of protective glasses. When she input her entry code on the wall panel, a hum accompanied the pulse of UV, and the next door in the chain opened. She deposited her protective glasses on the shelf and passed into the inner isolation room, where she methodically went through the routine of testing her positive pressure protective suit—sealing the cuffs at ankles and wrists, zipping the neck, and attaching the air hose to the one-way valve in the center of the back. She twisted the dial and compressed air flowed in. The pressure on the wall gauge held steady at 1 atm. No leaks. She closed the inflow valve and opened the vents along the neck. Air hissed out. She was ready to go to work.

Removing her shoes, she carefully stepped into the bright yellow suit and, after closing the seals, pulled on the calf-high impervious rubber boots. She wore no jewelry to work, not even a watch. She’d only have to remove it—she couldn’t risk any snag or tear that might violate the PPPS. Even a microscopic rent in the isolation suit could allow a contagion to enter, where it might be absorbed by her skin or inhaled into her respiratory system. The biological agents they worked with inside the BSL-4 lab were either highly transmissible or uniformly fatal or both. The suit was her only shield.

Once the suit was secure, she covered the fluid-resistant boots with disposable booties, fit the head shield into place, and pulled on her gloves. She wasn’t concerned for her safety. She was always prepared for any emergency. Caution was a way of life for her, and she’d been trained since birth to be composed under extreme circumstances.

With a bulky gloved finger, she pressed the entrance code, and the chamber pressurized. The inner door opened and she stepped into the lab. She nodded to a colleague working at a nearby station, sequencing a variant of Ebola. After connecting an overhead airline to the suit’s port, she made her way down the aisle, the line following behind her like a colorful yellow umbilicus. She’d volunteered for the night shift six months previously, establishing her routine, arriving a little early, leaving a little later. Her colleagues appreciated her diligence and her willingness to take the graveyard shift for longer than the usual mandatory rotations. At her station, she booted up her computer and retrieved the samples she planned to run on the gel plates that night, along with a second rack of tubes. Over the past six months she’d been carefully siphoning off micro-aliquots of avian flu stock, too tiny to be noticed by anyone else, until she had a single test tube half-full of one of the most virulent synthetic contagions ever produced.

When she left at the end of her shift, she’d slide the tube into a fold in her suit beneath her arm and secure it in place with a strip of the special adhesive they kept for emergency repairs if one of the suits should be accidentally torn. Like a tire patch, the instantly self-sealing adhesive would provide enough protection until the lab worker could get to the decontamination chamber. Tonight, the lifesaving material would allow her to secrete out a virus capable of killing thousands. She wasn’t really interested in the deaths of thousands, however, only one.

President Andrew Powell stood for everything she despised—a spokesman for the rich, a defender of the privileged, a champion of those without morals or values. Her father had taught her and her brothers and sisters the right path, raising them to be survivors. He’d encouraged them to excel, schooling them at the camp with the children of other survivalists, setting them on the path to positions where they could someday make a difference. She’d always known she had a mission, and now she was going to fulfill it. She would help him make his message heard—America for Americans—and now that a leader had emerged, they would have a president who would speak for the righteous. She would help make that possible.

The digital clocks at the far end of the room simultaneously projected the time and date in New York City, Washington DC, Los Angeles, Hong Kong, Sydney, New Delhi, Berlin, London. Seven p.m. in Atlanta. Twelve more hours and the first stage of her mission would be complete. Soon the reclaiming of America would begin.

Chapter Twenty

Evyn handed Wes the last slice of pizza. “You finish it.”

“I’m stuffed.” Wes sat on the bed with her back propped against the wall. Some of the shadows around her eyes had faded, but her cheeks were still hollow, and her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for a napkin.

“You need the carbs—eat.” She hated seeing Wes hurt. Wes didn’t complain—she wouldn’t, and her attempt to feign normalcy only made Evyn want to punch something. She had to do something, even something mindless, or she’d do something they’d both regret. She stacked the remains of their meal—crumpled paper napkins, a couple of paper plates, the pizza box. “I’ll take the empty box to the trash. The pizza was great, but I’d rather not smell the aftermath all night.”

The room was generous by motel standards—two slightly larger than single beds separated by a two-drawer nightstand with a peeling brown lacquer finish. A goosenecked reading light, dusty shade askew, sat on the water-stained top. The bathroom had been carved out of the closet area—a small toilet jammed in next to the sink, a two-and-a-half square foot shower stall, and a solitary overhead light. The closet held a few bent wire hangers and nothing else. Neither she nor Wes had taken anything from their go bags other than toiletries.

“Need a hand?” Wes asked.

“I got it,” Evyn said, not looking at Wes. She’d sat on the far end of the bed during their takeout dinner, a meal she’d shared a hundred times in a hundred nondescript rooms just like this one. She’d never been as grateful for the pizza box sitting open between them as she had been tonight, though—every time she looked at Wes and remembered the way she had looked slowly spinning deeper underwater, she wanted to touch her. Just to assure herself Wes was warm and safe.

She gathered the trash and stood. “Need anything?”

“Nope. I’m going to grab another shower.”

“Still cold?”

Wes grinned wryly. “I’m not really sure. Feels that way, but it might just be my imagination.”

Evyn checked the thermostat on the wall above the dresser, a vintage fifties maple affair with wooden knobs on the drawers and a rickety mirror. Seventy degrees. The room was toasty. Wes still wasn’t fully recovered. “Take your time—use all the hot water if you need to. I’m good.”

“Okay.” Wes rose, glanced at the door. A frisson of anxiety shot along her nerve endings. She’d never minded being alone, but she didn’t want Evyn to walk out that door. She’d paced the room during the ten minutes Evyn had been gone getting the pizza and hadn’t been able to relax until Evyn appeared again, a spark of triumph in her eyes as she’d held the pizza box aloft like a trophy. She’d looked vibrant and vital and sexy. Wes clamped down on the surge of heat that tingled down her thighs. “So I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

“Right.” Evyn reached behind her and fumbled for the doorknob, her gaze locked on Wes. “I’ll be here.”