The Paris Betrayal by James Hannibal (the dot read aloud .txt) 📗

about doesn’t leave much room for optimism. Natural plague victims need to start receiving treatment within a day or two of infection. Strong symptoms give them plenty of warning. But the weaponized critter you described doesn’t show itself for sixteen days, and kills fast once it does. If your info is good, any antidote we create will be useless.”

“If my info is good?”

Tess shrugged. “Severance, Calix. The Director made the judgment declaring you’re not trustworthy. Don’t blame me.”

He let it go. “Okay, let’s assume I’m not a traitor or an incompetent and I’m giving you solid intelligence about the coming attack. What’s the prognosis?”

“Total devastation. And I mean total.” She glanced at her screen and the rotating bacterium. “All mammals are affected by Yersinia pestis, the original bubonic plague bacteria. Controlling it in the human population will be hard enough. In the animal population, it will wipe out entire food supplies—truly reshape America.”

Reshape America. Control from chaos. “Then help me contain it. Help me stop this attack. Go to the Director. Or better yet, take me to him.”

“No way. I wouldn’t take a severed spy to the Director, even if I could. I’ll send in your blood. I’ll make a report on this bug. It’s the best I can do.”

That wouldn’t be enough. He snapped his fingers. “I lifted a thumb drive from Sea Titan’s offices.” He handed it over. “I found that in an envelope addressed to the Behemoth’s captain. Can you check it?”

“Maybe.” She connected the drive to her tablet, glancing at him sideways. “This better not give me a virus.”

“Funny.”

Tess huffed and shook her head. “Empty.”

“What?” Ben sat forward and looked at the screen. Sure enough, the drive contained no files.

“Stop wasting my time.” Tess yanked the drive and chucked it into his lap. “And don’t you dare start in on the Behemoth, this fabled ship with a nuke’s worth of CRTX and ten thousand tanks of plague. I ran a search for her after I took your samples.” She swiped the screen to show him a marine cargo tracking site. “She’s in dry dock—never left Spain. An empty drive. An imaginary plague ship. You have no proof to back your story. All you have are words.”

He couldn’t believe Tess would turn on him like this. “I have a deadly disease. You saw the results.”

“Your disease is bad, but it’s a far cry from the monster you described from Kidan’s files. All your illness tells me is that you had direct contact with the same enemy you encountered in Rome.”

“But Giselle—”

“Had you cornered—unconscious—so you say. And you want me to believe she let you come running home with knowledge of Leviathan’s whole plan?” Tess dropped the tablet into her bag. “Look at this from my view. As far as I know, Giselle is dead, and you’re trying to use me to feed the Company more bad intelligence.”

“Tess, please . . .”

“I want to believe you.” Tess softened her voice, reaching to touch his cheek, but pulled back, setting the hand in her lap. “You know I do. But I can’t take the risk. And by the way, changing your story to make Giselle the villain isn’t helping. The last I heard, you were blaming Dylan for your troubles. Poor little guy. The Company recalled him from an assignment, put him through an investigation.” She raised an eyebrow. “But Dylan came through the investigation clean. No severance.”

“Wait.” Ben had looked down to rub the spot where she injected the cocktail. It had started to burn. He looked up. “You’re telling me Dylan is stateside?”

Her softness vanished. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”

“I need to see him. I know he’s not happy with me right now, but he can help with my situation.”

“I doubt he can help. And I know he won’t want to. And to say Dylan’s ‘not happy’ is a gross understatement.” She pressed her lips together. “Have you ever heard the term shootin’ mad?”

His attempt to answer became a fit of coughs. Ben’s symptoms were worsening. He swallowed against the sandpaper in his throat. “I’m dying, Tess. And Dylan’s a grade-A geek who hates guns. How bad can he hurt me?”

62

The pepper spray hurt. It hurt a lot, given Ben’s condition. So did everything else Dylan threw at him.

Ben had spent a full day of his precious time preparing for the encounter, but he started with the direct approach out of respect for his former colleague. He rang the bell at Dylan’s front gate. Big mistake.

Shady Oak, Virginia, boasted acreage lots, Potomac views, and distinguished residents from Washington DC’s elite political and diplomatic circles. How Dylan nabbed a house there was beyond Ben’s comprehension. During a recent mission, the young Welshman had bragged about an online auction and creative bidding strategies, but Ben had zoned the rest out as geek chatter.

Ben showed up looking presentable in a fresh polo and jacket he’d picked up at the local Walmart. More than a day had passed since he met with Tess, and he’d kept busy preparing for this encounter. He needed Dylan—more than he planned to let on.

When Ben rang the bell, the geek appeared on a video monitor wearing a Game Gear headset. “Go away. I’m busy.”

“It’s Ben.”

“Yes, Grandpa. I can see you. Here in the twenty-first century, we have this thing called live two-way video.”

The Welsh accent only exacerbated Dylan’s sarcasm. Ben bit back an angry reply. “Dylan, I don’t feel well, and I’m short on time. A bioweapon is headed our way. How about you skip the okay-boomer jabs and open the gate?”

“What part of ‘go away’ don’t you understand, traitor?”

Traitor. Of all the things Ben imagined he’d be called in the spy game, traitor had not been among them—especially not by a member of his own team. “Dylan. I said open the—”

A stream of pepper spray hit him in the face.

By the time Ben could see again, blinking against his tears, the screen had gone dark. “Fine. You wanna play? You’re on.”

Tess’s cocktail of antibiotics and