Germ полностью

Private organizations were not supposed to possess military-grade weapons. However, Gregor had discovered long ago that nothing was out of his reach as long as Litt's band of merry scientists kept producing the germs dictators and terrorists desired. With its constant exchange of illegal merchandise, barter was the currency of choice on the black market. The Deadeyes had been a gift from the U.S. government to Israel to combat sniper activity on Route 1, between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. Several wound up in the possession of Hamas sympathizers, who preferred biological agents over anti-sniper weapons.

Gregor used his thumb to punch the button that activated the Deadeyes. The icon changed from "safe" green to "unsafe" red. Up ahead, he heard labored breathing and the crashing of a body breaking through heavy foliage.

He stepped behind a tree and yelled, "Jorge Prieto!"

The crashing sounds stopped.

"Jorge! There is no need for this! We want only to help you!" He spoke in the man's native tongue.

"Go away! Huicho!"

He nodded to himself. To the Guarani Indians, Huicbo was an ugly little demon, a chummy companion of Death. He had long, dirty hair, skin the pallor of a corpse, and a fetid odor. The creature caused repugnance and terror. Gregor wondered if Prieto had ever laid eyes on Litt. He bent around the tree and caught a flash of khaki.

Prieto was staggering at the edge of a pillar of sunlight at the far side of a small clearing, looking for his pursuers. He was hugging himself with one arm; the hand of the other arm gripped a Beretta AR-70 assault rifle. Blood covered his face from the nose down, giving him the appearance of wearing a harlequin's half mask. His eyes were wide and blinking continuously, whether from the sun or perspiration or troubled vision Gregor didn't know.

He felt a pang of pity for the man. What must it be like to feel your insides turning to jelly? To have no clue why? He doubted Prieto would appreciate his own sacrifice. Could such a simple man grasp the grandeur of being the last experimental host of a virus that billions would come to fear? Or of being one of the first to experience a new generation of manipulable "designer" viruses? Ignorance is not always bliss, for here was a man who knew nothing but pain and fear, and none of the reasons that would make him proud to endure them.

Better to end it quickly.

Gregor stepped out from behind the tree and into the clearing.

Prieto jumped at the movement. He squinted at Gregor, obviously unsure if he had spotted a man or a bush. Then he focused on Gregor's face, which Gregor had not bothered to cover with camo. The Indian hunched lower and leveled the machine gun. Its barrel wavered wildly.

Gregor waited. When Prieto started backing slowly into the shadows, Gregor made a show of reaching for his holstered pistol. Startled by this, Prieto bared his teeth and fired. Dirt exploded fifteen feet in front of Gregor, who didn't so much as flinch. The high-pitched whine of an electric motor sounded to Gregor's right as the Deadeye rotated its weaponry. Prieto heard it, too, and shifted his gaze just as the Deadeye let loose with a five-second burst from its Ml34 minigun— five hundred rounds of 7.62mm ammunition spread over a six-foot radius. The effect was similar to an explosive charge: Jorge Prieto ceased to be.

The Deadeye's Gatling-style barrels continued to whirl, filling the comparative silence with a metallic death rattle.

Gregor could make out the circular pattern cut through the jungle as if a rocket had passed, taking Prieto with it. Small trees fell to the ground, severed in two. Leaves floated down, having been torn from their branches and hurled skyward. The air was hazy as the slate-colored smoke of gunpowder drifted up from the Deadeye's hiding place in the trees, and the green-hued mist of vaporized foliage floated down.

Booted feet stomped behind him. He punched the BlackBerry's Deadeye icon again and watched it turn green. The last thing he needed was for some excited guard to shoot off a round and awaken the hideous Deadeye to their presence. He strode forward, searching the ground. He stopped when he spotted a pair of legs . . . just legs. The rest of Jorge Prieto fanned out from the knees in a glistening, lumpy mass. A guard entered the clearing, then stopped, wide eyes taking it all in. Two medical technicians arrived. They, too, stopped short, eyeing Gregor as if he'd perpetrated the destruction with his bare hands. He bent down to scoop up the dented and perforated AR-70. A piece of its polyurethane stock fell away. He saw that a fist still clenched the grip, and remembered that Guarani meant "warrior." The man had died as his ancestors had lived—fighting. He tossed the rifle to the guard, who shied back before catching it with fumbling hands.

"Clean this up," Gregor ordered and marched away.

fifty-five