Chapter 45
A sob escapes me.
No! No, it can’t be! He wouldn’t let himself be caught—he’s too good at his job. It can’t be.
It can’t . . .
I bow my head low.
“Yes . . .” He stretches out the word. “And if yu are not talking, well . . . we will find slow, painful way for him to go. And yor going to watch. And then, we’ll do same thing to yu.”
Gun sits in a chair opposite me, behind the laptop, and leans back. “So, for short, we nid to know what blocks growth of bacteria.”
I’m silent.
“Yu understand English, no?”
They all laugh.
“Yours is a bit hard to understand, to be quite honest,” I say.
His mocking smile disappears in an instant. He looks at me, utterly terrifying with a stern glare and cold eyes. He leans in over the screen. “Yu give me what I want, swithart, or yu don’t si the light of another day.”
I huff despite myself.
His eyes widen.
“As if you’ll let me go once I tell you,” I say, trying to look defiant.
He smiles broadly and leans back. “But of course, swithart, of course. What else would we do with yu?” And as he says it, his eyes slide up and down my body and stop at my breasts.
I have the urge to cross my arms and cover myself, but my hands are tied at my back. I can’t.
The man on the left says something in their language, and they all laugh again.
“Yes, yes,” says Gun, looking me in the eyes. “Maybe later.”
Then he leans his elbow on the table, lifting his gun to rest on the top of the screen. “Go on then,” he urges.
I look at the dark gray metal tube in front of me, Gun’s face blurred behind it. My hands are sweating and my heart is pounding.
“All right,” I say, “but you need to release my hands so that I can work on the computer.”
Gun laughs. “Yu think we were born yesterday?” And he laughs some more. Then he says something to the person standing to my right and the man leans in and puts his hands next to the keyboard.
“He is now yor personal servant,” Gun says. “He will be yor hands.”
I swallow. I don’t know what my idea was with my free hands, but it didn’t work anyway.
“Fine. Click on ‘FDM_CG_staining.’”
He does it, and a new window opens with several folders inside. I try to scan them quickly, at the same time trying to decide what to do.
One of the folders reads “FMD_CG_Genomics_new.”
I suck in a breath. These must be the genomics data of Crazy Gro that came in the day before we left, the ones that I didn’t copy onto my memory stick
. But Frank did. And they are here now. If I could only view the data!
But even if I opened the file, I’d only know what bacteria this was if I compared it to the online prokaryotic databank, and for that I’d need the internet. I wouldn’t be able to sell that to these guys.
I check the names of the other folders.
Then I see that Frank did classical staining for Crazy Gro too. “Go to ‘FDM_CG_Gramm.’”
“Um . . .” The guy’s leaning in, trying to read the file names.
“The third one from the top?”
“Ah, yes. There.” He clicks on it.
And an image opens.
Holy crap! This is what had Frank so shocked!
The image has a white background. In the middle, the dark purple cells are beaded in a row like a necklace. The bacteria are thin and elongated.
I would recognize this strain anytime.
This is Streptococcus.
And whatever type this Strep is, it is bad. Any type of Streptococcus growing this fast is a disaster.
I swallow but try to appear calm. “No,” I say, “that’s not the one. Can you close it?”
He does.
Think! Think, Jane!
Okay, let’s see the images for antibiotics staining. Maybe these guys are right. Maybe he did find an antibiotic that finally works.
“Can you . . . can you open ‘FDM_Schaefer-Fulton_ABs’?”
Several other image folders appear.
These are all the different antibiotics he worked with. And he combined antibiotic treatments with endospore staining, just like I suggested.
“The one that says ‘FDM_Schaeffer_PEN’?”
The folder is full of images. “Click on ‘zero-zero-three-two.’”
He mutters, obviously not happy to be acting as my “hands,” but opens it anyway.
The image opens.
Oh! My breath hitches, but I purposefully make myself breathe normally.
Beside the green cells I expected, the normal living bacterial cells, there are also blue ones.
This Streptococcus makes endospores!
I knew it! I knew there had to be a reason for the slow-down that Frank noticed when he added the antibiotic.
This is ultra-interesting! But what does it mean?
If I could only—
But of course not. I’m not walking out of this alive.
“No, this is not it,” I say. “Can you go back and click on a different folder?”
I go through several different folders, checking a couple of images in each, but none of them show a reduction in the number of cells. Crazy Gro seems to continue growing as if there was no antibiotic treatment at all.
Frank didn’t find the answer after all.
But these guys don’t know that.
All right, think, Jane! What can I—
Oh! I have it! “Can you click on the ‘FDM_Schaefer_AZTR_PC’?”
Azithromycin. Positive control.
Every experiment needs a positive control, so you can see if your reagent works or not. In this case, Frank needed to see if his antibiotics worked, and he must have used his own Streptococcus strain to check it. If I’m right, these images should be empty of cells, because azithromycin killed them all.
The man opens it and—it’s empty! Only a black background. I close my eyes. Ah, thank heavens!
“So?” asks Gun.
I look at him and nod. “This is the antibiotic you need. Azithromycin, um, PC.” I pretend PC is part of the name of the antibiotic. I hope they don’t realize what PC actually means.
Gun stands up and moves to our side of the table to have a look.
“Yu think we are stupid?” he says and bangs the top of my head with the grip of his gun.
My face contorts, my eyes clenched shut against the excruciating pain deep in my skull.
“There is nothing in this picture!” he shouts.
“That means the cells are dead, you idiot!” I yell, my eyes still shut, wishing I had a free hand to rub my head with.
“Yur sure this will stop bacteria?”
“Yes!” I look up, glaring at him through thin slits.
He straightens up and looks down at me. “All right, then. Thank yu for yor cooperation.” Then he says something to the guys and they both grab my arms again and drag me back to my old chair in the middle of the room.
I am more prepared for the drop now, so I’m able to soften my fall.
“Stay!” one of them says as they turn around and return to the table where Gun is sitting.
As if I could go anywhere.
Gun is hunched over the computer, typing something. Then he leans back in his chair, one arm hanging over the backrest, the other leaning on the table.
He looks sideways at me. “Let’s si, swithart. Let’s si.”
Idiot. The only way they’ll know if the antibiotic works or not is if they do the whole experiment again themselves.
And this buys me some time. Not a lot, but some.
I close my eyes and try to move my hands to see how tight the binding is. The duct tape pulls my hairs and burns my skin, but my hands stay bound, as if I hadn’t done anything.
Oh, it’s impossible.
The phone rings and Gun picks it up. He doesn’t say anything. Just listens.
At the end, just before hanging up, he says, “Yes. Understood.” Another break, then a laugh. “Don’t worry, sir. It is very hard to identify ashes.” The other two men laugh, while my stomach instinctively crumples.
Gun hangs up, and they all look at me. Gun says something to the guy on his right, and just the way he looked at me as he said it makes my hair stand on end.
“Well, swithart,” Gun says as he starts to walk toward me. “It seems it is time to say bye-bye to world.”
My heart skips a beat.
No! It wasn’t supposed to happen like this! I thought I still had some time. “Don’t you want to try it out? The antibiotic?”
He comes very close to me, leaning on his knees with his hands—one of them holding the gun—so that he’s at eye level with me.
“Oh, swithart, I thought yu told us truth. Yu wouldn’t lie to us, would yu?” He arches his eyebrows at me. “And anyway, we will find out at demo, won’t we?”
“Demo?” I frown.
“Yes, demo. What do yu think bomb is about anyway? It would be good that antidote works. It would brings us some tens of millions more. But as yu can imagine, our high price comes from killer bacteria, or—what did yu call it—Crazy Gro.” He chuckles. “So cute.”
I blink a few times. “You’re planning on selling it?”
He smiles a broad smile. “Yu are clever one.”
“To whom?”
He shrugs. “Whoever makes highest bid. And there are many who will.”
These guys aren’t typical terrorists themselves, but they are selling Crazy Gro to people who are. To get rich. And they want an antidote to raise the value of the biological weapon.
“But if you guys made it,” I ask, “why didn’t you already make the antidote yourself?”
“I’m sure we would have. If we made it ourselves. But”—he moves his head from side to side—“we stumbled on it and . . . we borrowed it. Without asking. So it’s ours now, to sell to—”
The man at the table says something loudly, waving his hand in the air, then bangs it back on the table, a deep frown on his face.
Gun straightens up. “My friend is right.” Then his gaze crawls from my face, down my jaw, over my collarbone, following the V line of my shirt and ending between my breasts. “Enough of talking. Let’s do something much more interesting.”
He turns his head slightly and says something to the men at the table. They chuckle and say something back.
My throat is shut tight, as if someone’s grabbing my neck. I have the urge to vomit. Through my closed teeth, I say, “Don’t even think about it!”
He raises his eyebrows. “Oh, yu understood what we said? Well . . .” He lowers his head again, a few inches from my face. His breath smells of smoke. “Yu si, no one asked yu.”
He calls out and one of the men behind him stands up to join him. Gun looks at him sideways. “It would be real shame not to have some fun first.” Then he looks down at me. “Wouldn’t it, swithart?”
He says something to the man beside him and he comes to my side, grabs my hair, and pulls it back down so I’m looking at the ceiling, a labyrinth of pipes and tubes.
Gun comes closer. Then he grabs my breast so hard it hurts. I scream and shake my body as much as I possibly can and manage to pull free of his grip.
“Oh, yu are fiery one!” Gun says.
The man holding my hair pulls it even tighter, bringing tears to my eyes and pins my shoulders down so I can’t move. I can hear Gun opening a buckle, unzipping his trousers.
I’m shivering within; my jaws are tight and I’m trying to pull my arms away, though I know I can’t free them. I know there is no way out.
And the only thing I can think of right now is that I’ll never see Sam again.
Gun bends down and tries to grab my jeans. I jerk my knees up as fast as I can but I just miss his chin.
He stands up and slaps me.
For a moment, everything is black; my hair is sprayed over my face.
Then his hands claw at my hips, trying to pull off my jeans. I open my knees so he can’t get them off. He’s yelling something and I hear the man at the table pushing his chair back to stand up.
And then—a whizzing sound.
And a thud. On the wooden table behind them.
The two men holding me relax their grip and turn to look at the third guy.
He’s slumped forward, his head resting on the table, his left ear pressed against the wood, his eyes open in an accusing stare.
Out of his right temple, a sharp, thin piece of metal is poking out.
Gun fumbles with his zipper and looks around, wildly pointing his gun in every direction. The second man lets me go and starts walking slowly toward the table, while peering into the shadows. He reaches the table, quickly glancing at the dead guy, blood now starting to drip from the table to the floor.
He looks at Gun and gives a barely noticeable shake of his head. Then he starts retreating toward us, slowly, still scrutinizing the area.
But then, I hear something. A metallic high-pitched lashing sound.
The man stops.
His expression changes, tense lines on his face soften. His furrowed angry eyebrows slightly arch in surprise. A thin line appears at his neck. His lips part a bit as if he wants to say something.
But he doesn’t.
A moment later, the thin line around his neck opens up and blood pours out, instantly covering his chest in a dark red. Then he drops to his knees and crashes flat on the floor.
Gun leaps behind me. He presses the gun barrel to my ear. His breathing is erratic. He’s shaking and the metal digs into my skin.
I’m afraid he will fire, simply out of fear.
“I’m going to shoot! I’m going to shoot her!”
My throat shuts tight and I close my eyes. I’m pressing my jaws to stop my teeth from chattering.
The next moment, I hear a horrid crackling sound. The pressure of the gun is gone, and the man behind me falls sideways to the floor.
I shakily turn my head to look at him, barely breathing.
Gun is lying on his side, the weapon still in his hand, but his head is twisted in an unnatural angle toward his back.
A moment later there is a cutting sound, and my hands strapped behind me are freed. Sam comes into view from my left and kneels at my feet, cutting off the tape at my ankles as well.
I’m free, but I stay seated. I can’t move. I look at Sam, my whole body shaking, and I can’t speak.
He looks up, into my eyes, and very gently puts his palm on my cheek. “It’s all right, Jane. It’s over.”
The jeans at my groin feel warm and I realize I just peed. I give a little whimper, and Sam takes me in his arms and carries me out of the warehouse hall. My whimpering turns into crying and then into sobbing. I’m shaking violently, and Sam holds me tighter.
“It’s over now, you’re safe. It’s over.”
But I can’t stop crying and I can’t stop shaking.
Was it finding out about Frank? Or almost being raped and killed?
Or was it seeing those men fall down like pieces on a child’s board game, with no idea what took them?
Sam.
Sam.
I shiver again. I want to tell him that we should take their laptop, that I want to look at Frank’s data, but before I manage it, my mind goes blank, and I collapse.