Germ

The Cessna's cabin had been converted to accommodate a galley, a plush chair that folded flat for sleeping, video and stereo equipment, a hanging martial arts heavy bag, and a workout bench with fastened down weights. In the back wall, a door serviced a room with a shower, sink, and commode. For better or worse, this was home, as much as anywhere.

He bent lower to peer into a mirror. His thick black hair was cut short, but not short enough to keep it from standing up on one side and spiking on the other. He ran his fingers back through it, which failed to alter the design. He had green eyes behind thick-framed glasses that made him look like either a geek—despite his muscular build—or a trendy filmmaker. A strong, straight nose, square jaw, and—when he smiled—deep dimples that made charming the ladies relatively easy—a skill he often tapped to keep a store clerk from chasing him off as he staked out a nearby target or to get a waitress to divulge her knowledge of a target. He shaved twice a day, but still his stubble was heavy, accentuating a long hairline furrow on his left cheek where nothing grew.

Acquiring that scar had taught him to appreciate the speed at which a human could produce and use a previously undetected weapon. Prior to that incident, he had killed exclusively by hand. Well, technically, by gauntlet, a weapon he'd had custom-made. It allowed him to be near his targets when he released them from life's burdens, to feel the physicality of the release. But his own release wasn't part of the deal, so he'd also taken to using a pistol when he thought it would be prudent. Life was about adjusting, fine-tuning, and being forced to amend his killing style to include both gauntlet and gun was so perfect, it felt to him like divine guidance.

He picked up the television remote and pushed a button. Two forty-two-inch plasma screens—one at each end of the cabin—sprang to life, showing blue screens and the words locking in satellite reception. Then an image appeared, a woman slapping a man . . . The image changed to a kid eating cereal . . . and changed again to a black-and-white western—Shane, the assassin thought—then it changed again . . . and again . . .

The channel-changing button had been permanently depressed with a toothpick. It was the way the assassin liked it. Frenetic and active, never still. Flip, flip, flip . . .

". . . never thought I'd see anything like . . ."

". . . act now and we'll throw in these . . ."

[the low grieving sound of a violin]

". . . what was it like playing an animal. . ."

[engines revving, tires screeching]

[static]

". . . because I know

you did it. I know . . ."

Yeah. He felt his synapses picking up speed, trying to catch up with the information cycling past. Before long, he'd be able to start and finish the sentences whose fragments each channel spat out with blinding speed. The chances of his guesses being the actual sentences were slim, but they made sense, and that alone meant his mind was clicking, and clicking fast.

A beep sounded from the cockpit. He returned to the pilot's seat and checked the laptop strapped into the copilot's seat. His new client had fed updated coordinates into the mapping software he had provided upon retaining Atropos's services. The target was on the move. The man's current trajectory warranted a change in destination airports. He found the new airport coordinates in a GPS unit and punched them into the autopilot. The cockpit brightened as the plane banked toward the sun.

five

"We have a lock on the SATD signal."

The man who spoke did not take his eyes off the three flat-panel displays arranged before him. One showed a twenty-five-square-mile section of Atlanta, with a thick vein running diagonally through it. Small letters next to the vein identified it as I-75. A red dot moved steadily northwest along the highway.

An old man in a wheelchair turned from surveying the bucolic landscape beyond a wall of windows. The chair buzzed across an expanse of hardwood floor and edged up next to the technician.

"Can we seize the signal completely?" the old man asked.

"You mean cut the CDC agent out of the loop, so only we have it?"

"Exactly."

"Yes, sir."

"Will anybody—the FBI, CIA, CDC, anybody—be able to intercept it once we take it?"

"No, sir. Nobody."

"Will they be able to trace it back to us?"

"We are completely cloaked, sir."

"Will this CDC woman be able to reconnect or disrupt our use of it?"

"If she tries, the program itself will block her out. She'll just keep getting error messages on her computer."

"Then do it."

The technician typed a command and hit ENTER. The image flicked once. "Done."

Wheeling away, the old man said, "Now tell our men to back off."