WHAT HAVE I done?

The garbage truck pulled away and lumbered through the open gate. Anong Kara thrust her hand into her pocket, seeking comfort no longer found there.

I gave him my transponder.

She closed her eyes and exhaled.

I’m on my own now.

Gruff voices echoed inside the hangar. Another loaded truck came to a stop with a piercing screech of brakes. Kara ducked farther into the shadows of the waste transfer station.

Time to go.

She hurried away from the traffic clustered around the office. Grime clung to her clothes, and dust tickled the back of her throat. She wound her way behind a stack of wooden pallets, where she waited for an opening.

A door opened, and footsteps climbed into the cab of the truck. The door slammed shut, and the brakes hissed as they released.

Kara crouched lower to the dirt to avoid being seen when it rumbled past her. She sprang into action and sprinted across the open yard, concealed from view by the passing truck. Mounds of garbage grew larger around her, their odorous stench stealing the breath from her lungs.

She pinched her nose and slid to a stop, hidden by the refuse. Despite wanting to breathe deep to catch her breath, she ignored the impulse. She glanced behind her and caught sight of a forklift driving past.

Did anyone spot me?

Not wanting to stick around and find out, she hustled away through the stacks. The repugnant odour lessened once the surrounding material changed to steel then wood. She weaved her way through the makeshift maze. Climbing sunlight twinkled off dust motes in the air.

Agitated voices shouted behind her. She paused long enough to confirm they had found the body she’d deposited on the way in.

Shit!

No longer concerned with being spotted, Kara rushed toward the towering shipping containers next to the fence line. She gripped the chain link. It rattled against the aluminum posts.

Where is it? Come on, where?

She searched frantically for the section cut open on the way in. The angry cries behind her rose in pitch.

I need to get out of here.

Her fingers slipped through a slit in the link. Grasping it with both hands, she pulled the hole open and dived through to the other side. Kara regained her feet and raced toward the stolen van. The street was quiet and deserted in the early hour.

It won’t be for long, though. That body will bring trouble I don’t need. Besides, the general will wonder what happened to me, and without my transponder, I can’t afford to arouse any suspicions.

A quick glance around, and Kara reached for the door handle. Her fingers brushed the metal, and electricity shot through her. The jolt sent her flying backward, hitting the ground. She seized and knocked her head off the concrete. Her skin sizzled. The electric burn on her fingers brought with it the scent of scorched flesh.

“You really fucked up.”

Kara’s muscles twitched as she rolled onto her hands and knees. She lifted her head and stared at Spark’s smug expression.

Blue lightning arced between Spark’s fingertips. “Where is the boy?” The blue veins stitching across her porcelain skin pulsed with her anger. “For your sake, you better not tell me you don’t know.”

Kara regained her feet. Her legs wobbled like a baby giraffe’s. She gritted her teeth against the pain coursing across her skin. “What is the meaning of this?” Her voice lacked the conviction she wanted. She spit, and blood stained the ground. “You trying to kill me?”

Spark chortled. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. You’ve seen the charge I can leave on a doorknob.”

The vagrant last night at the motel.

Kara steadied herself. “I have.”

“Lucky for you then, people still want you alive.” Spark curled her lip at her. “I just want an answer. Where is Toombs?”

She stiffened in response. “Go to hell.”

Spark’s pale skin darkened. She snorted and shot electricity from her fingertips.

Kara’s nerve endings sent pain rippling throughout her body. She crashed back to the ground and spasmed wildly, her mouth open in a silent scream. Little by little, the world dropped away, until blessed darkness embraced her.

MERCY RAINE WHEELED a stool closer to the bed. Castors squeaked across the tile floor. She spun it around and sat, her arms crossed over her chest.

The tattooed man on the examination table scratched at his bald head and cleared his throat. “So, this is . . . safe, right?”

Mercy smiled. “As houses.”

He shifted his weight, and the wax paper crinkled beneath him. “And this will increase my strength? You can do that?”

She unsnapped the clasps on a black case. The lid opened with a soft hiss of air. “I assure you, Mr. Hardy, all things are possible.”

Custom-fitted foam insulation inside held a large syringe and a vial of opalescent green liquid. She removed the syringe, and the needle caught the light and his attention.

“Jesus.” He squirmed farther away on the table. “Does it need to be so fucking big?”

“Now, Mr. Hardy, you’re not afraid of a little prick, are you?”

“No, I ain’t,” Hardy said. “But that ain’t no little prick. You giving me super strength or impregnating a horse?”

She laughed to put him at ease. “Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing. I promise.” Mercy stood and stretched across him to grab a leather tie-down strap.

“Hey,” he complained. “What the hell is that for?”

“Your security, and my own.” Mercy said. “We wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“Why would I get hurt? Thought you said I wouldn’t feel it?”

She took his right wrist and pressed it into the strap. With a tug, she tightened the clasp and secured his arm to the table. Again, she offered him a soothing grin. “You won’t feel it, but the procedure can be hard on the body. Best to be safe.”

Mercy reached for his other hand, but he recoiled. She waited until he succumbed to his own desire for power. The strap dug into his flesh just below the inked outline of a city skyline. “Where is this?”

Hardy looked at his arm. “Los Angeles. Before the quake.”

She tied his feet into separate straps, checked they were tight enough, and returned to her stool.

Hardy struggled against his bindings. “Is all this necessary?”

Mercy ignored his question, busying herself with the syringe. She plunged the needle into a rubber stopper, capping the vial, and pulled the precious liquid up inside.

Hardy swallowed. “Is—is it supposed to glow like that?”

She glanced at him and flicked a finger against the syringe to clear air out of the needle. “Relax, Mr. Hardy.”

He gave a strained chuckle. “It would help if you’d stop calling me Mr. Hardy.”

Mercy paused a moment then said, “As you wish, Marcos.”

Hardy licked his dry lips. “Can I get a drink of something?”

She laid the syringe aside on a metal instrument tray next to a glass of water. Taking it over to him, she lifted his head and held the glass to his mouth. Water dribbled down his chin and wet his shirt.

Mercy retrieved the syringe and sat on the stool. “You want to know what this is?”

His attention remained fixed on the green liquid within.

“Are you familiar with the concept of R naught, Marcos?”

A blank expression greeted her question.

She chuckled. “Of course you aren’t. It’s an epidemiology term that expresses the number of infections directly generated by one case, in a population where everyone is susceptible to infection.”

“O-okay.”

She wheeled the stool closer to him and held the syringe in front of his eyes. “This is filled with the Baetylus strain. Since they’d be wasted on you, I’ll spare you the details, but I’ve engineered this strain into a Rhinovirus.”

Sweat appeared on his brow, and she wheeled back a foot. “I can see from your dense look, you aren’t following. Let me try to dumb this down some more for you.”

“Hey,” he said, his speech slurring.

Mercy said, “This particular Rhinovirus causes the common cold. It would normally have an R naught between two and three. I’ve upped that to between three and four, though. What that means is, you will infect at least three other people once you leave here. I’ll spare you the math, but it adds up to about a million infections in twelve steps.”

He blinked, long and slow. “I-I don’t understand.”

“That much is clear.”

“You were . . . you were giving me powers.”

Mercy smiled. She wheeled closer and tapped his arm to find a vein. Without hesitation, she jammed the needle into his arm, eliciting a gasp from him. She pumped the whole dose into him and rolled back.

“Don’t worry, Marcos, you’ll have powers. I don’t know what they’ll be, but it’s always something.”

His speech slurred. “I wanted . . . strength.”

He went silent, and his spine arched. The straps strained against his convulsions but held firm. He ground his teeth. Spittle ran down his chin.

Mercy watched in utter fascination. Minutes passed, and his muscles relaxed. His difficulty focusing was obvious. Still he tried to glare at her.

“I-I kill . . . you . . . dead.”

She stood and loomed over him. “Who are you kidding, Marcos? Even if you’ve gained your precious strength, you won’t be able to kill me.”

“Don’t . . . need strength.”

“Who are you going to kill?” Mercy said. “This Oriental doctor?” She willed the surrounding illusion to change and watched shock creep across his face. “Or this middle-aged white man?” After another change, she added, “Or maybe this black woman with blonde highlights?”

Hardy turned away.

Mercy recognized the reaction.

The mind refuses to believe what the eyes have just witnessed.

“You have no idea who I am, Marcos. Who I really am. So good luck finding me.”

She loosened the straps on his arms, setting him free with the full knowledge his muscles were beyond his ability to control.

“Besides, it’s not like you’ll remember any of this. I can’t have you steering clear of people and not spreading my masterpiece. Thank you for drinking the water I laced with benzodiazepine. Saved me the trouble of injecting you with it.”

His eyelids drooped before he passed out.

“Goodbye, Marcos. Go forth and multiply.”