Chapter 34 #3
The container had swung open. Apparently Dean’s efforts had worked a little too well. They’d done it. They’d actually opened it. What was in it? Ryder needed to know and stepped closer to peer inside.
“What are you doing, Ryder?” Sarah’s voice sounded high-pitched, frantic.
“We’re here, let’s look at the reason we’re all here and see if there’s even anything inside.”
“Are you nuts?”
“This is your mission, Sarah.”
“I wouldn’t have come if I’d known.”
“You would, and here we are.”
Inside was a padded crate holding a row of aged glass vials, each sealed with thick wax—the same as the vial from his grandfather’s cabin.
“You are not taking those,” she said.
He retrieved the canister from beside Dr. Kepler’s body, hating that the man had lost his life over this. Even in death, Kepler’s grip had been tight, like he hadn’t wanted to let go.
Behind him, Sarah knelt beside Dean. “Ryder. He’s still breathing,” she said, voice strained. “Faint pulse, but he’s alive.”
Ryder turned, tension coiling in his gut. How had he missed that? “We’ll get him out.”
Sarah retrieved the Beretta next to Dean, sorrow tightening her features. “He didn’t deserve this.”
“None of us did,” Ryder said.
He looked back toward the cracked container.
“Ryder.” Her voice warned him before she even stood. “You have one. That’s enough.”
“I just—I need to be sure it’s the same strain. If it’s different—”
“Then we tell someone. Someone equipped to handle it. But we don’t take it with us. Not again.”
He hesitated, then nodded, stepping back from the container.
“You’re not Kepler,” she said softly. “And you’re not Reid Maddox.”
“No,” Ryder said. “But someone has to make sure this never happens again.”
Ryder shoved the container door closed and stood.
Sarah knelt beside Dean again, fingers to his neck. “Oh no, Ryder! I-I don’t feel anything. I don’t hear his breaths.”
Ryder crouched, saw the blood, the stillness. “We can’t stay here. There’s nothing we can do for him now.”
“But—”
“If he’s gone, we honor him by surviving.”
She nodded, her breaths too fast. “Okay. Okay.”
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Walk behind me and put that gun away. In fact, leave it behind. We don’t want to give anyone a reason to shoot.”
Sarah set the Beretta down and followed him.
He didn’t know what he would find outside the plane, but surely the men heard the gunshots and would be waiting at the perimeter of the safety zone—right?
Or maybe the snow and ice encapsulated the fuselage and muted gunfire that might not have been heard over the brutal wind anyway.
Ryder crept forward and slowly peered out the hatch and, surprisingly, saw no one. What was going on? He stepped out, holding the canister up as if he had accomplished their task and the others would follow him out. An armed guard stepped forward wearing a hazmat suit.
“Got it,” Ryder said. “Now we need to decontaminate, so step back.”
The man’s eyes widened, and he moved out of Ryder’s path. “Where’s Kepler? Maddox?”
“Behind us.” He rushed Sarah forward into the decontamination tent.
“What . . . what are we doing?” she asked.
“We can’t leave until we’ve decontaminated. And we need to get out of these suits.” God, please let us find winter wear. They wouldn’t survive without it.
They stumbled into the decontamination tent. A tech in partial gear rushed toward them, already holding thick decon wipes, steam rising faintly from the chemical solution that kept it from freezing.
“Stand still,” he said. “I’ll wipe you down.”
He scrubbed Ryder’s suit in fast, practiced swipes—arms, chest, back—then moved to Sarah.
He clawed at his helmet seal.
“Wait—what are you doing?” the tech snapped.
“There’s no time.” Ryder’s voice was hoarse. “Avalanche risk. We have to move—now.”
The ground trembled beneath them. The tech hesitated, then tossed the used wipes aside and backed away. “You’re on your own.”
Ryder yanked off his mask, cold air stabbing his lungs. The oxygen hissed from the release valve. He dumped the SCBA and suit and helped Sarah get clear of hers. Then he assisted her in getting out of the boots, and she was left with nothing but the thermal socks like him.
“Through the flap,” he said, dragging her behind him.
Gear was stashed to the side. He had this one moment of relief and dragged in a breath. He couldn’t fathom that Maddox would allow them to survive, but their coats and hiking boots were here waiting, along with a backpack—survival gear? Maybe . . . that had to have been Dean.
He pulled his coat on over the layers he’d worn under the hazmat suit and found the vial from his grandfather in one of the pockets.
Dean had made sure Ryder had that too. He was grateful for one more breath, one more chance.
Maybe they would make it out alive after all.
He grabbed the survival pack and stuffed the canister inside, along with the vial from his grandfather, but kept them separate.
Dean had saved them. Given his life for them. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the man’s heroic actions. A deep, thunderous crack rocked through his bones, and the ground shook.