was missing from its location on top of his desk and the two-drawer file cabinet tucked under the desk was overturned, papers spread on the floor and into the hallway. Dread pooled low in his stomach. What had been taken? What had the thief been looking for?
Rafe had not much of importance in his office. The most critical work had been stored in the lab. The mobile lab had been brought in to Dead River by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. State of the art, it was attached to the clinic via the backdoor. The lab had a biosafety level of four, the level reserved for research centers that worked with the world’s most deadly viruses: Lassa, Ebola, Marbug and in this case, the unknown virus rampaging through Dead River. The lab had a closed venting system, complex HEPA filters for the air and epoxy surfaces for cleaning and sterilization. Though they were missing the proper security, like a round-the-clock guard and iris scanners to enter the lab, it was the best the CDC could do under the current conditions.
Given the events of late, skimping on security in lieu of expediency was a mistake.
Rafe checked and pulled on his protective gear and entered the lab, noting the lock was broken on the door. He connected his suit to the hoses that hung from the ceiling and then signed in, noting the last authorized person inside the room had been Dr. Rand, the doctor who had been on shift when the break-in had occurred. The staff at the clinic was working every spare hour they had to find a cure for the virus spreading through Dead River.
Only Dr. Moore hadn’t been cleared to work in the lab due to her asthma.
Anger and frustration shook Rafe to his core. The inside of the lab was a disaster, tables overturned and petri dishes and beakers smashed to the ground. Equipment was thrown to the floor but the most alarming thing was what had been done to the samples. The small refrigerator they’d been using to store the carefully labeled Vacutainer tubes was open and emptied.
Rafe let loose a curse he almost never used. But this situation was beyond all repair.
He felt a hand on his back and whirled around, coming face-to-face with Gemma Colton, one of the clinic’s registered nurses. He was ashamed of what he’d said when she most likely had overheard him, but her face spoke of the same anger he felt.
“Where are our samples?” Gemma asked, sounding shocked and panicked. Her green eyes were filled with concern. As many times as he had looked into those green eyes, the vibrancy and beauty of them struck him every time. She was the one pleasant surprise he’d found when he’d returned to Dead River. Young Gemma Colton was grown up and she was worth a long look.
Her voice sounded deeper through the microphone and speaker equipment built into the gear, making it possible to hear over the roar of the vents. Deeper and sexier, though some of it could be more related to her exhaustion than the speakers.
“Stolen,” he said.
Gemma turned to scan the room.
Rafe and the clinicians had been collecting blood samples from every victim of the virus they could and looking for a common sequence. The process had taken thousands of man-hours and now, those samples were gone. Starting from ground zero would have a devastating impact on their research.
“Who would do this?” she asked.
Someone who didn’t mind taking their life in their hands. Handling the blood samples that contained the virus was dangerous for the trained professionals at the clinic. The CDC expert, Dr. Colleen Goodhue, reminded them daily to exercise precaution whenever coming into contact with patients or working in the lab. She was understandably strict about following every security procedure. “That virus on the street is deadly,” Rafe said.
“We already have an epidemic and now we have to worry about someone running around with vials containing the virus,” Gemma said, her voice shaking.
Rafe heard shouts and banging from the clinic. He and Gemma exchanged looks. What else could go wrong? They exited the lab, stood in the chemical shower, removed their protective gear in the suit room, and hurried to find Anand Gupta, the clinic’s other registered nurse, his normally calm demeanor vanished. He was standing in the clinic’s storage room among shelves of ravaged supplies. Their drug locker had been forced open and bottles of life-saving medicines spilled on the ground.
The culprit had been bent on destruction. Rafe knew of no other explanation for this level of ruin. He had no understanding of why someone would do this. Who in Dead River didn’t want a cure found?
“It will be days, if not weeks, before we receive another shipment to restock these supplies,” Anand said.
Shipping products into Dead River was difficult and slow.
Gemma slipped her arm around the large man and hugged him. Rafe ignored the sense he was intruding on a private moment. Anand and Gemma were good friends and Rafe hadn’t worked at the clinic as long as they had. Rafe didn’t have the same connection with the staff Gemma and Anand did with each other and the rest of the doctors and nurses.
“Why don’t you head home, Anand? Your shift is over and I’ll clean up what I can,” Gemma said.
Anand shook his head. “I’ll stay a few more hours and help with this mess.”
The staff was working twelve-hour shifts and far too many of them per week since the virus had started spreading.
Gemma and Anand bent to the floor to pick up supplies and organize the salvageable ones on the shelves. The small room didn’t have enough space for the three of them, so Rafe excused himself. “I need to speak with Flint,” Rafe said. He left the clinic via the front entrance and tried to put a lid on his anger. He was only wearing scrubs and the cold December air felt good, almost a welcome contrast to the heat of his fury.
Rafe needed answers. He needed a plan to put them back on track to finding a cure.
Flint was directing another officer who was taking pictures of the scene. He stepped away as Rafe approached.
“Is it as bad as you thought?” Flint asked.
“Worse. They took samples of the virus.”
He didn’t need to explain to Flint how devastating that was. Many residents of the town who had contracted the virus were remaining in their homes. The clinic didn’t have enough beds or staff for every patient, though Dr. Goodhue was checking in with every known victim of the virus and tracking symptoms and changes.
“What are you doing about this?” Rafe asked.
Flint tipped his hat back on his head and in the sunlight, Rafe saw the dark circles of exhaustion around the chief’s eyes. “Everything I can. I’m trying to keep this quiet and out of the media to avoid more panicking, but the virus is big news, maybe the only news anyone in this town wants to read about. I suppose the media would be distracted if we recaptured Hank Bittard, our resident killer-at-large, but we haven’t managed that yet. I’ll have some uniforms drive by the clinic more often, but we’re stretched thin as is.”
The clinic was stretched thin, too, and somehow, they were expected to do more with less. More patients, more problems, limited time and dwindling supplies. “Can’t you ask the National Guard to help with security at the clinic? They have enough soldiers patrolling the border. They can spare a few men,” Rafe said.
Flint shook his head. “No one in and no one out.”
“We won’t find
