Payback (35 page)

Dozens
of phones dropped out of sight.

“Now let
me let you in on a little secret.” He pointed to his men along the walls.
“These are my men, guarding every exit to this room. For the moment, none of
you are allowed to leave.” His men produced their weapons, a mix of Glocks and
Berettas, several screams now erupting, momentary panic setting in as people
jumped up from their seats, unsure of what to do. “I highly recommend you take
your seats otherwise my men will open fire.”

Some
sobbing and much panicked muttering filled the room, but everyone sat back down,
heads darting furtively, almost everyone on the edge of their seats, ready to
bolt if they were given the chance.

“Let me
assure you that none of you will die here.
Today.
When I have delivered
my message, you will all be allowed to leave. But there will be one difference.
There will be change to your lives that will affect you until the day you die.”

He
paused, leaning forward, both hands gripping the sides of the podium. “Did you
enjoy your dinner?”

Nobody
replied, instead the audience exchanging nervous glances as hands were held,
shoulders hugged, genuine fear etched on the faces that those who survived
would probably tap for future performances.

“Let me
let you in on a little secret.” He straightened himself, taking in a deep
breath to make himself appear more imposing. “
I
have Ebola.” Gasps,
several cries, and someone in the third row of tables fainted. He pointed
toward his men. “
They
all have Ebola. We are all prepared to die here today
so America is made aware of our resolve, of the horrors we have been forced to
endure, of the losses that haunt us every waking moment.”

He wiped
his forehead, suddenly growing weary.

“And
today, thanks to the dinner you paid so much to eat,
you
now have
Ebola.”

Screams
erupted, people jumped to their feet in shock and disbelief, curses shouted at
him, wails of “why?” and the ever entertaining “why me?”, “why us?”, as if
these people were a privileged class that should never have anything bad happen
to him.

America
will never forget your suffering.

“Jesus Christ, did he just say what I think he said?” asked Niner,
crouched behind the main doors to the hall, the rest of Bravo Team, less Red,
with him.

Dawson
nodded. “Control, notify CDC. We might have a major problem here, over.”

“Copy
that, but I think they already know, over.”

FBI
Agent-in-Charge McKinnon’s voice came in over the comm. “Perimeter secure, you’re
clear to go.”

Dawson
looked at his men. “Eight targets. One behind this door, three on the right
wall, three on the left, one on the stage. It’s a straight shot down the middle
to the stage, take your shots as discussed, but I want Koroma alive. We need to
know where that ninth man is, understood.”

“Yes, Sergeant
Major!”

“Okay, proceed
in three, two, one, execute!”

Two SWAT
officers pulled open the doors as Dawson burst through, Niner on his left, the
rest behind him in twos, Dawson dropping the first hostile as he spun around in
shock. Surging forward, Dawson trained his weapon on Koroma, his eyes scanning
the audience for hidden hostiles as he heard his men behind him opening up on
the remaining six men lining the walls.

Koroma
raised his hands, stepping back slightly as screams erupted from the panicking
audience, cameramen diving for cover, clearly none used to war reporting.

“Federal
authorities! Everyone on the ground, now!” he shouted, the order being repeated
by the others as they continued to rush the stage, Koroma doing nothing but
stand there, watching them approach. Dawson stopped, his weapon trained at
Koroma’s chest. “Major Adofo Koroma, you are under arrest!”

Koroma
shrugged his shoulders. “My work here is done.” He reached into his jacket and
pulled out a weapon, placing it against his temple.

Not
this time.

Dawson
squeezed the trigger, hitting Koroma in the hand, the gun skidding across the
stage as the man dropped to his knees, gripping his hand. Dawson swung up onto
the stage, Niner following, careful to keep his weapon trained on the bleeding
Koroma.

The
bleeding Koroma who was infected with Ebola.

Koroma,
on his knees, glared at him, his face contorted with pain.

“You’ve
stopped nothing here today.”

Dawson
looked at the man, then out at the audience, America’s glamour class humiliated
on live television.

“I
stopped you.” He stepped slightly closer, his bunny suit and face mask causing
him to sweat from the heat. “Where’s the ninth man?”

Koroma
smiled. “Like I said, you’ve stopped nothing here today.”

Uncle Ray’s Burgers! Burgers! Burgers!, New York City, New York

Ahmed Gevao wiped his forehead, his clothes soaked, his entire body
sweating.

It’s
the fever!

The
thought was at once terrifying, at once exhilarating. He had already volunteered
to die, but the way he was going to die would be horrible, painful. He knew
firsthand what awaited him, having tended to his own pregnant wife’s death from
this horrible disease months before. He had no one left. It had been their
first child, and she the love of his life. His parents had died years before,
his sister of the virus only days ago.

All he
had was his rage. His hatred.

When
Koroma had approached him he had jumped at the opportunity to serve, especially
when it was explained to him what they hoped to achieve.

“We want
to prevent this from ever happening in the future. If we succeed, America will
never forget, and will never allow an outbreak like this to happen again.”

And with
the non-stop coverage now playing on every channel, it appeared Koroma and the
others had succeeded. Koroma was alive apparently, the others all dead, but the
Hollywood stars and the other rich Americans at the banquet had been infected
just like they had planned.

But he
was the backup.

He ladled
another order of burgers on buns, squeezing out a shot of ketchup onto each.

A
special blend of ketchup.

He had
arrived for work this afternoon with nine syringes full of blood, one from each
of them, with many more sitting in his hotel room, a hotel room not connected to
the others.

His
orders: inject the blood into the ketchup, mixing it up, then serving it all
day to the American public.

And
continue doing this every day until he was captured or collapsed from the
disease.

He had
filled many dozens of orders so far, and before his shift was over, it would be
many hundreds, this fast food restaurant extremely popular, owned by a cousin
of a supporter, a cousin who was not in on the plan.

“Hey Ahmed,
how’s your first day going?” asked “Uncle Ray” Jambai. “You doing okay?”

Gevao squeezed
another shot of ketchup onto a burger, wrapping it with the thin paper and
shoving it down the slot for the cashiers to fill the constant orders. “Pretty
good. Hot back here, but I’ll get used to it.”

Jambai laughed.
“You’re doing great, don’t worry. Keep working hard and maybe one day you’ll
have my job.”

Gevao laughed
awkwardly, part of him feeling a little bad for the man, completely innocent in
this. The outbreak started today would eventually be traced back here,
destroying poor Jambai’s business, probably destroying the man himself.

A small
price to pay should it save thousands of lives in the future.

“Hey,
boss, isn’t that him?”

One of
the pimply faced teenagers working with him was pointing at a television mounted
to a wall out where the customers were. Gevao looked and his heart sank as he
saw his picture from the airport displayed with a tag line under it, “FBI Most
Wanted.”

“Turn
that up!” shouted Jambai as he stepped away from Gevao. The volume was suddenly
cranked.

“—is
considered armed and dangerous. He is wanted in connection with the terrorist
attack earlier this evening at the Ebola telethon. If you see this man avoid
contact as he may be infected with the Ebola virus—”

Screams
erupted as the employees in the kitchen abandoned their posts, rushing out the
rear entrance, some out the front, customers joining them as the confusion
spread.

Which
meant they were now out in the public, possibly spreading the virus, their
ketchup covered fingers touching the doors of restaurants, offices, taxis,
buses, subways.

And in
the coming days and weeks, they’d become contagious and spread the disease
further.

His work
was done, even if he had been stopped far sooner than he had hoped.

Jambai reappeared,
his eyes filled with rage, with hatred, a gun extended out in front of him.

Gevao
raised his hands. “Please kill me.”

Jambai froze,
pondering the words. “How could you do this to me? What did I ever do to you?”

Gevao
sneered at the words. “To you? Is that all you Americans think of? Yourselves?
I just infected dozens of your customers with Ebola, yet your first thought is
of yourself. You disgust me!”

Jambai lowered
the weapon slightly. “You infected my customers? How?”

Gevao
pointed at the large ketchup dispenser. “I’m infected with the virus”— Jambai took
a step back—“and I put my blood in there. Every single hamburger I’ve sent out
since I got here has been infected.”

“Oh my
God!” cried Jambai. “How could you do such a thing? What did these people ever
do to you?”

Gevao
laughed. “I think the question is, what did these people ever do
for
me?”
Gevao looked at the gun, realizing he had an opportunity here that he couldn’t
pass up. If he were taken into custody, he’d suffer for days, possibly weeks,
before either dying a horrible death, or surviving, only to face a lifetime in
prison.

Neither
sounded palatable.

He
charged at Jambai.

“For my
people!”

Jambai raised
the weapon and fired.

Howard University Hospital, Washington, D.C.

Three weeks later

Sarah Henderson nodded, her personal protective equipment passing
inspection. She stepped into the isolation chamber and walked over to the
patient, word having reached her he was near death. She was of mixed emotions,
which surprised her. As she looked down at Koroma, blood oozing from his eyes
and nose, his skin pale, his breathing shallow, she felt at once pity and
hatred. The chaos he had caused was still ongoing, at least one hundred people
now confirmed infected with more showing up every day. It would take months to
stop the outbreak, many would die, but it would be stopped.

For
America had the benefit of a state-of-the-art health care system and deep
pockets.

But if
she thought of him not as the mass murderer he was, and instead as a grieving
husband and father, fighting for a cause he believed in, avenging the deaths of
thousands, part of her felt for this man who would have had her killed.

And
there was one piece of information she felt any father should know before he
died.

“Dr.
Henderson,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, weak. “You’ve come to see me die?”

Koroma
had refused all treatment, yet had clung to life far longer than any of them
had expected, his will to see the horror he had inflicted too great to let
himself die. As a citizen of Sierra Leone, he was allowed regular Consular
visits, those sympathetic to his cause feeding him the latest news reports
which she knew he delighted in.

The
bastard deserves to suffer for as long as possible.

The
thought had her second guessing what she was here to tell him, but as she pictured
the tiny, innocent five year old girl back in Sierra Leone, her hardened heart
softened once again, just enough.

“I have
news about your daughter.”

The
muscles in his face slackened. “Is she dead?”

Sarah
shook her head. “No. She was never infected.”

“Wh-what?”

“Tanya
switched the samples so you’d think she was infected. I didn’t know at first,
and I’m sorry it happened. The medical staff in Samaia have confirmed that she
has cleared the twenty-one day period and is free from infection. She’s been given
to her grandmother.”

Koroma
smiled slightly, his eyes closing.

“Thank
you, Doctor.” He opened his eyes and looked up at her. “Do you understand now
why I did what I did?”

She
shook her head. “Nothing could ever justify this.”

“It’s
unfortunate. I thought you of all people would understand by now, you of all
people would understand that suffering like my people have endured should never
happen again,
can
never happen again. My actions will cause all wealthy
nations in the future to think twice before ignoring the suffering of those
less desirable than themselves.” He coughed, blood spraying from his mouth. She
reached forward to clean him off when he grabbed her arm, his grip weak. “I did
it for my people.”

His hand
fell away, his eyes closing as a last gasp escaped his fluid filled lungs, the
monitors all flat lining. She stepped back as the other personnel rushed over,
one beginning CPR.

“Stop,”
she said, holding out her hand. “There’s no point.”

The
doctor nodded, stepping back, Sarah turning away and leaving the room, a single
tear rolling down her cheek, not in pity for the man or his actions, but for
the people that he was trying to avenge.

Howard University Hospital, Washington, D.C.