The Paris Betrayal by James Hannibal (beach read .TXT) 📕

They shouted at his back in a language he didn’t know. Hungarian, maybe.

All Massir’s shoving had cleared a serviceable path. Ben timed his move to match a side passage marked Privato. He caught up, hooked an arm around the man’s waist, and spun him through the opening like a dance partner.

Massir drew his gun. Ben smacked it against the wall, crushing his knuckles, and wrenched the weapon from his grasp. He jabbed it into his ribs. “Walk.”

The private passage ran deep into the buildings beside the Pantheon to a small quad bounded by tall apartments. Rugs and clothing hung from the windows. Ben stopped Massir short of the light and shoved him against the bricks. He lifted the Algerian’s chin with the SIG’s barrel. “Who are you working for?”

“Your mother.”

“That’s original.” He tensed his finger on the trigger. “What is this? A SIG P2022? Bold choice. Don’t prefer it, myself. I could never get used to a weapon with a heavy first trigger pull. The question of when that very first bullet will leave the chamber is always a giant guessing game.” He added pressure and made sure Massir could feel it. “How did you know my name? Who is Jupiter?”

“I—” Massir clutched the arm braced against his chest.

“Don’t even think about it. I will end you.”

But Massir’s eyes lost their focus. A gray blister developed on his face.

Ben released him and backed away, keeping the weapon trained. More blisters appeared. Dark tendrils radiated from each one. He watched the lines weave like snakes through Massir’s veins. They reached his eyes. Blood trickled from his tear ducts.

“What is this? What’s happening to you?”

The fear in Massir’s eyes told Ben he wanted to answer. Unintelligible gurgles erupted from his throat. He clawed the air, sliding down the bricks until he hit the cobblestones, convulsed, and went still.

4

“How? Why?” Ben raised his hands toward his temples and noticed he still held the SIG. He tossed the gun into Massir’s lap and examined his own fingers, as if he might see lice wriggling under his nails. Ben knew this disease. Every Company operative had been trained on the big ones in their bioterrorism course. Massir’s symptoms were atypical, but close enough.

The Black Death.

The plague, yersinia pestis, is the most frequently weaponized disease in history. Spies and kings have used it for centuries. Thanks to the bacteria’s persistent, never-say-die nature and the misguided efforts of bush-league terror organizations around the globe, the plague has long outlived the history books. Fortunately, these days, the early appearance of symptoms and the slow spread through the body make it a feeble foe.

“But you,” Ben said under his breath, no longer addressing Massir but the thing eating his dead body. “You moved so fast.”

He tried to remember the transmission methods, aside from the traditional rats and fleas. Bubonic or pneumonic—injection or respiratory mist. “Please have a needle mark. Please don’t be airborne.” He bent as close as he dared and checked the arms and neck, but the boils and blackened skin left no chance of finding a needle prick.

Ben checked himself. No scratches. No blood. Did he feel feverish? Maybe. His pulse was up. His eyes returned to the body and he gritted his teeth. If a dog so much as licked Massir’s face, this thing would spin out of control.

A race through his recent memory brought Ben to a homeless man, begging in the street ten meters or so past the passage entrance. He found the guy still at his post, the best hope in the immediate area.

The precious bottle lay poorly hidden beneath a blanket, an obvious bulge. A handful of coins, scattered on the pavers, distracted the beggar and compensated him for his loss.

“Ladro! Ridameelo!” came the rasping cry as Ben took off with his whisky. Thief! Give it back!

No one gave either of them more than a passing glance. Ben needed one more item, always in plentiful supply on the streets of Rome. An obliging young local three paces in front of him lit a cigarette. Ben altered course, bounced a shoulder off the alley wall, and ripped it right from the kid’s mouth.

The smoker and a friend, young enough to be dumb and brave, gave chase, shouting a hybrid stream of Italian and English. Apparently acting like a jerk automatically made Ben an American.

In this case, they weren’t wrong.

Ben reached the body and turned, firing his Glock into the bricks above his head. “Back off!”

The young men skidded to a halt, hands raised. Others peered into the passage from the street.

Ben fired again. “Beat it! All of you! Vai via!”

They left him in peace—for now. Wasting no time with pouring, he smashed the bottle on the bricks above the slumped Massir. He gave the whisky only a moment to soak into his clothes, then kneeled beside him. “I’m sorry, friend. I suspect this is not the burial you wanted, but I can’t take any chances.” He let the cigarette fall. The whisky willingly ignited. “What did you get us both into?”

Ben stood to watch the flames spread around the SIG in Massir’s lap. The cartridges inside would soon kick off, nonlethal but loud enough to keep any responders at bay until the bacteria burned away.

Would the fire get it all? Maybe not. Ben knew of one potential carrier about to walk away from the scene.

A chill swept through him. Unconsciously, he pressed the barrel of his Glock up under his own chin. Held it there for a long moment and inched close enough to the flames to smell the burning flesh.

The thing moved fast. Ben saw it. And right now, he felt nothing. Maybe he’d gotten lucky. He holstered the gun and forced his way through the gathering crowd.

5

Get far fast. Then get farther faster. Time and distance. An exponential relationship. Less than fourteen minutes after burning the body in the old city, Ben emerged