Free Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller: Book 3 by Bobby Adair

on the dashboard.  Next he took a magnet out of the box and pushed it inside the bag.  A plump gold chain stuck.  “Damn.”
    Jimmy snatched the gold chain out of the bag and flung it out his window.  It hit the customer in the face.  Jimmy spat, “That ain’t real.  I told you.  No gold-plated.  None.”
    “I got that in Mexico.  The cruise line’s shopping guide told me—”
    “I don’t care!” Jimmy shouted.  “Not my problem.” He looked back down at the bag.  It might still be enough.  Barely.  He took a piece of unglazed terracotta tile out of the cardboard box and laid it on his thigh.  Not all plated jewelry was magnetic.  He then went to work on each piece of jewelry, rubbing them over the rough orange surface of the tile.  The video he saw online said that if a piece was plated, the gold would rub off quickly and leave a black streak on the terracotta.
    Jimmy found a pair of earrings that rubbed black.  He threw those across the gap at the customer.  When he’d finished, he weighed what was left.  And stared at the numbers for a minute while he decided what to do.
    “The blood?” the customer asked.
    Jimmy glared at him.  “Not yet.”
    “What?”
    “Cash and stash, my friend.  That’s what the ad said.  No negotiating.”
    The customer slumped.  “We don’t have much.”
    Jimmy bundled up the jewelry with a quick twist of plastic and held the bundle back out the window.
    “No, no,” the customer said, near frantic.  “I’ve got the food too.” He turned in his seat and lifted another bag, this one straining with a dozen jars and cans.  He held it out the window.
    Jimmy took the bag and hauled it through his own window, glancing inside to see that he’d scored enough to eat for several days.  “All right.” Jimmy passed the bag of serum to the customer.
    “I don’t know how to use this,” said the customer.
    “Everything you need is in the bag,” Jimmy told him.  “I printed a page with the URLs for YouTube videos with instructions.  When you recover—”
    “It’s not for me.” The customer looked into his lap and mumbled.  “My daughter.”
    “When she recovers,” said Jimmy, “email me if you want to be a reference.  You can earn some of your money back.” And who cares—Jimmy knew cash was nearly worthless but it didn’t hurt to have a pile of it for paying dumbasses like this guy.  And just in case.  Then Jimmy got an inspiration.  “And maybe save somebody else’s life.”

Chapter 13
    Najid sat on the edge of his bed holding a crutch in each hand.  He was feverish.  His left leg and hip were a patchwork of wounds stitched and stapled together.  The doctors had removed seventeen pieces of shrapnel and bits of stone embedded in his flesh.  All put there by exploding cruise missiles.  The Americans had tried to kill him, and they’d failed.
    That thought made Najid feel strong in his heart despite the weakness in his body as he wrestled with the choice of whether to try and stand, to try and make his own way to the bathroom.
    Bedpans were degrading.
    The trip to the restroom would mark a concrete step back to health, to strength.
    Someone knocked at the door.
    “Enter.”
    Hadi came in, smiling, but worried.  He crossed an expansive floor covered in the finest silk carpets.  “You should not be out of bed without help.”
    Of course, Hadi was right if Najid was the kind of man who would readily trade humiliation for the luxury of constant assistance.  “Watch me if you wish, but do not help.”
    “The doctor says you’re healing.” Hadi looked at Najid’s bandaged leg, still seeping pus through the gauze.  “You could have died.  Please give it time.”
    The same had been said to Najid a dozen times already by Hadi, both doctors, and each of the nurses.  What none of them realized was that such cautions were for lesser men, regular men, men who were not destined to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with history’s