Free Carrion Virus (Book 2): The Athena Protocol by M.W. Duncan

would somehow dirty the fine leather, and upset his captors, if it actually was a pair of captors that lay on the other side of those door. Ryan studied the craftsmanship of the table, the cuts in the glass, the reflection of the lights overhead in some of the sharper angles. At home his feet would have climbed onto that table and rested. Not here.
    Ryan nervously flicked his fingers one at a time. He gulped from his glass, and winced as it went down. Surely if they wanted him dead, he would already be bloated, floating face down somewhere in Seattle’s harbours. He only guessed facedown because that’s how bodies are discovered in crime shows.
    Ryan knew only what was required for the mission he undertook. No more than that. No names. No faces. No phones. No questions. What if they wanted him to repeat such a task, invade some poor, unsuspecting city and unleash another wave of the Carrion Virus. He placed two hands on his glass. What if they now wanted to become a host to a new strain of the virus?
    No opening mechanisms or locks appeared on the windows. No escape. Anyway, he was pretty high up, he’d splat like a pancake. If he bolted for the lift, it would bing and that Japanese lady’s voice would call out a warning.
    The double doors opened at the far end of the room. Driver appeared.
    “Mr. Crispin will see you now.”
     
    ***
     
    Gemma knocked on the open door. The sleepy guard, charged with watching the captive, paid little attention when she flashed her ID badge. At best she was stretching any authority she might have. At worst she was breaking the law. Gemma was not sure which way Dylan would see things. She felt a little guilty, but only a touch. This is what she was employed for after all.
    The young man stood at the window, peering out into the dark of the night. Snow fluttered against the window. The man wiped his hand against the glass, clearing the build-up of condensation from his breath.
    “Yes?” he asked, turning toward her.
    “Can I come in?”
    “That depends on who you are and what you want.”
    The man seemed calm, perhaps resigned to the fact he was marooned on an island of desperation.
    “Well,” said Gemma, stepping into the room, “I’m Gemma, and I want to hear your story. I heard what you said to the soldiers in the lobby. Nobody wanted to listen.”
    “Nobody’s ever wanted to listen,” said the man, sitting down on a small wooden chair next to the table. “That’s the problem.”
    “I’m here to listen, and to help. What’s your name?”
    “George Reign.”
    “Rain? As in?”
    “Kings and queens, not horse equipment or water from the sky.”
    “You don’t mind if I record our conversation and make some notes?”
    “Why? What are you? A reporter?”
    Gemma smiled. “I’m just trying to piece together this crazy event.” Gemma clicked on her recorder and opened the notepad.
    George looked tired, defeated, dark circles hung below his eyes. In other circumstances he may have looked trendy in a teenage way. Sandy hair, with a long fringe, tanned, unnaturally white teeth. He shrugged.
    Gemma sat down on the edge of the bed. It felt as if she lived most of her life from a hotel these days. “So, downstairs you were shouting about the outbreak. Do you want to tell me about it?”
    He leaned back in the seat, and wiped a hand over his face. “It’s been so long. Let me think about things. I’ve not slept in a bed for ages. I’m so tired.”
    “I know it’s difficult, but try, try to remember,” said Gemma, applying a soothing tone. This young man was keen to tell what he knew, but perhaps needed some gentle coaxing, a measure of patience, something he hadn’t been shown since his arrival here.
    “Okay. I worked as a barman in the club on Belmont Street. The Church. You know it? It was a normal night, nothing out of the ordinary. I was on lates.”
    “When was that?”
    “Three weeks ago? Maybe longer. I was sweeping the floor, clearing out all the plastic cups