Free The Cradle of Life by Dave Stern

Monza’s plans at all.
    The big man barked out a laugh.
    â€œCrap,” Monza said, the word slicing through the silence like a knife. “We’ve come all this way to hear crap. Forgive my crude outburst, doctor,” and he made the title sound like a sneer, an insult, “but for years men like you have promised such a weapon and for years they have failed.”
    The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve never heard the promise from me.”
    Monza laughed again, and felt a tickle in his throat. Some sediment in the wine—something stuck there. He coughed, and the slight tickle turned into a burning sensation farther down. Indigestion, acid reflux—he had them all. Nothing serious, never serious. He cleared his throat, and met Reiss’s eyes again. Steel on steel—the two men eyed each other warily.
    â€œGentlemen—Madame Gillespie,” Reiss said. “Your governments have attacked their enemies. Those enemies fought back. You’ve terrorized their citizens—those citizens rallied around waving flags.”
    Spare us the philosophizing , Monza thought, and opened his mouth to speak again, but instead let loose another cough. Damn .
    He had a glass of water next to him, untouched. He picked it up now and drank.
    â€œDeploy my weapon,” Reiss continued, “and those same citizens will tremble at the sight of one another. As they begin to die, they’ll blame their own government. Looting will erupt. Rapes, murders—your enemies, however great, will collapse from within like a house of cards. Or like…”
    Reiss stopped, hung over Monza with a strange sickening smile.
    â€œLike Mister Monza here,” he finished.
    Monza swallowed, and felt the burning in his throat again. Worse this time.
    Looked up at the mocking smile on Reiss’s face.
    And looked down at the glass of water in his hand, the one he’d just drank from, saw red streaks in it, not wine, no, it was—
    He gurgled, and set down the glass of water.
    No. God, no.
    Through the sudden fire in his chest, he was vaguely aware of Duvalier jumping to his feet, backing away from him.
    â€œWhat the hell is going on?” Duvalier shouted.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Reiss repeated, his voice sounding eerily calm, sounding to Monza as if it was coming from a million miles away. “He told M-I-Six about our meeting. That’s why I changed the location.”
    The burning in his chest was unbearable now—Monza pulled the napkin from under his glass, and coughed into it. Felt something tear in his throat.
    The napkin came away stained red, and white.
    â€œBastard,” Monza whispered. “Bastard.”
    He looked up at Reiss, disbelievingly. The doctor continued to smile.
    Monza knew he was dying—whatever Reiss had given him was sure to be lethal.
    But perhaps—just perhaps—he could take the good doctor with him.
    There was a gun inside his jacket—he had to reach for it without seeming to make a threatening move, disguise it somehow, yes, pretend he was reaching for a handkerchief, pretend—
    A sudden spasm of coughing overtook him, and with it, an equally sudden attack of nausea. Monza felt his whole body wrenching upon itself, his insides twisting and turning themselves inside out and—
    He moaned, and the moan turned into a gurgle, and a viscous stream of grayish matter poured out of his throat.
    Monza stared, disbelieving, at the napkin, coated with what had just come out of him.
    Everyone else in the cabin moved reflexively backward, seeking to put more distance between themselves and Monza. Everyone except Dr. Jonathan Reiss.
    The doctor allowed himself a small shiver of pleasure, and then moved closer. He wanted to enjoy every second of Monza’s death throes.
    â€œHe was going to turn me in, then seek asylum from the West,” Reiss said. He noted sweat breaking out on Monza’s forehead—the disease was