The range was extreme, but he couldn’t risk them opening up at him with their automatic weapons. Juan drew the two Five-seveNs from the hip holsters and laid down a barrage at the driver coming up on the right. The guns barked as he torched off twenty rounds in less than six seconds. Eight of the rounds hit the guard, pulping his internal organs and blowing away half his skull.

Cabrillo dropped the two smoking pistols, drew his second pair from behind his back, and started blasting again even before the corpse of the first guards tumbled off the quad bike.

The remaining guard drove with one hand, as he reached for the AK-47 slung over his back. He kept charging, even with the air around him coming alive with bullets. He managed to get off a few shots before he took his first hit, a glancing shot that carved a trench through his outer thigh. He fired again, but it was as though his target didn’t care.

Juan didn’t flinch as rounds whipped past him. He calmly kept firing until he found his mark. Two rounds triggered in the time it takes to blink hit the rider in the throat, the kinetic impact tearing the last remaining bits of tendon and sinew so that his head fell off the stump of his neck. The ATV continued climbing the hill, like a modern version of Washington Irving’s headless horseman. When it reached Cabrillo, he lashed out with his foot to kick the body off the saddle seat. The dead fingers still gripping the throttle released, and the machine slowed to an idle.

Cabrillo jumped aboard and took off after Max, hitting the crest of the hill so fast he caught air. The truck had gained a quarter mile on him, but when another armor-piercing sabot round blasted the rock ahead of it the driver veered sharply and gave Juan a chance to cut his lead.

CHAPTER 37

MARK MURPHY HAD NEVER FELT WORSE. HIS NOSE was red and painful to touch, but he kept having to blow it, so it felt like it would never heal. To make things worse, he was a serial sneezer. If he did it once, he’d do it four or five times in a row. His head felt stuffed to the bursting point, and every breath sounded like there were marbles rattling in his chest.

If there was one thought to give him comfort, it was that misery loves company, because nearly everyone on the Golden Sky was in a similar condition. Linda Ross’s symptoms were only slightly less severe than his, but she hadn’t escaped the viral infection that swept the ship like wildfire. Every few seconds, she’d shiver with a bout of chills. Most every passenger remained huddled in their cabin, while the galley pumped out gallons of chicken soup and the medical staff passed around handfuls of cold tablets.

They were alone in the library, sitting opposite each other, and holding books on their laps in the off chance anyone wandered in. Both had tossed wads of used tissues on the nearest coffee table.

“I now understand why they chose to release the virus on a cruise ship.”

“Why?”

“Look at us. For one thing, we’re basically trapped here like rats, stewing in our own juices. Everybody gets exposed and remains exposed until they catch the bug. Second, there’s only a doctor and a nurse.

With everyone getting sick at the same time, they’re overwhelmed. If these terrorists hit a city, there are plenty of hospitals to help and therefore much less exposure time for people to infect others. An outbreak could be isolated and the victims quarantined pretty quickly.”

“That’s a good point,” she said idly, too miserable to become engaged in conversation.

A few minutes later, Murph said, “Let’s go over it one more time.”

“Mark, please, we’ve done it a thousand times already. It isn’t the air-conditioning or water systems, it’s not in the food or anywhere else we’ve checked and double-checked. It’s going to take a team of engineers, tearing this tub apart piece by piece, to find the disbursal device.” Murph had been unable to come up with the solution without the distraction of the cold racking his body, and he really held little hope that it would come to him now, but he wasn’t one to give up.

“Come on, Linda. Think. This is basically a floating city, right? What does it take to run a city?” She gave him a look that said she wasn’t interested in playing his game, so he answered his own question. “Food, water, septic, garbage removal, and electricity.”

“Yes, they’re going to poison the garbage.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “Or let’s look at this another way. A cruise ship is a hotel. What do you need to run a hotel?”

“The same things,” Linda said, “Plus little mints on your pillow at night.”

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to.”

Mark suddenly shot forward in his seat. “You got it!”

“Poisoned mints?” she said archly.

“Who brings the mints?”

“A maid.”

“And what is she doing in your room in the first place?”

“Cleaning up and changing the . . . Holy God!”

“I remember back in Greece when we rescued Max’s kid. They had a bunch of industrial washing machines but no dryers,” Murph said. “They were training. The virus is introduced in the laundry.

Passengers get fresh sheets every day. And if that doesn’t expose them to the virus enough, there are fresh napkins in the dining rooms as well as in the crew’s mess. How perfect is that? Wiping your mouth with a tainted napkin is as effective as giving someone a shot of the stuff. I bet within twelve hours of it being introduced into the washing machines, everyone on board comes into contact with viral-laden linens.”

He clamped his hands over his head. “Why didn’t I think of this sooner? It is so obvious.”

“It’s only obvious after you think of it. Kind of like finding something in the last place you look,” Linda teased, throwing Mark’s words back at him. She slowly levered herself to her feet. “Let’s go see if you’re right.”

THE QUAD BIKE WAS DESIGNED to handle rough terrain, with its extra-large shocks and springs, but Juan was pushing the four-wheeler to its very limits as he chased after the pickup. With shells impacting scant feet ahead of it, its driver was forced to keep an erratic track, and Juan made up the lost ground quickly.

“Chairman, it’s Hali. This is the forty-five-minute warning. Repeat, impact in forty-five-minutes.”

“I hear you,” Juan said. They were now cutting into their margin of safety to clear out of the strike zone.

“I just wish I hadn’t. Wepps, I want you to hold fire. George, I need you to distract the guy in the back of the truck so I can get close. Buzz them.”

“Roger.”

With a knee pressing him to the pickup’s bed and the barrel of an assault rifle jammed in his neck, Max had no idea what was happening around him. The gun was suddenly pulled away, and the guard fired a short burst. Max turned his head enough to see that he was firing into the sky. The Robinson suddenly flew over the truck, so low that the guard had to duck.

Max used the distraction to ram an elbow into the guy’s groin. The blow was clumsy and awkward and didn’t seem to slow the man at all. He whipped the gun around, and Max blocked it with his arm so that, when it discharged, the bullets sailed harmlessly into the darkening sky. Eyes burning from the spent gunpowder, Max saw his opportunity and punched the guard’s exposed flank. The guard counterpunched Max in the face. The renewed agony seemed to goad Hanley and he went into a rage, swinging wildly, and slowly getting up to his knees to get more power behind his punches.

The pickup’s bed was too confined for the guard to bring his assault rifle to bear, so he used it to shove Max off of him. Hanley went down, sweeping out his leg to knock the gunman on his butt. Max stood shakily, clutching the side of the truck to keep himself steady.

Juan was not more than two feet from the pickup’s rear bumper, on an all-terrain vehicle. He was hunched low over the handlebars so the driver couldn’t see him. Max could see Juan’s lips moving, as he spoke to either George, still circling overhead, or someone on the Oregon.