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30 Days Hath Revenge (The Blake Meyer Thriller Series - Book 1)

By C Kevin Thompson

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June 14
Four Years Earlier
Bunia, Democratic Republic of Congo, Africa

A Congolese man stumbled down a narrow, filthy alley clutching his
chest. He staggered like a drunken man, bouncing back and forth
off the walls like a pinball as he traversed its length.
He burst forth into a swarm of people in an open market and
scanned the crowd before grabbing his head with both hands. He took
a few more lumbering steps before falling face-first into the busy dirt
road.

He rolled onto his back with a grimace, and his body contorted
and writhed in agony. Mouthing something inaudible, he mustered
the strength to flip over to his stomach.

Pounding the ground with his fist, he willed himself to his hands
and knees. His labored breathing and internal pain caused his entire
frame to heave in a distressed, desperate dance.

The ailing man finally rose to his feet. His well-worn clothes puffed
plumes of dust as he teetered toward a passing ambulance, attempting
to flag it down. Frantic but unable to wave his arms, he watched the
vehicle turn the corner and disappear behind a building. He shook his
head in despair and raised his arms in disbelief. Unintelligible words
were overcome with tears as the man collapsed into a sobbing heap.

Seconds later, the man’s body shook with a violent force. Then, as
if a great cable or rope was wrapped around his midsection, pulling
him to the clouds, he arched his back and let out a horrific cry. As the
man’s howl subsided, his body eased back down to the ground like a
deflating balloon.

* * *

Gathering around the man in an ever-widening circle, some frightened
eyewitnesses talked with animated gestures. They pointed at the
Congolese man and then another motionless body lying nearby.
One of the observers, a younger man, squatted down to examine
the first body which had fallen silent just minutes before. He reached
out, hesitant at first, and ripped the person’s shirt, popping the buttons
off in one, quick jerk. Distraught, he jumped up with a sudden hysteria
and pointed at the body with a shaky finger. He screamed something
and raised his arms into the air like a crazed witch doctor, which sent
the curious throng into a frenzy.

He ran over to the Congolese man who had just fallen silent and
dropped to his knees. His eyes widened in horror. Beginning to sob,
he looked heavenward with outstretched arms and released a wail of
his own.

A cry for mercy.

* * *

Two men knelt atop a row of two-story buildings. Positioned there,
overlooking the commotion from several blocks away, they scrutinized
the sick native through high-powered binoculars. They had followed
the Congolese man several miles. Coming from the outskirts
of the city, they entered the highest row of buildings, not only giving
them the best view of the hospital, but also a direct view as the ailing
man entered the crowd and created the ensuing panic.

Colin Murphy fumed. He pulled his ball cap low and jerked his
head away, using the parapet to shield his face from the Red Cross
personnel who whizzed past in emergency vehicles.

The other man, Middle-Eastern in descent and dressed in a doctor’s
smock, dropped his set of binoculars to his chest. He snatched a
pen and pad from his pocket and started jotting down notes. Clean cut,
boarding-school bred and Harvard educated, Ma’mun Khawaji
was meticulous in everything he did. That’s why Colin Murphy chose
him. He was a perfect fit for the job and came highly recommended.
“Are you afraid one of the Red Cross workers will recognize you,
my friend?” Khawaji said with a slight smirk.

Murphy grunted. “I doubt if anyone is looking for a person who
has been dead for eleven years,” he said in an authentic Irish brogue,
“but I’m not taking any chances.”

Murphy listened to all the commotion with an irksome ear as sirens
blared a cacophony of varied pitches, each one’s piercing cry overlapping
the other. He peeked above the wall and moved his binoculars
from one scene to the next as the events unfolded. Frustrated, he lowered
the binoculars and brushed his camouflage pants with his hand.

A cell phone rang. Ma’mun Khawaji plucked a flip phone out of his
pocket and checked the screen before answering it. “Report.” Ma’mun
pinned the phone to his shoulder and scribbled notes on his pad. “Go
ahead ... interesting ... numbers? ... Oh, they did ... remarkable ... very
well. Now, get out of there quietly. Don’t rush. We will meet up with
you at 1700 hours.” He flipped his phone shut and frowned.

“How many have been affected?”

Khawaji shrugged and slipped the phone into his coat pocket.
“According to our contact on the ground, it appears to have spread
into the next town over. However, whether it spreads exponentially
will remain to be seen.” He glanced at his notes. “At last count, there
were approximately forty people transported to the hospital via ambulance,
another seventy arrived by their own device, and several bodies
have been spotted in the streets.” He nodded toward the city. “Like the
man we’ve been following.”

“Have they determined the cause?”

“He said Doctors Without Borders recognized it immediately.”

“What makes them think they’re correct?”

“One of the doctors was in India back in ’02. As ‘luck’ would
have it, he was in Chandigarh at the very hospital where those twelve
patients were taken for treatment.”

Incensed, Murphy shook his head. “Of course.”

“Do not worry, my friend. Knowing what it is and having the necessary
treatments to combat it are two different things. By the time they
get the needed medicines flown in, we could have a major epidemic.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“With this kind of contagion, it can spread quickly if it gets into a
heavily populated area. Besides—”

“Ma’mun,” Murphy said with a slight guttural growl, “we’re already
in a heavily populated area. It’s not spreading fast enough.”

“You released it in the middle of town, correct?”

“Aye. Ten households.”

Khawaji twisted his face into a calculating pose. “For only four
days, that is a substantial ratio, Colin. The incubation period is two to
six days on average. So there may be some people infected who have
not fallen ill yet. Our numbers could grow substantially.”

Murphy clenched his jaw. “Ten targets yielding only forty casualties
so far? You are joking, right?”

“As I said, it has spread to over one hundred reported cases—"

“It’s too slow!”

Khawaji smiled, but the look was anything but genuine. “—and it
is not finished yet.”

“No, it’s not.” Murphy yanked off his cap and ran his hand through
his hair. “The dispersal system needs perfecting. It needs a better
design. I wanted this entire city decimated by now. This strain you
are using is worthless, especially if enough antibiotics are on hand.
And especially if we have these doctor do-gooders running all over
the place saving the day. We need that other strain. What’s the status
on it?”

Khawaji retrieved his laptop from his leather bag. Inserting a 4G
device into the USB port, he tapped some keys and opened his email.
He accessed the draft folder, scrolled down the list, and clicked on
an email titled Status Report. “The last report I received, dated four
days ago, states they are still months away from isolating an antibiotic,
maybe years, and there are no plans for the development of a vaccine
at this time. Therefore, without the antibiotic, we cannot—”

Murphy slapped the parapet with his ball cap. “Don’t tell me what
we can’t do! Just get me an antidote. Or otherwise, I will release it and
let the bodies fall where they may.” He jammed his hat on his head and
took a deep breath. “I’m dead already, remember? I have absolutely
nothing to lose. The antibiotic is for you, my friend, and your family.
Not mine. So get to work on it immediately. This whole phase of the
plan has already taken much way too long. It will not be long before
they demand to see our final results in preparation for the next step.”

“Agreed.”

Murphy gazed down at the bustling street. “You remembered your
antibiotics for this strain, right?”

“Yes.”

Murphy started to walk away. “I want a detailed report every
twenty-four hours.”

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