Read Online Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller: Book 2 by Bobby Adair - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bobby Adair
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mouth hanging open, Dr. Littlefield walked in through the hospital’s open front door followed by a haggard soldier. Austin said, “Dr. Littlefield, you’re alive.”
Chapter 18
On the day Austin thought of as his first full day back in the world of the living, he didn’t have much energy. He was able to get off his bed and use the outhouse. He fetched his own water and sat up with Dr. Littlefield and Kristin when they ate. It was at their noontime meal when Austin asked Dr. Littlefield how he’d escaped Najid’s homicidal wrath.
Dr. Littlefield told Austin he’d been taken out behind the hospital by one of Najid’s men. This was shortly after he’d heard the gunshots from down the road west of town. Dr. Littlefield had been made to kneel in front of the waste pit and felt the barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his head. He prayed, knowing that he was in the last moments of his life.
At some point though, the gun barrel abruptly went away. Dr. Littlefield didn’t take that to mean anything at that moment. He continued to kneel, looking into the pit of human waste, hoping only that he’d die instantly when the bullet entered his brain. The idea of drowning in the waste was horrid enough to make him shudder as he told it.
Seconds passed, then minutes. Nothing happened. Dr. Littlefield didn’t know how long he’d stayed there on his knees. When curiosity got the best of him, he looked over his shoulder. The man who’d taken him out for execution was gone. Dr. Littlefield stood up and looked around. He was alone. He wondered if Najid’s man didn’t have it in him to execute a kneeling victim. Dr. Littlefield took the opportunity and ran into the forest.
He worked his way up Mt. Elgon’s slopes and didn’t look back until a red glow illuminated the night. From a place maybe a thousand feet up, he helplessly watched the village burn. He was too far away to hear anything but the faintest of screams from those unlucky enough to be alive when their houses were burned. Those indistinct cries and guilt for his impotence haunted his nightmares.
Chapter 19
Najid Almasi sat in what was his father’s office. With his father and younger brother gone, everything now belonged to him. The room was expansive—the size of an average house in many Western countries. The desk was cut from a primordial layer of sedimentary stone that encased the fossil of some aquatic dinosaur and spanned nearly twenty feet long. The floor was layered in a rare Brazilian hardwood, illegal to export. The shelves on the walls displayed glittery items, each of sufficient value to make nearly any of the world’s dirty grovelers feel rich, even the American ones.
None of it impressed Najid.
He looked out his window at an acre of glare off the ripples in the swimming pool’s blue water and thought about all he’d done. He’d told himself as he progressed in his endeavor to bring down the West that he was being decisive, bold. He, Najid Almasi, was walking the path of Salahuddin Ayyubi; Saladin to the Western crusaders he drove from Arab lands, in the time when unwashed Christians stank more than the horses they rode, and wore thick metal plate and maille to protect their delicate white skin from Arab blades.
Now, Najid wondered if his ambition had blinded him to the rashness of his choices.
He’d gambled his financial future.
He’d gambled with his own brother’s life.
Najid couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if, instead of plotting to spread Ebola to the West, he had spirited Rashid out of Kapchorwa and gotten for him the best medical care available. Would Rashid be alive today? Did Najid sacrifice his own brother on the altar of his ambition?
He’d lost contact with all of those zealous young men he’d co-opted from Firas Hakimi’s organization. Najid didn’t know what that meant, but it left him with an unease that grew day after silent day. It was the source of his foul mood, a mood that was fertilized
Chapter 18
On the day Austin thought of as his first full day back in the world of the living, he didn’t have much energy. He was able to get off his bed and use the outhouse. He fetched his own water and sat up with Dr. Littlefield and Kristin when they ate. It was at their noontime meal when Austin asked Dr. Littlefield how he’d escaped Najid’s homicidal wrath.
Dr. Littlefield told Austin he’d been taken out behind the hospital by one of Najid’s men. This was shortly after he’d heard the gunshots from down the road west of town. Dr. Littlefield had been made to kneel in front of the waste pit and felt the barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his head. He prayed, knowing that he was in the last moments of his life.
At some point though, the gun barrel abruptly went away. Dr. Littlefield didn’t take that to mean anything at that moment. He continued to kneel, looking into the pit of human waste, hoping only that he’d die instantly when the bullet entered his brain. The idea of drowning in the waste was horrid enough to make him shudder as he told it.
Seconds passed, then minutes. Nothing happened. Dr. Littlefield didn’t know how long he’d stayed there on his knees. When curiosity got the best of him, he looked over his shoulder. The man who’d taken him out for execution was gone. Dr. Littlefield stood up and looked around. He was alone. He wondered if Najid’s man didn’t have it in him to execute a kneeling victim. Dr. Littlefield took the opportunity and ran into the forest.
He worked his way up Mt. Elgon’s slopes and didn’t look back until a red glow illuminated the night. From a place maybe a thousand feet up, he helplessly watched the village burn. He was too far away to hear anything but the faintest of screams from those unlucky enough to be alive when their houses were burned. Those indistinct cries and guilt for his impotence haunted his nightmares.
Chapter 19
Najid Almasi sat in what was his father’s office. With his father and younger brother gone, everything now belonged to him. The room was expansive—the size of an average house in many Western countries. The desk was cut from a primordial layer of sedimentary stone that encased the fossil of some aquatic dinosaur and spanned nearly twenty feet long. The floor was layered in a rare Brazilian hardwood, illegal to export. The shelves on the walls displayed glittery items, each of sufficient value to make nearly any of the world’s dirty grovelers feel rich, even the American ones.
None of it impressed Najid.
He looked out his window at an acre of glare off the ripples in the swimming pool’s blue water and thought about all he’d done. He’d told himself as he progressed in his endeavor to bring down the West that he was being decisive, bold. He, Najid Almasi, was walking the path of Salahuddin Ayyubi; Saladin to the Western crusaders he drove from Arab lands, in the time when unwashed Christians stank more than the horses they rode, and wore thick metal plate and maille to protect their delicate white skin from Arab blades.
Now, Najid wondered if his ambition had blinded him to the rashness of his choices.
He’d gambled his financial future.
He’d gambled with his own brother’s life.
Najid couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if, instead of plotting to spread Ebola to the West, he had spirited Rashid out of Kapchorwa and gotten for him the best medical care available. Would Rashid be alive today? Did Najid sacrifice his own brother on the altar of his ambition?
He’d lost contact with all of those zealous young men he’d co-opted from Firas Hakimi’s organization. Najid didn’t know what that meant, but it left him with an unease that grew day after silent day. It was the source of his foul mood, a mood that was fertilized
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