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would have to walk around wearing double gloves, an impermeable Tyvek gown, an N-95 mask or at least an air-purifying respirator—which, by the way, cost almost one thousand dollars each—leg and shoe coverings, a face shield and goggles. International, interstate and city-to-city transport would have to be banned, so good-bye food supplies. All planes would be grounded. What would be our position then? I think, Deputy Director, that the technical term for that would be fucked.”

T WO
     
    MIKE was beginning to grasp what this was about. A mission, an overwhelmingly important one, at high altitudes. Well shit, he could do that. He’d trained his entire life to do exactly that.
    Mike was strictly a boots-on-the-ground kind of guy. And he knew exactly whose boots he wanted on the ground. His men, the men he’d been training at ten thousand feet and who were still there, already acclimatized. So—cut the training mission short and go out in the field.
    Fine by him.
    Frankly, what he’d heard and seen scared the shit out of him. If someone was about to loose a highly contagious form of Ebola on the world, that someone needed to be stopped, right now.
    Montgomery leaned forward slightly into the microphone. “All right, the people in this room below director level now constitute the Committee on Weaponized Hemorrhagic Fever Viruses, code named Stop Cold. Stop Cold will meet on a daily basis until we get the information contained in my operative’s flash drive and will report to the directors, who are now the Stop Cold Oversight Committee.” He looked slowly around the conference table, eyeing each person coldly. “And remember, you are all under Majestic confidentiality rules, and any breach of secrecy will be treated as high treason.”
    Jesus. Mike had been on a lot of top secret missions, but never one this secret. Well, he knew how to keep his mouth shut. And he knew how to give his men need-to-know intel. Just enough to do their jobs.
    “The Stop Cold Committee will meet in Room 346 right now and start drawing up contingency plans. The efforts will be coordinated by Homeland Security. Everyone in the room is dismissed except for Dr. Samuels, Captain Shafer and Dr. Lucy Merritt.”
    Mike wondered which of the pen-pusher types was Dr. Merritt when Hot Babe right across from him drew in a shocked breath, opened wide those beautiful blue eyes and turned them on the Deputy Director.
    “Oh no,” she hissed. “No way!”
    Mike was staggered, which was a big sign of how exhausted he was, because he wasn’t the easily surprised type. So . . . Hot Babe’s name was Lucy Merritt and she was an . . . operative ? Like Evelyn Salt?
    What floored him even more was her saying no to Edwin Montgomery, fucking Deputy Director of Operations of the fucking CIA. No one said no to Montgomery, no one. Mike doubted whether the Defense Secretary or even the Director of Homeland Security would have the nerve to say no to him. Let alone Hot Babe.
    If she was in government employ—and she had to be to be here—she’d just committed insubordination.
    Mike half expected Montgomery to call in the two mean-looking Marines stationed right outside the door and have her marched out under armed guard.
    But then Mike got the second half of the double whammy. Because Edwin Montgomery, who was known to eat newbies for breakfast, merely turned to her with a gentle smile. “Oh yes, my dear.”
    Hot Babe—Lucy Merritt—crossed slender arms over utterly delightful breasts and sat back, face cold. She didn’t have the mulish expression you’d expect of someone crossing a major line. She just looked determined. Despite himself, Mike was a little impressed. Edwin Montgomery was a legend in government. Presidents quailed before him. That a young woman defied him was almost unthinkable.
    Montgomery turned to the other people in the room, all of them frozen, mesmerized by the little drama playing out. His glare unfroze them, fast. Inside a minute, the