“Son,” said the original voice, “I don’t believe you want to imply what you’re implying.”

“What, that you’re saying we don’t get to know what we found, even when we have a worldwide audience that really, really wants to know?” Shaun asked, folding his arms and sliding into a hip-shot pose that seemed casual, if you didn’t know him well enough to see how pissed off he was. “That doesn’t scream ‘freedom of the press’ to me.”

“It won’t say ‘freedom of the press’ to our readers, either,” I said.

“Miss, there are things called ‘nondisclosure forms,’ and you’ll find that I can have all three of you signing them before you take step one outside of this property.”

“Well, sir, that might work if we hadn’t been streaming our report live all along,” I replied. “If you don’t believe me, hit our Web site and see for yourself. We have a live feed, a transcript, the works.” There was a pause before the sound of muffled swearing drifted through the loudspeaker. Somebody looked online. I allowed myself to smile. “If you wanted this kept secret, you shouldn’t have left it for the journalists to find.”

“And what I’d like to know,” said Senator Ryman, in a voice that was suddenly colder than it had been before, “is what gives you the authority to seize materials found on my property without giving full disclosure to me, as the owner. Especially if said materials may have been involved in the death of my daughter and her grandparents.”

“All sealed hazard zones—”

“Remain the property of the original owners, who must continue to pay taxes but will not benefit from any natural resources or profitable development of the land,” said Rick. I gave him a sidelong look. Smiling serenely, he said, “Secor v. the State of Massachusetts, 2024.”

“That aside, covering up evidence is rarely smiled upon in this country,” Senator Ryman said. “Now, I believe what you intended to tell these nice folks was that they were free to leave the zone as soon as they’ve passed their mandatory blood tests, and that you’ll be contacting me and them with an analysis of the contents of that syringe, given as how they found it and it was found on my property.”

“Well—”

Senator Ryman cut him off. “I hope you understand that arguing with a senator—especially one who intends to be president, if only so he can make you realize what an imbecilic move this was—is not the best way to further your career.”

There was a longer pause before the first voice spoke again, saying carefully, “Well, sir, I think perhaps you’ve gotten the wrong idea about this situation ”

“I hoped that was the case. I assume my people are free to go?”

Now falsely jovial, the first voice said, “Of course! My men are just there to escort them to their blood tests. Men? Get those citizens out of the field!”

“Sir, yes sir!” barked the soldiers. The Secret Service just looked faintly disgusted with the entire situation.

The soldier who asked me to remove my sunglasses consulted with the speaker on his shoulder before saying, reluctantly, “If the three of you would retrieve your weapons and follow me, I’ll take you to the gate for testing and release. Please don’t attempt to touch the article you removed from the outbreak site.”

Rick looked like he was going to contest the phrase “the article” by bringing up the fact that we’d removed more than one thing from the outbreak site. Since I didn’t think the cat would be happy to be dissected by army scientists, I kicked Rick in the ankle. He glared at me. I ignored him. He’d thank me later. Or the cat would.

Picking our weapons back up took longer than putting them down, since all the safeties had to be checked. The area was certified as clean as was reasonable under the Nguyen-Morrison—as clean as any area where you found a syringe full of potential live-state Kellis-Amberlee could be—but shooting yourself in the foot in the vicinity of a recent outbreak still strikes me as an all-around rotten plan. Our escort waited as we armed ourselves and then walked with us in lockstep to the gates, where, I was pleased to see, Steve and two other men from Senator Ryman’s security detail were waiting with the blood test units.

I caught my breath as I saw the boxes. Leaning over slightly, I nudged Shaun with my elbow. He followed my gaze and whistled. “Pulling out the big guns, there, Steve-o?”

Steve cracked a thin smile. “The senator wants to be certain you’re all right.”

“My brother’s never been all right, but Rick and I are clean,” I said, holding out my right hand. “Rock me.”

“My pleasure,” he said, and slid the box over my hand.

Blood testing kits range from your basic field units, which can be wrong as often as thirty percent of the time, to the ultra-advanced models, which are so sensitive that they’ve been known to trigger false positives as they pick up the live Kellis infection harbored by nearly every human on Earth. The most advanced handheld kits are the Apple XH-237s. They cost more than I care to think about, and since they’re field kits, they can only be used once without replacing the needle array, a process that costs more than most independent journalists make in a year. Once is more than enough. Needles so thin they can barely be felt, hitting at sites on all five fingers, the palm, and the wrist. Viral detection and comparison mechanisms so advanced that the Army supposedly bought the right to use several of Apple’s patents after the XH-237 came out.

Shaun and I carry one—only one—in the van. We’ve had it for five years. We’ve never felt rich or desperate enough to use it. You only use the XH-237 when you need to be sure, right here and now, with no margin for error. It’s a kit for use after actual exposure. The army didn’t wonder what was in that syringe. Somehow, they knew. The implications of that were more than a little disturbing.