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Reckless Honor
by Tonya Burrows

Copyright © 2018 by Tonya Burrows. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Chapter One

Niger Delta, Nigeria

Dr. Claire Oliver stepped from the hastily thrown together quarantine tent into a wall of oppressive humidity. Sweat already trickled between her breasts as she stripped off her mask, gown, and gloves. She placed all of the protective gear in the already-full dented metal drum that served as a biohazard bin. Soon local workers would pick up the drum and wash everything inside with a bleach solution. Disposable protective gear was an unaffordable luxury in this part of the Niger River Delta.

“Do you see now why I contacted you?” Dr. Sunday Reggie-Fubara asked in her posh British accent. Nigerian born, Sunday had lived most of her life in London until Médecins Sans Frontières—also known as MSF or Doctors Without Borders—sent her back to the land of her birth. She’d been a friend of Claire’s since boarding school, and although they’d kept in touch even after Claire had moved to the States, it had been a long time since they’d last spoken. When Sunday’s email had hit her inbox last week, she’d been surprised. Then shocked…and a little bit curious. Sunday was an outstanding doctor and never asked for help.

Until now.

The thought had crossed her mind that this could be a setup. A trap. After everything that had happened in the last month—her best friend killed, mercenaries chasing her across the globe, intent on stealing her life’s work—it was entirely possible. She hated that she couldn’t even view a contact from an old friend without suspicion. She’d wrestled with herself over answering the email, and in the end, decided paranoia couldn’t dictate the rest of her life. What good would she accomplish if she was always running and hiding?

So here she was, sweating in the sticky tropical heat, soaked to the skin by the ceaseless rain of monsoon season, scratching her head over something that didn’t make any sense. “The serologic tests are coming back as hemorrhagic fever with renal syndrome?”

“And also hantavirus pulmonary syndrome.”

No, that wasn’t right. Too many variables weren’t adding up. Hanta wasn’t an African virus, and human-to-human transmission was so rare as to be nonexistent. Not to mention the fact that the two forms of the virus had never shown up simultaneously in one host. They were from opposite hemispheres—HFRS was found mainly in Europe and Asia, HPS in the Americas.

Claire shook her head. “It shouldn’t be here, burning through the population like this.”

“It’s unlike any strain we’ve seen before,” Sunday said. “It’s really all very strange. I thought if anyone could figure out what is happening here, it would be you.”

Claire looked at the quarantine tents. “How many people have died?”

“All of them.”

She froze and stared at Sunday in disbelieving shock. “What did you say?”

Sunday’s lips flattened into a grim line. “All of them have died, Claire. It has a one hundred percent fatality rate.”

“What…?” Horror tightened Claire’s throat as she again looked at the tents. One hundred and fifty people convalesced inside the makeshift hospital, hoping the foreign doctors could help them. Men, women, children. Seniors. Babies. Even two pregnant women. There had been a toddler in one of the last beds before the decontamination zone. She’d stared at Claire and Sunday in the protective space suits with dull, fearful eyes.

“All of them,” she repeated in a whisper and pictured the girl slowly bleeding out while her kidneys failed. It was a horrific, painful way to go.

No. Step back. Pull yourself together.

She closed her eyes, took a second to regroup. Getting emotionally involved wouldn’t help that toddler. What would help was figuring out why this was happening, finding a suitable treatment, and keeping anyone else from becoming infected. “That’s…” She tried to reconcile the facts she knew about hantavirus with what Sunday was saying. “Depending on the strain, hantavirus has, at most, a thirty percent mortality rate.”

“Could it have mutated? Maybe two strains combined into a daughter virus?”

“I suppose it’s possible.” Claire turned away from the tent and faced her friend. “But if this was a natural mutation, we’d have seen the mutated strain in Asia or Europe or South America. Even the U.S. Somewhere the virus is already prevalent. Not Nigeria, a country where there has never been a known case. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Could someone have traveled here with it?”

Claire considered the nearest village with its thatched roof homes. There was no electricity or running water. The locals were all uneducated fishermen, eking out a simple life along the banks of the Niger River. “Again, it’s possible. It’d be more possible if this were a city, but…” She waved a hand, encompassing the surrounding area. “This isn’t a major travel hub. Even if someone had come here with the virus, they shouldn’t have been able to transmit it to anyone else.”

Concern drew a deep groove between Sunday’s brows. “You said ‘natural’ mutation. If it was a natural mutation, we’d have found it elsewhere. You think this is unnatural.”

“I don’t know.” It was a puzzle, and Claire had never been able to resist a puzzle. “The village where this started is just a few kilometers east of here? I want to see it. If I can find the virus reservoir, I’ll know more about the infection.”

“No.” Sunday grabbed Claire’s arm. “You’re white. The whole area is owned by Egbesu Fighters. They’ll think you’re with the oil companies and see you as a potential payday.”

So what else was new? Lately, it seemed everyone was after her for a payday. She’d spent the last month running from mercenaries who wanted her research. God only knew who had hired them, but someone knew about Akeso and wanted to capitalize the antiviral’s panacean ability to kill virus-infected cells without harming healthy ones. She’d spent most of her adult life working on Akeso, and she’d be damned if she let some asshole Big Pharma company steal her research so they could turn around and sell it for ridiculous prices.

If only she’d been able to continue her research in peace. Akeso would help these people. She was sure of it, but she and her old med school roommate, Dr. Tiffany Peters, had only just started trials on human cells in the lab before the world turned sideways and Tiffany was killed.

Oh, she missed Tiffany. She often caught herself reaching for the phone to call, only to remember her best friend was gone.

She gazed toward the east. Thought of the village. Who else there was infected? Had this started with an infected rat population or was this something worse? Something more sinister? She wouldn’t know without an investigation, and she couldn’t investigate if she kept running from Tiffany’s killers.

She gave herself a moment—only a moment—for the fear, then pushed it down and locked it up. That way there be dragons and their names were Paranoia and Anxiety. It wasn’t productive to let them off their chains, especially when people were dying.

Sunday’s hand still clenched her forearm. Claire covered it with one of her own and gave Sunday’s fingers a reassuring squeeze. “I understand your concern, but you contacted me for help.”

Sunday gave an abrupt laugh. “Same old Claire. Always fearlessly chasing trouble.”

“I do not chase trouble,” she protested.

“You don’t exactly avoid it, either.” Sunday studied her for a moment, then sighed. “And I see your mind’s made up about this.”

“If you want my help treating this virus, the village is our first step.”

Sunday lifted a hand and waved a large man over. He had skin like onyx and thick lips that spread into a big white grin as he approached. He said something to Sunday in the local language, and Claire didn’t need to understand to know it had been intimate because Sunday’s lighter skin flushed dark with embarrassment.

They were lovers. Or if not, they would be soon enough. Good for them.

Claire looked down to hide her smile while Sunday smacked his arm and replied in an affectionately chiding tone.

“This is Adedayo Temitope,” Sunday introduced. “He’s our local guide.”

“Call me Dayo,” he said and held out a hand. “I’ve heard much about you, Dr. Claire.”

Claire smiled at him and accepted the handshake, then raised a brow at Sunday. “I haven’t heard nearly enough about you.”

Sunday poked her in the ribs with an elbow and Dayo’s grin only widened. But then Sunday got serious. “She wants to see the village.”

Dayo’s grin faded. “It’s not safe.”

Claire huffed out a breath in exasperation. “So I’ve been told, but I can’t begin to help until I know what I’m dealing with and I won’t know without an investigation.” She planted her hands on her hips and stared the two of them down. “So will you help or not?”