New Orleans

Sahara thanked God he didn't have a gun. She didn't think she could deal with that. He was crouched in an almost fetal position in the recliner behind his desk, trembling.

At her!

She felt absurd at the macho image she must be making: standing on the oak desk, her legs in engarde stance, pointing a gun at the clichéd and cowering villain. Her knuckles were sliced raw from the shattered windshield and her shirt was a sweaty mess. She shifted her weight to her right foot, her left aching from when she had pulled it helping kick in the door. She was still panting from what was really a really short run. Some heroine, she thought to herself, sucking in her breath. Still, eight points for style. Minus twenty for technical merit.

It was just as well that Donovan was too scared shitless to notice. He was still babbling the word, "What?" repeatedly.

She pressed her advantage, leaning closer, pressing the gun closer to his face. "Putting aside, for the moment, the minor issue of body snatching and illegal organ "donation," which I'm sure the Supreme Court can't wait to get their teeth into, not to mention the UN. Putting all that aside for a moment, I want to know what the hell did you creeps do to him?" she jerked her thumb at Antonio, spittle flying, punctuating her anger.

Donovan was silent, his eyes wide.

They grew wider as they locked onto Antonio's face, became bright with recognition and panic.

They locked back onto the barrel as Sahara cocked it with a quiet click.

"I fired you," was all he could manage.

"A bad move, given the current situation, don't you think? You have five seconds."

He blurted it out, in a frantic rush. "We needed him," his eyes darted to Antonio, "back."

"Why? What's so special about him?"

"His DNA," he replied. "That's all we know. We weren't able to isolate the gene. We needed him back to test his immunity."

"Immunity against what?" Sahara asked impatiently. This was taking far too long.

"A virus, of some sort," he replied lamely. "It infects-inhabits- a host, it produces a gas, that when released can penetrate any gas mask, debilitate any respiratory system."

"And kills," finished Sahara, nodding as she lowered her gun.

"No," said Donovan. "Not at all."

She forced her eyes to meet his.

Locked.

"The victims are rendered unconscious, but recover unharmed, just infected. As far as we can tell, it's benign." Donovan was visibly restraining himself, folding his hands into his lap.

"But Antonio said-"

"The government," began Donovan eyeing the other man warily, "the bioweapons division-I'll deny this, you know," his voice was firm as he interrupted himself, "I'll deny this..."

"Go on," she prompted.

"The army's weapons division altered it. Created G-187. With our help," he sounds almost angry, thought Sahara. "They piggy-backed a toxic substance that is released with the waste products the gas produces. Even in minute quantities, it will kill. Over time."

"Oh shit," said Sahara with feeling. "Gas masks won't work-"

"Why?" shouted Antonio, his eyes on the verge of tears, his voice breaking. "Why did you let me go?"

"We couldn't isolate your immunity," Donovan said sadly. "We thought if we let you go, you might..." he waved his hands around, "spread it around."

Sahara looked at the far wall guiltily. She hadn't told Antonio of the tracker, the implant beneath his skin.

Antonio's voice became harder. "And now you want me back."

"The army wants you back," corrected Donovan. "They can't be caught parading around New Orleans, no matter how badly they want it."

Sahara lowered the gun and stepped down off the desk. "They won't use it," she said simply. "They can't."

"Go home," Donovan said to her. "This is too big for you now. Go home, while you still can."

"What do you mean?"

"Leave it to people who know what they're doing."

She took a step round the front of his desk, moving closer to him.

And shot him.

"That's for firing me," she said as he clutched the dart in his chest. She shot him once more in the crotch. "And that's for being such a patronizing bastard."

Donovan slumped to the floor.

Sahara let the gun slip to the floor with a clunk.

Antonio bent down and picked up the pistol.

"Now what?"

Sahara hugged herself and just stood there. "Heal the world," she said, "what else is an aging toxicologist slash ex-hippie to do?" She started to shake involuntarily in a fit of hysterical laughter. "I'm sorry," she said, "This is all absurd, so fucking unreal. I don't know what the fuck to do."

"We have a weapon," suggested Antonio softly. "Let's use it."

Sahara stared at him, his scarred skin still visible through his thin shirt. She nodded.

"How do we get to them?"

"One guess," said Sahara, a slow smile spreading across her features, the first real smile in weeks.

"Daddy?"

"Nope, Daddy's dead dear." Sahara shook her head. "This is a job for Mother."