Page 87 of Edge of Danger

“Okay, let’s blow this popsicle stand and bypass the roadblock and quarantine,” he declared.

She replied, “Are we going to get in trouble for leaving Vegas like this?”

“Do you care? We’re probably exposed to the virus, right? Which means we’re dying if I don’t misunderstand you,” he answered grimly.

There was that.

She braced herself on the overhead sissy bar as they bumped across the rocky desert. It was surprisingly slow going, even though they were in a motorized vehicle capable of handling the terrain. Dawn had lightened the sky overhead and tinged the eastern horizon with peaches and pink hues before Ian turned the dune buggy back toward the north and west.

“Where are you going?” Piper asked in quick alarm.

“The PHP helicopter was last in Overton, which is about 60 miles northeast of Las Vegas. We can bump across the desert all damn day, or I can hit the highway north of the quarantine road blocks, and we can be there in an hour.”

It took them more like two hours by the time they rejoined Highway 15 and melded into the heavy northbound flow of traffic. They weren’t the only people from the area around Las Vegas eager to put some distance between themselves and the quarantine zone, apparently.

The buggy’s radio was saying nothing whatsoever about any kind of quarantine. News blackout, most likely. But it was hard to cut off the Internet and phone networks entirely. As the country woke up, word would get out.

Speaking of which, Piper pulled out her cell phone to check its reception. No signal. “Ian, is your phone working?”

He fished it out and took a look. “Nope. I’ve got no coverage out here. We must have mountains between us and the nearest tower.”

“Or else the government has shut down all communications in and out of Las Vegas,” she retorted.

“Trying to control panic?” he asked.

She shrugged. “It’s a pretty normal part of crisis response scenarios at the CDC. It delays attempts to rush police lines. Gives the authorities time to get other assets in place to back up the police and keep the populace in the quarantine zone.

“There’s the turnoff for the airport up ahead,” he commented.

“Do you want to go in now, guns blazing and confront the PHP guys, or are we going to play it low key and wait till tonight to check out the helicopter?”

Ian glanced over at her. “What are the odds your dad and his cronies have made friends with the managers at the airport? If we go in and ask some questions, will the staff at the airport tip of your old man?”

“Absolutely. My father is charming when he puts his mind to it. The way I hear it, aviators stick together. It’s a tight little club. Kind of like the good ole’ boy network in military intelligence.”

“What good ole’ boy network?” he asked in surprise.

She waved off the question. She did not need to get in to a debate about women in the intel world and workplace inequality. Las Vegas was dying behind them. And besides, the boys had already kicked her out of their club. “Why do you ask about my father?”

“If he’s likely to have made friends, then we’ll need to wait.” Ian drove around for a little while and eventually spotted a crappy motel that looked like it had seen better decades long before the sun baked it to a parched near ruin.

“Betchya they rent these rooms by the hour,” she muttered as they hopped out of the dune buggy.

“Not taking that bet,” Ian retorted. “Let me do the talking. You talk too classy for a place like this.”

Frowning, she listened on as he put on the absolutely worst bubba imitation she’d ever been unfortunate enough to witness. But the clerk forked over a room key dangling from a big plastic teardrop after Ian forked over a wad of cash. She couldn’t resist messing with him just a little, though.

“Hey, save some of that cash for me,” she exclaimed.

The clerk’s bored expression didn’t waver for an instant, but Ian’s ears reddened. Grinning at his back, she followed him outside. It was barely nine a.m. but the day was already heating up fast to oven-like conditions.

The tired-looking motel room was clean after a fashion. At least it was better than crawling around in the African bush. She forced herself to stretch out on the bed. Her head ached a little and she experienced a brief bout of dizziness as she laid down. Good thing she hadn’t drunk any more of that vodka last night before the FBI call came in.

“Need some hair of the dog?” Ian asked.

“Nope. Just water.”

He carried her a glass full of vaguely brown water from the tap. It smelled like rust and tasted like nails. But it was wet and soothed her headache.

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