Page 37 of Hot Intent

Could the Cubans have developed the ability to manufacture chemical weapons independently? She supposed it was possible. But why would they try, knowing how their neighbor to the north would react if such a thing were discovered?

She was more inclined to suspect the Russians were behind this. Particularly given Roman Koronov’s interest in their trip down here.

And, given the furious set of Alex’s jaw, he must surmise the same thing.

The trip was not long in distance, but it took a couple of hours to navigate the terrible roads. Twice, the three of them had to pile out of the truck and drag aside debris that had fallen or blown into the road overnight.

They crested a rise and she was surprised to glimpse the Caribbean Sea glistening like a sapphire in the distance.Between them and it lay what looked a destroyed coconut palm grove. Rows of the giant trees lay uprooted or snapped off at the base of the trunks. She hated to think about a wind that cold wreak such havoc. If the strong, flexible palms could not withstand it, how could anything else?

The truck turned onto a sandy path and drove to the edge of a small settlement that was still flooded. A few people waded wearily through knee-deep water.

“Here we are,” the man announced.

“Waterborne illness?” Katie murmured.

Alex frowned. “Microbes or parasites in water typically present intestinal symptoms.”

“Botulism?” she suggested. “It’s often fatal.”

Alex shook his head. “We’d be seeing high fevers. Delirium. The patients at the clinic showed neither. They were in agony but lucid. Presented respiratory distress, pinpointed pupils, runny noses, and hemorrhaging. That’s not a bug in the water or food poisoning.”

She sighed. Her own medical training said he was not wrong.

Alex turned to the driver and asked in Spanish, “Are there any more affected people in the area?”

The man nodded grimly and led them toward a cluster of makeshift tents at the far end of the tiny village. Except when they got to the crude shelters, flies swarmed everywhere. Inside, a dozen bodies laid in neat rows on the dirt, bloated. Stinking. Dead.

Katie staggered back, retching.

Alex pulled a surgical mask out of his pack, donned it, and muttered, “Stay outside, Katie.”

She spun away in relief and headed for the driver, who’d crossed the street to sit down on an overturned metal barrel. He pulled out a cigar, lit it, and sat there staring blankly into spaceand smoking. The cloud of smoke seemed to drive off the flies, and the smell of the tobacco was better than the alternative.

“Did you lose anyone in there?” she asked quietly.

He shrugged. “My wife. Her brother.”

“Did they die in the storm or of the sickness?”

Another shrug. She couldn’t blame the guy for shutting down like this. How did one face the staggering loss of family, home, and livelihood all at once? “Where are you staying now?”

“My truck.”

Wow. “Food? Where are you getting that? And fresh water?”

“Around.”

“Is the government passing out supplies anywhere?”

“Baracoa, maybe. I heard some boats came in.”

“Is there a port or dock nearby where supply boats can tie up?”

“At the Zacara Plant. But no help has come.”

“What’s the Zacara Plant?”

“A factory. Makes cleaning supplies. Furniture polish. Window cleaner. That sort of stuff.”

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