No Immunity

couldn’t force Fox to reveal the viral components, there would be no treatment.
    Ahead was the gate. The crossbar was down, the guard seated in the guardhouse. He wasn’t going to shoot. What would he do if she stopped? Well, Tchernak would be proud of her; she wasn’t about to taunt. She had her role to play in the Great Escape. She ducked low and pulled her shirt up over her face as the crossbar skimmed the top of the windshield. The glass spider-webbed but held—for the moment. It would never last the miles to the highway. She held on to her shirt, ready to yank it over her face again when the glass flew.
    As the road rose, she could feel the engine pulling. Some sports car! She hadn’t even noted this rise driving in. Ahead to her right was a rocky mound a quarter of a mile from the road, and in the distance beyond it, higher, rough hills.
    The road dipped and the car got a second wind.
    She checked the mirror again. Still no cars behind her. She sped on, bouncing on the rough road, listening to the crackle of the bruised windshield glass. The highway had to be five miles away, maybe farther. She was leaning forward, physically urging the little car on. Every moment brought her closer to safety, to control. She felt as if she were pulling one end of an elastic leash, stretching farther, farther, willing the other end not to snap back at her. But when it did—when Fox sped close enough that she spotted him in the mirror—it would be too late. She had to disappear before that.
    She thought of Tchernak back there in Fox’s grasp, and pushed that dire thought away, focusing on the road and the mirror. Dirt behind. A mile maybe. Dirt kicked up from tires. Were they shifting cars at the fortress? Or coming after her?
    If the sitting sports car was a setup, Fox would keep her in sight. He had the whole United States Navy behind him; he could reel her in anytime.
    The only protection she had was that one small rise behind. Now or never.
    She pulled the wheel to the right, angling the car down the slope toward the rocky hills, the obvious place to hide. She stepped full weight on the gas pedal and held it there till the speedometer stayed far right. Then she opened the door and jumped. She hit the ground rolling, but hit it hard. Pain shot through her body. She heard the metallic bang before she stopped rolling, and when she could lift her head, she saw the car a hundred yards away, both doors open, hood smashed into an outcropping, steam rising like a beacon.
    Which was exactly how she felt.
    No time to survey her wounds. Fox would see the smoke; he’d be here in minutes. She forced herself up, ran on will alone, whipping her legs faster, faster, away from the rocky hills, back across the road. The soft ground gave under her feet. She couldn’t get a purchase. Pain stung her leg. Ignoring it, she ran across the winkles of sand, skirting low gray-brown plants. Her breath banged against her ribs; her throat burned. In the distance she could hear an engine roaring. A hundred yards ahead through the scrub was the dry streambed. In the distance was a rise, but she couldn’t chance another dash. The streambed was too close to the road, too obvious. But she had no choice. She slowed, careful not to skid to a stop. Prickly branches scraped her raw flesh as she climbed down into the shallow bed. Thorns caught her sleeves and pant legs. She yanked them free. Covering her face with her hands, she lowered herself down.
    She heard the approaching car squeal to a stop, then roll slowly over the rough terrain. Clearing a peek hole between branches, she looked back across the road and watched as Fox pulled up behind her car, got out, and eyeballed it. Steam still rose from the Miata. Behind it the rocky mound looked dark and ominous. At this distance Fox was a lump, a cutout. She couldn’t read his body language. If he stayed put and called for help, she was sunk— sunk in this dry bed till some deputy or dog sniffed her out. “Go on into the rocky hills. You know you think I’m there,” she muttered. “Do the macho thing; follow the scent. Go on!” Fox started forward, then stopped, turned around slowly, and came to a stop facing the road. He started toward his car.
    “What’s the matter?” she muttered. “Can’t you handle one five-foot-tall woman by yourself?”
    Fox hesitated, then turned around and headed toward the hill beyond the sports car.
    Kiernan watched him till he was halfway to it. Then she pushed