The Genesis Plague (2010)

bump on his head. Seems there was a mutiny among the ranks. Frank Roselli, the USAMRIID guy, managed to infect Stokes with some military-grade anthrax. Talk about poetic justice. Anyway, when Stokes comes to, I’ll see if we can get anything else out of him.’
    ‘Great work, Tommy. I’ll take it from here.’

65
    ‘How long till Candyman gets here?’ Meat asked, uncapping another of the five-gallon gas cans they’d liberated from the shed where the stolen truck had been hidden.
    ‘Ten minutes,’ Jason replied with little emotion. His vacant eyes fixated on the elderly Arab whose chant had come to an abrupt halt, thanks to a single shot Meat had pumped through the top of his head. All things considered, the execution was truly a mercy kill. The old man had offered no resistance.
    In every way, the mission added new meaning to the phrase ‘take no prisoners’. The death toll Jason had witnessed over the past nine hours was as deep as it was wide. Undoubtedly, the demise of Al-Zahrani and his militant underlings was to be celebrated - and in time, would be. After all, he reminded himself, these men were terrorists of the worst variety: extremists hell bent on indiscriminately destroying civilization; brainwashed by radical interpretations of the Qur’an and the Hadith; convinced that sacrificing innocent lives was sanctioned by Allah.
    But for Jason, a disturbing truth was fast coming into focus: terrorism was a two-way street. If Stokes were to succeed in unleashing his wretched apocalypse on the Middle East, the combined acts of terror carried out by the minuscule minority of Muslim extremists would seem trivial in comparison. And the fact that evangelical fanaticism stoked the pastor’s fervour was all too similar to the enemy Jason had been fighting all these years. What could have pushed Stokes over the brink of sanity? he wondered. Jason knew firsthand that war could easily blur the lines. Even as he stood over the grand trophy of this conflict - the body of Fahim Al-Zahrani - he felt no true sense of victory.
    ‘Come on, Google,’ Meat said. ‘We don’t have much time. Soak him really good.’
    ‘Right,’ Jason said. He uncapped another gas can and began dousing Al-Zahrani and the mattress, trying to avoid breathing.
    ‘It’s a fucking shame, really,’ Meat said, motioning to Al-Zahrani.
    ‘How’s that?’ Jason said, pouring out the last of the gasoline.
    ‘We’re about to light up a ten-million-dollar barbecue. We actually bagged this fucker and now we’re going to destroy any proof of it. For the record, though, it’s not about the money, Google,’ Meat confessed. ‘I’m just glad this fucker’s dead. You know, for Camel and Jam.’
    ‘Me too, buddy,’ Jason said, patting him on the shoulder. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the camera he’d confiscated from the crash site. ‘But don’t worry, we’re going to show the world this guy’s toast.’
    Meat smiled. ‘Awesome.’
    Jason snapped a dozen photos of Al-Zahrani’s corpse, including close-ups of the face. ‘That should do it.’ He slipped the camera back into his pocket.
    ‘Show time,’ Meat said. He handed Jason one of the match-books he’d found in the downstairs kitchen. ‘I’ll give you the honour. I’ll take care of the other room. The downstairs is ready to go. We just need to light it on the way out.’
    When Meat left, Jason set the gas can down and filed the image of Al-Zahrani in his memory. He peeled back the match-book’s cover, tore off a match and struck it.
    ‘Burn in Hell,’ Jason said.
    He flicked the match on to the mattress.

66
    ‘Oh that is some nasty shit.’ Disgusted, Private Miguel Ramirez aimed his light down on the slippery red goop smeared over the rocks. Seeing that some of the slime was dangling between his fingers - long strands of black hair clumped together by mocha-coloured skin - stimulated his gag reflex. So he looked away, flung the fleshy chunks off his fingers, and wiped his hand clean on his pants.
    ‘Man up, Ramirez. We’ve got work to do,’ Shuster said.
    The pallid marine slid down the steep rock pile and cycled a few calming breaths.
    ‘You good?’ Shuster asked.
    ‘I’m good,’ Ramirez unconvincingly replied. He pulled the M-16 off his shoulder and slid the flashlight into the mounting clip on the rifle’s muzzle.
    ‘All right,’ Shuster said. ‘I’ll take the lead. Ramirez, you’re behind me … then Holt.’ He turned to address the