Payback

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “But it’s inhuman! It’s murder!”

  “And the death of over eight-thousand back home wasn’t?”

  “These people aren’t responsible for that!”

  “Yes they are. The media is filled with what they say and do every day, yet few if any ever said anything about our plight until it became fashionable to do so. Every single person out there tonight negotiated what table they would sit at in the hopes they would get on camera more than the others. This is publicity for them, not charity. And tonight they’ll pay for their vanity.”

  Koroma nodded at him and a gag was stuffed in his mouth, a kerchief tied around his head to hold it in place. Koroma stepped in front of the mirror and checked his tie.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, Doctor. I have a speech to give.”

  Dawson watched on a tablet the telethon broadcast’s live stream. Langley and Control were also monitoring, computers across the intelligence community performing facial recognition on every face to hit the cameras, trying to find Koroma and the other eight men they had photographed at JFK. Security at the event had been notified to prepare for their arrival but to do nothing, it feared private security, untrained for these types of situations, could trigger a blood bath if they confronted Koroma’s men. Instead they were to keep anyone else from entering.

  He pointed at the screen. “Isn’t that Koroma?”

  “Facial recognition confirms it,” replied Leroux over the comm. “Ninety-nine-percent match.”

  “Confirmed,” replied Control.

  Dawson watched as Koroma crossed the stage, the entire crowd of Hollywood celebs and other people too rich to fathom jumped to their feet, applauding, no one wanting to be caught in their seats by the copious amounts of cameras. “ETA?” he asked Spock who was driving their FBI supplied van and equipment, local NYPD clearing a path ahead of them.

  “Two minutes.”

  “Control, any sightings of the other targets yet?”

  “Negative.”

  Shit!

  They needed to take down all nine here tonight to contain the terrorist threat.

  And only the terrorist threat.

  According to the doctors some of the men could already be contagious, which meant that anyone that had been exposed to them could now be infected, any surface they had sneezed or coughed on, bled on, intentionally contaminated, could be a source for the spread.

  Even if we kill them all tonight, this might not be over.

  And in the back of his mind he continued to wonder why there were only eight tuxedos, when there were clearly nine men.

  Koroma held up his hands, urging the crowd to sit, the lights bright in his eyes, the speech Vandy had prepared displayed on teleprompter mirrors, the monitors with the actual text flat on the floor, out of sight of the cameras.

  But he had no intention of giving that speech. He took a sip of water, his mouth suddenly dry as he watched his men fan out, taking positions near the exits to the large room.

  Nobody leaves here until I deliver my speech to the world.

  “Thank you everyone, thank you for that tremendous reception. I have to disappoint many of you, however. As those of you who know Dr. Vandy have already noticed, I’m not him. Dr. Vandy has fallen ill and I volunteered at the last minute to take his place.” There were several concerned utterances from the audience. “Not to worry, I’m quite certain he hasn’t been infected with the virus we are all here to battle tonight, Ebola.”

  He paused, letting the word sink in. “We’ve all heard of it, movies have been made about it, stories written about it, and we’ve battled it in the past. But never an outbreak of this size, never a death toll so high. And as I’m sure you’ll all agree, a death toll that never should have been allowed to get so high.” Applause erupted, a few jumping to their feet forcing the others to join in.

  Little do you know this is the last time on camera for many of you.

  He waved them down. “I see you get my point. This outbreak started on Boxing Day, 2013, when a little two year old boy from a small village in Guinea fell ill. He died two days later. And today, over eight thousand have died, with many more still facing death. For months we along with organizations like Doctors Without Borders begged and pleaded for assistance, but little was to come, leaving untold thousands to contract the disease and die unnecessarily, their suffering over, but the suffering of their families to continue for a lifetime. Our economies have been destroyed, our populations devastated, our entire way of life altered, perhaps forever.

  “But thankfully, almost nobody has become ill here, and only one has died. For this is important, it is important that nobody in America, nobody in Europe, be inconvenienced in their lives. God forbid that someone here should genuinely fear for their lives, and God forbid that a single tax dollar go toward saving an unknown life.”

  He noticed glances being exchanged among the crowd, it clear they were beginning to question what was going on, question how he dare make them feel uncomfortable while cameras took close-ups of their faces, always more beautiful when they were smiling or looking on earnestly.

  “America has a long, proud tradition of helping those in need around the world. When an earthquake happens, you are there. When a tsunami hits, you are there. Why? Because these events attract cameras and those cameras broadcast images for the world to see, for you to see, on your television sets. These disasters attract incredible attention, images of the dead and dying, the suffering survivors, the devastation wrought by man and nature make great television. And when you see these things, you demand your politicians act and they do, because they know it makes good policy and pleases the voters.

  “But what of those who suffer in silence, who die behind closed doors? What about the story that builds slowly, with no single traumatic event to titillate the viewer? No large initial death toll to tug at the heartstrings of the voters? When no one is there to see our children die, to broadcast it to the world, what happens? I’ll tell you what happens.”

  Koroma paused, then jabbed a finger at the audience. “Nothing!” There was a collective gasp. “That’s right, nothing happens. As has happened time and time again in Africa, whether it is Ebola, the genocide in Rwanda or famine in Ethiopia or Somalia, nothing happens. Not until the cameras finally take an interest and the problem can be ignored no longer. And once again, the long list of humanitarian failures continues. My people are dying. My wife and son are already dead”—gasps—“and my daughter is battling the disease right now. She may yet survive, not because of anything the American people did, but because of what I did, of what likeminded people in my country, who decided to take a stand, did.”

  Koroma took a drink of water, wiping the sweat off his forehead. He definitely wasn’t feeling himself, there little doubt now he was infected and weakening fast, the amount of virus injected into him significant. He knew he didn’t have long to live, but he only needed a few more minutes to deliver his message to the world.

  “That’s right,” he continued. “It was I who kidnapped Vice President Henderson’s daughter. It was I who forced America to act, to spend millions to rescue one person. And think about that. Millions to save one person. How many hundreds of my people could that money have saved?” Dozens of phones were out now, filming his speech, these celebrities so self-obsessed they had to post on their Twitter feeds and Instagram accounts exactly what was happening to them right now. He pointed at one A-list celeb in the front row. “You have your phone out now, recording what I’m saying, broadcasting it to your fans around the world. Why? Is it because you care about what I’m saying, about the people who have suffered, the people who have died? Or is it—and I believe this is closer to the truth—that you want to let your fans know what is happening to you, as if you are the victim, you were deceived out of the dinner and photo-op you were expecting.” He paused, shaking his head. “You make me sick.”

  Dozens of phones dropped out of sight.

  “Now let me let you in on a little sec
ret.” He pointed to his men along the walls. “These are my men, guarding every exit to this room. For the moment, none of you are allowed to leave.” His men produced their weapons, a mix of Glocks and Berettas, several screams now erupting, momentary panic setting in as people jumped up from their seats, unsure of what to do. “I highly recommend you take your seats otherwise my men will open fire.”

  Some sobbing and much panicked muttering filled the room, but everyone sat back down, heads darting furtively, almost everyone on the edge of their seats, ready to bolt if they were given the chance.

  “Let me assure you that none of you will die here. Today. When I have delivered my message, you will all be allowed to leave. But there will be one difference. There will be change to your lives that will affect you until the day you die.”

  He paused, leaning forward, both hands gripping the sides of the podium. “Did you enjoy your dinner?”

  Nobody replied, instead the audience exchanging nervous glances as hands were held, shoulders hugged, genuine fear etched on the faces that those who survived would probably tap for future performances.

  “Let me let you in on a little secret.” He straightened himself, taking in a deep breath to make himself appear more imposing. “I have Ebola.” Gasps, several cries, and someone in the third row of tables fainted. He pointed toward his men. “They all have Ebola. We are all prepared to die here today so America is made aware of our resolve, of the horrors we have been forced to endure, of the losses that haunt us every waking moment.”

  He wiped his forehead, suddenly growing weary.

  “And today, thanks to the dinner you paid so much to eat, you now have Ebola.”

  Screams erupted, people jumped to their feet in shock and disbelief, curses shouted at him, wails of “why?” and the ever entertaining “why me?”, “why us?”, as if these people were a privileged class that should never have anything bad happen to him.

  America will never forget your suffering.

  “Jesus Christ, did he just say what I think he said?” asked Niner, crouched behind the main doors to the hall, the rest of Bravo Team, less Red, with him.

  Dawson nodded. “Control, notify CDC. We might have a major problem here, over.”

  “Copy that, but I think they already know, over.”

  FBI Agent-in-Charge McKinnon’s voice came in over the comm. “Perimeter secure, you’re clear to go.”

  Dawson looked at his men. “Eight targets. One behind this door, three on the right wall, three on the left, one on the stage. It’s a straight shot down the middle to the stage, take your shots as discussed, but I want Koroma alive. We need to know where that ninth man is, understood.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major!”

  “Okay, proceed in three, two, one, execute!”

  Two SWAT officers pulled open the doors as Dawson burst through, Niner on his left, the rest behind him in twos, Dawson dropping the first hostile as he spun around in shock. Surging forward, Dawson trained his weapon on Koroma, his eyes scanning the audience for hidden hostiles as he heard his men behind him opening up on the remaining six men lining the walls.

  Koroma raised his hands, stepping back slightly as screams erupted from the panicking audience, cameramen diving for cover, clearly none used to war reporting.

  “Federal authorities! Everyone on the ground, now!” he shouted, the order being repeated by the others as they continued to rush the stage, Koroma doing nothing but stand there, watching them approach. Dawson stopped, his weapon trained at Koroma’s chest. “Major Adofo Koroma, you are under arrest!”

  Koroma shrugged his shoulders. “My work here is done.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a weapon, placing it against his temple.

  Not this time.

  Dawson squeezed the trigger, hitting Koroma in the hand, the gun skidding across the stage as the man dropped to his knees, gripping his hand. Dawson swung up onto the stage, Niner following, careful to keep his weapon trained on the bleeding Koroma.

  The bleeding Koroma who was infected with Ebola.

  Koroma, on his knees, glared at him, his face contorted with pain.

  “You’ve stopped nothing here today.”

  Dawson looked at the man, then out at the audience, America’s glamour class humiliated on live television.

  “I stopped you.” He stepped slightly closer, his bunny suit and face mask causing him to sweat from the heat. “Where’s the ninth man?”

  Koroma smiled. “Like I said, you’ve stopped nothing here today.”

  Uncle Ray’s Burgers! Burgers! Burgers!, New York City, New York

  Ahmed Gevao wiped his forehead, his clothes soaked, his entire body sweating.

  It’s the fever!

  The thought was at once terrifying, at once exhilarating. He had already volunteered to die, but the way he was going to die would be horrible, painful. He knew firsthand what awaited him, having tended to his own pregnant wife’s death from this horrible disease months before. He had no one left. It had been their first child, and she the love of his life. His parents had died years before, his sister of the virus only days ago.

  All he had was his rage. His hatred.

  When Koroma had approached him he had jumped at the opportunity to serve, especially when it was explained to him what they hoped to achieve.

  “We want to prevent this from ever happening in the future. If we succeed, America will never forget, and will never allow an outbreak like this to happen again.”

  And with the non-stop coverage now playing on every channel, it appeared Koroma and the others had succeeded. Koroma was alive apparently, the others all dead, but the Hollywood stars and the other rich Americans at the banquet had been infected just like they had planned.

  But he was the backup.

  He ladled another order of burgers on buns, squeezing out a shot of ketchup onto each.

  A special blend of ketchup.

  He had arrived for work this afternoon with nine syringes full of blood, one from each of them, with many more sitting in his hotel room, a hotel room not connected to the others.

  His orders: inject the blood into the ketchup, mixing it up, then serving it all day to the American public.

  And continue doing this every day until he was captured or collapsed from the disease.

  He had filled many dozens of orders so far, and before his shift was over, it would be many hundreds, this fast food restaurant extremely popular, owned by a cousin of a supporter, a cousin who was not in on the plan.

  “Hey Ahmed, how’s your first day going?” asked “Uncle Ray” Jambai. “You doing okay?”

  Gevao squeezed another shot of ketchup onto a burger, wrapping it with the thin paper and shoving it down the slot for the cashiers to fill the constant orders. “Pretty good. Hot back here, but I’ll get used to it.”

  Jambai laughed. “You’re doing great, don’t worry. Keep working hard and maybe one day you’ll have my job.”

  Gevao laughed awkwardly, part of him feeling a little bad for the man, completely innocent in this. The outbreak started today would eventually be traced back here, destroying poor Jambai’s business, probably destroying the man himself.

  A small price to pay should it save thousands of lives in the future.

  “Hey, boss, isn’t that him?”

  One of the pimply faced teenagers working with him was pointing at a television mounted to a wall out where the customers were. Gevao looked and his heart sank as he saw his picture from the airport displayed with a tag line under it, “FBI Most Wanted.”

  “Turn that up!” shouted Jambai as he stepped away from Gevao. The volume was suddenly cranked.

  “—is considered armed and dangerous. He is wanted in connection with the terrorist attack earlier this evening at the Ebola telethon. If you see this man avoid contact as he may be infected with the Ebola virus—”

  Screams erupted as the employees in the kitchen abandoned their posts, rushing out the rear entrance, some out the front, customers join
ing them as the confusion spread.

  Which meant they were now out in the public, possibly spreading the virus, their ketchup covered fingers touching the doors of restaurants, offices, taxis, buses, subways.

  And in the coming days and weeks, they’d become contagious and spread the disease further.

  His work was done, even if he had been stopped far sooner than he had hoped.

  Jambai reappeared, his eyes filled with rage, with hatred, a gun extended out in front of him.

  Gevao raised his hands. “Please kill me.”

  Jambai froze, pondering the words. “How could you do this to me? What did I ever do to you?”

  Gevao sneered at the words. “To you? Is that all you Americans think of? Yourselves? I just infected dozens of your customers with Ebola, yet your first thought is of yourself. You disgust me!”

  Jambai lowered the weapon slightly. “You infected my customers? How?”

  Gevao pointed at the large ketchup dispenser. “I’m infected with the virus”— Jambai took a step back—“and I put my blood in there. Every single hamburger I’ve sent out since I got here has been infected.”

  “Oh my God!” cried Jambai. “How could you do such a thing? What did these people ever do to you?”

  Gevao laughed. “I think the question is, what did these people ever do for me?” Gevao looked at the gun, realizing he had an opportunity here that he couldn’t pass up. If he were taken into custody, he’d suffer for days, possibly weeks, before either dying a horrible death, or surviving, only to face a lifetime in prison.

  Neither sounded palatable.

  He charged at Jambai.

  “For my people!”

  Jambai raised the weapon and fired.

  Howard University Hospital, Washington, D.C.

  Three weeks later

  Sarah Henderson nodded, her personal protective equipment passing inspection. She stepped into the isolation chamber and walked over to the patient, word having reached her he was near death. She was of mixed emotions, which surprised her. As she looked down at Koroma, blood oozing from his eyes and nose, his skin pale, his breathing shallow, she felt at once pity and hatred. The chaos he had caused was still ongoing, at least one hundred people now confirmed infected with more showing up every day. It would take months to stop the outbreak, many would die, but it would be stopped.