Illya shifted his grip on his rifle's stock, waiting. He'd dug into what had been drying mud two days ago, knowing he'd never get help here in time. His communicator had been compromised by sand and by silt. He'd have to use the second round for the petrol tank.

The self-styled General had overwhelmed a WHO researcher, seizing the sample of a fourth poliomyelitis serotype. It must not be weaponized. He had to assume they'd all been exposed.

He waited. Inhale. Exhale. Squeeze. Clear and reload. Exhale. Squeeze. He cleared the weapon, his face warmed by the explosion. Inhale. Exhale.