Heart of a Hero. Anne Marie Winston

a thing, not even the gun. Whatever they’d been looking for, they hadn’t found.

      They had to be searching for the tissue samples in the biohazard container.

      She crawled across the dirt floor, reached into the hole, grasped the handle of the aluminum canister and yanked it free. Clutching her deadly package, Sarah stumbled blindly through the hut, out the door.

      She froze in her tracks.

      Blackened skeletons of charred wood and the shocking smell of burning human flesh seared into her brain. The wooden roof of the tiny clinic church burned fiercely, shooting a shower of orange stars into the night sky. She swayed on her feet as her vision blurred.

      Move, Sarah. Do this for them. You owe them this much.

      Gripping the container, she forced one foot in front of the other, woodenly making her way toward the periphery of the clearing, toward the living, breathing, inhospitable jungle. Her sneakers were still encased in plastic bags tied at her ankles, her hair still tucked into a cotton head covering, her protective apron still smeared with the doctor’s blood.

      She was only vaguely aware that her path was lit by burning huts, that night had fallen, fast and complete, around six o’clock, as it did every day so near the equator.

      Twelve hours of blackness loomed ahead of her. And with it came sheer, sickening terror.

      She was truly alone.