Dr. Anne Damiano tore through the hotel door and stormed across the polished, gold, and white tile floor toward the elevator. Intent on a hot shower and a few hours rest, she clutched the over-shoulder strap of her leather briefcase and blew past the reception desk. This is getting monotonous, she thought. Thirty years of butting heads with narrow-minded thinkers is getting to me.

Cordovan loafers beneath glacier-sharp creased khakis blocked her path. "Hello, Wiggles."

Her head snapped up. Black Irish good looks and a gotcha grin. "Connor Quinlan, what are you doing here?"

"I heard you were in town for the CDC meeting."

"Meeting? Open warfare would be a better definition."

"Another fight with Jeffrey Delaney?"

"Yes. And I'll continue to push back until he realizes how wrong he is." The stubborn tilt of her chin warned against any argument.

"He has so much animosity toward you he may never change his opinion."

"Even after the anthrax attack in 2001, he wouldn't reconsider." Contempt pierced her words. "He's insisted on the same damn scenarios year after year after year. One terrorist brings smallpox into a city.

Two terrorists bring smallpox into the same hospital. Two terrorists, one city, and two hospitals in . . ."

She made a sweeping gesture with her right arm. Her briefcase missed Connor by inches. "Damn it, Connor, they will attack again. They will use our gullibility to infect massive numbers of people. They will cause chaos. And, they will kill."