Liam shook his head. “I thought that too, but my da’s friend who’s a garda told me she wouldn’t have been granted bail until she appeared in front of the magistrate the next morning. I must have beat her there.”
“At least you tried,” Bree said as she masked her disappointment.
Liam smiled. “I snuck inside.”
“But how?”
“The landlady’s cell rang, and she went down the hall for some privacy. I slipped past the door and hid in the bathtub and waited. When I heard the landlady lock the door after the locksmith left, I looked around.” He removed a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. “I found this stuck inside a book of children’s folklore. At first I didn’t even think to look inside the books, but then I wondered what Kelsi was doing with a children’s book since she didn’t have any children. When I shook the book upside down, the paper fell out.”
Bree unfolded the paper; it contained a list of bogs. Under each bog was a string of first names followed by years that dated back to the 1500s. “You have any idea what this is?”
“The dates are during the Inquisition. My guess is they’re burial dates, but I can’t prove it. Internet records don’t go back that far. I didn’t know where else to look.”
“If the Benandanti are real,” Bree said, “and these are burial dates, it makes sense why Kelsi was protecting the hand and the body.” Bree took a moment while all her thoughts came together. “Liam—Kelsi isn’t afraid of the Benandanti. She’s one of them.”
Liam seemed taken aback at first. “Makes sense when you think about it. I bet that’s why she took the job at the institute.”
Bree nodded. “She’d know right away if any ancient remains were discovered, no matter where. And if they were Benandanti, she’d be all over it.”
“Now what? I assume you and your da are studying the DNA you brought with you from Ireland?”
“Yeah, but…” She hesitated, not wanting to hurt Liam’s feelings. “I’m not supposed to talk about it, not even to you. I wish I could, but I promised my dad.” It hurt her to shut him out, but she had no choice.
“I get it. My da’s like that a lot with his work too.”
“I missed you so much.” She looked up at him expectantly, but he didn’t bend down to kiss her. Instead, Liam looked right past her. “What is it?” she asked.
“I think your friends are staring at us.”
Bree turned around and saw Sara and the others. Sara shot her a huge smile. “Let me introduce you.” Hand in hand, they strolled to the diving board, and Bree said, “Hey, guys. This is Liam.”
Miguel stiffened. “Who the hell’s he? A minute ago you were going to Hatteras Cove with me.”
Bree’s stomach clenched. “I never said that.”
“You were going, and you know it. What do you want with this loser anyway?”
“What’s your problem?” Liam said.
Miguel imitated Liam’s Irish accent with an added snarl. “What’s my problem? It’s you. Go back to wherever you came from.” He turned to Bree and said, “You know you want to be with me, so just ditch this guy and let’s go.”
“Look mate,” Liam said. “Leave her alone or I’ll make you.”
Miguel seemed to consider the idea but backed off after he sized up Liam, who was a good four inches taller and at least twenty pounds heavier than he was. “Screw you,” Miguel said. “Both of you.” He stormed off.
Liam rolled his eyes. “Either that guy’s a real idiot, or he drank a few too many pints.”
Sara glanced over at Miguel. “I don’t know why I ever thought he was hot.”
“You liked him?” Bree said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Not anymore. Besides, he asked you to Hatteras Cove, not me.”
“If he had asked you,” Liam said to Sara, “would you have gone?”
“I don’t know,” she said with a slight smile.
Chapter Thirty
The Delcore Institute, Rivershire, Virginia: Three Weeks Later
“The answer is mice,” Bree’s dad said.
She raised her eyebrows. “And what was the question?”
“We inject the mice with a virus containing the lycanthrope mutation gene and other DNA sequences that will tell the cells to make a lot of the lycanthrope transcription factor. If we use the accelerator I developed for the wound repair serum—that’s the idea I thought of right before we left Ireland—then we can significantly speed up the process. Then we wait and see what happens.”
“That’s so cool,” Bree said. “We’re making lycanthrope mice?”
Her dad chuckled. “Kind of. Before I would have written off lycanthropy as a myth, but now I believe it’s a genetic mutation.” He paced the floor in his office like it couldn’t contain him. “It’s all right there.” He stopped briefly and stabbed the papers on his desk with his index finger. “We were right, Bree. That hand was both lycanthrope and human. There’s no doubt about it. Do you know what this means?” Before she could answer, he continued. “We’ve got the secret to lycanthrope DNA right here, right in front of us.”
She couldn’t talk to him when he was like this. He talked so fast and moved around so much, it was hard to follow what he said. “Slow down, Dad. I want to keep up.”
“Right. Sorry.”
He continued to pace, but now his steps weren’t so measured, more like a casual walk across the office. As if he’d lost his way. “Where was I?” He paused and then said, “Oh right. The hand and the rest of the body, wherever it is, resulted from a strange mutation in a gene, probably a transcription factor, which is a gene that controls other genes. That would make the most sense anyway, since there are so many effects involved.”
“This will change everything,” Bree said with her eyes wide. “We can help the soldiers.”
“Not so fast. Although I’m pretty sure I’m right about the lycanthrope gene, there’s a protocol we have to follow.”
“Can’t we just use the gene to fix the wound repair serum?”
“Testing the gene in mice is the first step. You wouldn’t want to unintentionally harm someone, would you?”
Bree admired the way her dad could rein in his excitement to follow protocol. He always proceeded slowly and looked both ways before following the rules—she got that, she really did—but she wanted results and she wanted them now.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia
At exactly 1:30 p.m., General Maberry strode into a soundproof room deep inside the Pentagon. At once, four army officers rose from around a large oak conference table and stood at attention, eyes fixed forward. No one said a word, and their stone-cold expressions revealed nothing. General Maberry closed the three-inch-thick wooden door—a thunk resounded as it settled into the frame—and crossed to the head of the table. “At ease,” he said, cutting through the silence.
The four men dropped their salutes. Moving clockwise around the room, General Maberry shook hands with each man, inquiring about his wife and kids. These men were more to him than soldiers; they were family. Men he had fought with, drank with, celebrated with…and grieved with.
General Maberry returned to his spot at the head of the table and faced his most-trusted leaders. All tough. Watching him. Waiting for him to speak. It still felt a little odd; everyone looking at him for answers, as if he knew everything. He poured a glass of cold water from the sweating pitcher in front of him and downed half in one long swig. When he finished, he said, “Take a seat gentlemen.”
Chair legs scraped against the floor. All went quiet except for the ticking of the wall clock.
General Maberry felt the men’s eyes on him. As soon as the last of his officers were seated around the conference table, he said, “Dr. Sunderland’s on his way up.”
The man directly to his left said, “Is it about the wound repair project, sir?” Hewitt was the youngest of the four officers and the most outspoken.
<
br /> General Maberry nodded. “Dr. Sunderland was studying bog bodies and thinks he may have found a way to fix the wound repair serum.” His words were level as always, but he fought to control his excitement.
“That’s great news,” Hewitt said. “IEDs have maimed too many soldiers already—you know the statistics—and if this could help the soldiers…”
It could help my son, General Maberry thought.
A knock on the door announced Dr. Sunderland’s arrival. Once he was seated, he folded his hands together in his lap and filled them in on his findings. Then he added, “There’s something else. I believe that if the lycanthrope gene can be controlled then gene therapy can be used to create strong soldiers.”
“How strong we talking about?” General Maberry asked.
Dr. Sunderland took a deep breath before answering. “Soldiers with capabilities beyond what’s human.”
General Maberry leaned forward with his beefy hands gripping the edge of the table. “Like super soldiers?”
Hewitt met Webb’s gaze across the table but quickly broke eye contact.
“Yes,” Dr. Sunderland said proudly. “And I’m not talking about cyborgs or robots, but real live men and women who can outperform and outlast our enemies. Soldiers with the strength to take on the best and win.”
General Maberry gauged his officers’ reactions, intrigued by their looks of disbelief as they tried to wrap their minds around the idea.
One of the others said, “How’s that possible?”
Dr. Sunderland smiled. “I’m planning on testing it soon to confirm my suspicions.”
“What about the wound repair project?” another officer asked.
“We must focus on the bigger picture now,” General Maberry said. “And the super soldiers take priority.” He thought of his son. Knowing he would let Andy down cut right to his core and almost dropped him to his knees. Postponing further research on the wound repair project would leave Andy without options. It might even kill him.
But it had to be done.
For the greater good.
General Maberry held on to the edge of the table and took a slow, deep breath. “With an army of super soldiers, or even a handful of them, our men could accomplish their missions with greater success and fewer deaths, and even take on missions that we were reluctant to address in the past, missions that would have meant certain death but that would now be possible. With this technology we’ll not only have the strongest army in the world but the safest. And I’m all for anything that saves the lives of our men.”
The man to his right said, “But sir, if this gene is introduced, would the soldiers still be men?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Garby Grove, Virginia
In a dark and windowless basement room, lit only by flickering candlelight that cast moving shadows across cement walls hidden by a secret sliding door, five women sat around a wooden table. Unlike members of other secret societies, no two were dressed alike or resembled one another in any way. Yet they were all sisters, their bond made sacred by the ring each of them wore. The symbol of the Benandanti was a constant reminder of their power, their dedication, and the ongoing threat to their existence.
Isabella, who had just hit her thirty-fifth birthday, took her seat among them. Not a word was said as the other women waited for their eldest sister to speak. “As you can see, I’ve called Arleta, our sister from Ireland, here to assist us. She has experience with the Sunderlands and can help us anticipate their actions. It seems Dr. Sunderland is planning to use the harvested DNA to create super soldiers for the government.”
The women gasped and shifted uneasily in their seats.
Arleta cringed at her failure to destroy the hand. “How do you know he’s creating super soldiers?”
Isabella held her head high and spoke with a calm that gave no indication of the stakes. “It doesn’t matter. But know this: If he succeeds, our fate and the fate of our sisterhood throughout the world could change in an instant and without warning. They’ll have the power to take over land and seas, and kill those who don’t agree with their point of view. And that’s all in the name of justice. What happens if they use the DNA, and the power it bestows, to annihilate people on a much grander scale than anyone could have ever imagined?” Isabella paused to let the information sink in. “We have to convince Sunderland to stop.”
Arleta twirled the Benandanti ring on her finger. When it came to his research, she knew Dr. Sunderland to be like a pit bull with a soup bone, and his daughter seemed equally determined. “And if we can’t?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Delcore Institute, Rivershire, Virginia: Two Weeks Later
Bree peered through the cage where Louie and Zach, the largest of the four altered mice, wrestled. It was difficult to tell who was winning. Louie, who had a tuft of white fur on the ear, tossed Zach off his back and popped to his feet. Zach jumped Louie and Louie went down. They rolled and pushed their new, overly-developed muscles to their limits.
It’s amazing how strong they got since you injected them with the DNA,” Bree said to her dad as she leaned closer. “They’re like twice the size of the other males.”
“The females have also nearly doubled their muscle strength. But did you notice the behavior change? These are more aggressive. There’s no doubt about it.”
“The last time they went at it like this they didn’t stop until they were exhausted,” she said. “That was just a few hours ago, and look at them now.”
“The aggression only appears after provocation, I’ve noticed, like when one of the males goes after the other’s food.”
“So who started it this time?” Bree asked. “Louie or Zach?”
Her dad raised his eyebrows. “I wish you’d stop calling them by those names. It’s really not a good idea to get too attached to your test subjects.”
“Whatever. It’s just easier to remember who’s who, that’s all.” Bree looked to where the control mice, two males and two females, slept together in their respective cages. They never fought over food or wrestled like the altered mice.
Bree heard a squeal and turned to Louie and Zach; they were now in a heated fight. Next door, in a separate cage, Sue and Dina were also going at it. “Dad, look at this. Their teeth and claws are much longer and sharper than those of the control group, but they’re relying on their strength to dominate instead of killing each other. Why is that?”
Her dad squatted so he was eye level with the cage and watched the mice for a long moment before answering. “I think you may be right. It’s obvious that when the lycanthrope DNA altered the bodies, it made the mice more aggressive, but maybe there’s no reason for savagery if there’s no real threat. They know they’ll get enough food for all of them even if they fight over it, though that would make a good experiment. We could see if they’d fight to the death if there wasn’t enough food. Find out if they’d turn against one another or if they’d share.”
The pitch of Bree’s voice rose. “You want to kill them?”
“See what I mean? You’re too attached. You’re either a scientist, Bree, or an animal lover.”
“There’s no reason I can’t be both.”
“Not in the lab. Here you have to be a scientist first. What you are outside of the lab is up to you.”
Bree wanted to tell him it wasn’t true, that she could be everything she was both inside and outside the lab, but it was only a feeling. She didn’t know how to defend it on her dad’s terms, so she said nothing.
“I set up a maze and a racetrack,” her dad said. “I want to test the genetically altered mice against one another and then against the control mice. See who’s faster and who can navigate better. Why don’t you put your ‘friends’—” He exaggerated the word—“into smaller cages and I’ll get the control group.”
Bree reached for one of the clear plastic cages on the side table. She set it next to the larger cage and unsnapped the grate
d steel lids. At the sound, Louie and Zach froze. Bree wondered what they thought. Was she just a giant who fed and watered them? Did they recognize her?
Slowly, she slid her hand inside the cage and let it linger for a few moments—palm up, fingers tightly together—so the mice didn’t feel threatened. Louie released his grip on Zach, scurried over, and sniffed Bree’s fingers. At first, she remained still. Then she gently grasped the skin behind the back of his head and guided Louie toward her open palm. After a few seconds Louie climbed onto her hand. She stroked him a few times before cupping him and removing him from the cage. It wasn’t the swiftest of methods, but it worked, and the mice were used to it. But how much longer could she control them?
What if they turned against her too?
***
The racetrack occupied a good portion of the floor and was constructed with two six-foot-long pieces of wooden board laid out end to end. A long board down the middle separated the racetracks. At the far end were two globs of crunchy peanut butter, one to entice each mouse.
“So how are we going to do this?” Bree said, eyeing the track.
“Systematically.”
Of course, she thought. Did he do things any other way? “I mean, where do you want to start?”
“Let’s start with your friend Zach,” her dad said with a wink and a smile. “I’ll get a male control mouse to race him.”
They placed the mice at the starting lines. When her dad said, “Go,” Bree lifted the sliding wall that released the mice into the maze. Zach bolted toward the peanut butter, his strong muscles easily carrying his oversized body. The control mouse ran toward the peanut butter too, but compared to Zach’s performance it was like watching a race in slow motion.
Her dad checked the stopwatch and logged the times. “That’s impressive. Zach was more than twice as fast as the control mouse. I didn’t think it would be that much of a difference.”
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