He didn’t bother asking how she’d gotten into his locked apartment or why she presented herself in such an abrupt and unannounced manner. She was a skilled assassin, formerly employed by an international criminal organization called the Guild—but even that name wasn’t real, only a useful pseudonym to use in task-force reports and intelligence briefings. Its real identity and purpose remained unknown, even to its own operatives. The organization operated through individual cells around the world, each running independently, none having the complete picture.
After betraying her former employers, Seichan was left with no home, no country. Intelligence agencies—including those in the United States—had her on their most-wanted lists. The Mossad maintained a kill-on-sight order. But as of a year ago, she now worked for Sigma, recruited unofficially by Director Crowe for a mission too secret to be on any books: to root out the identities of the true puppet masters of the Guild.
But no one was fooled by her cooperation. It was driven by survival, not by loyalty to Sigma. She had to destroy the Guild before it destroyed her. Only a handful of people in the government knew of the special arrangement with this assassin. To help maintain that level of secrecy, Gray had been assigned as her direct supervisor and sole contact within Sigma.
Still, it had been five weeks since she’d last reported in. And then it had only been by phone. She’d been somewhere in France. So far, all she’d been hitting was dead ends.
So what is she doing here now?
She answered his silent question. “We have a problem.”
Gray did not take his eyes off her. While he should be concerned, he could not discount a spark of relief. He pictured the beer bottle in the fridge, remembering why he had needed it. He was suddenly glad for the distraction, something that didn’t involve social workers, neurologists, or prescriptions.
“This problem of yours,” he asked, “does it have anything to do with the situation in Utah?”
“What situation in Utah?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.
He studied her, searching her face for any sign of deception. The bombing had certainly stirred up Sigma, and Seichan’s sudden appearance struck Gray as suspicious.
She finally shrugged. “I came to show you this.”
She stood up, passed him a sheaf of papers, and headed toward the door. Clearly he was meant to follow. He stared down at the symbol on the top page, but it made no sense to him.
He glanced up to her as she reached the door.
“Something’s stirred up a hornet’s nest,” she said. “Right here in your own backyard. Something big. It may be the break we’ve been waiting for.”
“How so?”
“Twelve days ago, every feeler I’ve been extending around the globe suddenly jangled. A veritable earthquake. In its wake, every contact I’ve been grooming went dead silent.”
Twelve days ago . . .
Gray realized that this time frame coincided with the day the Native American boy had been killed out in Utah. Could there be a connection?
Seichan continued: “Something big has piqued the Guild’s interest. And that earthquake I mentioned . . . its epicenter is here in D.C.” She faced him from the door. “Even now, I can sense unseen forces mobilizing into position. And it’s during such chaos that sealed doors get cracked open, just long enough for bits of intel to blow out.”
Gray noted her eyes sparking, her breathing sharpening with excitement. “You found something.”
She pointed again at the papers in his hand. “It starts there.”
He stared again at the symbol on the top page.
It was the Great Seal of the United States.
He didn’t understand. He flipped over the next pages. They were a mix of typed research notes, sketches, and photocopies of an old handwritten letter. Though the letter’s ink was faded, the cursive script was precise, written in French. He read the name to which the letter was addressed, Archard Fortescue. Definitely sounded French. But it was the signature at the end, the signature of the man who wrote the letter, that truly caught Gray’s attention, a name known to every schoolchild in America.
Benjamin Franklin.
He frowned at the name, then at Seichan. “What do these papers have to do with the Guild?”
“You and Crowe told me to find the true source of those bastards.” Seichan turned and pulled open the door. He noted a flicker of fear pass over her features before she looked away. “You’re not going to like what I found.”
He stepped toward her, drawn as much by her anxiety as by his own curiosity. “What did you find?”
She answered as she stepped out into the night. “The Guild . . . it goes all the way back to the founding of America.”
AN EXCERPT FROM BLOODLINE
A FORTHCOMING SIGMA FORCE NOVEL
From New York Times bestselling author
James Rollins
Comes the next Sigma Force thriller in which
a genetic mystery with ties to both ancient history and modern-day government threaten
to change the world as we know it
Coming June 2012 in hardcover from William Morrow, An Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers
Chapter One
Fleeing from Somali pirates, a yacht bearing a young American family crashes into a jungle atoll off the coast of Madagascar, only to face a horror far more terrifying: an experiment run amok has turned the island into the bloody hunting grounds for a new form of life. The single female survivor, rescued by Captain Tucker Wayne and his advanced military team, bears a terrifying secret. She is pregnant and something is already changing inside her.
Halfway around the world, a firebombing at a fertility clinic in South Carolina reveals a group of women kidnapped from around the globe and enslaved to bear children by artificial means. One woman lives long enough to give birth to a stillborn child at a local hospital. A genetic study reveals the child bears a strange abnormality—a triple helix of DNA.
Commander Gray Pierce of Sigma Force and Captain Tucker Wayne must team up with a deadly assassin on a journey from the sparkling towers of Dubai to the crumbling ruins of an ancient French fortress, from the halls of power on Capitol Hill to the dark secrets buried at the heart of a centuries-old southern plantation, all in the quest for the truth—and to save an unborn child that may be the key to the future of mankind.
James Rollins—for the thrill of it!
Fourth of July: One Month from Now
The assassin stared through the rifle’s scope and lowered the crosshairs to the profile of President James T. Gant. He fixed his sights upon the occipital bone behind his left ear, knowing a shot there would do the most damage. Festive music and bright laughter from the holiday picnic filtered through his earpiece. He let it all fade into the background as he centered his focus on his target, on his mission.
In U.S. history, three presidents had died on July 4th.
Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and James Monroe.
Today would mark the fourth.
Steadying his breath, Commander Gray Pierce pulled the trigger.
Present Day
June 4th, 4:32 pm
Republic of Zanzibar
The low growl warned him.
Already on edge, Tucker Wayne flattened against the stone wall of the narrow street and slid into the deeper shadows of a doorway. Earlier this morning, he had noted someone following him, watching from afar. He had managed to quickly lose the tail in the labyrinth of alleyways and crooked streets that made up this crumbling section of Zanzibar.
Who had found him?
He pressed his back against a carved wooden door. He intended to stay lost, undiscoverable, an unknown continent. He had been adrift in the world for three years, one year shy of his thirtieth circle around the sun. That’s how he ended up in the archipelago of Zanzibar, a string of sun-baked islands off the eastern coast of Africa. The name alone—Zanzibar—conjured
up another time, a land of mystery and mythology. It was a place in which to disappear, to live unseen, where few questions were asked.
People knew better.
Still, he often drew second glances here, not because he was white. The ancient port of Zanzibar remained the crossroads for people of every race and color. And after a full year traveling through Africa, his skin was burnt as dark as any of the local merchants hawking wares in the spice markets of old Stone Town. And he certainly struck a tall figure, muscular—more quarterback than linebacker—though there remained a hardness to his eye that made any curious glance toward him skirt quickly away.
Instead, what attracted the most attention to him was something else, someone else. Kane brushed up against his thigh—silent now, with hackles still raised. Tucker rested a hand on his dog’s side, not to calm him but ready to signal his partner if necessary. And that’s what they were. Partners. Kane was an extension of himself.
While the dog looked like a hard-bodied, compact shepherd, he was actually a Belgian Malinois. His fur was black and tan, but mostly black, a match to his dark eyes. Under his palm, Tucker felt Kane’s muscles tense.
Half a block away, a thin shape burst around the next corner, careening in a panic. In his haste, he collided off the far wall and rebounded down the street, glancing frequently over his shoulder. Tucker sized him up in a breath and weighed any danger.
Early twenties, maybe late teens, a mix of Asian and Indian, his eyes wide with terror, his limbs and face sickly gaunt—from addiction, from malnourishment?
The runner clutched his right side, failing to staunch a crimson bloom from seeping through his white shift. The scent of fresh blood and the salty tang of fear-sweat must have alerted Kane along with the panicked tread of those bare feet.
Tucker prepared to step out of the shadowed doorway, to go to the young man’s aid—but the pressure against his legs increased, pinning him in place.
A heartbeat later, the reason became clear. Around the same corner stalked a trio of large men, African, with tribal scarring across their faces. They carried machetes and spread to either side of the empty street with the clear skill of experienced hunters.
Their target also noted their arrival—igniting his already frightened flight into a full rout—but blood loss and exhaustion had taken their toll. Within a few steps, the victim tripped and sprawled headlong across the street. Though he struck the cobbles hard, he didn’t make a sound, not a whimper or a cry, simply defeated.
That, more than anything, drew Tucker out of hiding.
That, and something his grandfather drilled into him: In the face of inhumanity, a good man reacts—but a great one acts.
Tucker tapped three fingers against his dog’s side, the signal plain.
Defend.
Kane leaped over the prone body of the young man and landed in a crouch on the far side, tail high, baring teeth, growling. The dog’s sudden appearance caused all three attackers to stop in shock, as if some demon djinn had materialized before them.
Tucker used the distraction to fold out of the shadows and close upon the nearest of the three men. In a swift capture of wrist, followed by an elbow strike to the chin, the machete ended up in Tucker’s grip. He flat-handed the man away as the second assailant swung his blade in a roundhouse swing. Rather than leaping clear, Tucker lunged forward, entering the man’s guard. He caught the deadly arm under his own and snaked his hand fully around to capture the limb and immobilize it. With his other arm, he slammed the butt-end of the steel machete into the man’s nose.
Bone cracked; blood spurted.
The man went limp, but Tucker held him upright by his trapped arm.
From the corner of his eye, the third and largest opponent backed two steps and freed a pistol. Tucker swung around, using his captured assailant’s body as a shield as shots rang out. It proved a meager defense at such close range. One of the rounds blasted through his captive’s neck, grazing Tucker’s shoulder.
Then a scream rang out.
Tucker shoved the body aside and saw Kane latched onto the shooter’s wrist, the dog’s fangs digging deep. The pistol clattered to the street. The man’s eyes were round with panic as he tried to shake the dog loose. Blood and slather flew.
Only then did the huge African remember the machete in his other hand. He lifted it high, ready to hack at the dog.
No…
“Release!” Tucker cried out.
The word was barely off his lips when Kane obeyed, letting go and dropping back on the street. But the man continued his downward swing at the dog’s neck with a savage bellow. Kane could not get out of the way in time.
Tucker was already moving.
Heart pounding, he dove for the abandoned pistol and scooped it up. He shoulder-rolled to bring the gun up—but he was too slow.
The machete flashed in the sunlight.
A shot rang out.
The man crumpled backward, half his skull shattering away. The blade flew away harmlessly. Tucker stared at his pistol. The shot had not come from his weapon.
Up the street, a new trio appeared. Two men and a woman. Though dressed in street clothes, they had the stamp of military all about them. The leader in the center held a smoking Sig Sauer.
“See to him.” He pointed to the bleeding young man on the ground. His words had a slight Texas accent. “Make sure he has the maps and get him to the ship.”
Despite the clear interest in the injured man, the leader’s gaze never unlocked from Tucker’s eyes. From the hard contours of his face, the close-cropped black hair that had gone a bit wild, and the stony edge to his storm-grey eyes, he was definitely military.
Likely ex-military.
Not good.
The leader crossed over to him, ignoring Kane’s wary growl. He offered a hand to help Tucker up.
“You’re a difficult man to find, Captain Tucker Wayne.”
He bit back any surprise and ignored the offered hand. He stood on his own. “You were following me. Earlier this morning.”
“And you lost us.” A hard twinkle of amusement brightened his eyes. “Not an easy thing to do. That alone proves you’re the man we need.”
“Not interested.”
He turned, but the man stepped in front of him and blocked the way. A finger pointed at his chest, which only managed to irritate him further.
“Listen for one minute,” the man said, “then you’re free to go.”
Tucker stared down at the finger. The only reason he didn’t reach out and break it was that the man had saved Kane’s life a moment ago. He owed him that much—and perhaps even a minute of his time.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The offending finger turned into an open palm, inviting a handshake. “Commander Gray Pierce. I work for an organization called Sigma.”
He scowled. “Never heard of it. That makes you what? Defense contractors, mercenaries?” He made his disdain for that last word plain.
That dark twinkle grew brighter as the other lowered his arm “No. We work under the auspices of DARPA.”
He frowned, but curiosity kept him listening. DARPA was the Defense department’s research-and-development administration. What the hell was going on here?
“Perhaps we can discuss this in a quieter location,” the commander said.
By now, the other pair had gathered up the wounded young man, shouldered him between them, and were headed toward the port. Faces had begun to peer out of windows or through peek holes in doors. Other figures hovered at the corners. Zanzibar often turned a blind eye to most offenses, but the gunfire and bloodshed would not be ignored for long. As soon as they left, the bodies would be looted of anything of value, and any inquiries would be met with blank stares.
“I know a place,” Tucker said and led the way.
4:44 pm
Gray sipped a hot tea sweetened with cardamom. He sat with Tucker Wayne on a rooftop deck overlooking the Indian Ocean. Across the waters, the triangular sails of
old wooden dhows mixed with cargo ships and a smattering of tourist yachts. For the moment, they had the hotel’s tiny restaurant to themselves.
At the foot of the building, a small spice market rang and bustled, wafting up with a mélange of nutmeg, cinnamon, vanilla, cloves, and countless other spices that had once lured sultans to this island and had fueled an active slave trading industry. The islands had exchanged hands many times, evident in its unique blend of Moorish, Middle Eastern, Indian, and African traditions. Around every corner, the city changed faces and remained impossible to categorize.
The same could be said for the cipher who was seated across the narrow table from him. Gray placed his cup of tea onto a cracked saucer. A heavy-bodied fly, drawn by the sweet tea, came lumbering down and landed on the table. It crawled toward his cup.
Gray swatted at it—but before his palm could strike the table, fingers caught his wrist, stopping him.
“Don’t.”
Tucker gently waved the fly off, then returned to his thousand-yard stare out to sea.
Gray rubbed his wrist and watched the fly, oblivious to its salvation, buzz lazily away.
Tucker finally cleared his throat. “What do you want with me?”
Gray focused back to the matter at hand. He had read the former Army Ranger’s full dossier, knew his strengths and weaknesses, but the man remained a mystery. Like why he had abruptly left the service, disappearing immediately after being discharged, leaving behind a uniform full of medals, including a purple heart after one of the nastiest firefights in Afghanistan—Operation Anaconda at Takur Ghar. He had been only nineteen at the time.
Gray cut to the chase as time was running out. “Captain Wayne, during your military career, your expertise was extraction and rescue. Your commanding officer claimed there was no one better.”
The man shrugged.
“You and your dog—”
“Kane,” Tucker interrupted. “His name’s Kane.”
A furry left ear pricked at his master’s voice. The dog lay sprawled on the floor, looking drowsy, inattentive, but Gray knew better. His muzzle rested against the toe of Tucker’s boot, ready for any signal from his partner. Gray had read Kane’s dossier, too. The war dog had a vocabulary of a thousand words, along with the knowledge of a hundred hand gestures. The two were bound together more intimately than any husband and wife—and together, with the dog’s heightened senses and ability to maneuver in places where men could not, the two were frighteningly efficient in the field.
The Doomsday Key and The Last Oracle with Bonus Excerpts Page 90
