The Judas Strain sf-4

by James Rollins

  The woman nodded to Gray. No introduction was offered.

  “I’ve been informed of the situation,” the team leader continued, his words precise, plainly foreign-born, with a trace of an accent. “I’ll ask you all to stand back and let us work. We will transfer the patient to the surgical bay inside the van. I will send out Anni with a status report shortly.” He finally acknowledged the woman.

  The other two men rushed past with the stretcher. The doctor followed, while Anni remained where she was, leaning on a hip.

  The cell phone in Gray’s hand began to vibrate as he stepped aside. The team leader spoke rapidly. Gray finally recognized the accent of the team leader.

  Dr. Amen Nasser.

  He was Egyptian.

  1:08 A.M.

  Painter stood in front of the wall monitor directly behind his desk. The plasma screens on the other two walls displayed live video of the first and second floor of the safe house. The one behind his desk pixilated with digital feed from the exterior camera.

  “Pick up the phone, Gray!” he yelled at the screen.

  The controls for the cameras were down a floor in main security. Painter had no way of swiveling the camera. He had seen the med van park at the edge of the screen, but it wasn’t until a second ago that he had spotted the pair who had stepped into view in front of Gray.

  Neither of them worked for Sigma.

  Painter knew all the personnel.

  The van might be Sigma’s, but the team inside was not.

  A trap.

  On the screen, Gray flipped open the cell and raised it to his ear. “Director Crowe—?”

  Before Painter could answer, a thin foot kicked out and smashed the phone against Gray’s head. With a snap of cellular crackle, he went down, caught off guard.

  “Gray…”

  The image on the screen suddenly jumped — then went black.

  1:09 A.M.

  The first shot took out the camera.

  Head ringing, Gray heard the muffled cough and splintering shatter. He twisted around.

  “What the hell?” his father bellowed as the camera’s debris rained down on him. He was still crouched in the backseat with Seichan.

  The guard, Kowalski, was on the other side of the car. He froze like a deer in headlights, a grizzled two-hundred-pound deer. But the pistol at the back of his neck was a strong deterrent against moving.

  The orderlies had shoved the stretcher into the side yard. One held a gun on Kowalski, the other waved for Gray’s father to get out of the car.

  “Stay where you are,” a harsh voice warned behind him.

  Gray glanced over his shoulder. The woman, Anni, held a black Sig Sauer at his face, standing out of reach of a leg sweep, but close enough that she would not miss a head shot.

  Recognizing this, Gray faced the Thunderbird.

  Dr. Nasser carried a matching pistol in his hand.

  Gray somehow knew that it was the weapon that had shot Seichan.

  Nasser came around to Gray’s father’s side. He searched down to where Seichan lay sprawled. He shook his head sadly, then pointed to the gunman on that side. “Get the old man out of the car. See if the bitch has the obelisk, then drag her to the van.”

  Obelisk?

  Gray watched as his father was manhandled out of the backseat. He prayed his father would not aggravate the situation. But it proved unnecessary. Plainly stunned, his father offered no resistance.

  “She doesn’t have it,” the man in the backseat finally said, straightening up.

  Nasser stepped to the car and scanned the interior himself. He did not find what he was looking for. The only sign of consternation at this lack of discovery was a single crinkle between his eyes.

  He stepped away from the car and faced Gray.

  “Where is it?”

  Gray fixed the man with a steady stare. “Where is what?”

  He sighed. “Surely she told you, or you wouldn’t be making such an effort for an enemy.” Without turning, he signaled the man who had searched Seichan. The man pressed his pistol against his father’s forehead.

  “I don’t ask questions a second time. You probably don’t know that. So I’ll give you this moment of leeway.”

  Gray swallowed, noting the raw fear in his father’s eyes.

  “The obelisk,” Gray said. “The one you mentioned. She had it with her, but it broke when she crashed her bike at the house. She passed out before she could say anything about it. For all I know, it’s still there.”

  And it might be.

  He had forgotten about it in the rush to deal with Seichan.

  Where had it gone?

  The man kept his eyes fixed on Gray. He studied him with a calculating and steady gaze.

  “I think you’re actually telling me the truth, Commander Pierce.”

  Still, the Egyptian signaled his gunman.

  The shot was deafening.

  1:10 A.M.

  A minute ago Painter had noted movement on the plasma screen to the left. The interior video cameras of the safe house were still working. He spotted Mrs. Harriet Pierce crouched behind the kitchen table.

  The attackers seemed unaware she was hiding inside.

  No one except Gray had known he was coming to the safe house with an extra two passengers. The van had arrived after Gray’s mother had gone inside. With the one guard stationed at the house immobilized, they had assumed the scene was locked down.

  Painter knew it was his only advantage.

  He called for a silent alarm to be raised at the house and a line opened. He watched the amber light beside the house phone blink and blink.

  See the flashing light, he willed her.

  Whether it was the alarm light or the simple instinct to call for help, Harriet crept over to the kitchen phone, reached up, and pulled the receiver to her ear.

  “Don’t talk,” he said quickly. “It’s Painter Crowe. Don’t let them know you are inside. I can see you. Nod if you understand.”

  She nodded.

  “Good. I have help coming. But I don’t know if they’ll reach you in time. The attackers must know this, too. They will be cruel and quick. I need you to be crueler. Can you do this?”

  A nod.

  “Very good. There should be a pistol in the drawer below the phone.”

  1:11 A.M.

  The gunshot was deafening.

  Deafening.

  Not a silencer like before.

  Gray knew the truth the fraction of a second before the gunman holding a weapon to his father’s head fell to the side, half his skull splattering against the front quarter panel of the Thunderbird.

  He knew the shooter.

  His mother.

  She was Texas bred, raised by an oilman who worked the same fields as Gray’s father. Though his mother constantly petitioned for gun control, she was not shy around them.

  Gray had both feared and hoped for some distraction from her. He’d kept ready for it, legs braced. Before the gunman’s body even hit the ground, Gray leaped straight back. He had been watching the Asian woman’s form in the polished chrome of the rear bumper.

  The loud gunshot and the sudden backward leap caught her by surprise. Gray raised his right arm and hooked her arm, the one holding the Sig Sauer. As he struck her, he smashed his boot onto the inseam of her foot and cracked his head backward.

  He heard something crunch below and behind.

  Ahead, Kowalski had already elbowed his gunman, grabbed him by the scruff, and slammed his face into the edge of the convertible’s door.

  “Eat steel, jackass.”

  The gunman dropped like a sack of coal.

  Without a pause Gray cradled Anni’s captured fist and swung her arm toward Dr. Nasser. He squeezed the woman’s finger against the trigger. She fought. Compromised, Gray’s aim was off. His shot struck the brick wall with a ringing spark.

  Still, it succeeded enough. Dr. Nasser ducked to the right, diving into the bushes that fronted the house, vanishing away. />
  Gray yanked the pistol from the woman’s grip and back-kicked her away from him. She stumbled but kept her feet. Bloody-nosed, she twisted around and fled toward the van, sprinting like a gazelle, oblivious of her smashed foot.

  Going for more weapons.

  Gray did not want an encore of Anni Get Your Gun.

  He raised the pistol toward her, but before he could fire, a round sizzled past the tip of his nose. From the bushes.

  Nasser.

  Startled, Gray stumbled backward, going for shelter under the porte cochere. He fired blindly into the bushes, not knowing where the bastard hid. He backpedaled until his calves struck the rear bumper of the T-bird. He fired another two rounds toward the med van.

  But Asian Anni had vanished inside.

  His shots ricocheted off the van. Like the president’s med van, this one was armor-plated.

  Gray yelled. “Everyone inside the car! Now!”

  His mother appeared at the kitchen door, holding a smoking pistol. She had her purse over her other arm, as if she were going out for groceries.

  “C’mon, Harriet,” his father said. He reached up and hauled her toward the passenger door.

  Kowalski leaped headlong into the backseat. Gray feared his bulk might finish Seichan off quicker than anything Nasser planned.

  Gray vaulted over into the front seat and crashed hard. He twisted the key, still in the ignition, and the hot engine roared.

  The passenger door slammed. Both his parents crowded the one seat.

  Gray glanced into the rearview mirror.

  Anni stood braced in the opening of the van. She balanced a rocket launcher on her shoulder.

  The show is Anni Get Your Gun—not rocket launcher, you bitch!

  Gray shifted into gear and slammed the accelerator. Three hundred horses burned the rear tires, rubber smoking and screaming.

  His father groaned from the next seat — Gray suspected more about the wear on the glossy new tires than his own safety.

  The wheels finally caught a grip, and the Thunderbird leaped forward, crashing through the wooden gate to the backyard. Once through, Gray yanked the wheel hard to avoid hitting a massive hundred-year-old oak. The tires dug a half-doughnut trench across the rear lawn, then sped them deeper into the yard.

  Behind them, a sonorous whoosh was followed by a fiery explosion.

  The rocket struck the large oak, blasting it to a ruin of flaming branches and bark. Blazing debris shot high. Smoke rolled.

  Without glancing back, Gray punched the accelerator.

  The Thunderbird smashed through the back fence and barreled into the woodlands of Glover-Archibold Park.

  But Gray knew one certainty.

  The hunt was just beginning.

  4

  High-Sea Piracy

  JULY 5, 12:11 P.M.

  Christmas Island

  Boxers and boots.

  That’s all that stood between Monk and a sea of cannibal crabs. The feeding frenzy continued throughout the jungle, fighting, clacking, ripping. It sounded like the crackle of a forest fire.

  Stripped, with his bio-suit in hand, Monk crossed back to Dr. Richard Graff. The marine researcher crouched at the edge of the jungle. He had also removed his bio-suit as instructed by Monk, wincing as he pulled the plastic fabric from his wounded shoulder. At least the marine researcher was better dressed, in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt.

  Monk’s nose crinkled as he stepped up to him. Out from beneath the thicker jungle canopy, the air burned, and the stench of the dead pool below was like being slapped in the face with a rotting salmon.

  “Time to go,” Monk said with a scowl.

  A shout echoed up from the tunnel that led down to the toxic beach. The pirates were approaching more carefully, cautious. Graff, stationed there, had been lobbing chunks of limestone down the tunnel. Moreover their pursuers didn’t know that Monk’s pistol was down to one shot. But fear and rock throwing would only hold the pirates off for so long.

  For the hundredth time Monk wondered at the strange persistence of their attackers. Hunger and desperation certainly made men do stupid things. But if the pirates wanted to raid and steal the Zodiac, to get ahold of their supplies and equipment for the Indonesian black market, then nothing was now stopping them. Most of these local pirates, brutal and ruthless as they might be, operated on a smash-and-grab modus operandi.

  So why this persistence? To just silence them, to cover their tracks? Or was it something more personal? Monk pictured the one masked man toppling into the waters, clipped by one of his wild shots. Or was it revenge?

  Whatever the reason, the raiding party was not settling for just the spoils — they wanted blood.

  Graff choked at the burning air as he straightened. “Where are we going?”

  “Back to visit our friends.”

  Monk led Graff into the jungle fringe. Steps away, the crimson sea of crabs chattered and clattered. If anything, their numbers had grown over the past few minutes, perhaps drawn by their voices or the fresh blood from Graff ’s seeping shoulder.

  The marine researcher balked at the edge of the clearing. “There’s no way through those crabs. Those giant claws can rip through leather. I’ve seen them take off fingers.”

  And they were fast.

  Monk danced back as a pair of crabs, locked in mortal combat, rushed past them, sharp legs a blur, as fast as any jackrabbit.

  “It’s not like we have much choice,” Monk said.

  “And there’s something wrong with these crabs,” the researcher continued. “I’ve witnessed some of their aggression during migrations, but nothing of this caliber.”

  “You can psychoanalyze them later.” Monk pointed to a large neighboring tree. A Tahitian chestnut. The evergreen was draped with many low branches. “Can you climb that?”

  Graff clutched his wounded arm to his belly, trying to keep from moving it too much. “I’ll need help. But why? It won’t hide us from the pirates. We’ll be sitting ducks.”

  “Just climb.” Monk walked him to the tree and helped him scale the first few terraces. The branches were thick and easy to grab. Graff managed well even on his own, climbing higher.

  Monk dropped down, landing near a crab. It raised both pincers in threat. No leaving the party early, buddy. Monk kicked him back into the hordes of his brethren, then called back to Graff. “Can you see the tunnel opening?”

  “I think…yes, I can.” Graff shifted in the tree. “You’re not leaving me up here, are you?”

  “Just whistle when you see the pirates.”

  “What are you—?”

  “Just do it, for Christ’s sake!” Monk regretted the harshness of his tone. He had to remind himself that the man was not military. But Monk’s mind was stacked with worries of his own. He pictured his wife and baby girl. He was not about to lose his life to a bunch of cutthroats or a forest full of Red Lobster entrées.

  Monk crossed to the jungle clearing and stepped to the edge of the churning, snapping horde. He lifted his pistol in one hand and balanced his grip with his prosthetic one. He tilted his head and breathed through his nose.

  C’mon, let’s see what you got…

  He heard a noise from the chestnut tree behind him. It sounded like air leaking out of a half-deflated balloon.

  “They’re coming!” he heard the man whisper, tension plainly sucking the wind out of his whistle.

  Monk aimed across the clearing. He had one round, one shot.

  Across the forest glade a pair of air tanks rested against the foot of a boulder. Earlier, as they were stripping out of their suits, Monk had Graff pass him his bio-suit’s air tank. The portable air cartridges were lightweight, constructed of an aluminum alloy. Using the ankle holster from his pistol, Monk had quickly bound the doctor’s tank together with his own and pitched the package in an underhanded throw across to the far side of the jungle clearing. The tanks had crashed amid the crabs, crushing a pair and sending their neighbors scurrying.

  Mon
k took a bead upon the tanks now, steadying his aim with both flesh and prosthetics.

  “They’re here!” Graff moaned.

  Monk squeezed the trigger.

  The blast froze the image in his mind for a split second — then one of the pressurized tanks spat a brief flash of flame. The bound tanks spun and clattered, hissing and jumping. Then the second tank’s nozzle cracked and the dance became more frenzied, smashing into crabs and sweeping and bouncing.

  It was enough.

  In the past Monk had strolled beaches covered with crabs that — once a seabird or stranger appeared — would clear in a heartbeat, crabs diving back into their sandy burrows. It was the same here. Those crabs nearest the commotion fled, climbing over their neighbors, jarring them into a panic. Soon a trickle became a stampede. The crabs, already riled up, fled on instinct.

  The sea of crabs turned their tide — toward Monk — literally becoming a surging, churning wave of claws, climbing over one another to escape.

  He fled back to the chestnut tree, pincers snapping at his heels.

  He leaped and scurried up into the branches. One crab latched on to his boot. He cracked the shell against the trunk. It fell away. The pincer was still snagged tight to his boot. He felt the sharp edge cutting into his heel.

  Damn.

  Below, the tide of crabs swept past, obeying some instinct, possibly tied to their annual migration patterns. They fled toward the sea.

  Monk climbed up to join Graff. The researcher had one arm hooked around the trunk. He eyed Monk, then turned back toward the slice of open rock that lay around the mouth of the sea tunnel.

  The pirates, six of them, were out of the tunnel, spread a bit, but they had ducked low with the pistol shot. Only now were they rising to their feet, unsure.

  Then from the jungle, the roiling sea of crabs burst forth.

  It struck the man closest to the jungle fringe. Before he could react, comprehend what he was seeing, they scrambled up his legs to the level of his thighs. He suddenly screamed, stumbling back. Then one leg gave out under him.

  During combat, a fellow Green Beret had had his Achilles tendon cut by a bullet. He had dropped in the same crooked manner as the pirate.