Bloodline: A Sigma Force Novel

by James Rollins

  “I need a distraction,” he radioed back fiercely to Gray. “Something to pull attention away from here. Kane’ll get shot before he can get halfway to the cabin.”

  The answer to his desperate plea came from an unexpected location—from directly behind Tucker.

  “I do it,” said a squeaky voice with the strain of forced bravery. “No want Kane shot.”

  Tucker rolled around in time to see Baashi dart away into the forest. Cursing under his breath, he radioed Gray. “Baashi followed us. Heard me. I think he’s going to do something stupid.”

  Kowalski responded, “See him. I’ll grab him.” Then, seconds later, defeat tinged his voice. “Kid’s a friggin’ jackrabbit.”

  A shout cracked across the forest, coming from the direction of the narrow road. “ISKA WARAN!” Baashi called out. “HA RIDIN!”

  Tucker pictured him approaching the Land Rover, hands in the air.

  A rapid exchange followed in Somali.

  Jain translated via the radio. “He’s telling them his mother is sick. He came a long way from his village to see the doctor here.”

  Tucker’s fingers tightened on the stock of his rifle. The three soldiers adrift in the camp moved toward the gate, drawn by the commotion. For better or worse, Tucker got his distraction.

  He reached and gave Kane a warm squeeze on his ear. They didn’t have time for their usual good-bye ritual.

  With a twinge of foreboding, he flicked his wrist, leaving a finger pointing toward the cabin.

  Kane took off like a shot, dashing low across the open field.

  “DAAWO!” Baashi called out.

  “He’s asking for medicine,” Jain said.

  He got something else.

  A savage spat of gunfire burst forth.

  3:26 P.M.

  Seichan watched Baashi dance backward, dirt exploding in front of his toes. Laughter followed from the soldiers gathered in front of the Land Rover, enjoying their sport.

  A hard man with a jagged scar splitting his chin and turning his lower lip into a perpetual scowl waved the others to silence and sauntered with the haughtiness of a reigning conqueror. He had his helmet tilted back, his flak jacket open. He rested a palm on a holstered pistol as he approached Baashi, who cowered, half-bowed under the other’s gaze.

  “Jiifso!” he commanded. “Maxbuus baad tahay!”

  Major Jain hid on the other side of the road with Kowalski. The British soldier translated, softly subvocalizing into her radio. “He’s telling Baashi to lie down, that he’s his prisoner.”

  Baashi obeyed, dropping to one knee, placing a hand on the ground, groveling in submission.

  The soldier grinned, made meaner by his scarred lower lip. He pulled his pistol out.

  He’s going to execute the kid—but not before terrorizing him.

  Seichan remembered another man, another weapon. He had held a knife at her naked throat, his breath on her neck, twice her weight, thick with hard muscle. They sent him against her when she was seventeen, a training exercise. A sadist of the darkest ilk, a perverse predator, he wouldn’t just kill her; he intended to degrade and savage her before taking her life. To survive, she had to submit, to tolerate his touch—only long enough to secure his knife when he let his guard drop for a hot breath. She had gutted him in the end—but she still remembered the ruin of that day, the utter degradation of the powerful over the weak, and, worst of all, what was destroyed forever in her.

  She wouldn’t let that happen to another.

  Seichan shifted her SIG Sauer pistol toward the soldier. Gray crouched at her side where they hid, meters into the forest, shielded by a thicket of bushes. He touched a finger to her shoulder, warning her not to shoot, not yet.

  Metal glinted as Baashi’s other hand, half-hidden by his thin body, slipped a military dagger out of the back of his pants. It looked as long as the boy’s forearm.

  The sight shocked her, proving her earlier assessment. She and the boy were the same.

  I was this boy.

  But Baashi was going to get himself killed.

  Seichan steadied her aim, feeling Gray’s fingers tighten on her shoulder, ordering her not to act. She obeyed, but it left her body trembling with rage—and not a small amount of shame.

  What is taking Tucker so long?

  They needed confirmation from him—or, more precisely, from his partner.

  Kane abandons bright sunlight for darkness as he ducks through heavy posts and under the raised wooden structure. It is cooler here. For a breath, he is blind as his pupils dilate and adjust to the darkness. Still, his ears prick, stretching senses deep into the shadows. He takes it all in, to fill the darkness with meaning and substance.

  The creak of wood above …

  The beat of boot heels on planks …

  The drip-drip-dripping farther back …

  He tastes the shadows with tongue and nose. Waste and spoor, oil and sludge. Farther back, a sharper taint that sets his hackles to rising. Fetid, with the promise of meat. He follows the trickling sound, sniffs where it falls in fat droplets from above.

  Blood.

  But that is not why he’s come.

  He has been given a scent, trapped in a wad of cloth, smelling of sweat, and salt, and oil, and a feminine musk. He was sent on the hunt for it. He lifts his nose toward the planks above, where the blood seeps. He sniffs, drawing in the richness there, expanding trails in all directions, so many.

  But through it all, a single thread matches, connecting here to that wad of cloth. He has found what he hunted.

  He points his nose to the scent and voices his success—not the howl of wildness buried in his bones. That is not his way. He lets flow a soft whine, deep in his throat, proclaiming his victory.

  He hears words in one ear that melt through him. “Good dog.”

  He breathes in his satisfaction and lowers to his haunches; only now do his eyes fill in the spaces left bare by scent and sound.

  Out of the darkness, a pair of red lights shines back at him, tiny and sharp. They come from devices attached to large barrels, reeking of rusted metal and bitter oil.

  His hackles shiver, sensing danger.

  At the edge of the forest, Tucker lived half in his skin, half in another.

  He had heard what Kane heard: creaking and boot steps. And he saw what Kane saw: fluid seeping through the planks from above. But was it blood, oil, water? He couldn’t say for sure.

  Then Kane pointed his nose, followed by a soft whine.

  Success.

  He radioed it to Gray. “Kane found Amanda’s scent at the cabin. She was there.”

  And maybe still is.

  “Understood,” came the response, tense. “Clear a path and get in there. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  As Gray finished, the image on the small screen swung to the side. The gritty night vision of Kane’s camera revealed two large barrels, spaced at equal distance in the crawlspace under the tent-cabin. He read the word kerosene stenciled on one of them. Worst of all, attached to their sides, two glowing transmitters illuminated explosive charges.

  Panicked, he touched his throat mike. “Commander—”

  Gunfire cut off the rest of his warning.

  3:27 P.M.

  Seichan fired, clipping the scarred man in the left knee. He toppled with a scream of surprise. Gray strafed the soldiers gathered on their side of the Land Rover. Kowalski and Jain did the same on the other.

  Seichan dashed out of hiding to protect the boy, who had dropped flat as the firefight commenced. She strode to the downed soldier, while firing two rounds at another commando sheltered behind one of the Land Rover’s open doors. The scarred monster on the ground swung his pistol at her, but she put a bullet through his throat, collected his weapon, and fired both guns at the truck, pistols now blazing in both fists.

  “Get off the road!” she hollered at Baashi.

  He leaped like a frightened doe into the sheltering forest.

  A commando got behi
nd the wheel of the Land Rover, cranked the engine, and hit the accelerator. The truck barreled toward her.

  She stood her ground, aimed both guns, and fired a single round from each.

  Left, to shatter the windshield.

  Right, to put a round through the driver’s eye.

  She stepped aside as the truck’s momentum carried it toward her, veering drunkenly at the last second and crashing into the woods.

  The firefight lasted another ten seconds—and ended as abruptly as it started. Soldiers sprawled, limp and unmoving on the road.

  Gray cleared the forest, holding a hand over his left ear, listening, likely to Tucker. He glanced toward the tent-cabin with a grimace of worry. He pointed his other arm down the road.

  The loud rumble of trucks drew her attention around. Brakes squealed. Those coming had heard the gunplay.

  “Keep them off our backs for as long as possible,” he ordered—then took off into the campsite on foot.

  Seichan stared down the forested tunnel. Her group had the element of surprise before. That was no longer the case. And the enemy had three times their force, vastly outnumbering and outgunning them.

  Kowalski and Jain joined her, sharing concerned but determined looks.

  Seichan glanced over her shoulder as Gray disappeared from view. She hoped the president’s daughter was still here, still alive. Either way, they were committed now. She waved the others back into hiding.

  “You heard Gray,” she said. “We hold our ground here.”

  It had better be worth it.

  3:28 P.M.

  Tucker dropped the last of the three soldiers in the camp, the one with the wheelbarrow. The kills felt cowardly, but he had no time for delicacy; all he could do was grant them clean head shots.

  But he knew there was at least one other enemy, remembering the creak of boards from inside the cabin. Whoever was holed up there had surely heard the attack—but what would they do?

  Gray appeared to his left, pistol in hand, running for the lone structure. Tucker had managed to get word to him as the firefight ended, warning of the fiery bomb hidden under the tent.

  Tucker took a fast glance at his phone’s screen. A bobbling image showed Kane still struggling to yank away the first glowing transceiver from the explosive charge. Tucker had lost precious seconds trying to get his dog to understand, directing Kane via radioed commands. Even as close as they were, there were limits to their communication.

  Tucker had to do something. He burst out of hiding and sprinted toward the cabin, too. He was closer, but Gray had a head start. They should reach the door at the same time.

  He lifted his phone. On the screen, Kane yanked his head and the bright glow of the transceiver died.

  Good boy.

  Kane turned to the other charge, shining brightly in the dark. He took a step toward it—when the light began to blink rapidly.

  Illuminated digits flared into existence on the device.

  00:30

  00:29

  Cursing, Tucker skidded to a stop. The bastard inside had activated the charge, set to a timer. Rifle blasts drew Tucker’s attention from the screen. The last soldier slammed out of the cabin door, weapon at his hip, firing wildly, trying to make a break before those seconds ran out.

  Gray dropped flat, sliding on his belly, pistol pointed forward, gripped in both hands. He fired three fast rounds.

  The gunman tumbled headlong down the steps from the raised porch. He landed hard, but from the placement of Gray’s rounds, all to the face, he was surely dead before he even hit the ground.

  Tucker stared at the tiny screen as Kane closed in on the second barrel.

  00:23

  The dog would never be able to work the transceiver free in time, and with the device activated, any attempt to remove it could set it off prematurely.

  “Kane!” he yelled, not bothering with the radio. “To me!”

  Gray scrambled to his feet and looked over at him.

  Tucker pointed toward the crawlspace between the pilings. “It’s set to blow! Twenty seconds.”

  The two men sped toward the tent.

  Kane flew into view, tail high, and ran to Tucker’s side. The group reached the porch steps together, pounded up, and shoved through the spring-loaded door.

  The makeshift medical ward looked as stripped and vacated as the rest of the camp: upended boxes, stray pieces of hospital gear, a toppled privacy screen. The place had been abandoned in a hurry. They must have suspected time was running out for them.

  But the ward had not been entirely emptied.

  At the rear, a hospital bed rested against the back wall. It was not vacant. A blond woman lay under a thin blanket, an oxygen mask over her face, her limbs secured with leather straps. The bedding over the mound of her belly was stained red, soaked through. More blood ran from under the blanket and pooled on the plank floor.

  Gray rushed forward, yanked away the mask, then ripped back the covers. He exposed what had been so chastely hidden.

  Tucker fell to his knees in horror.

  They were too late.

  16

  July 2, 8:30 A.M. EST

  Washington, DC

  “No!”

  The anguish in that single word, that long, sustained note of pain and grief, echoed off the walls of the small conference room. The First Lady swung away from the screen, covering her face as if to make the sight go away.

  Her husband stood stiff, frozen, staring unblinking at the screen.

  No one said a word—Teresa’s cry encompassed everything.

  The last image remained fixed in Painter’s eye, when Gray pulled back the bedsheets. Someone had operated on Amanda, sliced her open from rib to pelvis, exposing the ruins of her empty uterus. They’d performed a C-section, stolen the baby, and left Amanda’s dead body behind like an empty husk.

  On the screen now, Painter watched Gray swing away, grabbing up Tucker from the floor. The image bobbled wildly as the two men and the dog fled the cabin. He understood their haste. They’d all seen the barrels of kerosene, the glow of the explosive charge, and the timer counting down.

  An image of running legs, a distant forest—then a bright blast that sent everyone tumbling forward. A fireball rolled overhead. The second barrel of kerosene rolled off to the side, jettisoned clear by the blast wave, leaving behind a trail of oil before it vanished out of view.

  The audio feed frazzled, then went silent.

  A moment later, Tucker’s face appeared as he checked on his dog. His mouth moved, but there was no sound. In the background, Gray got up on his hands and knees, hurriedly shrugging free his shoulder pack, which was on fire. He threw it aside and rolled in the dirt to put out the smoldering back of his shirt.

  They’d live.

  Painter should have felt relief—but he was not there yet.

  Teresa burst out of her seat and into her husband’s arms. It was not to seek comfort. Her fists pummeled his body, sobs shook through her, weakening the effort. Tears flowed down her face.

  “This is your fault!” she yelled into his chest as James Gant pulled his wife tight to him. “All our fault … they … they cut my baby open!”

  She sagged in her husband’s arms, pressing her face into his chest, still shaking her head, trying to dismiss what she saw.

  He held her up, looking over the crown of her head at Painter.

  Anger burned through the raw grief in his stony eyes, directed at Painter, at sigma.

  The president’s brother stood and gently coaxed the grieving parents toward the door. “Go, Jimmy,” Robert urged. “Take care of your wife. We can handle matters from here.”

  Gant didn’t resist. The pair, still wrapped together, bonded by unimaginable grief and horror, slipped out of the room, gathering Secret Service men in their wake.

  The defense secretary, Warren Duncan, placed a hand on Robert’s shoulder. “Sir, why don’t you go, too? Family should be together during times like this.”

  Robe
rt’s normally gentle and even tone turned acerbic. His gaze passed over Painter, scorching him with his bitterness. “Someone in the family should bear witness to the end of this fucked-up mission.”

  Painter’s boss closed his eyes and gave the smallest shake of his head, utterly embarrassed and defeated.

  On the screen, the dog’s-eye view showed a pair of trucks careening into the campsite, guns silently blazing from their side windows.

  Despite the futility of the operation, it wasn’t over.

  3:34 P.M. East Africa Time

  Cal Madow mountains, Somalia

  “Go for cover!” Gray hollered.

  He ran with Tucker and Kane away from the blasted ruins of the cabin. Black smoke swirled across the camp as flaming debris littered the ground and continued to drift down in flaming bits of tent fabric. The thick pall of smoke offered them enough cover to make a break for the forest as two Land Rovers skidded into the camp from the road.

  Automatic fire sprayed from windows, mostly directed back the way they’d come, aiming for the others hidden in the forest. A furious firefight continued back there; likely his team had managed to ambush the third vehicle from the roadblock, but that battle was still far from over.

  Before Gray, Tucker, and Kane could reach the shelter of the forest, their retreat was spotted. Gunfire ripped toward them. Kane yelped and sped faster. Tucker gave chase—but not before Gray grabbed the man’s rifle out of his fingers.

  He swung it toward the Rovers and fired, cracking one of the side windows and forcing the shooter to duck.

  “Go!” Gray yelled to Tucker. “Make for the others!”

  Gray ran to the side, drawing fire. One of the Rovers fishtailed in the sandy soil and sped back toward the road, intending to go to the aid of the embattled third truck. The last Rover circled the smoking ruins of the cabin, coming around to face Gray head-on.

  Then a new noise cut through the peppering blasts.

  The gunplay lulled for a breath as the others heard it, too.