“And if I refuse … if any agents resist …?”
“Any further actions will be considered unsanctioned, disavowed, and criminal charges may be pressed, depending on a case-by-case inquiry.”
Painter took a deep breath and stared at the men and women working furiously in the nest beyond the window. From the corner of his eye, he noted the project Jason had been working on—the genealogical map of the Gant family spun slowly there, a spiraling galaxy of power, as cold and relentless as any celestial movement.
Painter knew the truth in that moment.
The Guild had won.
“Shut it down,” Metcalf ordered. “Pull everyone out of the field.”
23
July 3, 2:18 A.M. Gulf Standard Time
Off the coast of Dubai
Gray crouched with his team at the edge of the dark golf course, hidden in the shadow of its clubhouse. The moon had set while they crossed the greens, hurrying from one patch of palms to another. Despite the dark night, the lighted floors of several of the neighboring towers acted as shining beacons, casting a stark illumination across the rolling lawns.
According to the pre-mission briefing, most of the island’s security patrolled the shorelines and docks, but they could not discount a stray guard spotting them.
But now they had another problem to address as he lowered the satellite phone. Moments ago, he had checked in with Painter, confirming they’d reached Utopia. And in hindsight, maybe he should never have made that call.
“What’s wrong now?” Seichan asked, reading his face.
“We’ve been ordered to cease all mission objectives and return to the States,” Gray told the others. “Apparently, the powers-that-be in DC need a scapegoat for the death of the president’s daughter.”
“And that would be us,” Kowalski mumbled sourly.
“Painter is working on an appeal, but he has to officially instruct us to pull up stakes here.”
“But Amanda isn’t even dead,” Tucker said. “Why doesn’t the director tell the president that?”
Gray had already explained Painter’s reasoning back in Somalia—how Amanda’s best chance for recovery lay in a surgical strike, to hit the enemy while they believed no one was looking for her.
Still, this decision sat wrong with him. Gray believed the president’s family had a right to know, and now they were all suffering the fallout. Gray also sensed that Painter wasn’t telling them everything; that he was holding something close to the vest.
But whatever it was, it would have to wait.
They had a decision to make.
“Maybe Painter will inform the president as a part of his appeal process. But what is he going to tell him? We don’t know for sure that Amanda is still alive. All we know is that the charred body at the camp was not his daughter. So we have to make a choice: to retreat back to the Ghost or to move forward. If we defy these direct orders and aren’t successful, we may face criminal charges. And even moving forward, we’ll have limited support.”
Gray stared around the small group.
Seichan shrugged. “I’m already a wanted fugitive. What’s one more crime?”
“And I was never an official member of Sigma anyway,” Tucker said. “Nothing says Kane and I have to follow those orders.”
Gray turned to his last teammate.
Kowalski sighed. “My pants are already soaking wet, so what the hell …”
“Then let’s figure out where to start our search.” Gray gripped his phone and brought up a detailed 3-D rendering of the island. He rotated it to show the outline of a cross. “These are the businesses and properties with possible ties to the Guild organization.”
“Wait,” Seichan said. “How does Painter know that?”
Gray glanced up at her, crinkling his brow. In the rush of information, he never thought to ask that question.
Seichan must have read that realization in his eyes. She shook her head, silently scolding him for yet another oversight. Gray tightened his fingers on the phone, irritated as much at the mistake as at Seichan catching him.
Pull it together …
“Go on,” Seichan said.
“If Amanda is on the island, she’s likely to be found somewhere within the properties highlighted.”
“That’s a lot of territory to cover,” Tucker said.
“That’s why we’ll start here, the most likely target, and spiral out from it.” Gray pointed to the center of the cross.
“X marks the spot,” Kowalski mumbled. “What the hell, we are looking for a pirate’s buried treasure.”
Gray straightened. “And let’s hope it’s still there.”
He lowered his phone and started toward the center of the island, toward the shining central axis upon which this star turned. And it was turning—the tower, not the island. The floors of the spire, each rhomboid in shape and slightly offset from the next, formed a massive corkscrew—but the most amazing aspect of the engineering was that each story rotated independently of the others, creating a dynamic structure, powered by wind turbines and solar panels. It was mesmerizing to look at, shifting slowly, melting into new shapes, meant to mimic a shimmering mirage.
“Burj Abaadi,” Tucker said, naming this central hub of Utopia. “The Eternal Tower.”
The fifty-floor skyscraper had been built in only eighteen months, constructed in conjunction with the island’s creation, the two projects rising together out of the sea.
Gray sensed that if anything were hidden on this island it would be there, at the heart of Utopia. There was only one way to find out for sure.
He turned to Tucker and Kane.
“Time to go to work.”
2:22 A.M.
Tucker led the way—or rather Kane did.
The shepherd ran a full block ahead along a deserted avenue that cut down one leg of the star. He heard his partner’s panting breath in his left ear and kept one eye on the video feed, watching for any signs of armed guards or the rare resident of Utopia.
He and the others stuck as much as possible to the shadows as they headed the quarter-mile to their destination. Palms lined both sides of the road and along a center median. Several stretches of trees were still in massive boxes, waiting to be craned into place and planted.
The entire island had that same surreal feeling—like a child’s model of a city, where pieces sat to the side, waiting to be fitted and glued into their proper spot.
But as they traveled closer to the star’s center, the cityscape became less fragmentary. Buildings grew taller, more polished, shining with lights. Evidence of life began to appear: an occasional golf cart or car in an empty parking lot; a tiny grocery store with stocked shelves; a neon sign glowed in the window of a Korean restaurant.
Still, Tucker suspected only a skeleton number of people actually populated the island, and most of those were likely connected in some manner to the Guild.
To Tucker, that terrorist outfit still sounded like something out of a dime-store novel. But then again, he had dealings in the past with many different mercenary-for-hire groups, private military companies with equally colorful names: saber, Titan, GlobalEnforce. And while he didn’t subscribe to conspiracy theories, he knew that the military-industrial complex was rife with corruption and collusion, generating scores of shadowy organizations that merged armed forces, intelligence services, political ambitions, and even scientific ventures.
So what was one more?
Earlier, Kowalski had pulled him aside and told him what had happened to Pierce’s mother and hinted at previous altercations with this organization. So, no matter what this new enemy was named, Tucker and the others were trespassing on their home turf—and he intended to watch his step.
And that applied to his partner, too.
“SLOW,” he radioed to Kane.
The jumbling view on his phone steadied as the shepherd’s lope became a deliberate pace. Turning, Tucker motioned the others behind a parked yellow Hummer. A tow rig behind the
truck held a sleek watercraft and offered additional shelter. In another block, the avenue dumped—like the other four spokes of the star—into a central park that surrounded the twisting spire of Burj Abaadi.
The Eternal Tower rose like a glowing sculpture into the night sky, each floor slowly turning, making it appear as if the entire structure were gently swaying in the wind off the sea. Only the bottom five stories were stationary, encompassing the building’s lobby and maintenance levels, including its power station that collected energy generated by the horizontal wind turbines positioned between each floor.
“Shouldn’t we be closer?” Gray asked.
“No need,” Tucker said. “That park ahead is full of shadows, with lots of trees and hiding places. Don’t want to stumble upon a guard by mistake. Leave this to Kane.”
Seichan agreed. “He’s right.”
“Works for me,” Kowalski said, running his fingertips longingly along the sleek side of the yellow jet boat.
Outvoted, Gray nodded for Tucker to continue. The man sent Kane forward with a single command.
“GO SCOUT!”
Kane stalks slowly forward, remaining in shadows. He moves against the breeze flowing from ahead, letting the scents wash over him, catching what he can with his upturned nose.
He smells salt and wet weed from the distant waves and sand.
Closer … he is hit by the crisp bite of cut grass … the trickle of sweetness from petals opening to the night.
But through it all, a rank undercurrent flows … reeking of sweat and oil and ripeness of body.
Men.
In hiding.
He hunts each scent, drawing in its heady, foul richness. He stays in shadows, behind bushes, along the edges of benches. He tracks each one down until he hears the satisfying whisper in his ear.
SPOTTED.
Then moves on.
He creeps deeper, tail low, haunches tense, ears pricked to every tick, tap, and creak. The smell of man fades behind him, carried away by the wind, leaving spaces for new scents.
Then he stops.
A trickle of thrill stirs his hackles. He tests again, nose higher, taking that odor deep inside, tasting it, recognizing it. He moves again, tracking its trail through the air.
It rises from a truck—he knows trucks and rides and hanging his head into hard winds. But now is not that time. He dashes across an open stretch and into the shadows beneath the truck, a darkness reeking of oil and grease.
He slips out the other side, twisting, stretching his neck. He circles and paces, making certain.
Then whines his triumph and points.
“Good dog,” Tucker radioed back.
Pride spiked through him—and a raw affection that ached.
They had all watched Kane’s hunt, huddled around his phone’s tiny screen. His shepherd had spotted four guards stationed out in the grounds—then he snuck up to a pickup truck parked crookedly in the circular drive fronting the entrance to Burj Abaadi.
“He’s found Amanda’s scent there,” Tucker said. “She’s on the island!”
“Can you get Kane up into the bed of that truck?” Gray asked.
“No problem.” It was never hard to get Kane to take a ride. He sent the command. “UP IN THE TRUCK!”
The dog immediately backed a yard—then, with a burst of speed, he launched from his haunches and flew over the side and landed in the rear bed, skittering slightly to avoid hitting what lay there.
Kane danced around it, sniffing intently.
Seichan leaned closer. “Is that an open casket?”
Gray pointed out the bits of tape along the edges. “That’s how they moved Amanda. No wonder she was never spotted at the airport. They crated her here, likely under diplomatic seals.”
Kowalski looked over his shoulder. “Yeah, but where is she now?”
They all stared up at the fifty-story tower, spinning slowly in the night. They all recognized the truth.
The hunt was just beginning.
But were they already too late?
2:32 A.M.
The tiny boy rested on Amanda’s bare belly, quiet now.
The furnace of her body, stoked to a fiery dampness by the delivery, kept him warm. A small blanket covered him, but a tiny fist protruded, no bigger than a walnut.
Amanda stared, consuming him with her eyes. With her arms bound to the sides, she could not hold him. That was the worst cruelty. Even giving her this moment with her child was necessity, not compassion. She had read all the baby books. The newborn was placed facedown to encourage the draining of any fluid; the skin-to-skin contact encouraged her body to release its own natural oxytocin, to help with the final contractions to push the placenta free.
Her body had performed its ageless duty.
Spent, exhausted, she tried to stretch this moment for an eternity.
“My baby boy,” she whispered, tears streaking through the sweat of her heated face; she wanted him to hear his mother’s voice at least once. She willed all her love, christening him with the name murmured in the night with her husband, Mack, his broad hand resting on the bump of her stomach.
“My little William.”
But, sadly, the child was not her husband’s, at least not genetically. She knew some of the truth, saw the medical records in the terrifying note that sent her fleeing in terror out to the Seychelles. Still, Mack had loved the baby as much as she did. It shone in his face, even after the truth was known.
He loved you so much, William.
New tears flowed, for the family that was never to be.
Voices intruded, but she never took her eyes off her child.
“Petra, make sure you collect at least five milliliters of blood from the umbilical cord. We’ll need the sample serum-typed, in addition to the standard tests. I’ll also want to harvest some umbilical stem cells.”
Amanda listened, realizing the truth. They were already parsing her child into parts.
“Dr. Blake, the radiant bed is ready,” Petra called from the side. “I’ve prepared the vitamin K and the eyedrops. Did you want to perform the APGAR assessment?”
“No. You can do it. I should pass on word about the delivery as soon as possible.”
Blake shifted from the foot of the delivery bed to Amanda’s side. He reached to scoop up the child.
“No, please,” Amanda begged. “Another minute.”
“I’m sorry. It’s better this way. You did beautifully.”
She strained forward, a sob breaking out of her hoarse throat. “Nooo …!”
Ignoring her plea, he lifted William from her belly, taking away his warmth, leaving a hollowness that she knew would never go away.
Blake walked her boy toward a tiny bed under harsh lights—and the nurse with cold eyes. Amanda pictured the shining tray of silver dissection tools.
Her sobs turned into wracking cries. She rocked within the limits of her restraints. Still, she never took her eyes off her boy.
My little William …
2:38 A.M.
Dr. Edward Blake stood by his desk, bone-tired and bleary-eyed. A deep-cushioned chair beckoned, but he remained standing. He didn’t want to be relaxed, not during this call.
“Yes, everything went smoothly,” he reported. “The genetics continue to remain stable. After we run the baselines, we’ll be testing the stability of the helix assembly under various environmental rigors and stresses.”
That was the purpose behind Petra’s macabre work in her lab: to separate out various vital organs—brain, heart, lungs, and others—to keep those tissues alive indefinitely, so that rigorous tests could be performed upon them. Amanda’s child was destined for that lab.
“I believe we have reason to be optimistic about this boy,” he finished.
“OPTIMISM IS IRRELEVANT,” the speaker countered, the voice digitally flattened and tweaked to an arctic severity—though Edward suspected that iciness wasn’t all computer-generated. “ONLY HARD FACTS MATTER.”
He swallow
ed. “Of course. We’ll start generating actionable data within the day.”
“TISSUE SAMPLES SHOULD BE HARVESTED AND COURIERED STATESIDE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.”
“Understood. I received the list. My assistant is already prepping stem and skin cells. We’ll have intestinal and alveolar biopsies within the hour, and cortical and spinal sections by day’s end. But I do have another question.”
Silence encouraged him to continue.
“The mother … was there a final consensus on what to do with her?” Edward could guess the answer. A massive graveyard had been dug into the jungles outside of his Somalia camp.
“SHE MAY STILL PROVE TO BE BIOLOGICALLY USEFUL. AS OF NOW, WE DON’T KNOW IF THESE RESULTS ARE BROADLY REPLICABLE OR IF THERE IS SOMETHING UNIQUE ABOUT HER GENETICS.”
Edward was surprised at the depth of his relief. He pictured Amanda’s tender love shining through the sweat and tears, the strength in her eyes when he took her baby away. That blend of toughness and maternal protection must have touched him more than he imagined.
Or maybe I’m simply tired, getting too emotional.
“Should we confine her here?” he asked hoarsely. “On Utopia?”
“NO. OUR PLANS REQUIRE HER TO BE SHIPPED BACK TO THE STATES.”
Surprised, Edward absorbed this and ran various scenarios through his head. He had lightly sedated Amanda for the short hop from Somalia, to facilitate her passage through customs. But a trip to the States was a longer journey, with a much higher risk of exposure.
“How do you plan on moving—?”
He was cut off. “SHE’S INTENDED FOR THE FERT/INC LAB.”
Edward had to rest a hand on his desk. He’d visited the Fertilization and Incubation Lab only once—and once was enough. He immediately understood what was demanded of him.
“WE’LL EXPECT HER PREPPED AND AT THE DUBAI AIRPORT BY EIGHT IN THE MORNING,” the speaker finished.
“Consider it done.”
The line went dead before he got out his last word. They didn’t need to hear his acquiescence. It was taken for granted.
He remained standing for two long breaths. The relief he felt at Amanda’s reprieve drained away.
Better she had gotten a death sentence.
Bloodline: A Sigma Force Novel Page 23
