Bloodline: A Sigma Force Novel

by James Rollins

  “Drop the knife!” one of them screamed.

  She obeyed, lifting her hands to the top of her head.

  The other yelled out the door. “Found one of them!”

  “Bring her to me,” Marshall ordered.

  The guards manhandled her out the door and into the hallway. She did not resist and allowed herself to be led at gunpoint toward the pool of light radiating from Marshall’s office.

  The woman stood with her hands on her hips. She ground a boot heel against the vinyl floor. Kat heard a crack and saw a bit of black plastic go flying across the floor.

  They’d found her surveillance pen plugged into their network.

  Marshall faced her, her cheeks livid, her eyes fiery. She already had her palm resting on her cattle prod. Kat expected to be punished, needed to be punished.

  “Where is the other girl?” Marshall demanded.

  Kat made sure never to break eye contact, not to betray Amy’s hiding place with the flicker of a glance.

  “I’ll make you talk …” Marshall stalked up to her and jammed the prod at her belly.

  Kat twisted at the last second as blue sparks spat from the black wand’s end. Pinned by the guards behind her, she still caught a glancing shock on her hip. Electric fire lanced along her side, crippling her left leg into an agonized spasm, forcing her into a painful crouch.

  Kat ground her teeth against the pain—and in frustration.

  Too low.

  Pushing up with her good leg, Kat lunged and caught Marshall’s wrist. One of the guards tried to pistol-whip her, but Kat dodged enough to take the blow to her shoulder.

  Kat struggled with her quivering leg, grabbing a handful of plastic curtain that hid the tanks to keep her upright. She still had a grip on Marshall’s wrist and shoved her cattle prod high. The metal tip struck the curtain rod overhead.

  Sparks danced.

  Then the world became fire.

  The detonation blew Kat backward, sent her flying through the air. Overhead, blue flames chased across the ceiling after her—and spread outward. She covered her eyes with her arm, picturing that fire racing down the hallway toward the farthest room, a storage and mechanical space holding all manner of pressurized gas tanks that serviced the many labs of the complex, including seven large tanks marked with the symbol H2.

  Hydrogen gas.

  Odorless, fourteen times lighter than air, highly explosive.

  She had hacked through the lines earlier, bleeding the massive tanks into this enclosed space, knowing the gas would stay high, and be undetectable to the nose.

  Kat landed on her back on the floor and slid, the heat blistering overhead, broiling all beneath. The only thing that kept the skin on her body was the thick hydrophilic gel that covered her. The same watery properties that kept the patients in the tanks moist and free of bedsores offered her some meager insulation.

  The same couldn’t be said for the others.

  Screams cut through her blast-muffled ears.

  Bodies flailed, clothes on fire, faces burned away.

  In that split second during the explosion, Kat had watched Marshall’s hair ignite, turning into a swirling nimbus of flames.

  A fitting end for a woman who played God.

  Kat struggled up, choking from the smoke, from the heat, from the lack of air. Her tearing eyes turned the view into a watery hell. All around, fires danced, plastic draping melted in blackened flows, and charred equipment sparked and sizzled.

  She gained her feet and took a stumbling step backward.

  Another figure rose from the floor two yards away, climbing from behind the shelter of a tank. Her scalp was burned and cracked, pouring blood.

  Marshall lifted her arm, holding one of the guards’ pistols in her hand, and stumbled around the tank.

  Kat tried to get to shelter, but her legs betrayed her. She fell on her side, supported by one arm.

  Marshall came another step forward, the pistol pointed at Kat’s face. Her gaze showed no glee at the kill to come, only a pained necessity, a last act of revenge.

  But it wasn’t she who got that revenge.

  From the tank next to her, the naked body rose, sitting up like a corpse from a grave.

  Marshall turned toward the movement—her deadened eyes suddenly going bright with terror.

  An arm pulled out of the gelatinous muck, drawing out a long black baton. The weapon swung with the heavy grief of a sister in mourning. The hard metal cracked Marshall across the bridge of the nose, shattering through bone.

  The doctor dropped.

  Kat realized then: This is a more fitting death for a woman who played God.

  Amy climbed out of the tank and hurried to Kat and helped her back to her feet. “I thought you were dead.”

  “I thought I was, too.”

  Earlier, Kat had dragged Denise—Amy’s sister—out of her viscous crib, replacing her sibling there instead. Kat had stripped Amy of her hospital gown and made sure the girl was sunk deeply into the tub, well coated with the insulating gel. Afterward, Kat had scooped handfuls of the same and covered herself, too—then carried Denise’s thin body to the storage room.

  Kat had wanted Amy hidden in plain sight, knowing no one would look too closely at the occupants of those tanks. She also wanted the girl close to the exit—not trapped down the fiery hall.

  Confirming that wisdom, a massive explosion ripped from that direction, spraying shrapnel and shattering glass.

  Kat pictured all the other pressurized tanks back there, overheating, leaking gas, catching fire. She also envisioned flames chasing through the gas tubing and conduits, spreading to other floors, other buildings.

  “Let’s go,” Kat gasped out hoarsely.

  She retrieved the pistol from Marshall’s limp fingers, and together they fled through the smoke and fire and back through the red steel doors. In the ward, alarms blared, and sprinklers overhead sprayed fiercely. Kat stopped long enough to grab another gown for Amy and hurried out the doors. Down the hall, they discovered the guard station empty.

  No one tried to stop them as they fled up out of the fiery bowels of the building and onto the ground floor of one of the rear buildings of the campus. The view outside showed the rest of the facility succumbing to the spreading flames. The summer sun was still up, but it looked like dusk outside as smoke obscured the gardens. Across the way, fire danced behind other windows. An explosion blew out an upper section of the main building, showering bricks and broken roof tiles.

  It was all coming down.

  Kat grabbed Amy’s arm and hurried her through the exit and out into the parklike grounds. Other researchers fled for the gates to the street, looking shell-shocked.

  Kat followed them, doing her best to keep her pistol hidden.

  In the distance, sirens echoed.

  Kat and Amy ran down the entry road and out the gates, chased by more blasts and deep-throated explosions. Debris rained down around them; smoke rolled thickly now, making it hard to see.

  They fled farther down the street, trying to break clear, to get some distance away from the conflagration. At last, they reached a clear section of road. They both panted, hands on knees.

  Sirens grew louder, converging all around as emergency crews responded from throughout Charleston.

  Kat straightened and pointed toward the blue lights flashing through the smoke. “You should—”

  The crack of a pistol echoed.

  Amy fell back, sitting down on the road. She reached a palm to her chest as blood bloomed through her gown.

  Kat twisted and dropped to a knee, swinging up her weapon.

  An SUV sat on the side of the road, a back window open.

  Movement inside.

  She fired wildly at the dark car.

  6:55 P.M.

  Lisa dropped low in the backseat as the windshield cracked and shattered. She was pinned between two burly guards. In the front, the driver and Dr. Paul Cranston crouched.

  “Christ!” the shooter next
to her said. “She’s got a gun.”

  Lisa covered her head.

  What’s happening?

  After nabbing her off the streets of downtown Charleston, Cranston and his men had returned to the fertility center, confident after their hunt—only to be greeted by a loud explosion as they turned into view. The concussion rattled the SUV’s windows. Smoke curled up from one of the back buildings. Flames began to spread—then more blasts as the place ripped apart.

  Cranston had them retreat a block, to observe the incineration and destruction of his hard work, unable to look away.

  He hissed from up front. “Take her out, goddamn it. Before she escapes. If she gets loose …”

  While surveying the aftermath from a safe distance, Cranston had spotted a pair of women running out of the smoke, both shaven-headed, one in a hospital gown. He recognized them immediately. They’re from the lower lab! He’d ordered them shot, gunned down like rabid dogs. But it seemed one of the women had teeth.

  The gunman next to Lisa returned to the open window, shoving out one arm, his weapon pointed. Another spat of gunfire peppered the side of the truck. The man swore but held his post.

  Lisa risked a peek. She saw the woman with the pistol drag the wounded girl toward the shelter of the thicker smoke. Sirens screamed now, and the flash of emergency lights grew brighter through the haze.

  Then the woman glanced over her shoulder, back toward the SUV.

  It was the first time Lisa got a good look at her face. Recognition rocked through her—even with all her friend’s hair shorn away.

  Kat.

  “Got her,” the shooter said with deadly satisfaction.

  No!

  Lisa lunged and hit the man with her shoulder. His pistol fired, his aim thrown. Lisa got her head out, saw Kat unharmed—and she intended her friend to stay that way.

  “Kat! Run!”

  Her other guard yanked her roughly back.

  Cranston raised enough to peer into the backseat. He fixed Lisa with a knowing gaze. She immediately read the understanding there.

  “So that’s who you were working with,” Cranston said and ordered his men to secure Kat.

  The gunman balled a fist in Lisa’s hair and dragged her out, using her body as a human shield.

  Kat had found thin shelter behind a recycling bin.

  Cranston called from up front. “Drop your weapon! Come out! or we’ll put a bullet through the back of your friend’s head.”

  “Don’t!” Lisa screamed at her friend.

  The fist in her hair shook hard, ripping follicles.

  She watched in despair as Kat threw her pistol out—then stepped into view.

  “Go get her,” Cranston ordered the other guard. “I want some answers. But don’t hesitate to shoot her if she gives you any trouble.”

  Kat must have sensed the same and came along willingly, her fingers laced on top of her head.

  “What about the other one?” Cranston asked when the guard returned with Kat.

  “Dead.”

  Kat and Lisa made their reunion in the middle of the backseat, trapped between the pair of armed men.

  “I’m so sorry,” Lisa whispered.

  Kat’s face was a hard mask of rage—but not directed at her. Kat’s hand found hers and squeezed, holding so much promise in that small gesture.

  Reassurance, forgiveness, and a guarantee of revenge.

  Emergency vehicles began to appear, whipping past their parked vehicle, sirens ablaze and lights blinding.

  “Where now?” the driver asked, as he started the engine.

  Cranston stared toward the burning wreckage of his clinic. “Out of the city … it’s a little too hot here now.” He turned from the fire and smoke. “We’ll take them for a ride in the country. To the Lodge.”

  7:12 P.M.

  Washington, DC

  From his post in the communications nest, Painter watched the fiery footage from South Carolina. It was a live feed, shot by one of the two men he’d sent out to investigate the North Charleston Fertility Clinic.

  His team had arrived on-site fifteen minutes ago. A chaos of fire crews fought the blaze. Towering arcs of water sprayed from trucks and ladders. Paramedics, along with other first-response teams, serviced burn injuries and smoke inhalation. Other victims had lacerations and bruises from flying debris and glass.

  Four bodies had tarps over them.

  Painter expected there would be more.

  Would Kat or Lisa be among them?

  When the security detail first reported in, Painter had hoped the destruction was Kat’s handiwork, but it could just as easily have been a fail-safe measure. Someone had found Kat’s bug, and the Guild was notorious for its scorched-earth policy. He’d seen it himself multiple times in the past. If anyone got too close, the Guild would burn all bridges that might lead to them—to their secrets. It didn’t matter the cost, consequences, or lives.

  “Director.”

  He turned to find Jason Carter at his shoulder—again.

  “I want you to see something,” the kid said and drew him to a monitor where another analyst worked. Though the seated man was a decade older, Jason rested a hand on his shoulder like an encouraging father. “Linus and I were working on a research project for Kat before she left.”

  “We’ve been working on it for about three months,” Linus added.

  What’s this about?

  Painter’s patience was thread-thin, but he waved for them to continue.

  “I asked Linus to test our new protocols in the search for Captain Bryant and Dr. Cummings,” Jason said. “I hope that was all right.”

  “Of course.” At this point, he’d take any help. “What were you testing?”

  “A new surveillance-and-tracking system similar to current facial-recognition programs—but instead of faces, we applied it to motor vehicles. Once on the road, the wear and tear on an automobile creates a unique pattern, as individual as any person’s fingerprints or facial features.”

  “Is this going somewhere?” Painter asked.

  Jason rushed ahead. “I took the liberty of gathering the database from your security team in Charleston. You asked them to collect video from the traffic and security cams around that restaurant.”

  “And nothing came up.”

  “Right. So I had Linus collect similar data from the cameras in North Charleston—gathering video footage from all the vehicles passing through that neighborhood. We took all that information and ran it through our new vehicle-recognition program.”

  “And?”

  Jason squeezed Linus’s shoulder. He brought up side-by-side images on his monitor. It showed two partial views of a nondescript Ford SUV.

  Jason continued, “I think our targets were purposefully avoiding traffic cams. It’s not hard to do if you know which intersections are monitored.”

  And they would know that, Painter thought. It’s their home turf.

  “We got these images off a couple of bank ATM cameras. The picture on the left was taken three blocks from the restaurant where Dr. Cummings vanished. The second crossed a bridge about four blocks from the clinic.” Jason faced him. “They’re the same vehicle.”

  Painter countered skeptically, “There are a lot of Ford SUVs on the road.”

  “Not that match the exact same pattern of wear and tear. But I wanted to be sure. That’s why I called you over.” Jason patted Linus again. His partner zoomed into the second image and set the footage in motion. “Like I said, the image is grainy, but we enhanced it the best we could.”

  Painter leaned closer.

  The expanded view peered through a back window. The shadowy figure of a man could be seen—and beside him a woman. Though the features were far from clear, she was definitely light-haired, similar profile—but it was more the way she carried herself, the way she moved, that made Painter’s breath quicken.

  Hope surged in him.

  “It’s Lisa.”

  “I wasn’t sure,” Jason said.


  I am.

  “What about Kat?” Painter asked.

  Other figures were in the car, but they were just indistinct blurs.

  “I can’t say for sure,” Jason admitted. “And unfortunately we never did get a clear take on the license plate. If they’d gone through a traffic cam …”

  It was unfortunate, but it was also a start.

  And, more important.

  Lisa’s alive.

  He took a deep breath, not letting his relief overwhelm him, knowing matters could change at any moment. Painter only had to look at the neighboring monitor, at the fiery ruins of the clinic, to remind himself again of the Guild’s scorched-earth policy.

  The bastards would not leave loose ends.

  And right now that was the definition of Lisa and Kat.

  The same could be said of Gray’s team. They were penetrating the latest Guild stronghold, on the trail of the president’s daughter.

  Painter watched the last of the clinic buildings crumble into flame and smoke. It was a fiery warning for Gray, too.

  Tread lightly.

  27

  July 3, 3:13 A.M. Gulf Standard Time

  Off the coast of Dubai

  “They took Amanda into this elevator,” Tucker said.

  Gray stood with his hands on his hips. He watched Kane sniff along the floor, the shepherd’s tail wagging vigorously. He didn’t doubt the dog’s nose, but he still hesitated.

  The lobby bay had a dozen elevators banked in a semicircle. He stared up, following the spiraling curve of the translucent staircase. Both the elevators and the stairs ascended the central shaft of the Burj Abaadi. Each floor revolved around this stable core.

  “Fifty floors,” Kowalski said. “At least we don’t have to climb each one.”

  “But we’ll need to stop at each one,” Seichan said. “Have Kane see if Amanda’s trail continues out onto any of those levels.”

  Gray’s three teammates looked to him for their next step. Even Kane stopped his sniffing to glance in his direction. Gray ignored them for a moment longer.

  Something doesn’t make sense.

  Gray had studied each of the floors on the security cameras. He saw no evidence of life up there. But he had to trust Kane. The dog had gotten them this far. Settled, he reached and hit the call button for the elevator.