Bloodline: A Sigma Force Novel

by James Rollins

  It had to be the work of the group that attacked the base.

  Measures would have to be taken.

  But not without guidance.

  Petra stepped through a nearby hatch, carrying a satellite phone in her hand. Her eyes locked with his, warning him it wasn’t good news.

  She held out the phone.

  He lifted it to his ear and heard the computerized voice greet him. “IS THE CHILD SECURED?”

  “Yes.”

  “AND THE MOTHER?”

  “Dead.”

  Surely she had to be.

  “THEN COORDINATE ALL FORCES ON-SITE, ESTABLISH A NOOSE AROUND THAT ISLAND. HUNT FOR THOSE WHO ASSAULTED THE STATION.”

  “And if they’re found?”

  He was given very specific instructions, ending with, “PETRA WILL TAKE MATTERS IN HAND FROM THERE. SHE KNOWS WHAT IS NEEDED.”

  He swallowed hard, feeling demoted—but he dared not complain.

  And in the end, maybe it was better not to know.

  31

  July 3, 4:44 A.M. Gulf Standard Time

  Off the Coast of Dubai

  Gray raced the jet boat as the island tore itself apart around him.

  The sinking platform, twisted by tidal currents and punched from below by partially intact pylons, broke into smaller sections. Suddenly unmoored and top-heavy, those pieces began to topple and capsize, dropping buildings, spires, and scaffolding all around them.

  Gray tried to avoid the worst of that roiling gristmill, flying at full throttle.

  Still, more towers fell. Walls tore apart with explosive retorts. Windows shattered in showering bursts.

  Floating debris choked their path, growing more treacherous by the minute. Gray jigged and jagged his way through the worst of it. The boat’s resilient carbon-fiber hull took care of the rest.

  He needed a way out to open water, but rubble and ruin seemed to block him at every turn.

  “Gray!” Seichan clutched harder to a brace.

  “I see it.”

  Ahead, a huge cross-section of a spire under construction—nothing more than a frame of iron—broke loose, hit a condominium tower, then rolled in their direction. Like some coin in a pachinko machine, it bounced and crashed toward them.

  Kowalski swore coarsely.

  A sentiment shared by all.

  There was no way past it, and Gray had only seconds to act.

  He sought the only cover available—but it would be tight.

  “Everyone duck!”

  He swung the jet boat to the right, spun the craft 180 degrees, and slammed it sideways under the protruding upper-story balcony of a sunken building. The tumbling monstrosity of iron clattered over them—then bounced away.

  “Nice job parallel-parking,” Kowalski commented.

  With a blast of the jets, Gray blew the boat back out of the shelter.

  He turned, dug in, and sped for the distant glimmer of open water.

  But even that path was closing.

  Ahead, two residential towers leaned drunkenly against each other. The one to the right crumbled against its partner, dropping slowly, raining broken glass and debris.

  “Go for it,” Seichan said.

  Gray had no choice. He gunned the engine, firing the jets behind him into a roar. The boat blasted away like a rocket, striving to duck under that lowering guillotine of steel, concrete, and glass.

  Kowalski curled over Amanda, whom he cradled on his lap. “I can’t watch.”

  Seichan reached over and gripped Gray’s forearm.

  Tucker braced his legs against the back of the captain’s seat.

  Only one crew member had a different assessment.

  Kane came forward, tucked under Seichan’s arm, and jumped up to bring his nose into the wind. His tail wagged fiercely, striking Gray in the shoulder.

  With that bit of encouragement, Gray tightened his fingers on the wheel. The jet boat screamed across the last of the water, skimming along the surface at over sixty miles an hour.

  Ahead, the building fell faster, the path below it pinching closed.

  But Gray was already committed.

  “Down!” he yelled.

  Seichan’s fingers dug hard as she ducked, keeping Kane pinned under her arm.

  The jet boat reached the gap and shot under the toppling tower, shattering through a rain of falling glass. For several seconds, the world filled with the scream of tortured steel and the thundering grind of concrete.

  It felt like a derailed freight train tumbled past overhead.

  Then they burst clear—

  —as the tower crashed into the sea behind them, casting up a huge wave that shoved them, along with a flotilla of debris, farther out into the dark waters.

  But those waters weren’t entirely dark.

  A cordon of lights blocked the seas three hundred yards out, including a yacht-sized cutter.

  The island’s security fleet had set up a blockade.

  Gray slowed their flight.

  “Maybe they didn’t see us,” Seichan said.

  Gray glanced doubtfully back. As he turned his attention forward, his fears were confirmed.

  A trio of those lights broke away, coming toward them.

  He spun the jet boat and raced in the opposite direction. More lights hovered out there, too, other vessels in the blockade. But that wasn’t his goal. Once he gained some distance, he swung behind a floating pallet of construction lumber.

  “Don’t think hiding here is going to work,” Kowalski said.

  Gray stood and pointed overboard. “Everybody out.”

  Seichan grabbed his arm. “What are you thinking? We can outrun them.”

  “Not weighted down like this,” Gray said, speaking fast. He pointed to the fuel gauge. “Almost out of fuel. Don’t have enough to make it to the mainland.”

  “Then what are you going—?” Seichan looked harder at him. “You’re going to lead them off.”

  “It’s the best chance for Amanda. I dump you here, run off, and get them to chase me for as long as possible.” He pointed to Kowalski. “You’ve got Jack Kirkland’s homing device. Maybe he survived and can reach you. If not—”

  Kowalski eyed the stack of lumber. “I’ll build a boat.”

  “Do your best,” he said.

  The others quickly shed boots and outerwear. Tucker stripped the vest off of Kane, so his partner was not weighted down.

  They left Amanda in her hospital gown. She had begun to shake off the anesthesia, but she remained in a dull haze. Gray feared she was edging toward shock. He hated to leave her floating in the sea, but what other recourse did he have?

  He helped Tucker and Kowalski get her overboard. At least the surface waters were temperate, as compared with down deep.

  “Keep her head elevated,” Gray warned.

  Kane splashed in next to them.

  He turned to Seichan. She remained fully clothed, with her arms crossed.

  “You’re not coming with me,” he said, guessing her intent.

  “I am.”

  “We’re not both going to sacrifice ourselves.”

  She frowned and looked him over as if he were crazy. “Who said anything about sacrificing myself? You want a distraction, something to keep those boats from poking their noses over here.” She pointed beyond the lumber pile. “See that big boat? That patrol cutter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Time to turn the tables.” She lifted an eyebrow. “It’s high time we played pirate.”

  4:58 A.M.

  Tucker could no longer hear the whine of the jet boat. He had watched the initial chase, saw them tear off to the side, leading the trio in a wild pursuit, running along the edge of the blockade.

  He hoped their plan worked, but he had his own mission to address: to keep Amanda safe. After pulling her off that surgical table, he felt extra responsible for her—especially as he’d abandoned her newborn in the rush to escape.

  I should have been more thorough in examining her.
r />   But there was nothing to be done to correct that mistake, except keep Amanda protected.

  To that end, he swam out toward where a plastic trash barrel floated on its side. He grabbed the handle. The plan was to build a nest around their hiding spot, to do their best to camouflage themselves amid the debris field.

  Off to the east, the skies were already growing pale with the coming sunrise. He wanted better cover before then.

  He didn’t expect they would have to remain in hiding for long. Maybe two hours. A disaster of this scope—the sinking of an entire island—would draw a global media circus: scores of television helicopters, curiosity seekers, and news reporters. Only then would it be safe to move Amanda out of hiding and search for a rescue, something to be caught on film.

  That exposure should keep Amanda safe.

  Such a story would attract a large audience.

  Nothing like blood in the water to draw attention.

  As he turned and dragged the barrel, a fin rose out of the water ahead of him. Then another. And another.

  He forgot that blood drew more than just attention.

  He pictured the hammerheads he’d seen earlier.

  Something bumped his leg.

  He let go of the barrel and yanked out his dagger. He’d left his pistol tucked in the stack of lumber.

  He searched, twisting all around, but the waters were pitch-dark. Even the fins had vanished.

  Then something touched his ankle. He kicked, striking something hard. It rose up under him, shoving him high. Seconds later, black water sluiced off the glass deck of the Ghost.

  The hatch popped open, and Jack Kirkland poked his head out. He eyed the dagger still in Tucker’s fist. “You planning on attacking my boat with that knife? After all I went through to save your sorry asses?”

  Tucker sheathed his blade, wanting to hug the man.

  “You try swimming through a crumbling forest of concrete with an island falling on top of your head.” Jack wore a huge smile. “Was the time of my life! now let’s see about getting you all on board.”

  By the time that was accomplished, Jack had turned more somber. Especially seeing Amanda’s condition. She was shivering, blue-lipped, and pale, on the edge of shock.

  Kowalski wrapped a dry blanket around her, from the stores aboard the Ghost. He was surprisingly gentle for such a lumbering fellow. But a blanket was far from enough.

  “She needs immediate medical help,” Tucker said as he settled her into one of the seats.

  Kane sat next to him, leaning against his knee.

  “I know where she can get it,” Jack said. “Close by. I’ve got a state-of-the-art facility aboard the Deep Fathom. We can be steaming out of these waters within the hour and get her somewhere safe.”

  Tucker sank into his seat, grateful and relieved.

  Jack lowered the Ghost back under the water and piloted them away. “What the hell did they do to her?”

  “I don’t know,” Tucker said numbly.

  And I hope I never do.

  “What about your other friends?”

  Tucker looked up through the glass roof and admitted the same.

  “I don’t know.”

  5:01 A.M.

  “We’re on fumes,” Gray shouted.

  At least, I hope I have even that.

  Seichan sat next to him with her two SIGs on her lap. She glanced over at him. A glimmer of fear shone in her eyes—she wasn’t stupid—but it seemed only to ignite the larger excitement found there. She smiled, her hair whipped by the wind, the collar of her blouse snapping, showing the length of her neck.

  “Let’s do this.”

  Ever a woman of few words.

  He grinned back, which only made her smile deepen—still hard-edged and purposeful, but now shining with something darker and softer, something he wanted to explore.

  When they had the time.

  He spun the jet boat back toward the blockade. They’d given the trio of pursuers a wild ride, weaving in and out of the line. The carbon-fiber hull had a few new holes in it, but Seichan had shot the same number of men.

  She had proved her marksmanship had not dulled since he first met her. Of course, back then she’d been an assassin for the Guild, shooting at him.

  Gray aimed their jet boat for the larger patrol cutter, a hundred-footer, plainly the command center for the fleet. He was confident that no eyes were looking toward where he’d hidden the others. He had planned on coming out here alone, expected to be captured, maybe killed.

  And that hadn’t changed.

  Only Seichan had offered another plan—to gain something from their sacrifice. This entire mission had started from an act of piracy; perhaps another act of piracy could end it.

  Half of piracy involved bloodshed and destruction.

  From the sinking of the island, from the trail of bodies, they’d already accomplished that well enough.

  The other half of piracy was the theft of treasures.

  That is what they’d come here to do.

  Gray raced toward the patrol cutter, heading dead-on, a maneuver the smaller ships had not expected. Caught off guard by the sudden suicidal move, the smaller boats were slow in closing the gap. Seichan further discouraged them. She stood, one knee on her seat for balance, her two arms raised out to either side, black SIGs in each hand. She laid down a deadly barrage of fire to hold that gap open long enough for Gray to slip past their line of defense.

  Nothing stood between them and the lead ship of the fleet.

  It was a fast-response-class cutter, typically holding a crew of twenty, painted stark white. And, like most modern patrol vessels, it featured a stern launch-and-recovery ramp, made for deploying pursuit boats, even while under way.

  That was their target.

  The ramp was currently empty, as the entire fleet had been called to duty to build the blockade around the island.

  Gray aimed for that ramp with the last of his fuel and opened the throttle.

  Crew members ran to the stern of the ship, flanking the ramp. Automatic weapons pointed. On deck, a 25 mm stabilized caliber gun mount swung toward them. Additionally, a patrol guard manned the round black disk of an LRAD—long-range acoustic device, used as a sonic nonlethal shield against pirates, a useful tool in these waters.

  There was no way to assault that ship.

  They had only one choice.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “I’m out of bullets anyway,” Seichan said.

  Gray throttled down, killing the engines—then stood up, joining her. He laced his fingers atop his head. She made a broad display of tossing her pistols overboard, then took the same position, hands on head.

  “We surrender!” he called out.

  The jet boat’s momentum carried them to the stern ramp and nosed them halfway up. Weapons tracked them on both sides.

  A commotion followed.

  The captain of the boat appeared at the top of the ramp. His dark features and heavy shadow of beard marked his Arab heritage. He was flanked by a thin, mustached man and a hard-muscled woman with a stern blond bob.

  “On your knees!” the captain said, pointing a pistol.

  They obeyed.

  The captain barked an order in Arabic. Four men came racing down the ramp and dragged the boat the rest of the way up, then tied the craft in place, ensuring they didn’t try to flee. Another two boarded and pulled their arms down, cuffing them behind them.

  Only then did the captain and the others come forward.

  The thin man approached on Seichan’s side of the vessel, commenting in a stiff British accent. “She would be a perfect research subject, don’t you think, Petra?”

  The blonde crossed over to Gray. “Careful, Dr. Blake. That one’s not for you. At least not yet.”

  Petra leaned toward Gray. “Or this one. We thought hunting you or one of your colleagues would be harder. That makes me suspicious.”

  She lunged a hand at his neck, fast enough to catch his throat. He
reflexively tried to pull away. A ghost of a smile appeared, amused by the surprise in his expression. Her other hand moved equally swift. A needle jabbed into his throat. A burn, like acid, spread as she pushed the plunger.

  He coughed at the intense pain.

  Petra straightened. “No, we have special plans for this one.”

  “What plans?” Blake asked, but his question had a faltering note, as if he didn’t want to know the answer.

  “He’s a skilled sniper,” Petra began.

  Gray fought to listen, but the acid burned through his consciousness. The world constricted, her voice drifted back down a long tunnel.

  “Forty hours from now—”

  Her final words trailed to a whisper as he slumped to his side, sprawling next to Seichan. His vision narrowed to a pinpoint. Through that tiny hole, he watched Seichan shift her knee, switching off the camera attached to Kane’s abandoned vest, hiding the fact that she had been recording the conversation before the others grew any wiser.

  He prayed someone was listening—someone had to be listening.

  This was the pirate bounty they’d risked so much to steal.

  The most valuable treasure in the world.

  Information.

  As Gray faded to black, those last disturbing words followed him into oblivion:

  “Forty hours from now, this man will assassinate the president of the United States.”

  THIRD

  HUNTING GROUNDS

  32

  July 3, 1:04 P.M. EST

  Washington, DC

  Painter waited for the storm.

  He stood in the central hall that cut through the lowermost level of their command bunker. Here Sigma hid its deepest secrets. He stood outside a room that only a handful of people had entered in the past five hours. His muscles knotted as he kept his post.

  He wanted to pace away his anxiety—needed to pace.

  It had been almost a day since he heard any word concerning Kat and Lisa, and even then, it had only been some grainy footage caught on a bank ATM camera.

  Not a word or sighting since.

  It ate a hole through his gut, through his spirit.

  But he had a duty that could not be forsaken.

  At the end of the hall, the elevator chimed and opened. The first two people to exit were members of the Secret Service. They both eyeballed Painter. One came down the hallway; the other remained behind and waved President James Gant out of the elevator.