Bloodline: A Sigma Force Novel

by James Rollins

  Two more agents followed behind.

  General Metcalf accompanied the president. “This way, sir.”

  Gant’s gaze locked onto Painter. A black cloud darkened his aspect: the fury in his eyes, the flush on his face, the hardness to his every move. Even his stride was angry. Painter hoped he could get a word out before getting punched. And he wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t still be slugged afterward. But the risk had to be taken.

  The fate of the country depended on the next few minutes.

  The press corps believed the president was attending a private meeting with the director of the Smithsonian. Even Gant thought he was here on Metcalf’s behalf to listen to Painter give an impassioned plea to save Sigma from the ax. The president had only agreed to come here after intense backroom negotiations by Metcalf. The general had to call in many political chits to get these five minutes of the commander in chief’s time.

  Gant checked his watch as he crossed those final steps.

  Apparently, time was already ticking down.

  “This is a courtesy,” Gant said, his Carolina drawl thick with disdain. “Because of General Metcalf’s long, distinguished career. That’s the only reason I’m here. And this is the last courtesy I will extend to you.”

  “Understood, Mr. President.”

  Gant balled a fist. “So speak your piece and let’s be done with it.”

  Painter instead turned to Metcalf. “What about the Secret Service agents?”

  “Thoroughly vetted,” Metcalf answered. “All four. You’ll need them for what’s to come.”

  Gant looked between the two of them. “Need them for what?”

  Painter stepped back. “Before I speak, Mr. President, I need you to see something.”

  Turning, Painter crossed to the door behind him. One of the Secret Service agents followed him. Painter opened the way and let the man go inside first to inspect the room. When he came out, his face was paler.

  “Clear,” the agent stated, then stepped aside.

  Painter held the door and nodded to Gant.

  Glowering and straightening his tie, the president strode into the room.

  Painter followed, shadowed by another agent, while the others took posts in the hall.

  Gant stepped woodenly to the hospital bed. He stopped at the edge, his posture ramrod-stiff—then he collapsed to his knees, half-falling across the mattress. His shoulders shook. Then sobs wracked out of him.

  If Painter had any lingering doubts about the man’s authenticity, they vanished in that moment.

  “My baby …” he cried. “She’s alive.”

  Amanda Gant-Bennett lay quietly on the bed, still under a light sedation. She wore a blue, flowered hospital gown. Intravenous fluids, along with two antibiotics, ran into a central line. Equipment monitored oxygenation, heart rhythm, and blood pressure. She wore a cap over her head. Beneath that, a bandage covered the surgery site where the cranial drill had been expertly removed by a neurosurgeon. A drain remained in place due to the length of time the burr hole had been left open. CT scans had showed the drill had penetrated the superior sagittal sinus through the frontal bone, but the cerebral cortex remained untouched. Secondary trauma had resulted in a tiny subdural hematoma, but that appeared to be resolving on its own.

  With rest and time, she should fully recover.

  Two other people occupied the room: Amanda’s neurosurgeon and Tucker Wayne. Neither man had left the young woman’s side since she arrived five hours ago. Her path back to the States had been a circuitous one. Jack Kirkland had transported her to the Deep Fathom, where medical personnel on board his ship had stabilized her en route to Abu Dhabi. There, Painter had called on the assistance of someone he trusted, someone who had powerful influences in the area: the oil baroness Lady Kara Kensington. She had arranged a private corporate jet while Painter prepared false papers.

  No one outside Painter’s circle knew Amanda still lived.

  Until now.

  Gant turned, staying on his knees. “How?”

  That one word encompassed so much.

  “I’ll need more than five minutes,” Painter said.

  Once granted, Painter told him everything. He left nothing out, drawing Gant back to his feet with the story. They stepped into a neighboring medical office just off of the ward—the father refused to be more than a few steps away from his daughter.

  When he got to the story of Amanda’s rescue, Gant shook Tucker’s hand. “Thank you, son.”

  Tucker nodded. “My honor, sir.”

  “I’d like to meet that dog of yours sometime.”

  “I’m sure that could be arranged.”

  Painter had highlighted the key parts of Amanda’s story. All that was left were questions he could not fully answer.

  “But I still don’t understand,” Gant said. “Why did they want my grandson?”

  “We’re still trying to piece that together. Amanda had some moments of lucidity. I was able to ask her a few questions, glean some answers.”

  “Tell me,” Gant said. He was seated at a small desk in the medical office, too shaken to keep his feet.

  Painter remained standing. “Your daughter received a couriered package from an unknown source. Inside were fake passports and a note warning Amanda to flee, that her child was in danger. There were also papers included. Medical documents, faxes, lab reports. Enough to convince your daughter to vanish in order to protect her baby. The note also warned her not to tell anyone in her family, not to trust anyone.”

  “But why?” Gant’s expression was a mix of incredulity and fear. Anger lurked there, too, smoldering up toward a fierce fire.

  “Someone wanted that child. I believe your grandson was the product of a genetic experiment. A global research project that spanned decades if not longer, one involving human trafficking and experimentation.”

  The disbelief shone brighter. “What sort of experiment are you talking about?”

  “I can’t say for sure. Something to do with his DNA—that’s what Amanda overheard. But based on other intelligence sources, I believe the experiment inserted an engineered protein into his genetic structure. He may be the first child where this was successfully carried out.”

  Gant shook his head. “But what’s their ultimate goal? What do they want with my grandson?”

  Painter saved the worst for last. “Amanda believes they plan to experiment on your grandson, to keep him alive … or at least his tissues … to study him in more detail.”

  Gant shoved to his feet. Horror ignited that smoldering fury. “What? How … who the hell are these bastards?”

  As Painter prepared to answer that, a more pressing question weighed on his mind.

  Where are they?

  1:42 P.M.

  Blue Ridge Mountains

  The stethoscope lifted gently from the newborn’s frail chest. The child’s heart could be seen beating against that cage, thumping weakly. His skin shone with a slight cyanotic cast, indicating poor oxygenation.

  Dr. Edward Blake announced his verdict to Petra. “He’s shutting down. Already underweight and premature; it could be a failure to thrive.” He shrugged. “Or the stress of the transportation here may have overwhelmed his systems.”

  Petra’s disappointment showed in the heavy cast to her eyes, the sternness to her lips. She wasn’t concerned for the child’s welfare—they’d lost many others. But after all of the troubles in Somalia and Dubai, they both needed a win here.

  And any hope of that faded with every passing breath of the child.

  The newborn rested inside a heated incubator, nestled in blankets. A nasal cannula supplied a steady stream of oxygen. A nasogastric tube allowed the administration of formula. Cuffs and pads monitored oxygenation, heart and respiratory rate, blood pressure, and temperature.

  Edward shook his head. “We may need to insert a PICC line and switch to CPAP for his shallow breathing. Or tube and ventilate him.”

  He must find a way to stabilize this chil
d. The last DNA sequencing showed significant PNA loss in the child. The triple-helix complexes in his vital tissues were breaking down.

  But most troublesome of all, Edward still didn’t know why.

  One possible explanation was that the child’s body was simply rejecting the foreign protein making up that third helix. And as a consequence, the child grew sick, slowly shutting down.

  The other possibility was that the child was failing to thrive for ordinary reasons—he was too thin, too poorly developed—and that stress triggered a secondary metabolic breakdown of the triple helices.

  “Chicken or the egg?” he asked the baby.

  Did the breakdown of the helix cause your body to weaken?

  Or did your weakened body cause the helix to break down?

  More likely, it was a combination of the two, creating some sort of cascade effect.

  No matter which scenario was true, he and Petra were in trouble. Failure was not rewarded in this organization, and seldom tolerated.

  Edward stared around the small, windowless ward assigned to them in this guarded complex. Currently, these new facilities were ill-suited for their purposes. The work done at the Lodge was primarily militaristic in nature—not like the wonders promised by the research at Utopia’s labs.

  He looked around the square ward, his temporary refuge and workspace. Their evacuation and exodus from Utopia had been rushed and unexpected, leaving little time for any real preparations. Crates remained unboxed. An entire wing waited for the installation of a new genomics lab.

  No doubt, Edward could rebuild here, but it would take time.

  Time the child did not have.

  He stared back at the incubator.

  En route from Dubai, it was evident the baby was destabilizing. Edward had ordered what he needed for emergency neonatal care and had it airlifted and delivered here. But as the child declined, he faced a sad reality. Getting equipment here was one matter, but finding skilled medical personnel who could be vetted and arrive in time was a challenge at this highly guarded facility. Especially following the swath of ruin left behind, both out in the Middle East and here in South Carolina. They’d lost several significant colleagues in both places.

  The wheels were already turning to bring staffing on-site.

  But, again, timing was critical.

  Performing even the simplest of the proposed procedures required a minimum number of skilled staff working around the clock.

  “We need extra hands,” he concluded. “Capable, skilled hands. At this point, I’ll take one additional person—if talented enough.”

  Petra nodded, fully aware. “I’ll make a call. We may have what we need already here.”

  1:45 P.M.

  Dr. Lisa Cummings paced the length of her cell. She left her lunch untouched on the small tray. A turkey club and a small bag of Doritos. There was something obscene about the ordinariness of the fare. She stared around her cell as she made another pass from front to back.

  The dull ache from her sprained ankle kept her focused.

  The walls were a seamless white plastic. The door was made of a hard glass polymer, framed in steel. She had pressed her cheek against that glass, trying to see as much as she could past her threshold. All she saw was a hall of similar cells, all appearing empty.

  Where is Kat?

  The worry ate at her and fueled her pacing.

  The cell had only a few amenities: a cot with a foam mattress and a stainless-steel commode with sink. The only luxury was a flat-screen television molded into the wall. But Lisa could not escape the feeling that someone was watching her through it.

  Or maybe it was just a paranoia born of the aftereffects of the drugs.

  After they were caught last night by the helicopter, four uniformed men had skimmed down on lines from the cabin of the aircraft. They had tied Kat and Lisa up, then injected them intramuscularly with a sedative. She guessed from the stabbing ache in her eyes and the stiffness of her leg muscles that they’d given her some form of ketamine.

  She had regained a groggy consciousness at one point during the trip, enough to tell she was in the back of the Ford explorer. Kat lay sprawled next to her, eyes rolled back, snoring slightly. Lisa was too weak to move, but through the back window, she watched dark woods and tall cliffs roll past, suggesting they were in the mountains.

  She guessed the Blue Ridge Mountains, but she couldn’t be certain.

  She had faded away again and suspected she had been given a second injection at some point. Two needle marks itched on her upper arm.

  She scratched absently at them through the thin gown she wore. Someone had stripped her and dressed her in a featureless cotton dress, like a hospital gown but closed in the back. It was pulled over the head and cinched in place. She also wore slippers and an ill-fitting bra and a pair of panties. The garments were clean but not new. From the slight fraying, someone had worn these clothes before—and that added to her nervousness.

  What had happened to those others?

  A sharp buzz sounded from the television. It drew her attention around. On the screen, the view of a small hospital ward appeared. Two figures in scrubs moved across the screen, working in what appeared to be a NICU, a neonatal intensive care unit.

  A computer-altered voice spoke, eerily flat and disjointed. “DR. LISA CUMMINGS, IT HAS COME TO OUR ATTENTION THAT YOU HAVE BOTH A MEDICAL BACKGROUND AND A PH.D. IN PHYSIOLOGY. IS THAT CORRECT?”

  “Yes,” she said tentatively, unable to think of a good reason to lie. They clearly knew who she was, likely pulling her records based on her fingerprints.

  “USEFULNESS IS A VIRTUE HERE,” she was coldly instructed. “EVERYONE MUST HAVE A PURPOSE. TO THAT END, WE WOULD LIKE YOU TO ASSIST US IN DIAGNOSING AND TREATING A NEWBORN HERE AT THE FACILITY. WE’RE CURRENTLY UNDERSTAFFED FOR THE WORK NECESSARY, ESPECIALLY IN REGARDS TO SKILLED MEDICAL PERSONNEL.”

  Lisa processed this and came to one conclusion. “Why should I help you?”

  “IF SAVING THE LIFE OF A CHILD IS NOT ENOUGH, PERHAPS THE LIFE OF A FRIEND.”

  The view swiped away, and a room similar to hers materialized on the monitor—only its walls were a dark red. It was like looking through a window into a neighboring cell. But that room could be anywhere in the complex. The woman seated on the bed burst to her feet, rushed forward to fill the screen, placing a hand against it.

  Lisa laid hers there, too, matching finger for finger. She imagined the warmth of the electronics came from the palm of her best friend.

  “Kat …”

  “Lisa, are you okay?”

  The connection cut, and the screen went black. The voice returned. “EVERY FAILURE OR DISOBEDIENCE ON YOUR PART WILL BE EXACTED UPON THE FLESH OF YOUR FRIEND. PROVE YOUR USEFULNESS, AND YOU BOTH CONTINUE TO LIVE.”

  She swallowed hard, suddenly finding it too chilly in her thin gown. “What do you want me to do?”

  The electronic door lock clicked loudly.

  “GO OUT TO YOUR RIGHT. END OF THE HALL.”

  The screen went dark.

  Lisa hesitated a few breaths, but she knew she had no choice. Cooperation would buy extra time—time to find a way to escape, time for Painter to find them. She pictured her boyfriend’s face, the lock of snowy hair tucked behind one ear, the sharp intelligence in his eyes—and, most of all, the love shining in the night across a pillow.

  That last, more than anything, gave her the strength to keep moving.

  She stepped over to the door, pushed it open, and headed to the right. The hall held a dozen cells. She searched for Kat among them, but they all appeared empty, at least as far as she could tell.

  “Kat,” she called out softly, walking slowly, swiveling her head.

  No response, no face appeared pressed against a glass door.

  Several of the rooms had their mattresses rolled up, giving the entire wing a feeling of disuse, but also a sense of expectation, like an empty boarding school waiting to be occupied for a new semester.

  Ma
ybe that came from the low murmur of voices ahead.

  Reaching the end of the hall, she pushed through the far door into a small medical ward, the same one from the television. Crates and boxes filled one half of the space, some open, others spilling packing material and showing plastic-wrapped medical equipment inside.

  The other half held the neonatal unit. A woman in scrubs spotted her and motioned her forward to join them, like one colleague greeting another.

  Before she could step closer, a door on the other side of the ward opened, and a broad-shouldered older man entered, dressed in a somber gray suit, his white hair neatly combed, his manner genteel as he strode over to Lisa.

  She had become rooted in place, recognizing him.

  The man held out his hand, his Carolina drawl warm. “Thank you, Dr. Cummings, for agreeing to help my grandnephew.”

  Lisa shook his hand, dumbfounded.

  He was the former ambassador to Southeast Asia, now secretary of state—and brother to the president.

  Robert L. Gant.

  1:55 P.M.

  Washington, DC

  “Tell me,” James Gant demanded, staring off to the next room, where his daughter rested on the hospital bed. “Who’s behind all of this?”

  Painter knew the next part of this discussion would take some delicacy. What transpired here was for the president’s ears and eyes only.

  Him, and one other.

  Jason Carter worked at the desk computer in the medical office, where Painter and the president had been holed up. His Secret Service agents continued to watch the hall, with one posted next to Amanda.

  Jason finally nodded, ready to proceed. He had the necessary footage transferred and keyed up.

  Painter faced Gant. “As you know, Mr. President, we already suspected the Guild had a hand in the kidnapping of your daughter.”

  Gant’s eyes darkened. “I’ve read the intelligence briefings.”

  “Exactly, but the Guild is not their true name. It’s more of an umbrella designation encompassing the group’s many cells around the world, a network of agents and operatives ensconced in various militaries, governments, research institutions, and financial circles. There are many levels within this organization, some go by other names, but recently I’ve uncovered a clue to the true leaders, the puppet masters of the Guild.”