He had Jason Carter in his ear. “Director, I’m patching new feed. We picked up movement a little over ten miles from the mansion. We didn’t get this sooner with all eyes on the Lodge. But you’d better see this.”
The image on his screen swung away from the Lodge toward the Continental Divide, a rugged chunk of territory.
Who was way out there?
A small figure could be seen standing next to a waterfall, holding a package—no, a child. The view toggled closer and closer until there could be no doubt.
“Lisa …” Painter said.
“And I believe the other is Kat, sir. About a quarter-mile southeast.”
As the image swooped in that direction, Painter waved Monk over. “You should see this.”
By the time the man arrived, Jason showed a blurry video of a woman running through the woods. Details were hard to pick out between the trees. What was evident was that she was headed straight for a sheer cliff drop.
“That’s my wife,” Monk said, scared but tightly in control. “Never looking where she’s going.”
Jason spoke again. “I’ve got movement on the ground behind her, but I can’t pick up any details.”
The pilot called from up front. “We’re two minutes out from the no-fly demarcation. I’m going to start angling around to get us skirting along its edge.”
Painter passed his laptop to Monk and crossed to the cockpit. “New plans,” he instructed. “We’re going straight in.”
“Sir, we don’t have the proper clearance.”
“Take it up with the president when we get back,” Painter said. “You take us in low and straight. Follow the Continental Divide. Once we cross into the no-fly zone, you open the rear ramp for us to bail out.”
Painter swung back around.
Monk raised an eyebrow. “How come my wife doesn’t have any hair?”
Jason spoke in Painter’s ear, a scary urgency to his tone. “How long until you’re on the ground?”
“We bail out in six. On the ground seven or eight.”
“That’ll be too late.”
2:53 P.M.
Blue Ridge Mountains
Kat sprinted for the goal line.
She had lost her slippers. Her toes dug for purchase in the soft loam and loose spruce needles. Rocks, pinecones, and acorns tore at her soles, but she ignored the pain. She flew over obstacles with long-legged leaps, happy for the obstruction of a log or jagged outcropping, as it slowed her pursuers.
The front edge of the hunters was only yards behind. She had dispatched three, but over a dozen still remained, working in tandem. The shield and pipe were futile against their numbers, especially as this group was not uniform. She identified at least four variants among them, each with specialized functions: crawlers she’d dealt with during the first wave; leapers could spring like frogs when close enough and slash out, or worse yet, latch on; spinners could accelerate at blistering paces for short bursts, becoming flying saw-blades; the last group was still unknown, trundling more at the rear, slower than the others, looking like steel helmets with legs.
She had not come through unscathed. The first spinner caught her by surprise, whizzing past, slicing a gash in her calf. Blood poured down her ankle. She was ready for the second, striking out with her pipe, swinging for the bleachers. The spinner ended up embedding its whirring self into the trunk of an oak, becoming stuck.
Ahead, the tree line broke apart, and sunlight beckoned.
The forest ended at a cliff.
She searched and spotted what she needed, angling to the left.
A telltale explosive squeak warned her. She lashed out with her shield, swiping low, as a leaper sprang at her. With a satisfying clang, she struck it and sent it cartwheeling away.
She sped faster, making her pursuers do the same, but also gaining a little space. As she ran, she plucked at the drawstring of her gown, loosening it. Once done, she flung her pipe and shield at the base of a maple tree ahead. They clattered close enough.
As she ran the final steps toward the cliff’s edge, she ripped the gown over her head, which blinded her for a frightening moment. She balled up the sweaty, hot garment. Reaching the cliff, still sprinting, she leaped up and threw the ball of clothes over the edge. She caught a low branch. Below her legs, the front guards of the horde went racing over the edge to their doom three stories below: leapers, crawlers, and one lonely spinner, who, in a last-ditch effort, whizzed in a spectacular arc off the cliff and chased after the hot bundle of clothes.
Not everyone went over, but confusion reigned in the remaining half.
She dropped back to the ground long enough to shove her shield on her forearm and tuck the pipe through her panties, like a sword in a scabbard. She leaped again to the same branch and hauled herself atop it with a heave of her legs.
The hunters stirred below, contemplating their next move.
A shout drew her attention, barely discernible above the roar of a waterfall a couple of hundred yards to her right. She searched—following the curve of the cliff, to where a small river tumbled over its edge to crash below. It was in those misty lower levels that she spotted a thin shape, waving her whole arm.
Lisa stood on a plateau on the far side of the waterfall. Her friend was trapped by the sheer cliffs behind her and the surging river below.
And she wasn’t trapped alone.
Lisa held a baby in her arms.
Kat waved back—then froze.
Lisa’s shout had drawn more than her attention. Behind her friend, at the top of the cliff, sunlight glinted off a creature the size of a small lion. It leaned over the edge, like a steel gargoyle.
“Kat!” Lisa shouted, still waving, further drawing its attention with all of her noise and motion.
“Lisa! Stop moving!” Kat yelled back.
Lisa shook her head and cupped her ear. The roar of the neighboring falls must have deafened her.
Kat struggled with how to communicate to Lisa, how to pantomime what needed to be done.
I was never good at charades.
Before Kat could even begin, the creature started climbing down the cliff face.
2:55 P.M.
Lisa floated on her toes, so happy to see Kat safe. Her friend’s dramatic appearance, leaping half-naked into a tree, accompanied by a shower of silvery hunters, brought such joy and hope.
The thunder of the falls stripped whatever words Kat had tried to share, but her friend must have understood and began motioning dramatically. An arm pointed to the waterfall, then mimicked taking a shower.
Lisa didn’t understand and shook her head. Cradled in her arms, the baby was growing restless, likely from the constant roaring of the falls.
A rock pinged off the ledge that was her prison.
Kat repeated the gesture, adjusting it slightly. After pointing to the waterfall, she waved her fingers in front of her face.
Lisa stared and saw that a part of the plateau tucked behind the waterfall, but that shelf still roiled with mist, spray, and sudden dousings as the currents above shifted.
Finally, Kat pointed straight up, using her whole arm.
Another chunk of rock fell off of the cliff face and struck her landing.
A trickle of terror ran up her back, as she suddenly sensed something staring at her.
She turned and looked at the cliff.
Halfway up hung a monstrosity of steel plate, razor claws, and titanium fangs.
She screamed, backing several steps, coming close to throwing herself off the cliff and into the river below.
The noise and motion drew a swivel of its sleek head, revealing faceted black eyes—sensors—staring back at her.
She froze and cut off her scream, knowing noise must attract it.
Then the baby began to wail.
2:56 P.M.
Kat watched helplessly as the steel gargoyle climbed down from its perch, digging hooked claws into crevices, lowering itself limb by limb, crack by crack, with the inevitability of a
well-wound watch.
C’mon, Lisa. Remember what I showed you.
A clack and whirring at the foot of the maple reminded her of her own predicament. The five helmeted pods now circled the tree, sitting stationary. Simultaneously, their domed backs split into halves and folded back, revealing four smaller robots inside. They were flat and square in shape, with tiny propellers at each corner.
In unison, the entire aerial fleet rose from their ground-based carriers, lifting in eerie formation, perfectly tuned to one another. Then, upon some silent cue, the pack rose, whipping and winding up the tree in a blurring pattern, stripping leaves and small twigs with their scalpel-sharp whirring blades. They climbed the tree like a deadly tornado of daggers.
She lifted shield and pipe.
A loud clank drew her attention momentarily back across the waterfall to Lisa’s perch. The monster must have lost its footing and fell. It righted itself, flipping back to its sharp claws on the plateau.
Kat searched, but Lisa was gone.
2:57 P.M.
The sudden shock of the icy water stole Lisa’s breath.
She shielded the squalling child as best she could, hunching over him, drawing him close to her bosom for the warmth of her body heat.
She edged as far back along that ledge of rock behind the waterfall as she could manage without being pummeled off her perch.
After the first initial shock, she figured out Kat’s message. In fact, it was those black eyes of the steel bear—cold, alien sensors taking in the world—that allowed her to interpret her friend’s pantomime. The beast had to use some method to hunt, to understand its surroundings.
The shelter of the waterfall offered a way to blind those sensors.
The rippling cascade would challenge any motion detectors.
The cold would mask her body heat.
The roar would deafen and confound its sense of hearing.
So, she risked hypothermia—unfortunately, more of a threat to the child than to her—to keep them hidden.
But would it work?
Three-quarters of the way down the wall, the creature fell or leaped. It landed hard, its large bulk at the mercy of gravity, but afterward, there remained an undeniable grace to its movement as it stalked toward her hiding place. It must have watched her come this way, but could it tell she was still here?
It knuckled forward on daggers curled back like the claws of a three-toed sloth. It stalked with a thoughtful and determined placement of each leg, like a housecat hunting a mouse.
Lisa shifted even deeper under the falls, letting the water fully envelop her. The baby cried against her soaked chest, but the roar of the falls drowned any wails away.
The sloth-like automaton pushed under the falls, pivoting its massive head, opening its huge steel jaws, revealing a maw of titanium death, a bear trap with legs.
Through the heavy chute of water, black eyes stared back at her, seeming to see her, but who knew what it truly saw?
And still it came, pushing forward.
2:58 P.M.
Airborne over Blue Ridge Mountains
In the cargo hold of the C-41A transport plane, Painter kept glued to the satellite feed on his laptop. He pressed shoulder to shoulder with Monk, who watched as fervently. Both their women were in danger—and, for the moment, there was nothing either man could do but watch.
The rear ramp was already open, awaiting their bail-out.
But they were not in position yet.
“How much longer?” Painter hollered.
“Two minutes out,” the pilot answered, screaming to be heard above the roar of the wind through the open bay doors.
Painter stared at the screen, knowing it would be the longest two minutes of his life.
40
July 4, 2:58 P.M. EST
Blue Ridge Mountains
Seichan stood in the middle of her richly appointed prison cell. A soft scuffling alerted her a minute ago that someone was outside in the hall, struggling with the door. Apparently, they didn’t have the code for the electronic deadbolt.
The oddness drew her out of the chair by the window.
The difficulty with the lock—was that good, bad, or inconsequential?
She stepped closer, passing the room’s small fireplace, when half the door and a chunk of the wall exploded before her, throwing her back.
She rolled across the ancient Turkish rug and struck the foot of her bed. Through the smoke and the ruin, the upper torso of the guard could be seen out in the hallway, on the floor, neck twisted impossibly—not from the bomb. Someone had quietly dispatched him.
With her ears ringing, Seichan watched the silent entry of the source of all that death and destruction. The long-legged woman stepped through the wreckage of the door. She carried a pistol in her hand and a look of stern purposefulness on her face.
Seichan was more worried about the gun.
She needed that gun.
She shifted smoothly into a crouch.
Seichan knew this woman. It was the doctor’s research partner back in Dubai—Petra—the one who had drugged Gray back on the boat.
Still shell-shocked, Seichan missed the woman’s first few words before her hearing returned.
“… Such promise,” Petra said. “You were of the Lineage, of our blood. You were being groomed for so much more.”
Seichan had difficulty making sense of her statements. Back on the boat in Dubai, she had suspected this woman had been raised as she had: the muscular surety of her movements, the hard glint of perpetual vigilance, the cold calculation to her countenance.
It took a monster to recognize a monster.
The woman’s words echoed in her head.
… groomed for so much more …
Was this what she would have become?
A worse fear rose from the marrow of her bones.
Am I that already?
Seichan remained crouched, but she moved her left leg an inch forward, for better balance, for better power.
The woman noted this. She repositioned her weapon and shifted to the side, ruining Seichan’s preparation, reaching the perfect spot where it would be awkward for Seichan to attack.
They stared each other down.
“When you turned traitor against us,” Petra said, “you became a corrupted thing, a broken vessel, leaving the purity of the Lineage. For what? For the love of a man?”
Seichan stiffened, the words poking a raw nerve.
Petra must have sensed her reaction, her words hard with disdain. “Such a piteous waste. Better you die like a dog than live like one.”
Petra fired—but Seichan was already moving as the muscles in her opponent’s forearm tightened in anticipation of the recoil.
The bullet still burned a hot line across her flank as she twisted to the side, offering less of a target. She hit Petra in the shins with her shoulder, flipping the woman high.
Seichan rolled, ready to go for the woman’s weapon.
But Petra never lost it. She landed on a knee, one leg back, still facing Seichan, her gun still pointed at her face.
At that moment, Seichan knew two things.
She’s better than me.
And the worse for it.
She closed her eyes—and pictured one face, one regret—as the pistol fired again and again at her.
And a ghostly wind rushed past her.
The rounds burned into Robert’s chest as he threw himself between the woman and the weapon, blocking her fully with his broad body, a wall before a flower. The pain was a small thing against the enormity of what might be lost if he failed.
Then Gray was there, sliding into the room with the automatic rifle from the dead guard in the hallway. He fired on full auto, blasting Petra back—and he never stopped shooting until the clip emptied.
Only then did he whip around.
“Seichan …” Gray said, sliding to her side.
Robert knew the man loved her, saw it in his eyes.
He had loved a wo
man as much as that once, too. He met her while he was a young ambassador to Southeast Asia. He pictured her sweet face aglow under the moonlight in the garden, lost in the drift of cherry blossoms, her lips as soft as the whispery song of thrushes in the branches and the tinkle of a fountain.
But it was always the emerald of her eyes he returned to, the intensity reflecting all inside her, never dimming. Her love, a reflection of his own, was forever frozen in jade.
He ran the edge of his thumb along her cheekbone, letting his adoration shine—and at that moment, time shifted, but not those eyes.
Never those eyes …
He didn’t know he had fallen into Seichan’s arms. His hand was raised, touching gently, something forever forbidden him.
Knowing then it was right he die here.
In his daughter’s arms.
Seichan held the man, not understanding, baffled by the sudden tears in her eyes. The barrage of bullets had knocked him back into her arms. She caught him, the man who had cast his life aside for her, the same man who had imprisoned her.
Why?
He stared up silently at her as if drinking her in, raising a hand to touch her cheek. And strangely still, she let him, seeing something in his eyes that she could not deny.
Gray returned to her side, dropping next to her.
The assassin was dead.
The woman had a name, but those five letters held no meaning.
In the end, she was nameless, just purpose in human form.
Seichan stared at the bloody ruin, then turned away again, suddenly freer.
I will not be you.
And I’m stronger for it.
Gray slipped an arm around her. “Seichan …”
And there was the simple answer. She had a name, spoken by someone who gave it weight, depth, meaning, and substance.
But in that moment, she learned she had another name, one forever unknown. The man dying in her arms told her. His arm dropped, too weak now, his breath a whisper.
Bloodline: A Sigma Force Novel Page 40
