by Matt Miksa
“But—”
“I’ll handle it on my end. Deactivate the TRIDENT alert, and don’t even think about activating the exfil teams.”
The call cut out before Snyder could reply. TRIDENT signals were lifelines for overseas operatives, especially those working in denied enemy territory who needed help getting out of dangerous situations. Snyder should be setting a tactical plan in motion. Every minute counted. Why was he being ordered to stand down?
What was going on at VECTOR? First, an officer had gone missing. Then, another had been hung out to dry. And then there was Director Cameron. That woman was as slippery as a sea otter. Still, it was clear Cameron had no idea Snyder had been watching her for weeks.
Snyder rolled his mouse and deleted the TRIDENT alert—a serious breach of protocol that he regretted almost immediately. What if no one responds? That man could be in serious danger. Snyder felt his stomach rumble. He leaned back in his swivel chair and popped a handful of sunflower seeds into his mouth.
* * *
HELMSMAN disconnected the call with the NSA analyst and thought through the next move. It seemed Officer Grave had made it to the Tibetan Autonomous Region. Alive. A regrettable outcome, to be sure, but a rectifiable one.
Now the priority concern was Snyder. The man had demonstrated his loyalty, discreetly reporting the TRIDENT alert, but it didn’t cost him much to place a phone call. Denying a distress signal from an officer in the field, however, would raise the stakes for Snyder. Eventually, someone would discover that the analyst had ignored Grave’s exfiltration request, covered up the signal intercept. Snyder was now complicit. The man had to understand the risks. He wasn’t a complete idiot. But how far was he willing to go?
Be a good boy, Snyder. Follow orders and don’t ask questions.
CHAPTER
32
Dzongsar Village, Tibetan Autonomous Region, People’s Republic of China
KALINA TOOK GREAT pride in her marksmanship—a skill that had earned her high praise among her peers. She’d missed the shot only because that woman had jerked her head back at the last second.
Locating her primary target was becoming more tedious than she’d expected. Kalina had managed to take out a handful of doctors, but she needed to find Grave and complete her assignment. First, she would eliminate the woman in the lab coat. Now was not the time to get sloppy. There could be no loose ends.
The huntress crouched low and stalked her prey.
* * *
Jo struggled to control her breathing inside the decontamination pod. Hiding in such a tight, enclosed space didn’t help to calm her frayed nerves. She focused on the low hum of the generator. She thought of Kipton. He was out there, somewhere. Kip was a good man. She hoped he hadn’t ended up like Amy.
Minutes felt like hours. Eventually, the animals in the Zoo stopped screeching. Jo strained her ears, trying to listen for the assailant’s footsteps. With any luck, he would breeze past the decon pods and Jo could escape unnoticed.
Then an earsplitting scream tore through the monastery. The Tibetan macaque. The shooter had left the lab and was now passing through the Zoo. In seconds, the killer would enter the decontamination chamber.
The idea that someone would break into the Q-Zone laboratory and begin murdering doctors seemed absurd. However, Jo knew what the intruder wanted: the evidence contained within the hypodermic needle. When patient zero buried that syringe in the forest, he certainly hadn’t intended for Jo to dig it up. No, he’d hidden the needle for someone else to find, and Jo was almost certain that person was already in Dzongsar.
* * *
Olen sprinted along the narrow, winding road leading up to the monastery. The moon shone brightly, so anyone watching Sumati’s residence would have easily spotted him fleeing the house unescorted, but he had bigger concerns now. Once he found Jo, they needed to evacuate the Q-Zone immediately. The teen soldiers guarding the checkpoint would offer no challenge. If Olen’s instincts were right, they were already long gone.
* * *
Kalina considered putting the macaque out of its misery, if only to silence its piercing cry. One clean shot through the giant monkey’s hairy forehead would do the trick. She held back, knowing the gunshot would alarm the other wild animals. The room smelled like excrement. She was happy to find the exit and leave the fetid beasts behind.
The next room was sterile, nothing like the jungle she’d just passed through. There were neat stacks of medical gowns and a tower of boxes containing latex gloves. Maybe it was some kind of scrub room. There were three egg-shaped pods in the center of the space. What were they used for? Storage? Experiments? Whatever the case, they were big. Big enough to conceal a person.
The assassin studied the control panel on one of the egg pods. It was a touch screen displaying a simple alphanumeric keypad. The pods required a code to open—a code Kalina didn’t have. She considered firing a few rounds through each of the life-sized capsules, but she’d already wasted enough time, and finding Grave took priority. Let the doctor hide. Kalina turned away and scanned the chamber for an exit. An iron door led out to an adjoining courtyard. She’d started for it when one of the egg pods suddenly lit up. The white orb radiated, and the touch keypad changed from deep blue to crimson.
Kalina smiled wickedly. The assassin raised her Sig Sauer and aimed squarely at the glowing pod.
CHAPTER
33
McLean, Virginia, USA
ALLYSON TOSSED HER car keys into a mason jar on her kitchen table. She grabbed an apple from an unpacked grocery bag and bit into the skin. She never took the time to wash fruit.
A maroon file rested on the counter. Allyson placed her palm over it, splaying her fingers to keep its secrets from seeping out. What would President Barlow do when Allyson showed him? And she would show him—wouldn’t she? Of course, she could withhold this too, just like the photo from MI6. Some things Barlow didn’t need to know. She’d worked too hard to have him, or anyone, mess this up.
The file had arrived that morning, before dawn, delivered by a private courier. The shipping label didn’t identify a sender. Under normal circumstances, a mysterious unmarked package delivered to the home of a senior government official would warrant a call to the FBI. But when the sharply dressed messenger rang her doorbell, Director Cameron hadn’t been concerned. The man worked for the world’s most exclusive courier service. SwissPax had built its reputation on privacy and discretion. They didn’t advertise, and they certainly didn’t work with just anyone. The company’s stellar reputation came with a considerable price tag. SwissPax wasn’t the kind of resource available to your run-of-the-mill antigovernment nutjob.
When Allyson tore open the parcel, she’d found the plain maroon folder tucked inside. That flimsy folder guarded a distressing revelation.
Of course, the reliability of this information, like all intelligence, depended on the quality of its source. Unfortunately, the sender’s excessively discreet method was designed to preserve anonymity. Allyson knew that if she called SwissPax for details, she’d learn that the package had come not from an individual but from a nondescript company in the Caribbean with a generic PO box. The delivery was truly untraceable.
Except Director Cameron knew exactly who had sent her the file.
CHAPTER
34
Dzongsar Village, Tibetan Autonomous Region, People’s Republic of China
JO FLINCHED WHEN the decontamination pod switched on unexpectedly. The device was designed to activate when the person inside pressed the START DECON button. Jo was certain she hadn’t accidentally bumped into it.
Then she remembered. The pod automatically began its cycle precisely two minutes after the hatch closed. This allowed the staff to sterilize large equipment. Pulsing ultraviolet radiation now enveloped Jo. The doctor squeezed her eyes shut to shield them from the brightness. The short bursts of concentrated UV light were harmless to people but lethal to most microorganisms. At least the radiation would oblit
erate any trace of the virus that might have clung to her body. If she’d been exposed in the lab, the disinfectant cycle might save her life, as long as the shooter didn’t notice the pod light up like a Christmas tree.
A digital green bar slowly encircled the START DECON button, indicating the cycle’s progress. It reached about halfway around the button, inching forward. The hatch wouldn’t open until the entire circle filled in and the decontamination sequence was complete. For at least another sixty seconds, Jo was a sitting duck.
A series of chirps cut through the low-pitched whirring of the UV pulses. Someone was accessing the pod’s keypad. The shooter had found her. Jo’s entire body tensed. Eyes wide open despite the blinding light, she fixated on the green progress bar. In seven seconds, the cycle would end and the hatch would snap open.
Four seconds.
Jo crouched helplessly into the fetal position and held her breath. The bloody image of Amy’s limp body flashed into her mind.
Two seconds.
The green bar completed the full circle around the button and began to blink. The blinding lights shut off, and Jo could hear a hissing sound as the hatch seal cracked open.
Jo kicked her feet out forcefully as soon as the pod’s door unlocked. Blinded by the UV light, she could barely make out the shadowy outline of a figure standing over her.
“Jesus, Jo. Why is it every time we meet, you’re attacking me?” The shadow’s voice rumbled with a familiar low pitch.
“What? Kip! Is that you?” Jo said, fighting back tears at the sight of the American. “I thought—”
“Later, Doc. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Kip, be careful,” Jo replied breathlessly. “There’s a shoot—”
Olen’s head snapped back. Hot blood splashed against the white decontamination pod. He staggered backward, pressing his palm into his temple, but it didn’t stop the gushing. Slick rivers flowed down his forearm.
CHAPTER
35
Washington, DC, USA
“TOO MUCH IS beginning to add up, Jim. It can’t be a coincidence.” National security adviser Nathan Sullivan never shied from giving the president tough news, no matter how much the man disliked hearing it.
“Here are the facts,” he continued. “Our best-placed VECTOR officer in China supposedly vanished within days of the outbreak. Then Cameron sent a Mideast expert in his stead. The man couldn’t order Kung Pao chicken in Chinatown. And, according to Director Cameron, now he’s missing too.”
“Grave is more capable than you think,” Barlow said. “He’s worked with Allyson going back to the Saddam days.”
“That’s my point, Jim. Cameron is CIA. That woman has allies deep within the Agency doing God knows what.”
“It’s a brotherhood, in a manner of speaking. We learned to trust each other with our lives.” Barlow still identified strongly with his Langley brethren. “So, what are you suggesting, Nate? Do you think Allyson is deliberately bottlenecking the intel?”
“I’m not here to make accusations. Quite the contrary. It’s time we all took a step back and looked at the situation with fresh eyes. For the first time in a half century, we know less about a major world crisis than goddamn CNN. Your desk should be plastered with intelligence reports, hot off the press by the hour. The best we’ve got is a watered-down assessment prepared with piss-poor confidence.”
“Nate, I trust Allyson. I have no reason not to.”
“Maybe now you do,” the national security adviser said. He handed the president a report marked TOP SECRET.
Barlow’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the document. “This came in this morning?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
“Does Allyson know?”
Sullivan just raised an eyebrow.
“I know how Allyson thinks,” the president argued. “She’s working an angle. Playing it out a little before coming to me. There’s got to be more going on.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Jim. But it’s my responsibility to be intellectually skeptical. We can’t ignore the evidence before us.” Sullivan gestured to the report. “This morning Officer Grave pinged TRIDENT with a distress signal. He’s found something in Tibet, and for some reason, Allyson is keeping us in the dark.”
CHAPTER
36
Dzongsar Village, Tibetan Autonomous Region, People’s Republic of China
GETTING BLOWN UP sucked. Bomb shrapnel stung everywhere—like a thousand stabs from a short knife—but this time the pain was localized behind Olen’s ear. He’d been shot. The room spun. He tried to focus on Jo’s terrified face, but the image kept contorting. The overwhelming dizziness pushed Olen to his knees. He couldn’t control his body’s downward momentum, so his forehead slammed into the floor. The pain overcame him. Chunks of vomit gurgled up his esophagus, coating his teeth.
A familiar voice rang inside Olen’s mind. It was the same one he’d heard after a firefight in Baghdad. Allyson’s voice.
You’re not dead. Get up!
He hadn’t lost consciousness. That meant the bullet had probably just grazed him. He’d survive.
Olen squinted. The spinning slowed. From his vantage point—his head still glued to the floor—Olen saw a pair of black boots approaching. The attacker, realizing the first shot had missed, was closing in to finish the job. In a moment the shooter would fire a bullet directly through his cerebral cortex. Olen had to strike now.
Marshaling every ounce of energy, Olen threw his weight sideways and rolled onto his back. Using the momentum, he torqued his waist and spun his left leg in a high arc over his body. At the apex of the kick, Olen’s shoe connected with the assailant’s outstretched arm. Something heavy tumbled across the wooden floorboards.
The gun.
Before the shooter could react, Olen swept his other leg a few inches off the ground and forcefully slammed it into his attacker’s Achilles tendon. The second kick threw the shooter off-balance, and his assailant hit the ground with a thud. Olen felt a feathery rope brush his face—a long, black braid.
With the gun out of play, he had a much better chance of neutralizing his opponent, but his stomach was still roiling. The floor underneath his head felt slippery. Olen wondered if his brain was bleeding. He needed to regain control, so he swiftly wrapped his legs around the shooter’s back like a human claw and yanked. Olen was now fairly certain his assailant was a woman. She grunted as her nose smashed into his right shoulder.
Olen crossed his thick forearms behind the woman’s head, creating a vise. He twisted his wrist clockwise so he could pull down on the back of her neck and apply pressure directly to her windpipe. His legs squeezed the assassin’s rib cage to prevent her from breaking free. A classic rear scissor choke hold.
Most amateur opponents would instinctively push up off the ground with their free left arm—their only point of leverage in this frustratingly prostrate position. Wickedly, this countermaneuver only tightened the stranglehold, quickening the victim’s inevitable suffocation.
This woman was no amateur. Instead of struggling to pull away, she pressed downward, collapsing her body deeper into the choke. This transfer of weight allowed her to lift her left hand off the floor, which she used to smash a solid fist into the seeping bullet wound on the side of Olen’s head.
Stunned by the searing pain, Olen released his grip. He wiped the fresh blood from his eyes in time to see the woman’s arm cock back again, preparing to fire another punch.
Raising both knees to his chest, Olen launched a powerful double kick to the woman’s stomach, sending her flying. Her body crashed into the tower of latex glove boxes. She howled. Maybe the blow had broken a rib. Olen hoped it had. He coiled in agony, rolling onto his side, hands pinned to his injured temple. He fought through the pain. It was only a scratch, after all.
You’re not dead. Get up!
Olen lifted himself onto all fours and attempted to stand. He didn’t notice the assassin pull a double-serrated combat knife from a s
heath concealed in her right boot. With fire in her eyes, the woman lunged. She swung the blade high above her head, ready to drive the chiseled tip directly into Olen’s spine.
* * *
A sudden concussive blast shook the walls. Another gunshot. The bullet slammed into the female assassin, hurling her body backward.
Jo wasn’t sure where she’d hit the woman, but seeing the attacker’s lifeless form crumpled on the floor gave her a sense of relief. The medical doctor was no stranger to death, but the act of intentionally taking a life required a certain numbness. She hadn’t had time to wrestle with the morality of her decision. She’d acted on pure instinct to save herself—and Kipton.
Jo hadn’t fired a weapon in years, but she was pleased her aim hadn’t suffered. Once Kip had disarmed the shooter, Jo had rushed to recover the woman’s Sig Sauer. Somehow she’d remembered how to check the safety, slide back the barrel to chamber a round, and cock the hammer. The motions came naturally, as if her muscles knew exactly what to do. Planting her feet in a wide stance, Jo had firmly raised the handgun and carefully squeezed the trigger with the very tip of her index finger—just as she’d practiced hundreds of times, in training, so many years ago.
Jo registered the shock on the American reporter’s face. No doubt her proficiency with the semiautomatic pistol, not to mention her willingness to fire directly into the heart of another human being, surprised the man. She hadn’t been completely forthright with Kipton. And judging by the man’s tiger reflexes and expert grappling skills, it seemed he’d guarded a few secrets of his own. Maybe she should tell him the truth.
Jo tore into a plastic bag from the stack on the table and unwrapped a fresh pair of scrubs. She ripped the thin fabric along the shoulder seam to remove one of the sleeves.