Janet looked around at the grouping of Quechua huts sitting atop four-foot-high stilts, the ladders leading up to their doors, laundry hanging on lines beneath the thatched overhangs. Just down the road and beyond the hill lay the outskirts of Puyo, Ecuador. Yachay’s home. The native nanny had led them here, introducing them to the poor Quechan community where they were welcomed as if they had been long-lost relatives, disappearing from the wider world as thoroughly as if they’d slipped into a La Brea tar pit. No electricity, no running water, no indoor toilets, just a nice, safe hideaway.
Turning away from the monkey, Janet climbed the slanted ladder leading to her hut, the smallest in the village. Pausing just inside the door, she looked up at Cherise, the beautiful scarlet macaw that had become her pet.
“Awk. Robby. Robby.”
Janet laughed at the greeting. As smart as Robby was, the bird had learned to talk before he did. Too bad Jack wasn’t here to share the moment with her.
Setting Robby in the playpen Yachay had made for him, Janet walked over to the table where her disassembled H & K subcompact lay. One thing about the high jungle. The humidity meant her weapons needed even more daily maintenance than in Bolivia.
As she sat down and picked up where she’d left off, her thoughts turned back to Jack. He’d made sure she and Robby were set up in an adequate safe haven where it was unlikely their enemies could find them; then he’d filled a backpack with ammunition, basic survival gear, and one of their two subspace receiver-transmitter USB dongles and stepped out into the noisy jungle night. Janet could still taste his good-bye kiss on her lips, could feel the way his teeth playfully nipped her lower lip, could see the fire in those eyes.
She missed him, missed having his back. But her responsibility was to Robby first. If he’d been a normal little boy, she would have left him with Yachay and gone with Jack. But neither of them knew what challenges Robby would face in the coming months and Janet wanted to be there to guide his development. Besides, Jack was Jack. He’d find where Mark, Jennifer, and Heather were being held and then they’d have a fighting chance at freedom.
A low rumble in the distance was accompanied by a gust of wind in the rafters. Soon the downpour would send sheets of water from the thatched roof to join the small flood that would roll below the stilted huts, temporarily isolating the Quechan village more completely than normal. Janet rose to stand in the doorway, staring out at the gathering clouds. As the first fat drops splattered against her face, she turned her gaze to the north. Despite the ferocity of the rain forest weather, north was where the real storm was gathering. And it was likely to be a violent one.
The two-lane road needed repaving, the high desert threatening to reclaim it from civilization at any moment. It was one of many stretches of highway in need of such improvement on the Santa Clara Indian Reservation. But it wasn’t the potholes or cracks in the pavement that occupied Tall Bear’s attention, it was the beat-up white F-150 that had pulled out onto the road a quarter mile in front of him.
The vehicle could have been any one of a thousand such vehicles in this part of the country, a big four-wheel-drive pickup that had seen hard usage in rough country, the bed sagging under the memory of too many heavy loads dropped roughly atop its steel frame. Nothing unusual there. But the way it weaved back and forth across the center line brought Tall Bear’s blood to a slow boil. Not that morning drunkenness was an unusual sight here on the res; it was that this was an all-too-common occurrence that grated on him.
Switching on his lights and siren, Tall Bear closed in on the truck’s rear bumper, pleasantly surprised to see it pull over and stop along the deserted highway’s right shoulder without crashing into anything. A glance at the rear of the truck brought two things to Tall Bear’s attention. It had a heavy-duty towing package, but no license plate.
Opening his door and stepping out onto the pavement, Tall Bear approached the driver’s door, his right hand resting lightly on the butt of his Colt .45. The driver’s window was rolled all the way down, the man’s left arm resting on the window frame as calmly as if he’d just pulled up at a McDonald’s drive-through. The arm, extending from a black T-shirt sleeve, was darkly tanned and so ripped with lean muscle it appeared to have been chiseled from stone. The upper part of the man’s face was hidden by the broad brim of his hat.
“Let me see your driver’s license and proof of insurance.”
“Sorry, Officer, I must have gotten off without them.”
Something about the voice gave him pause. “Step out of the truck and keep your hands where I can see them.”
The man opened the door and stepped out to face Tall Bear. Just over six feet tall, the man wore a black T-shirt, tucked into jeans over lace-up combat boots, that emphasized a physique that matched his arms. Again Tall Bear had the impression of someone completely at ease, a feeling that didn’t match the man’s current situation.
Still unable to see all of the guy’s face due to the hat and the downward tilt of his head, Tall Bear let a hard edge creep into his voice.
“Look me in the eye when I talk to you.”
As the man tilted his head slowly upward, his voice carried a note of amusement. “Now, Jim. Is that any way to talk to an old friend?”
With the shock of sudden recognition, Tall Bear found himself staring directly into Jack Gregory’s smiling face.
Recovering with a remarkable swiftness, Tall Bear stepped forward to grip Jack’s hand. “Jack, you crazy son of a bitch! I thought you’d be smart enough to stay out of this country.”
“Guess I’ve never been that bright.”
“What the hell are you doing out here on this back road?”
“Waiting for you to drive by and catch me. Calling didn’t seem like such a great idea. Got somewhere we can have a private talk?”
“Lots of privacy out here on the res. Even got a place we can sit on a couch and have a beer.”
Jack grinned. “I could go for that. You sure your place isn’t bugged?”
“I’m not talking about my house. A buddy of mine went to visit family in Arizona. I’m watching his place while he’s gone.”
“And his beer?”
“You got it.”
“All right. I’ll follow you.”
Eddy Castillo’s house wasn’t anything fancy, a double-wide a few miles north of town with a steel carport sitting off to one side, a fenced backyard with some greenish-brown grass. Leading Jack inside, Tall Bear motioned to the couch as he opened the fridge.
“Take a load off.”
Returning with two ice-cold Buds, Tall Bear handed one to Jack and plopped down beside him. “How’s Janet?”
“Looking fine, as usual.”
Tall Bear laughed. “And the baby?”
“Beautiful baby boy. Robert Brice Gregory. We call him Robby.”
“So you finally strapped on some huevos and married her?”
“I did. Married her in a church in Puyo, Equador. Right before I came back here.”
“Damn, that’s fine. Wish I’d been there.”
“Me too.”
Jack raised the can to his lips, pausing to feel the cold condensation before dribbling the amber fluid into his mouth. As he lowered it once more, his smile returned. “By the way, I understand congratulations are in order. President of the Navajo Nation?”
“Not yet. I get sworn in next week.”
“President of the largest tribe in North America. I’d say that’s a pretty big deal. Especially with what’s going on in the world right now.”
Tall Bear’s face acquired a more serious cast as he voiced the question foremost in his mind. “So what brings you back to this neck of the woods?”
“I need a favor.”
“Does it have anything to do with those Los Alamos kids?”
Jack paused. “Jim, you mystical bastard. Now how would you guess that?”
Tall Bear took a long pull at his beer, feeling the bite of the hops as he held it on his tongue. “It’s be
en all over the news.”
“Yeah. But the news says they’re dead.”
“They’re not.”
“I know, but how do you?”
Tall Bear got to his feet, walking over to look out the window at the dusty road winding away into the lonely hills. “You know Freddy Hagerman?”
“The reporter?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve read his work.”
“A few days ago, he called me. Says he’s hidden a digital recorder in a back yard in White Rock. Needs me to get it for him.”
“Why you?”
“My question exactly. He says he interviewed a Los Alamos psychiatrist who once treated Heather McFarland. In the interview, Dr. Sigmund said she’d recently been to see Heather McFarland at an NSA supermax facility in Maryland. That was right before Sigmund killed herself. Freddy hid the recorder then, called the cops.”
“So you got the recorder?”
“Got it, listened to it, sent it FedEx to a friend of Hagerman’s in DC.”
Several seconds of silence hung in the air between them.
“What was on that recording, Jim?”
Tall Bear turned to look at Jack. “Heather McFarland is alive. Probably the other two as well. The NSA’s playing hardball with them.” He shrugged. “Maybe they’d be better off dead.”
A cold smile settled on Jack’s face.
“Don’t bet on it.”
“So what can I do for you?”
Recalling the first time he’d stared into the strange fire of Jack Gregory’s eyes, Tall Bear found himself mouthing a silent prayer. Ancestors help him. Ancestors help them all.
Dr. Elbert Krause stared at the readouts on the screen before him. Mark Smythe’s readings held an otherworldly fascination for him. Never in his career had he seen anything like the self-control this young man possessed. No matter what physical stress they applied to his body, Mark remained in complete control, heart rate forty-three beats per minute, blood pressure at the low end of normal, brain activity indicative of the inner peace of a Shaolin monk.
It couldn’t just be Jack Gregory’s training. Gregory had only had these kids for a few months, not the years that would be required to achieve this kind of special control. Waterboarding had no more effect on Smythe than a Thanksgiving Day on the couch watching football. Sleep deprivation might as well not have been applied for all the effect it had on him. What was more, as Dr. Krause stared into Mark’s eyes in the video monitor, he got the distinct impression that the young stud was holding back, keeping the bulk of his capabilities in reserve.
He switched to the old Los Alamos data files. The answer lay there. It had started in Los Alamos. Nothing else made any sense.
The Smythe and McFarland families had been so close they effectively formed one extended family. All three kids had grown up together in White Rock, best friends long before starting grade school, next-door neighbors, by all accounts inseparable. But something had happened to them in the last two years. Mark Smythe had blossomed into a superstar athlete, while Jennifer Smythe and Heather McFarland had improved on already impressive academic careers.
A number of other oddities jumped out at him. Heather had been kidnapped twice, saved by Jack Gregory once, and had subsequently begun displaying schizophrenic symptoms. The three had produced an amazing entry in a national science competition. Dr. Krause had read their paper and been stunned by just how good it was, despite how they’d failed to credit one of their sources.
Apparently Jack Gregory had sensed just how special these young people were and had somehow enticed them to run away to join him. The question that kept hammering on the back of Dr. Krause’s skull was, how had they gotten so special? It must have had something to do with the Rho Project, but why wouldn’t Dr. Stephenson have known about them if that were true? Of course, a number of Rho Project–related things had spun out of Stephenson’s control. Maybe this was one of them.
Rising from his chair, Dr. Krause rubbed his lower back with his right hand, turned, and walked toward the coffeepot. Filling his ceramic mug with the steaming black liquid, he held the cup up to his nose and inhaled. Ahh. Freshly ground Wolfgang Puck coffee beans, an expensive indulgence, but one he didn’t mind shelling out for. Taking a slow sip, he smiled. Now this was true love.
Dr. Krause stiffened. Of course. It had been right there in front of him all along. Not in Mark Smythe’s files, but in Heather McFarland’s psychiatric records. Dr. Sigmund had noted that, as close as were Heather and Jennifer, Heather’s feelings for Mark were stronger.
And it had been Mark and Heather who had gone after Jennifer when she disappeared. They were a couple.
Dr. Krause picked up the telephone and punched in a five-digit extension. Hearing the response on the other end, he began issuing instructions. It would take some fancy video work in the green room, but Sam Halvert could handle that.
Setting the phone back in its cradle, Dr. Krause turned his attention back to the video monitor. If Mark Smythe was in love with Heather McFarland, they’d know it as soon as the video was ready.
Mark had been handcuffed to a chain belt around his waist and led from his cell down a series of nearly identical hallways to a room that could have been an upper-middle-class media room. The projection screen built into the far wall was twelve feet wide and eight feet tall, and currently showed a test pattern from the ceiling-mounted overhead projector. The seats were standard theater seats arranged in multilevel tiers, four rows of four seats with a tiered walkway down the left side. Jennifer would have approved of this arrangement. A perfect hexadecimal ten.
As one of the guards shoved Mark roughly into the front center seat, he noted one significant difference in this media room. Each seat was equipped with a pair of short silver chains. As soon as he sat down, the guard snapped one of the chains to each of his handcuffs, securing him to his seat. The arrangement didn’t give him much confidence in the entertainment value of whatever movie they were about to show him.
Besides his two guards, the only other person in his room was Dr. Krause, the blond Nazi bastard in charge of his interrogation. Krause made a point of sitting down in the chair immediately to Mark’s right, while the burly guard who had chained him settled in on his left. Out of the corner of his eye, Mark could see the other guard stationed at the exit, fifteen feet up the walkway to his left.
Apparently the price of admission didn’t include popcorn. Oh well. In these handcuffs, it would’ve been a challenge getting it out of the box and to his mouth anyway. The vision of his fingers clawing out puffy white, butter-dripping kernels and flicking them up to his mouth almost brought a smile to Mark’s lips. It’d probably been a good idea not to provide it. He was pretty sure he could flick a kernel hard enough to transform one of Dr. Krause’s blue eyes into a dripping wad of slime.
Dr. Krause leaned toward him, a tight little grin warping his beak. “You ever seen a prison gang rape, Mark?”
“Is that a threat?”
“Just asking if you’ve ever seen what the animals do when they slip the leash.”
“I’ve seen some animals try it.”
“And?”
“They didn’t have as much fun as they thought.”
Krause’s smile widened, transforming his face into a good approximation of the Joker’s. “Now that’s what I like about you, Mark, your optimistic attitude. But in this case, I’m really the only one in a position to deliver on a threat, which makes yours nothing but hot air.”
Krause signaled to the guard on Mark’s left and the man leaned over to fasten a wireless heart-rate monitor to Mark’s wrist and two more sticky Wi-Fi electrodes to his temples. Finished with that, he slipped back into his seat and leaned back, a move Dr. Krause echoed.
The test pattern was replaced with a video feed from Heather’s padded cell. Mark caught his breath as he saw her in a hospital gown, hands and legs strapped to her bed, her milky white eyes seeming to stare right through him. Feeling his heart rate begi
n to spike, Mark pulled forward the memory of one of his meditations. It worked, but he could feel something building inside him, something hammering to get past his mental blockade.
“I believe you know Ms. McFarland.”
Mark said nothing.
“As you can see, she’s been somewhat traumatized. I’m afraid that in her fragile state, another severe shock could push her over the edge into a permanent catatonic state.”
Mark almost laughed in his face. Heather had them completely fooled into thinking she was psychotic, showing them exactly what they expected.
Dr. Krause picked up an Android phone, pressed an app button, then spoke three words. “Bring them in.”
The electronic lock on Heather’s door clicked open and three big, tattooed white guys shuffled into the room, coupled together on a chain, escorted by four guards, two of which covered their movements with a pair of MK-5s.
Dr. Krause held the phone in front of Mark. “You’re probably wondering why I get to have a phone inside a secure facility. It’s a toy that stays on the inside, a push-to-talk Voice over IP app, riding on our secure Wi-Fi network.”
“Couldn’t care less.”
“Unless you agree to start fully cooperating, in ten seconds I’m going to push this button and tell the guards to take off the chains and lock three of the meanest serial rapists in our federal prison system inside that cell with Heather McFarland. Lucky you. You’ve got a front-row seat.”
Mark looked at the screen and knew that Heather could handle those three Aryan Brotherhood assholes with no more effort than it took him to shave. But that would wreck everything. That would alert the NSA to the fact that the girls were a major threat. He couldn’t allow that. Not now.
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