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by Judith Reeves-Stevens

  Heard two car doors open.

  The second car. Samaritans? Or Gilden’s “friends”?

  He got his answer when an unfamiliar voice called out, “David Weir! We only want to talk!”

  David stayed where he was. Whoever they were, they’d disabled his car. They could have talked to him at the warehouse.

  Then voices, too faint to catch the words. The sound of a car trunk opening, closing.

  “Weir!”

  A powerful flashlight beam slashed over the concrete. David instinctively shrank back, but in the deep shadows of the piling, he was already shielded from the light.

  “Come down,” a different voice shouted, “or we come up after you!”

  So there were three of them. No, two, David corrected himself. It was doubtful Gilden would be moving anytime soon.

  “Last chance, Weir!”

  David hesitated. The CID would never snatch him on a roadway in the middle of the night. Copying restricted personnel data from the lab’s computers wouldn’t warrant that kind of tactic. This had to be a case of mistaken identity. These people had him confused with someone else.

  David began to dial 911. This was something the police could clear up.

  A shotgun blast hit the overpass ten feet to his left, spraying him with stinging debris and dust.

  For an instant, David thought he’d been shot. Then a series of images flooded his brain. Vivid snapshots. In one he was frozen in place behind the concrete piling, phone in one hand. In the next he was leaping from behind the piling. Racing up the embankment on the perfect angle. Tucking, rolling, dropping down to safety farther beneath the overpass.

  Another shotgun blast.

  Car tires squealing, voices shouting.

  David rolled off the concrete, scanning the slippery grass slope leading up to the expressway.

  He heard the rush of traffic overhead, wet tires on the asphalt. The rain intensifying. Lightning flashing.

  He ran along the shoulder of the highway, waving for someone, anyone, to stop and help him.

  Three cars roared past, splashing through pools of water, the spray soaking him.

  A fourth car slid to a stop just past him and honked its horn. Its roof sported a lighted sign of smiling showgirls. A casino ad.

  David ran to the cab, pulled the back door open, and jumped in, twisting around to squint through the fogged rear window at a rain-blurred stream of cars. No other car had pulled off behind them.

  “Closest police station!” he yelled through the Plexiglas security screen. “Go!” Then he was thrown back as the cab accelerated so quickly it fishtailed and the side door slammed shut beside him.

  He felt exhilarated. He was going to be okay. He’d never responded so quickly in his life. Then again, he’d never been shot at before.

  That’s when he finally saw the front-seat passenger. Half turned around, feeding a flexible tube through the payment slot in the security screen.

  The tube was hissing.

  FIFTEEN

  “That’s long enough,” Lyle said. Weir’s beacon hadn’t changed position for two minutes—longer than any red light or traffic slowdown this time of night.

  Roz slammed the black Intrepid into gear and pulled back onto the road. The car’s rain-slicked tires spun for a moment, then gripped pavement, and they were off, flying through a red light—no other traffic on the road. Amber warning lights flashed ahead. “Ramp’s closed,” she said. “He might’ve been heading to the expressway after all.”

  The beacon had changed direction a few miles back. It was no longer tracing Weir’s customary route to the closest McDonald’s. Now it had stopped. Either the kid had noticed they were shadowing him or he was meeting someone. Lyle liked neither scenario. “I’m thinking he caught a ride.”

  “No way.”

  Lyle lamented the loss of conversational skill among his younger colleagues. But, when in Rome . . . “Yes, way,” he said. “Gilden didn’t know about our surveillance. If he wants to harm the kid, he could have done that at the warehouse. He’s picked him up.”

  “What for?”

  “To take him someplace, Roz.”

  They were heading into the curve of road protected by the expressway overpass. “Should be just ahead on the right.”

  A car loomed toward them. Too fast for the road conditions. Low and black. High beams flicked on, distorted in the rain.

  “License!” Lyle barked.

  Roz squinted ahead as the car rushed forward. “Lima Echo Delta—damn! Missed the numbers.” She repeated the letters, added, “New Jersey plates. Black Bentley Continental. Sweet.”

  Lyle saw the Jeep. “Pull over.”

  Roz slipped in behind Weir’s car. Lyle opened his door and stepped out, gun drawn. On the other side, Roz followed his lead.

  The air was damp, cooling, but couldn’t hide the scent of gunsmoke.

  Lyle edged forward. He saw Roz sniff the air. She dropped one hand from her gun to pull a flashlight from her jacket, held it up like a dagger, shone it into the Jeep.

  “Clear inside.”

  Lyle saw her crouch down. The flashlight beam shot out past the Jeep’s tires.

  “Clear underneath.”

  There was no sign of violence on the vehicle. No bullet hits. No damage from being forced off the road. No details for constructing a scenario of what happened here, harmless or not.

  Lyle heard the snap of silicone gloves. A moment later Roz opened the driver’s door. “Keys are in the ignition.”

  Lyle had a hunch. “Start the engine.”

  Nothing. Evidently, someone had installed a kill-switch in Weir’s car so it would stop in a convenient place. “Kid’s been kidnapped.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Kill-switch. Gunfire.” Lyle aimed his flashlight into the Jeep’s back compartment. “There’s his bag, too.”

  Roz reached in and retrieved Weir’s backpack and unzipped it on the driver’s seat. She drew out his black iPod, tangled in its earbuds.

  That last piece of evidence convinced her. “Okay. So when you’re right, you’re right.” The suspect had never gone anywhere without the device. That’s why Roz had installed the beacon in it. “So who did it?”

  “Vince Gilden. Aided and abetted by whoever was in the black Bentley. There can’t be a lot of cars costing close to two hundred grand in New Jersey, so I don’t think we’ll have trouble finding a match with partial plates.”

  “I can find one for you now,” Roz said. “Ironwood. He can buy Bentleys like peanuts.”

  Lyle wasn’t convinced. “Ironwood talks to the kid five times a day. There’s no sign of any trouble between them. Why grab him?”

  “Maybe because you were right all along. All this talk about space guys is a smoke screen for something else they’re doing. To talk about that, they have to do it in person.”

  “Easier ways to arrange a meet,” Lyle said. “No. Someone else came after Weir.”

  “He’s a lab geek. Who else would want him?”

  “That depends on who the kid really is.” Lyle’s own search of Weir’s cubicle in Maryland had revealed nothing significant about who he was and what he was up to. Only that one old photograph taken on an unremarkable family vacation—which meant it was definitely important, just undecipherable for now.

  Something was going on with David Weir. The data he’d shown Colonel Kowinski was beyond her ability to identify. A batty billionaire had him holed up working some kind of mystery project. Then some new unknown had apparently kidnapped him.

  Lyle’s focus was still Holden Ironwood.

  But the kid was getting interesting.

  I’m in a spaceship?

  David had just awakened in a roomy supportive chair that cradled him like those in a first-class aircraft cabin. He’d traveled that way once, on an unexpected upgrade. The rest of his surroundings fit the same comparison. Expensive. Curved wall panels, about three feet wide, each with a recessed pale oval that could be a window but was opaque
for now. Subtly arched ceiling with overhead, indirect lighting concealed in a long center panel that ran the length of the cabin.

  His nostrils flared, catching a lightly sour electric scent.

  Now that was the smell of “aircraft cabin.” He closed his eyes, heard muffled fans move the air. An electric hum—a generator—but there was no sense of movement, no sound of engines. He was still on solid ground.

  He sat up abruptly, temples pounding, as he recalled another scent. Gas.

  He remembered now. The Jeep cutting out. The book dealer—Gilden. Shotgun blasts. Running, escaping, all without thought. Then the cab. And the passenger. And the—

  He shifted. Felt something hard beneath him. A seat belt lock. He half rose to look behind him. More chairs—but not arranged in aisles. More like conversational groupings. A living room. In a plane? Just past them a quilted leather wall, and in its center a closed door. He saw a number pad beside it. Security. There’d be an entrance code.

  David turned around. Fifteen feet forward was a matching wall and door. Whatever craft he was in, it was huge. A 747? Double-decker Airbus?

  A sudden shiver shook him. His T-shirt and jeans were rain-soaked. He couldn’t have been unconscious long. Or been driven very far. Atlantic City Airport. It was the only place he knew nearby that could handle a plane this big.

  Then he saw his phone on another seat a few feet away.

  He stood up slowly, seeking any sign of a camera or a peephole, but saw none. Could someone have been clever enough to kidnap him with such elaborate logistics, yet be careless enough to leave his phone in plain view?

  And did he care?

  Decision made, he acted quickly. Launched himself at the other seat, scooped up his phone—it was on! Strong signal!

  He punched in 911, tapped DIAL. The screen changed.

  The call was going through.

  He placed the phone against his ear. Heard—

  Nothing.

  The door in the wall behind him slid open.

  “Put it back on the seat. Go back to where you were.”

  David turned to see a long-haired man in a black Windbreaker, hand on the open door frame. His full beard was the same color as his hair: rust brown streaked with gray. The man was no taller than he was, but his shoulders were much wider.

  He reached into his Windbreaker, his intention obvious.

  David dropped his phone, sat down.

  He heard the door behind him close. Looked back. The man was gone.

  Then the door in front of him swept open, and a woman entered. Young, in jeans and a light green shirt. Pale skin. Long red hair tied back. Her hands were bandaged—and in one of them, she held a small pistol, aimed at him.

  SIXTEEN

  As she studied David Weir, Jess reviewed Emil Greco’s lessons on interrogation.

  The sooner she could successfully complete this assignment for the Family, the sooner she could take action of her own. Maybe even finish what Florian had been trying to do: recover the lost Secret of the First Gods. She couldn’t wait to talk to Willem and find out what he knew, but she couldn’t do any of that, until she’d finished running errands for Su-Lin.

  “Who are you people? Why am I here?” David Weir sounded more irritated than afraid.

  Jess took a seat a safe six feet away, resting her arm on the squared, upholstered arm so her P-3AT remained aimed in his direction. The pistol was a small gun, barely ten ounces with a full load of six cartridges, but it fired .380 hollow points, which gave it considerable stopping power for its size. Dom LaSalle, the Family security chief for this trip, had insisted she carry it.

  Dom had also made her promise that if Weir did try anything, she’d have him on the floor and bleeding to death before he took two steps. Hollow points broke apart inside a body without passing through it, so she didn’t have to worry about piercing the fuselage of the MacCleirigh Foundation 787.

  She began the script Emil had laid out for her. “Why’d you try to call 911?”

  “Uh . . . so the police could come and get me out of this?” Weir looked astonished by her question.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t believe you’d want to get the police involved in this.”

  “What is ‘this’?”

  “You tell me.”

  “You’ve got me mixed up with someone else.”

  “Is your name David Weir?”

  “Yeah, but obviously not the David Weir you’re looking for.”

  “David Michael Weir. Born Los Angeles. Parents deceased. No siblings. Social Security number nine one four—”

  Weir cut her off before she could finish. “Okay, okay. So I’m that David Weir. So what? Why am I here?”

  “I want to know what you’re doing for Ironwood.”

  “Why?” She saw a flicker in his eyes.

  “You work in genetics. What are you doing for him?”

  “Will you let me go if I tell you?”

  “I’ll do worse if you don’t.” Jess worked the slide on her pistol for added intimidation. It had the proper effect.

  “I’m giving him geographic genetic clusters for—”

  “Explain.”

  “Uh . . . genetic clusters . . . they’re a group of individuals who share certain genetic characteristics, who all trace their lineage back to . . . other individuals who lived in and around a particular region.”

  “Is that how you helped him locate the Azángaro temple site?”

  “I don’t know what Azángaro means or anything about temple sites. And I’ll say it again. What does any of this have to do with me?”

  “Azángaro’s a province.”

  “Where?”

  “Peru.” She caught the flash of recognition in his eyes.

  “In the Andes?” He stared at her. “One of the genetic groupings I isolated was centered there. Is that one of your temple sites?”

  “Did you give Ironwood any other ‘clusters’ . . . for any other locations?”

  “Two others. A cluster centered in French Polynesia and—”

  “A place called Havi Atoll?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know where that is.”

  Jess’s grip tightened on the pistol. Florian. Without this man’s assistance, her aunt might still be alive. “It’s part of French Polynesia. A volcanic atoll.”

  “How big is its population?”

  “It doesn’t have one. Just rocks.”

  “Sorry. I . . . the cluster groupings, they’re only good for determining a general region. There’s no way I could zero in on a specific island.”

  “What’s the third one?”

  “The last one I gave him was for India.”

  “What region?”

  “It’s on the Pakistan border . . . uh, Ganganagar. I believe that’s a district of India.”

  “I know what it is.” If this man was telling the truth—that his data could only point the way to a general region—then it was Ironwood who was processing those data to find the specific locations. Not Weir.

  “Do you know what he’s looking for?”

  Weir hesitated. “Not really.”

  “Not really,” Jess repeated. “That means you have some idea.”

  Weir frowned. “It’s stupid.”

  “Not if telling me keeps you alive.”

  “Okay . . . okay, here it is . . . He’s trying to find evidence that . . . that thousands of years ago . . . maybe tens of thousands . . . humans interbred with aliens.”

  “Aliens?” Jess had heard that Ironwood believed extraterrestrial visitations had happened in the past, but the idea of interbreeding was new.

  “You asked and I’m telling you. Like a Chariots of the Gods sort of thing. You know, advanced beings from another planet came here and helped us build the pyramids.”

  A small vibration against Jess’s leg interrupted. She shifted in the seat and pulled out Weir’s phone. Dom had switched off the jammer that had preven
ted Weir’s earlier call, and now Weir was receiving one. She read the caller ID.

  “Who’s MCP?” she asked. “Ironwood?”

  “No. It’s . . . Master Control Program.” Weir shrugged. “A lame joke. It’s my computer. At my lab.”

  Jess waited for a fuller explanation.

  “It’s running a long program. It can’t have finished this fast, so it’s probably letting me know it’s had a positive match.”

  “Is your computer how you find the geographic clusters?”

  “Yeah. It’s comparing billions of amino-acid sequences. Sort of thing couldn’t be done even five years ago. Not without a supercomputer.”

  Jess held up the phone. “Does this mean you’ve found another one?”

  “Nope. I’m probably another few weeks away from doing that. If there is another one to find.”

  “But you’ve found three so far.”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’re nine more.” Jess no longer felt unsure about what to do with Weir. She flipped open a hidden cover on the arm of her seat, revealing a series of buttons. She pressed the one that summoned Dom LaSalle.

  “How do you know?”

  Jess didn’t answer him. The interrogation was over. She’d made her decision, one she wasn’t authorized to make. She stood and slipped her gun back into the holster in the small of her back. She wasn’t doing this Emil’s way anymore. Or Su-Lin’s.

  She was a defender. She’d do it her way.

  SEVENTEEN

  In all of New Jersey, there were only eighteen Bentleys of the model Roz Marano had glimpsed in the rain, and only one with the letters LED on its license plate.

  “Owner is Mordecai Diego Rodrigues.” Roz read from the screen on her laptop behind the wheel of the Intrepid. They were still parked under the overpass. Wishing he had coffee, Lyle sat beside her, watching the state police crime scene investigators load Weir’s Jeep onto a flatbed trailer.

  “Age sixty-two,” Roz read out. “Occupation listed as consultant.”