I failed my team, too.
“Maybe spying on Gennady,” Fielding explained. “If the blackmailers succeeded in getting the prototype from Gennady, maybe one of the corps figured on taking the prototype from the blackmailers. You could have run into the point man for an interception team.”
“Then where were his buddies?” Christie asked.
“I don’t know.”
“They weren’t there.”
“Maybe they had orders not to interfere if things went sour. A lot of the independent teams work like that.”
Christie knew that. Nearly half of her work with the Bureau had been engaged in following up on international industrial espionage cases in the United States and occasionally in military bases where government research was being done.
“I didn’t get that feeling,” Christie said.
Fielding was silent for a moment. “That may be, Special Agent Chace, but I can’t very well follow up on this debacle going on your feelings.”
“No, sir.” Chastened, Christie barely restrained an angry retort. Fielding was right, but she was, too. “What about the Bronze Tigers?”
“All I have is your word on that. The video download from your onboard systems were down.”
“We can explore the Bronze Tiger angle.”
Fielding hesitated. “The Triads in the D.C. area usually manage protection, gambling and the sex rackets. They don’t pursue industrial espionage.”
Grimly, Christie looked out at the battle zone. “No disrespect, sir, but this wasn’t a case of botched blackmail.” She remembered No-Face’s declaration that the attack had been a scorched-earth strike. “This was murder. The Bronze Tigers have been involved in several of those. We’ve managed to deport several of their enforcers and crime bosses for that.”
Fielding rubbed his chin, then sighed. “Get a handle on one of them. You can try to shake something out of him. But I’m betting you won’t get far.” He paused. “I don’t like sitting still any more than you do.”
“No, sir.”
“Let me know if you need anything from me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fielding excused himself and walked over to the media representatives.
Christie didn’t envy the D.O. the job of handling the media people. The task required more patience and tact than she was willing to invest. She forced herself to stay and watch the search-and-rescue effort even though Fielding had cleared her to leave. Two bodies of team members had yet to be recovered. She wasn’t leaving until they were all going home.
Some nights, Christie, her dad used to tell her when she started talking to him about going into law enforcement, you’re gonna just wish you could chuck it and walk away. Maybe you got it in your head now that you can do something to save lives, and—God willing—you will. But you’ll see a lot of lives lost out there, too. Strangers, mostly. But you’re going to lose some friends along the way, too.
Her father had told her that the first time she’d ever mentioned following in his footsteps and being a cop. And he’d told her again the night she’d shown him the acceptance letter she’d received from the FBI. Reaction in the Chace household had been mixed. Her mom hadn’t liked the idea of police work at all, and liked the idea of the FBI even less.
And when Christie had mentioned her interest in the Enhanced program, things had really gotten tense. Even though he didn’t care for the new program, her dad had supported her decision in every way he could, but she had known he was afraid for her.
Christie took a deep breath. With all the media people around, she knew she was going to end up on several newscasts. Maybe for days to come. The murders tonight—and she refused to call them anything else—were the biggest news to hit the Washington, D.C. area in weeks. Once the Triad was linked to this, as she knew they doubtless would be, the story would receive even more interest and exposure.
Gennady’s family would blame her for his death. Christie knew she had to accept that. Moreover, she didn’t blame them.
She wished she could go home, to her parents’ home, and talk to her dad in the kitchen the way they always did when the subject matter was something involving his past and her present professions. She didn’t want to have to face the idea of returning to her apartment and spending the night alone.
When you can’t do anything about the past, her dad had always told her, concentrate on what you can do about the future. See if you can find a way to turn it around.
Christie concentrated on that, finding a way she could turn Gennady’s death around. Someone was going to pay for the man’s murder. And she intended to hold No-Face accountable, too.
“C’mon, Dalton, show me the heat!”
Despite the tension and all the unresolved issues regarding last night’s action and Katsumi’s murder that still filled him, Dalton couldn’t help but smile a little as he faced the confident young batter guarding the plate. For nearly three years, he’d helped guide and nurture Michael Reynolds, watched him grow from a seven-year-old boy shattered by his father’s death into a confident and articulate ten-year-old. Dalton felt good knowing he was part of that change.
“C’mon!” Michael crowed, waving his bat to show that he was ready. “Show me that stinky cheese!”
Well, Dalton amended, articulate most of the time. He scuffed the rubber with his baseball cleat, dug in, then put the ball behind his back. He leaned forward and squinted at Michael.
The boy’s smile grew wider in anticipation. An Atlanta Braves batting helmet covered his normally unruly chestnut hair. He was average-size for a boy his age, but he was built lanky, already handsome and the spitting image of Captain Mackenzie Reynolds. Summer had sprinkled freckles across the bridge of Michael’s nose.
“Here it comes.” Dalton moved his fingers over the baseball behind his back, tracing the seams by touch till he got the grip he wanted. Then he brought his hands together, covering the ball with the glove, stepped into the pitch and threw.
Michael lifted his left leg, drove forward, set and swung, twisting his hips and following through the swing naturally. Dalton took pride in the boy’s abilities. He’d taught him not only the mechanics of the game, but the love of it as well.
The bat met the ball with a metallic crack. Immediately, the ball came back at Dalton but well out of his reach. He lifted his glove and watched it go over. The sheer power of the hit carried the ball into the deep grass beyond the baseball diamond carved out of the surrounding forest.
“Home run!” Michael yelled. “Out to the grass is a home run!” He tossed the bat to the ground then jogged around the bases, whooping and hollering with glee.
Smiling, Dalton watched the boy. They’d created the baseball field themselves, mowing and removing trees and stumps and rocks a few months after Dalton had signed on as security for Dr. Grace Reynolds. The first few weeks, there had only been the batter’s boxes and a pitching mound, and little involvement from the boy. But Dalton had stayed at it, hoping to lure Michael out of his grief. Ultimately, the field had healed his own as much as it had the boy’s. As Michael’s interest in the game grew, so did the field. Now they had sixty-foot baselines and a deep outfield.
“Enjoy it while you can, kid,” Dalton threatened. “Next year the baselines are gonna be ninety feet. The outfield is gonna be farther out.”
“Just like the pros,” Michael whooped as he rounded third.
Next year. The words echoed in Dalton’s head, underscoring the images of the violence at the warehouse and Katsumi hanging in her own bedroom. Next year would have to wait. They hadn’t gotten through this year yet.
“Give me another one,” Michael shouted as he picked up the bat and stepped into the box.
“Ten more,” Dalton said, “then break’s over and we get back inside and hit the books.”
“Awww, Dalton.” Michael frowned.
“Them’s the rules, kid.” Dalton had learned to be firm despite Michael’s best wheedling. That had been one of the hardest skills he�
��d ever had to learn.
After batting practice—and only token pleading on Michael’s part—they picked up the baseball gear, packed it in the big equipment bag and headed back to the cottage next to the main lab.
The compound consisted of seven buildings: the lab, Grace’s cottage, Dr. Lance Watterson’s cottage, an apartment complex for the lab assistants, a barracks for the security teams, a cafeteria and the garage for the vehicles. A twelve-foot fence, electrified and topped with razor wire, surrounded the complex.
Thick forest walled the lab from the rest of the world, part of Virginia’s Jefferson National Forest only a few miles from Roanoke. Grace had insisted on a place of her own to work after Michael had been born, a place where her son could grow in at least a semblance of normal life. Her work was important enough that the government had agreed in the end. They’d moved Grace to the complex nine years ago, once the resident researcher had finished his contracts.
Even before she’d married Mackenzie Reynolds fourteen years ago, Grace had been an up-and-coming cyberneticist who had caught the eye of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency and the National Security Agency. DARPA and the NSA had jointly recruited her and paid for the research and development she did from combined funding.
By the time she’d agreed to the government contract, Grace had already introduced several radical concepts for integrating cyberware into the human body. With dual degrees in biology and cybertechnology, coupled with genius and vision, she would have been in demand in dozens of places. She’d chosen to serve her country’s interests. She strove to reach a full marriage of the tech and the flesh so that an Enhanced individual was no longer a composite but was a true hybrid.
Mac had met Grace fifteen years ago, when he and other Rangers posted at Fort Benning had volunteered for the aggressive military Enhanced program only then in its infancy. The systems at that time had primarily been aimed at installing vision and hearing enhancements, as well as encrypted communications systems inside the body. The Enhanced musculature and reflexes had still been in the conception stage because they were much more invasive.
Dalton followed Michael into the small kitchen Grace maintained in the Reynoldses’ cottage. As Grace and Michael’s primary bodyguard, Dalton had his own quarters in the cottage. By no means spacious, the three of them would have been tripping over each other had Grace not spent as much time in the lab as she did.
Michael dropped his gear on the kitchen floor and opened the refrigerator. Before Dalton could tell the boy to pick it up, a hologram formed above the surface of the breakfast bar.
“Michael Christopher Reynolds, do not litter that kitchen with your baseball gear.”
Sheepishly, Michael picked up his bat bag and cleats. “Hi, Mom,” he said. “I just forgot for a minute. It’s no biggie.”
Grace Reynolds’s holographic image looked just like her, but it was only a foot tall. She wore her dark hair down to her shoulders but usually kept it pulled back. With her work consuming so much of her life, she adhered to a strict regimen when it came to her son and her health. She worked out three days a week, and she never missed breakfast or dinner with Michael. Sometimes she was up at four and back to the cottage by seven to prepare her son’s breakfast, and sometimes she returned to the lab after dinner and whatever extracurricular activity she and Michael had decided on, but she never missed those family times.
She was a beautiful woman, though she never gave more than passing attention to her appearance these days. As usual, she wore a white lab coat over a white sweatshirt and black sweatpants. Losing Mac had taken a lot out of her, and Dalton was convinced that she’d never found a way to truly let go.
Maybe I haven’t either, Dalton thought. Work consumed most of Grace’s life these days, and Dalton had been surprised to learn how much time a growing boy could take up. Neither of them had moved on from Mac’s death. Even Katsumi’s attentions had only lasted as a short diversion.
When Mac had still been alive, Dalton had sometimes accompanied his commanding officer home on leave. They’d hunted and fished together, bringing Michael along when the boy was old enough. Occasionally, work and guilt permitting, Grace had joined them, though she’d never been far from her computer and communications with her lab. During those times, Dalton had gotten to know Mac’s family. When Mac had been killed, Dalton had arranged for temporary leave to help the family through their loss.
Dalton’s own family was gone. The death of his father when he was seventeen had sent Dalton to the U.S. Army recruiting offices. The Army had taken him three months before his eighteenth birthday. If Dalton hadn’t joined the Army, he’d have been made a ward of the court, taken from the job he’d had for two years, then turned out on his own.
The few months Dalton had intended to stay with Grace and Michael had become nearly three years. The Army had bridged his service, assigning him as Grace and Michael’s chief bodyguard. Grace had seen how Michael was responding to Dalton’s attentions and had taken steps to have that adjustment made. She had considerable pull with the government due to the breakthrough work she was doing.
“It is a biggie, young man,” Grace admonished.
“Okay, Mom,” Michael said.
“How did baseball practice go?” The holographic view showed part of the cybernetics lab behind Grace.
“Baseball practice was great,” Michael declared. “Dalton’s turning into a real rag-arm.”
“Rag-arm?” Grace’s eyebrows lifted.
“A baseball term,” Dalton said quickly. Language was an important thing with Grace. “It means he thinks I’m becoming substandard.”
“Yeah,” Michael said. “His fastball has lost its zip. His curve doesn’t have as much movement on it.”
“I see.” Grace smiled. “Perhaps it’s time we had Dalton into the lab for an upgrade.”
Dalton didn’t say anything. Grace pursed her lips quickly, realizing her mistake. Dalton hadn’t cared for the Enhanced program in the beginning. He cared even less for it after Mac and most of the team had been wiped out.
“Nah,” Michael said. “I think I’m just seeing the ball better.” He flexed an arm, making his bicep pop up a little. “And I’m getting stronger. Dalton’s just not a professional pitcher. Those guys could probably still smoke ’em by me.”
“I’m glad to hear that you two are enjoying yourselves,” Grace said. “But I don’t want you to neglect your studies.”
“I won’t. I’m about to head over.” Michael had a professional teacher every day.
“See you later, slugger,” Grace called.
“Bye, Mom.” Michael trotted off to his room to drop off his gear.
Hesitant, but knowing he couldn’t put it off any longer, Dalton said, “Grace, you got a minute?”
Grace looked at him. Dalton seldom interrupted her routine.
“A minute,” she agreed. “We’re getting ready for the prototype we’re supposed to get a week from Friday.”
“I know.” Dalton had upped the security for the arrival. Grace had acted nervous about the event for a week. Three days ago, Dalton had figured out why.
“I need to talk to you soon,” Dalton said.
“About what?”
“I’d rather go into it later.” Dalton heard approaching footsteps in the living room. “And I’d rather we were alone.”
Grace shook her head and looked troubled. “I don’t know. Things right now…” She took a deep breath. “Things right now are very hectic. There have been some complications with the delivery.”
Yeah, Dalton thought, I can see where Arturo Gennady getting himself dead could be a problem. So far, though, Grace hadn’t brought that up to him. Since he’d gotten in early this morning, she’d been in the lab. There were days that she did without sleep.
“As soon as you can,” Dalton said. He knew better than to press her while she was in the lab. Only Michael could deflect her from her work. “It’s important, Grace.”
One of the la
b techs behind Grace called for her attention.
“All right,” Grace acquiesced. “After dinner tonight.”
Dalton took it because he knew it was all he could get.
As Grace’s holograph faded, Dalton thought about the attack last night that had left Dr. Arturo Gennady and five FBI agents dead. He wondered what Special Agent Christie Chace was doing. He was convinced that Chace wasn’t the kind of woman that would walk away from something just because the going got rough.
He’d thought about her a lot during the sleepless hours after he’d arrived back at the compound. He remembered how she’d felt atop him, and he knew how much trouble she could be if she ever figured out who he was. The push/pull of caution and attraction warred within him. He wouldn’t mind seeing the FBI agent again, but not when it was going to threaten everyone he was trying to protect. And he was sure that trouble was what Special Agent Chace would bring.
Chapter 6
“Sammy Bao.” Christie put steel in her voice, talking over the noise of the restaurant conversations. Since she also carried a 12-gauge automatic shotgun across her heavy Kevlar vest, attention came quickly and silence followed.
A dozen FBI agents followed her on the takedown. All of them were similarly attired and carried military weapons.
The Bronze Tiger Triad owned the Hong Kong Noodle Restaurant. Of course, the ownership was concealed by a chain of shell companies and documents filled with enough legalese to occupy a phalanx of attorneys. The restaurant was also, unofficially, off-limits for any kind of criminal or law enforcement activity. It was a no-man’s-land where the local police and the Triad could work out differences and agree on who was going to take the fall for an agreed-upon degree of infraction of the law.
Everyone in the restaurant froze as the clientele drew in a collective breath.
A fat man in a black business suit stood up in the back. He made a production out of folding his red napkin and throwing it onto his table in disgust. He approached Christie, looking angry.
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