The Genesis Key

by James Barney

  “Come on, Carlos,” she whispered. “Come on . . .” Her heart was beating heavily, her entire body fidgety. She felt helpless waiting by the door, soaked with rain, wondering with each passing second whether Carlos would make it out alive. Black smoke was still pouring out of the open emergency door. As seconds turned into minutes, she could no longer ignore the agonizing realization creeping into her mind.

  He isn’t going to make it.

  Carlos couldn’t hold his breath much longer. It had taken him nearly a minute—much longer than he’d expected—just to make it down the hallway to the lab. The problem was, he couldn’t see anything. The smoke and intense heat inside the building stung his eyes so badly that he could only keep them open for a split second at a time. And even then—squinting through watery eyes—he could only make out rough shapes.

  Finally, he reached the lab, where, thankfully, the smoke was not as intense. A gaping hole in the north wall was allowing most of the smoke to escape to the outside. Carlos drew a quick breath and winced in pain. The air was hot, and it burned painfully as it went down his windpipe and into his lungs. He knew he wouldn’t last long in here. Through bleary eyes, he spied the lab’s main workstation in the center of the room, engulfed in flames. His heart sank. The refrigerator was directly behind the flames. He wondered how he could get there without being burned to a crisp.

  On hands and knees, he crawled toward the back of the lab, away from the north wall, hoping to find a clear pathway around the flames. The fire, however, had already spread to the back of the lab, consuming the computers and monitors, the spectroscopy machine, the micro-injection microscope, a bookshelf crammed with equipment manuals and notebooks, and, most troubling, a storage cabinet full of chemicals. Carlos no sooner realized the danger of the chemical locker when an explosion erupted inside the metal cabinet, blowing its doors clear off their hinges. Carlos ducked low as one of the locker doors flew over his head, banging into the wall behind him. Looking up, he observed with horror that dozens of bulk chemical containers were now directly exposed to the flames. He had to get out of there!

  Scampering backward toward the north wall, he just barely escaped the spray of glass and caustic liquid as one after another of the chemical containers exploded with a series of fiery pops. He shielded his eyes and searched frantically for a clear path to the far side of the lab where the refrigerator was located. Finally, he spotted it: a tunnel of sorts between two soapstone workbenches that looked just wide enough for him to crawl through.

  He hadn’t gotten very far when he heard a loud, crackling noise above him. He looked up just in time to see that the ceiling was coming down. Instinctively, he tucked himself into a tight ball as a maelstrom of flaming rafters and construction debris fell all around him. When it subsided, he looked up and saw that the tunnel was still clear. Behind him, however, there was a wall of flames where there had once been a doorway. Only one way to go now.

  He crawled forward to the narrow tunnel, flattening himself to the ground as he approached it. Snaking his way on his belly and his elbows, he blocked out of his mind the intense heat that was blistering his exposed skin. Five more feet . . . three more feet . . . two more feet! Suddenly, there was a loud crash behind him as another huge section of the roof caved in, nearly crushing him beneath several hundred pounds of burning debris. He ignored it. One more foot . . . six inches . . . he was out!

  He felt woozy, his vision blurry. But his goal was in sight. He saw the refrigerator through the haze of smoke and scrambled toward it. Rising to his feet and staggering to the fridge, he pulled on the handle, barely managing to open it with the remaining strength in his arms. He could hardly make out the objects inside the darkened refrigerator. To his dismay, there were dozens of cylindrical vials, canisters, and flasks. “Second shelf,” he recalled Julie saying. But was that from the top or the bottom?

  A loud crackling sound above caught his attention. In the same instant, he spotted a single cylindrical container on the second shelf from the bottom. That must be it! He reached for it . . . felt the hard plastic cylinder between his fingers. Then he heard another loud crack above him. Suddenly, everything around him exploded in a barrage of debris and fire as a huge section of the burning roof came crashing down.

  His vision dimmed, then went completely dark.

  Kathleen couldn’t wait by the back door any longer. Ignoring the tight feeling in her lungs, she sprinted along the back of the building, sloshing through wet grass and mud puddles. She rounded the corner to the side of the building, then rounded the corner to the front. As the parking lot came into view, she stopped for a moment and gawked in disbelief.

  It was pandemonium.

  A hook-and-ladder truck was parked parallel to the curb just in front of the building, with at least half a dozen firefighters in full protective gear scurrying around it. Two hoses were already trained on the blazing building, pumping powerful streams of water into the flames and onto the partially collapsed roof. Two other firefighters were busily stretching a third hose from a smaller pumper truck parked on Gateway Drive, adjacent to the parking lot. At the back of the lot, an unorganized crowd of people stared and pointed, some holding their hands over their mouths in apparent disbelief. A policewoman was trying, with little success, to push the crowd farther back toward the tree line.

  “I need help!” Kathleen screamed as she approached the nearest firefighter, a stocky man with a ruddy face and strong Irish features. He wore full protective turnout gear—thick fireproof jacket and pants, gloves, boots, and a yellow fire helmet with a clear Plexiglas visor. “There’s someone inside there!” she shouted over the roar of the fire, pointing toward the building.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. He went in about five minutes ago to get—”

  “Is that him?” shouted the fireman, cutting her off. He was pointing to the front of the building, where two firefighters were just emerging through a curtain of smoke. They were covered with black soot and breathing through masks connected to compressed air tanks. One of them was carrying the limp body of Carlos Guiterez.

  “Oh my God!” Kathleen screamed, taking a step in their direction.

  “Whoa!” The ruddy-faced fireman held up his arm to restrain her. “You need to wait over th—”

  Kathleen ducked under the fireman’s arm and raced to Carlos, who was slung like a sack of potatoes over a firefighter’s shoulder. “Carlos!” she shouted as she approached him.

  “Hey, lady!” yelled the ruddy-faced fireman, catching up to Kathleen and seizing her roughly by the arm. “You can’t be here!” He escorted her across the parking lot and Gateway Drive to another parking lot, where two ambulances and several other emergency vehicles were parked, their flashing lights glinting off the wet asphalt in a disorienting collage of blue, yellow, and red. “Stay here!” he instructed sternly.

  Kathleen nodded. She waited anxiously for Carlos to arrive, pacing back and forth in front of the two ambulances. Finally, she spotted him being carried across the street on a stretcher by two EMTs. She ran to him and walked beside the stretcher as the EMTs ferried him to the nearest of the two ambulances. He was conscious now—coughing hoarsely and rubbing his eyes. His face was covered with soot, his clothes ripped and burned. Kathleen could see charred, bloody skin through one of the large holes in his shirt.

  “Carlos! Are you okay?”

  He nodded slightly, still coughing and wheezing loudly.

  “You shouldn’t have gone in there . . . it’s my fault! I’m sorry—”

  “Ma’am, I need you to step back,” said one of the EMTs as they prepared to lift Carlos’s stretcher into the ambulance.

  Carlos managed a weak smile and stretched out a clenched fist, as if to give her something. Instinctively, Kathleen extended her palm, and Carlos dropped a small, cylindrical object into it.

  Holding up the object in the rain, Kathleen observed that it was a dark gray plastic sample container—about the size of a film canister�
��with a screw-on lid sealed with yellow Teflon tape. She smiled and touched his cheek. “Thank you, Carlos . . . Thank you.”

  Carlos closed his eyes and seemed to drift off as the EMTs hoisted him into the back of the ambulance. Seconds later, the ambulance doors closed, and Kathleen watched as it pulled out of the parking lot and accelerated down Gateway Drive toward the highway, sirens blaring. The two EMTs turned their attention to Kathleen, who was still bleeding from her forehead. They quickly dressed the wound with a square adhesive bandage and insisted that she let an ambulance take her to the hospital for further treatment. She steadfastly refused. Eventually, they relented.

  “Just wait here,” one of the EMTs instructed, wrapping a thermal blanket around her shoulders.

  Kathleen nodded, and the two EMTs trotted back across the street to the scene of the fire, leaving her alone in the parking lot, freezing and soaking wet.

  She looked across the street at the charred, burning mess that had once been Quantum Life Sciences—her company, her dreams, her . . . everything. It was all gone now. Except . . . She glanced down at the small container in her hand and wiped soot and rainwater from the lid. The handwritten label was now an unreadable smudge of black ink. She pursed her lips and shook her head pensively.

  “Dr. Sainsbury?” said a deep voice behind her.

  Kathleen turned to see a well-dressed man in a khaki raincoat approaching. He was handsome in every respect, except for a long, purplish scar that ran diagonally down the left side of his face. “I’m with the fire department,” he explained in an official tone. “I need to ask you a few questions. Follow me, please.”

  Kathleen nodded numbly and followed the man south on Gateway Drive, away from the fire trucks, away from the police cars and ambulances, away from the TV cameras and the gawking crowd. It was beginning to rain harder now, and she was getting thoroughly soaked. She struggled to keep up with the man, who was walking very quickly, several paces ahead of her.

  “Where are we going?” she said, as they rounded a corner and began walking toward a cluster of newly constructed suites at the far perimeter of the office park. The vacant units were situated at the very back of a newly cleared parcel of land, which jutted lengthwise several hundred yards into the surrounding forest.

  “Just over here,” said the man in the raincoat. “Where it’s quieter.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Eilat, Israel.

  Elias Rubin paced slowly across the terra-cotta floor of his living room as a dozen logistical problems churned in his head. The seven members of the Olam Foundation were to meet in less than forty-eight hours. Guillermo Gomez had agreed to play host at his estate on Andros Island. Easy enough.

  Getting seven of the most important people on the planet to change their schedules for this meeting had been no simple task, especially on such short notice. But he’d managed to get it done. He, himself, would board a private jet tomorrow afternoon for the seven-hour flight to the Bahamas. The other members had all made similar arrangements.

  But now there was a much larger problem causing him concern.

  Something very important was missing—indeed, the entire reason for the meeting. The DNA sample from Quantum Life Sciences. The Nephilim gene. Without it, the meeting would have to be cancelled.

  He shook his head and exhaled angrily.

  Time to give Venfeld another call.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “Why do we have to go way over here?” Kathleen asked, still following a few paces behind the man in the raincoat.

  “Just some routine questions,” said Luce Venfeld. He pointed toward a sleek black BMW at the edge of the otherwise empty parking lot. “I’m parked right over there.” The only other vehicle in the parking lot was a rusty bulldozer.

  Nice car for a fire inspector, Kathleen was just thinking to herself when Venfeld suddenly turned and jabbed his Beretta pistol hard into her ribs. Simultaneously, he clamped his hand around her arm so tightly that it nearly cut off her circulation. She could feel the barrel of the gun poking painfully into her rib cage.

  “Let go of me!” she demanded angrily, trying unsuccessfully to free her arm from Venfeld’s ruthless grip.

  “Shut up!”

  Kathleen looked around frantically for help, but to her dismay, she realized they were alone in the rainy, windswept parking lot, hidden behind a cluster of unoccupied buildings. She could still hear the faint commotion from the fire down the street, but everyone there was out of sight now, and well out of earshot.

  She tried again to wriggle her arm free from Venfeld’s grasp, grunting and wincing with pain. But it was no use. “What do you want?” she said through gritted teeth.

  “I want that sample,” said Venfeld, his tone cool and measured.

  “What sample?”

  Venfeld pulled her close and poked the gun harder into her ribs. “Don’t play dumb, Dr. Sainsbury. I just saw your colleague give you something back there, a small vial of some sort. I know it’s the DNA sample—the Nephilim gene. And I want it.”

  Kathleen felt heat rising in her face. Her eyes burned with anger. You son of a bitch, she thought to herself. You’re the one!

  “Oh, I know all about that sample,” said Venfeld, reading her anger. “And I know about your mother’s Ph.D. thesis on the Nephilim, too. I think you’ll find I’m quite informed about the whole situation.” He pulled her tighter, bruising her arm. “And I know you’re a gifted scientist. Which is why I’m confident you’ll make the logical decision here.”

  “What decision?”

  “Hand the DNA sample over to me and everything will be fine.” He paused to let that notion sink in, then he jabbed the gun harder into her ribs. “Otherwise, you’re going to die. Right here, right now. It’s your choice, doctor. But either way, I’m going to get that sample.”

  Kathleen felt the blood draining from her head. The neoprene sample container was in the right pocket of her jeans, pressing tightly against her leg. “All right,” she said resignedly, nodding toward her pocket. “Let go of my arm.”

  Venfeld stared at her intently, apparently sizing up her intentions. Then, raising his pistol to within inches of her forehead, he released his grip on her arm. “Don’t try anything stupid.”

  Kathleen’s heart was beating like a drum, reverberating in her ears, pumping adrenaline throughout her body. She was terrified and confused and furious all at once. “Who are you?” she said bitterly, digging through her pocket in no particular hurry.

  “You don’t need to know that. Suffice it to say I’m a businessman with a very demanding client.”

  “A client who steals other peoples’ research?”

  Venfeld frowned and planted the barrel of the 9 mm pistol directly on her forehead. “I suggest you stop asking questions and give me that sample. Now!”

  Kathleen swallowed hard. She’d pushed her luck far enough with this psychopath. She retrieved the dark gray container from her pocket and held it tight in her hand.

  Venfeld watched her every move, keeping the barrel of the gun trained precisely on the center of her forehead. “Good girl,” he said with a crooked smile, extending his open palm toward her. “Now, hand it over.”

  Kathleen sighed heavily as a series of thoughts flashed through her head. Carlos had risked his life to retrieve this sample. Sargon had died mysteriously. Jeremy had nearly been shot to death. And my parents . . .

  “C’mon, let’s go!” Venfeld said, wiggling his fingers expectantly.

  Kathleen made a move to hand the small container to him, then chaos suddenly erupted behind her.

  There was a loud screech of tires as a dark blue sedan careened around the corner and skidded to a halt about twenty feet away. The driver’s side door swung open and a familiar voice shouted, “Freeze!”

  Venfeld lunged for the plastic container, smacking Kathleen’s hand just as she tried to pull it away. The small cylinder flew through the air and hit the ground several feet away, skittering across the we
t asphalt surface.

  “I said freeze!” shouted the man who had now jumped out of the dark blue sedan. It was Agent Wills, holding a SIG P229 pistol in a Weaver stance, his shooting arm extended straight, left hand supporting the weight of the gun, body at a 45 degree angle. The gun was trained directly on Venfeld.

  Venfeld reacted instantly. He stepped behind Kathleen and wrapped his left arm tightly around her torso, squeezing her so hard she could barely breathe. With his right hand, he pressed the barrel of his pistol tightly against her right temple. Together, they walked backward, slowly toward his car, the gun pressed tightly against her head.

  “Let her go!” Wills called out, still frozen in his firing stance.

  Kathleen locked eyes with Wills, as if to say, “What should I do?” But there was nothing she could do. She was simply a prop now, a human shield. She was walking backward with Venfeld, following his lead as if they were paired in some sort of bizarre dance. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the sample container on the ground, still rolling slowly toward the curb.

  “You’re making a big mistake,” said Wills.

  The backward dance stopped. They were at the car. Kathleen felt the pressure on her temple release, and, a split second later, she heard the car door opening. Her body was still positioned directly in Wills’s line of fire—providing the perfect shield for Venfeld. She felt some jostling as Venfeld maneuvered himself around the car door. Then, suddenly, she was shoved hard from behind.

  Gunfire erupted all around. The force of the fall knocked the wind out of Kathleen’s lungs, and for a moment, she wondered if she’d been shot. Seconds later, the BMW’s engine roared to life and its rear tires spun out on the wet asphalt, producing an ear-piercing squeal and a cloud of bluish smoke.

  More gunfire.

  Kathleen looked up to see the BMW accelerating straight toward Agent Wills, who was still positioned near his vehicle, gun trained on the charging sports car. He fired one last shot through the BMW’s windshield before leaping out of the way. A split second later, the BMW whizzed through the spot where Wills had been standing, ripping the Crown Victoria’s open door clear off its hinges. The severed car door sailed through the air and skidded across the pavement some twenty feet away with a loud scrape of metal and breaking glass.