THREE
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
2011—One Year Later
“NOTHING LIKE THE smell of a firing range on a sunny day,” Rook said as he stared down the sight of his .50 caliber Desert Eagle. He pulled the trigger. The loud boom of the powerful handgun was followed by a distant ping as the fired round hit its target. He straightened, took a deep breath, and let it out with an “ahh.”
Next to him, Fiona took a deep breath and coughed. “Smells like gunpowder.”
King chuckled, running a hand through his messy black hair. “Gunpowder is like an aphrodisiac for Rook.”
“An afro-what?”
Remembering that the girl beside him was not only thirteen, but also under his direct care and supervision, King reminded himself to watch what he said. “Never mind.”
“Jack Sigler, the perfect role model,” Zelda Baker, call sign Queen, said from the next station over. She was cleaning her UMP submachine gun. Her grease-stained “wife-beater” tank top stood in sharp contrast to her wavy blond hair and her face, which was feminine despite the bright red skull-in-star brand burned into her forehead.
Beyond Queen, Shin Dae-jung, call sign Knight, lay on the ground staring through the scope of a sniper rifle at an apple a half mile away. “Ears,” he said.
Those not wearing protective gear covered their ears with their hands. A loud clap echoed. A fraction of a second later, the apple ceased to exist. Knight stood and offered the group a cocky grin. He looked at Fiona. “It was a bad apple.”
Fiona laughed and said, “Lame.”
“Lame?” Knight said. “That apple was more than a half mile away.”
“Not the shot,” Fiona said. “The joke.”
Eric Somers, call sign Bishop, laughed quietly, his barrel chest shaking. He’d already unloaded all of his ammunition and was watching the others from the long wooden bench that stretched along the backside of the outdoor range. He rarely spoke, allowing his actions to speak for him. His quiet laugh was enough to tell Knight he was being mocked.
“Shut up, Bish,” Knight said with a wave of his hand.
As King reloaded one of the assorted weapons he’d brought to the range, Fiona picked up his unloaded Sig Sauer. She aimed it downrange. King had never let her fire a real weapon, but she was eager to try. “So when do I get to shoot some bad guys?”
The team fell silent. Killing was something they did. It was their job and they were good at it. But it was not something they took lightly, especially when it came to kids killing people, which happened more than most people wanted to know. King took the gun from her hand. “Killing someone isn’t something you should want to do.”
“But when they’re bad guys—”
“Killing is a last resort.”
“But you guys joke about it.”
King shared a guilty glance with the others. They were prone to raucous retellings of old missions. King was hoping someone else would join in, but they remained silent. He was Dad now, after all.
“Don’t confuse happy to be alive with taking pleasure in someone’s death.” He looked her in the eyes. “Death is never fun.”
For a moment King thought Fiona was going to cry. Her eyes grew wet and a slight quiver shook her lip, but she fought it down and tightened her jaw. King fought a grin. The kid was growing a thick skin.
Before the following silence grew awkward, King’s cell phone rang. He walked away and flipped it open. “Jack Sigler,” he said into the phone. The person on the other end spoke for ten seconds. What was said in that short time stopped King in his tracks. After five more seconds, his head hung low.
King offered a quiet, “Thanks for letting me know,” and closed the phone, slipping it into his pocket. When he turned around, the others were waiting, standing around him in a silent semicircle. They knew something dire had happened when they saw a completely foreign emotion on his face: defeat.
“What happened?” Bishop asked.
King looked at each of them, knowing they wouldn’t judge him for weeping. But he fought the growing wetness in his eyes, until his eyes met Fiona’s. His foster daughter hadn’t met her yet. Now she never would. Twin pairs of tears broke free and rolled down King’s cheeks. He turned away from the team and said, “My mother is dead.”
Three Days Later
“C’mon, Stan, you know this.”
Rook leaned back in the yellow leather chair and pushed his legs into the floor to keep his body from sliding out. “Knight, these chairs have got to go. They’re like frikken Slip ’n Slides.”
“Watch the language, Rook,” Queen said. “There are virgin ears in the room.”
“The pip-squeak has heard everything there is to hear out of my mouth at this point,” Rook said.
“Doesn’t mean you should repeat it until she starts talking like a mini-Rook.” Knight entered the small living room from the kitchen of his modest on-base home with an apron around his waist and flour covering his black designer shirt. He smiled, which turned his almond-shaped brown eyes, courtesy of his Korean heritage, to thin slits. “I think you’re just trying to squirm your way out of the question.”
Knight headed back into the kitchen. “We’re a go for dinner in five.”
Rook rubbed a hand through his blond hair, which was two inches shorter than his long goatee, and closed his eyes, rerunning a year’s worth of history lessons through his mind. After the last two years of run-ins with creatures straight out of mankind’s darkest history and wildest mythology, coupled with advanced genetics, microbiology, and linguistics, it was clear the team needed an educational upgrade. The team’s handler, Tom Duncan, call sign Deep Blue, whose true identity as the president of the United States was known only to the team and a handful of others, had arranged for their highly advanced adult learning schedule.
Professors from Harvard and Yale taught history and language, while professors from MIT taught physics, astronomy, and robotics. George Pierce, lifelong friend of the team’s leader, King, who’d been rescued by the team after being abducted two years previous, taught mythology. Sara Fogg, from the CDC, who also happened to be King’s current girlfriend and a former Pawn (temporary team member) on the mission to Vietnam, taught genetics and microbiology. They were now the most highly educated team in the U.S. military, and as they threw themselves into learning just as readily as they threw themselves into battle, they were beginning to develop notoriety as nerds. Not that anyone dared say that to their faces. The Chess Team’s battle-hardened reputation preceded them with tales of their exploits becoming as modern myths among the other Delta teams.
And their education would continue until a situation requiring their unique experience and knowledge developed. Either that or a lead in the Siletz Reservation investigation that had brought them the team’s newest, shortest, and feistiest addition.
“Any day now, big guy,” came the high-pitched voice again.
Bishop laughed as he sat cross-legged on the floor, which was impressive for a man of his size. Not that he was fat. Quite the opposite. He sported two hundred fifty pounds of Iranian-born, American-raised muscle. And while Queen wore her battle scars on the outside, for all to see, Bishop’s were hidden. Internal. Thanks to some genetic tinkering at the hands of Richard Ridley and Manifold Genetics, Bishop’s body could heal any wound, but at the expense of his sanity. Only the crystal hanging around his neck, found in the ancient Neanderthal city of Meru, kept his mind in balance. Without it he’d become a raving mad, endlessly hungry “regen” who would only stop killing when his head was removed. But with his mind kept at peace by the crystal, he could sit on a living room floor, enjoy his friends, and hold a thirteen-year-old girl in his lap.
Fiona, call sign Pip-squeak, if you asked Rook—had come to call the Chess Team her family. Over the past year she had spent every day with them, watching them spar, study, shoot at the range—absorbing every detail of their lives and attempting to apply the lessons of valor and discipline to her tutored
schoolwork. But she found the Chess Team much more interesting and the subjects of their study far less boring than Algebra I. “Okay, Rook. There is a plane with a bomb on it. When it explodes, the plane will crash into a train full of pregnant women on their way to a lactation conference. The answer is the code to defuse the bomb.”
Rook looked at the black-haired, brown-eyed girl and couldn’t help but smile. “That’s twisted.”
She shrugged. “Ten seconds. The unborn lives of countless children are counting on you.”
He cleared his mind and focused, playing along, but not wanting the kid, who’d become their weekly quizmaster, to gain teasing rights.
“Five seconds.”
The phone rang and Rook’s eyes popped open. “Djet! Djet Horus was the third pharaoh of the first Egyptian dynasty from 2970 B.C. to 2960 B.C.”
Fiona formed her hands into two guns and shot them at Rook complete with gunshot sound effects. As she spun the imaginary weapons and holstered them, she said, “Way to go cowboy. You got—”
She cocked her head and looked into the kitchen.
Rook noticed her attention on Knight as he spoke on the phone. “You can’t hear him can you.”
Fiona nodded. “Good ears.” She looked at Rook. “Something’s wrong.”
“What’s—”
Fiona shook her hands at him, her mood growing serious. “I want to hear if it’s about King!”
King had left three days ago after receiving word of his mother’s death. They’d all attended the wake and funeral, but she didn’t get to see him much as he greeted long-lost relatives and family friends. She knew he was supposed to be gone for another week, settling things with the estate, but she hoped he would be back sooner.
Before she could hear what was being said, Knight hung up the phone, shut off the stovetop, and returned to the living room. “Dinner’s off. Keasling wants us asap.”
Fiona frowned.
“Did he mention why?” Queen asked.
Knight glanced at Fiona and it was all she needed. She stood up quickly. “Is it King?” When Knight didn’t answer in the affirmative, she asked, “They found something?”
Knight shook his head. “Apparently, something found us.”
“Is Dad coming back?”
For a moment, no one responded. They were still getting used to King being referred to as “Dad.” In fact, he’d requested several times that she not call him Dad. But after being raised by her grandmother and having no real father figure for most of her life, she’d quickly adopted King as her father. He’d explained that their foster placement was temporary, until the danger had passed and a good family was found. The news had been heartbreaking and she did her best to call him Jack, or King, or Siggy, like his sister, Julie, had before she died, but in moments of excitement her true feelings rose up and exited her mouth before she had a chance to rein them in.
Knight frowned for the girl. They all had come to adore her and loathed watching her endure the emotional roller coaster that had become her life. “King needs more time off.”
Bishop stood, towering over Fiona. With his similarly colored brown skin, eyes, and dark black hair, he looked the most like Fiona’s biological father, but his angular nose and low brow revealed his genetics as Middle Eastern rather than Native American. He plucked the girl up and put her on his shoulders. “Hey, you’ve still got us.”
Fiona rubbed his shaved head. “I know. I just wish I could be with him.” Her smile faded. “I know what it’s like to bury family.”
FOUR
Richmond, Virgina
KING STOOD ALONE over his mother’s grave. Grass seed lay scattered over the fresh soil where she’d been put in the ground the previous day. The funeral had turned out nice—as nice as laying your last friendly family member in the ground could be. Bishop, Rook, Knight, Queen, Aleman, Keasling, and Fiona had all been in attendance. Only Deep Blue, whose presence would have been impossible to hide, was unable to attend.
The night before the funeral, George Pierce had flown in from Greece for the event. Sara Fogg had come to give moral support as well, staying with him through the night. Since she knew what it was like to fight alongside the Chess Team, their dinner together swirled with conversation about mythology, genetics, and battle-scar comparisons.
In the morning, Pierce headed back to Rome, where an excavation awaited. Sara had hoped to stay for a few days. The combination of their demanding jobs, coupled with the addition of Fiona keeping King on base, had kept them apart. But fate had pulled her away to Swaziland, where an unknown disease outbreak was under way. Since bringing home the cure to the previous year’s Brugada pandemic, she had become the CDC’s poster child and had been assigned to ground zero of more than a few nasty outbreaks. Finding himself alone again and without distractions, King’s thoughts were once again fully with his mother.
She was the kind of woman who smiled all the time despite a deep hurt hidden within. She baked pies from scratch. Had an open-door policy for friends and family. And she always, always, kept a fresh pitcher of homemade lemonade ready for visitors. He’d shared the last of that lemonade with his friends the night before the funeral.
But her bright exterior was all a sugar coating. Julie’s death in the fighter jet training accident was the first blow. The second blow came months later, when his father, Peter, left for a business trip and never came home. Peter had been dramatically opposed to Julie joining the air force, while Lynn Sigler had supported her children. Even when King followed in the footsteps of his dead sister.
King knew it couldn’t have been easy to let him go. But she had supported him, despite the risk to not only his life but her soul. She’d gone so far as to say his father would be proud of the choice, had he been around.
After a week of rain, the day of the burial had been beautiful, refusing those gathered the stereotypical rainy-day funeral. The trees, brimming with young, bright green leaves stood tall around the St. Mary’s Church graveyard. Flower beds surrounding the black wrought-iron fence bloomed with the warm colors of spring. The day was like his mother had been: alive.
But no longer—thanks to a head-on collision with another car. Apparently, his mother, weary after a day of gardening, fell asleep at the wheel and drifted into the oncoming lane. King shook his head at the thought and pushed it from his mind.
The following day’s weather was much the same, but being alone at his mother’s grave cast the day in a darker light. He knelt by the upturned soil of the fresh gravesite and dug into it with his fingers. After hollowing out seven shallow holes, he opened a small package and planted a single snowdrop bulb in each. He knew his work would often keep him from visiting the grave every year. This way his mother’s favorite flowers would bloom every spring to mark her passing, even if he wasn’t there to place them on the grave himself.
He patted the dirt down with his fingers, one bulb at a time, allowing the coolness of the earth to calm his nerves, and used the peaceful moment to remember his mother. As he finished the final bulb he sensed he was not alone.
Keeping his head down, he scanned the area and saw nothing. He turned around. No one was there.
He was alone and nerve-shot. Deep Blue was right to make him take a week away. He was off his game, sensing enemies where there were none. He placed his hand on the soil, whispered a good-bye, and stood up.
Standing, he now had a clear view beyond his mother’s headstone. Thirty feet away, a man stood in the shadow of a maple tree. This alone wouldn’t be enough to raise King’s hackles, but when the man saw King stand, he started and took a step back. Not a casual step. It was the kind of step a man took when he was about to make a run for it. King took a step toward the man, testing the theory.
The man ran.
King was after him in a heartbeat. He had no idea who the man was. It didn’t really matter. That he was running told King everything he needed to know. One, the man was guilty of something—only guilty men run. Two, he knew King was dange
rous, someone to run from. And three, he was at his mother’s gravesite, which meant he knew King’s personal identity as well.
None of this was acceptable.
As King rounded his mother’s headstone and gave chase, he took in everything about the man he could. His black hair was slicked back neat. His trench coat covered most of his body. His shoes were shiny. Fancy. Not great for running. The man hadn’t planned on being chased down.
Then why is he running? King thought.
After entering a clearing lined by two rows of headstones, King broke into a sprint and cut the distance between him and the man in half. The man wasn’t fast, and as King closed in he could see streaks of gray on either side of the man’s head. Must be between fifty and sixty, King thought.
The man followed a paved path that King knew wrapped down and around a steep drop. Rather than follow the man around, King continued straight on, pounding up the rise. When he reached the top, the man passed directly below him. King jumped, landed with a roll, and grabbed a fistful of trench coat.
The coat pulled from King’s hand, but the sudden jerk made the man stumble. He toppled forward, fighting to right himself, but lost his balance and fell into the grass next to the path.
In no mood for a fight or a second chase, King drew his Sig Sauer and cocked the hammer.
The man must have recognized the sound because as he got to his knees he raised his hands and said, “D-don’t shoot!”
King approached the man, weapon raised, but he slowed when something about the man, the shape of his head, his ears, struck a chord. He knew this man, but couldn’t place him. The distraction slowed his reflexes.
The man, who was quicker than he looked, spun around and took hold of King’s gun hand, pointing the weapon to the sky. With his free hand, the man took a swing at King’s face. Thick knuckles brushed across King’s nose. If he hadn’t jerked back, his nose would have no doubt been broken.
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