“Yeah,” Holt said. “I figured as much.”
Cade heard a tone in the background. The noise of a plastic button being pressed.
He dropped the phone in the same second he realized what was happening. Stupid. Calling during the day. When he was slower. Weaker. When his senses were dulled, down almost to human levels.
When he was less likely to hear a detonator being triggered by a radio signal.
He was moving now, too slow. The phone hung in midair. Zach appeared before him, standing in the doorway. His face registered surprise.
The cereal box dropped out of Zach’s hand, flakes falling in a comet’s tail after it.
“What—” Zach said, before Cade tackled him, picking him up.
He felt a rib in Zach’s chest crack with the impact. Still too slow.
The explosion began at the far wall, sending the concrete ahead of it. Cade could see each piece of rubble break free and take flight.
The steel entry door was locked. No time to open it. No time at all. He kicked it down.
The explosion was at his back now, the blast wave like a giant fist swinging for him. He accelerated. The glass door of the entrance dissolved into fragments.
Blazing daylight, and his speed and strength vanished. The heat caught him on the side, as he did his best to shield Zach.
He felt the blast lift them both, the fist of the explosion connecting, knocking them out onto the pavement of the parking lot, and a sound like a jet engine hit them just after that.
Zach was no longer in his arms. The light was burning him, and his head felt too heavy to move ever again, and all Cade could think was, Too slow.
THIRTY-FIVE
Helen smiled and hung up the phone. She took the sudden burst of static on the other end as a very good sign.
She felt a glow of pride, but not surprise. Vampire or not, he was an obstacle. Helen took obstacles quite personally.
And, now that she was thinking of it: Griff.
That nimrod Wyman was right about one thing. She would have liked to send a black-ops team after Griffin, but that would have been too much. It might alert the president.
Besides, she didn’t need anything that obvious to end a man’s life. She turned to her computer instead.
Like everything else in her office, the PC was a little more than standard government issue.
She held still while a thin red laser scanned her retina, and entered a series of passwords and keys.
In less time than it took for Windows to boot up, she was deep inside Basketball, the software behind the Total Information Awareness Program.
It never failed to amuse her when Americans got indignant about the idea of someone eavesdropping on their dreary little lives. The fact was, everyone in America was already under surveillance.
Giant computers at Fort Meade scanned billions of phone calls, e-mails and faxes every day, searching for key words like “terrorist,” “bomb” or “Allah.” If one of those messages hit statistically determined criteria, it was forwarded on to a live analyst, who would check it while pulling up the credit report, criminal history and tax records of whoever sent the message.
Most of the time, it didn’t mean dick. Pointless little conversations between people discussing a movie or a TV show, usually.
BASKETBALL was the code name for the program that made it all happen. It was the mother of all search engines; the geeks who built Google would have wept if they could have stolen a look at its algorithms. Entire rooms of computer servers made up its brain. It could find anything, any scrap of data, anywhere in the world, as long as it crossed an electronic line somewhere, at some time.
But what Helen really loved about BASKETBALL wasn’t that it could retrieve any private conversation or database in the country. No, what was amazing about the software was that it could leave evidence behind as well.
Agent William H. Griffin’s private info was locked down better than a civilian’s. He was, after all, a secret agent with classified access, who answered directly to the president.
But in some ways, that just made it easier for Helen. Nobody really expected the government to start spying on itself. The same protocols that opened tax returns and phone bills also let her insert anything she wanted.
She looked over her work, satisfied. The only thing really missing was a motive. Griffin had been a loyal soldier his whole life. Why would he sell out now?
Then she peeked into his medical file and cross-checked his doctor’s billing codes.
Helen smiled when she saw the diagnosis: cancer. Griffin was dying.
Bad news for him. But, really, perfect for her.
THIRTY-SIX
For a moment, Zach thought he’d been in a plane crash. It would explain a lot: the dust and smoke and noise. And the pain. His chest hurt worst, like someone was stabbing him with an iron poker with every breath.
Then his last memory pushed its way forward again. He’d heard the phone ring and was walking down the short hallway when something launched him like a human cannonball.
His legs, flailing wildly behind him, struck the side of the reception desk, but he was moving too fast for the pain to catch up. Then there was glass everywhere, stinging his face and neck like snow.
And then the parking lot was in the sky, and it came down to meet him—hard.
He shook his head, trying to clear it, and realized he couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears.
Zach flopped over. The stabbing in his chest subsided.
Less than a dozen yards away, the building was a smoking wreck. Rubble was scattered all over the lot. Car alarms shrieked as if in pain from their broken windshields.
A bomb. Someone had tried to blow them up. And Cade had saved him.
Blinking, Zach sat up, and felt the poker in his side again. It hurt like hell. His face stung. He wiped at it, found tiny bits of glass stuck in his fingers.
Cade was a couple feet away, facedown, like something left for the trash.
Zach blinked again, feeling sleepy and slow. He looked up at the sun.
The sun.
“Shit,” Zach said, and suddenly his head cleared. He scrambled over to Cade.
Cade’s arm was a mess, a sleeve of ground beef up to the shoulder. Blood pooled under him.
Zach had never seen much blood before, but it looked wrong—black and thick. But what was worse, Cade’s face, where it was turned to the sun was—well, it was dying. There was no other way to say it. It was shriveling and cracking, veins and furrows growing more pronounced every second.
Zach had to get him out of here. As the ringing in his ears faded, another sound was rising. Sirens.
Zach rifled through Cade’s pockets, found the keys and hit the remote to unlock the sedan’s doors.
Nothing. Then he remembered—the car was in the garage, which was nothing but a pile of crumbled cinder blocks now.
“Shit shit shit,” Zach said. He wasn’t a spy. Maybe Griff would know what to do now, but Zach didn’t have a clue.
He looked down at Cade again. He’d aged even more in a few seconds. His skin had pulled back from his teeth, revealing his fangs.
People started to emerge from their cars, from other nearby buildings, gawking. Any minute now, they’d see him and Cade, and Zach didn’t think that was the way you kept a 140-year-old national secret.
He saw a Honda Accord parked in the last row, well away from the blast. There was a piece of concrete from the rubble, about as big as his fist.
Five seconds later, he was sweeping safety glass out of the driver’s seat and hoping like hell he could remember how to do this.
He twisted wires together, his fingers shaking. Nothing. He pulled them apart and tried another pair. The engine turned over.
He sighed with relief and thought of how hard he’d worked to hide his one youthful indiscretion. Now his juvenile record was the best thing on his resume.
Cade was a lot heavier than he looked, but Zach had adrenaline goin
g. He flung Cade into the backseat, covered him as best he could with his suit jacket.
A crowd was milling about now, getting closer. Someone was watching Zach with interest. “Hey,” the guy called. “You all right?”
Zach didn’t reply. He hopped behind the wheel and jammed the Honda into gear.
The crowd was between him and the exit from the lot.
Another man had joined the first guy in staring at Zach. He looked surprised, then angry.
“Hey . . . hey . . . that’s my car!”
Zach floored the pedal, and the Honda leaped over the sidewalk, landing heavily in the street.
He heard horns and a screech of tires. The sirens were almost on top of him now.
Zach took the first right turn he could and lost a hubcap as he skinned the curb. He wiped sweat from his face, came away with a few more glass fragments.
He sucked down deep breaths, trying to stay calm. He had to get away. Someone was trying to kill them.
He chanced a look into the back. The sharp turn had caused his jacket to slide off Cade, exposing his face again.
Cade groaned in pain. The sound was nearly as frightening to Zach as the explosion. He hadn’t heard anything like that from anyone. Ever.
Zach fumbled in his jacket, found his phone. He scrolled through the numbers, looking for the entry for Griff.
Griff would know what to do. Zach pressed a button, which made a loud beep.
Cade’s hand reached over the seat and grabbed Zach’s wrist.
Zach nearly turned into the oncoming lane of traffic.
He managed to pull his hand away. Cade remained sitting up. Barely. He looked twenty years older already. “Don’t call anyone. Compromised.”
Zach’s brain began working again. Cade meant that someone had found them, had just blown up a top secret safe house. He could use his phone, call Griff, but if they were supposed to be safe in there, then whoever was after them could get them anywhere.
They were alone.
“We’ve got to hide,” Cade said.
First things first. They needed cash.
From the backseat, Cade assessed their situation: Zach’s wallet had less than a hundred dollars inside. Anything Cade had was smoldering in the wreckage of the safe house.
Following Cade’s instructions, Zach pulled their stolen car up to an ATM on the sidewalk.
It was early enough that the sun had not yet burned completely through the L.A. haze of smog and cloud. But Cade still looked like someone was pouring acid over him.
“Stay here,” he grunted, and popped the door.
Zach didn’t think he’d be able to get out of the car, but Cade stood, one arm hanging like meat from a hook.
Zach checked around nervously. No pedestrians. Cars flew past on the street.
Cade paid no attention. He walked up to the ATM set in the bank’s concrete wall. Using his undamaged hand, he punched the ATM. First, smashing the camera above the keypad. Then he punched it again, driving his fist into the steel.
He pulled it back like foil, and a stack of twenties spilled out.
Cade took the pile still in the machine and turned back to the car.
Cade dumped the money into the front seat and then collapsed inside.
“What are you doing?” Zach screeched.
“Drive.” Skin fell from Cade’s face in long strips where the sun touched him. There was no blood, just a red-brown dust.
An alarm began to ring. Zach slammed on the gas, leaping into traffic, forcing another car to swerve.
“Slowly,” Cade said, curling up on the seat, getting as low as he could.
Zach forced himself to drop to the speed limit. The twenties were scattered all over the front seat.
“You might want to put those in your pockets,” Cade said.
Zach grabbed a wad of the cash. “What the hell was that?”
“Operating capital.”
“Jesus Christ . . . Someone tried to kill us, and you make us bank robbers now, too?”
“The mission takes priority. Above all else.”
“What do we say to the cops if they catch us? Huh? You think of that? Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, Jesus Fucking Christ—”
“Enough, ”Cade barked. The word was as sharp as a slap across Zach’s face. Zach shut up.
Cade’s face was dark with anger and pain. His eyes bored into Zach.
“Enough,” Cade said again. His voice sounded like it was coming from another place. “This is for the mission. That’s all that matters. Best you remember that, boy.”
Zach’s panic was gone, replaced by fear. As freaked as he was by the bomb, Cade was still scarier.
Fortunately, that outburst seemed to sap the last of Cade’s energy. He slid down in the seat. His eyes fluttered closed.
There was no question about it now: the sun was cooking him, killing him every second it shone through the windows. The haze was peeling back, revealing another beautiful day.
Zach considered parking the car on the side of the street, and calling a cab for the airport. He almost believed he could fly back to his old life.
But how long before they came looking for him? Whoever did this, they knew him now.
And Cade . . . Despite everything, Zach would be a wet spot under the rubble if it weren’t for Cade.
Zach only knew two things for certain now: He was a target. And the only one who could get him out of this alive was dying, right next to him in the car.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The clerk at the cash-only motel hadn’t cared about the blood on Zach’s face. Behind the bulletproof Plexiglas, he didn’t even look up.
The room looked like the last guests had built a meth lab inside, but the curtains were thick and blocked out the daylight, except for a small crack.
Zach hobbled under Cade’s weight and dropped him on the far bed. He tried not to think about the sound Cade’s arm made when the burned flesh broke.
Out of the sun, Cade was able to move on his own again. He still looked like hell, but he managed to turn over and straighten his legs.
The effort seemed to exhaust him. Zach was about done, too. For a moment, they sat there, just breathing.
When Cade spoke, it sounded like his throat was filled with dust.
“Where are we?”
Zach ran a hand through his hair. More glass shook out. “Uh. I don’t really know, actually. Maybe five, six miles from the airport.”
Cade grimaced, either in frustration or in pain, Zach wasn’t sure.
“Don’t call Griff.”
“I won’t. I mean, I haven’t.”
“Right. You’ve done well.”
Cade lapsed into silence again. With his eyes closed, and his new, deeply aged face, he could have been a corpse. Zach was about to touch him, see if he was awake, when Cade spoke up again.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll need you to get something.”
“Cade, what’s going on? Was it those guys, the ones you said were—”
Cade hissed out a breath, and Zach shut up.
“We’ll get to that. But you have to do this first.”
“What do you need?”
Cade’s eyes finally opened, and he looked right at Zach.
“Blood,” he said.
ZACH NEARLY wet himself again before Cade explained.
Then he cleaned up as best he could, covered Cade with the bedspread, and got in the car. He headed to the area Cade told him: Pico-Fairfax, home to a large part of L.A.’s Orthodox Jewish community.
And at least four or five kosher butcher shops.
Several of the men in the bloody aprons behind the counters wouldn’t help him. They either said no or refused to talk to him once he said what he wanted.
But in the fourth place, a butcher shrugged and took Zach’s stolen cash for a bucket full of stuff he was just going to throw out anyway.
Getting the bucket back to the hotel room was almost harder than buying it. At every corner, he was sure it was
going to spill and then he’d have to explain a stolen car full of blood to the cop who would inevitably pull him over.
But an hour and a half later, he made it back to the room.
Cade didn’t look any better when Zach pulled the bedspread off. He was still breathing, but the charred arm was oozing, and his skin was still drawn back on his skull.
He managed to get Cade awake by slapping him pretty hard. Cade’s eyes snapped open and fixed on Zach. His pupils had filled the whites, turning them black. His lips pulled back, and he lurched up.
Zach went backward, over the other bed. He stumbled to his feet, prepared to throw the curtains open, bring the sun into the room.
Cade was still seated. He was looking down, his face a mask of agony.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to—I wouldn’t—”
“I know,” Zach said. “I know. It’s okay. What do we do now?”
“Bathroom,” Cade said, through gritted teeth.
IT WAS PROBABLY NOT the first time blood had been spilled in the filthy little tub. But it had to be the largest amount.
With Zach’s help, Cade peeled off the burnt remains of his shirt. It stuck to the skin in places, which came away like wet tissue paper.
Then Cade slid into the blood-filled tub, hunching so the liquid came up to his chin, his ruined arm covered completely.
His skin began to flush and loosen again. Zach stood back in awe as very small ripples appeared in the blood near the arm.
The level of blood lowered, and Zach saw the veins snaking out of Cade’s charred skin. Writhing like eels as they drank.
Cade looked up at him from the tub, eyes filled with red. He didn’t seem to really see Zach.
Zach stumbled backward. “I’ll . . . uh . . . I’ll just go now.”
He closed the door behind him as fast as possible.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, the sound of the shower woke Zach up. He couldn’t believe it. He’d fallen asleep sitting on the bed. His side was on fire now. Carefully, he unbuttoned his shirt and looked at his chest. His skin was mottled with deep bruises already.
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