His daughter.
Derek turned Jane around, putting her back to the flames. “We have to—”
Someone grabbed his shoulder and shoved him aside. Caught by surprise, Derek stumbled a few steps. A hulking figure loomed over Jane. The man looked like something out of a nightmare with a brutish face and a massive physique.
Still, Derek refused to back off. He lunged for the attacker, ready to defend Jane—only to be met by the man’s fist. Derek’s head snapped back, pain flared with a crunch of bone, lights burst and dazzled his eyes.
He fell hard to the street.
Through a haze, he watched Jane be dragged away.
No . . .
4
May 30, 3:54 P.M. EDT
Washington, D.C.
Kathryn Bryant had never seen her boss so distressed. Her office overlooked the communication hub in Sigma’s subterranean headquarters. Through a window, she watched Director Crowe stalk across the breadth of the neighboring room. A U-shaped bank of telecommunication stations and computer monitors glared back at the man, as if taunting him with his impotence.
“He looks ready to wear a hole down to the next subbasement,” Kat’s husband noted. “Maybe you’d better slip some Valium into his next cup of coffee.”
“I know you’re joking, Monk, but it may come to that.”
Kat rubbed the line of a small scar across her chin. It was a nervous tic, a measure of her own desire to do more than shuffle calls and monitor chatter from various global intelligence agencies. But as the director’s second in command, she knew her place. She had been recruited into Sigma out of a position in naval intelligence, and there were few people in the world who matched her expertise.
“Any further word out of Cairo?” Monk asked.
“Only news that’s grim.”
She glanced over to her husband. Monk Kokkalis stood a few inches shorter than her, but he had a true bulldog of a physique. Furthering the image, he kept his head shaved and had never bothered to fix the kink to his nose from an old break. Four hours ago, when all of this blew up, Monk had been at the facility’s gym, so he still wore sneakers, sweatpants, and a camouflage T-shirt with the Green Beret emblem—a pair of crossed arrows and a saber—stretched across his chest. From looking at him, few would doubt his years in Special Forces, but many underestimated the brilliance hidden behind his pugilistic exterior.
Sigma had come to value Monk’s expertise in medicine and biotechnology—as did DARPA. But for them, Monk was more of a resident guinea pig. He had lost a hand during a prior mission and had gone through a series of prostheses, each more advanced as the technologies improved. His current hand was tied to a neural implant that allowed him even finer control of his fingers.
He fiddled with the wrist connection, still plainly getting accustomed to the upgrade. “Kat, what do you mean by grim?”
“It’s total chaos out in Cairo at the moment.”
“What about the quarantine?”
She snorted a breath. “Even before this outbreak, Cairo’s medical infrastructure was frayed at best. Emergency services are little better. If this gets any worse, it’ll be like trying to halt a brushfire with a squirt gun.”
“How about the cases in the U.K.?”
“So far—”
A red-bannered interdepartmental brief popped up on her monitor, coming from the CDC. She scanned it quickly.
Monk noted her posture stiffening. “Not good news?”
“No. Several airport personnel in both Cairo and London are reporting cases of high fevers.” She glanced over to Monk. “Including a British Airways flight attendant.”
“Sounds like the cat’s clawing out of the bag.”
“The report is preliminary. It’s still too early to say if this is the same disease that afflicted the morgue staff in Egypt, but we can’t keep sitting on our hands. I’ll need to coordinate and mobilize multiple health agencies, both here and abroad.”
She shook her head. When it came to organizing such efforts, international red tape and bureaucracies bogged everything down. She found her finger again rubbing at the scar on her chin. She forced her errant hand back to the computer keyboard.
Beyond the window, Painter made another pass across the neighboring room. Kat knew Painter wanted to be in London rather than holed up here at Sigma command. Their headquarters had been built in a warren of old World War II–era bomb shelters beneath the Smithsonian Castle. The location allowed Sigma easy access to both the halls of power and to the country’s preeminent scientific institutions and laboratories. But clearly for Painter, none of that mattered at the moment. He wanted to be topside, out in the field leading the hunt for those who had attacked the British Museum.
From reading an old mission dossier, Kat knew of the director’s history with Safia al-Maaz. The woman was important to him. As if sensing this line of thought, Painter stepped to one of the computer stations and played back the footage captured on the conference call with Dr. al-Maaz.
Kat had already viewed the video four times. It showed Safia assaulted by a masked assailant who barged into her office. The man shot her with what had been identified as a Palmer Cap-Chur tranquilizer gun. A pair of feathered darts struck her in the chest. He had then shot out the screen with a regular pistol, the same weapon he had used to kill two museum personnel, including a young woman, a junior curator, who was seen briefly in the footage.
By the time help arrived, Safia was gone.
Out in the communication hub, Painter had stopped the video, freezing it on the last image of the woman, her palm lifted toward the screen.
“If they’d wanted her dead, she would be,” Monk murmured. “They clearly need something from her.”
“But what about after that?” Kat asked.
Monk grimaced. “Let’s hope we reach her before that bridge is crossed.”
Kat checked the clock on her monitor. “Shouldn’t Gray already be here? Your jet to London is scheduled to be wheels up in thirty-five minutes.”
Monk shrugged. “He’s at the hospital with his dad and brother. Said he’d meet me at the airfield.”
“How’s his father doing?”
“Not great.” Monk ran the palm of his prosthesis over his shaved scalp. “But it’s his brother that’s the real issue.”
4:14 P.M.
If it’s not one thing, it’s another . . .
Commander Grayson Pierce sat at his father’s bedside. They had just returned from a series of medical tests at Holy Cross Hospital and were getting him settled at a skilled nursing center for further care. Even the ride here by ambulance had taken its toll on the old man.
As Gray watched the nurse tuck his father’s sheets around him, he searched for the hard Texas oilman who had run roughshod over their family. His father had been a rugged figure, fiercely independent, even after an accident had sheared one of his legs off at the knee. For most of his life, Gray and his father had butted heads, both too stubborn to bend, too full of pride. The fighting eventually drove Gray away from home, first into the army, then into the Rangers, and eventually into Sigma.
Sitting here now, he studied the map of lines across the old man’s face, noting the sallow complexion and sunken eyes. His father heaved a hard breath as the nurse fluffed his pillow. Normally such a lungful would have unleashed a litany of curses, lambasting such doting attention. Jackson Pierce was not one to be coddled. Instead, his father’s chest sank with a defeated sigh; he was too exhausted to object.
Gray spoke up for him and waved the nurse away. “That’s enough,” he said. “My dad doesn’t like to be fussed over.”
The young woman stepped back and turned to Gray. “I’ll still need to flush his central line.”
“Can you give us a minute or two?” He checked his watch.
That’s about all the time I have left.
Pressure to get moving wore at him. He needed to be at the airfield. He glanced over to the door.
Where’s Kenny?
Gray imagined his brother must have stopped off somewhere on his way over from Holy Cross. Likely trying to eke out his last moments of freedom. With Gray leaving, Kenny had to assume “dad duty”—as they had come to call it—a responsibility that only seemed to weigh heavier upon them both as time passed.
Impatient, Gray took in the new room. Though private, it could only be generously described as Spartan. It held a wardrobe closet, a privacy curtain on rails, and a small rolling bedside table. This would be his father’s home for the next six weeks.
After slipping and falling last month, his father had gouged a deep tear in the stump of his leg. After an emergency room visit and minor surgery, everything seemed to be fine, but a low-grade fever developed and persisted. The diagnosis was a secondary bone infection and mild septicemia, not an uncommon complication in senior patients. Another surgery and hospital stay later and his father had been assigned here, where he was scheduled for six weeks of intravenous antibiotic therapy.
And maybe that’s for the best, Gray thought guiltily. At least here, he’ll have around-the-clock attention while I’m gone.
Even at the best of times, Kenny was not the more responsible caregiver.
A rasp rose from the bed. “I’m ready to go.”
Gray turned back to his father. “You have to stay here, Dad. Doctor’s orders.”
Of late, his father had only a tentative grasp on the present. What had first started as bouts of forgetfulness—losing his keys, repeating the same question, mixing up directions—eventually led to a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s, one more blow to a man grasping to hold on to his independence. Last year, Gray had risked an experimental treatment, a drug he had stolen from a lab that showed promise for degenerative neuropathies—and amazingly it worked. A series of PET scans had showed no new amyloidal deposits in the brain, and clinically his father’s decline seemed to have stopped.
Unfortunately the therapy had failed to reverse the damage done—which was a double-edged sword. His father remained somewhat coherent and engaged, but he would never return to the man he was before the disease ravaged him. He was trapped somewhere in between, lost in a fog that never lifted.
His father spoke again, more adamant now. “I want to see your mother.”
Gray took in a deep breath. His mother had died a while back. Gray had explained this tragedy to him many times, and clearly his father had absorbed it at some level, often expressing his sorrow or sharing some funny story about her. Gray cherished those moments. But when his father was exhausted or stressed—like now—he lost his tether on the passage of time.
Gray reached to his father’s shoulder, unsure whether to allow him this delusion or to explain the harsh truth once again. Instead, he looked into his father’s ice-blue eyes, a match to his own. Deep in there, he recognized the lucidity shining back.
“Dad . . . ?”
“I’m ready to go, son.” His father repeated these words plainly. “I . . . I miss Harriet so much. I want to see her again.”
Gray froze in place, momentarily struck dumb. His father had always raged against the world, against any assumed slight, even against his own bullheaded son. Gray could not balance this complete resignation with the hard man who had raised him.
Before he could respond, Kenny arrived, barging into the room like a whirlwind. There was no mistaking the family resemblance. The two brothers stood the same height, with dark, thick hair and ruddy Welsh complexions. Only, while Gray kept fit, Kenny nursed a prominent beer belly, a feature earned from his deskbound job at a software company and too many nights of partying.
Kenny lifted a plastic bag with a 7-Eleven logo on it. “Got Dad some magazines. A Sports Illustrated. Golf Digest. Also bought him some snacks. Chips and candy bars.”
Kenny hauled another chair to the bedside and fell heavily onto it as if he had just run a marathon. Gray caught a strong whiff of whiskey on his breath. Apparently his younger brother had bought more than just staples at the convenience store.
Kenny pointed toward the door. “Gray, you can leave. I got it from here. I’ll make sure Dad is taken care of.” A lilt of accusation slipped into his voice. “I mean somebody has to, right?”
Gray gritted his teeth. Kenny knew Gray worked for the government, but he didn’t have the clearance to know about Sigma Force or the importance of Gray’s covert work. In fact, Kenny was never all that curious about his older brother in the first place.
As Gray stood to leave, his father gave him a stern stare, accompanied by a small shake of his head. The message was clear. Dad didn’t want Gray mentioning what was said a moment ago. Apparently that poignant admission was only meant for Gray’s ears.
Fine . . . what’s one more secret?
Gray stepped to the bedside and gave the old man a final hug. It was awkward, both from the bed’s half-reclined position and because such public displays of affection were rare between them.
Still, his father freed an arm and patted Gray on the back. “Give ’em hell.”
“Always.” From trouble in the past, his dad had learned about the true nature of Gray’s work. “I’ll see you when I get back.”
Gray straightened and turned. Inside, he felt the tidal shift as he readied himself for the coming mission. Years in the Army Rangers had taught him to go from idle to full throttle in seconds, whether it was rolling from his bunk at the whistle of an incoming mortar or diving for cover at the crack of a sniper’s shot.
As a soldier, when it was time to get moving, you moved.
Now was one of those times.
He headed toward the door, but his father stopped him, his voice ringing out with surprising strength, sounding more like his old self. “Promise me.”
Gray looked back, wrinkling his brow. “Promise what?”
His father blinked, his stare wavering. He had propped himself up on an elbow, but even this small effort had taxed him to the point of trembling. He fell back to the bed, a familiar confusion settling over his features.
“Dad?” Gray asked.
A hand weakly waved, dismissing him.
Kenny reinforced it with a frown. “Christ, man, if you’re going, go. Let Dad get some rest. Quit dragging this out.”
Gray balled a fist, looking for something to strike out at. Instead, he turned on a heel and strode out the door. As he exited the nursing facility, he sucked in deep breaths and crossed to his parked motorcycle, a Yamaha V-Max. He hauled his six-foot frame onto the bike, tugged on his helmet, and ignited the engine into a throaty growl.
He let it roar, giving voice to his own frustration. With the rumble coursing through his bones, he set off. He took a sharp turn from the parking lot onto the street, leaning his bike hard, and sped away.
Still, his father’s final words chased him.
Promise me.
He didn’t know what that meant. Guilt gnawed at him, both because he was leaving and because down deep he was relieved to be going. After so many months of dealing with the ebbs and flows of his father’s health, of wrestling demons that seemed to have no substance, Gray needed something he could truly battle, something he could grab with his hands.
Focusing on that, he called up Sigma command and reached Kat. “I’m on my way to the airfield. ETA is fifteen minutes.”
Her voice answered inside his helmet. “Monk’ll meet you there. He has a full mission report waiting for you on the plane.”
Gray had already received the bullet points from the director. Painter had a personal stake in all of this and had requested Gray take point in London.
“What’s the status out there?” he asked.
“The museum is in lockdown. Unfortunately the security cameras in the employee wing failed to capture the intruders. At the moment, police are canvassing the area for witnesses.”
“What about the other potential target?”
“Jane McCabe? Still no word from the field.”
Gray sped faster, sensing matters were growing more dire by the hour. Unfort
unately, their flight wouldn’t land until dawn, touching down at Northolt, a Royal Air Force station in a western borough of London.
Because of the delay, Painter Crowe had already activated two Sigma operatives who were closer at hand: one who had been attending a conference in Leipzig, Germany; the other who had been in Marrakesh, investigating the black-market sale of stolen antiquities from the Middle East.
The two made for an odd couple, but necessity often created strange bedfellows.
The turnoff to the private airfield appeared ahead. Gray throttled up and raced for the entrance, picturing that pair of operatives in the field.
God help anyone who got in their way.
Of course, that’s if the two didn’t kill each other first.
5
May 30, 9:22 P.M. BST
Ashwell, Hertfordshire, England
Surely he can’t be this stupid . . .
Seichan grabbed Joe Kowalski’s wrist and jammed her finger into a cluster of nerves at the base of his thumb. The big man yelped, but he finally let go of Jane McCabe’s arm.
The young woman stumbled back a step. Before she could bolt, Seichan blocked her escape. She held up both palms. “Ms. McCabe, I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Jane gaped at her pair of assailants. The crowd milled around them, seemingly oblivious to the brief assault. Then again, most of their attention was fixed on the flames licking into the dark sky.
As sirens echoed through the dark village, Seichan explained. “We were sent by Painter Crowe. To get you somewhere safe.”
Jane rubbed her bruised forearm. From her appalled expression, she didn’t look swayed by Seichan’s assurance. Her eyes took in Kowalski. The man looked like a steroid-addicted linebacker. Even the black knee-length leather duster failed to hide his overly muscled frame, well over six feet tall. To make matters worse, his face was a brutal terrain of scars, craggy brows, and thick lips, all of which was centered around a squashed nose and supported by a squared-off chin.
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