“Lorna . . .” Zoë said, her eyes widening. “She must have released them before getting captured.”
Carlton stared up, both amazed and intrigued. “Bonded, they must have stuck together out here.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his nose. “I wonder if the terror of their flight bolstered that strange connection of theirs. Adrenaline flaming their neurons to a whole new level of synchronization.”
As the others spread around the tree Burt bumped into Jack’s leg, wanting acknowledgment. Jack now understood what had drawn the hound off into the woods. He remembered Lorna had used Burt to hunt for the cub’s littermate back in the bayou. And if Jack knew one thing about hounds, it was that they never lost their nose for a good scent.
Jack patted the hound on the side. “Good boy, Burt. Good boy.”
Kyle was not impressed. “What about Lorna? You’ve still not told us what your plan is to find her.”
“That’s because I didn’t have one.” Kyle’s face sank.
“But I do now,” Jack assured him.
For the first time since the power was cut off at ACRES, Jack felt a surge of confidence—not enough to wash away his bone-deep fear for Lorna, but it was enough.
“What do you mean?” Kyle pressed. “How are we going to find her?”
Jack pointed up the tree. “With their help.”
ACT THREE
BEASTS OF EDEN
Chapter 37
For once in her life, Lorna had no fear of flying. She stared at the sweep of sunlit blue water below the small plane. The sea stretched to the horizon in all directions, interrupted by a scatter of islands to the south. She felt no anxiety as the plane sped due south: no sweating palms, no palpitating heart.
She only felt numb.
Like a looped film reel, she kept picturing Jack’s truck exploding, followed a heartbeat later by ACRES disappearing into a hellish fireball.
All dead . . .
While she should fear for her own life at the moment, she felt nothing, hollowed out and empty. Even the pounding in her head seemed a distant thing. A goose-egg-size knot had grown behind her left ear. A vague ringing persisted on that side.
Tinnitus, she diagnosed, secondary to the injury.
They’d offered her a minimal amount of medical care, but mostly they’d been on the move. Her kidnappers had driven her to a clearing in the bayou. As the sun rose a helicopter had flown her to a waiting ship anchored beyond the barrier islands in the Gulf of Mexico, then she’d been transferred onto a seaplane. They’d been in the air for over three hours, heading as near as she could tell into the western Caribbean, possibly toward Cuba.
She turned from the window as the man who had captured her ducked out of the cockpit into the main cabin. The plane sat six passengers and was luxuriously appointed in leather with mahogany accents. Whoever was financing this operation had deep financial pockets.
The man with the scarred face joined her and her two guards. He had showered aboard the ship, and his hair was fixed by gel into a greasy look. She studied the scars over his face and neck as if reading a map. He’d been attacked by some animal. Maybe a lion from the severity of his old injuries. He had never introduced himself, but she had heard one of the men call him Duncan.
He didn’t acknowledge her as he sat down next to a muscular man with a leathery face and red hair scalped into a military cut. He’d been assigned to watch over her. Not that there was much for him to do. Her hands were cuffed, but at least in her lap now. She had not offered any resistance. She was at their mercy, and so far they hadn’t treated her too roughly.
She figured she’d learn more by being compliant than by screaming and thrashing. Still, as Duncan joined them, that hollowness inside her began to fill with a burning vitriol. It dripped like bile into her heart and spread.
The bastard sat down, ignoring her. He turned to the redheaded commando. “Still no word from Daughtery. He should have reported in by now.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“When we get to the island, roust up some eyes and ears in New Orleans. I want to know what happened back there after we left.”
“Yes, sir. But you know Daughtery. Always a bit of a loose cannon. Probably ended up in the French Quarter. Got himself drunk on Bourbon Street and is sleeping it off with some whore.”
“If so, I’ll cut off his left nut the next time I see him.”
“Might not make a difference. To rein him in, you’ll have to cut ’em both off.”
Duncan acknowledged this by raising one eyebrow, as if seriously considering this option. He finally leaned back but looked little placated. His hard eyes gazed somewhere beyond the cabin of the seaplane.
She kept a sidelong watch on him, not trusting him.
He must have sensed her attention. Without moving a muscle, his gaze hardened on her.
With a sigh, he leaned forward. She noted the slack on the left side of his face, likely nerve damage. He reached to a pocket and slipped out a roll of tropical-flavored Life Savers and offered her one.
She shook her head.
He shrugged, popped one in his mouth, and sighed. “You impress me, Dr. Polk.”
She tried not to flinch at the use of her name. She had no ID on her. He must have noted some reaction. His lips thinned to a ghost of a satisfied smile. He had purposely used her name to unsettle her.
It had worked.
He continued: “By my estimation, you alone took out at least three of my men.”
She heard no anger in his voice, no threat of revenge.
“Impressive,” he said. “And smart. I hope you’ll prove as smart once we reach the island. My superiors and I will have some questions for you. Cooperation will be rewarded.”
And if she didn’t cooperate, the threat was plain in his eyes.
Instead of further unsettling her, the intimidation only helped center her. She spoke for the first time. There was no use begging for her life. She knew it was forfeit. Instead, she wanted answers for the bloodshed and death.
“What’s behind all this?” she asked. She tried to sound confident, but she had to struggle not to let a quaver enter her voice. “The genetic changes in the animals, all you’ve done to cover it up . . . what are you all doing out here?”
Duncan took her questions in stride. A part of her hoped he’d refuse to answer, but he showed no reluctance in responding, which unnerved her more than his threat a moment ago. If she had any question of surviving this ordeal, it was dashed by his candor.
“We call it the Babylon Project.”
Babylon?
He read the confusion in her face. “Named for where it all began. In a word, we’re involved in biowarfare. Or more specifically, I should say bioweapon systems. As you’ll soon see, what you stumbled upon is merely a scratch on the surface of larger ambitions. When we’re done, the way wars are fought will be forever changed.”
For the first time, true fear filtered through to her. This was no mere smuggling operation tied to a clandestine research project. It was much bigger.
Before more could be explained, the pilot came over the radio, cutting them off. “We’ll be landing in five minutes. Everyone buckle up.”
Lorna turned to the window again. The seaplane dipped toward the set of islands she had noted before. Most appeared to be sandbars supporting a tree or two. The grouping formed a gentle arc centered on a larger wooded island shaped like a dumbbell. They looked to be two islands that had fused together long ago by a bridge of sand and mangrove forest.
The seaplane dove toward the western half of the island. A deep cove scooped out an arc of white sand. Beyond the beach, a whitewashed villa climbed in a series of stacked tiers up a steep forested hill. A series of blue pools spilled from one level to the next. As the seaplane banked and angled for a descent into the cove, she got a bird’s-eye view of the island’s eastern half. It appeared deserted and untamed.
Thousands of such small islands and cays dotted the Caribbean. Many were
privately owned and shifted national allegiances as easily and as often as one changed hairstyles. If someone wanted to set up a private research facility—one that was isolated and beyond the rules and regulations of modern society—here was a perfect place to do it.
The seaplane swept cleanly into the cove and dipped to the water. Fountains sprayed from the twin floats as the craft landed and glided toward a stone pier. Ahead, white sand sparkled against the blue water. Palms and mangroves shadowed the interior. A flutter of native doves took wing from the dense forest, disturbed by their approach.
It appeared to be paradise—but she knew it held a darker secret, a black heart kept out of direct view.
Lorna let out the breath she’d been holding.
She turned from the window to find Duncan studying her.
He lifted an arm toward the island. His eyes danced with amusement. The irony of his next words were not lost on her.
“Welcome to Eden, Dr. Polk.”
Chapter 38
Jack had returned to his workplace, towing the others with him. He had everyone sequestered in the computer lab of the New Orleans Border Patrol station house.
The red brick facility had a long history, going back to the twenties, when the agency’s main goal was to capture deserting crewmen and Prohibition-era smugglers bringing rum in from the Caribbean. But times had changed. As part of Homeland Security now, the station housed one of the most advanced surveillance and computer units in the country, employed to protect the borders against terrorists and their weapons.
As Jack paced the secure room, he rubbed his temples, trying to hold his head from splitting apart. Since he’d arrived here, his skin had begun to burn with a fever, and an ache smoldered deep in his bones, ready to catch fire. He had dry-swallowed three aspirins and waited for them to kick in. He didn’t have time to be sick—and this tension wasn’t helping.
“How long do we need to stay here?” Zoë asked.
Jack lowered his hands from his head. “No more than a day.”
By that time Lorna’s fate would be sealed. It would no longer be necessary to maintain the ruse that everyone had perished at ACRES. The first emergency response helicopter had arrived on scene a quarter hour after Jack had found Burt in the woods. He had been relieved to see the CPB emblem on the chopper’s side. The station’s helicopters were often first-responders.
Jack had waved the chopper down. He knew the pilot well and quickly explained the necessity to keep their fate under wraps. Afterward, Jack coordinated with law enforcement to maintain that blanket. Morning news shows were already reporting on the tragedy and the lack of survivors. Shortly after that, the local NBC affiliate received an e-mail claiming the firebombing was the work of a new animal-rights terrorist group.
It was surely bogus, likely planted by whoever orchestrated the assault. Still, it served Jack equally well. The terrorist angle had the news organizations chasing their own tails. No one questioned the lack of witnesses or survivors.
Afterward, Jack had moved everyone here.
Including Burt and the animals from the trawler.
Randy slouched in an office chair, his eyes closed, with Burt curled at his feet. The other animals were recovering from mild tranquilizers. Dr. Greer had removed their tracking tags under local anesthesia. The tags rested on a nearby table, secured in a copper Faraday cage to prevent them from being tracked. All except one that was being analyzed by a computer forensics expert brought in from the local FBI office. With magnifying glasses fixed to his face, he had deactivated the tag.
He also confirmed Jack’s earlier suspicion. “This isn’t commercial grade. I’d say military or paramilitary. Either way, someone with money.”
As they waited for further details, Carlton joined Jack, cradling a mug of coffee in his hands. “If your man is right, it confirms a suspicion.”
“What’s that?” Jack asked, glad for the diversion.
“All that’s happened. This is beyond a simple corporation sidestepping rules and regulations regarding animal research. This has the fingerprints of something larger. Possibly with government backing.”
“As in our government?”
Carlton looked upon him as if he were a naive child. “Underground projects are financed all the time by the U.S. government, including grants from DARPA, the Defense Department’s research-and-development agency. But you should know that over the past few years, rumors have persisted in the scientific community of projects so black that people disappear into them and are never seen again.”
“And you think we stumbled onto one of them?”
Carlton sighed. “I don’t know. But there’s another worrisome trend. In regard to private defense contractors. I assume with your military background that you’re familiar with Blackwater?”
Jack nodded.
Blackwater was a private corporate security force contracted by the U.S. government to serve in Iraq and Afghanistan. Basically they were mercenaries. Jack had worked alongside several members of Black-water in Iraq. He had no beef with any of them, though there was a certain level of resentment among U.S. troops. Both armies fought in the same terrain, but the Blackwater mercenaries were both better equipped and better paid. In fact, most were former soldiers recruited after leaving the service. Even Jack had been approached and considered it.
Then the scandals broke out about Blackwater: testimonials of secret assassination programs, weapons smuggling, massacres of civilians, even the deaths of federal witnesses.
In the end, Jack had opted to protect the homeland here.
“Why bring up Blackwater?” he asked.
“Because the corporation earned over a billion dollars in government contracts since 2000. And they’re only one of six hundred such firms operating in the two theaters of war.”
“I’m well aware,” he growled, urging the man to get to the point.
“Then what you might not know is that such contracting is no longer limited to just paramilitary firms—the scientific community has also been co-opted. Hundreds of research groups have hopped on the bandwagon. Large and small. And from what I’ve heard, the competition is not only fierce—but also cutthroat.”
Jack hadn’t known about this detail. He pictured the animals, the assault force, the brutality.
“With such vast sums of money involved,” Carlton continued, “the scandals of Blackwater are spreading like a virus through these scientific communities. Accusations of corporate espionage, vandalism, outsourcing of research to third-world countries to avoid regulations. The list goes on and on.”
Jack understood the doctor’s concern. Such a description certainly fit with all that had happened.
A door swung open behind him. Lorna’s brother had returned from the medical ward. His arm was in a plaster cast from hand to elbow. His gaze was glassy from painkillers.
Randy stirred and opened one eye toward Kyle. “Great,” he mumbled under his breath. “So one of the Polks has rejoined us. Guess that means someone’s gonna try to kill me again.”
Kyle scowled at Randy. “What’re you talking about?”
Jack stepped between them. His head pounded. He didn’t need any more aggravation, especially from Randy. Whatever wall had dropped between the two brothers out in the woods had risen back up in the light of day.
“Randy, just keep your mouth shut for once.”
His brother glowered and crossed his arms. “I’m just saying, whenever Menards and Polks mix, someone in our family gets killed—or nearly killed in my case.”
Kyle’s face went a deep red. “So then what about my sister? You and your brother are here swilling coffee and stuffing your faces with doughnuts while she’s still in danger.”
“There’re doughnuts?” Randy asked, sitting straighter.
Kyle shook his head and turned his wrath on Jack. He lifted his arm. “I’m all fixed up. So what are we going to do about Lorna? You said you had a way of finding her.”
“Calm down. I do . . . or ho
pe I do.” He glanced over to the computer forensics expert.
“How?” Kyle pressed. His voice lost its angry edge and took on a more plaintive tone.
Jack picked up the Faraday cage holding the surgically removed tags. “With these.”
When the power had been cut off at ACRES, Jack had been examining one of the tags. As the lights blacked out, he had pocketed it for safekeeping, wanting to examine it in more detail later. But when he abandoned Lorna in her office, he did more than just leave her with the tranquilizer rifle.
“I planted one of these tags on Lorna. In her pocket.”
The tension in Kyle’s face softened with hope.
“My God,” Zoë mumbled. “You think we can use it to track her?”
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
The forensic expert must have heard their talk. “I think I can make it work,” he called over. “It’s definitely a form of GPS technology. If all the tags use this same technology, I should be able to find her. Though it might take a while. I’ll have to hunt satellite by satellite.” He swung around to face them. “It would be faster if I had some general idea where to begin looking.”
Jack contemplated all he’d learned from Carlton and his own suspicions. “Mexico, or somewhere off the coast,” he guessed. “Maybe the Caribbean. They wouldn’t be too far. But definitely south of the U.S. border.”
Carlton nodded his agreement.
Kyle sagged again. “That’s a lot of territory to cover. I should know. The oil company I’m contracted with has platforms up and down the Gulf Coast.”
“That’s good to hear,” Jack said. “Because if I’m right, we may need to use one of those rigs as a base of operations.”
Kyle glanced to him. His eyes lost some of their glaze, calculating and taking strength from the fact that he could be useful. Still, his main concern remained, and he mumbled it aloud.
“Is she still alive?”
Chapter 39
Lorna marched down the dock toward the villa. Behind her, the man named Connor gripped a pistol in his hand, but he didn’t even bother pointing it at her.
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