Bloodline: A Sigma Force Novel (56 page)

“That looks like most of it,” Robert said.

Good
.

Gray didn’t want to be down here when the thermobaric weapon exploded. Fuel-air bombs created blast waves that rivaled nuclear bombs and ignited oxygen to five thousand degrees.

Gray rolled to his rear end and set to work digging out the earpiece and blasting cap. He used a pair of tweezers to poke, prod, and pull the device free. It felt like yanking a walnut out, leaving his ear ringing.

“Got it.”

He hurried and gathered everything together. The barrier was layered tempered glass, too thick to break through with anything in the room. He stuck the reassembled explosive charge to the glass wall to the left of the air-lock door. He centered it in the middle of the etched symbol of the genetic cross.

“Get back,” he warned.

Gray carried the transmitter that Robert had given him. They found shelter behind a case, and Gray pressed the button. In the enclosed space, the blast felt like two anvils striking the sides of his head. He coughed against the smoke, reeking of burned tar, and hurried Robert to his feet. He waved a hand in front of his face and saw the tempered glass barrier had shattered to a bluish-white crumble.

With his ears deafened, he had to yell to hear his own voice.

“Out!”

Gray cast one last regretful glance behind him, at the vast wealth of history about to be destroyed. His eyes settled on that staff—the Bachal Isu, the staff of Christ—but it was sealed behind bulletproof glass. He did not have the time or force of strength to rescue it.

With a heavy heart, he had to abandon it.

Robert stood on shaky feet, dazed by the blast, but he allowed himself to be dragged along. It took his palm print and code to call the elevator back down. As they waited, Robert stared toward the smoky museum.

“Maybe it’s better I should die,” Robert said. “After what I did …”

Gray had to keep the man motivated and moving. “Robert, I need to share something with you. Your brother, Jimmy, and his daughter, Amanda.”

“What about them?” Robert asked, with a catch in his voice.

“They’re both still alive.”

Robert flinched, turning sharply to him. “What?”

As the elevator arrived and the doors opened, Gray gave him a thumbnail sketch of the story.

“And then there’s Amanda’s son to think about,” Gray said. “You mentioned he was here.”

Robert stared sullenly as the cage rose. “He was, but he was kidnapped again.”

This time, Gray jerked his head in the man’s direction.

Robert explained, “By another captive. A medical doctor. A woman investigating our fertility clinic.”

Gray pushed his shoulder and stared him hard in the face. “Lisa Cummings?”

“You know her?”

“Was there another woman with her?”

“Yes. They were both at the lab complex, with my grandnephew. But it’s ten miles away. We can’t even get word there in time.”

Gray swore, his heart clutching. He pushed Robert against the wall, harder than he had meant to. “What about the woman I was captured with? Seichan. Was she taken to that damn lab, too?”

Robert’s brows pinched at Gray’s reaction. “No,” he said slowly. “I … we kept her here.”

As the elevator stopped at the top, the heavy vault door took forever to swing open. Gray had to restrain himself from pounding his fists against it, both in his anxiety to get to Seichan and in frustration that he could do nothing to help Lisa and Kat.

Finally, the thick door opened enough for Gray and Robert to exit and climb out of the massive wine barrel and back into the main cellar. He hurried, not knowing if the thermobaric weapon was of sufficient size to burn through the cellars, too—or would it take down the whole castle?

Robert was equally clueless.

Gray didn’t want to be here to find out.

“Where’s Seichan?” he asked, ready to run ahead.

“You’ll get lost.” Robert rushed alongside him, keeping up. “I’ll show you. But …”

“But what?”

“After Petra left us trapped”—Robert looked both scared and apologetic—“I think she was headed to kill her.”

“Seven minutes out,” the pilot reported from the cockpit.

Painter shared the cargo hold of USAF C-41A, a turboprop-powered medium transport plane. They had screamed down from DC in a military jet, then transferred to this smaller craft, which was better suited for infiltration and extraction of troops, meaning it was basically a cockpit and cargo space.

His team was the cargo.

Tucker readied Kane in his tandem harness for the drop. Kowalski and Monk checked each other’s gear. Painter was already suited up and sat with his laptop open and hooked to a satellite uplink, getting a live feed of the Gant estate and targeting movement on the ground to aid in their daytime penetration of the Lodge.

He had Jason Carter in his ear. “Director, I’m patching new feed. We picked up movement a little over ten miles from the mansion. We didn’t get this sooner with all eyes on the Lodge. But you’d better see this.”

The image on his screen swung away from the Lodge toward the Continental Divide, a rugged chunk of territory.

Who was way out there?

A small figure could be seen standing next to a waterfall, holding a package—no, a
child
. The view toggled closer and closer until there could be no doubt.

“Lisa …” Painter said.

“And I believe the other is Kat, sir. About a quarter-mile southeast.”

As the image swooped in that direction, Painter waved Monk over. “You should see this.”

By the time the man arrived, Jason showed a blurry video of a woman running through the woods. Details were hard to pick out between the trees. What was evident was that she was headed straight for a sheer cliff drop.

“That’s my wife,” Monk said, scared but tightly in control. “Never looking where she’s going.”

Jason spoke again. “I’ve got movement on the ground behind her, but I can’t pick up any details.”

The pilot called from up front. “We’re two minutes out from the no-fly demarcation. I’m going to start angling around to get us skirting along its edge.”

Painter passed his laptop to Monk and crossed to the cockpit. “New plans,” he instructed. “We’re going straight in.”

“Sir, we don’t have the proper clearance.”

“Take it up with the president when we get back,” Painter said. “You take us in low and straight. Follow the Continental Divide. Once we cross into the no-fly zone, you open the rear ramp for us to bail out.”

Painter swung back around.

Monk raised an eyebrow. “How come my wife doesn’t have any hair?”

Jason spoke in Painter’s ear, a scary urgency to his tone. “How long until you’re on the ground?”

“We bail out in six. On the ground seven or eight.”

“That’ll be too late.”

Kat sprinted for the goal line.

She had lost her slippers. Her toes dug for purchase in the soft loam and loose spruce needles. Rocks, pinecones, and acorns tore at her soles, but she ignored the pain. She flew over obstacles with long-legged leaps, happy for the obstruction of a log or jagged outcropping, as it slowed her pursuers.

The front edge of the hunters was only yards behind. She had dispatched three, but over a dozen still remained, working in tandem. The shield and pipe were futile against their numbers, especially as this group was not uniform. She identified at least four variants among them, each with specialized functions:
crawlers
she’d dealt with during the first wave;
leapers
could spring like frogs when close enough and slash out, or worse yet, latch on;
spinners
could accelerate at blistering paces for short bursts, becoming flying saw-blades; the last group was still unknown, trundling more at the rear, slower than the others, looking like steel helmets with legs.

She had not come through unscathed. The first spinner caught her by surprise, whizzing past, slicing a gash in her calf. Blood poured down her ankle. She was ready for the second, striking out with her pipe, swinging for the bleachers. The spinner ended up embedding its whirring self into the trunk of an oak, becoming stuck.

Ahead, the tree line broke apart, and sunlight beckoned.

The forest ended at a cliff.

She searched and spotted what she needed, angling to the left.

A telltale explosive squeak warned her. She lashed out with her shield, swiping low, as a leaper sprang at her. With a satisfying clang, she struck it and sent it cartwheeling away.

She sped faster, making her pursuers do the same, but also gaining a little space. As she ran, she plucked at the drawstring of her gown, loosening it. Once done, she flung her pipe and shield at the base of a maple tree ahead. They clattered close enough.

As she ran the final steps toward the cliff’s edge, she ripped the gown over her head, which blinded her for a frightening moment. She balled up the sweaty, hot garment. Reaching the cliff, still sprinting, she leaped up and threw the ball of clothes over the edge. She caught a low branch. Below her legs, the front guards of the horde went racing over the edge to their doom three stories below: leapers, crawlers, and one lonely spinner, who, in a last-ditch effort, whizzed in a spectacular arc off the cliff and chased after the hot bundle of clothes.

Not everyone went over, but confusion reigned in the remaining half.

She dropped back to the ground long enough to shove her shield on her forearm and tuck the pipe through her panties, like a sword in a scabbard. She leaped again to the same branch and hauled herself atop it with a heave of her legs.

The hunters stirred below, contemplating their next move.

A shout drew her attention, barely discernible above the roar of a waterfall a couple of hundred yards to her right. She searched—following the curve of the cliff, to where a small river tumbled over its edge to crash below. It was in those misty lower levels that she spotted a thin shape, waving her whole arm.

Lisa stood on a plateau on the far side of the waterfall. Her friend was trapped by the sheer cliffs behind her and the surging river below.

And she wasn’t trapped alone.

Lisa held a baby in her arms.

Kat waved back—then froze.

Lisa’s shout had drawn more than her attention. Behind her friend, at the top of the cliff, sunlight glinted off a creature the size of a small lion. It leaned over the edge, like a steel gargoyle.

“Kat!” Lisa shouted, still waving, further drawing its attention with all of her noise and motion.

“Lisa! Stop moving!” Kat yelled back.

Lisa shook her head and cupped her ear. The roar of the neighboring falls must have deafened her.

Kat struggled with how to communicate to Lisa, how to pantomime what needed to be done.

I was never good at charades
.

Before Kat could even begin, the creature started climbing down the cliff face.

Lisa floated on her toes, so happy to see Kat safe. Her friend’s dramatic appearance, leaping half-naked into a tree, accompanied by a shower of silvery hunters, brought such joy and hope.

The thunder of the falls stripped whatever words Kat had tried to share, but her friend must have understood and began motioning dramatically. An arm pointed to the waterfall, then mimicked taking a shower.

Lisa didn’t understand and shook her head. Cradled in her arms, the baby was growing restless, likely from the constant roaring of the falls.

A rock pinged off the ledge that was her prison.

Kat repeated the gesture, adjusting it slightly. After pointing to the waterfall, she waved her fingers in front of her face.

Lisa stared and saw that a part of the plateau tucked behind the waterfall, but that shelf still roiled with mist, spray, and sudden dousings as the currents above shifted.

Finally, Kat pointed straight up, using her whole arm.

Another chunk of rock fell off of the cliff face and struck her landing.

A trickle of terror ran up her back, as she suddenly sensed something staring at her.

She turned and looked at the cliff.

Halfway up hung a monstrosity of steel plate, razor claws, and titanium fangs.

She screamed, backing several steps, coming close to throwing herself off the cliff and into the river below.

The noise and motion drew a swivel of its sleek head, revealing faceted black eyes—sensors—staring back at her.

She froze and cut off her scream, knowing noise must attract it.

Then the baby began to wail.

Kat watched helplessly as the steel gargoyle climbed down from its perch, digging hooked claws into crevices, lowering itself limb by limb, crack by crack, with the inevitability of a well-wound watch.