Bloodline: A Sigma Force Novel Page 22

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” the host asked as they reached the table, pulling a chair for her.

  “I’m fine.” She offered him a smile, but it felt stiff on her face. “Just a long day of shopping.”

  “Of course,” he said graciously, but his gaze flicked around her a bit, likely noticing her lack of a purse. “Were you expecting someone else?”

  She checked her watch. Hopefully so. Painter had told her to find a spot and call him. He had a security detail already headed downtown to extract her. She picked up the menu—hopefully they’d also square her bill. She needed something stiff in a tall glass, no ice.

  “I believe my party is running late,” Lisa said. “And I’m afraid I’ve forgotten my cell. Is there a house phone I might use?”

  “I’d be happy to bring you one.”

  “Perfect. Thank you.”

  She sat back, soaking in the quiet chatter of the early dinner crowd. The restaurant had a colonial charm with its wood-beamed ceiling, oiled plank flooring, exposed brick walls, and a fireplace tall enough to climb into without ducking.

  The host returned with a cell phone. She passed on a drink order to her waiter—a single malt whiskey. “The Macallan, please. The sixty-year-old.”

  Expensive, but as a doctor, she prescribed it for herself anyway.

  And this is definitely going on Sigma’s tab.

  She dialed Painter’s secure line—not only to inform him about where she had holed up; she was also anxious to hear any news about Kat.

  The connection clicked through. “Where are you?” he immediately asked.

  She told him, including the address.

  Painter sighed in relief. “The team is fifteen minutes out. Stay put.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  The waiter arrived with her drink. The whiskey trembled in the crystal as she held it. She took a sip to steady herself, letting the aged liquor evaporate along her tongue, heating all the way down.

  “I’m safe here,” she said, attempting to reassure both Painter and herself. “I’ve got a drink, and I’m surrounded by people. The elite of Charleston.” She heard the tinkle of music flowing from the cotillion upstairs. “In fact, there’s a party going on here. Some distant relatives of President Gant. Then again, you probably can’t turn a stone over here in Charleston without finding someone related to that family.”

  Painter’s next words came too fast, choking a bit. “Did any of them recognize you?”

  An amused snort of disbelief escaped her. “Of course not. Why would anyone in the president’s family—?”

  “Are you sure?”

  The panic frosting his voice passed to her. She stared up toward the wood beams, hearing the thump of music, the trickle of laughter. She remembered the grande dame’s eyes glancing her way, the sudden whispers.

  “Painter, what’s this about?”

  “I want you to get out of there—right now.”

  Lisa stared at the expensive drink in her hand. “I don’t have any way to pay. If I bolt now, I’ll cause a commotion, draw more attention to myself.”

  And she wasn’t sure she could bolt, not with her ankle. Now that she’d been sitting a few minutes, even shifting her left leg sent shooting stabs of pain all the way to her hip.

  She lowered her voice. “What aren’t you telling me? I can barely walk … I need to know what I’m facing.”

  A short silence stretched. She imagined Painter rubbing a finger along that line between his brows, debating how much to say or calculating his next step. Over the years, that crease had gotten deeper as he sat in the director’s office—and all that rubbing wasn’t going to make it go away.

  “Tell me,” she said, tired of all the half-truths and secrets.

  He finally spoke, talking fast. “I haven’t told anyone this. Not Kat, not Gray, not anyone at sigma. Not even you. It was just a dangerous suspicion before, but a few minutes ago, I got what I believe to be substantial verification.”

  “About what?”

  “About the Guild.”

  Lisa went cold. She knew Painter had been concerned that Amanda’s plight could be tied to that deadly cartel. Did he have proof now?

  Painter spoke his next words carefully, as if testing them aloud for the first time. “I know who is running the Guild.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s the president’s family.”

  The shock took an extra moment to break through her. Surely Painter was joking. Her mind struggled to put all of the pieces together in her head, trying to comprehend how that could be true. She came to only one conclusion.

  “That’s impossible,” Lisa said, her voice faint.

  “That’s why I didn’t tell anyone—not until I knew the truth. I’ll explain more once you’re back in DC.” His next words hardened with warning. “But, Lisa, now you understand. I need you out of there, as silently as you can.”

  Despite her fear, she fought against a stab of anger at him for keeping this secret from her—and not just from her. “What about Kat?”

  “Don’t worry about her … just get out of that restaurant.”

  Promising to do just that, she snapped the cell phone closed. She looked up toward the ceiling, still struggling to believe. She had to trust Painter was right. Readying herself, she downed the rest of the whiskey in a single gulp—a waste of such a fine single malt, but she needed the fortification.

  She pushed gingerly back to her feet. One hand clasped to the back of her chair. There was no hiding her limp any longer. She hobbled back to the host’s station.

  “Ma’am, are you sure you’re okay?”

  No. Not in the slightest.

  “I’m fine,” she lied and lifted the house phone. “Reception’s bad in there. Is it okay if I step outside to finish my call?”

  “Of course. Let me help you.”

  “No need.” She hurried toward the door and back out onto the street. She took a few steps, but the uneven cobbles proved too challenging. Her hobble became a fall.

  A man lunged to her aid, his arms caught her.

  “Thank you …” she began to mumble—then stared up into the face of Dr. Paul Cranston, the head of North Charleston Fertility Clinic.

  A gun pressed into her side.

  Another two men came up behind her.

  The doctor smiled. “Ah, Dr. Cummings, it’s high time we finished our previous conversation.”

  He motioned to the others. Strong fingers clamped on to her upper arms, hard enough to cause bruising—but a little manhandling was the least of her worries.

  She glanced back up to the bright lights of the second-story window, heard a piano playing.

  Cranston made a scolding noise. “I can guess what you’re thinking, but fear not, you’re not that unlucky. That side of the family knows nothing important, except how to spend money and sniff their noses at common folk. No, we’ve been following you since the hotel. I had men positioned outside when you made such a bold escape.”

  Lisa stared back at him.

  “We hoped you’d lead us to whomever you’re working with,” Cranston said and pulled a pen from his pocket.

  It was Kat’s surveillance device. They must have found it in the lobby, but clearly they still didn’t know who left it.

  “A shame,” he said and led her away. “Looks like we’ll have to do this the hard way. But difficult or not, we’ll find your partner.”

  6:16 P.M.

  The buzzing shears rode past Kat’s left ear. Long locks of auburn hair tumbled down, falling past her shoulder and sliding to the floor to join the mound of hair already piled around the chair.

  Still cotton-mouthed from the sedative, Kat sat on the seat in the center of the circular ward, with only a sheer hospital gown between her and the cold metal. With her wrists cuffed behind her back, she had to tolerate the humiliation—and that was surely the goal here, to break her down.

  The other prisoner—a doe-eyed young woman in her midtwenties—watche
d from behind the glass door of her cell, offering her silent support. She and Kat were the only ones here. The rest of the cells appeared empty. The facility was clearly running low on raw material.

  Kat remembered Dr. Marshall mentioning something about a lodge.

  They’re demanding more research subjects.

  Clearly, that was one of the purposes of this place, to supply human guinea pigs for various projects, collecting women who had no past, no families, who could easily vanish. And likely this was not the only such facility in the world. She imagined there were many other collection sites hidden around the globe.

  But to what end? What was going on here?

  From the corner of her eye, Kat studied the red steel doors and the embossed genetic cross.

  Something important was happening at this particular clinic.

  And she knew any answers lay hidden behind those doors.

  Earlier, Kat had been forced to strip naked in her cell while Dr. Marshall performed a thorough physical, assisted by the orderly, Roy. Afterward, Marshall had vanished with a tray of vacuum tubes full of Kat’s blood.

  Kat’s fingers curled into tight fists as Roy sheared the last of her hair away. They might have taken her clothes and most of her dignity, but she bided her time to win it back.

  “All done,” Roy said, running a palm along the stubble of her scalp, raising a slimy chill over her entire body. “Always like it when you’re freshly shaved.”

  Kat whipped her head away. “Go to hell.”

  “Feisty,” he said with a laugh, glancing toward the locked door, likely looking for Dr. Marshall.

  Clearly, the man spent most of his day being browbeaten and ordered around by the female clinician. He seemed to take pleasure in taking out his frustration on those left to his tender care.

  His hand reached to the weapon attached to his belt. It wasn’t an electric cattle prod like Dr. Marshall’s means of punishment, simply an extendable baton. He’d used it on Kat once already, smacking her across her calves when she was too slow in getting undressed.

  Her skin still stung.

  Kat had noticed welts on the other inmate’s arms and legs.

  Bastard.

  Roy snapped his baton off his belt and, with an expert flip of his wrist, extended the weapon to its full length, likely compensating for shortcomings elsewhere.

  “There’s not going to be any trouble, is there?” Roy sneered in her ear.

  She gritted her teeth and hung her head.

  “That’s more like it.” He rested the baton on her shoulder as he leaned down and undid her cuffs. “Stand up. Keep your hands behind you.”

  She obeyed, her head spinning slightly from the aftereffects of the drugs. Cold air blew through the slitted back of her hospital gown as she turned to face Roy. She kept her hands behind her.

  Roy reached the tip of his baton under her chin, forcing her head up. “That’s more—”

  Kat whipped her arm around and grabbed the baton, yanking it toward her. Roy, caught off guard, got pulled closer. She swung her other arm wide, silver flashing in her fist. She drove the knife into his throat, below the larynx, severing the trachea.

  Roy’s eyes stared at her, stunned, gurgling, unable to scream—but she understood his silent question.

  How?

  She answered him in a hiss. “Because this cat has claws.”

  Kat twisted the combat dagger hard. Blood sprayed a full yard across the spotless vinyl floor. In seconds, he bled out, and she let his body tumble to the floor.

  She wiped the blade on his clothes and folded it closed. When Roy had first tossed her into the cell, waiting for the sedatives to wear off before stripping her and taking away her clothes, she had fought through the fog, freed her left shoe, and removed the folded combat dagger concealed in the sole. She left the lock pick hidden in her right shoe; unfortunately, her cell door did not offer access to the keyhole outside. As she put her shoe back on, she hid the blade under a fold of the blanket.

  Later, when they had stripped her, examined her, and poked her full of needles, she waited until she had a moment alone, while putting on her hospital gown. Through the opening in the back, she slipped the folded dagger between her buttocks and held it clamped there—not the most seemly way to conceal a weapon, but sometimes a lady has to do what a lady has to do.

  Then she had to wait for a time to get Roy alone.

  She knew she would have only the one chance.

  Taking advantage of the moment, Kat worked fast and stripped Roy of his keys, electronic pass card, and baton. She rushed to the other cell and unlocked it.

  The young woman came staggering out, staring at the ruin of Roy’s body. “Thank you … my name’s Amy.”

  “C’mon,” Kat said, encouraging her.

  She hurried across the ward toward the pile of her clothes and quickly pulled on her shorts, blouse, and shoes. She pocketed her dagger and handed the baton to Amy.

  Amy squeezed the weapon in her fingers and glanced toward the exit. “There are armed guards down the hall. I don’t know how we’ll get past them.” She noticed Kat staring at the red steel doors on the other side of the ward. “They … they took my sister through there two weeks ago.”

  “Then that’s where we’re going,” Kat said.

  She wasn’t leaving without finding out what was going on here.

  Amy remained at Kat’s side, looking ready to follow her lead.

  “Grab the key card,” Kat ordered. “We’re going to find out what happened to your sister.”

  Amy gave a sharp nod of acknowledgment.

  Kat used the moment to grab her purse, which had been set aside with the rest of her clothes. She snapped it open and pulled out the surveillance pen she’d activated earlier. She tucked it into her blouse pocket with the camera end poking out.

  If I don’t make it, I want some record of all of this.

  Together, they sprinted to the other side of the ward. As they reached the doors, Kat took the keycard from Amy and passed it over the electronic reader. A heavy shift of gears rumbled. A red light blinked brightly overhead, likely wired to an alarm at that guard station outside. As secure as this place was, someone knew this vault was opening.

  How long until they came to investigate?

  Before her, the heavy doors parted wider, accompanied by a soft sigh of pressurized air.

  Kat stared inside—as Amy began screaming.

  6:18 P.M.

  Washington, DC

  “Interview everyone at that damned restaurant.”

  Painter paced the communications nest at Sigma headquarters, holding his earpiece in place as he directed the security detail in Charleston in the search for Lisa. The team had finally arrived on-site.

  He turned next to one of the analysts seated at a console. “How long on getting that feed from the local street cameras?”

  “Five or ten minutes.”

  He turned his back in frustration.

  Lisa, where did you go?

  After ordering her to leave the restaurant, he had expected a return call within minutes, alerting him to her location so his security team could sweep her up. But as time stretched with no word, panic had set in.

  “Director,” another technician said, pointing to a dark monitor. “I still can’t get anything more from Captain Bryant’s pen camera. The one planted in the clinic’s reception area. Either it’s been discovered or the battery has drained.”

  Painter nodded, acknowledging the information. He spoke to the head of the security team. “Split off two men. Send them to the fertility clinic. I want a full report on the status there.”

  “Yes, sir. Also, we finished questioning the restaurant staff. They confirmed a woman matching Dr. Cummings’s description had arrived. She ordered a drink—then suddenly, with no provocation, fled the building. The host saw her talking to three men outside, said she left with them. According to his statement, she informed him that she had been expecting guests.”

&nbs
p; Painter closed his eyes. Lisa had been expecting his team.

  It made no sense.

  “Widen the search grid,” Painter said. “See if anyone saw where they went.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Blood pressure pounded in his ears—but he still heard the deep bass of the voice at the door.

  “Director Crowe … a word.”

  He turned to find his boss, the head of DARPA, General Metcalf, standing at the threshold. The man wore the same suit as this morning, still looking fresh and expertly creased. The same could not be said of the general’s face. He looked worn, his eyes red, his jowls sagging.

  “Sir?”

  “We need to talk.”

  That statement never ended well. Underscoring the seriousness, Metcalf rarely stepped into Sigma headquarters. He preferred e-mail, faxes, and conference calls. His presence here did not bode well.

  Painter clenched and unclenched a fist. He didn’t have time for interruptions, but he had no choice. “We can use Captain Bryant’s office.”

  He led Metcalf to the windowed space off the communications nest and chased Jason Carter out of Kat’s chair. The young analyst was continuing to work on a private project for Painter.

  “Give us a few minutes,” Painter told the kid. Once alone, he faced Metcalf. “What’s this about?”

  “I’ve been in meetings with the secretary of defense and the joint chiefs. The president made a brief appearance.”

  Painter heard the drums of war beating in time with his heart. “And?” he asked, sensing what was coming.

  “We’re shutting Sigma down.”

  Painter shook his head, not in insubordination, just disbelief. He expected a strong negative reaction from the commander in chief, but not this, and certainly not this soon.

  “When?” he asked.

  Metcalf wore an expression of regret, but his voice never wavered. “You’re to cease all operations immediately.”

  Painter felt sucker-punched. “Sir, I’ve got agents in the field, many in dangerous situations.”

  “Call them back. Turn any of those situations over to local authorities or up the military chain of command.”