Bloodline: A Sigma Force Novel Read online

  Gant focused harder on him. “Go on.”

  “This inner circle has also hidden under many names, burying themselves in countless secret societies to cover their footprints, going back centuries.”

  “Centuries?” a skeptical note rang in the man’s voice.

  “At least to the Middle Ages,” Painter confirmed. “Maybe even farther back into the past.”

  He flicked a glance toward Jason. The young analyst was tracing the lineage of the Gant family deeper into history, but it was slow going, and that track grew fainter, worn away by time into mere rumor and suspicion.

  “What about now?” Gant said, keeping his eye on the target. “What do you know about their operations today?”

  “We know two things. First, we know they’re tied to your family.”

  Gant choked slightly. “What?”

  Painter forged on before he lost the man completely. “Second, we know the name most commonly associated with them is the Bloodline.”

  Gant stirred at the mention of that word, plainly recognizing it. Painter was not surprised by his reaction. Amanda had known the name, too, but he wanted to hear what the president had to say.

  “Director, I respect you. I owe you a great debt of gratitude, but you’re chasing ghosts. You’ve taken rumor and hearsay and added flesh and bone to it.”

  Painter remained silent, letting Gant have his say.

  The president continued, “Suspicions plague most rich families. Rumors wrapped in conspiracies entwined in maniacal plots. Take your pick. The Kennedys, the Rockefellers, the Vanderbilts, the Rothschilds. In the past, each one of them has been tied to secret societies and global machinations. And we’re no exception. Go ahead and pluck any card out of that conspiracy deck—Freemasonry, the Trilateral Commission, skull and Bones, the Bilderberg Group—and you’ll find some story connecting them to our family.”

  Gant shook his head, plainly disappointed. “That name—Bloodline—that’s our family’s personal boogeyman. Made to scare children into obeying. Stories about a family within our family. It’s not supposed to be mentioned beyond our doors. Growing up, I heard all sorts of tales, mostly spoken under bedcovers at night. Of people who mentioned that name too loudly—only to suddenly disappear.”

  I’m sure they did, Painter thought. Likely killed or recruited into the fold.

  “You’ve been hoodwinked, director. Sold a bill of goods if you’ve fallen into that conspiratorial trap.”

  Painter felt the wind dying in the man’s sails, knowing now was the time. He nodded to Jason. “Bring up the footage I asked you to prepare.” He returned his attention to Gant. “Amanda described a symbol painted on that tent-cabin in Somalia. We found that same mark again closer to home. At the fertility clinic where she had her in vitro fertilization performed.”

  Jason stepped back. On the monitor, Kat’s footage began to play. It showed her again rushing up to a set of large steel doors.

  “Pause it there,” Painter said, fighting down a pang of worry for Kat and Lisa.

  The video stopped and focused squarely on the center of the door. A large embossing stood out plainly: a crimson cross with genetic code wrapped within it. Earlier, Amanda had recognized it, claiming it was a symbol tied to the Bloodline.

  From Gant’s flinch, he knew it, too. He leaned closer, his voice hushed. “Impossible.”

  Painter motioned for Jason to continue the footage. “This is what that symbol hid.”

  Painter didn’t watch the video. He didn’t need to see that again. Instead, he studied the president’s profile. The blood visibly drained from the man’s face. His lips parted in a silent gasp of horror.

  Knowing he’d seen enough, Painter made a cutting motion across his own neck.

  Jason ended the playback, leaving the president stunned.

  It took a long minute for Gant to look away from the screen, to turn haunted eyes toward Painter. Behind that glassy numbness, Painter knew Gant pictured his own daughter.

  To his credit, the man nodded, accepting the truth. As he stood, his voice hardened to a vengeful edge. “If you’re right, if members of my own family perpetrated such atrocities, committed such cruelties upon my daughter, I want them hunted down.” His anger focused on one question now. “Where do we start?”

  Before Painter could answer, another person must have heard Gant’s rising anger and recognized it.

  “Daddy …?”

  Everyone turned back to the hospital bed in the next room. The patient’s eyes were open. She searched blearily.

  “Amanda …!” Gant rushed to her bedside, crashing to one knee to take her hand. “Baby girl, I’m here.”

  Amanda found her father’s face. But rather than relief, a faint reflection of Gant’s fury shone there. Her fingers tightened on her father’s hand. She fought through the dregs of her sedation.

  He consoled his daughter. “You’re going to be fine.”

  Amanda wanted no such reassurances—only results.

  “Daddy, they took William. They took my baby boy. You—” Her fingers clutched until her knuckles paled. “You get him back.”

  The demand took the last of her strength. She stared into her father’s face, exacting a promise from him. With her duty passed on, her eyes rolled back. Her fingers slipped free.

  The neurosurgeon stepped forward. “She still needs more rest.”

  Gant ignored him and turned to Painter, still on one knee. His face was forlorn, but his eyes were determined.

  “What must I do to get my grandson back?”

  Painter pictured the video footage shot by Kane’s vest camera: showing a mouse’s-eye view from the bottom of a boat. He had watched it several times over the past half-day—the boat chase, the capture, the drugging of Gray Pierce—each time grateful for the man’s ingenuity and sacrifice in securing this secret footage. It offered them a slim chance to turn the tide against the enemy.

  Painter intended to take it.

  “What do you need me to do?” Gant pressed.

  Painter stared him in the eye and told him the blunt truth.

  “You need to die, Mr. President.”

  33

  July 4, 11:34 A.M. EST

  Washington, DC

  Gray rode back into the world on a bolt of lightning.

  The electric shock burned through his skull, as if someone had shoved the right side of his face against a red-hot stovetop. He gasped, tried to roll away from the pain, but could not escape it. The only relief came as the burn faded on its own.

  Then something bit into the back of his hand. Warmth shot up his arm, into his chest, and ignited his heart. His heart tripped a frantic beat. Blood pressure pounded at his ears. His breathing grew labored for several seconds until the effect wore off.

  The jolt left him tingling, hyperalert. The world snapped into sudden, sharp focus, still tinged red at the edges. He lay on his back, his pulse throbbing in his throat. As he collected himself, he reached above to touch a concrete roof, so low he could brush his fingertips over its rough surface.

  He noted a device strapped to his wrist: a syringe locked into a mechanical delivery system. He ripped it off, rolling to the side and holding off the punctured vein.

  He must have been given a counteragent to his sedative, returning him to full alertness in seconds.

  But where am I?

  Concrete walls surrounded him on all sides, creating a box five feet wide and three feet tall. The illumination was sharp, painfully bright, coming from a battery-powered lamp in the corner. A long metal case rested on the floor near his feet, and one of the walls had a thin aperture, sealed by a steel shutter. Even if open, the hole was too narrow to climb through. The only exit appeared to be the hatch in the floor, sealed from the outside.

  What is going on?

  The answer came from inside his head, from deep within his right ear. “GOOD MORNING, COMMANDER PIERCE,” a mechanized voice greeted him. It sounded like one of those soulless computerized answering servi
ces—though he suspected he was hearing a real voice, digitally masked.

  “THE RUDE AWAKENING WAS A NECESSITY.” There was no apologetic tone to that statement, merely matter-of-factness. “THE SHOCK AND THE INJECTION OF METHYLPHENIDATE SHOULD HAVE YOU ALERT AND READY FOR THE TASK AT HAND. YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES UNTIL YOU MUST ACT.”

  “To do what?” he asked loudly to the bare walls of his concrete crypt. He suspected the answer, glancing at what looked to be a rifle case.

  The voice continued to speak, either ignoring him or perhaps this conversation was a one-way transmission.

  “THE RADIO DEEP IN YOUR EAR IS BOLTED IN PLACE AND WIRED VIA A BLASTING CAP. YOU’LL FIND THAT SAME EAR PACKED FULL OF C-4.”

  Disturbed, Gray probed with a finger and discovered a wad of hard material jammed into the canal. He pictured what would happen if that exploded, and quickly pushed that thought away.

  The speaker continued, “THE DEVICE CAN ALSO BE USED AS PUNISHMENT, AS YOU EXPERIENCED UPON WAKING. ADDITIONALLY, IT’S WIRED TO A TRANSMITTER HELD BY A GUARD OUTSIDE. IF YOU STRAY BEYOND TEN YARDS FROM THAT TRANSMITTER, YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS TO GET BACK IN RANGE, OR THE DEVICE WILL AUTOMATICALLY EXPLODE.”

  They’ve got me connected to an electric leash.

  A tingle of foreboding worked through his drug-induced hypervigilance.

  “AS TO YOUR DUTY,” the voice said, “AT EXACTLY NOON TODAY, YOU WILL ASSASSINATE PRESIDENT JAMES T. GANT. YOU WILL FIND A SNIPER RIFLE AND A MAGAZINE WITH TWO ROUNDS, IN CASE YOU MISS ON YOUR FIRST SHOT. YOU WILL NOT BE GIVEN A THIRD CHANCE. PREPARE YOURSELF NOW.”

  The lamp blinked off inside the bunker. A small motorized hum sounded, and the shuttered window opened. Sunlight streamed into the space through the slats. He wasn’t blinded. He realized the brightness of the lamp had been to assist him with maintaining his day vision.

  Gray searched around for a camera, while he rolled and crawled to the gun case and snapped it open. Nestled inside was a Marine Corps M40A3 sniper rifle, along with a stabilizing bipod. He slipped the weapon free, checking its heft and balance. He knew this rifle. It had an effective range of a thousand yards.

  But what fell within that range?

  Gray moved into the sunlight’s blaze. Staring between the slats, he distantly made out the tip of the Washington Monument poking above a line of towering oaks.

  I’m back in DC.

  He oriented himself. Through the trees, sunlight glinted off water. That had to be the Potomac. Shifting to the left and peering sideways, he caught a peek, far to the right, of a rolling expanse of green lawns, dogwoods, and rows of small white gravestones. He knew that place too well: he had many friends buried there. Arlington Cemetery. He was north of the park, likely not far from the USMC War Memorial.

  Closer at hand, viewed down a short street that ended at an oak-studded park, people milled about a large gathering of tents and booths. Most were wearing various shades of armed forces uniforms, from dress blues to camouflage khakis.

  He raised the rifle and peered through the telescopic sight, adjusting the Unertl 10x lens to focus on that gathering. The view zoomed to reveal barbecues, children running and laughing, a military band playing on a shaded stage. The distant beat of drum and sharper notes of brass reached him.

  In the center of the picnic grounds, a tall platform had been erected, framed by an arch of red, white, and blue balloons.

  He shifted the sight to maximum, concentrating on the group clustered by the podium. They appeared to be top military brass from every branch of service.

  Among them, he spotted his supposed target.

  With his back to Gray, President James T. Gant kissed his wife, who was decked out in a dark blue pantsuit, with a muted pink-and-white-striped top, and silver flats. It was a festive look for this Fourth of July barbecue, a USO celebration. Gray also knew the First Couple were hosting a fireworks-viewing party on the South Lawn of the White House later tonight.

  But the day’s strain already showed on the First Lady’s face.

  The detail through the scope—even at seven hundred yards—revealed the grief etched in the lines around her eyes, hidden as best she could under thick makeup. Her fingers clung to her husband’s hand, trying to hold him as he stepped to the podium, but the president had to show a strong face to the world.

  The pair both thought their daughter dead—and maybe Amanda was. The last memory Gray had of her was floating in dark waters, supported by his two teammates. The administration must not have announced the kidnapping and death of Amanda, likely waiting for confirmation from the charred remains. Probably the White House chief speechwriter already struggled on the wording for that tragic announcement.

  In the meantime, the parents had to put on a show of normalcy.

  President Gant stepped to the podium, lifting a hand and waving.

  A distant cheer rose.

  Gray turned away, crouching lower in his sniper’s nest, resting the rifle across his knees. He picked up the magazine, eyed the cartridges—the newer M118LR rounds, for heightened accuracy.

  Two of them.

  They had better be accurate.

  He remembered the warning: You will not be given a third chance.

  But why did his kidnappers believe he would agree to assassinate the president? They had Seichan, but that wasn’t enough leverage, as much as it pained him to admit it. He knew they would likely carry out horrible atrocities against her in an attempt to ensure his cooperation—or to punish his failure.

  That fear sat like a cold stone in his gut.

  He knew that, even to save her, he could not sacrifice the leader of the free world. Frustrated, he tightened his fingers on the fiberglass stock of the rifle and on the cold length of deadly muzzle.

  I’m sorry, Seichan. I can’t do it.

  “FOUR MINUTES,” the voice finally announced, and, as if reading his mind, the speaker gave him the incentive to act. “TO ENSURE YOUR COOPERATION, WE HAVE BURIED FIFTEEN PLASTIC CARTRIDGES OF SARIN GAS WITH INDETECTABLE TRIGGERS THROUGHOUT THE PARK. THE DISPERSAL PATTERN WILL SWEEP THE FIELDS, KILLING EVERYONE THERE, INCLUDING THE PRESIDENT. THOSE CHARGES WILL GO OFF TWENTY SECONDS AFTER NOON. UNLESS THE PRESIDENT IS KILLED FIRST.”

  Gray imagined that wafting nerve gas, so lethal even the briefest skin contact caused an agonizing end.

  “ONE DEATH VERSUS HUNDREDS OF INNOCENT MEN, WOMEN, AND CHILDREN. THE CHOICE IS YOURS, COMMANDER PIERCE. EITHER END WILL SERVE OUR NEEDS. BUT IT SERVES OUR PURPOSE BETTER IF YOU PULL THAT TRIGGER. A LONE DEATH BY ASSASSINATION WILL BE FAR MORE POIGNANT AND POWERFUL THAN ONE DEATH AMONG MANY.”

  The coldness of that calculation reached Gray, chilling him.

  “ALSO, WITH YOUR RIFLE DISCOVERED HERE, AS WELL AS YOUR DNA, THE ASSASSINATION WILL BE BLAMED ON THE ROGUE ACTIONS OF A DISGRUNTLED COVERT OPERATIVE, ONE WHO WAS RETALIATING AGAINST THE MOTHBALLING OF HIS GROUP BY THE ADMINISTRATION.”

  In effect, putting the final nail in Sigma’s coffin.

  But the Guild’s schemes were even grander than that.

  “SUCH AN ACT WILL REQUIRE AN ENTIRE REVAMPING OF THE UNITED STATES’ COVERT AND INTELLIGENCE AGENCIES. ONE OVERSEEN BY US, AS WE TAKE OVER THE WHITE HOUSE WITH THE NEXT ELECTION. THAT POIGNANT SYMPATHY FOR THE DEATH OF JAMES GANT WILL EXTEND TO HIS FAMILY MEMBERS, TO SOMEONE ALREADY STANDING AT HIS SIDE IN A POSITION OF POWER.”

  … extend to his family members …

  Gray felt sick to his stomach. As he listened, armed with his new knowledge, he could now hear the slight Southern cadence, the word choice that couldn’t be wiped away digitally. His mind raced, picturing the man who stood so steadfastly at his brother’s shoulder, whom the world already loved and respected and would surely hand the reins of power to. The man only had to ask for the White House after such a tragedy, and it would be given to him—in a landslide.

  The secretary of state.

  Robert Lee Gant.

  Gray squeezed his eyes closed. He suddenly remembered sensing that Painter had been keeping something
hidden from him, something about the Guild, about the organization behind his mother’s fiery death.

  Was this that secret?

  Had Painter suspected the man all along?

  No wonder the director hadn’t wanted anyone in the Gant family to know about Amanda surviving Somalia. He feared word would reach the president’s brother.

  Anger burned at the edges of his dismay. He logically knew why the director had kept such a secret from him. Gray might have taken the man out immediately, jeopardizing everyone around him. And, ultimately, the foreknowledge of that traitor in the White House would not have changed Gray’s mission objectives.

  Apparently, such knowledge was “need to know” only.

  And Gray wasn’t on that list.

  Still …

  You should have told me.

  “ONE MINUTE,” the voice warned. “YOU WILL WAIT FOR OUR SIGNAL—THEN FIRE.”

  Gray secured the magazine in place and returned to his post at the aperture. Shame and anger burned through him. He didn’t know if the voice had been lying about those gas canisters—or if they’d be blown up anyway. Either way, Gray knew he couldn’t take that chance.

  James T. Gant had to die.

  He stared through the rifle’s telescopic scope and lowered the crosshairs to the profile of the president as the man turned to the side. He double-checked his range—seven hundred yards—and fixed the main targeting chevron of the rifle’s sights upon the occipital bone behind the man’s left ear, knowing a shot there would do the most damage. Festive music and bright laughter from the holiday picnic filtered to him. He let it all fade into the background as he concentrated on his target, on his mission.

  In U.S. history, three presidents had died on the exact same day, on July 4, on the birthday of this country. It seemed beyond mere chance.

  Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and James Monroe.