Sigma Force 10 - The Sixth Extinction Page 37

  The orb rolled the limp body around. Its oddly gentle touch did not burn the nymph’s flesh, as if this Volitox queen could control her acidic fire. Little was truly known about the life stages of these creatures. They were too violent, too dangerous to truly study. But the researchers here had already recognized the strong maternal instinct of these queens.

  Dylan took advantage of that now.

  Lowering one hand, he pulled on the fishing line and drew the carcass farther up the bank and away from its mother. He teased the Volitox closer, letting it believe its offspring might still be alive and trying to crawl away.

  The orb probed along its retreating path, stretching to reach the fleeing nymph’s body. Finally the queen had to arc its bulk out of the water to continue her pursuit.

  About time.

  Her head beached up onto the riverbank, revealing its torpedo-shaped bulk, the size of an orca whale, but tipped by a circular mouth, like that of a lamprey eel. Inside that puckering maw lay a bottomless well of spiraling hooked teeth.

  Dylan let go of the fishing line and steadied his aim, cupping one hand under the other. He centered his shot on the exposed base of the stalk, where he knew a huge ganglion lay, leading straight to the brain.

  One shot there should drop this beast.

  And if he missed, he still had a round chambered in the other barrel.

  I never need more than two shots.

  His finger firmed on the trigger and began to pull—

  —when gunfire erupted down the tunnel.

  Surprised, he twitched and his Howdah exploded. The wild round sparked off the rocky bank and ricocheted harmlessly into the darkness.

  The firefight continued at the far end of the tunnel, accompanied by the distinct chatter of a machine gun.

  What the hell?

  5:52 P.M.

  Huddled in the cab of the CAAT, Gray took out another man with a shotgun blast to the chest. The soldier’s body went flying back. Out of shells, he tossed the weapon aside and lifted the Heckler & Koch assault rifle from beside his seat.

  Nothing like commandeering a vehicle full of your enemy’s weapons.

  Not that he and his partner hadn’t come without some firepower of their own.

  Across the way, Kowalski stood outside the cab, crouched on the belted tread of the CAAT, shielded behind the open armored driver’s door. He balanced his machine gun on the door’s edge, creating his own makeshift gunner’s nest.

  Bodies littered the ground around the vehicle.

  Seven total.

  The two remaining soldiers teamed up and strafed the CAAT, giving up their attempt to reach the tunnel leading out of here. They turned tail and ran into the depths of the Coliseum, fleeing the lights and disappearing into the cover of darkness.

  Gray took a few potshots at them, but they were gone.

  “What now?” Kowalski asked.

  Gray stared off into that cavern. “Guard the fort,” he said, not trusting that the vanished pair might not try to retake this base. “I’m going after Wright.”

  Kowalski hauled his machine gun up and hopped down to the ground. He pointed his weapon at the bigger CAAT. “Time to switch rides. We have a river to cross if we still want to reach that Back Door.”

  It was a smart choice. Back at the bridge, he remembered overhearing a commando express concern about taking a smaller CAAT across those treacherous currents. The bigger vehicle would have a better chance.

  “Keep a watch out there,” Gray said.

  “You watch yourself.” Kowalski glanced back to the tunnel leading out from the Coliseum. “You’re not going to catch these bastards with their pants down. Not a second time. Especially Wright.”

  Gray silently agreed, reaching to his ears and tugging out the plugs.

  Their ruse had worked perfectly. Earlier, when he had first caught sight of the camp here, he had used the directional microphone built into his DSR rifle to eavesdrop on the soldiers’ conversations. He heard Wright talking to someone on the radio. He could only pick up the commando’s side of the call, but it was clear Wright had new orders, something important he needed to get before evacuating with his men.

  Whatever that was, Gray intended to stop him.

  Also, while en route, he had overheard the enemy’s plans to use the LRAD against the approaching CAAT, to knock the occupants out and take the vehicle by force. Knowing that, he and Kowalski had found protective gear in their ride: plugs and noise-dampening earphones. Down here, where many of the CAATs came equipped with portable LRADs, such emergency gear was likely standard equipment.

  So it was a simple matter of feigning incapacitation, slumping in their seats, which wasn’t a hard act since that sonic assault was agonizing, even with the noise-suppression gear. Still, the trick got the enemy to successfully lower their guard. Once the ex-British soldiers were near enough—laughing at their supposed victory—Gray and Kowalski had let loose with both barrels, firing from either side of the CAAT, catching the entire crew by surprise.

  But that’s where their ruse ended.

  Surely Wright had heard the brief firefight—and would be waiting for him.

  So be it.

  As he headed into the tunnel, he glanced to the far right, to where a twinkle of a star glowed high up the wall on that side. Jason and the others should have reached the Back Door by now. Gray had expected to hear that earth-shattering blast of those bunker busters by now.

  But so far nothing.

  What’s taking them so long?

  5:53 P.M.

  Jason leaped off the last rung and rushed toward the small glow in the darkness. He had made the descent as fast as he could in the darkness, coming close to falling twice. But he knew now was not the time for caution.

  He hurried through the muck and moss and reached Professor Harrington’s body. The man lay on his back, his eyes open and glassy. Blood ran from the corner of his lips, one arm broken and twisted under him.

  Oh, God . . .

  Jason fell to his knees in the ankle-deep algal sludge. He touched the professor’s shoulder, reaching with his other hand to close his eyes.

  I’m sorry.

  Then those eyes twitched, following his fingers. A small bloody bubble escaped from a left nostril.

  He’s still alive!

  But Jason knew it would not be for long. A bony kink in his thin neck looked like a cervical fracture.

  “Professor . . .”

  His pale lips moved, but no words came out.

  Jason hated to disturb the last moments of his life, but the situation here was too dire, the need too great. He reached to Harrington’s cheek and held it.

  “Professor, we need the code. Can you speak?”

  Harrington’s gaze found Jason’s face. Fear shone there—but not for himself. Those eyes flickered up toward the distant substation, toward his daughter.

  “I understand,” he said. “Don’t worry. Stella made it safely up top.”

  He wasn’t certain of that, but a lie that brought comfort couldn’t be a sin.

  With his words, some of that anxiety dimmed from the professor. His entire body sagged into the soft bed beneath him. He likely only lived because of the thick, damp growth covering the stone floor.

  “The code, professor,” Jason pleaded.

  The only acknowledgment was the slightest nod, only detectable because of his palm resting on the man’s cheek. Jason tried to get him to speak, but the professor’s gaze never left the glow of that distant station, to where he believed his daughter was safe.

  Finally the old man gave one last breath that sounded like a sigh, dying with a measure of peace, taking his secrets with him.

  Jason rose to his feet, defeated and grief-stricken.

  There’s nothing else I can do . . .

  31

  April 30, 1:58 P.M. AMT

  Roraima, Brazil

  “Picking up a smoke column ahead,” Sergeant Suarez said from the cockpit of the Valor. “It’s rising from t
hat summit.”

  Painter leaned to the window as the tiltrotor swept toward the lofty plateau of the summit. The engine nacelles turned, slowing their forward momentum. The pilot expertly shot the Valor over the tepui, banking slightly, then came to a perfect hover. Its blades chopped through a stream of smoke flowing out the open doors of a rustic French Normandy–style home, hidden within the mouth of a cave.

  Had to be Cutter Elwes’s abode.

  Elsewhere, Painter noted a still pond and a sinkhole in the middle of a stunted forest. As they hovered, a handful of men ran into view on the ground, taking potshots at the intruder.

  “Abramson! Henckel!” Suarez called out. “How about we show them how the Marines say hello?”

  The Valor swooped lower, lifting Painter slightly out of his seat. The hatch opened on one side, bringing in the roar of those engines and the bluster of the props. The two lance corporals already had their lines hooked. The ropes were thrown down and the men rolled out just as quickly. They fired as they spun along those lines, dropping several assailants, scattering the rest.

  The Valor’s wheels touched down a moment later.

  “Let’s join the party,” Drake said to Malcolm and Schmitt.

  Painter followed, a SIG Sauer in his fist, as the Marines bailed out.

  Suarez came behind them. “My men and I’ll hold the summit.” He tapped his ear. “Comms are open. Call if you need help.”

  Painter looked to the haze-shrouded home, knowing where they needed to search first.

  Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

  Painter led the team at a low run toward those open doors. The Marines had rifles at their shoulders, their beard-rusted cheeks fixed to their stocks. Painter kept his pistol ready, gripping the weapon two-handed.

  A lone assailant shot from an upper-story window.

  Drake shifted faster than Painter could react—and fired. Glass shattered, and a body fell through and toppled to the stone. They rushed past and entered a huge reception hall.

  Empty.

  “Elevator!” Painter said, pointing his pistol toward the wrought-iron cage.

  They hurried forward and found a handsome woman huddled on the floor in a neighboring alcove. She appeared unarmed, distraught. She offered no sign of resistance. From her puffy eyes and tear-stained face, whatever distressed her had little to do with their arrival.

  Painter pulled out a pair of laminated photos: one of Kendall Hess, one of Jenna Beck. He held them in front of her face. “Are these two people here?”

  She looked up, pointed to Hess, then the elevator.

  Painter had no time for niceties, not with a nuclear device set to detonate in California in under an hour. He pulled the woman to her feet. “Show me.”

  She stumbled to the elevator and pointed to a lower-level button, somewhere beneath this home.

  Painter let her go and piled into the cage with Drake. “Malcolm, Schmitt, search this place floor by floor. Look for Jenna. For Cutter Elwes.”

  He got confirmatory nods.

  Drake yanked the cage gate, and Painter pressed the button. The elevator sank away, passing through solid rock, dropping for longer than Painter had expected. Finally, the smoke grew thicker, and the cage dropped into a huge lab.

  Fires burned in spots, soot hung in the air, and a wall of glass looked like it had been shattered into this room from a neighboring lab.

  A pair of struggling men rolled into view from behind a workstation.

  The one on the bottom was clearly losing, his belly bloody, his neck throttled by a huge hand. His attacker lifted his other arm, baring a shattered piece of bloody glass. The aggressor’s face was a blackened ruin—but Painter still noted the trace of a familiar scar.

  He aimed his SIG Sauer and shot twice, both rounds piercing the man’s forehead. The giant toppled backward to the floor.

  Painter hurried forward, going to the aid of the injured man. He wore a biosafety suit with the hood torn away. It was Kendall Hess.

  “Dr. Hess, I’m Painter Crowe. We’ve come to—”

  Hess didn’t need any more encouragement. Maybe the Marine in full battle gear behind him was enlightenment enough. Gloved fingers clutched Painter’s arm.

  “I need to get word to California. I know how to stop what was unleashed from my lab.”

  It was the first good news in days.

  “What about Jenna Beck?” Drake asked.

  Hess glanced to him, likely hearing the distress in the Marine’s voice. “She’s here . . . but she’s in grave danger.”

  “Where is she? What danger?”

  Hess’s gaze flicked to a wall clock. “Even if she lives, she’ll be gone in another thirty minutes.”

  Drake’s face paled. “What do you mean, gone?”

  2:04 P.M.

  Jenna struggled through the fog filling her head. It took an extra thought for every movement:

  . . . grab vine.

  . . . hook leg.

  . . . shimmy to the next branch.

  Jori kept glancing back at her, his brow wrinkling in concern, not understanding why she was slowing so much.

  “Go on,” she said, waving him forward. Even her tongue felt sluggish and leaden, refusing to form words without that same extra bit of attention.

  She tried her mantra to keep her moving like before.

  I am Jenna Beck, daughter . . . daughter of . . . She shook her head, trying to dislodge that haze. I have a dog.

  She pictured his black nose, always cold, poking her.

  Nikko . . .

  Those sharp ears.

  Nikko . . .

  His eyes—one white-blue, the other brown.

  Nikko . . .

  That was good enough for now.

  She focused on the boy, following his actions, mimicking instead of having to think. He slowly got farther ahead. She lifted an arm to call him, but no name came out. She blinked—then remembered, the name rising through the fog, but she feared if that haze got any thicker soon nothing would come through.

  She opened her mouth again to call him, but another beat her to it, shouting from somewhere ahead.

  “JORI!”

  2:06 P.M.

  Cutter called again, growing hoarse. “Jori!”

  Earlier he had heard an explosion, saw a strange aircraft thunder past the sinkhole, followed by an echoing spatter of gunfire. He felt his world collapsing around him, but nothing else mattered at this moment.

  “Jori! Where are you?”

  His group had reached the base of the corkscrewing ramp and started along the long gravel road through the forest. Rahei had the lead, shouldering a rifle equipped with a stun attachment. Five more men flanked and trailed him, all heavily armed. Cutter also had a triggering device for the munitions buried below the floor of this sinkhole. It was a contingency plan if he ever needed to cleanse this place, but at the moment, he contemplated it more as an act of revenge.

  If these beasts harmed my son . . .

  “Jori!”

  Then to the left of the road, a faint call pierced the forest. “PAPA!”

  “It’s him! He’s alive.”

  A joy filled him like no other—accompanied by a measure of dread. He could not let anything happen to his son.

  Rahei fell back and pointed into the forest in the direction of his son’s voice. If anyone could find him, it was his sister-in-law. She was one of the best hunters he knew. She set off, dragging them all with her. She did not curb her pace to compensate for any deficiency in those that followed, and Cutter would have it no other way.

  “Papa!”

  Closer now.

  After another minute, Rahei rushed forward as a figure that was all gangly limbs dropped out of the trees into her arms. She swung Jori in a full circle, then placed him on his feet, giving him one hard hug.

  Cutter dropped to one knee, his arms wide.

  Jori ran up to him and leaped into his embrace.

  “I’m very angry with you, my dear boy.” Bu
t he hugged his son even tighter and kissed the top of his head.

  From that same tree, another figure climbed down, falling the last two yards, but still landing on her feet.

  Rahei looked ready to stun her into submission, but Cutter knew Jenna had not caused any of this. In fact, she likely saved Jori’s life. He crossed to her and embraced her, too, feeling her stiffen in his grip.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Once loose, she swallowed visibly, looking like she was trying to say something. Her eyes were stitched with thick blood vessels, as they flicked around the forest.

  She was nearly gone.

  I’m sorry . . .

  “Take her with us,” he said. She didn’t deserve to die down here, not any longer, not after saving his son. “Let’s hurry. We’ll take the secret tunnels down to the forest. I don’t know what’s happening topside, but I think we’re compromised.”

  Rahei led the way again, setting a hard pace.

  The road appeared ahead, but before they could reach it, the man to Cutter’s left dropped, his head falling backward, his neck cleaved to the bone. Blood spayed the branches as he toppled.

  Something struck Cutter from behind, lifting him off his feet and throwing him several yards. He crashed and rolled through a thornbush. He caught sight of a massive furred flank barreling past him. He rolled to his side, staying low as gunfire erupted all around, shredding through ferns, ripping away bark, but there was no longer any sign of the attackers.

  Cutter sat up, searching around.

  What the hell happened?

  “Jori . . .” Jenna said, her voice strained. “They took him.”

  Cutter spun around, rising like a whirlwind, searching everywhere.

  His son was gone.

  Rahei stalked to his side, her face cold with fury.

  “Where?” Cutter turned to Jenna. “Where did they go?”

  Jenna pointed toward the darkest part of the forest, where the ancient jungle washed up against the walls of the sinkhole.

  “Their caves . . .” he realized.

  Megatherium were cave dwellers, using their thick claws to dig out burrows and dens.