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  Kowalski swiped his card again.

  C’mon, Elizabeth, don’t let me down.

  Despite his silent plea, the tiny light remained red.

  What the hell!

  He fingered the card, wondering if he didn’t deserve this fate. But under his fingertips, he realized the magnetic strip was on the wrong side. In the dark, he had the card turned around the wrong way.

  He flipped the card, jammed it through the reader, and watched the light flash to green, accompanied by a gratifying roll of tumblers. He grabbed the handle and shoved the door open.

  They all piled into the hallway. Kowalski slammed the door behind them, then leaned against it with relief. Muffled shots rang out from the far side, ricocheting brightly off the steel, reminding them they had no time to relish this small victory.

  “We need to keep going,” Jason warned. “There’s no telling how many more might be out here.”

  Kowalski nodded. “Follow me.”

  He pushed off the door and ran down the hall to a stairwell. It was the same one he and Jason had used to reach the basement level. They fled back up to the side exit. Kowalski had his Desert Eagle in hand again, and he waved Jason and Dr. Gutierrez through the door as he propped it open and covered them. He watched the parking lot for any sign of an ambush, while listening with an ear cocked for any sound of pursuit from within the museum.

  The Jeep stood only a handful of yards away. Jason got the young woman into the front passenger seat, then hopped onto the rear bench. The kid stood with his back against the roll bar and raised his SIG Sauer, swiveling it to cover the lot.

  “Go!” Jason ordered.

  Kowalski rolled away from the door, letting it close behind him, and sprinted around the front of the Jeep to reach the driver’s side. As he climbed in, he heard a screaming whine rise from behind the museum. He remembered Jason saying that the alarm had been tripped from a broken window back there.

  As Kowalski fumbled the key into the ignition, he watched a single headlight come careening around the far corner into the parking lot. It was a motorcycle, bearing two helmeted riders. The one in the rear rose high in his seat, lifting a rifle to his shoulder.

  Kowalski twisted the key, and the engine coughed and died.

  A rifle blast exploded across the quiet night.

  The windshield fractured.

  Son of a bitch . . .

  Jason returned fire from the back, shooting over the roll bar. Kowalski pumped the accelerator once, then tried the key again, suddenly very worried about his wiring job on the ignition coil. But the engine coughed—then caught with a jolt of the frame, growling roughly.

  Good enough.

  He yanked them into reverse, then shoved his boot to the floor. The Jeep sped backward, earning a hard oof from Jason as the roll bar slammed into his chest. But the kid’s assault had succeeded in driving the motorcycle to the side, forcing the enemy to zigzag through a copse of trees flanking Twelfth Street.

  Taking advantage of the moment, Kowalski yelled, “Hold tight!” and yanked hard on the wheel.

  The Jeep jackknifed around.

  Jason hugged the roll bar with one arm to keep his footing.

  Dr. Gutierrez slid from her seat into Kowalski’s side, but he still managed to shift into first. He sped them away, aiming for Madison Drive, which ran along the front of the museum.

  “Kowalski!” Jason hollered.

  But he had already spotted the threat. Two more motorcycles converged on their position, coming from opposite directions down Madison: one traveling with traffic, weaving swiftly through the scatter of cars at this hour; the other coming the wrong way down the one-way street.

  Gunfire erupted behind them as the first bike took erratic potshots at them.

  Rounds pinged off his bumper and back panel.

  Jason returned fire just as wildly.

  As the Jeep reached the end of the lot, Kowalski thought quickly. He hated to carry this battle to the streets, where innocent bystanders might be caught in the firefight. Plus even if he attempted to take Madison, he would be pinned down on all sides.

  That left only one choice.

  “Duck low and hold tight!” he ordered his passengers.

  He gunned the engine, shifting rapidly up through the three gears, and shot out across Madison. He passed across the path of a late-night bus and between the two converging motorcycles. He hit the far curb, bounced the Jeep high, and crashed through the temporary fencing that surrounded the section of the National Mall that was under construction. He landed hard on all four tires and kept going without slowing.

  Ahead, the landscape was a roiled mix of rock piles, towering dunes of soil, and treacherous pits. This phase of the construction project ran the half-mile stretch from Seventh Street almost to the foot of the Washington Monument.

  “What’re you doing?” Jason called out.

  “What the hell does it look like?”

  “Looks like you don’t know what you’re doing!”

  “Exactly! It’s called improvising!”

  As Jason let out a loud groan, Kowalski headed deeper into the tortured terrain at breakneck speed. In the rearview mirror, he saw the three motorcycles close in behind him. The enemy was not giving up that easily.

  Kowalski remembered earlier how he had wanted to test this Jeep off-road.

  Looks like I’m about to get my chance.

  Jason hugged one arm around the roll bar as the Jeep sped deeper into the excavation site. Ahead, the brightly lit spire of the Washington Monument rose into the night sky.

  As the Jeep rattled over the uneven ground, he did his best to keep his balance on the rear bench seat, assisted by the fact that one boot had ripped through the worn fabric and sunk into the springs.

  A rifle blasted behind him, the round pinging off the back hatch of the vehicle. Still keeping one arm hooked to the bar, he raised his SIG Sauer and fired wildly at the closest motorcycle. It had a good thirty-yard lead on the other two and looked ready to close the distance by itself.

  More rifle flashes burst from the cycle. Again all the rounds struck low: into the dirt or ricocheting off the bumper.

  Must be trying to take out the back tires . . .

  If so, it suggested they were trying to keep Sara alive.

  But why?

  “Hang on!” Kowalski called out.

  What do you think I’m doing back here?

  As the lead bike gunned toward them, Kowalski carved a sharp turn around a tall berm of loose dirt. The vehicle tilted precariously. Kowalski expertly downshifted, then punched the accelerator again.

  The thick-treaded tires dug into the mound of soil and cast a rooster tail behind the Jeep. The cascading wave of dirt and gravel struck the trailing motorcycle, swamping it and knocking it to the ground.

  Kowalski cleared the berm and set off again.

  Jason regained his legs, searching behind them.

  One down . . .

  The two other bikes hit the berm, flew high, landed expertly on their back wheels—and sped after them.

  A new barrage of gunfire chased them, coming from both motorcycles.

  Jason felt a round whistle past his ear. Two others pelted the top edge of the windshield. Kowalski pushed Sara lower, almost cramming her into the footwell. Jason followed his example and dropped flat to the bench seat.

  The sudden change in tactics by the enemy suggested that circumstances had changed, that new orders had been radioed from their superiors.

  Shoot to kill.

  Kowalski kept one eye on the shadowy terrain ahead of him and another on the rearview mirror. The two angry black hornets gained on his position. The riders had momentarily stopped firing, hunkering down instead, forgoing the attack to race faster.

  He understood their plan.

  They intended to flank him, to trap the Jeep in cross fire.

  Like hell . . . you’re on my home turf now.

  Though admittedly that turf was long gone. Over the past
month, he’d often climbed up to the roof of the Castle and watched the heavy equipment scrape away the old lawn, haul in truckloads of new topsoil, and excavate irrigation trenches and deep pits for future cisterns. He had found the rumble of John Deere motors and the chatter of work crews to be soothing. It was his white noise, his version of the patter of rain or the sonorous calls of whales.

  “Where are you going?” Jason called to him, a note of panic in his voice.

  Ahead, a mountain of dirt blocked their path, climbing two stories.

  “Up,” he answered.

  He had no doubt the Jeep could tackle this summit, but he needed all the torque he could muster from the Chevy engine. He momentarily slowed, dropping a gear. The two motorcycles narrowed the gap, each swinging wider, preparing to flank him. From the blistering screams of those bikes, he imagined they were stretching their two-stroke engines to their limits.

  But was it enough for the steep banks of loose dirt?

  Let’s find out.

  As he reached the foot of the mountain, he pounded the accelerator, while popping into first. The Jeep’s wheels momentarily spun—then the treads caught, and the vehicle bolted forward like a spanked horse. It shot up the steep slope, accelerating swiftly, proving how true a thoroughbred the vehicle was deep down.

  Dr. Gutierrez gasped, falling back in her seat; Jason swore behind him.

  The enemy gave chase, riding up the bank of topsoil. Both riders were plainly skilled, shimmying their rear tires to keep from miring down in the dirt. They soon drew even with Kowalski’s rear bumper, their reflections filling either side mirror. The bikers freed pistols from thigh holsters, readying to open fire on the Jeep.

  “Kowalski!” Jason moaned.

  The crest of the mountain was only yards away. Still, they’d never reach the top before being overtaken.

  Just as well.

  Kowalski slammed the brakes hard, drawing the Jeep to a swift stop.

  The maneuver was too sudden for the enemy to respond. Both bikes blasted past the Jeep’s stalled position, then reached the summit and shot high. Kowalski tried to imagine the view from those bikes.

  He grinned darkly and edged the Jeep up to the top. From that lofty vantage, he watched the two cycles arc high—then tumble headlong toward a massive pit on the mountain’s far side. The hill had been formed as the construction crew had dug out a deep cistern, one that was destined to hold over two hundred thousand gallons of water.

  Plus two motorcycles now.

  The pair of bikes crashed hard into the muck at the bottom of the pit.

  Jason patted Kowalski on the shoulder as he reversed the Jeep down the embankment. “I owe you.”

  “A dozen hand-rolled Cubans and we’ll call it even.” Kowalski turned to Dr. Gutierrez, who looked pale and near shock. “So why are you so important?”

  Jason let Sara breathe heavily for a couple of minutes before pursuing Kowalski’s line of questioning. Once the Jeep cleared out of the restoration site and got back onto Madison Drive, he leaned forward in the back seat. Behind him, he watched the flashing lights of emergency vehicles closing in on the Mall.

  It was time to get clear of here—and get some answers.

  “Sara, can you tell us what you were working on for the Smithsonian? Why you were at the museum?”

  She turned toward him. Her eyes were still huge, but her breathing had calmed. “I’m here on a fellowship, working with the Smithsonian’s Ancient DNA program.”

  Jason had gleaned that much from her staff file. “What sort of work are you doing for them?”

  She gave a confused shake of her head. “The goal of our program is to study genetic variability and changes over time in various species. To help achieve that, my colleagues and I extract and analyze DNA from ancient sources.”

  “Ancient sources?”

  “From mineralized bones, archaeological artifacts, or in the case tonight . . .” She retrieved her leather satchel from the footwell and placed it protectively in her lap. “From museum specimens.”

  Kowalski grimaced at the bag. “What sort of specimens?”

  “Each of us is assigned a different taxonomic family of species. In my case, I work with all Hominidae. That covers all the great apes. Orangutans, gorillas, chimpanzees, and bonobos.”

  “But also one other,” Jason added. “Hominidae also includes the genus Homo, which includes us humans.”

  She nodded, glancing more intently at him for knowing this. “That’s right. I’ve collected and documented genomic samples from most known hominin species, from the most ancient to modern man.” She ticked them off. “Homo erectus, Homo habilis, Homo neanderthalensis, and several other obscure ancestors of ours. It’s why I was at the museum tonight. To collect DNA samples from a newly acquired set of fossils.”

  “And you’ve been storing these results on your lab computer?”

  “That’s right.”

  Jason leaned back, struggling to understand what the Chinese might want with such esoteric scientific data. It made no sense. But for the moment that could wait. He remembered the mission assigned to him: secure not only Dr. Gutierrez but also her computer. Beyond safeguarding the files that had not been stolen in the initial cyberattack, he was still hoping there might be some digital evidence left on her computer that might point to the perpetrator.

  “Sara, I need to access your computer . . . tonight . . . before anyone corrupts what’s there. After we drop you off somewhere safe—”

  She swung toward him. “I’ll need to go with you.”

  “Why?”

  “My computer is doubly secured, both with an alphanumeric password and an EyeLock myris system.”

  “What’s that?” Kowalski asked.

  Jason groaned, knowing the answer. It was a commercially available iris scanner used for identity authentication. “Looks like we’re all sticking together awhile longer.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Kowalski drove the Jeep down a small, winding road through Rock Creek Park. The darkly forested route led toward the rear of the National Zoo property, where a private gate offered easy access to the campus of the Rock Creek Research Labs.

  “The gate should be around the next bend,” Sara said as she shivered against the gale of cold wind sweeping across the open-air vehicle.

  Kowalski had cranked the heater up as high as it would go, but it was like holding your hands around a candle in a blizzard. He found his own teeth beginning to chatter.

  “My office is only a short distance past the fence,” she promised them.

  Jason leaned closer to Kowalski. “The director has the campus locked down by the Zoological Park Police. They should be waiting for us at the gate.”

  Sara lifted a white staff card. “If not, I have my pass.”

  As the Jeep rounded the bend, the perimeter fence appeared. A small service gate stood open, lit by a single lamppost. Kowalski spotted no guards or the promised police escort.

  He shared a worried look with Jason.

  “Maybe the staff left it open for us,” the kid offered. “Or maybe they’re waiting for us at Sara’s office.”

  And maybe pigs fly out my ass.

  As he approached the gate, Kowalski goosed the Jeep faster, just in case anyone tried to ambush them at the fencerow. Neither of his passengers asked him to slow down.

  He sped through the gate and onto the zoo grounds. A cluster of office buildings hugged both sides of the road ahead, looking like any business complex. Beyond them, past another fence, the main park beckoned.

  “My office is in the second building on the left.”

  It appeared to be the only one lit up this night. A lone figure stood limned against that glow.

  “That’s Jill Masterson,” Sara said, sighing out her relief, plainly happy to see a familiar face. “She’s a lieutenant with the Park Police.”

  Kowalski drew alongside the officer, still searching for any threat. As he kept the engine idling, he could make out the nighttime cries an
d calls of the neighboring park’s denizens. The breeze carried the scent of cherry blossoms, along with an underlying heavier musk blowing from the grounds.

  The lieutenant approached. She appeared to be in her midthirties. She was fit, dressed in a crisp park uniform with her auburn hair tucked into a cap. From the scowl fixed to her face, she was not happy about this midnight assignment.

  She introduced herself, then added, “I’m not sure why my boss roused park services to open the gate and secure this building. Everything’s been quiet.” She offered a brief smile toward Sara. “But it sounds like you’ve had a rough night, Dr. Gutierrez.”

  “And I’ll be happy when it’s over.”

  They all unloaded and headed toward the office building.

  “I thought there would be more boots on the ground here,” Jason commented.

  Masterson cocked an eyebrow at him. “At this hour? We’re not DC Metro. With budget cuts, we barely have enough staff during the day. Still, I managed to corral three officers to canvass the building and make sure everything is secure. I still have a man inside.”

  “What about the other two?” Kowalski asked.

  “Once we had matters in hand, I sent them back into the park. We got a glass-breakage alarm at the front gate’s kiosk a few minutes ago. They went to check—” From their expressions, she must have known something was wrong. “What?”

  “It’s like back at the museum,” Sara moaned.

  Jason forced them to move faster. “Everyone inside. We need to secure that computer and set up a defense. Radio your man, Lieutenant.”

  She obeyed, confirming that all remained quiet inside.

  Still, Kowalski pulled out his Desert Eagle, which earned a double take from Masterson. Jason took out his cell phone and called Painter, filling him in on the fly. As they entered the front door of the building, Sara guided them in a rush toward her lab offices at the back.

  “Help’s coming,” Jason said as he hung up.

  Let’s hope they get here in time.