Ripper

5

The Colorado-based space systems company operated no less than ten satellites in low-earth orbit around the world for a consortium of companies. All privately based and funded, they contracted with this small Boulder operation to download telemetry and feed these companies vital information from their gathering of information — everything from GPS tracking to far more reaching enterprises. Each bit of information is coded and sent to the corresponding company who contracted for the telemetry received by the 130-person operation only three miles distant from the University of Colorado.

On the third floor of the six-story building, a technician was currently tracking a trace program in Nevada. As he bit into a stale Twinkie his eyes roamed over the telemetry streaming in from one of their newer satellites launched just last year. As he chewed he watched as the new KH-21 photo-recon bird made its way across the American Southwest. He noted the red blip on the map and its corresponding latitude and longitude.

The young technician, a young man who never knew who his work was going to be sent to, was curious as he had never seen a tracer like the one he was tracking. This little gem was priceless in its accuracy — down to plus or minus sixteen inches on the accuracy of the coordinates.

The tech took the last bite of his Twinkie and then leaned forward to examine the small red blip still on the computer-generated map before him.

“Now that is a good old-fashioned ‘bug,’” he said as he watched the red tracer hesitate at a spot ten miles north of its original landing position. Then his eyes widened as the coordinates, while changing, started to get strange. At first he didn’t understand what he was looking at. Then he tapped a computer command into his keyboard and he smiled as he realized that the tracer he was watching wasn’t moving north, south, east, or west, it was moving down — moving into the bowels of the earth.

“Must be a mine of some sort,” he mumbled and then punched the send button on his keyboard that would shoot the coded information out to the company or individual who had contracted for the tracking satellite’s services.

The technician, who really never got out much, had tracked the tracer blip to a spot fifteen miles outside of the city of Las Vegas. And then he missed the coordinates that would have told him his telemetry streaming from the satellite overhead was looking down on Nellis Air Force Base just outside of Las Vegas.

How could the technician know that the final coordinates before the bug died due to power loss placed his target at 5,700 feet below the desert in Nevada — at the north firing range of Nellis and to a complex that ran almost two miles beneath the desert sands inside a natural cave formation that wasn’t on any geological map and was home to — The Event Group.

Hiram Vickers was sitting in his office going over a file spread out on his desk. He looked up when a light knock sounded on his door. The bookwormish man waved at the girl he recognized as being stationed in the space-based imagery department two floors down.

“Hi,” he said as he removed his thin-rimmed glasses. His eyes went from the young girl’s face to her small chest. The man in charge of cheap tricks around the globe never lost his smile, but he immediately dismissed the young photography expert as not up to his usual standards. “What have you got?”

The girl stepped into the immaculately cleaned office and held out a large manila envelope. “We just received this from Cassini Space-Based Systems in Boulder. It came coded to you, but the office checkoff doesn’t have the director of intelligence in the information loop as it usually does.” The girl placed the large envelope against her chest, as if she wasn’t about to let the information leave her until she had a little bit more detail on why the agency chain-of-command signoff wasn’t included in the package.

“Ah, we’re just running a test. We had a major screwup the last time this small company gave us tracking info. They sent it, but it never arrived. Who knows, it probably went straight to the Russians or Chinese,” he said with a broad and disarming smile as he stood from his desk and removed his glasses. He stepped out from around the sensibly clean desk and held out his hand for the envelope. “This was to be passed straight to my desk.”

The girl didn’t look convinced at all. “But we have mandates from the director that nothing goes to the corresponding desks until they get passed to them by their department heads. And since this test originated in Boulder, it should go directly to the desk of North American Operations. Assistant Director Simpson should be the last one on the list before the director of intelligence on this checkoff sheet.”

“I believe she was bypassed because of the unimportance of the test and also because, as I understand it, Ms. Simpson is currently visiting relatives in Texas.” He smiled and then started to turn away. “But if you would rather wait until she gets back, it’s up to you. I can wait for these mundane and boring results.”

The courier bit her lower lip and then smiled. “I guess since it’s only a test trace it doesn’t matter.”

Hiram stopped and then turned with his best smile planted on his features. “Now that’s the red-tape-cutting imaging department we have come to love around here,” he said as he took the offered envelope. “If not for people like you, nothing would ever get done.”

The young technician smiled and then turned away. The smile on Vickers’s face left as easily as it had come as he reached out and pulled the door closed. He ripped open the sealed envelope instead of untying the string that secured it; after all, the envelope and its contents would be destroyed. This action was something totally against agency policy. He quickly read the transcript of the trace his Black Team had placed on subject one from the Mexico raid. His brow furrowed as he read the report.

“What in the hell is this?” he asked himself aloud as he sat back behind his desk. His fingers followed the line of the track from Laredo, Texas, to Nevada.

“Okay, they obviously landed at Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada. But what in the hell is happening here?” he asked himself as he pulled up a computer-generated and much-classified map of Nellis on his computer. He studied the map and saw where the trace was still operating. His eyes told him he was looking at a firing range that hadn’t been in use since World War II. He then punched in a few commands and a real-time image of the base came up. He used his mouse to zoom into the area of interest. All he saw was a large series of dilapidated hangars that looked as if they had seen far better days. The largest hangar was missing most of its rounded roof and he could almost see into the interior.

He looked at the coordinates that had been time stamped onto the first picture he pulled out of the envelope. Then he cross-referenced those coordinates with what he was looking at. He shook his head and then reached for the phone. He called the number he had memorized in just the last two days.

“Johnson,” came the reply on the other end of the phone.

“I have the trace report,” Vickers said as he continued to look at the picture of the high desert surrounding Nellis Air Force Base.

“So, where do our mysterious heroes live and work?”

“Before I give you the answer, I have a question, and it comes directly from our British friends.”

“Go ahead.”

“They want to know what preparations you’ve made in connection with the Perdition Hacienda. If we complete this assignment for them, there will be no end to their gratitude, which may come in handy for our new operations.”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone. Then the large man who had just arrived home from Texas cleared his throat. “You can pass it on to those interested parties that the hacienda will cease to exist in just about twenty-seven minutes, compliments of the government of Mexico.”

“And this will eliminate any possibility of the drugs getting out into the open?”

There was a small laugh on the other end of the phone. “You can say that, yes.” The man became silent as he waited. He knew he didn’t have to press the man at Langley for information on the trace because the man he had tagged outside of Nuevo Laredo was now under intense scrutiny by one of the darkest forces in American intelligence.

“The tracer report says that your target landed at Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada, and then according to what amounts to guesswork, the hard target vanishes beneath the high desert.”

“Obviously I can’t get a straight answer out of anyone in Washington. I don’t send my men anywhere on guesswork. That kind of stuff went out of favor a long time ago. If you want us to recover what was taken from that hacienda, you damn well better get me some reliable intel as to who these people are and who they work for. We were lucky to get the body of Guzman reduced to ruins, but they have a sample of the product your British friends want destroyed. Now, I’ve been doing a little homework myself. The man who led the rescue attempt across the border, I thought I recognized him, but couldn’t place him until now.”

As Hiram Vickers waited, his incoming e-mail chimed. He opened it and then saw it was from the very same man to whom he was speaking at this very moment. He clicked on the attachment and a picture began downloading.

“Find me this man, and I’ll find that jar they took out of Perdition’s Gate. Don’t find him, and I guess the Brits’ dirty little secret will not be so for long.”

Hiram regretted having told the Black Team operative everything about who requested their assistance. But the new operating parameters of the Black Teams prohibited them from operating without the full range of intel on their prospective target. He knew this man was determined to keep the Men in Black far more secretive than they had been in the past before they had been dismantled by the federal authorities.

As Vickers watched his computer screen he saw a herky-jerky video of what looked like a C-Span broadcast. As the camera zoomed in on a man in the uniform of a United States Army officer, it cleared up and then the picture froze as the generated name came on below the frozen picture of a big man as he packed up a briefcase with papers. Vickers saw that the video had been purloined from a C-Span broadcast of a senate hearing on the Afghan conflict. Then he looked at the name on the bottom and a flitting memory came to him.

“I think this will help a great deal, if you’re sure this is the man you tagged?”

“Anyone in our line of work knows exactly who this man is and what he brings to the table. He’s dangerous, not only to me, but to you and anyone who crosses him. If he still has Perdition’s Fire it will be hard to get from him. Now send me what you have so I can work from my end.”

“Right,” Vickers said and then terminated the call. He looked closer at the sun-hardened features of the man frozen in time on his monitor. He then glanced at the printed name below the picture as he placed the yellow envelope and its contents under his arm in readiness to forward what he had to the Black Team in Denver. He reached out and hesitated before he turned off his monitor, but not before Hiram Vickers memorized the hard features of the man.

The C-Span freeze-frame of the soldier known six years before as Major Jack Collins faded to black.

Jack sat at his desk inside the security department cut off from the rest of his people. He stared at the computer screen for the longest time in an attempt to make the words he had written make sense. They were words he thought he never would have placed end to end in his entire life.

They had been in the complex for the past eight hours, and he was waiting for the call that would send him into the director’s office. Collins closed his eyes in an effort to make the last few words in the document he had written fade away along with the sight of them.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” he said as he leaned slightly toward the monitor and spoke softly as Captain Carl Everett entered his office. “Europa, file and code document 1877, security one, Collins.”

“Document filed, Colonel Collins,” answered the Marylyn Monroe voice, one that Collins had finally gotten used to. He had hated it, but finally came to terms that everyone in the complex liked the sexiness of the computer-generated voice synthesizer.

“Jack, we have an update on Ryan,” Everett said as he watched Collins lean away from the computer terminal.

“Is he screaming bloody murder yet?”

“You know he is. He said to tell you that if he’s to stay put in the hospital he wants a transfer to one that has better-looking nurses.” Everett watched the colonel’s face for any reaction.

“Tell him he’s damned lucky to have been moved from Texas to Las Vegas, and if he’s not careful, you’ll send him right back there.”

Carl noticed that Jack said he would have to send him back, not Jack himself. Everett smiled and took a seat without Collins offering it to him.

“Other than that, what are they saying about our flyboy?”

“He’s doing better than expected. He’s sore as hell and has two dueling scars he can thrill women with, so all in all the kid got off lucky.” Everett smiled hoping to get Collins to react to something. “I didn’t know hearing about the security department’s loss in our football game had upset you that much?”

Jack didn’t hear the question and looked at his second in command. “Excuse me?” he said.

“Okay, what’s going on? You’ve been in here since we came home. Sarah’s been in twice and even Charlie Ellenshaw dropped by to collect his winnings from the game and wanted to see you, but you told him to go away. I guess you sort of hurt the fuzzy-haired guy. You’ve been locked up in here doing God knows what — so, what gives?”

Jack took a deep breath and then looked at Everett. “Did you get to Doc Gilliam and have that shrapnel taken out of your shoulder?”

“I’ll get in line behind you as soon as you get that hand checked out. In case you didn’t notice, you have a bullet hole in it.”

Collins looked at his bandaged hand and then looked back at Everett. “I have to stop by the director’s office first. You want to tag along?”

“As long as it’s on the way to the infirmary, sure,” Everett answered as he watched Jack leave his chair for the first time in hours.

Collins led the way from the security offices, nodding at a very tired Will Mendenhall as the lieutenant sat at his desk adjusting the security roster for the absence of Lance Corporal Udall and Jason Ryan.

As they gained the hallway just to the left of the elevators, Jack turned to Everett.

“How many men do you have on our French friend down in the infirmary?”

“Two in the room, two in the hallway.”

“As soon as he’s able to be moved, put him in isolation down on level eighteen, with only a cot and a blanket.”

Everett nodded as they waited for the elevator. “The president wants Farbeaux turned over immediately to the FBI. He says now that we have him, he’s going to stay a guest of the United States for a very long time.”

Jack looked at Everett and then raised his left eyebrow. “I want you to conduct the debriefing of Colonel Farbeaux. The president doesn’t get him until that’s concluded,” he said as the elevator doors finally opened.

“I thought you would have wanted to have that little conversation with Henri?” Carl said as he watched Jack step into the elevator. Finally, when no answer came from his boss, Everett stepped in beside the colonel. “Europa, level seven, please.”

“Level seven.”

The elevator started up on its air-cushioned ride as Jack leaned back against the rear of the glass car.

“Europa, location of Director Compton, please,” Jack inquired as he closed his eyes once more.

“Director Compton is currently on level seventy-two, specimen vault 789000.”

“Location of Lieutenant McIntire, geology department?” he asked next.

“Lieutenant McIntire is currently conducting research on geological abnormalities found in current volcanic cones in the Central Pacific.”

“Have Lieutenant McIntire stop her research and join us on level seventy-two at the appropriate vault please. Now stop the elevator and take us to level seventy-two.”

“Yes, Colonel,” said Europa as the elevator came to a very fast and hissing stop. Then as Collins looked at Everett the elevator reversed and started down into the bowels of the Event Group Complex.

“You going to tell me what’s going on?” Carl asked.

“Any word yet on the properties of that magic elixir we took out of Perdition?” he asked instead of answering his friend.

“They haven’t touched the sample yet. The director wants some of our people currently on assignment to be in on the opening phase of the research. He’s also recalled the former head of our infectious disease department who now works for the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. The doctor and his daughter are on the security clearance list. So I guess if the director is recalling old personnel back into the fold, this stuff must worry him to no end.”

“The director thinks it may be a virus?”

“He doesn’t know yet, but he says if a reaction can happen that fast on Guzman, he can’t take any chances.” Everett turned and faced Collins. “But I guess you would have known that if you had read the same report I did.”

“Patience, Captain.”

As the elevator doors slid open and Europa announced their desired location, Jack shook his head when he thought Carl was going to ask another question. Both blue-clad men stepped into the hallway on level seventy-two and went directly to the security arch that led to the vaults. One of their security men was at his station at a small, clear desk and stood when they approached.

“Is the director still in the vault area?” Jack asked as he placed his hand on the glass security scanner and had his prints and the moisture content in his hand analyzed for his DNA. Europa cleared the colonel for entrance and then did the same for Everett.

“Yes, sir. He and the assistant director are classifying several new artifacts that have been transferred down to the new vault level.”

Jack went down the curving, plastic-lined hallway that hid the granite strata underneath. Level seventy-two was one of the newest vault areas in the complex and was just now starting to fill up with the treasures of the world’s past.

Collins ran his large hand along the wall as he headed toward the only vault door open on this level. Everett watched him and noticed that it was like Jack was taking it all in for the first time.

“We’ve done, I mean, the Group has done good things here, right?” he asked before stepping up to the open thirteen-foot steel door.

“If you mean has the Group fulfilled its charter? I think so. How many parallels in history have we uncovered that may have averted a war? Given the president something extra that he would never have known if it wasn’t for the Group? Yeah Jack, we’ve done some very good things. Everyone at the Event Group, past or present, has all done what was asked.”

Jack just nodded his head and gave Carl a ghost of a smile. “That helps.”

Everett watched Jack knock lightly on the sill of the giant vault door and then step over the threshold. He was about to follow when he heard a voice that usually gave him pleasure.

“Hey, Captain, we having a clandestine meeting down here?”

Everett smiled as he took in the battered face of Sarah McIntire. Both of her eyes were black and blue and the right was still nearly closed. She had a large bandage on her head where she had received sixteen stitches from Dr. Gilliam just two hours before. He lost his smile as he realized at that moment why they were there. It didn’t enter his mind until he saw the shape that Sarah was in. It all clicked as he allowed the diminutive McIntire to enter the vault first.

Jack was impressed with this particular acquisition they had uncovered in a small valley just inside the South African province of Natal. The vault was lined with artifacts and weapons from a period of revolt in what was once a part of the British Empire — Zululand.

Collins watched as Niles turned toward him with pride. He and Assistant Director Virginia Pollock were standing near a glass enclosure with hydrogen hoses running into it. There was another hose that fed the small enclosure with humidified air to keep it at a constant 67 degrees.

“What have we here?” Sarah asked in that never-ending wonder she always had for the vault areas of the complex. Collins turned and looked at his beaten but happy Sarah McIntire and wasn’t surprised at the wonder of a schoolgirl as she took in the new find.

“Actually, you can thank the colonel’s department for this one. They went on a hunch and raided a very wealthy South African gentleman and relieved him of this and other valuable historic finds. It turned out that this gentleman still longed for the days of apartheid. He stole everything here and was responsible for one of the most blatant grave robberies of the twentieth century,” Niles Compton said as his eyes flitted from Sarah to those of Colonel Collins. Niles patted the glass enclosure. “You’re looking at the remains of a great king, at least in most of the world’s eyes. Here is a man that took on the British Empire in their more heady days. His body was stolen from a simple gravesite back in 1981. No one even realized the theft had taken place.”

Jack smiled at Sarah and both he and the lieutenant turned to study the body inside of the enclosure. Everett stayed back and just watched. Not the enclosure, Niles, Virginia, nor Sarah, but Collins.

Sarah rubbed up against Jack as she looked at the shriveled but somehow still proud corpse of a man from their past.

“Say hello to the onetime king of the Zulu nation,” Niles said proudly. “I give you Cetshwayo — the man who defeated the British army at Isandlwana, Transvaal Province. It amounted to the Empire’s version of Custer’s Last Stand. It would be like us standing here looking at the body of Crazy Horse.”

Jack’s eyes moved from the body lying in its enclosure to the weapons lining the vault’s walls. There were spears, muskets, and lion’s skins, along with zebra skin shields. Large crates of more short-handled spears and artifacts sat on shelves.

“This man had all of this stuff in his possession?” Sarah asked as she smiled and looked at a far-away Jack.

“All of it. We were mostly interested in collecting the stolen remains. The president wants to make it a gift to the Zulu people, after—”

“We study and release,” both Sarah and Virginia Pollock said at the same time. They knew Niles wouldn’t give anything up until the old king had been documented from head to toe for their records.

Niles lost his smile when he looked from the enclosure to the face of Jack Collins. He cleared his throat and then his eyes traveled to those of Carl Everett. He patted Jack on the shoulder. “So what brings you down to my territory, Jack?” he asked, knowing full well what was about to happen.

Jack turned and walked over to the far wall and Europa’s temporary computer terminal.

“Europa, are you online?” Jack asked, looking at the blank screen that would one day soon hold a talking tour of the vault they were now standing inside.

“Yes, Colonel Collins.”

“Please give me a hard-copy printout of document 1877, security Collins, please.”

Without comment, Europa did as ordered and started printing out the document Collins had been working on since his return to the complex. He waited out the moment in silence and then pulled the single page from the printer. He handed the single paragraph to Niles, who refused to look at it. Instead he nodded at Virginia and she moved out into the rock-lined hallway. Niles followed.

“Before we see what Jack’s brought us, I want to show you a few more things of recent acquisition,” Niles said as he waited for the three people to catch up with him and Virginia.

All of the vaults on this level were brand new. Niles walked to a large vault thirty feet away and then slid his ID card down the security lock.

“I had these flown here from our original complex inside Arlington National Cemetery.” Niles swung open the door and waited for his people to enter.

Sitting on tables and on the vault’s floor was what remained from the evidence taken in the 1916 raid on Perdition’s Gate.

“We hope to get some answers here. We’ll start analyzing what we have as soon as our people get in from the CDC in Atlanta.”

Jack once more tried to hand Niles the sheet of paper Europa had printed out for him. Compton once more stepped out of the vault and waited for the others to follow.

“I think all of us will get a kick out of this one,” Virginia Pollock offered as Niles opened one last vault at the far end of the level. This vault, being the last on the level, was by far the largest. It rivaled the vault used to house the Ark in size and dimensions.

Collins shook his head but followed the director and assistant director inside.

“Wow!” Sarah said as she took in the display inside of the giant new vault. Even Collins and Everett were impressed with what they were looking at.

“Jack, do you remember when Virginia and I went on vacation at the same time last year?” Niles asked.

“Yes. Are you telling me you and her are responsible for finding these?” Jack asked, amazed at what he was looking at.

“Well, no, not exactly, but we wanted to be in on it, and we both knew you wouldn’t let us out of the complex without a security detachment tagging along, so we lied and went on vacation to South Florida. We had to be in on this expedition. After we found them, well, we arranged to have them misplaced, and to tell you the truth, the National Geographic Society who funded the expedition is tossing a fit all the way to Washington over us ‘borrowing’ these artifacts. After we’ve had our fun with them, we will arrange for their find to be … well … found once more.”

On the polished tiled floor of the vault and arranged in a semicircle around the stainless-steel vault were some of the most recognizable aircraft the world had ever known. There were five Grumman TBM torpedo bombers from the forties as clean and shiny as the day they rolled off the assembly line.

“Are these aircraft what I think they are?” Everett said, knowing the old tale from not only his navy days, but from every program on the Bermuda Triangle he had ever seen.

Niles stepped up to the computer terminal next to the large vault door and hit a small switch that activated Europa’s description of the contents of the vault. The sound came over the speaker buried into the rock ceiling far above their heads.

“United States Navy Training Flight 19 out of U.S. Naval Air Station, Fort Lauderdale, Florida, lost on 5, December, 1945. The Operational Archives Branch, Naval History & Heritage Command, had ordered the Board of Investigation convened at NAS Miami to inquire into the loss of the five TBM Avengers in Flight 19 on a clear day. The flight and its training crews were never heard from again, and it was concluded by the Board of Investigation that the flight was lost due to pilot error. On June 3 of last year, the National Geographic Society commissioned a search of the area after underwater depressions had been found inside the original search area. The five TBM Avengers were located exactly where the search parties in 1945 had estimated the flight went down. The Avengers were found in 375 feet of water and were located inside of an immense underwater cavern. The aircraft were in pristine condition as they didn’t show any sign of salt water deterioration after sixty-five years in Florida’s hostile waters.”

Niles reached out and shut off the presentation. He didn’t need it, as the event regarding the lost flight was a private indulgence that the director of the Event Group had taken a special interest in, even as far back as high school.

“Ammunition, fuel, everything was intact. There was no deterioration of the aluminum used in the Avenger’s manufacture. The cockpits were dry and their canopies were closed. The aircraft show no sign of being ditched after running out of fuel. Well, we know now that they didn’t run out as each torpedo bomber had at least 300 gallons still in its tank. There were no signs of the pilots or their crews.”

“How could these planes still be intact?” Everett asked as he ran his hand along the wing of one of the giant single-engine aircraft.

“That’s why we have to study them,” Niles said as even the preoccupied Collins reached out and touched one of the dangling belts of fifty-caliber ammunition hanging from an exposed port in the left-side wing. The rounds on their belt looked to be new. There were no signs of water corrosion or crash damage anywhere on the dive Avengers. The tires on the landing gear were still pliable and filled with air.

“It’s like they were snatched out of the sky and placed inside that seamount and the cave at its base. Then it seems they were protected by something in the water that we don’t understand … yet,” Virginia said as she too looked up at the first large Avenger sitting before her. “But we will get to the bottom of this, before the FBI gets into the full swing of investigating the disappearance of such a valuable military find.”

“Amazing,” Sarah said gazing up at the magnificent aircraft every man, woman, and child would probably recognize thanks to the rampant Bermuda Triangle theories being pushed by the media. “The next time you two sneak out to go on vacation, please take me with you. This had to be as exciting as it gets.”

Jack stopped touching the aircraft and turned and smiled at Sarah. She returned his smile. He was never surprised by Sarah’s take on the historical world. She was like a small schoolgirl giddy over everything the vault levels had to offer. He loved her for that. Her enthusiasm for her work was something that he himself was having a hard time coming to terms with. Collins once more pulled the printed sheet of paper from his pocket and again offered it to the director. Niles looked from Jack to his assistant director, Virginia.

“I guess our toys didn’t do the trick we had hoped they would on the outlook of Colonel Collins here, Virginia,” Niles said taking the offered paper from Jack’s hand. He started reading aloud so everyone, including Everett and Sarah, could hear.

“I, Colonel Jack Collins, U.S. Army, currently attached to Department 5656 of the National Archives, an entity of the federal government; hereby tender my resignation as colonel in the regular United States Army, effective immediately.”

Niles Compton looked up from the resignation letter and then removed his glasses. “I think we can find a better way than this, Jack. I do know how to handle the president; he’s bound to cool off. He doesn’t want to lose you or Sarah. You’ll be reprimanded officially for disobeying a direct order, but I’ll take the brunt of that and absorb anything the president orders our punishment to be. You knew we were headed for serious consequences over the raid when we decided to go.”

Jack smiled and then placed his arm around Sarah who was absolutely speechless when she had heard Jack’s decision.

“The letter stands. The president may feel better later,” he looked down into Sarah’s bruised and swollen eyes, “but I will not. Out of personal reasons I have placed members of my command and the people I am charged to protect in extreme jeopardy. I disobeyed a direct order from not only you Mister Director, but from the president of the United States. I find these facts to be unacceptable.” He reached down and kissed Sarah on the forehead, at the same time wiping a tear that had slid from her half-closed left eye. “Don’t worry, short stuff, I’ll be around for you, just not here. I’m not a very good officer anymore, but neither am I stupid.”

Sarah tried to smile as Jack let her go. They all watched in silence as Collins stepped to the vault door. He turned and looked at the five aircraft once more. That was one thing he would have to get used to, and that was not being in on the world’s great archaeological finds. But he knew as long as they had people in the Group as dedicated as the four men and women inside this new vault, the Event Group would still do its job. Then his eyes went to Captain Everett. He stood silent as the moment was just too much to take in. Instead of saying goodbye, Everett saluted without looking the colonel in the eyes.

“The navy doesn’t salute indoors, swabby. Only the army, of which I am no longer a part,” Jack said and then walked out amid the stunned silence inside of the vault.

Sarah turned to face Niles Compton. “Of course, you won’t accept his resignation, right?”

Niles handed the single sheet to Virginia and then looked at the lieutenant and replaced his glasses. He looked over at the much taller and stockier Everett who just stood inside the doorway. Sarah, to her shock, saw Everett shake his head negatively. Then he looked at Sarah.

“Can’t you see it, Sarah, Jack’s had it. He can’t do his job here and protect those he’s supposed to protect with you in the field.”

“Then I quit,” she said, starting to walk toward the vault door, but Everett placed his arm across the wide opening.

“Jack won’t allow that and you know it. So don’t hit your head up against that particular wall; you’ll end up looking worse than you already do.”

Niles stepped to the doorway and watched the form of Jack Collins head for the archway and the elevators beyond. He saw a man that wasn’t broken, just one that was afraid he couldn’t do his job any longer in the manner he was used to doing it. He turned and faced Everett and Virginia.

“Virginia, I need those CDC people on station in the next ten hours to start the study on this chemical that was recovered from Perdition’s Gate. Captain Everett, I need extra security on the labs where the work will be done. Don’t take any chances. Our former Event Group members who now work for the CDC in Atlanta know their stuff. They have top security clearance and they’ll have the run of the sciences divisions while on site.”

“Yes, sir,” Everett said, noticing how matter-of-factly the director had turned over the security department to him without so much as batting an eye. For the director, the Event Group had to go on, with or without Jack Collins safeguarding those seeking the truth of history.

With that said, the director of the Event Group stepped from the vault area and left behind a stunned and seething second lieutenant — Sarah McIntire.

After years of training not much different from that received by Jack Collins during his years in the United States Special Forces community, Colonel Henri Farbeaux, regular French army, Ret., had developed the same sixth sense that Collins himself had. He knew when he was being observed, and even in sleep his brain reacted to the danger. The Frenchman forced his eyes open. At first he saw the dim light coming from the fixture just above the headboard. As he tried to focus his eyes, his brain detected from which direction his observer was sitting. He saw the face and then the finer details came into view. The young female doctor who had attended to him upon his arrival at the Event Group Complex, Gilliam, he thought her name was, was just finishing up wrapping his observer’s hand in white gauze.

“So, you’ve come to see the drugged and caged animal, Colonel?” Henri said as the etched features of Jack Collins sharpened to a fine point.

Collins nodded at Gilliam in thanks and then flexed his left hand. The good doctor said the through-and-through bullet wound was pretty much cleaned, but she admonished him for being so late coming in for treatment. There was still a major chance of infection. Jack listened to Denise Gilliam without really hearing her words as he continued to look at Farbeaux. His eyes went to the handcuff holding Henri’s right hand to the chrome bedpost.

Collins looked up and nodded to the first of the two guards inside of the infirmary’s single-bed room. Jack tapped his wrist and the large army sergeant took a few steps toward the bed and unlocked the restraint holding Farbeaux’s hand to the rail. Henri turned his head and watched the guard move back into the shadows. He lifted his right hand and then rubbed his wrist with the left. His eyes focused on the small room in general and avoided Jack’s gaze altogether.

“No, Henri, I didn’t come in here for that.”

“So when may I expect a meeting with my attorney, and when is my arraignment?”

Jack smiled as he sat in the chair next to Farbeaux’s bed. The Frenchman could see Collins was going on zero sleep. His face, although clean, hadn’t seen a razor since their return from Nuevo Laredo. His jumpsuit was clean and pressed and his wounds had now been tended, but there was still something wrong with Collins outside of him needing a shave.

“I think our department will want to keep the court system out of this one, Colonel. We have no evidence to offer a U.S. court of law that would place you in any crime scene that we know of. Oh, there’s no doubt that the FBI will have some questions for you, but as for the Group, we have nothing we can charge you with.”

Henri continued to rub his wrist where the handcuff had chafed his skin. He looked at Collins and then slowly reached for the control that raised the bed to a sitting position.

“I seem to be quite sore,” he said as the whine of the bed’s motor ceased.

“Two bullets, ten small pieces of shrapnel, three broken ribs, and a severe concussion. All in all you could qualify to be a part of my security team the way you get busted up like you do.”

“If that is the prequalifier to becoming a true blue blooded American hero like you and your men, I think I’ll pass, Colonel.”

Jack didn’t respond and remained silent as his eyes moved away from the Frenchman. After all of the years of chasing the Frenchman, Jack found he had little or no animosity toward the former commando. Collins had long suspected that Henri on several occasions had just been the bogeyman everyone believed him to be — a convenient one. Appearances, Jack knew, could be as deceiving as the Group sometimes found history to be.

“Okay, so you didn’t come here to read the charges against me. You didn’t bring in flowers or a get-well card, so just what is it that brings you to my sickbed, Colonel?”

Jack leaned back in his chair and then looked toward the darker recesses of the room. With a nod of Jack’s head Farbeaux watched the two large security men leave the room silently, closing the door behind them.

“Oh, I see, shot while trying to escape?” Farbeaux joked.

“With you, Colonel, I wish it were that easy. If anyone shoots you, it won’t be me.”

Farbeaux saw the complex look on the face of his adversary — a man he hated for causing the death of his wife, Danielle, deep in the Amazon Basin four years before. But he was also a man he had begrudgingly come to respect.

“Your wife, Danielle, tell me about her.”

The question took Farbeaux by surprise, mainly because he had just thought of her himself. It was as if the American had read his mind, and he didn’t like that one little bit. Henri gathered his senses and then looked Collins over.

“I loved her, Colonel, that’s all that needs to be said. She was the only woman, besides one other, that knew me for what…,” he looked away from Jack’s eyes, “knew me for something other than someone’s psyche evaluation in a foreign intelligence report.”

“You said Danielle and one other?” Jack asked.

Finally Henri turned and faced Collins. “What do you want of me, Colonel Collins?”

“I guess I’m here to say I’m sorry. Sorry for your perception about my having anything to do with your wife’s death.”

Henri stared at Jack for the longest time. He reached out and took a plastic cup from the rolling table at the bed’s side and drank water from a straw. He placed the glass back down and looked away toward the door of the room. Jack looked down at the bandage wrapping his left hand.

“The thought of losing Sarah … if that had happened, I don’t think I would have reacted any differently than you have been toward me.”

“There is one major difference here, Colonel,” Farbeaux said, finally turning angry eyes on Jack. “Sarah is breathing, while my wife, Danielle, is not.”

“Yet you risked your life, your fortune, and at the very least your freedom to try and save the woman I love. Why is that Henri?” This time Jack’s eyes never left those of Farbeaux.

“Some things in my life are not to be found in that thick little folder that Senator Lee started on me and my exploits many years ago. I too have my secrets, Colonel.”

Jack nodded his head once and then stood. He removed a small notebook from his breast pocket and then with a pen jotted down some words. When he was done he tore the sheet from the pad and then paused.

“When you’re transferred to Washington and turned over to FBI custody for your trip to the Justice Department, I have no doubt you will find a way to escape. When you do,” Jack handed the Frenchman the note, “call this number; you can reach me anytime.”

Henri looked the paper over and then looked up at Collins.

“So we can finish whatever it is we have to finish.” Jack leaned in closer to his onetime antagonist. “Stay away from Sarah, Henri. Despite what you may be inclined to believe, she is not Danielle.”

Farbeaux was silent as Jack turned and headed for the door, but just before he opened it and without turning around Jack said, “Henri?”

“Colonel Collins?”

Farbeaux didn’t think Jack was going to continue as he pulled the door open. Then he let it close a few inches.

“Thank you for doing what you did in Mexico, no matter what the reasons behind it were.”

With that the colonel left the clinic’s sterile room and disappeared.

Denise Gilliam came through the same door a moment later along with the two security men. She took Henri’s wrist and checked his blood pressure.

“Well, your B.P. is not as bad as I would have thought it would be after your little meeting,” Denise said as she released Henri’s wrist. “You need to get some rest. If you need anything, just ask one of these two rather large gentlemen.”

“He quit, didn’t he?” Farbeaux asked as his eyes finally went to those of the doctor.

“I don’t listen to, nor do I confirm, rumors, even if I know them to be true, Colonel Farbeaux.”

Denise walked away as Henri’s eyes moved to the door.

“Goodbye, Colonel Collins. I suspect I’ll be making that phone call sooner than you may think.”

Henri Farbeaux turned off the light above the steel headboard and then placed his hands behind his head and went into deep thought.

A small man with a paunch and a sweat-stained baby-blue blazer adjusted his field glasses as he watched the Mexican National Police force come and go from the hacienda. Every once in a while he would see an old woman, his files said that she was the late Juan Guzman’s mother, start haranguing the officers as they compiled their evidence packages inside of the main house. He knew the police hadn’t actually removed any evidence from the hacienda to this point.

The man worked for the Centro de Investigación y Seguridad Nacional, Mexico’s version of the CIA. The National Security and Investigation Center, or CISEN, was one of the more corrupt agencies in the Mexican federal establishment. For years they had been trying to clean up the factions at work deep inside of the agency, but they had thus far been unable to curb the avarice thrown to certain members of the corrupt agency. The man with the field glasses was one of these men.

He lowered the glasses when he heard a car drive up from behind his hiding place. He knew who it was so he just waited for the report. A man dressed as a Mexican state policeman walked easily toward the man, tearing away a false moustache and removing his blue hat.

“It is done.”

The small, rotund man nodded his head and then raised the powerful field glasses once more. In the lenses he saw the old woman once more, and this time it looked as if she had two of Guzman’s younger children in tow. She was still shouting out indignities as she waved her arms wildly about some offense or other.

“Señor, you realize there are still women and children inside of the targeted area. And many, many of our Mexican police brethren?”

The man sniffed as he watched the hacienda but kept his glasses steady on the main building.

“It is a shame, but the situation cannot be helped. We have orders to destroy the hacienda and all of its contents. Now, are you sure the package was delivered to the right area of the building?”

“We followed your precise directions. The entire structure should be nothing but a large hole in the ground. It should destroy everything in the lower levels, along with everything and everyone within a thousand feet of the hacienda.”

“Very well. Do you have the transmitter?”

The uniformed man reached into his jacket pocket, brought out a small box, and then extended the small antenna and held it out for his operations manager. The smaller man finally lowered his field glasses and then looked at the transmitter and shook his head.

“You can have the honors.”

The man in the state police uniform looked uncomfortable. He turned his back on the hacienda one mile away and then quickly raised the small plastic cover and depressed the black button underneath.

The man with the field glasses was taken by surprise when the thousand pounds of special explosives provided by their CIA contact in Langley literally blew the ground the hacienda was sitting on in a vaporous, rolling ball of hell. The entire hacienda and the land it sat on vanished in a split second of destruction that Mexico had never seen. It was so powerful that the small man was shoved as hard as he would have been if a rugby player had slammed into him.

The explosive, octanitrocubane, is the most powerful nonnuclear explosive ever made. Octanitrocubane consists of a cube of eight carbons with nitro groups (oxygens and nitrogens) attached to each carbon. It is an explosive that doesn’t require an external oxygen source to decompose, meaning that it could blow up in every environment, including water and even in the vacuum of space.

As the small mushroom-shaped cloud rose above the small valley, the man rose and shook his head. As he raised the field glasses to his eyes once more he was shocked to see that between the rolling clouds of dust and sand and smoke, there was absolutely nothing left of the hacienda or the areas beneath it or around it. He couldn’t even discern the bodies of police or family members.

He lowered the glasses and removed his cell phone from his suit jacket. He hit the preselected number and then waited.

“Vickers, it’s your dime,” came the answer.

“Excuse me, señor?” the small man said, not understanding Vickers’s play on words.

“Oh, just a joke. What have you to report?”

“The explosives your man delivered were quite adequate for the job. I am afraid that there were many collateral pieces on the chessboard however.”

“The bastard Guzman led his family to this end. Make no sympathies for him or his family. They’re not innocents in all of this.”

“Sí, we knew what kind of man we were dealing with.” The small man closed the cell phone and almost raised the field glasses to his eyes once more but stopped short. He didn’t need to see the smoking ruin of this particular piece of Mexico. No, he didn’t need that. He stood instead and tossed the field glasses to the uniformed man.

“Sí, Señor Vickers, we do indeed know what kind of man we are dealing with. He’s a man not far removed from your own desires and aspirations,” the man said to himself.

Collins sat for the longest time on his bed looking at the two packed suitcases sitting by the door. He looked at his wristwatch and then his eyes moved back to the cases. He was waiting for the arrival of Sarah McIntire. The knock on the door soon came and Jack stood to answer it, kicking one of the suitcases out of the way as he did. He opened the door and Sarah was leaning on the frame, looking down.

“Hi, short stuff.”

Sarah looked up, and with her eyes black and blue and her nose bandaged she imagined she didn’t look her best. She stepped into Jack’s large room and then faced the far wall.

“You didn’t feel the need to discuss this with me before springing it on the world?”

“So you could do then what you’re going to do now?” he asked as he placed both of his large hands on Sarah’s shoulders. She reached back without looking and took his bandaged hand in her much smaller one.

“Jack, if it’s us and the military etiquette involved, I can resign and still keep my post as the geology department’s head instructor.”

Jack squeezed her shoulder and then turned her around and kissed her deeply. Then he pulled back and ran a finger close to her left eye, which was showing signs of opening all of the way for good. The bruise was deep and purple with tinges of yellow under the skin. Collins shook his head and then smiled.

“That wouldn’t stop me from showing favoritism toward you. That wouldn’t stop me from losing any more people in the field.” Jack removed his hands and then took a few steps back before turning to face Sarah. I’m afraid it’s much more than just us, baby. Do you know that on the plane trip back to Nevada, I couldn’t recall what Lance Corporal Udall looked like? A marine I have spent the past five years training?”

Sarah watched as Jack’s face clouded over with self-doubt and he closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and then looked at Sarah again. “All of the faces of all those boys, from Iraq, Afghanistan, and here at the Group, they all seem to merge and form themselves into…,” again he tried to smile, “well, you. All of my fears, all the terror I feel when I order men to their possible deaths, all come back to you. The loss of you would be my punishment. Do you understand that?”

Sarah remained silent as she reached up and placed her arms around his shoulders and pulled him to her. He felt her soft sobs as she said goodbye in her own quiet way.

“You know short stuff, my mother thinks you’re a figment of my overworked imagination.”

Sarah laughed through her tears as she finally looked up at Collins. “She does?” she said as she wiped a tear away from her very sore face.

“I think we better allay her fears. She’s coming to Las Vegas so I thought maybe we can have dinner tomorrow night?”

“It’s a date … Mr. Collins,” she said as she started crying one more time.

Jack didn’t realize that he would not be addressed by his military rank any longer. As he hugged Sarah he smiled for the first time in a long while, while meaning it.

Jack Collins was very comfortable with the mister aspect of the change. He was tired. Tired of the death that had always surrounded him even since the days of his father. Now, he would wake up tomorrow and would never have to feel that hopelessness again.

Yes, he thought, Mr. Collins was something he could get used to being addressed by.

Niles Compton sat at his desk and read the report that had just been forwarded to him from Pete Golding down in the Computer Center. He shook his head and then looked up at the faces of Carl Everett and Virginia Pollock.

“The explosive used in the destruction of Perdition’s Gate was an exotic mixture. Octanitrocubane is made here in the States and a few countries in Europe, mostly NATO members. We can assume someone wanted the hacienda reduced to dust. That, coupled with the fact that this savior of yours and the colonel in Mexico destroyed the body of Guzman, coincides with someone not wanting some detail of Perdition’s secrets out in the open.”

“Do Pete and Europa have any leads as to who these gentlemen were that have so graciously covered up someone’s mess?” Everett asked as the new head of security. He looked at his watch, knowing that Jack was due to sign out of the Group in fifteen minutes.

“None, but I’m willing to bet that someone over at Langley may have some answers for us. This smells like their work. I’ve talked to the president and he’s looking into it.”

“How is he taking Jack’s resignation?” Virginia asked what she and Everett both were curious about, at least hoping the president wouldn’t accept the request for retirement.

“He’s not speaking to me on any matters not related to this fiasco in Mexico, with the exception of the colonel. I think he will order Jack back to the Group, but that will be the colonel’s call. One he has to make on his own.” Niles tossed Pete’s report on his desktop and then looked up at his two people. “Virginia, how are we handling this sample we removed from Mexico?”

“As of right now, we are treating it as we would a viral compound. Until our cleared Event Group members of the CDC arrive to classify it, that’s all we’re working with.”

“Good. I don’t want anyone near it until we can get some recommendations. I also want that crap out of the complex as soon as that assessment is made. Do we have anything yet on the 1916 raid into Mexico?”

“Pete is putting together a package of everything Europa can dig up on this Professor Ambrose. I just cannot believe that a man with his credentials could come up with a compound such as this in the 1890s. It’s impossible, especially for what he was a professor of. At least we have the good professor Ambrose’s journals that our famous general Patton recovered from the hacienda.”

Everett looked from Niles to Virginia, who just shrugged her shoulders as she didn’t know what Compton was talking about either. “Just what was he a professor of?” Everett finally asked.

“Believe it or not, this Ambrose character was only a botanist. No chemistry experience, no genetics, just a botanist — a brilliant one to be sure, but still just a botanist.”

A U.S. Army sergeant stepped into Jack’s room, took the suitcases, and left for the loading-dock area of the complex. He was followed by Sarah and Collins. As they passed people in the hallway many of them stopped to shake Jack’s hand, and he graciously spent a minute with each as they slowly made their way up to level five. As the elevator doors opened, both Jack and Sarah were shocked at what was waiting on the massive concrete loading dock.

“Damn it,” Jack said beneath his breath as over a hundred of the off-duty Event Group staff were there to send him off. The rumor of his resignation had spread like wildfire from the moment he had left the vault area that morning.

As the hundred men and women broke out in applause, Jack waved them off. Sarah placed her arm through Jack’s as they stepped onto the dock. The first to greet him was a man with wild white hair and small round glasses. Charles Hindershot Ellenshaw III stood before Collins with his white lab coat buttoned askew and his eyes wet.

“Colonel, on behalf of everyone at this complex, I want to say thank you. I … I…”

Jack took Charlie’s hand and shook it. “No Doc, thank you,” he said as he looked up at the faces trying to get a glimpse of him as he left. “Thank all of you.” He looked down at the professor and head of the Cryptozoology Department and smiled. “Thank you for giving me back my humanity in the last six years. Everyone here reminded me of what my job was truly all about.” He again looked at those around him. “You made me care about whom and why I do what I do. And now I leave that to others. Goodbye.”

Ellenshaw released Jack’s hand and without another word turned and burst past both he and Sarah, removing his glasses and swiping at his eyes as he did. Collins took a deep breath and then looked at Sarah. He gestured toward the lone transport car at the edge of the loading dock. With a few more handshakes he finally got a chance and whispered into Sarah’s ear that he loved her. Then as he was about to step into the plastic-reinforced magnetically controlled car, Sarah pulled on his sleeve and nodded to the right of the loading dock where the Security Department kept a small kiosk for inspecting incoming shipments. Will Mendenhall watched from the glass enclosure.

“I’ll be damned,” Jack once again said. Collins stood as straight as he could and then raised his hand.

Will Mendenhall stepped from the security kiosk, and then just when Collins thought he wasn’t going to respond to his goodbye, Will saluted him.

Jack nodded his head, and then looking directly at the best man he had ever trained, a man who had risen from staff sergeant to second lieutenant through sheer talent and ability, he returned the salute. Will snapped his head down, half smiled, and then turned away from the departing soldier who had replaced a father Will had never known. Jack watched the black man move away and knew he was leaving the best people he had ever known.

“Well,” he said as he finally looked down at Sarah.

“Yes, Mr. Collins?”

“Until tomorrow night then?”

“I’ll be there, and I’m going to tell your mother you did this,” she swam her hand around her blackened eyes, “to me.”

Collins smiled and kissed the top of her head. He then stepped into the small transport that would carry him the seven-point-seven miles to gate number two at the Gold City Pawn Shop in Las Vegas.

“After meeting you, she just may agree that you needed that beating Lieutenant McIntire.”

“Goodbye, Jack,” Sarah said as she turned and walked away.

Collins watched everyone start to file back into the complex. And for a fleeting moment he saw the diminutive shape of the woman he loved disappear among the many military, science, academia, and other professions that made up the personnel of the Event Group.

“Europa, gate number two, please.”

“Yes, Colonel Collins, gate number two.”

“Hey!” came a shout that made Collins tell Europa to hold the magnetic-driven car. He looked over and saw the blue jumpsuit and then Everett stepped clear of some large crates on the loading dock.

Jack slid the plastic door up and into the frame of the bullet-shaped car. He stood and waited for Carl to reach him.

“Thought you would get out without having to face me?” he asked as he held out his hand to Collins.

“Something like that,” Jack answered as the two men shook hands.

“It’s been a hell of a ride, Jack.”

“That it has Carl. A ride I wouldn’t have missed for the world.”

Everett took a step back and literally examined the battered frame of his friend. He knew Collins was at his limit. Most men hit that mark after it’s too late, and they end up getting a lot of people killed. Jack had lost people, a lot of them, but had yet to get anyone killed out of negligence to duty. No, Everett thought, Jack was leaving on his own terms and he for one would not ever mention the why’s of his leaving. Instead, Everett just raised his right hand and, like Mendenhall a minute before, saluted.

Collins returned the gesture and then shook his head.

“Any advice, besides run as fast as I can out of here?” Carl asked with a smile as Collins sat back down with his hand poised over the glass-enclosed door.

“Yeah, Senator Lee once told me, ‘Jack, you’re in command, so goddamn it, command.’” With that and a return smile, Jack Collins closed the door and the car zoomed away down the centerline rail toward the city of Las Vegas and whatever future he could carve out for himself.

6

The same photo and trace technician who had questioned Hiram Vickers earlier about the chain of custody for the tracer tract forwarded to her department from the Cassini Corporation in Boulder stood at the far end of the hallway from Vickers’s office. She half turned with the large envelope in her arm, pressed it tightly to her chest, and then looked down on the signoff sheet. Only her department had signed the receipt of service from Cassini. There was a long red arrow from the top of the custody list straight down to Hiram Vickers’s name near the bottom. She looked at the name bypassed by the arrow — the person in charge of intelligence for the North American Desk, Assistant Director Lynn Simpson. Once again the woman bit her lower lip; after all, maybe Vickers had a point about not filling up the desks of people who didn’t have the time to look at test patterns from one of their CIA contractors.

“Penny for your thoughts,” came the familiar voice that had come up on her unawares.

The young girl looked at Hiram Vickers and the cold smile he always gave women he thought far beneath his station. While he looked at her chest, the technician easily pulled the chain-of-possession list from the front of the envelope. She then smiled and held out the large envelope.

“Ah, the second part of the test came through, excellent,” he said as he reached for the envelope. “Uh, do I have to sign for it anywhere?” he said as she released the intelligence report from Cassini.

“Since you said it was a test that came to you only, we didn’t bother, since here you are, and it is only a test, right?”

Hiram kept his smile on his lips far longer than was necessary. “Right, as I said, yours is the red-tape-cutting department. Thanks again for this,” he said holding the envelope up and then turning away.

The technician looked down into her hand at the chain of possession list and the first name at the top. She didn’t quite know how to handle Vickers and his test that didn’t seem to show up on their daily “to do” list. She thought about it and decided on what course of action to take. She turned and walked to the elevator and took it to the sixth floor. She saw the empty area where the North American Intelligence Department usually was, but saw that they must have gone home for the night. She looked at her wristwatch and saw that it was almost seven o’clock. She looked around and spied the old pigeonhole mail slots for the North American Desk. She went over and looked at box number one: Lynn Simpson, Assistant Director, North American Intelligence. She looked at the signoff sheet, folded it, and then placed it in Lynn’s mailbox. That ought to get her to wonder why her desk was bypassed on an intelligence target deep inside the United States … test or no test.

As the girl turned and left the large area, she only hoped she was doing the right thing. Unknowingly, she had placed the intelligence trace report coming in on compromised test subject Collins, Jack, U.S. Army, into the mailbox of Jack’s very own sister, the head of the North American Intelligence Desk, Lynn Simpson.

The young technician was wrong about the North American Desk having gone home for the evening. Since Lynn Simpson’s return from Texas, she had been steadily working on the Juan Guzman case and had every single one of her people in a large meeting room one floor up.

She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that her brother Jack had been involved in the illegal rescue of Sarah McIntire and fifteen kidnapped girls. Lynn had managed to learn through her law enforcement contacts down in Texas that Jack and the mysterious entity he worked for had not been identified as being related to the U.S. government at all. There was only the fact that the rescue element had crossed the Rio Grande into United States territory.

As she read the statements of the fifteen surviving girls as told to the FBI and the Texas Rangers, she thought someone had been drugged or at the very least beaten until all reliability had vanished. Words such as monstruo, satanás, and criatura had come from the lips of the women being questioned about their rescue regarding the man who had abducted them. Lynn knew the three words most of the girls used to describe the Anaconda on their harrowing flight out of Mexico—monster, Satan, and creature.

The bulk of her staff recommended they should start looking into either the American military, or a corporate security group. “No,” she explained, “we’ll not follow that angle.”

Although Lynn knew her desk had to pursue answers to the raid into Mexico, she didn’t want to because she knew Jack, Carl, and Mendenhall were up to their eyeteeth in the cover-up. As she passed the mailboxes she noticed something in her box. She closed the folder on the Anaconda and pulled free the folded paper.

As Lynn walked to her desk she still hadn’t given instructions to her people as to where to start their search. She was hoping to buy time until she could get a hold of Jack, Carl, or Sarah. As she placed the thick file on her desk, she unfolded the piece of paper. It was a signoff chain-of-custody sheet that had been originated in the imaging and trace section. She scanned the sheet and then slowly sat down. She saw the person who had signed for the information received from that section. She also noticed that the subject header was “Surveillance and Tracking Test” from Cassini Space-Based Systems. Her brows rose as she reached for her phone. As she punched in the appropriate number for imaging her eyes roamed to the name that did eventually sign for the test results — Hiram Vickers.

“Imaging and Tracking,” answered the voice on the other end of the line.

“This is Simpson at the Intelligence Desk for North America; your section forwarded an intelligence package from Cassini Space-Based Systems in Boulder to Hiram Vickers.”

Suddenly and before she could continue with the person on the line in imaging and tracking, her awareness rose as she suddenly remembered who this man was. He had started at the company a year or so after Lynn herself. He had begun his intelligence career down in Games and Theory. Now there was a rumor of a new section, a small one to be sure, but new nonetheless — Field Incursions, a special operations teams used by the CIA to infiltrate any country, any place. She suddenly remembered she was talking on the phone.

“Listen, do you people understand your protocols down there? I know your department doesn’t get out much, but any intelligence that comes through North America, is about North America, or is even rumored to be information derived on this continent, gets forwarded to me.” Lynn stopped talking and listened. “Okay, I need the contents of both of these so-called test evaluations brought to me in five minutes. And Mr. Vickers is to know nothing of this.” Lynn hung up the phone and then wondered why Hiram Vickers would be interested in a test subject in Nevada.

As Lynn Simpson waited on the information from Imaging, those same tracking details were being passed to that organization that didn’t exist — the Men in Black.

“This is Smith,” said the deep voice of the large man who was now dressed in Levis and a pullover golf shirt. He glanced over at the door that opened to the hallway outside and the few guests he had over for dinner. He stepped to the den’s wide door and closed it as he pressed the cell phone to his ear.

“I have a little surprise for you,” Hiram Vickers said on the other end of the cell phone call.

“Surprises in my line of work are never a good thing, Mr. Vickers. You should know that.”

“Yes, yes. Now, before I give you the information you’ve been waiting on, I just wanted to say that was a real nice piece of work south of the border this afternoon. Real nice.”

The man known as Smith didn’t respond. He didn’t need the adulation of some desk jockey in Washington to critique his work. He waited in silence.

“Well, anyway, the man with the hard bug on him has left whatever hole in the ground he was in. The signal is weakening, but we are able to maintain the trace for the time being. Not for long though. The man is definitely the officer you know as Jack Collins. I cannot get into his file other than his regular 201 file, which basically only tells us he’s not dead. As for his current assignment, no luck there either. I do know that he is now a full-bird colonel not, as you said, a major. At one time everyone inside the military world thought this man would one day wind up running the whole army corporate arm, until his command had been shot to hell thanks to some generals and rats in Washington a few years back. That was when he was on Capitol Hill testifying before the Ways and Means Committee.”

The large man known to Vickers as Smith made no comment but did reach over for a pen atop his desk and started writing.

“Where can our good colonel be located?”

“I’m waiting on the next package from Imaging, but you can start at 1267 Flamingo Road, Las Vegas. After he appeared downtown, he was traced to this address, and that data is only fifteen minutes old.”

“Now, I’m going to ask this but one time. When I trace this colonel to wherever he is based, what kind of executive power do I have to recover this substance?”

“The highest. These orders come down from on high. But we’ll never have to prove that since you can get what we want and not get caught doing it, and with as few unpleasant things happening as possible, am I right?”

“You know, without knowing who this Collins works for, this thing could get messy. This could involve the elimination of American citizens.”

“The substance that was removed from the Mexican hole in the wall must be recovered or destroyed at all costs.”

“Now you see Mr. Vickers, that is why I hate dealing with you intel types. First you wanted the substance found and destroyed; now you want it recovered. Which is it?”

“Our financiers would like it destroyed. However, we here at the home office believe you can recover at least a sample; that wouldn’t be a bad thing either. But if you doubt recovery is possible, destroy it for our friends.”

Smith just pushed the end-call button on his cell phone and then looked at the address he had written on the pad. He heard the den door open and a small scream of delight. He turned to see his six-year-old daughter run into his study followed by his wife of ten years. They were both smiling.

“Honey, did you forget about our guests?” his dark-haired wife asked as Smith sweeped his daughter into his arms.

“I’m afraid you’re on your own tonight sweetheart; Daddy has some work to do.”

The daughter frowned and the wife only shook her head.

“It can’t wait?” she asked as she removed their daughter from his large arms.

The man known to certain aspects of the intelligence community as Mr. Smith looked from his wife and daughter to the address on the notepad. He tore it off and then reached for a black suitcase and placed the address inside.

“No, the country is in danger and Daddy has to save the world from the bad guys!” he said dramatically, making both his daughter and wife laugh as they kissed him and then left his study to deliver their guests the bad news.

Smith watched them leave and then the smile vanished from his face. He made the necessary phone calls and then looked out of his window at the fine Denver night.

He joked about saving the world from the bad guys, but little did his wife and child know that he was the biggest and baddest of them all.

Jack rang the doorbell several times, but no one answered. He knew someone was home because he could hear the deep bass thump coming through the door. Someone was blasting the old Credence Clearwater Revival song, “Green River.” As Jack was just about ready to knock loudly on the door, the music was lowered inside of the modest house. He turned slightly and looked at two of those plastic flamingos that always drove him crazy. Their black eyes looked accusatory to him, so he sneered and turned away. As he did there was the sound of a chain being removed and then he saw the door open. Standing there smiling was Alice Hamilton.

Since Senator Garrison Lee had died three months before, Alice had kept pretty much to herself. Jack and the others figured she needed the time to grieve and allow the senator’s memory to settle into its proper place. But as Collins looked down upon the eighty-five-year-old woman, he could see that if she were grieving, it was one dirty process. She had paint covering most of her face and even more of her arms and hands.

“Jack,” she said loudly and then reached up and put her arms around him and squeezed him so tight he lost his breath.

“And how are you doing?” he asked when he was able to pry her arms off of his neck.

“Just rockin’ out here and painting the old place. You know, adding a little color now that … that the ogre has gone to the great beyond.”

Jack could see that as much as Alice tried to hide it, the loss of Lee was still etched into her mind.

“Ogre, yeah, whatever you say,” Jack said as he stepped into the foyer of the small house.

“Now, I understand you’ve had some excitement?” Alice said as she walked a few steps to the bar, a new addition to the house Jack noted. She started pouring whiskey for both of them. “Ice?” she asked, holding up the amber fluid, which reminded Jack of the substance they removed from Perdition’s Gate.

“No ice, and yes, much excitement.”

Alice stepped from behind the bar and handed Jack his drink, which he looked at curiously because of its color.

“So, tell me Jack, what’s it like to be a civilian?” she asked as she took half of her drink down in a swallow.

“How in the hell did you know about that already?”

Alice smiled and batted her eyelids, just the way she used to do with Garrison Lee, which drove him insane. “Now, just because I haven’t returned to work yet, doesn’t mean I don’t have my sources.”

“Sarah,” Jack said as he downed his entire drink in a swallow.

“Well, actually I received calls from Sarah, Carl, Niles, Virginia, and Charlie Ellenshaw.”

“Did they think you could do something about my resignation?”

Alice took Jack’s empty glass and returned to the bar and refilled them both. Before she could return, the phone rang and she answered it.

“Hello?” she said.

“Yes, I’ve heard. I know it hurts, but you have to let him sort through this. I know you do, but like the rest of us have to do, you just need to give him his space. Yes dear, thank you, and yes, you can come over anytime. Yes, goodbye, Will.” Alice hung up the phone and then brought Jack his drink.

“You can add Will Mendenhall to the list.”

Jack shook his head and then had to smile.

“Hey, since you’re no longer an officer and a gentleman, Mr. Collins, would you care to get drunk with an old woman and tell me a story?”

Jack downed his second drink and then pursed his lips as the whiskey burned its way to his stomach.

“It would be a pleasure, Mrs. Hamilton. But get this straight young lady — I am not helping you paint. I draw the line right there.”

Will Mendenhall had actually worn his Class “A” uniform just two times since his promotion two years before to that of a second lieutenant. As he walked through the reception area for incoming aircraft he noticed for the first time how empty the uniform looked without his old E-7 rank on his shoulders. He missed being a staff sergeant on most days, but now that he had officially been promoted to second in command of the security detachment at the Group, he realized he really wanted to be just a soldier again. As he rounded the corner he saw the four men and two women he was there to meet and escort to the Event Group Complex. The first person he saw caught his attention and he came to a stop thirty feet from the mingling group.

The young black woman saw Will and she smiled. She held the handle of a small rolling suitcase in her right hand and with her left she waved at Will. For his part, Mendenhall turned around to see who she was waving at. When he saw no one behind him but the two crewmen of the Blackhawk that took him to the reception center, he turned back to the young woman who held her smile as she looked the young officer over. Will realized then that the girl had actually been greeting him. He tried to smile and felt it faltering even as he attempted it. He decided he better just do what he came to do and leave the smiles for another time.

“Hi, are you the escort we’re supposed to meet?” the young lady said as she held out her small hand to Mendenhall. He cleared his throat as he tried to speak but quickly decided that he would also abandon that thought. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her gorgeous brown ones. “Hello, anyone home?” she said jokingly as she was joined by a rather stern-looking man dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant colonel, U.S. Army. Finally Will saw the rank staring at him and instead of shaking the girl’s hand, he saluted the colonel.

“Never saw a second lieutenant that would refuse the handshake of a beautiful woman in order to salute an old man,” the colonel said shaking his head.

“I don’t think he’s capable of speech, Dad,” the beautiful woman said as she lowered her hand just as Will raised his to shake. She laughed and tilted her head and looked at Mendenhall. “Maybe we’ll start over later; right now we’re supposed to be met and escorted through to the Group. It seems our security badges have lapsed, at least that was what Director Compton told us.”

Will started shaking his head up and down and then after a few insane-looking minutes he finally found his voice. “Sir, I am here to bring you into the secured area of Nellis. Can you give your identification cards over to this man,” he said gesturing to the crew chief standing behind them. “He’ll run your security clearance and then we can be on our way.” Mendenhall’s eyes locked on the woman again and this time managed a small smile that was returned instantly. He then managed to pull out the folder he had been carrying. He looked at the list of names and then checked them off as the crew chief gathered their identification cards. He noticed immediately that the woman’s name was Gloria Bannister. Then he saw the letters following her name. He stopped counting after sixteen, which all boiled down to the woman having just about fifteen years more education than Will had. And that made her—

“Dr. Bannister,” she said once more holding her hand out when she saw Mendenhall looking at her name on the Event Group recall list. This time Will didn’t hesitate; he shook her hand. Her eyes traveled to the bandage covering his hand and then rose to meet his. That was when she saw a small bandage covering his jawline from just below the ear. “It’s too bad I’m not that kind of doctor; it looks like you could use one,” she said as she released his hand. “You’re new since my last trip back to the Group.”

“Oh, uh, this,” he said looking at his hand. “Just part of the job around here. And I don’t think I’m that new; I’ve been here for six years.”

“Well, I guess we missed each other.”

“They all check out Lieutenant,” the crew chief said as he started handing the IDs back to their owners. The crew chief had to tug and pull Dr. Bannister’s ID from Will’s grasp.

“I’m Lieutenant Colonel William Bannister, young man, and I am supposed to be in charge of this band of fools from the CDC, including my daughter here, Dr. Bannister.”

Mendenhall’s eyes slowly moved away from the now grinning girl to the large man in the same Class “A” uniform he wore.

“Although it’s written into army regulations that anyone, and I mean anyone, above the rank of first lieutenant can make a fool out of second lieutenants, I will forgo that right at the moment. Right now I understand we are needed for some particularly dirty work at the complex, so may I suggest we get to it?”

“Yes, sir, right this way.” Will turned away after placing the file under his arm and with eyes wide shooed the two chiefs away ahead of him.

The young doctor slapped her father on the arm and then placed her arm through his. “You’re just plain mean sometimes,” she said and they both laughed as they followed the scared second lieutenant out to the flight line. “Sometimes I think working too closely with Senator Lee all those years has made you mean at heart.”

The Blackhawk flew for only seven minutes. It circled the ancient hangar where at one time B-25 Mitchells and P-51 Mustangs sat like waiting dragons to take to the war-torn skies of the world. It had been over sixty years since the propeller-driven beasts ruled the air and just as long since the giant hangar had housed anything other than insects and Gila monsters.

The Blackhawk swept the area twice so the security detail surrounding the hangar could clearly identify them. Then it circled to the front of the old hangar and the large rotored craft settled to about ten feet off the desert scrub. Wind and sand blew up and obscured the Blackhawk as it eased itself through the giant and dilapidated hangar door, so it would look to the casual observer to be hanging from only five of the twenty giant hinges on either side. The helicopter hovered for the briefest of moments before the experienced pilot sat it down onto what looked like a cracked and broken concrete center floor.

Suddenly every one of the reactivated Event personnel from the CDC gave out a loud breath when they felt their stomachs heave up slightly as the Blackhawk was lowered down by the massive lift.

As the twenty-seven-ton lift operated on ultraquiet hydraulics, it was hard to tell once your stomach settled if you were still moving or not. Finally the elevator came to a stop and Niles Compton was there to greet his returning team.

Will jumped free of the Blackhawk and then handed the file folder to Niles.

“On behalf of our department, I would like to welcome you back home to Nevada,” Niles said.

“Whatever this is about Mr. Director, I sure hope you can afford my fees,” Colonel Bannister joked with his old friend as he held out his hand.

Niles took the colonel’s hand and shook it. “Good to see you again Billy,” he said looking over at the colonel’s daughter. “Gloria, sorry to drag you back to the Group on such short notice, but budgeting for a full-time disease control staff is a little beyond us.”

“It’s good to be back, Niles,” Gloria said as she waited for their mission to be described to them.

“We have an element in house that needs to be treated with respect, and I trust you to see that it’s analyzed and then, if need be, destroyed after study.”

“Sounds fascinating,” Colonel Bannister said as he followed the soldiers carrying his suitcase toward the elevators. The others followed Bannister.

Gloria smiled as she walked by Will. Compton half smiled as he watched Mendenhall’s eyes follow the attractive doctor as she walked away.

“What’s wrong Lieutenant? You look sick. Aren’t your new expanded duties meeting with your approval?”

“Huh?” Will stammered, not hearing a word Niles had said. “Sir?”

Niles turned his head and watched the group of doctors as they entered the elevator. Compton smiled and then raised his eyebrows as he turned and looked at Will.

“Carry on, Lieutenant,” the director said.

“Huh?”

Niles smiled as he turned away and strode to the elevator, leaving a confused second lieutenant in his wake.

The large man going by the name of Smith stepped off the chartered flight from Denver. He was met by a team of three men and they were backed up by four more in a car he knew was there but couldn’t see as per their training.

As the large well-dressed man stepped up to the black Chevy Tahoe, he looked at his watch and then turned to the man holding the door. He saw that he was wearing a black windbreaker.

“How much longer does the transmitter have before it dies?” he asked as he eyed the man who led the Black field team inside the Las Vegas city limits.

“We lost the signal five minutes ago, Mr. Smith.”

“You have GPS locations for all of the stops the target made?”

“Yes, sir, we do. Actually, he made only one stop after appearing at 2896 Koval Lane, and that was a private residence out on Flamingo Road.”

The man named Smith shook his head and then buttoned his blue blazer. As he stepped by the smaller man who held the door open, he looked down at him and without his other men hearing said, “What’s with the black windbreaker?”

The man was taken aback as Smith seated himself in the backseat of the Tahoe. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. After all, he had heard the rumors about Smith and his famous temper. He had also heard that the man really had one passion in life, and that was to end other people’s aspirations for a long one.

“We never wear black when the need to intimidate isn’t called for,” he said as he looked over at the man who was now having second thoughts about running the Las Vegas office for him. “And investigating doesn’t call for the intimidation factor. Don’t wear that shit again unless I specifically order you to.” Smith reached out and closed the door in the man’s face. The former U.S. Army Ranger swallowed and then ran around to the opposite rear door and climbed inside.

Smith once more looked at his watch. “Take me to where our target first appeared. That’s quite a jump from Nellis to Koval Lane in downtown Las Vegas with the route the subject took. According to the report, he cut through rough desert and the basements of several casinos to get to this location on Koval Lane. I’m interested in knowing how he achieved that little stunt.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver said as he placed the large Tahoe into gear.

“What’s the name of this place again,” he asked the chastised man next to him.

The man pulled out his notebook and then decided at that precise moment to remove the offensive black windbreaker. He opened the notebook and studied his notes, infuriating Smith even more than he had been.

“The Gold City Pawn Shop,” the man finally answered without looking up.

“Then why aren’t we at the Gold City Pawn Shop already?”

The Tahoe screeched out of the charter area of McCarran airport heading to downtown. As they pulled out onto the main drive heading toward the city, another black Tahoe pulled out after them.

As Collins ran the paint roller across the den’s wall, he tuned with a sneer and looked over at a very messy but very satisfied Alice Hamilton.

“No wonder the senator didn’t like you much. You purposefully plied me with drink, and then the next thing I know I’m painting, and I’m doing most of the work.”

“Yes, and soon I’m going to go into that backyard of mine and then grill you a steak, Mr. Collins.” Alice looked up after she poured more light-green paint into the pan she was using just to see if she got a rise out of Jack by calling him mister. But Collins just kept painting. Badly, but he kept painting nonetheless.

“You’re not going to get to me, you know?” he said as he almost fell over when he tried to get more paint on his roller. “This is only the first day of my retirement, so my mind is still strong young lady.”

Alice looked up at Jack and smiled. She lay the paint brush down inside of the pan of paint and then walked over to where Jack was trying his hardest to apply paint to the roller, but every time he tried he would almost fall face first in the opposite direction. Alice took the roller and then placed it in the pan at Jack’s feet. “Come on soldier boy, I think you’re ready for that steak now.”

“See, I knew if I did a bad-enough job you would call an end to this … this farce.”

“That’s right Jack, I’m surrendering,” she said as she guided him through the now empty house and toward the back sliding door. “Let’s get some air, and then I’ll bring you out some coffee.”

“Air? Yes, air would be nice,” he said as she placed him not too gently into one of the chaise lounges.

“Okay, just stay put and entertain yourself for a few minutes.”

“And how do I do that, my dear Mrs. Hamilton?”

“Hum ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’ or something.”

An expression of confusion came over Jack’s face. “I … I … don’t know Row, row, row … row, row … your boat.”

Alice wanted to answer, but she had to turn away or she would have lost it right there. She went back into the kitchen, trying her best not to laugh out loud at Jack’s butchering of the children’s song title. When she made it into her kitchen, which she hadn’t really used since the death of Garrison Lee, her cell phone rang. If it was someone public, they would have called on her landline. But since it was her cell phone she knew it was someone at the Event Group calling from the complex.

“Hello,” she said, knowing who it was before the words came through the atmosphere.

“Uh, hello, Alice?” came the voice full of worry and concern.

“Hello my dear. And before you worry yourself too much, he’s here. A little plastered right now, but I can also attribute that to painting, and not just my twenty-year-old whiskey. He’s out in the back trying to sing.”

“Thank God,” Sarah said on the other end. “He’s not answering his phone and I—”

“Stop it now. You listen to what I have to say. My words may be a little bit slurred, but you should understand them well enough. Jack needs time. I don’t know what happened in the field, but I know something inside of him snapped. I’ve seen it before, Sarah. Garrison resigned no less than fifteen different times. He and Jack are a lot alike you know?”

“That’s why I knew where I had to call. Look, Alice, I have to give our field report to a group of recalls from the CDC in a few minutes, but do you think afterward I can stop by? I won’t bug him about his decision. I just need to see him.”

“I would be angry if you didn’t come by, young lady. He needs you now, not an old woman who knows songs he doesn’t know.”

“What?” Sarah asked.

Alice turned away from the open sliding glass window where she heard Jack trying to recall the words to “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” but he kept going off track with a mixture of that song and the theme from Gilligan’s Island.

“Nothing, I’ll see you when you get here.” Alice hung up the phone and then as her eyes moved away from her backyard, she caught a glimpse of the only portrait she had on her walls. It was of her and Garrison Lee fifty years before when they took a field trip to Egypt. She saw the angry look on his face for having to be still for so long just for a portrait, but it was the only thing she ever asked of him, so he did it, complaining all the way. She smiled at the picture of herself and the one-eyed ex-senator and former general in the OSS, the Office of Strategic Services, and then she looked at Jack out on the back porch.

“Just like him.”

The man inside the Tahoe was parked across the busy street. The Black Team had been out front watching for the better part of thirty minutes. Smith never uttered a word but had held up his hand several times when one of the three men inside the Tahoe attempted to ask a question. His eyes never left the pawn shop.

As far as he could discern it was a busy place of business. He saw very little out of the ordinary. Smith looked to his left and the field supervisor he had chewed out earlier. He looked at the man’s hand and then smiled to himself. “Give me your ring and watch,” he said as he held out his large hand.

The man next to him was about to ask a very stupid question, especially stupid considering how his day had gone thus far with the director of the Black Teams. Instead of doing the stupid thing, he removed his watch and his wedding ring and gave them to Smith. He would have asked why he didn’t use his own watch, or his own wedding ring, but stopped short when he saw how much more expensive the man’s wedding ring was compared to his, and with the Rolex he wore, well, he decided not to break the bond of trust he was now trying to develop.

“Thank you. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Smith left the large Chevrolet and then waited for a city bus to pass before he sprinted across the street and entered the Gold City Pawn Shop without a second’s hesitation.

The agent from the Las Vegas district watched Smith go and then turned away and looked out of the side window. He knew the man as the most ruthless person he had ever met in his life. He had been recruited by Smith right out of the army, claiming he and others were about to rebuild an elite paramilitary unit that would work closely with the CIA and NSA. Needless to say, he had jumped at the chance. But now he realized that if the job didn’t kill him, the man named Smith surely would.

Smith looked down at the ornate door handle that was probably cast sometime in the 1940s. He depressed the thumb plate and knew immediately that he had touched something other than brass. Under his thumb he felt slick, cold glass. He opened the door without pausing and stepped into the pawn shop. He held the door open a moment as two teenage girls left holding a bag full of CDs. He smiled and nodded as they giggled their way past. He closed the door and then looked around the shop. There were musical instruments hanging on the walls, large-screen LED television sets, and stereo systems. If this was a front, he thought, it was convincing.

Smith started up the aisle toward the back of the store where he noticed an older man leaning against the glass cases reading a magazine. As he looked at the many pawned items on display, he watched the man without him ever knowing it. He saw the clean-shaven face and the well-trimmed hair. That was when Smith smelled military. As he stepped to the counter he also saw that he was being observed by no less than fifteen cameras, far too many for a small pawn shop. The older man noticed his approach and then closed his magazine.

“Howdy, what can I do ya’ for?” the man asked as he looked Smith up and down.

“Well, I just want to get these appraised,” he answered with a return smile as he held out the wedding ring and the watch.

The older man behind the counter looked at the two items and then smiled. “Without looking through my jeweler’s loupe, I can tell you the ring isn’t what you probably think it is, and the watch, well,” he started to say as he pulled a large cardboard box out from under the counter, “as you can see, I have a bunch of that crap already.” He looked at Smith, and then he relented a little. “Having a hard stay in Vegas my friend?”

Smith smiled and tried to look embarrassed. “You can say that.”

“Okay partner. I’ll give you fifty for the ring. On the condition you take that fifty, put gas in your car, and go home. Do we have a deal?”

Smith placed the ring on the countertop and then nodded his head as if he were embarrassed to no end.

“Ah, don’t sweat it my friend, we all have our moments. You just had yours and now you’ve learned from it.” The man, a staff sergeant in the U.S. Army and part of the security team for the Event Group Complex, took the ring and then slid a paper form toward Smith for him to fill out. “Name, address, phone number, and sign at the bottom of the page. And I’ll tell you what, I’ll treat this as a loan, so you can get it back before the wife finds out.”

“Thanks buddy — thanks a lot.” Smith watched as the clerk turned and went into the back room. When the thick curtain parted he could see two other men standing in the back with the refuse of junk collected by the gambling lowlifes that frequented this place. He saw one of the men look up at him just before the curtain slid back into place. The man was medium sized, and he was black. Their eyes locked for the briefest of moments, but in that short time Smith had confirmed what he already suspected. The place was a front for something. What, he didn’t know yet. But the black man with the bandage on the side of his jaw was the very same man from Mexico they had pulled out of that culvert outside of Perdition’s Gate. Smith would recognize him anywhere.

As the old man returned from the back room, he handed Smith his fifty dollars in cash. He read the receipt of exchange and then smiled. “ID please.”

Smith produced the fake license that corresponded with the fake name and address he had given on the loan form. The old man wrote down the license number and then slid the ID back.

“Now, you go home,” he looked down at the receipt, “Mr. Smith, and we’ll see you when you come back to get your ring.”

“You bet,” Smith said as he pocketed the cash and then placed the watch that he couldn’t pawn into his pocket.

Smith strolled confidently through the pawn shop and then hesitated at the door to see what was happening behind him thanks to the reflection in the thick glass. The old man watched him for a moment and then went back to the magazine he was reading. Smith opened the door and left. As he crossed the street he felt inside of his coat pocket. The watch that he couldn’t pawn appeared and he smiled as he dropped it into the gutter beside the Tahoe. He entered the backseat and handed the man his fifty dollars.

“They took both the watch and the ring.”

The man just looked down at the cash in his hand. That was all he received for the wedding ring and the watch his wife gave him last Christmas.

“This place has something under it, I can smell it. A passageway, something…,” Smith said as his words trailed off in thought. “We may have to call in another favor and get some geological data of the area leading to and from that pawn shop.” He smiled to no one but himself as a plan started to form. “Now, let’s go to the private address out on Flamingo Road.”

Inside the Gold City Pawn Shop, Will Mendenhall stepped out from behind the curtain and watched as the large man crossed the street and vanished. He shook his head as he tried to think.

“What is it, Lieutenant?” the sergeant asked as he again closed his magazine.

“Did that guy look familiar to you?” Will asked as he watched the gathering darkness outside to see if the man would reappear.

“Familiar? One thing you should remember from your time at this counter, sir, is that everyone looks familiar.”

Mendenhall smiled at the memory of the boring days on gate duty. He slapped the sergeant on the back. “Yeah I do remember.” He turned as one of the marines in the back room looked out from behind the curtain. He made sure no customers were in the shop and then faced Will.

“The director called and said they’re ready for your deposition to our newly arrived CDC people.”

Mendenhall perked up as he realized he would get to see the young Dr. Bannister again. Then his smile faded as he remembered she would be with her father, Colonel Bannister.

Mendenhall turned and left as he was starting to realize he didn’t stand a chance with someone like Gloria Bannister.

The reactivated Event Group personnel from the CDC were sitting around the large conference table on the seventh level. Niles Compton was at his accustomed place at the head of the table and next to him was Virginia. The doctors from the Group and now the CDC were all facing the large-screen monitor as they took in the information compiled by Pete, who was busy using his pointer on the large 3-D screen while explaining about Perdition’s Gate and its ownership through the years.

“We have thus far met a block wall as far as getting the history of Professor Lawrence Ambrose. His academic credentials, his research grants, his employment history seem to have been misplaced by everyone in government. Where he received the millions upon millions of dollars to conduct research has not been discovered — yet,” Pete added. “We hope to have that question answered very soon as we are just now starting to pore through the old data compiled by the Group back in 1916. The material is volumes in length and extremely detailed so it may take a while. We have decided that at least one of you should assist in the archival research. You may see something we don’t.”

“So, until two days ago you had never heard of this Lawrence Ambrose before?” Colonel Bannister asked.

“No,” Niles answered for Pete Golding. “We discovered the results of his work and the sample we brought back after our security detachment’s raid into Perdition Hacienda south of Nuevo Laredo one day ago.”

“And the subject of this raid had no knowledge of the hacienda’s ownership at the turn of the century?” Dr. Emily Samuels, one of Virginia’s old nuclear science students, asked.

“Thus far our search has turned up no relationship between Professor Ambrose and Juan Guzman,” Pete answered as he pointed at the picture of the Anaconda in the right-hand corner of the screen. “As far as we can see, it was just a fluke, a coincidence that they ended up owning the same hacienda, one hundred years apart.”

“In the earlier portion of your brief you said that the area of concern at the hacienda was two levels below the main floor of the house, and that level had been sealed earlier in the century in an attack by the American military searching for the bandit known as Pancho Villa, am I correct?” Colonel Bannister asked as he checked off the question from his list of about a hundred.

Niles nodded his head.

“Then it seems the answer may lie in the auspices of the Department of the Army. Wouldn’t that be the next logical step in your search?”

“Dead end. There were no such orders, at least officially, issued for the 8th United States Cavalry to cross into Mexico on that day and date. It is well known that on that particular night, Pancho Villa was raiding a Mexican federal pay shipment from Juarez. He was a far distance from Perdition on the night of the raid.” Pete looked at his notes and pushed his horn-rimmed glasses back onto the bridge of his nose.

“Then how do you know the raid on the hacienda actually took place?” Gloria Bannister asked.

“A journal — little known and kept in a family trunk for many, many years,” Virginia Pollock added.

“And whose journal are we speaking of?” Gloria asked.

“A first lieutenant who actually commanded the raid that night — George S. Patton,” Virginia answered, stealing Pete’s thunder. “We not only know he led the raid that night, but also that the Event Group was there right along with him. That’s how we came into possession of the artifacts from 1916.”

“The George Patton — General George Patton?” the colonel asked, raising his brows.

“The family of the general always thought the raids into Mexico did nothing to enhance the general’s reputation after the war years, so that was one piece of information they kept pretty close to the vest, only stating that the general was in on the pursuit of Pancho Villa. They never once uttered the words Perdition’s Gate or Professor Lawrence Ambrose,” Pete said as he lowered his pointer and then looked at his notes. He then nodded at Virginia who stood up and walked to the large screen where the navy signalman replaced the scene from the spot where Perdition used to sit to a large picture of Lawrence Ambrose himself as he was just after he finished his studies.

“Professor Lawrence Jackson Ambrose was born in the third year of the American Civil War in 1863. His father was a greenhouse keeper and gardener in Indianapolis, Indiana, and was killed the same year his son was born at the battle of Gettysburg. After that Ambrose was raised by a doting mother, Isabel, and eventually went off to college. He graduated from the University of Indiana with the highest honors of his academic class.”

“What were the main courses of study?” another doctor, Pierce, asked from the end of the group.

“Botany,” Virginia answered. “The man, according to graduation reports from his professors, was a genius, as was his father in the breeding, cross-breeding, and pollination of plant life. He was the foremost authority on splicing and was one of the first to conduct such experiments on wild flowers and plants from exotic areas of the world. It was these experiments that led to the disappearance of Ambrose in 1885. At the time, the professor was only twenty-two years of age and the most brilliant man in his field. We suspect he was hired into private practice, for what reason we do not know. He literally vanished from the face of the earth and didn’t show up again until the raid by the United States cavalry into Mexico in 1916.”

“Now, I have three people that were at Perdition Hacienda the night of the Guzman raid. They will fill you in on the effects of this sample that was recovered from the sublevel of that building. They are witness to the change that occurred on more than one man and its subsequent effect on their minds and bodies,” Niles said as he nodded for the blue-clad marine to allow the three people into the conference room.

Captain Carl Everett, Sarah McIntire, and Will Mendenhall stepped into the conference room, each clad in their military-designated coveralls of blue and gold trim. All had their military designation on their sleeve and collars. Carl waited for Mendenhall and Sarah, who still had most of her face hidden behind a large pair of glasses. She looked at Director Compton and he lightly tapped his own glasses. She took the meaning and removed her glasses. She saw the look on the lead doctor’s face as he took in Sarah’s large black eyes and broken nose.

“I don’t know what function your people perform for our government Dr. Compton, but I hope you get hazardous-duty pay,” Colonel Bannister said as he looked back at Sarah who actually smiled back at him.

“They do get hazardous-duty pay, and believe me, Colonel, they earn it here,” Compton said as he removed his glasses and then nodded at Virginia to offer up the questions for Everett and the other two witnesses to the amazing transformation of Juan Guzman the night of the raid.

Virginia smiled and then looked at Captain Everett who looked as if he really didn’t want to be in the conference room at all.

“Doctors, this is Captain Everett, the head of our security staff. He…,” she hesitated a moment, choosing the only words that came to mind. “He led the assault on Perdition Hacienda two nights ago. Captain, can you explain to our guests from the CDC what happened in the brief firefight between your forces and those of Juan Guzman?” Virginia smiled and nodded her head at Carl.

“First, to be accurate, we discovered approximately fifteen barrels of dried flowers. We assume these flowers were grown somewhere other than Mexico. After a brief and not very knowledgeable examination of the contents of these stored flowers, it was suggested that they were poppies of some variety. The barrels were marked 2370. Lined up next to these barrels were several hundred jars of a substance consisting of an amber fluid. These jars were sealed with not only rubber stoppers, but also had been waxed over to secure the contents.”

“Excuse me, Captain; my name is Dr. Gloria Bannister. Were these jars marked with any form of identification?”

Mendenhall allowed his eyes to move across the table for the first time and was shocked when Dr. Bannister met eye contact with him after asking Carl the question. Everett saw the exchange and wondered what Will was up to.

“Yes, they were all marked with what I assumed was a batch number as they were all different, with one exception. They all had a number in bold print — batch number 2370.”

“Please continue, Captain,” Colonel Bannister said as he looked from Will and then slightly turned to see his daughter lower her eyes.

“Well, Juan Guzman and his men assaulted our team before we could get clear of the laboratory spaces below the hacienda. They had us cornered and we were taking fire from a covered position. Lieutenant Mendenhall here held them at bay until heavier ordnance was introduced into the fight from the Guzman faction. A grenade exploded in their covered position, breaking open several of the barrels containing the dried vegetation, and unfortunately this brought down the shelving where the liquid material was stored. Our young lieutenant here was the first to notice something was wrong. Will, what happened after the smoke cleared?”

Mendenhall wasn’t expecting to speak to the group of doctors. He shifted in his chair and then with a great deal of concentration tried to recall and account for what happened that night without everyone thinking him an idiot.

“Several of Guzman’s men were killed in the initial detonation of the grenade.” His eyes moved from the tabletop and locked with Gloria’s. He felt a little better when she lightly smiled. “Several others were just injured. As one of these men rose to continue his assault, he was hit by several rounds, from not only me but another part of our team. The man took hits from at least ten different bullets. He went down.”

“Perhaps we can write that off to injuries, causing shock to the system, and also a rush of adrenalin?” asked Dr. Lewis, a balding man from the CDC who was looking at Mendenhall with the slightest bit of skepticism written in his face and laced into his words.

“Perhaps,” Will said, not liking the condescending tone in the doctor’s words. “But I quickly eliminated any speculation as to the man’s condition when he once more rose up and continued his attack.”

Several eyes of the visiting CDC doctors rose and they started paying far better attention to the young army officer’s account.

“Perhaps your defense did not hit any vital organs. Maybe his being alive was just a fluke?” Gloria said, hoping to point out something Mendenhall had maybe missed in his eyewitness account.

“Well, yes ma’am, while my initial thoughts may have leaned that way, my second thoughts included the sight of half the man’s head missing. After at least fifteen more rounds to the body and finally the front of the man’s head, he went down. This attack was repeated by others who had been inundated with the material stored in the jars.”

“Sounds like the effects produced by the PCP studies of 1975,” Gloria said softly to her father.

“Can you tell us of any odors you may have caught during this time?” Colonel Bannister asked.

Mendenhall looked over at Carl who only shrugged his shoulders. “Uh, no, sir. The vapors from the liquid seemed to be confined to the floor area near the impact zone where the men had taken cover.”

“Confined to the floor you say?” another of the doctors asked.

“Yes, sir. It was like a shroud of fog.”

Gloria leaned forward so her statement could be heard by the rest of the CDC team from Atlanta. “Obviously heavier than air and a possible chemical breakdown that produces a gas when exposed to the air?”

“Possibly,” Colonel Bannister said. “Lieutenant, can we have your description of the major changes that occurred in this Juan Guzman as you witnessed that night?”

Mendenhall slightly shook his head and then looked into the colonel’s eyes. “I don’t think you could describe it as a change. It was more of a transformation. As far as I could see, Guzman took the brunt of the spill. He had been right under the fall of specimen jars from their shelves. But as I said, it was more of a transformation right before our eyes. His body resembled that of Guzman, but that’s where it all ended. His height even changed. I could venture a guess, but I would have to say by at least a good foot. His musculature had tripled, enough so that his clothing couldn’t contain his body any longer. The teeth were different, larger somehow. But all of that wasn’t the strangest part.”

“Go ahead, Lieutenant,” Bannister said when he saw Will hesitate.

“The material he ingested, breathed in, seemed not to have affected his higher brain functions at all. He was able to articulate his words, and … and…” Mendenhall looked into the eyes of Gloria Bannister. The return look told him to go ahead, that he was doing fine. “I could actually see intelligence behind those larger-than-normal eyes.”

The visiting team of viral, germ warfare, and toxicology specialists looked at one another. They were clearly stumped for the time being.

“And each one of these affected men was hard to kill in the extreme?” Gloria asked.

“Ma’am, I have been in more than just a few firefights. Been though what a lot of people would call harrowing situations, but after seeing what happened in Mexico, I can honestly say I have never been that scared. I guess it was the fear of the unknown. What we saw there wasn’t natural. And one last thing doctors…”

“Go on Will,” Virginia encouraged from the head of the table.

“Guzman actually killed several of his men for simply being in his way when he started to come after us. He went through them with his bare hands and tore them to pieces. He was enraged but still able to function. He not only escaped, but stalked us all the way back across the border. He hit us at differing ambush points in the underground culvert. Yes, he was a monster, but a calculating one that was relentless.”

At that moment one of Compton’s four assistants came through the conference room doors and then nodded at Niles. He then went to where Sarah was sitting and handed her a folded piece of paper. She thanked the assistant and then read the note as the CDC personnel talked amongst themselves. She refolded the note and then looked at Niles.

“Dr. Compton, our other guest is causing a little problem down in the clinic, uh, may I—”

“Do you need Captain Everett to accompany you?” Niles asked as his worries about keeping Henri Farbeaux a prisoner inside of his complex came to the surface with his stern look.

“No sir, I think I can handle our friend.”

Carl leaned over and whispered. “If you think it necessary, shoot the bastard in the head and call it a day.”

Sarah looked down at Carl as she stood. “We need to talk later about that very subject, Captain,” Sarah said, causing Carl to raise his eyebrows when the venom in her words hit him like a slap in the face. She placed her sunglasses back on and then nodded at the doctors across the table before she left the conference room.

Mendenhall chanced a look at Gloria across from him, but she was deep into conversation with her colleagues and didn’t pay him any mind.

“Thank you Lieutenant Mendenhall and Captain Everett, I think we have a picture of the change this possible pathogen may have caused. Now I think it’s time we get to work.” Bannister looked over at Niles Compton. “I assume you have a clean room we can work in?”

“Dr. Pollock will take you to your new labs; quite a bit has changed since you were here last. There you’ll be set up with anything you may need. One thing I want to make clear ladies and gentlemen is that I want that crap out of my complex as soon as you deem it safe to either destroy or move.”

“That’s why we’re here Niles old friend.”

Gloria Bannister gathered her notes and stood along with her father and other members of the CDC. She happened to look up one last time and smiled at Will. It almost looked as if she wanted to say something, but she shook her head and then followed her father and the others out of the conference room.

Both Niles and Carl looked from Gloria’s back over to the lieutenant. Will tilted his head and then caught himself. He tried to smile as he looked from Everett to Compton, but failed miserably.

“Smart girl,” he said.

“Not bad looking either,” Everett said as he looked over at Compton.

“Cute,” was all Mendenhall could say as he quickly stood and hurried from the conference table with worried eyes following him all the way.

“Are you sure our young second lieutenant didn’t get a dose of that stuff along with Guzman?” Niles asked.

“Whatever Will’s got in his system, although I do suspect it’s chemical in nature, has nothing to do with Perdition, Lawrence Ambrose, or Juan Guzman. Our friend has been overwhelmed by someone he doesn’t understand and he realizes that because of that, he’s attracted to her.”

Niles smiled as he stacked his file folders. “Sounds like you’ve been there before, Captain.”

Everett smiled and stood from the conference table. “I have, and I don’t recommend it.”

With that said, the investigation into Perdition’s Fire began in earnest.

Sarah stood in the open doorway of the clinic’s ten-bed area and watched Farbeaux as he slept. She took a moment and leaned against the doorframe to study the man. With his blonde hair tousled and the way he turned his head from time to time, it was as if Henri were but a small boy lost in a world he couldn’t control. Of course Sarah knew she was only speculating, but she knew the Frenchman wasn’t what he appeared to be. And now that the famous thorn in the side of the Event Group had been caught, she supposed it was true — he was nothing but a lost man who had done a kindness and now was a prisoner. That kindness had been done for her, and it only confused things in her head to the point that she had to know more about him. As she touched the overly large sunglasses and took a tentative step inside, she reminded herself that Henri had killed people — their people — all for the sake of more money and priceless objects. She set her mind to a course and entered the semidark room.

As she approached the bed, one of the security men in the far corner cleared his throat. Sarah looked over and nodded at the man. As she continued, another security man stepped into the doorway she had just left, blocking out the light from the clinic’s offices. She was self-conscious about Jack’s men even seeing her in Farbeaux’s room.

She stepped up to the bed, quietly pulled over a chair, and sat down. She ran a hand through her short brown hair and then eased the glasses back up the bridge of her nose, suddenly self-aware of how she must look. She came here because Henri requested her to, but now she knew she had made a mistake in not allowing Carl to accompany her. She started to rise from the chair.

“My dear Sarah, it must have taken a lot of courage for you to come here unescorted by your rather large navy friend. I’m sure he wasn’t happy about it.” Henri reached up and moved a strand of hair back behind Sarah’s left ear. She started to flinch away from his touch, but found she couldn’t. She swallowed as his hand came away.

“I don’t think I have to worry Colonel; Captain Everett seems to be well represented here.”

Farbeaux looked up at the marine standing in the door and the army sergeant sitting in the chair. Both were watching him very closely.

“Yes, I suppose he is,” Henri commented with a smile. “I did notice little Sarah that you didn’t disagree when I said ‘the captain’s men’.”

“Why should I? They are his men.”

“This afternoon I received the distinct impression that Colonel Collins relieved himself of his duties. Is this true?” Henri sat up with some amount of pain showing on his face so he could see Sarah more closely. He would detect a lie if one was told to him. He knew the small woman in front of him had little affinity for that particular sin.

Sarah only looked at Farbeaux through the dark sunglasses. She placed her hands in her lap and took Henri in.

“He did. And yes, it was his choice. Unlike a lot of professional soldiers, and others, Jack had filled up with loathing over war and other things. He needed to step away for a while.”

“A while?”

Sarah didn’t answer the query, but she did start to rise from the chair, and this time Henri reached out and took her hand, making her stop. As he did, the marine at the door took a few steps toward Farbeaux’s bed and the sergeant in the corner stood — his hand was on the holster flap where his nine millimeter was secured.

Sarah looked over and shook her head slightly at the marine. Then she turned and did the same for the sergeant in the corner. They both relaxed. But neither one moved back to their original positions.

Sarah twisted her hand free of the Frenchman’s grip. “What did you want to see me for, Colonel?”

“Please, sit,” he said as his eyes looked up and into his own reflection in her sunglasses. That was a view Henri never liked — one of himself.

Sarah took in a deep breath and then slowly sat down once more. She adjusted her glasses and then looked at Henri. “I have a lot of work to do, Colonel, and I still have plans to track Jack … er, uh, Colonel Collins, down before the night is over.”

Farbeaux smiled. “I doubt very much if his resignation will affect the way he feels about you, dear Sarah.”

“I know that, as it won’t affect the way I feel about him. He’s the love of my life, Henri; I want you to know that.” Sarah watched the former French commando for a reaction. His smile remained, but as for understanding what she had just stated, there was no way she could know.

Henri looked over at the two security men who just stood watching the exchange. He held his hand up so they could see, and then he slowly reached out and removed Sarah’s sunglasses. He held them as he examined her face. The large bandage covering the bridge of her nose and the blackened and bruised eyes shocked the Frenchman and for a moment he lost his smile. He reached up and touched McIntire’s cheek and tried once more to bring back the ghost of a smile he had just a moment before.

Sarah tried not to flinch at his touch, but she did and she resented her weakness. She touched his finger and then took hold of his hand and lowered it.

“Colonel … Henri,” she said, remembering that Jack, the man Farbeaux wanted to kill, never called Farbeaux by his last name, but mostly by his given name. “Thank you for coming after me. I … I don’t know what to say, and I don’t know why you did it. But thank you,” she finally said the words and then she released his hand and stood.

“You don’t know why?” he asked as he looked her in her bruised and swollen eyes.

“Colonel, I don’t know why. And I am going to leave it at just thank you for doing what you did.” She turned away toward the door.

“Have you forgotten, dear Sarah, I asked you here? Not to profess my inner soul to you, but to pass on something that I remember from Mexico.”

Sarah turned and then purposefully walked back. She made a large pretense of snatching her sunglasses from Henri’s right hand. She placed them gingerly on her nose and then looked down at him.

“That man who came to our rescue, the rather large one who seemed to be in charge of his group. I suspect that Colonel Collins and his sidekick, Captain Everett, found out that no one sent this man and his team in to rescue us … am I correct?”

Sarah stood still as she took in the question, one that she had no idea was coming. She felt she had shorted Henri for what she had been thinking. But then she corrected herself when she saw the way he looked at her. It was the same way Jack looked in their quiet moments together. She could see in his blue eyes, the same color as Jack’s she noted, that there was far more to Henri’s request for her to be here than just answering his one question, so her original fear of his feelings for her quickly returned.

“No, the director said the president had a team of DELTA operatives in the air, but at the time our large friend and his commandoes showed up, they were still an hour out of Laredo.”

Henri turned his head in thought. He then turned his burning gaze on Sarah once more.

“I’ll tell you what little Sarah, if you can manage to bring me a bottle of wine and a menu from that American slop house you call a cafeteria, I’ll tell you a secret that would be of very much interest to your Director Compton.”

For the first time since McIntire entered the room, she had to smile. Henri was starting to heal and that made her happy. His French sense of humor was returning.

“Colonel, I will bring you that menu, or I can have our chefs cook you up anything special you may want, but unless I get orders to allow you access to the Ark Lounge and the spirits sold there, you can forget about the wine.”

“The Ark?”

“We’re not barbarians here, Colonel — we actually have a lounge for off-duty personnel.”

“Then that is where we will sit and have many drinks.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Then I will divulge my suspicions for the offered menu and your obviously fine military chefs.”

Sarah shook her head and sat back down in the chair. “I’m waiting.”

“So you are. That man at the river; I have seen him before, a very long time ago. When I was contracting out to various corporations, I met him once. He is not a very nice man. If it were not for my face being covered entirely in blood, I am sure he would have identified me in seconds, at which point he would have not only ended my life, but everyone that he rescued from Guzman.”

“Who is he?” she asked, becoming concerned simply because a man she knew as fearless was obviously frightened of this person.

“When I met him he went by the name of Smith, obviously not his real name. Tell your Captain Everett to start a search for him by designating him as possibly former CIA. He is ruthless and he was at Perdition’s Gate for a particular reason, and it was not to the benefit of your Group.”

“Thank you, Colonel. I’ll pass this on to Captain Everett and the director. But regardless of what they say, I will get you that menu.”

“Lovely Sarah, there is but one more thing I must say.” Henri tried to sit further up in his bed and when he saw out of the corner of his eye that the nearest security man took a step toward his bed, Farbeaux ignored him. The marine saw that his move wasn’t threatening and relaxed.

“Can you come a little closer? I promise not to bite.”

Sarah took a deep breath, not wanting to get any closer to Henri than she already was. There was no telling what was running through this man’s head. He was adept at getting out of tight spaces, and she also knew he would use any means to get out of this one. She leaned forward and before she knew what was happening Farbeaux kissed her. She was so shocked that she froze. If anyone could see her eyes under the dark-shaded glasses they would have seen them wide as saucers. Finally she broke away and stood so suddenly that she knocked over the chair, bringing both security men to her side.

“Are you okay, Lieutenant?” the marine asked as he steadied her.

Sarah couldn’t say anything; she just stared at Henri. As she did, the other security man walked up to the bed and then slapped the handcuff on the Frenchman once more.

“Captain Everett said your comfort was a privilege … one that you just lost, Colonel.”

Henri smiled as the click of the cuff sounded louder in the room than it should have. He kept his eyes on Sarah as if the two security men didn’t exist.

Sarah went through the open door and passed Dr. Gilliam as she was coming in to check on her patient. The doctor smiled, but Sarah rushed right past her without saying a word.

Sarah had her arms crossed over her chest as she strode through the hallway heading toward her classroom where she was now officially ten minutes late to instruct on the hidden rock formations inside of natural caves that give off mineralized light. She stood outside of the classroom, adjusted the glasses on her face, and was about to open the door when she looked up and saw Charles Hindershot Ellenshaw III walking past reading a report and eating an apple. The crazed white hair of the cryptozoologist was in its accustomed state of disrepair. His glasses were propped up on his forehead holding his hair in place, necessitating his need to read the report closely held to his face.

“Doc,” Sarah said as she sniffed and swiped a tear away before it ran out from under the large glasses.

Ellenshaw, or Crazy Charlie as he was known to the other science departments, looked up startled. He stopped abruptly as Sarah reached out and removed his glasses from his forehead and then slid the wire frames onto his nose.

“Oh, that’s better,” he said as he smiled and then looked more closely at Sarah. “Thank you … my dear you are looking terrible.”

“Thanks Doc. Listen, do you have an hour and a half of free time?”

Ellenshaw looked at the report in his hand and the half-eaten apple and smiled crookedly. “It seems the head of cryptozoology always has an abundance of time on his hands.”

“Would you take my class for this evening?”

“Your geology class?” he asked as several of the papers he was studying fell free of his folder. Sarah reached down and retrieved them for him.

“What instruction do you want me to give?”

Sarah stood and removed the crumpled folder from Charlie’s hand and then replaced the papers. “Nothing as mundane as I had planned, Doc. Just regale them with your exploits in the Amazon, or in Canada.”

“Well, I suppose—”

Ellenshaw didn’t have time to finish as Sarah abruptly turned and headed for the elevators. He watched as she vanished around the curving hallway. Charlie shook his head, quickly piecing together what he thought was happening. Knowing that Jack Collins had left the complex, he thought for sure that was the main reason Sarah needed a break. So, with the apple clutched in his teeth and the file folder in one hand, Ellenshaw opened the door to Sarah’s classroom and entered. As the door closed there was a group exhale of excitement as they realized that they would not be quizzed this evening on the factors determining the mineralized phosphorescent nature of geological formations. Instead they had Crazy Charlie and his crypto exploits. What better time to hear about monsters and aliens?

Sarah felt the single car come to a whispering stop. She even heard the computerized voice of Europa announcing they had arrived at gate number two, sublevel three. The automatic cover of the car slid back and still Sarah sat unmoving. One of the security men, alerted at the pawn shop that a car had arrived but thus far no one had signed into the gate, greeted her.

“Lieutenant?”

Sarah finally looked up and seemed to be lost for a moment. Then she realized where she was. “Sorry,” she said, “it’s been a long day.”

“Are you signing out of the complex?” the air force sergeant asked as he gave Sarah a hand stepping out of the car.

“Yes, I’m signing off base for the next twelve hours,” she answered as she headed for the elevator that would take her up to the gate.

“Uh, ma’am?”

Sarah grimaced, stopped, and looked back, irritated that her leaving was being delayed by one of Jack’s former men. If she received one more look of sympathy from that department she was going to hit someone. “Yes?” she hissed.

“Lieutenant, you’re breaking about fifteen different regulations. You know you can’t sign out in that jumpsuit, right?”

Sarah looked down at her Group-issued military blue suit. She even had her ID tag still hanging from the pocket. She lowered her head when she realized she had to go all the way back and change into civilian attire. She started to return to the magnetized car on the single track that ran down the ten-mile-long tunnel far beneath the city of Las Vegas.

“Ma’am, we have clothing upstairs in the shop. It’s in the locker room and you’re welcome to it. Shorts and blouses is all we have.”

Sarah looked up at the sergeant and nodded her head. “Thank you,” she said.

“Going into town?” he asked as he escorted her to the elevator.

“No, I’m going to see someone.”

The team had been stationed in the nondescript van outside of the Gold City Pawn Shop for the past hour as they observed the comings and goings of customers. One saw a small woman step to the door escorted by one of the large men from the counter of the shop. He opened the door for her as she stepped out into the hot night air of downtown Las Vegas. The man inside the Tahoe raised his small camera with the miniature telephoto lens. He snapped off several pictures of the small dark-haired woman. He noticed she was wearing sunglasses even though the sun had slipped behind the western mountains hours earlier. He watched until she hailed a cab and left.

The man removed the digital chip and then inserted it into the laptop computer. He brought up the pictures of the woman in short pants and a black blouse. He recognized her from somewhere but couldn’t place her. He looked into the back of the van and waited for one of his technicians to give him some answers. The man examined the pictures of the woman and then shook his head.

“Nope,” he said shaking his head. “She never entered the shop through the front. I don’t know where she came from, but it wasn’t through this side of the building. And we can see that in the back there is nothing but an alley, and she doesn’t look the type to go strolling through an alley at night in downtown Las Vegas.”

“Right,” said the man in the front as he turned in his seat and examined the woman again. He shook his head as his memory failed him. “Send this on to Mr. Smith, and get a tail on that cab.”

The technician in the backseat started talking on a set of headphones, and as he did he e-mailed the blown-up pictures to Smith, who was observing the house where Colonel Jack Collins was.

As the cab holding Sarah turned away from the curb, heading toward Flamingo Road, a tan Plymouth pulled out of the pay parking lot across the street and quickly followed. The tail on the woman was on the move.

One minute later, parked only a block away from the house under surveillance, Mr. Smith looked at the photos that had been forwarded to him from his pawn shop team.

“Well, it seems we have confirmed that all of our eggs came from the same basket.” Smith smiled as he started to formulate a plan to finish what his team was paid to do.

“We may have just found our way into wherever this woman and Colonel Collins have been hidden away.”

“When do we move?” one of the men in the backseat of the car asked, eager to get moving toward a more action-filled night.

“I think when this little darling returns to her secret hideaway, she just may have company.”

The two men in the backseat exchanged looks just as the yellow cab pulled up in front of the tract home they were watching.

“Yes, indeed, it is a small world,” Smith said as he compared the photo on the laptop to that of the actual woman stepping out of the cab.

Smith closed the lid to the laptop and then watched as the small woman headed for the front door of the house.

“Inform our friend in Langley that we have a way in to this mysterious lair. And we should have the formula destroyed soon.” Smith was careful not to include the word recovered. He remembered the smoking corpse of Juan Guzman and what this material may have done to him. He knew he wouldn’t touch the stuff nor would any of his team.

As the call was made, Smith watched as the woman entered the house, and then he looked at the driver.

“Sound the alert for the assault team. We move at a moment’s notice,” Smith said as he turned back to the man on the phone in the backseat. “And ask for orders concerning American personnel at this location and the pawn shop.”

After a few moments, the man on the phone hung up and looked at the man who ran everything concerning the Black field teams.

“He says that the priority is the destruction of the formula. All trace of it is to be eliminated, and as far as collateral damage is concerned, he said you were supposed to be good enough to do this without killing. He suggests you do that. But elimination is authorized for self-defense … his words, Mr. Smith.” The man added the last part quickly when he saw the brief flash of anger in the dark eyes of his boss.

The man known as Smith shook his head in disgust.

“Sometimes the people we contract out to have the morals and patriotism of a pig.”

He reached into the glove compartment of the car, removed a handgun, and then pulled the magazine out and checked the loads. After reading the file on their main adversary, this Colonel Collins, he wanted to be ready for any surprises he may get from whatever the pawn shop was hiding.

“Okay, I want a flyover of the pawn shop. Get me thermal images of the personnel inside. Mark them expendables and number them for confirmation purposes after the raid.”

As the men followed his orders, Smith thought of the formula they were there for and the dangers that may exist in destroying it.

“Who in the hell would invent such a thing as Perdition’s Fire?”

7

Sir John Kinlow listened as their man inside CIA headquarters in Langley, Hiram Vickers, explained the situation. The call was a conference session between a secure phone in Langley and three others in London — MI5, MI6, and the Defense Ministry.

“Are you saying that the formula actually still exists?” asked the defense minister.

“That’s what’s being reported,” Vickers answered from his Virginia location.

There was silence on the three connections in London. Vickers was actually thinking that the three men had severed the connection with him.

“This could be a bigger bloody mess than we first thought,” said the defense minister.

Sir John cleared his throat. “Mr. Vickers, you are indeed a kind and loyal friend to Her Majesty’s—”

“Gentlemen, let’s cut to the chase here,” Vickers said as he was starting to lose his patience with the British old guard. “We can destroy the Ambrose element, but there could be collateral damage to American personnel involved in carrying out this rather touchy mission.”

“Of course you can bill us for the agency’s services Mr. Vickers, and you may include the overtime,” the defense minister said.

There was silence on the other end of the line stretching across the sea to America.

“That was in very poor taste Joseph,” Sir John said, trying to calm the anger he felt through the phone connection.

“We’re talking about the elimination, no damn it, the cold-blooded killing of Americans on their own soil, upon the shores of an ally state? That’s what we’re discussing here Minister. This could mean a noose for all of us. Mostly, I dare say, for myself.”

“Mr. Vickers, how good is your field team?” the minister of defense asked.

“They’re the best. But one thing you gentlemen must realize. If you kill American citizens, or military personnel, in this quest, I will not answer for your crimes. If I am caught, gentlemen, you’ll swing on the rope right next to me. I want that understood.”

“Sir John, what say you?” the defense minister asked.

“I think this is all madness. But what choice did our ancestors leave us? I vote Mr. Vickers the power to destroy the Ambrose serum — at any cost.”

“I’m afraid we have no choice, Sir John. Mr. Vickers, please pass along instructions to your field element to destroy any and all British property in and around its current location.”

“Yes, sir, I will pass on the instructions. Now I will pass on the thoughts of my boss. This is an expensive proposition that you have thrown our way gentlemen. My superior believes it may be too costly, friends across the sea notwithstanding.”

“Mr. Vickers, you are stammering like a reluctant stickup man stumbling over his holdup note. Can we get to the extortion part of this passion play, please?” the defense minister asked.

“Very well, I’ll do that Minister. Our price is 100 million pounds. That’s the cost of doing business so close to home. There you have it gentlemen. I can assure you that the funds are appropriate for the action to be taken. There will also be a compensation package for any American killed in the operation. This will of course be supplied by Her Majesty’s government for services rendered, even if we are the one killing these poor souls. This will cost you five hundred thousand pounds for each one of these unfortunates who, after all, are citizens we here at Langley are under oath to protect.”

“How very moving, Mr. Vickers, extortion brought on by patriotism.”

“Yes, that is a nice touch. You can never imagine the better feelings restored to those who order the deaths of others when they know the victim’s family will have their needs met. After all, we are not barbarians here in the West, are we gentlemen?”

“Extortion is a light term where you are concerned, Mr. Vickers. I’m sure there is something other than British pounds that we can come to terms with. I am sure—”

Sir John heard the connection end. He slammed down his finger on his own disconnect button and then angrily stood.

“This is bloody well out of control,” Sir John said as he turned to face his open window and the rainy early morning of Vauxhall. They are actually going to kill American personnel over a formula that turns men into raging, cunning animals, he thought as he placed a hand through his gray hair.

As he looked out of the window into the gray and diffused morning light, he knew that Jack the Ripper would raise his ugly head one more time, and now it was he and the other ministers who would have to cover up once more the mistakes of the past.

Lynn Simpson yawned as she signed off on a report confirming the death of Juan Guzman. Earlier she had spoken to her mother, informing her of Jack’s decision to leave the service. She had been taken aback as much as Lynn herself had been when informed by Carl Everett from whatever location he was holed up in out in the desert. She had tried several times to call Jack on his cell phone, but had no luck in reaching him.

She heard the knock on her door. She looked up and saw her assistant standing there.

“I have the report on that trace test that was run earlier by Hiram Vickers?”

“Did we dig up the test subject’s name?”

“No, but we do have the results of the target’s route and the final destination where Mr. Vickers’s tracer test was terminated.”

Lynn folded her hands in front of her and smiled. “Well, I’m all ears. Where did the test terminate?”

The woman looked at the report and then placed it in front of Simpson.

“The test terminated at 1267 Flamingo Road, Las Vegas, Nevada. The home of an elderly woman who owns the house free and clear,” the assistant said as she looked down at her notes so Lynn wouldn’t have to bother with the official report. “Her name is Alice Hamilton.”

Lynn lost the smile as the name rang a bell for some reason. She looked down at the folder in front of her and then waved the assistant into her office. “Close the door,” she ordered.

Lynn quickly perused the one-page trace report. “I don’t see a list of calls coming in or out of this residence, by either landline or cell.”

“Oh, it’s right here,” the woman said as she opened a second folder and slid it across the desk.

Lynn’s eyes scanned the report of listed numbers and then moved down to the unlisted phone numbers. Her eyes saw one that looked familiar, almost as familiar as the name listed as the home’s owner. She read the numbers aloud. “702-545-9012?” Her face lost all of its color as she pulled out her own cell phone and hit her contacts list. As she ran down her list of names and their phone numbers she immediately saw two that made her catch her breath. The first was 702-546-1190, Sarah McIntire. The next name and phone number made her far more frightened than the first: 702-545-9012—Jack.

Lynn Simpson, the sister of Jack Collins, stood from her desk so suddenly she made her assistant jump. Lynn headed for the door.

“What is it?”

“I have someone I have to talk to, and he better have a good reason for tracking a government employee on my turf without informing me.”

Lynn, with folder in hand, left the office and headed straight to the bank of elevators on her way to see a man that was attempting to run an operation behind her back and in her territory.

That man was Hiram Vickers.

The Event Group personnel from CDC watched from behind the sealed glass window as the robotic arm eased the old and clouded jar onto the stainless-steel table. As the articulated claw released the glass, the technician operating the Honda Corporation’s latest robotic human-assist device took a deep breath. Colonel Bannister placed his hand on the back of the air force sergeant, impressed by how he handled the unknown substance with the advanced robotic arm. He was also impressed by the facilities Niles had managed to finagle out of the federal budget — indeed, times had changed since the colonel, his daughter, and the others had been an official part of the Group’s roster. Their equipment was on par with anything they had in Atlanta, and in some cases surpassed it. The main reason for this he noted to the rest of his team, was the computer-assisted actions of everything within the complex. He understood that the system was called Europa, and he had never seen anything like it. It was far superior in computing power to the old system they used to have when he led the Infectious Disease Department at the Group.

As their team took a deep breath, the air force sergeant eased his hand off of the control yoke and flexed his fingers.

“Now, this is the tricky part,” the sergeant said as he looked over toward Virginia Pollock who stood slightly away from the CDC team as she watched the procedure. “I will hold the container in place with robot assist arm number two, but the Europa-operated arm, number one, will slice into the beeswax seal holding the rubber cork in place. Only the correct pressure of blade against wax can sever it without damaging the cork — something only Europa can gauge correctly. It’s far beyond the scope of human touch to consider trying.”

“Yes, keep the genie in the bottle and us in control,” Gloria said as she watched the procedure.

As they watched, the arm controlled by the sergeant took a firm hold on the center of the glass jar as Europa manipulated the second arm into position. Attached to the three-fingered claw was what looked like a shortened scalpel. As the stainless-steel device eased into the wax, Europa started measuring the exact thickness of the old and dried beeswax by the use of a laser that measured the density of the wax before the blade struck it. As the scalpel sank into the hardened organic matter, the team watched as its thickness was measured by the distance it traveled through the wax. As the arm started to rotate and start its run around the rim of the jar, the team saw the numbers start to vary as it spun around the seal.

“Actually, I am surprised at the almost exact nature of the placement of the beeswax. It’s almost the same thickness all the way around the cork,” Colonel Bannister said as the cut around the wax was completed and Europa eased the wax seal free of the jar. Everyone took a breath as the wax came free without shaking the material inside.

The sergeant then started operating a third robotic arm. He brought it down and used it as an assist to the first. It grabbed hold of the jar at center mass to stabilize the container as Europa, this time minus the scalpel, moved across the top of the now brownish-looking, cracked, and old rubber stopper. As the team examined the rubber cork on the large monitor, they saw in intricate detail that the rubber was brown with age and cracked throughout, creating another possible escape route for the highly unstable serum.

“Even with the wax seal, that rubber would not have lasted another ten years. If this formula is as powerful as the witness testimony described, there could have been a disaster in Mexico as these seals failed one by one and the serum found its way into the groundwater or, worse, the Rio Grande,” Professor Franks, the eldest of the CDC people, said as he examined the close-up view of the container.

The air force tech brought his microphone closer to his mouth. “Europa, you may insert the tube at this time.”

Without answering the command, Europa started to slide the articulated arm closer to the top of the cork. Attached to the claw this time was a ten-inch-long tube, only 2.8 centimeters in diameter. This was something the CDC people had worked with many times. The small stainless-steel tube was worth just short of a million dollars and was a piece of engineering genius. It was actually a large syringe and had opening and closing valves at each end of the tube. Once inserted, the computer would have definite control of any flow of fluid from the container, but what was more important, it could also be used to pump high-octane fuel into the container for destruction purposes if the seal failed at any time. Again the Event Group under the Nevada desert had equipment that the CDC only heard about a few years ago.

Colonel Bannister looked over at Virginia Pollock. “Doctor, just how in the hell does Niles come up with equipment others of us can only dream about?”

Virginia smiled and shook her head only slightly. She nodded toward the glass wall as Europa inserted the tube and then removed the arm. “Dr. Compton is hard to argue with when he states that this department needs something, and most people are smart enough to know that if Niles wants it, the country needs it. He’s never, ever frivolous with the taxpayer dollar.”

“Okay ladies and gentlemen. You are now in control of the sample. We can now safely insert your probes without exposing the substance to the air.”

Colonel Bannister just shook his head as Virginia kept her smile on her face.

“Okay, let’s get to work,” Bannister said as the air force tech stood and moved away.

The secret of Perdition’s Fire was about to be revealed.

Pete Golding sat in the chair inside of the clean room as the robotic arms behind the glass enclosure started placing program after program into the giant Cray computer system. Thus far Pete and Europa had examined almost every report ever filed by the United States Army concerning the punitive raids into Mexico from 1899 to 1917. They had not come across the name Lawrence Ambrose in any of those reports. They had only the documents they had uncovered concerning the ownership of Perdition Hacienda in 1917, and that in and of itself gave them nothing but the fact that Ambrose had really existed. The technicians involved in digging through the old Event Group material recovered after the Patton raid still had not come across any journals or chemical traces of the compound. He looked closer at a picture sent up from the vault area of several small brown bottles that still contained liquid of some unknown variety. Because of the clear color it was suspected that this substance could not be Perdition’s Fire. It was sent up to the infectious disease area nonetheless for safekeeping.

Pete shook his head just as Niles Compton walked into the room. He received an immediate dirty look from Pete. Then he remembered to place the cover over his head in case any hair fell from his balding scalp. Compton gave Pete a return dirty look.

“How come you didn’t freak out when Jack refused to wear the clean-room garb?”

Pete returned his eyes to Europa as she worked behind the glass. “Because Mr. Director, I was terrified of the colonel because he could kill me with that same dirty look,” he turned and faced Niles as he sat in the chair next to Pete’s, “whereas I am not afraid of you doing the same.”

“Point taken.” Niles turned and watched Europa as she placed the last of the new programs into her hard drive, which was the size of the entire rear wall of the clean room. “Nothing so far?”

“We came across a Lawrence Ambrose mentioned in a Ministry of Defense document generated in London in 1883 that mentioned a Professor Ambrose. But upon review we decided it couldn’t have been the same man. The document was never a classified one and stated that this Ambrose was a citizen of India, thus the British Empire. It made no mention of him being an American citizen. And of course he couldn’t have held both citizenship in the United Kingdom and the United States at the same time, it’s against American law. It says he was paid an initial sum of ten thousand pounds sterling for the purchase of a shipping facility in the south of London. We checked, and it was an actual company called the LJA Import Company, and their main shipping revenue was generated by importing tea.”

Niles nodded his head, knowing the name Ambrose was not a unique name in the slightest.

“So we moved back to this side of the Atlantic. Now Europa has started poring through diaries kept by United States military personnel during the time in question, particularly any documentation written by either George S. Patton or John J. Pershing. And I can tell by the fast movements of Europa’s arms placing and removing programs that she hasn’t hit on the name Ambrose yet. This is particularly frustrating. It’s like searching for a needle that should be big enough to find in a field of haystacks. I mean, the man must have been a brilliant scientist in order to have conducted a genetics research project seventy years before the science was even invented.”

“I see your point,” Niles said as he watched Europa placing her programs. Niles looked down as he went deep into thought. “The man worked with flowers; at least that’s what we suspect the substance is made from. So what do we know of Ambrose and his history?”

“Well, it’s pretty straightforward. He graduated in 1881 from Colorado State University, or as it was known then, Agricultural College of Colorado, and later Colorado A&M. CSU records state he graduated head of his class in biology. The Department of Biology said he had earned an undergraduate degree in botany. That was not a very lucrative franchise at the time unless you went into food production or placing flowers in rose competitions, which we know now that Ambrose did not.” Pete exhaled in exasperation.

“What is it?” Niles asked.

“From his graduation on, Europa cannot track his movements. He went to work for a small pharmaceutical concern in Dallas, Texas, where he lasted all of one year, and then poof, the man vanishes. His employment records from that time, and these were sketchy at best, state the man was impossible to work with; that he was always flying off half-cocked until he was terminated for insubordination. After that there is nothing until he shows up in Mexico, and Ambrose has only the briefest of mentions in the memoirs of George Patton.”

“Nothing more specific from his days of legitimate employment?” Niles asked as he saw Pete starting to stress out over his not being able to find anything on Ambrose.

“Europa, list the reasons for the Ambrose termination of employment.”

“Compiling data,” Europa answered. It only took fifteen seconds. “Infractions listed by Killeen and Knowles Pharmaceutical Company are as follows:

1. Theft of company property — ten thousand dollars of investment capital for laboratory equipment

2. Insubordination

3. Embezzlement of departmental funds

4. The illegal import of apothecary supplies

5. The illegal import of Macleaya microcarpa poppy native to China

6. The illegal import of Papaver somniferum poppy native to India

7. The destruction of company records regarding the splicing procedural on above-mentioned plants for genetic-modification purposes and the destruction of company property and records of the invention here known as phencyclidine

“Poppies, and what in the hell is that last one?” Niles asked.

“Europa, give us the definition of phencyclidine,” Pete asked.

“Phenylcyclohexyl — piperidine — officially developed in Germany in 1926 and first patented in 1952 by the Parke-Davis pharmaceutical company and marketed under the brand name Sernyl.”

“Did she understand the question?” Niles asked.

“Europa, if this product was invented in Germany in 1926, how is this possibly related to Lawrence Ambrose in 1882 Texas?”

“Insufficient data stated for requested information.”

“Europa, could this, this, whatever the hell this thing is, be invented at two different times on two different continents?” Compton asked, now getting as frustrated as Pete had been a few minutes earlier.

“Probability factor is 5–1 in favor of near simultaneous matrix construct of said formula.”

“Okay, that’s not bad odds,” Pete said. “Europa, what is the purpose of phencyclidine?”

“It’s original grant was for use in the anesthesiology aspects of its properties. Sernyl, after it was synthesized, was taken off the market in 1931 for its adverse hallucinogenic and neurotoxin effects. Sernyl was brought back into favor after World War II and at that time patented by Parke-Davis.”

“Pete, what in the hell is that stuff?” Niles asked.

“Europa, is the drug still in use today?”

“Sernyl has been banned from pharmaceutical usage but maintains a high level of illegal use.”

“Europa, does this drug have a street name?” Pete asked, playing a hunch.

“Yes, it is also known in street level illegal activities as PCP or, more commonly, angel dust.”

Pete looked over at Niles as he realized what Ambrose had synthesized forty years before it was supposed to have been invented.

“Europa, the two poppy variations you mentioned, what are they commonly used for in today’s society?” Compton asked.

“Foodstuffs, but the most common usage is in the manufacture of diacetylmorphine or, in 1874, as the anesthetic coded as morphine or, in today’s street terminology, heroin.”

“Okay, he was splicing poppies and creating heroin. Jesus, what was this guy working on?” Pete asked.

“I think Jack and the boys found out the results Ambrose was seeking in Mexico a day and a half ago.”

Niles stood to leave. “Keep digging and find out who Ambrose was working for. He could not have financed such advance research on his own. Find them and we’ll know just what in the hell he was up to. And pass what Europa has formulated up to our CDC team in biology.”

Before Pete could answer, Niles had left the Europa clean room.

“I’ll tell you what he was working on, Niles my friend. He was working on a better way to control and kill people.”

Pete was surprised when Europa commented on his statement.

“Probability of question is 98.6 to 1.4 percent in favor of statement.”

“Thanks. Now stop eavesdropping and get me some useful data.”

Sarah paid the cab driver and with borrowed clothes on her back, she walked up to the front door of the house and past the two stupid-looking plastic flamingos Jack and she always teased Alice about, even though Alice always explained that they had come with the house. She saw the door a jar and there was music pouring through the open space. She adjusted her sunglasses and then tapped on the door’s frame. There was no answer. As she knocked a second time, she realized that she recognized the song being played, an old 1960s song, at least she thought it was from the sixties. She just didn’t have Jack’s memory for rock and roll. The song was called “Nights in White Satin,” by one of Jack’s favorite groups of that era, the Moody Blues. She did remember that much, and she also remembered that Jack usually played the Moody Blues when he was, well, in a blues state of mind. The song was one that his father used to play when Jack was just a baby. He had told her many times about his father’s music collection and how his mother had saved it all for him for when he was old enough to understand the depth of his father’s passion for music. Sarah shook her head, wondering in just what state she would find Jack in. She pushed the door open and stepped into the small foyer.

“Hello?” she called out.

Suddenly Alice appeared in the hallway and smiled as she wiped her hands on a paint-stained cloth.

“I was wondering when you were going to be able to break away from that slave driver Niles,” Alice said as she came forward and hugged Sarah.

Alice Hamilton pushed Sarah away and examined her face. She reached up and removed the large sunglasses and then winced at the bruised and swollen eyes. The bandage across her nose was plastered like a white strip of war paint.

“Oh, dear, what did those animals do to you?” she asked as she again hugged Sarah.

“It’s nothing. I fell off my bike once and did worse to myself.”

“I take it you fell off your bike going over a hundred miles an hour then, huh?”

Sarah laughed and then patted Alice on the back as she was released. “So, is Jack three sheets to the wind?”

“He started to go out that way,” Alice said as she tossed the rag she had been using over her right shoulder, “but I found him something to keep him busy.”

Alice turned and waved for Sarah to follow. When they entered the hallway, Sarah had to smile when she saw Jack down on one knee painting the mopboard at the bottom of the wall. He cursed when his brush ran away from him and the trim and swathed a section of wall. He quickly used a rag and wiped the paint away. He started to look around.

“That’s right, I saw that, Picasso,” Alice said with her arms crossed over her chest.

Jack turned and saw Sarah standing beside Alice. He tossed the brush into the paint pan and then stood. Without preamble, he walked the short distance and then picked up Sarah into his arms and gave her a kiss.

“Did you come to rescue me from the Wicked Witch of Southeast Las Vegas?”

Sarah smiled after wincing at the kiss Jack gave her. She looked into his eyes the best she could with her own damaged ones. She could see Collins flinch at the sight, becoming angry all over again at what had happened to her. She started to say something to try to calm him when Alice cleared her throat, gesturing for them to come into the kitchen.

As the three sat, Alice brought over a pot of coffee and turned to get three cups. “I was telling Sarah that you started out wanting to get your brain soaked in whiskey, but you decided against making a fool out of yourself.”

Jack looked at the paint on his hands and then at Sarah. “She won’t allow me one minute to feel sorry for myself.”

Sarah reached out and took his hand. He squeezed it and then smiled as Alice placed two cups in front of them.

“I contacted my mom, and these two old women here concocted a plan for her to come to Las Vegas. She should be here anytime,” Jack said, looking to see if there would be a reaction.

“Jack, I cannot meet her looking like this!” Sarah said, snatching her hand out of his.

“Oh, it isn’t that bad, dear,” Alice said as she poured the coffee, intentionally not looking at Sarah for fear of laughing.

“How are things coming along at the complex?” Jack asked as he took Sarah’s hand once more.

“Jack, Colonel Farbeaux said he recognized the man who came to our rescue in Mexico two nights ago. He said he met him once when Henri was working contractually for various corporations. He says to tell you he isn’t a very nice man.”

Collins allowed his mind to drift back to the image of the large man and his team of black-clad rescuers. How Niles had denied that it had been the president that sent them across the border. He knew something was wrong.

“Did you pass this on to Carl?” he asked as he sipped his coffee.

Sarah looked from Jack to Alice, who finally sat down to drink her own coffee. She couldn’t hold his eyes or those of Alice as she flashed back to her encounter with Henri Farbeaux. For a reason she could not begin to fathom she felt ashamed and guilty with the memory of the confrontation between her and Henri. And what scared her most was the briefest second of what could only be described as excitement. And that made her feel horribly guilty.

“I … I left in kind of a hurry before I remembered to talk with Carl. I’ll call him now.”

Jack thought about what Sarah was saying. He knew she would never have left the complex without informing Everett about a possible breech in security. How this man knew about his rescue attempt into Mexico was something Jack was worried about, now more than ever since he heard the warning from the Frenchman. And what would upset Sarah enough to make her leave so fast that she spaced out on doing her duty first?

“How is Henri?” he asked instead, watching the swollen eyes of the woman he had loved for the past five years. What really worried him at this point was the small fact that Sarah could no longer meet his eyes.

“He’s recovering at his normal superhuman rate, I guess,” Sarah finally answered as she reached for her own coffee.

Alice sat quietly, but she could see Sarah was in conflict about something. The girl was scared of far more than what had happened to her in Mexico, and Alice was wondering if the Frenchman had something to do with it.

Sarah placed her cup down and inexplicably started to cry. “You’re not resigning are you?” she asked, unable to be the trooper she wanted everyone to think she was.

Jack looked at the top of Sarah’s head as she lowered it to wipe away the tears. He then looked up at Alice who returned his look with a raised right brow, angry that Jack was putting her through this.

“I just need some—”

Alice saw Jack go rigid in his chair. Sarah heard his voice stop and how quiet the kitchen became. She looked up, wiping the last tear away. She started to ask something, but Jack held up his hand.

“Are you armed?” he asked Sarah. She shook her head, frightened at Jack’s sudden change of demeanor.

“Kitchen drawer beneath the knife rack,” Alice said quickly as her fear also rose. After so many years with the greatest spook the United States government had ever produced, Senator Garrison Lee, Alice picked up some of his habits of knowing when something wasn’t right. And she knew Jack was just like her late Garrison.

Collins quickly stood and started to make his way to the kitchen counter when the rear sliding glass door burst inward and the front door came crashing in. Before Jack could reach the counter, he was quickly surrounded by ten men dressed in the exact same black Nomex clothing that he had seen two nights before. They leveled small but deadly looking automatic weapons at all three people inside the kitchen. Collins stood there angry that he hadn’t caught the sound of the men getting into the house before they had time to strike.

“Colonel Collins,” a voice asked as it entered the house from the smashed-in front door. “Please have a seat at the table as we have some matters to discuss.”

As Collins watched, the large man from the raid into Mexico walked into the house. He wasn’t dressed like the rest, with his face covered in Nomex material. He was the same as he was that night. Jack knew he didn’t fear being identified, and that meant only one of two things: they couldn’t identify him, or the three of them wouldn’t be around to do so even if they could.

The large man with the clean-shaven face and combed hair came into the kitchen as Jack was roughly pushed into his seat. Collins looked the man over and then settled for just eye contact.

“Colonel, I understand your feelings. I have read your 201 file, what was available of course. I know your capabilities, so I will only state that the first bullets will not be for you, but the two lovely ladies sitting with you. So please, Colonel, no heroics tonight.”

“You have my attention and my cooperation — for now.”

The large man nodded his head and then looked around the kitchen. He spied the rack with the coffee cups on it and used a handkerchief from his sport jacket to place one on the counter. He stepped up to the table and with kerchief in hand removed the coffee pot from the table and returned to the counter to pour himself a cup. He sipped the coffee and nodded his head toward Alice. “That’s the good stuff.”

“What do you want?” Jack asked.

“Colonel, we could just raid the Gold City Pawn Shop, or maybe even breach the other security gates of your … your … what do I call it, lair, complex, whatever the case may be. But I am offering you a chance to save some lives here tonight. I wish returned to me what was taken from the hacienda in Mexico two nights ago. And I am willing to negotiate its return and not allow to happen what my men are very good at making happen, as you saw the other night. If needed, I will kill everyone inside your … whatever the hell that place is … for what I came for. Perdition’s Fire must be in my hands before sunrise tomorrow. And before you ask Colonel, no, there is no dark motive here. I am here to destroy that which should have never been invented.”

Jack didn’t respond. He just kept his eyes locked on the man leaning against the counter, sipping coffee.

“We do have other contingencies, Colonel.” The man placed the cup he was drinking from on the counter and then stepped up to Sarah who was facing away from him. “You have weathered your treatment at the hands of that pig Guzman rather well, miss,” he said as he placed his hands on Sarah’s shoulders. He looked at Collins as he slid his hand down the front of Sarah’s chest. She winced at his touch, and Jack’s eyes went from the man’s face to his hand as it inched ever downward toward Sarah’s breast.

“Alright, whoever you are, that’s quite enough.”

The man stopped and looked over at the very angry Alice Hamilton.

“Do what you came here to do and leave off with the cheap bad-guy antics. We’ve seen it all before and it hasn’t worked yet.”

The large man took a step back with a smile. “Just who in the hell are you people?” he asked.

No one at the table answered. Sarah bit her cut lower lip but held strong, even though for the first time in her life she didn’t feel it. As for Collins, he was now glaring at the man in front of him. He hadn’t muttered a single word.

“No matter,” he nodded at someone behind Jack. The next thing Alice and Sarah heard was the sound of a crack and Jack falling out of his chair. He hit the floor and tried to rise back up. Another man stepped up and slammed the collapsing stock of his weapon in to the back of his head once more, and Collins hit the floor, out cold. Sarah jumped from her chair and went to Jack’s side. She looked up and through the haze of her bruised and mangled eyesight started to glare at the man just as Jack had a moment before.

“Quite unexpected, wasn’t it?” the man said as he reached down and took McIntire by the arm and lifted her free of the floor. He shook her and then brought her close. “I am full of the unexpected, miss. Now, if you want to see these two alive again, you’ll do what needs to be done, or you’ll lose far more tonight than just your two friends here.”

“If you think—”

Sara stopped as suddenly as she had started when another man stepped up to the back of Alice and placed a gun to her head.

“I do think, miss; I think I have gained your full support in my endeavors here tonight.”

Alice snorted and then laughed. “Have you ever noticed these assholes have practiced speeches and smart-ass little soliloquies for moments in which they wish to impress people?”

The man smiled and wanted to laugh at the old woman’s bravado. “Jesus, lady, it would be a pleasure to shoot you right in the head.”

“Be my guest dickhead.”

The man allowed his mouth to go ajar for the briefest moment and then caught himself. He pushed Sarah into the arms of two men and then looked over at Alice.

“Please try something stupid. You will have the deaths of many people on your conscience if you do. I admire your spunk, but in my business ma’am, it gets your buddies killed. This isn’t a fictional setting where the colonel here is going to come off the deck and save the day.”

Alice smiled as the words were said. She could see that it made the man uneasy. He turned to follow Sarah and her escort out. He stopped and looked back at Alice Hamilton one last time and then whispered to the man following him.

“We’ll leave you one of the transport vehicles. I didn’t want to do this if I could help it, but leaving this man behind is something I would later regret; I know this for a fact. I’m afraid we have to kill them both. Wait fifteen minutes after we leave so we have time to get to the pawn shop and then meet us there after your duty is completed.”

The man, with Sarah in tow, left with the others following close behind.

The remaining mercenary raised his hood and looked at the unconscious Collins and then over at Alice. He raised the noise-suppressed handgun and smiled at her.

She returned the smile with one of her own.

Outside of the house the men entered three Chevy Tahoes and then left heading south on Flamingo Road.

Lynn Simpson walked past the assistant sitting at his desk and strode straight into Hiram Vickers’s office. She immediately saw the man wasn’t in. She slapped the file holding the report on Jack twice into her left hand and then turned to face the assistant as he came up behind her.

“He’s not in,” the smallish man said looking at Lynn.

“Did he go home?” She took a menacing step toward the man and he retreated.

“Uh, he checked out, that’s all I know.”

“Then I guess my next stop is the director of operations,” she said squeezing past the assistant. “I’m sure I can get the information I need from his immediate boss.”

The man swallowed and watched as Lynn quickly made her way to the hallway and the elevator beyond. Then he pulled his cell phone out of his coat pocket and selected the correct number. “Sir, the North American Desk was just here, and it looked like she had the Cassini tracking report with her. She said she was on her way to the ADO’s office. Yes, sir, let me see,” the man said and then crossed over to his desk and the rolodex there. He quickly spun the reel and hit on the name Vickers wanted. “Yes, sir, I have her cell phone number right here.”

Lynn was almost to the third floor when her cell phone chimed. She reached for the phone and saw that it was a private number. She shook her head and came close to not answering. She thought about Jack and Sarah and decided it may be one of them.

“Hello,” she said as the doors slid open on the third floor. She stepped out and waited.

“Ms. Simpson? Hiram Vickers, I understand you were looking for me?”

“Yes, we have some things to discuss, or rather you, me, the director of operations, and possibly the director himself. Does the ADO know that you are tracking a possible confidential military asset?”

“Military asset? Why no, we just picked a person at random, or rather Cassini did.”

“Mr. Vickers, if you think I’m going to buy that, you don’t know me very well or the duties of my desk.”

“Okay, I better come clean. Go to the director of operations and tell him what you found and he will explain everything. He’s new to the job, but he has been briefed on this tracking operation. Then we’ll sit down and discuss the test subject. How’s that sound to you?”

Lynn said nothing as she closed the cell phone and continued across the expensively decorated foyer. She saw the door to her own boss’s office, the director of intelligence, but his assistant wasn’t there and the area looked closed down for the night. She started to walk to the right side of the large office area and saw that the director of operation’s assistant was still on duty.

“Ms. Simpson, the director of operations is expecting you. Please go right in.”

Lynn looked at the woman and knew she had never seen her before. She and her boss were both new to the job. She was an older-looking lady whose smile never reached anywhere else on her face other than her lips. As Lynn walked past, she quickly lost her smile and then raised her right, well-groomed brow.

Lynn stepped into the office and a man of about fifty-five or so stood from behind a large desk. His hair was gray and he wore half-rimmed bifocal glasses, which he removed as he stepped forward. Lynn and everyone else at Langley had heard about Samuel Peachtree’s appointment from the Overseas Desk in London. And the placement of the man had infuriated not only CIA Director Harlan Easterbrook, but the president of the United States as well. The man’s appointment had been pushed through by the Senate Oversight Committee on Intelligence, led by Senator Giles Camden, one of the president’s staunchest enemies.

“Well, we finally get to meet,” Peachtree said as he came around the desk with his hand held out. Lynn saw the expensive suit, the harmless-looking bowtie, and the way the man stepped gingerly, as if he were walking on a cloud. Nonetheless she held out her hand. “I apologize for this thing getting past you, but being new to the job and all that—”

Lynn shook the man’s hand and felt uncomfortable when he placed his other hand over her own as his left hand shook hers. She didn’t like the feel of it.

“There are protocols that cannot be overlooked, sir. My desk has to be informed, no matter how trivial your section thinks it is, about anything coming or going from North American soil.” She released his hand and looked at the man’s crooked smile, disliking that even more than his handshake. “And this could be far more serious than you realize. The trace test was on an American military officer of some stature inside of government circles. I have to inform Director Easterbrook about this.”

“Well, of course you do, and I would have it no other way. As I said, I’m learning as I go; there was never any offense intended,” he said as he again smiled, returned to his chair, and started writing something on his letterhead. “But before you do, I want you to be able to go to the director with all the information I have available, and the only man that can fill you in properly is my assistant director, none other than Hiram Vickers. He’s at this address, and he’s expecting you,” he said as he folded the letterhead and then slid it across his desk toward Lynn. “He’s going to come clean, where I cannot because Mr. Vickers knows the details far better than I. He’s currently debriefing one of our people at that location. The homeowner is Mr. Dylan Weeks and he allows us to use his Georgetown brownstone from time to time for expedience sake.”

Lynn hesitated in picking the note up. She looked the man over once more and as he continued to smile at her, she saw the vein running just beneath his temple throbbing. She returned the smile only halfheartedly and reached for the address.

“I’ll listen to the why of it, but afterword I have to bring this matter straight to both the director of intelligence and, if she deems it necessary, the director himself.”

“I insist. I want everything to be aboveboard on this. If not, I’ll hold Hiram Vickers for you and let you kick him in the knee.”

Lynn nodded her head and turned to leave.

“Have a nice evening, Ms. Simpson,” Peachtree said. This time there was no smile.

It took Lynn twenty minutes to travel the distance to Georgetown where the address was located. She checked out at Langley at 1:00 a.m. and left the address and name of the man, Mr. Dylan Weeks, where she could be reached by cell.

As she pulled into the drive of the beautiful brownstone, Lynn saw most of the bottom-floor lights on. She saw one of Langley’s vehicles parked in the drive and she parked behind it. As a precaution, she looked into her bag and checked to make sure her nine-millimeter Beretta was handy. She opened the car door with the Cassini file in hand, walked up the winding steps to the front door, and rang the bell. She rang again when no one answered. Then as she started to turn away, Hiram Vickers was suddenly standing in the now-open doorway. He smiled and stepped aside.

“Boy, you made good time,” he said as he gestured for her to come in. “I’m glad we can get this taken care of so you can at least explain to the director our innocent intent.”

Lynn came inside the very-well-appointed brownstone. The house was immaculate.

“Come this way, our man said we can use his study for our talk.”

Lynn followed Vickers to a large double door. He opened one side of it and then stepped through. The room was dark and her instincts kicked in, but her internal warnings made it to the surface of her brain a bit late. As the lights came on she felt a hand grab her wrist as she reached into her bag. She dropped the file she was carrying as the nine millimeter was twisted from her grasp. She swung around to strike Vickers, but his fist beat her to the punch. She was struck on the jaw and went down.

“I guess this will be a lesson you won’t forget soon.” Vickers stood over Lynn and looked at her as she shook her head, trying to clear it.

He reached down, grabbed her by the blouse top, and pulled her to her feet, ripping the blouse material as he did so. Then he pushed her onto a large couch and she flew back until she struck something that kept her from falling onto the floor. She shook her head again and turned to see what was behind her. Her breath caught as she recognized the young girl from Imaging. She was lying half on and half off the couch. As she studied the young girl, she couldn’t see any rise or fall of her chest.

“You son of a bitch,” she said as she pushed herself away from the recently murdered girl. “You killed her because she did her job?” she asked angrily as she finally gained her feet, only to see that Vickers had replaced her gun with one of his own. This one had a noise suppressor attached, and it was aimed at her head.

“Curiosity killed the kitten as they say.” Vickers looked from Lynn to the young Imaging and Tracking technician from the basement at Langley. “Mr. Peachtree said that she was expendable. Sad I know, but securing the country sometimes has its drawbacks.”

“No matter what you do to me, they’ll find out,” Lynn said. “There are those that won’t rest until they know the truth.”

“I’m sure. Even though your kind can never understand it, there are elements involved here that stretch far beyond anything you know. You see, that’s our real job silly woman, one that your bosses at Langley would never understand. It’s the lengths we have to go to protect the American people. Everyone is expendable, Ms. Simpson, everyone.”

Lynn closed her eyes and waited. Her last thoughts were of Jack and her mother. She wanted Jack to save her, but knew he wouldn’t be there this time.

“Jack—” she started to say, hoping his name would calm her.

The shot caught her in the exact center of her chest. Lynn Simpson-Collins fell back onto the couch with her big brother Jack’s name still on her lips.

8

Alice Hamilton never took her eyes off the intruder as he stood watch over them. She saw him glance at the watch on his wrist every few minutes. Jack started to move on the floor near the man’s booted feet. Alice planned to try for the gun in the kitchen drawer when the man made the move she expected was coming. The mercenary had no idea how spry a woman she was at age eighty-seven. She could outrun most women half her age. Besides, if it was her time, it was her time, and she would gladly sacrifice herself to give Jack a fighting chance.

The man kept looking from his watch to the chair where Alice sat. “I don’t know why you’re smiling lady. If you think you’re making me nervous, you’re out of your gray-colored head.” The man reached over and pulled the Velcro straps from the front of his body armor, loosening it so his body could get some much needed air. Then he thought a moment about the threat the unconscious man at his feet posed, along with the old woman, shook his head, and removed the body armor completely.

Alice continued her smiling ways. She tried to keep her eyes focused on the man when she heard the noise. It was the most subtle of squeaks she could ever remember hearing. She cleared her throat, hoping that her and Jack’s intended killer didn’t hear the same thing.

The man looked at his watch and shrugged. He looked down at Collins as the colonel was trying to raise himself up from the floor.

“Well, it’s been wild,” the man said as he aimed his silenced weapon at the back of Jack’s head. “Sorry I have to do this, but orders are … well … you know?”

As the flash of movement caught her eye, Alice only hoped the gun wouldn’t discharge. There was a quick-sounding thud and then the man froze for the briefest of moments as his eyes lowered to the two steel prongs sticking through his chest just to the center of where his body armor would have protected him. His eyes widened just as Jack came fully to and staggered to his feet. He reached for the back of his head just as he saw the man look up and into his own eyes. Collins saw the two three-foot-long steel prongs protruding from the man’s chest. Jack quickly reached out and shakily pushed the assailant’s gun hand down and then removed it completely from his grip.

Alice, with her mouth firmly set, stood and rushed to the stricken and speared man and then slammed her fist into his face, sending him over onto his left side.

Jack’s eyes went from the sudden movement of Alice’s attack to the spot where the man had been standing. His eyes widened when he saw none other than his own mother standing there with a shocked look on her face. She was dressed in slacks and had a new blouse on. Her blue eyes moved from Jack to the man she had just killed. Collins was amazed to see one of the pink plastic flamingos from the front yard pushed all the way through the man’s back. Its black plastic eyes were once more looking at Jack, but this time he didn’t mind the look.

“I … I … I have to sit down,” Cally Collins said as she reached for a chair.

Alice shook her hand in the air, knowing she had broken at least one knuckle and maybe two on the man’s face when she had struck him. She also knew she wouldn’t trade the pain for anything in world. She then helped assist Jack’s mother into a chair, stepping easily over the dead man.

Jack looked around with blood still running from the top of his head and over his left sideburn. He was still feeling woozy and knew he had better join his mother and Alice at the table.

“I … I … had a hard … time … finding your house,” Cally said as she tried to look up at Alice.

“Well, thank God you did, Mrs. Collins, or Jack and I wouldn’t have been here to greet you.”

“Ma, what made you think of the flamingo?” Jack asked as he wiped blood from the side of his face.

“Don’t you remember when you were a boy and you were scared to death of those things? You had nightmares about them … I’m not really making any sense am I?”

Jack reached out after placing the gun on the table and took both his mother’s and Alice’s hands in his own.

“Thank God for pink plastic flamingos,” he said.

“I just wanted to be here to meet your girl. Where is she?” Cally asked worriedly.

Jack looked up and released both of the women’s hands. He stood on shaky feet and then collapsed onto the table’s top.

“Oh!” Alice said as she ran to get the phone. She lifted the receiver and dialed while Cally tended to Jack.

The United States government offices you are trying to reach are temporarily experiencing technical problems with their phone lines. Please try your call again at a later time.

“Damn it!” Alice cursed as she looked from the phone in her hand to Cally and then to Jack. She made a quick decision and dialed a special number she knew by heart after so many years at the Event Group.

Cally looked up in confusion as she ran a hand over Jack’s face. She heard the words coming from Alice’s mouth, but couldn’t believe it.

“This is code 5656-01, Hamilton, Alice D. I need to speak to the president of the United States immediately.”

Gloria Bannister watched as the spectrograph started printing out the known substances that were used in the synthesized production of Lawrence Ambrose’s chemical formula. As she read the printout she checked off the substances that had already been verified by the supercomputer Europa. She shook her head as she tore the printout away from the machine and then handed the report to her father. Those from the CDC crowded around the list of names, matching them perfectly with what Europa had already told them. Colonel Bannister also shook his head.

“I’ve got to get me one of those computers,” he said as he looked up at the others dressed as he was. They all wore the same environmental chemical suit with hoods that attached but hung down the back, giving them a little breathing space. The chemical-genetic agent was placed behind two separate panes of sealed glass, and that was behind a steel wall that completely closed the clean room off from the laboratory on the seventeenth level of the complex. “I wonder if they sell this Europa thingamajig at Best Buy.”

The seven biologists from Atlanta laughed as they surrounded the colonel.

“Can you imagine the advanced science this Ambrose used? I mean, splicing poppies together as if he were doing nothing more than breeding roses? This was impossible science for that time period,” said Dr. Emil Harris, a brilliant man who headed the Viral section in Georgia. “The chemical properties alone would have made this man a giant in the field of chemical engineering.”

“Yes, but what in the hell was his goal? What was this genius after?” Gloria asked as she relieved her father of the chemical analysis report and started going over it again. Something at the bottom of the page that the spectrograph picked up caught her attention: agent 00012—unknown. “What do you suppose this could be, and this, an organic substance that is unidentifiable?”

Colonel Bannister looked over her shoulder. “Maybe some sort of binding agent perhaps. Something to keep the chemicals mixed — who knows? This other, the matrix of the substance, looks familiar. Almost like a DNA strand. But that would be impossible.”

“It’s something,” Gloria said, surprised her father wasn’t more concerned about it. As she looked over the printout, she walked to the far corner and sat down while the others started talking about the properties inherent in heroin and PCP. They all knew that the two poppy species alone produced high-grade hallucinogens, but when spliced together what chemical properties did they produce?

As Gloria looked at the report, she happened to look up at the observation window and saw several people watching their procedures from the area next to the clean room. She saw a familiar face talking with the assistant director of this strange complex, Dr. Pollock. Will Mendenhall happened to look up at the same moment she did. Their eyes met, and Gloria found she couldn’t help it; she smiled and then gave the lieutenant a quick wave of her hand. She was actually happy when Mendenhall returned the smile and waved back. Embarrassed when Dr. Pollock turned to see her schoolgirl gaze on the young black man, she quickly averted her eyes and looked down at the report. She just as quickly looked back up to see Will still staring at her. He nodded at something the doctor said and with one last smile turned and left the observation room.

“Gloria, shall we run the agent through the Agilent atomic spectroscopy? We’ll destroy some of the formula, but we’ll get a much clearer picture of just what we’re dealing with here.” The others nodded their heads in agreement.

Gloria stood from her chair and, with one last look back at the observation window in the hopes that Will had returned, went to the window looking into the clean room where Perdition’s Fire was still sitting atop the stainless-steel table, held in place by the robotic arms.

“I don’t think we should jump the gun here,” she said looking at the simplified spectrograph report. “We just don’t know how this will react to flame. And this other biological source, what in the hell is that? You’re right, it looks like a DNA strand, and we don’t know if the extreme heat will destroy it completely without getting it analyzed.”

They all knew that when the formula was burned by the atomic spectroscopy, it would release a momentary burst of evaporated material for the machine to pick apart and analyze. The problem as Gloria was seeing it was that since they were dealing with an unknown agent as listed on the report, they didn’t know what reaction the flame would have on the chemicals. It was a minimal chance of contamination she knew, but in their business a minimal chance could be deadly.

“Oh, I think we can safely say that it is statically speaking very unlikely this Ambrose created something that also reacts to heat. I mean the agent went through the spectrograph just fine, and that’s almost the same principle. As far as the second unknown is concerned, we always have more formula.”

Gloria Bannister bit her lower lip and then shook her head. “That was utilizing much less heat than the atomic spectroscopy. It’s just an unknown factor in all this. I think we need to study, and maybe even postulate, just what in the hell this man Ambrose was trying to accomplish with this. We have time to find out, and coupled with his goal we may be able to see where it was he was going.”

The colonel looked from his daughter to the others. They were on his side as they wanted to know exactly what made up the complete formula.

“It’s my call, and I say let’s go for it.”

“Here, here,” said one of the doctors. “I for one am certainly looking forward to seeing what this man has created and how.”

“Okay, let’s do it,” Bannister said, looking away from his daughter’s warning look.

Gloria didn’t like the shortcut, but she fell short on taking a stand. The combined brain power of the group standing inside the clean room outweighed her by about ten thousand pounds in degree and letters after their names, so she decided to ride out the storm.

She just hoped that storm was not a hurricane.

Pete Golding was actually dozing at the clean room desk as Europa continued to cross-reference anything having to do with Professor Lawrence Ambrose. He had his hand resting on his cheek with his horn-rimmed glasses propped onto his forehead. He started to slip forward and the change made him awaken with a start. He scratched his head and then rubbed his eyes. He looked down at the half-eaten sandwich that had been delivered to him by the stewards in the cafeteria. He gave the ham and cheese sandwich a dirty look and then stood from his chair just as the clean room door opened.

“Dr. Golding?” the young man asked as he stood just outside the clean room door looking in like a curious child glancing through the windows of a toy store.

“Yes?” Pete said after stretching his arms over his head.

“Sir, I’m Scott Walton from Archives. I was told to give this to you.”

Pete looked down and saw the battered leather journal and his brows rose just below the paper hat he wore for clean room purposes.

“This was buried in files also.”

Pete stepped forward to look at the journal and his flesh turned cold when he saw the initials on the front of the leather-bound volume. “LJA,” Pete said in a low tone as he reached out and took a rather thick and very old folder from the archivist’s hand. He read the bold print placed there by an old-fashioned typewriter almost a hundred years before. “Lt. Colonel John Henry Thomas — Department of National Archives.”

Pete knew they had uncovered a great amount of material and he would have to start immediately because this was an eyeball job where Europa would be of no assistance to him. It was good old-fashioned paper-pushing detective work.

Pete nodded his thanks, closed the clean room door, and then turned and placed the found materials from one of the very first Event Group missions on the desk. He then pulled the microphone down and leaned over.

“Europa, I’m going to take a break. Continue to—”

“Dr. Golding, excuse me, but I have a vague reference to a Dr. Ambrose listed in a Scotland Yard report filed November 8, 1888.”

Pete realized the time frame fit the earlier discovery about the Ambrose that owned the shipping company. They had rejected the possibility due to his profession. The company was mainly a tea importer.

“This may be the same Ambrose as the person rejected earlier.”

“Would you like to see the Scotland Yard photographic report, Doctor?”

Pete shook his head to try to clear it of the fog of sleep. “Europa, where did you secure this report?”

“The Europa system is designed for computer mainframe penetration Doctor as you well know. The report is listed as an MI-5-1 coded secret.”

That got Pete’s attention. Europa had actually gained access to the secure system inside of Scotland Yard and retrieved a top secret file originated through the intelligence services of Her Majesty’s government. What was most shocking was the fact that Europa did it all on her own without Pete’s guidance. The Cray computer after six years in operation was learning to analyze data and move in many directions of tracking without being told.

“Uh, Europa, the Scotland Yard system mainframe didn’t detect the backdoor break-in, did it?”

At first Pete didn’t think Europa would answer.

“The protocols as set forth by Director Niles Compton, and yourself Dr. Golding, are clearly programmed into my system. I would be required to report such an occurrence immediately. The system being utilized by the British government is far inferior to that of the Cray Corporation’s standards.”

Pete thought Europa, with her Marilyn Monroe voice synthesizer, sounded insulted.

“Just checking, no offense. Please bring up the Yard and MI-5-1 file please.”

“Yes, Dr. Golding.”

As Pete watched the main viewing screen, a document that had been catalogued and filed away by photographic means many years before came up. The head of the Computer Sciences Division stood to study the document. To Golding it looked like a security report filed by a man named Frederick George Abberline. Below his name were scrawled the letters CPI.

“Europa, any guess as to the letters written below that of the reporting name?”

“The letters refer to rank: chief police inspector.”

“Makes sense,” Pete said as he read the brief report directed to someone with the initials H.R.M.A.V. Pete read the words on the Photostat.

Pete read the letter once more and then a third time as he reached for the phone on the desk facing the now-still Europa handling system inside the protective glass cover of the clean room. He slowly removed the paper hat that covered the thin coating of black hair that remained on his head. As the phone buzzed several levels up, Pete reread the woman’s name once more — Mary Kelly.

“Charlie, are you still teaching Lieutenant McIntire’s geology class?” Pete listened as his eyes scanned all the names listed in the Scotland Yard report. “Good, could you come to the Europa clean room? I think I have something here that you may be able to help me with.” Pete hung up the phone and then studied the images on the screen more closely.

“No, this has to be a coincidence.”

Twenty minutes later Niles Compton, coming straight from a late dinner in the cafeteria, entered the clean room. He saw a crazed-haired Charlie Ellenshaw standing and looking at the large-screen monitor. Pete was pacing in back of Ellenshaw and looked up when he saw Niles.

“I think we found him,” Pete said shaking his head. “And you’re not going to believe this one.”

Niles placed the hair cap on his head and Pete shook his head. “Never mind that; Europa is all finished except for a few questions. You can erase the screen Europa.”

“Yes, Dr. Golding.”

As the main monitor went blank, Charles Ellenshaw turned and smiled at Niles as he took his seat.

“Dr. Ellenshaw lent me some of his obscure history knowledge and helped confirm what we found. Europa, please bring up the letter found in the archives of Scotland Yard.”

“Yes, Dr. Golding.”

As they watched, the photocopied letter was placed on the screen. Niles read the words and as he did Pete started to smile.

“Is this the same man that operated out of the warehouse we disassociated with the professor we were searching for?”

“Yes it is.” Pete spoke into the microphone. “Europa, the name Mary Kelly; please confirm for the director Professor Ellenshaw’s statement.”

“Mary Kelly, the last known victim of the mass murderer known to London at the time as Jack the Ripper.”

Niles had to sit down. “Who is this man who filed the report?”

“Frederick George Abberline, chief inspector for the London Metropolitan Police. The man in charge of the Jack the Ripper case,” Charlie said, knowing the story from memory.

“And the person he sent this letter to?” Niles asked.

“Europa, verify and report on the initials of the recipient of this letter dated November 8, 1888.”

“The initials are used for private communication when names are not permissible in official communiqués. The letters H.R.M.A.V. appear in many secret documents from the law enforcement and intelligence communities in various reports.”

“The name?” Pete insisted.

“Her Royal Majesty Alexandrina Victoria,” Europa answered.

“Ha!” Pete said loudly, making Niles jump and Charlie laugh.

Niles sat stunned.

“Queen Victoria herself!” Pete said even louder. “She knew our Professor Lawrence Jackson, or Jack if you wish, Ambrose.”

“The warehouse?” Niles finally managed to ask.

“That was harder, but once we knew he was our man, not too hard to confirm. Oh, he was an importer of tea alright, and where in the hell does the best tea come from in the known British Empire at the time?”

“India,” Niles answered sitting up in his chair.

“And what have we learned about dear professor Ambrose?”

“He was a botanist,” Niles said, and then his face froze as the reality hit him. “Poppies?”

“Correct, poppies from India and China. Both species smuggled into London hidden in barrels of tea shipments,” Pete said as he leaned against the desk.

“And what’s the strangest part of all this?” Charlie Ellenshaw asked.

“The queen knew about Ambrose and what he was doing. That means her people knew what Ambrose was doing and didn’t stop him.”

“Now look at this,” Pete said, “Europa, display paymaster record 191037462 dated July 1884 on the monitor, please.” He faced Niles. “This is another surprise Europa dug up at Charlie’s suggestion. It was an outlay for payment from the Ministry of Defense bearing this Ambrose’s name.”

On the screen Europa placed an old ledger document that had also been photocopied.

“My God,” Niles said. “They created a formula that transforms men into superhuman soldiers, or possibly a weaponized agent that would send enemy troops into a self-destructive and murderous state against their own.”

“Or a dose fed to a soldier at just the right time would become what the old Viking tales called ‘Berserkers,’” Ellenshaw said as he slowly turned and looked at Niles and Pete. Both men just stared at Charlie, wondering how he came up with this information on ancient legends around the world. When they shook off Charlie’s observation it was the director who broke the silence in the room.

“Unbelievable,” Niles said for both men. Compton then rubbed the bridge of his nose, raising his glasses as he did. “There’s still a lot of speculation involved here, gentlemen.”

“Yes, but as I am reading it right now, and until we get something that takes us in another direction,” Charlie said wiping his glasses on his white lab coat, “I would have to say that Ambrose tested his formula out on the foggy streets of Whitechapel, possibly utilizing smaller doses than what was witnessed in Mexico. In essence he used himself as a guinea pig, and the whole damn nightmare was paid for by the queen’s own military.”

Niles stood and looked at the two scientists.

“And together they created Jack the Ripper.”

At that moment a red light started flashing over the doorway leading to the hallway and an alternating tone sounded throughout the giant complex.

“A Code One contamination alert on level seventeen has been detected. All departmental personnel are required to gather in secure locations for possible complex-wide evacuation.”

Niles’s face turned white, as did those of Charlie and Pete, at Europa’s announcement. Niles Compton was the first to realize what it meant.

“Oh, God, level seventeen is the biological clean room.”

The black Chevy Tahoe was parked across from the pawn shop while the Black Strike Team waited to get into position. The plan was to hit the security gate hard and fast with overwhelming force to bring about the capitulation of the forces inside the building. The goal: to remove any threat from the security personnel stationed at the gate.

“I hope the men and women you utilize for security aren’t the brave or stupid kind,” Smith said to Sarah in the backseat as he pulled his cell phone from his jacket. “This could get real messy.”

Sarah remained silent, not liking the feeling of being close to the large man. Her mind was on Jack and Alice, and that was all she could focus on. She turned away from Smith and looked out of the darkly tinted window toward the well-illuminated Gold City Pawn Shop. She could see at least two of the Event Group security staff inside. One was speaking with a young man who looked to be haggling over a guitar that was displayed on the north wall of the building. As Smith made his call he saw what McIntire was looking at. Then his eyes moved to Sarah’s hands, which were folded in her lap. Without saying a word Smith reached over, removed her sunglasses, and tossed them on the floor.

“That idea that’s running through your mind about breaking free of the car and running to warn your people, that, my dear lady, will result in a lot of needless deaths. We are going to destroy that formula no matter what it takes to do it.”

Sarah looked away from the shop and stared into the man’s eyes. Without replying to his threat, she turned back to look out of the window.

“Yes, we’re in place. Are there any last-minute instructions or developments?”

Sarah listened to the one-sided conversation but felt Smith move his free hand over to her shoulder and once there, the large hand squeezed, letting her know he was in control.

“You seem to be covering your tracks well. I just hope this Simpson person doesn’t lead to my Black Teams. Are you sure she is eliminated and won’t cause a problem inside Langley?”

With the name Simpson and the word Langley spoken in the same sentence, Sarah froze. She knew Jack’s sister was named Simpson, and she was in charge of the North American Desk in Virginia. She swallowed, hoping she was wrong in her guess as to what Smith was talking about.

“Well, it seems you do have a set of balls on you. I just want you to know that if this is discovered it could blow your whole operation right out of the water, and that would lead government sources not only to your door, but mine as well, and if that happens, nothing will stop me from killing you, supposed good guy or not.”

Smith closed the cell phone and then pulled Sarah from the backseat of the car as his Black Team moved into place. From the far side of the large Tahoe he watched as a four-man team went into the alleys on both sides of the square building. Once there they quickly set up a transmitter that would send a burst of electronic jamming noise straight into the video surveillance cameras on each corner of the building. His eyes then moved to the large step van as it pulled up in front of the pawn shop. His fifteen-man assault element was now in place and waiting for him to enter the building. He reached into his pants pocket and brought out a small roll of tape. Sarah watched as he tore a strip off and placed it in his hand.

“This is your big moment. You can do as I say or die with the men inside of that building if they resist. It’s up to you. Either way I’ll still be the happy soul I am right at this moment.”

“What’s happening with Jack and Alice?” Sarah asked, her blackened eyes looking upward into the dark at the black shape before her.

Smith looked at his watch, raised his small radio, and then placed a small headphone in his right ear. He hooked the small microphone close to the corner of his mouth and smiled at the diminutive McIntire.

“Do as I say and in less than an hour you’ll be back with them again. Do not act accordingly and my man has orders to kill both of them. Now, if you please?” he gestured toward the street.

Sarah was taken by the arm, and as he started across the busy road Smith contacted his men.

“Team One, fifteen seconds after we enter the shop you will initiate the blinding of their optic security systems. Team Two, at that time you will enter the area through the front and back doors.”

Sarah knew the drill well and understood that Smith was receiving responding clicks through his earpiece telling him their individual teams were ready. She knew she had to do something to warn Jack’s men inside the shop.

The two stepped up to the door. “Smile miss, you’re about to see the best assault team in the world go to work — something very few people have ever seen and lived to talk about.” Smith gestured for Sarah to open the front door. “And be sure to place your thumb properly on the pressure plate located in the center of the door handle please. We do need them to read your thumb print accurately.”

Sarah cursed deep inside as she realized the man had figured out the first line of defense for the pawn shop. The scan would be read and the security men in the back of the shop would not be alerted to any trouble, especially from one of their own. She pressed down on the thumbplate, knowing that Europa was sending a precise rendering of the swirls and valleys of her thumbprint through her security system. She pulled the door open and as she entered saw the first of the Event Group security men turn away from the customer he was assisting. He gave her a half smile, nodded, and then turned back to his customer, not aware of the danger posed by the man accompanying her inside.

As soon as they were inside, they heard a slight buzzing sound as the electronic burst of energy from outside struck the security cameras on the building’s sides and back. Smith quickly pushed Sarah to the floor and pulled the silenced nine millimeter from where he had it hidden behind his back. As he placed his foot onto Sarah’s back, the security man reacted far faster than Smith would have thought possible. He had his own weapon out almost as quickly. Smith fired only once, catching the marine security man in the head, knocking him into the stunned and shocked customer. Then he moved the large silencer a few inches and placed another bullet into the young boy who had been inquiring about the guitar.

“You bastard,” Sarah said as loud as she could, eliciting a sharp kick delivered by Smith to her kidneys.

Smith took a quick step to the left and saw the clerk behind the glass counter look up at the sound of the muffled weapon’s discharge and Sarah’s shout of anger. The two bullets flew down the crowded aisle of CDs and other possessions given up. The rounds struck the man in the chest and neck, dropping the air force sergeant in an instant.

At that moment his assault element entered through the front door and quickly started up the four aisles toward the rear of the shop. That was when a sharp tone sounded. Smith knew the alarm had been tripped.

“Damn it,” he said, knowing that the security element had been far faster than he realized they could be. He gestured for his men to move forward.

As the black-clad men jumped the counter, one was taken down by a security marine coming from the back. A spray of red-colored mist filled the air as the shotgun blast removed his hooded head in a microsecond. Before the marine could turn the shotgun on the next man, three Black Team members cut him down. They moved quickly through the curtain. Sarah heard several discharges of automatic weapons that could only have come from security personnel in the back. As she flinched on the tile floor, she saw another of the Black Team thrown back through the curtain separating the front of the shop from the back. She head Smith curse at the fast response of Jack’s men. Then she heard the muffled reports of several weapons as they finished the task at hand. Sarah shook her head as she was harshly pulled from the floor.

“Your assistance is needed in the back,” Smith said as he pushed her forward, angrier than ever over the loss of three of his men.

As he and Sarah pushed through the curtain, Smith looked around and saw a small storage area and then the two security personnel that had opened up on the assault team. One of the men moaned on the floor as he lay in a pool of his own blood. Sarah closed her swollen eyes when she recognized the man. No, she corrected herself, not a man, just a boy. He was Albert Petrakis, a U.S. Army sergeant that had only been on the security team for a year. As he moved his head, Smith stepped over the boy. Sarah turned the sergeant over and cradled his head as Smith took in the back office. He made a cursory inspection for more traps.

McIntire was beside herself. She had never seen such ruthless behavior from anyone, much less Americans as these men obviously were. She was pulled up from the floor by one of the black-clad men, but she angrily shook him off, still holding the sergeant’s head. The shoulder wound was serious and she knew if she didn’t stop the bleeding the massacre of the security element at gate two would be complete. She looked up and saw Smith looking down at her with a bemused look.

“You had better shoot me too, because I go no farther.”

Smith kept the strange look on his face and nodded, making Sarah think he was about to grant her request. Instead he nodded toward the wounded soldier. “Bring him along. I think he’ll be the key to what’s behind door number one.” He looked back at Sarah as he reached down and pulled her to her feet and actually tossed her farther into the office area. Two of his men yanked the sergeant up with a ruthlessness she had never witnessed before. Smith passed by Sarah as she leaned against one of the desks.

The large man placed his silenced weapon into a shoulder holster and walked past the spilled blood of the sergeant but came to a stop when he saw that another one of his team was down in the back-office portion of the pawn shop. He angrily grabbed Sarah by the arm and shook her. “Before I leave here I’m going to find out just exactly who you people are. To have a security element that is capable of killing my men with such abandon, well, let’s just say that I’m impressed.”

As McIntire looked down, she saw the darts protruding from the men lying on the floor. The anesthetic projectiles had been exploded outward from a false-fronted computer and the facing of the large desk it sat upon. She could still see the smoke rising from the wood and plastic as the security man, who was now lying dead on the floor next to the desk, had triggered the booby trap that had sent three hundred darts into the Black Team’s faces and necks. As they stepped over them, she could see the men were out cold and would be for hours.

“I am duly impressed. Booby traps and such a fast response to our assault could only mean your man Collins trained his men well.” Smith angrily hit Sarah on the side of her head as he saw the red flashing light illuminating the room. Sarah went to one knee from the harshness of the blow to her head. She shook her head but refused to wipe the blood away from her slashed cheek.

The entire assault team was shocked when the synthesized voice of Europa sounded through a small speaker overhead. The suddenness of the announcement made the armed team jump and aim their weapons in every direction.

A Code One contamination alert on level seventeen has been detected. All departmental personnel are required to gather in secure locations for possible complex-wide evacuation.

Sarah was stunned and angry that the warning wasn’t about the security breach at gate number two but about another emergency somewhere deep inside the complex.

“It seems your people have a larger problem than just a break-in at the pawn shop.” Smith again reached down and pulled Sarah to her feet. “I think this could be rather fortuitous. You men bring the sergeant along.” He glared at Sarah. “If you don’t get inside, the sergeant here will take many more bullets to areas that merely cause pain. Then I’ll personally place one into his head. Understand?” Sarah was pushed toward the wall. “I didn’t want all of this damage, especially to American personnel, so that should tell you the seriousness of the matter at hand. Now my dear, shall we go see what all of the commotion is about?”

Sarah lowered her head but placed her palm on the disguised plate in the wall so the security system of Europa could read her palm print. As it did, a small false-fronted wall slid up and into its frame. Beyond the false wall Smith was amazed and pleased to see a set of shiny stainless-steel elevator doors.

“Now this is impressive.”

Everett and ten members of the Group’s security team were the first to arrive on level seventeen. They were greeted by the flashing red emergency lights lining the upper portion of the curving hallway. The Europa computer station was flashing green and the audible warnings she produced alerted everyone on that level to evacuate. Carl waved men left and right to viral contamination suits that were kept every fifteen feet along the wall. Carl moved quickly to the Europa station and placed his thumbprint against the glass. Europa quickly identified it.

“Europa, shut down the alarm warnings on seventeen; we can’t think down here.”

“Yes, Captain Everett.”

As he looked around, the alarms ceased, but the red flashing lights continued as a visual warning. Several Event Group staff hurried down the hallway and Carl held out an arm to slow them down.

“Take it easy, nobody’s dropping dead yet. Europa is routing all of the elevators to the center hallway and the far end away from lab 700-2.”

The man and the woman, two people Everett recognized from the Biology Department, nodded their heads, gaining confidence when they saw the ex-SEAL giving orders. “How many Group people on this level?” Everett asked.

“I’m not sure. I think I saw Dr. Pollock earlier inside the lab where the viral alarm sounded,” the thin male technician said trying to catch his breath.

“I know Lieutenant Mendenhall was here also; that’s every one of our people,” the woman added.

“Good, now take the elevator to the gymnasium; everyone will go there for the evacuation.”

Carl watched the man and woman turn and start walking at a fast gait toward the elevator he just used. He shook his head and turned as one of his men handed him the plastic package with the viral suit inside. As he tore it open he heard a voice from about fifteen feet away. He looked up and saw Colonel Bannister and Virginia Pollock walking toward him.

“You don’t need that captain,” the colonel said as he stopped in front of the stern-looking Everett. “The spill is contained inside of the clean room. We have lost about three CCs of the material.”

“How in the hell did this happen, Doc?” Carl asked Virginia, not trusting the opinion of a man that has had his status as a Group member deactivated.

“The atomic spectroscopy unit didn’t burn the sample at the specified temperature. Instead of burning the sample to vaporize it, it only evaporated into the air. The protocol was right; they just didn’t make the correct entry.” Virginia looked over at the colonel with a shake of her head. “It seems our guests were in too much of a hurry.”

“That’s not fair Doctor. We don’t know your equipment as well as you.”

Everett saw that Virginia was about to respond when he shook his head.

“I don’t think the need is there to evacuate your facility. We have been through this before. As long as the room remains sealed, we can clean up any leftover particles using robotic means.”

Everett looked from the colonel to Virginia just as Will Mendenhall ran up to the trio. He was soon followed by the other Dr. Bannister. Carl made a quick decision and then stepped up to the Europa terminal once more. He placed his thumb on the touch screen again.

“Europa, continue the alarm on all levels. Order the evacuation of the complex authorized by Everett, Carl C. Security 11789, code 1-1-A.”

Virginia looked from Everett to the colonel. “We don’t take chances with our people, Colonel. You should remember at least that. The captain knows what he’s doing.”

Everett lifted the phone next to the terminal and made the announcement himself. The protocol would have the four hundred and twelve personnel on base that night gather in the gymnasium and sports field for a head count, and then they would take the massive cargo elevator up to level one where they would exit through gate one inside the old dilapidated hangar to be met by fifteen air force buses supplied by Nellis.

“I know this is just a precaution, but it’s totally unnecessary,” Bannister said even as Gloria took his elbow and shook her head.

“No, we don’t know the unknown element that was in that formula. If it’s a fogging agent, we don’t know what the lessened burn will do to it. We need these people out of here until we get that sample sealed and under control. We can utilize the supercomputer and verify it’s under control,” Gloria said.

The colonel was not pleased with his daughter’s overestimation of the strength of Perdition’s Fire.

“You’re qualifying this formula as a possible viral agent, whereas we are not convinced.”

“Dad, we have this gentleman,” she turned and faced Mendenhall, “and the lieutenant’s testimony that says it’s more than likely a viral inhalant. That means any sample not cleaned up could be missed and spread.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Everett said as he nodded to Mendenhall. “Will, take the doctors back to the lab and make sure protocol is followed. Have Europa and Virginia take them through it step by step with not so much as a period or comma overlooked.”

“Yes, sir,” Will said as he gestured for the two Bannisters to follow him back to the lab.

Everett faced Virginia next. “Doc, get this thing under control as fast as you can. As long as I have people on the surface, this Group’s security status is compromised.”

“Carl, get Niles to the surface. He’s the priority. I’ll be here, that’s enough.”

Everett knew his duty as laid down by Jack’s new safety standards initiated not long after he took over the Security Department. The number-one rule, and Compton hated it, was to get the director out of the complex.

“Good luck, Doc. If you think things are going to go south inside that lab, get to the sports complex,” he said smiling. “You remember where that is, Bronco Nagurski?”

“You bet,” she said returning the smile.

Everett watched her leave to follow the CDC people being herded by Mendenhall back to laboratory number 700-2—the chemical and viral containment clean room.

Everett only hoped the expensive laboratory held up to its impressive name.

Director of Operations Samuel Peachtree angrily closed his door and turned on Hiram Vickers. He paced to his desk but didn’t sit down. He made sure to reach under his desk and switch off the office recording device.

“Do you think that was low key?” he asked angrily, placing his hands squarely on his desk and leaning far enough forward that Vickers thought he would fall over.

Hiram took the anger in stride. “I did what was necessary.”

“Those two people were not only citizens of the United States, they were fellow agents. How could you allow this to get to that level of dysfunction? All you had to do was follow protocol and inform her desk of the fucking test!” Peachtree angrily straightened and turned toward his office window, looking out into the woods surrounding the complex at Langley. “It’s such a natural function of your office that she probably would have ignored it.”

“Not her type. She’s one of those people who happen to take her job seriously, thus we couldn’t allow her to see we were tracking a possible American military asset.”

Peachtree turned so suddenly that Vickers was impressed with the old man’s agility.

“That is exactly my point you idiot. She was good at her job, which was why trying to sneak this test by her desk was a moronic move! We could have explained it far better if a goddamn spotlight hadn’t been placed on it.”

“Regardless, the problem has been solved.”

“May I remind you that our job with this new department is to gather corporate intelligence through the use of the Black Teams, not the killing of innocents? If you can’t do that without killing people you work with, we obviously chose the wrong man for the job,” he hissed as he glared at Vickers.

“If that’s the case we better stop our Black Team in Nevada because they just eliminated one hell of a lot of American citizens for the same exact reason I did — self-preservation, Mr. Director of Operations. Sometimes the money collected comes with hidden costs,” Vickers countered.

The director of operations managed to ignore the comment about money, as that was the dirtiest part of their covert operations — the gathering of wealth. It wasn’t just for themselves for their hard work and patriotism, but because utilizing the Black Teams was an expensive proposition. The older man calmed visibly as he tried to put his house back in order.

“Now, this Lynn Simpson just happened to be a favorite of Director Easterbrook.”

“You sent her to me in Georgetown. How was I to interpret that?”

“You idiot, I knew what you had planned; the point is you let it get that far!”

“Do you want to cancel with the British?”

Peachtree exhaled and slowly sat down in his large chair. “Of course not. Things have progressed too far for us to end up with nothing. Who in the hell would have thought that the CDC had a lab in place in Nevada? Order Mr. Smith to get this business over with and get out of there, preferably without anyone else dying.”

Hiram Vickers stood while buttoning his jacket. “Have you a list of this Simpson woman’s next of kin? We don’t want someone coming out of the woodwork asking too many questions. As it stands she was ambushed in Georgetown by unknown elements and the technician just disappeared — happens all the time.”

Peachtree looked down at a file on his desk and opened it.

“Well, the girl has parents living in Wyoming; they shouldn’t be a problem. Ms. Simpson has a mother in Texas, no other next of kin.”

“See, if you don’t panic everything works itself out.” Vickers smiled and then turned and left the office.

The director of operations watched Vickers leave and then looked at Lynn Simpson’s picture in her file once more. He shook his head as he remembered the beautiful face of the young woman.

“At least she’ll only leave behind a grieving mother and no one else.” Peachtree closed the file and slid it away from him.

“Pity.”

The man talking with the four Las Vegas police officers didn’t feel the eyes on him from across the street. Jack Collins ripped the bandage away from his forehead, not feeling the pain of the tape Alice and his mother Cally had applied earlier. He watched as another man came from the deepest reaches of the pawn shop to join in the conversation with Las Vegas’ finest. Jack watched as another policeman examined the large hole in the wall on the left side of the shop with a flashlight and then walked back around the building to join his fellow officers. The two strangers were gesturing and laughing with the officers as if they had merely had a break-in at the Gold City Pawn Shop.

The employees signed a report and Jack watched as the police returned to their cars, shut down their overhead lights, and then drove away, being watched until they were out of sight down the road. The two men turned and reentered the shop, placing the closed sign in the door. With one last look around they locked it and pulled down the shade. It was completely understandable after a break-in to shut the doors for repairs. There was only one problem: Jack knew these men weren’t a part of his security team.

Jack ducked back behind a large van, reached behind him, and pulled the nine millimeter from his waistband. The weapon had been given to him by Alice, and Jack had taken it with the knowledge that Alice was one of the better-armed elderly ladies in Las Vegas. Before he left the house he made sure both she and his mother Cally were properly armed. Jack pulled back the slide and made sure the weapon had a round in the chamber. Then he straightened and crossed the street after a short burst of traffic passed by.

In the twenty minutes Collins had watched the shop, he had only seen the two men inside the shop. He realized that the kids he had spent the past five years training for their security positions were all more than likely dead. He just hoped they had taken as many of those bastards down as they could. As he made it across the street, he slid past the overhead street light, made his way to the right side of the building, and slid along the brick wall toward the first of the two blast holes in the building. He stayed on the far side of the three-and-a-half-foot break and stayed against the wall, waiting.

He knew that the imposters would have to cover the hole eventually, and as he didn’t just want to knock on the front door, Jack waited. It didn’t take long. As the light inside the shop filtered through the man-made hole, he saw a shadow, and then as he leaned forward slightly, a piece of cardboard was placed over the hole. Jack reached out and with his left hand made a scratching noise on the makeshift patch the man was using to seal the hole. Suddenly the light inside flared as the man pulled the cardboard away. Jack almost had to smile when the mercenary stuck his head through the hole.

“Hi,” Jack whispered as the man’s eyes widened to the point of popping free of his skull. The momentum of the barrel of the heavy nine millimeter caught the mercenary squarely on top of his head. He collapsed and Jack easily pulled him free of the hole. With one look toward the street, Collins raised his right foot and brought it down on the unconscious man’s neck, crushing the windpipe and severing his spine just below the jawline. Collins reached down and pulled the man along the alley and then placed the lifeless and broken body beside the Dumpster, silently covering him with discarded cardboard and newspaper. He then returned to the hole.

As Jack stood still next to the entry point, he listened intently. When he heard no movement he quickly risked a look through the damaged brick. He saw no movement. Then the front bank of lights went out, meaning that the remaining man was in the back at the breaker box. He bent low and squeezed through the hole, scraping his back against the damaged brick as he did, but he wasn’t feeling any pain at that moment. As he entered, he straightened and heard the lone man in the back call out to his partner whose job it was to seal the holes leading to the outside.

“As soon as you’re done, head down that elevator and join the strike team,” the voice echoed from the back.

Jack quickly looked around in the semidarkness and his eyes fell on the silenced weapon that the recently deceased man had been carrying. He reached down and retrieved the heavy automatic. It was a Glock nine with a large noise suppressor attached. Collins placed his own weapon back into his waistband and then made sure the dead perp’s weapon was loaded and charged. It was. He heard the curtain leading to the back room part and as he sped, the second man came through with a mop and bucket. Jack stepped into the darkened aisle. He caught the man’s attention as he stood straight, knowing he had placed his silhouette directly in the killer’s line of sight.

“You get the holes sealed?” the man asked as he leaned the mop against the glass counter. The man stood still when the figure standing in the aisle didn’t respond. Jack realized that the man he was facing most definitely had years of military training as he didn’t hesitate in reaching for his weapon.

Jack’s training was far better and practiced for many more years. He raised the silenced weapon and shot four times in rapid succession. The first two rounds struck the man in both shoulders, making his gun hand go numb and forcing the weapon from his paralyzed grasp. The second set of rounds struck him in the upper thighs, sending him crashing into the glass case filled with jewelry. As Collins approached, he heard the moaning of the perpetrator as he tried to extricate himself from the shattered glass of the case. Collins on his way past reached down and grabbed his collar, pulling him free and ruthlessly dragging him along until he was through the curtain and into the brighter area of the storage room. He let the man fall to the floor as he scanned the area like an automaton to make sure he was the only one left in the pawn shop. His eyes fell on the blood the man had missed when he was cleaning.

The blue eyes of Collins managed to lock on several things at once. The door to the rear office was open and he could see the damaged desk and computer where the anesthetized dart system had been activated. Then he saw the two army cots where the results of the booby trap were lying, unmoving. With a stern countenance he walked up to the cots and fired two not-so-silent rounds into the men’s foreheads, making their bodies jump with the impact of the bullets. Collins was on automatic, and anyone that knew him would have realized that Jack could be a cold and proficient killer.

When he saw that the shop was indeed empty, he returned to the bleeding man who was trying to hold the wounds to his thighs with his two broken arms. Collins reached down and with one arm swung the man up and onto one of the dead he had just killed now lying still on the cot. Jack then looked down at the man, unscrewed the now, damaged silencer, and pulled it free of the Glock. His eyes locked on the man writhing in pain. As the wounded man opened his eyes, they widened when he saw up close who he was dealing with. He shook his head to try to clear the pain that wracked his mind as Collins continued to look the man over.

“Son, anything you tell me that doesn’t have the ring of truth to it will bring on pain such as you’ve never known. Normally I’m not a cruel person. I treat enemies by the rule book, even terrorists.” Jack ejected the clip in the Glock, pulled back the slide, and popped the lone bullet from the weapon. He then tossed the gun on the floor and pulled Alice’s weapon from his waistband. “But you are neither a warrior nor even a terrorist with an agenda. You are a mercenary who gets money for wet work — a traitor.” Jack leaned over to make sure the man was hearing him. “I am a colonel in the United States Army, and son, you fucked with the wrong man at the wrong time.”

“Colonel, I … I … was … am a former member of the SAS. I work for men that want no harm to come to this country. I—”

Jack simply reached out and hit the man with the barrel of the nine millimeter, smashing and breaking his nose and sending blood out in a spray where it hit Collins in his face and shirt.

“The queen must be proud of one of her boys that would kill innocent men and attempt to kill unarmed women. I don’t think she would approve of your job choices, son.”

“Please, don’t—”

The gun barrel again. This time it was on the left thigh directly over the large hole where the nine millimeter round had entered. “I talk, you listen.”

The man could only nod his head as the pain from the blow coursed through his system.

“Good. I have your attention then?”

The mercenary nodded again, tears streaming from his eyes from the blow to his shattered nose.

“The man’s name leading the assault, who is he?”

“Ssssmith,” he struggled to answer.

Whack, a blow was delivered to the other thigh, bringing a silent scream of pain as the man rolled to one side. “Smith, that’s all I know.”

“The lie meter says you’re telling the truth,” Jack said as he pulled the man back into position for further questions. “How many on the strike team?”

“Twelve,” the man said, managing to open his eyes as the weapon was raised again. “Twelve, I swear! Your security team eliminated four of us!”

Jack closed his eyes for the briefest moment when he heard that his men had managed to take four of the attackers down. Then he opened his eyes and became that cold and calculating killer again.

“The woman that was taken, is she dead?”

“No, she was taken below,” the killer said as he cried in pain.

“Your mission?”

“To … destroy … the formula … from Mexico.”

Jack pursed his lips as the words were spoken. “Who hired your team?”

“I … I … don’t get that information. My team is stationed in Arizona. We—”

Collins was done with the questions. He had enough experience in these matters to know that grunts like the man on the cot had no knowledge of the men pulling their strings. His business lay with the man named Smith. He placed the automatic to the man’s forehead before his sentence was finished and pulled the trigger.

“Thank you,” Jack said and turned for the back room.

Everett knew he was going to have to force Niles Compton from the complex as he stood before him in his office. The large monitor was on and he was watching the procedures happening at that moment down on level seventeen.

“Virginia is now in charge of the complex, Doctor. You need to get above ground and into the loving arms of the air force, and if I have to call the president to get that done, I will.”

Compton looked up at Everett and saw him set his jaw. At that moment he knew that arguing with the former SEAL would be like arguing with his boss, Jack Collins. He angrily tossed the pen he had been fiddling with onto the desktop and pushed his chair back.

“I should never have allowed that crap into this complex,” Compton said.

“I’m as much to blame as anyone. It was my duty and Jack’s to see what a potential hazard we had on our hands. It was us who saw what this stuff can do. So quit kicking yourself in the ass and I’ll get an escort for you to take you through security at gate two.”

“I’m leaving under protest,” Niles said as he stomped toward the door. He waited when he saw Everett pick up the phone on his desk to alert the gate he was sending Niles through the tunnel.

“Your protest will be duly noted in the security log,” he said as he waited for his men to pick up the phone inside the pawn shop.

Compton shook his head and saw the concern cross Carl’s features. He saw him hang up and then try pushing the buttons again. Everett waited and then slammed the phone down.

“I’m going to have someone’s ass,” he said angrily as he turned to the Europa terminal on Compton’s desk.

“What’s wrong now?” Niles asked stepping back into his office.

“No answer at gate two,” Everett said as he slammed the communication link down with his finger. “Europa, what in the hell is happening at—”

“Alert, alert! We have an intruder alert on level three, loading dock east. I repeat, we have a security breach on level three, loading dock east,” Europa said, interrupting Carl’s question. “All security personnel are required at this time to report to loading dock east, transport rail.”

Everett couldn’t believe what he was hearing and Director Compton felt his face go flush.

“Maybe with all that’s happening, Europa has blown a circuit,” Niles said as he quickly moved to his desk next to Carl. That question was soon answered when the doors to his office opened and Charlie Ellenshaw and Pete Golding burst through.

“Captain, we think we heard gunfire somewhere on the upper levels,” Pete said breathlessly.

Everett looked up and then went into action. “Get the director the hell out of here,” he said as he ran through the double doors.

As the intruder warning sounded again, Charlie was the first to take Niles by the arm and pull him from the office.

“You know the drill,” Charlie said as Pete took Compton’s other arm.

“Damn it let go of me!” Niles protested.

“Sorry, the captain is a little bigger than you. Let’s go,” Pete said as the warning notice sent by Europa continued.

All around them the warnings blared.

As they hit the elevator in the large area where Pete’s assistants normally sat and worked, they stopped as the sounds came down from above them and entered the office through the closed doors of the elevator, making Pete and Ellenshaw come to a stop while still holding Compton’s arms.

The sounds wafting through the double doors were of gunfire and screams.

The assault was well coordinated by a group of men who had served in Special Forces units trained by the United States government. They were all patriots and believed deep in their souls the righteousness of the missions they were sent on.

After the larger of the tram system cars had transported the teams to the loading facility, it had only taken a brief moment for the two-man security team manning the dock to succumb to the assault team inside the first transport. Sarah cringed as the two men went down without firing a shot. The confusion generated by the biohazard alarms and evacuation announcement by Europa had contributed to the quick subjugation of marine and air force security men.

The two men had at least been spared. Sarah was so angry and felt so helpless that tears were rolling down her cheeks. The most horrible aspect of the initial phase of the assault was the death of the young soldier they had brought along to force Sarah’s cooperation. Smith had performed the murder himself, placing two quick shots into the dying security man’s head even as he sat wounded on the rear plastic seat of the magnetic transport. She didn’t understand why he spared some and not others.

As Sarah was pulled from the car and pushed onto the concrete loading dock, she took a hard swing at Smith who moved easily away from her blow and then backhanded her once more across her face. Then he again grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the complex following the team-by-team movement of his men.

“Is there a code to get into the elevator system beyond this point?” Smith asked as he slid into a heavy set of body armor.

“Kiss my ass!” Sarah shouted as she spit blood weakly toward the man who was handed an M-14 carbine and bandolier of thirty-round magazines.

Smith smirked, admiring the small geologist’s desire for vengeance. He then scanned the large facility that housed the incoming freight destined for either the vault levels or various other facilities inside the complex. As the large man passed a crate of apples, he used the folding stock of the M-14 to break the wood covering the crate. He reached in and brought out a bright red apple and bit into it. He then gestured for one six-man team to cover the first set of elevator doors and then, as he chewed a bite of apple, pointed to another set of stainless-steel doors on the far side of the warehouse. He then tossed the apple away and, pulling Sarah along with him, walked over to the first set of doors.

“The target level is seventeen,” he said into the microphone near his mouth. “It looks like we’ll end up at opposite ends of the level, so Team Two set up from that end and wait for my word to cover us if needed. In and out in fifteen minutes gentlemen or it will screw up our timetable.” As Sarah watched, Smith reached into his vest and brought out a small device. “How much security is on level seventeen?” he asked Sarah.

“There’s a team of twelve heavily armed men on seventeen,” she said with a smirk, hoping to throw a kink into Smith’s plans.

Sarah tried to pull away as the elevator doors opened and the first team of six black-clothed men and Smith stepped in.

“Level please?” asked the Marilyn Monroe voice of Europa.

Smith smiled at Sarah and then clicked the on button of the small recorder, making McIntire close her eyes in frustration. He rewound the small digital recorder to the point he wanted. He then held it up to the small Europa terminal just beside the door and pushed the play button.

“Seventeen,” Sarah’s voice said through the electronic trap he had set for her.

“Thank you Lieutenant McIntire, level seventeen. You must be aware there is a current state of emergency on that level. Please follow supervisory procedure for entry onto the affected level.”

Smith smiled as Sarah grimaced in frustration at the way she was outsmarted.

“Level seventeen, formulas, serums, colognes, and aftershaves, all aboard,” Smith joked as he pulled a fuming Sarah McIntire in with him.

As the first elevator started lowering on a tube of compressed air downward into the bowels of the Event Group Complex, the second Black Team waited for the second set of doors to open. They weren’t stupid in their method, as they didn’t want a surprise to greet them when the doors opened. They were broken up into three sets of two, covering the doors as the level indicator above signaled that the car was arriving. The one flaw in their coverage was the fact that they didn’t know about the stairwell to the far right of the warehouse area.

Without warning and according to the “Use of deadly force is authorized for trespassing onto this federal reservation” signs they walked past with just a cursory glance, a security team of ten men led by Sergeant Jessie Sanchez, a U.S. Marine with ten years experience, opened fire on the men before they knew what was happening.

Sanchez had been in the process of securing the facility and, as protocol dictated they not use the elevators, had entered the stairwell when the security team on the dock didn’t answer his calls. Without checking with Captain Everett, Sanchez fell back on the training he had received from Carl and Jack. Within three-and a-half seconds the six-man Black Team had been cut down with clean shots either to the back of their heads or to their exposed necks. The sergeant was the first man to stand from behind some of the incoming freight. His ears were still ringing from the unsuppressed gunfire as he examined the dead men on the floor.

“Clear!” he said loudly as his team also stood from their positions of concealment. “Security Unit 3–5 to officer on watch. We have intruders in the complex. Over.”

Sanchez used his boot to kick one of the dead men over to examine him. He reached down and yanked the black hood from the man’s face and stood as his radio was answered.

“This is the watch officer. We have gunfire on level seventeen. Bring your unit to level sixteen and meet Captain Everett. Nellis security has been informed and the base is now shut down.”

“Roger,” he said and then gestured to his men. “Use the elevator, we’re out of time,” he said as he ran forward and entered the car that was supposed to send the second murderous Black Team to join their comrades.

Once more, a battle was raging deep beneath the sands of the Nevada desert.

Henri Farbeaux was awakened by something he had heard while dozing. As he sat up in his bed he was reminded where he was by the clinking of the handcuff on his right wrist. He shook his head to clear it of sleep when he heard what had awakened him — the sound of the complex computer system announcing the emergency on level seventeen. The larger of the two security men used his radio to check into the security center. He listened for a moment and then quickly walked over to where Farbeaux was lying. Without comment he produced a second set of handcuffs, fastening the Frenchman’s left wrist to the bed rail. All the while Henri watched the man with bemusement.

“Uh, gentlemen, I believe that fancy computer of yours said there was a biohazard alert. Do you think maybe—”

“Now’s not the time, Colonel,” said the large air force sergeant. He looked at the marine standing and watching. “You have orders to join Sergeant Sanchez and his team. They’re securing the complex. Meet him on level seven with your body armor,” the marine told him.

Without asking questions, the air force sergeant left the room.

“Is this necessary?” Henri asked, clanging both sets of handcuffs against the stainless-steel bedrails.

“Maybe, maybe not, but your reputation does precede you, Colonel.”

“Oh, that again, huh?” he said with the ever-present smirk on his face.

“Always, sir, always.”

As the elevator fell free into the airtight tube down to level seventeen, Smith tried to contact Team Two on his radio. He tried a second and third time with the same result — static.

“It seems your security element inside the complex reacts just as fast as your gate security,” he hissed, finally allowing his frustration to show through his hard exterior. He charged a round into his M-14 carbine and looked down at Sarah who wiped some more of the flowing blood from her mouth. She took the chance and returned Smith’s arrogant smirk. “I wouldn’t be so smug miss; you’re going to be the first one out of these doors.” Smith was now convinced his Black Team was in over its head. He had opened a hornets’ nest of highly trained men, and if he could retreat he would. But now he had a possible hostile element in his rear. His thoughts on the situation were quick and decisive. He would continue on mission and destroy what it was he came there to destroy.

The elevator finally came to a hissing but smooth stop on level seventeen. Europa announced the location of the car as the doors slid open. Sarah was roughly pushed through the door first, followed by two men who covered the hallway right and left. Sarah turned and looked at Smith.

“Lies always come out,” Smith said as he stepped free of the car with the other four men. “I guess your supermen can’t be everywhere at once.” He once more grabbed Sarah and pushed her against the wall. Before he could question her as to where the appropriate lab was, three people, two women and one man, came around the bend of the white plastic corridor in a hurry to meet the evacuation deadline. Smith pushed Sarah into the waiting arms of one of his men and then raised the M-14 and shot the Event Group man in the chest, making the lab-coated women scream and look up in shock.

“What lab has the emergency?” he asked, still pointing the weapon in their direction.

The two biologists saw Sarah being held by one of the hooded men. Then in an act of quick thinking the one nearest the wall reached for the alarm based at the Europa station. She only made it a foot before she was cut down by Smith. “I’ll ask once more,” he said angrily with the echo of his shots still ringing their ears. He was starting to think these people, whoever the hell they were, were all crazy, or they all had been taught to be a hero.

The woman with tears in her eyes shook her head. Then, knowing what was coming, squeezed her eyes shut just as three rounds caught her in the chest and head, spraying blood on the white plastic wall just as another two men in white coats came around the corner and froze.

“No more!” Sarah shouted.

Smith ignored her, turned to the two men, and shot the one on the right, closest to the alarm terminal. In the flashing of the red emergency lights, Sarah saw Smith aim at the other man who stood frozen to the spot.

“You better be sure miss,” he said to Sarah.

“It’s the next lab over,” she said as Smith grinned and then shot the other unsuspecting man.

“In for a dime, in for a dollar. They can only hang me once.”

“Ahhh!” Sarah screamed and pulled free of the man holding her. She almost made it to Smith with her arms near his throat when he swung the carbine up and smashed her in the jaw, dropping her at his feet. He looked at his men and then pointed down the hallway in the direction the men and women had come from. With one look down at the unconscious Sarah, he followed the rest of the Black Team.

As they approached the laboratory area, they saw the warning lights and the flashing biohazard sign warning them not to go any farther. Smith waved the men down, moving his right hand to the right and left of the clean room doors. He managed a quick look inside and saw a black man standing next to a tall, thin, black-haired woman. There were seven others at some very large windows and they were watching something in another part of the clean room.

As Smith was about to step back, the black man wearing a blue jumpsuit that Smith recognized as the military apparel the dock security team had been wearing turned, each man catching the other’s eyes. He recognized the man immediately as one of the men he rescued in Mexico. Smith quickly brought up his weapon and pointed it through the double-paned window. He gestured for everyone inside to raise their hands as the rest of his team entered through the unsecured door. The black man jumped at the first man through the door. He hit as a linebacker would and they both went down. It was Smith who quickly kicked the black man in the head, sending him off and over Smith’s fallen team member.

“Next time I’ll let him kill you,” the Black Team member said to Will as he lifted himself from the floor. Smith watched the man point the weapon down at the black man’s head and then Smith moved the barrel away angrily. “You afraid he’s going to rise and come at you again?”

The man stepped away angrily and then pushed the tall woman away as she knelt to attend Will Mendenhall.

“Which one of you is named Bannister?” Smith asked as he took in the group of eight people.

A small and light-skinned black woman stepped forward but was pulled back by a large man in a white coat. He pulled the woman until she was behind him.

“I am Colonel Bannister. Who in the hell are you?” he asked angrily, looking from Smith to Mendenhall who hadn’t moved yet. “Can’t you see we have a situation here?”

Smith stepped forward and looked through the glass. He saw immediately what they had come to Nevada to retrieve. The old and weathered jar was sitting between three robotic arms. It looked as if it were still sealed.

“Don’t even think about it,” Gloria said as she stepped out from behind her father. “That thing can be airborne. We are dealing with an unknown element that we haven’t identified yet.”

Smith looked from person to person. “No,” he said as he gestured for two of his men to enter the sealed room. They tried the door, but it wouldn’t open. “The formula is called Perdition’s Fire; it can only be inhaled or digested to be effective. The unknown element you are referring to is a little something our esteemed professor Ambrose invented about a hundred years before its time. The unknown is called Lazarus Mist. It’s a compound that when added to liquid and exposed to air will fog or mist. My superiors weren’t sure on the result, but it was listed and described in the good professor’s journals. But we did see the results in Mexico with that stupid bastard Juan Guzman. The Lazarus Mist performed pretty well I would say in creating an airborne cloud of Perdition’s Fire. Anyway ladies and gentlemen, we may have just saved you from uncorking that bottle and releasing a genie you could not control. Now, have your safety systems unseal the clean room please.” He looked at his watch. “We are on a tight schedule.”

“No,” Colonel Bannister said.

“What is with you people?” He then aimed his weapon at the woman the large man was trying to protect.

“Europa, security override, Pollock, alpha 11-7.”

Without Europa answering Virginia’s request, the Black Team heard the click of the locks on the clean room door pop open.

“Damn, finally someone with a little sense,” Smith said as his men entered the clean room. Smith turned to the others and waved them inside the room as well. He stationed two men by the door and gave them the eye, meaning no one gets in. “Ladies and gentlemen, I assure you there is no danger as long as you cooperate.”

As they entered along with the four Men in Black and with Smith taking up the rear, the seven CDC men and women were confused as to what was happening. Only Colonel Bannister understood the gravity of the situation. Virginia was just buying time for Carl’s security to react to what was happening. She remained silent as they were herded into the clean room.

As Smith watched, his men tried lifting the jar from the claws of the Honda robotic arms. The first man turned and shook his head at the larger Smith. Smith shook his head, reached into his vest, and produced a small black object. He clicked a switch and a six-inch blade emerged from its handle. He walked over to the arms and then, seizing the hydraulic hoses in his free hand, swiped the knife through them, severing all three hoses to the first arm. Fluid shot out of the pressurized system as Smith merely pushed the large arm up and out of the way. He repeated the process with the arm holding the base of the jar.

As he started to reach for Perdition’s Fire, gunfire erupted out in the hallway. As he turned he saw the black man rise and once more tackle the man closest to the door, sending Mendenhall and Smith’s man into the exposed corridor. He gestured for his men to take cover, but it was too late. Colonel Bannister acted first. He raised his long arms up and pushed all of his people through the still-open doorway. Virginia saw this and dove herself. Bannister then quickly closed the door and locked it just as sixteen bullets struck him in his back, sending his head into the glass inside the door.

Gloria hit the floor, turned on her back, and looked up just in time to see her father’s face hit the glass in the upper half of the door. He looked in shock as he was shot in the back. Several rounds hit the safety glass, sending shards into the observation room and making the lone mercenary turn away from the action in the hallway. Virginia, with her football prowess still intact, sent her body in a headlong plunge at the man’s ankles. He stumbled and fell backward, and she was struck in the face with hot blood as one of the attacking security team members placed a bullet into his hooded head. Virginia rolled and was soon picked up by Will Mendenhall who pushed her into the arms of another man. Virginia looked up and saw Captain Everett.

Mendenhall frantically gestured for the others to crawl forward out of harm’s way. As they did, he reached down and pulled Gloria Bannister to her feet. She immediately wrapped her arms around Mendenhall as he threw both her and himself back against the wall as more bullets started flying out of the clean room.

“My father!” she screamed as Will held her in place.

Mendenhall just shook his head as he pulled the CDC doctor onto the floor.

“How many?” Everett shouted over the gunfire inside the clean room.

“There are four, plus their commander,” Virginia answered.

Everett nodded and turned to the twenty men he had lining the hallway. He gestured for them to take up station on either side of the open doorway. Then he turned to Will and tossed him his headset and radio. “Get on the horn and have Sergeant Sanchez bring up an assault package. We need flash bangs and gas.”

“Yes sir,” Will said as he placed the earphone into his ear and made the call. “Then get to the Europa terminal and order the rest of the staff out of the complex. Tell them not to wait for the buses; get into the desert and stay there.” Everett turned to Virginia and the CDC team. “Did you hear any names?” he asked them, covering his head as more gunfire erupted from inside.

“Smith,” said a voice from their right.

Everett turned and saw Sarah as she limped forward. She was literally covered in blood. He ran to her and eased her onto the carpeted hallway.

“Jesus,” he said as he used his large hand to wipe some of the blood from her head.

“I think he killed Jack and Alice,” she said as the words threatened to catch in her throat.

Everett acted as though he didn’t hear her as even more bullets came flying out of the clean room. Large holes stitched random patterns in the plastic wall behind them. Then he lifted Sarah’s bruised and battered face upward.

“He’s been dead before — he didn’t like it much.”

“Smith is the same man that rescued you in Mexico,” Sarah said as she started to regain her senses. She saw Everett go blank for a moment. Then anger set into his features as he placed her against the wall.

“Goddamn it,” Everett said as he crawled back toward the doorway. He looked up at Will and he nodded his head, letting Everett know that his orders had been successfully passed on. Carl then got as close to the doorway as he dared and placed his nine millimeter next to the frame. “Will, get these people to the gymnasium and then up through the cargo platform to level one.”

“Captain, I think—”

“That’s an order Lieutenant,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“Yes sir,” Mendenhall answered with a sour look on his face. “But I’m coming back,” he said, daring the captain to say something to the contrary.

“Don’t worry; I’ll save pieces of these guys for you,” Everett said as twenty more rounds smashed through the remaining glass in the double-paned windows above. “Will, get to a phone and get Farbeaux out of here. Tell his guard to put one in his leg if he has to to make sure he doesn’t run.”

“I’ll perform that little task myself,” Will said as he started herding the civilians away at a crawl.

Everett turned and looked at Virginia. “You too, Doc, take Sarah and meet up with the director. He should be out of here by now.”

Virginia nodded her head and helped Sarah up as they both bent low and ran for the elevators.

Carl nodded at his men as he saw them ready to strike. He held up a hand.

“In the clean room, cease fire!” he called out.

“No, I think we’ll keep up the Lord’s work,” came the reply. “We have quite a bit of ammunition to play with.”

“Mr. Smith, the complex is now sealed. There’s nowhere to run,” Carl called out.

“I like that old song, never believed in the theory of running before,” Smith said in his irritatingly smug voice.

“Then it will be my pleasure to kill you, Smith.”

Inside the clean room Smith was behind the cover of the largest of the three robotic arms. He looked around at his men as they covered the only opening. He closed his eyes in thought as he seemed to recognize the voice coming from the hallway. He figured there was no reason to taunt the man about the murder of his companion in Las Vegas, so he tried to formulate a way out of there without getting himself killed. He realized that surrendering was just a slower way to make that happen.

As he opened his eyes and scanned the clean room, he looked up and saw the jar filled with the amber liquid.

One of his Black Team looked up just in time to see Smith reach up, take hold of the jar, and then bring it down to floor level. Smith knew this could be his only negotiating tool.

“Exactly to whom am I speaking?” he shouted out into the hallway.

“Captain Everett, United States Navy,” Carl answered.

“Well Captain Everett, you seem to have an eclectic outfit here as far as I can see. There is an old rumor in the outfit I work for that said there was something like this little day care center situated in the desert somewhere. I guess some rumors are true.”

“Surrender now Smith and I’ll give you the grand tour.”

“I think I may have another solution to our predicament, Captain. How about you give me and my men safe passage out of here, and in exchange I won’t contaminate this entire facility with Perdition’s Fire. Sound reasonable?”

Carl leaned back against the wall and mentally cursed himself for thinking this would be an easy situation. He waited for a few seconds and then leaned to his right without exposing himself to the open doorway.

“You of all people know what that would do to everyone, including yourself. So just lay down your arms and give it up.”

Just as Smith was about to react to Everett’s command, one of Smith’s own men gaped wide-eyed at the jar Smith was holding and tried to slide a few feet farther away. Before he could move Smith shoved the jar into the hands of the startled soldier.

Smith made sure the man was stable enough to hold the jar, and just as he was about to demand once more the surrender of his antagonists, Smith’s own eyes widened at a sight that froze the unvoiced demand deep in his throat. As he looked from the startled soldier’s eyes to the jar the man held, he saw that the rubber stopper, cracked with age and with a new three-cc-sized hole in its top, was leaking. Drop by drop it hit the floor.

In a panic the young soldier reacted without thinking, dropping the jar not a foot in front of him just as Smith started to back away. It shattered. Almost instantaneously the fogging agent mixed with the formula and both agents started to do their work. As soon as a massive amount of air struck the compound it started to fog. Smith and the soldier were the first to feel the sting of the mixture as it hit their nostrils. Smith placed a hand over his mouth and tried to stand and run, deciding that surrender would be far better than the fate of Juan Guzman, but his boots hit the hydraulic fluid that had been released from the hoses and he fell back, knocking the air from his lungs. As he tried to reach for the table over his head, his fingers found instead the blue set of hoses that ran from the floor to the robotic arms. He pulled, trying to gain purchase when the hoses separated from the valve in the tile. A sudden burst of air, one that supplied pneumatic power to the arms, sprayed onto the pooling formula, sending a large cloud of vapor toward his stunned and shocked men, engulfing them and burying their black-clad bodies in a veil of whitish-brown mist.

The screams of pain and anguish from what was left of Smith and his remaining Black Team started almost immediately.

A flaw in the design of the Biology Department’s fail-safe system became immediately apparent. The system was a separate entity from Europa, and as soon as the “sniffer” inside the clean room detected the release of the formula, the safety system went into effect.

Perdition’s Fire had been released just as every door inside the complex except for the emergency exit in the gymnasium and sports arena shut down and locked automatically.

Sarah and Virginia were near the elevator doors when Europa became aware of the second protocol warning of the biohazard system inside the clean room. On her own Europa and entirely under her emergency directive that was designed separately into her system by Pete Golding and the onetime supervisor of the Computer Sciences Department ten years before, Dr. Niles Compton, that order could not be overridden without a code sent out by the president of the United States — she had immediately sealed the Event Group Complex to the outside world, literally cutting them off from any form of rescue.

Hell had come to Department 5656, and Jack the Ripper, a biologically created beast, was reborn. Only this time he was not only one but five supermen.