The Demon Crown

10

Twelve hours after the attack in Hawaii, Kat Bryant paced the length of Sigma’s communication nest. A tall Starbucks cup warmed her hands. She’d had no sleep overnight, except for a short nap. She was running on caffeine and adrenaline.

Not unusual, not for this job.

She finally stopped in the center of the circular room. The ambient light was kept low, like the control room for a nuclear submarine. All around, technicians manned computer stations, their faces lit by the glow of their monitors. The nest served as Sigma’s digital eyes and ears. Information flowed into and out of this room, carrying feeds from various intelligence agencies, both domestic and foreign.

She was the master of this domain, the spider of this digital web.

Movement drew her attention to the door leading out to the hall.

Painter strode in, looking harried. He must have just returned from his meeting with their boss, General Metcalf, over at DARPA.

“What’s the latest?” he asked.

“We have an updated casualty report.”

Painter grimaced, clearly girding himself. “How bad is it?”

“Bad.” She picked up an e-tablet from a workstation. “Across the islands, the number of fatalities stands at fifty-four, but there are over a thousand others hospitalized in various conditions. So, the death count will surely rise.”

Painter shook his head. “And there’s no telling how many more will be injured or killed in the days ahead as the swarm establishes itself across those islands.”

“It’ll be chaos for sure. Especially as local emergency services have no protocol for dealing with such an attack. Everyone is still scrambling for what to do.”

“Has anyone claimed responsibility yet?”

“Not so far. But I expect the usual suspects will soon latch on to this disaster and try to take credit.”

Which would only further complicate the investigation.

“What about the forensics on the crashed Cessnas?” he asked.

“All pilotless drones. Each of the aircraft — at least those that weren’t burned beyond recognition — was reported stolen from sites around the globe, stretching back over the course of two years.”

“So someone’s been prepping for this attack for a long time.”

“It would appear so.”

Kat set down her coffee, tapped at the workstation keyboard, and brought up a map of the Pacific Ocean on a monitor. A translucent red circle swallowed the chain of Hawaiian Islands, along with a wide swath of the surrounding ocean.

“The maximum flight range for a Cessna TTx is just shy of thirteen hundred nautical miles.” She pointed to the circle. “Which means they were launched from somewhere in this zone.”

Painter leaned closer to the map. “Unless the planes refueled along the way and originated from a greater distance.”

Kat turned and raised a brow. “A fleet of pilotless Cessnas? I think such a sight would draw attention.” She stared back at the screen. “No, I wager there must be a staging ground for this assault somewhere in this zone.”

“That’s a lot of ocean to cover.”

“Almost seven million square miles. That’s over twice the size of our lower forty-eight states.”

Painter frowned at the screen. “There must be hundreds of islands in that region.”

“More if you count atolls, islets, and shoals. But the number could be narrowed to only those places large enough to accommodate an airstrip.” Kat sighed. “Admittedly, that still leaves plenty of potential sites.”

“Do Hawaii’s radar records offer any further guidance?”

“Unfortunately not. Their land-based systems only extend some two hundred miles out to sea. By the time the planes entered radar range, they were coming from every direction.”

One of her techs pushed back from his seat and turned to her, looking hesitant to interrupt.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I have a call for you coming in on our secure channel.”

“Who is it?”

“He says his name is Professor Ken Matsui. Claims you asked him to contact you.”

Kat glanced over to Painter. “The Cornell toxicologist,” she reminded him. “The one who made an inquiry with Dr. Bennett at the National Zoo.”

Painter gave her a questioning look. “You mean the ghost?”

“Seems like he’s come back from the dead.”

Overnight, she had prepared a dossier on the scientist. According to a report out of Brazil, the professor — along with a student and two Brazilian nationals — had gone missing and were presumed dead after being caught in a storm at sea.

“We should take the call in my office,” Kat offered.

She retrieved her cup of coffee and led Painter to the neighboring room. Her office was efficient and Spartan, much like herself. Her only personal effects were a scatter of pictures of her two young girls, Penelope and Harriet. The centermost photo showed her husband, Monk, balancing the two kids on his knees. The stocky man grimaced, appearing to be suffering under the weight of the five-year-old and seven-year-old. With his thick arms and wide chest bulging under a Green Beret T-shirt, he could easily have juggled the pair — which, considering the girls’ rambunctious temperament, was a necessity every now and then.

Kat’s eyes lingered there as she crossed to her desk. Monk had taken the girls to a camp up in the Catskills. She had planned to join them until the current emergency pinned her down in D.C.

Maybe I’m not the spider of this digital web after all, but more like a fly trapped here.

Still, she knew Monk would take good care of Penny and Harriet. Though it pained her to admit it, she had been leaning more and more on him of late to cover for her. Not that he ever complained. Still, a part of her envied the sabbatical that Gray and Seichan had taken, to carve out an uninterrupted swath of time. She owed that to Monk, to her family.

Yet, another part of her knew she could never give up this regular adrenaline fix.

She took a sip of her coffee.

Or all the caffeine…

The tech spoke over the intercom. “I have the caller on line two.”

She set her cup down and put her desktop phone on speaker. “Professor Matsui, thank you for returning my call.”

“I don’t have much time. What’s this all about?”

Though the international connection was a bad one, she easily heard the suspicion in the other’s voice. She glanced to Painter, who waved for her to take the lead.

She pretended not to know about the professor’s presumed death. “We got your name from an entomologist here in D.C. You contacted him in regard to an unusual species of wasp.”

There was a long pause. Whispering could be heard in the background, as if he were consulting with someone before speaking.

She shared a glance with Painter.

What’s going on over there?

“Yes,” Matsui said, returning to the line. “But I think we all know we’re too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Odokuro have been released.”

“The Odokuro?”

“That’s what I’ve been calling this species of Hymenoptera. Named after a Japanese demon—gashadokuro. Trust me, it’s a most fitting name. I’ve been studying the species for the past two months. Its life cycle is beyond anything imaginable.”

“Wait. You’ve been studying this organism? Where? In Kyoto?” She recalled that the professor’s last address was a research facility for a Japanese pharmaceutical company.

“I’m not in Kyoto any longer,” he said.

“Where are you then?”

“Headed to Hawaii. Aboard a Tanaka corporate jet. We should be landing within the hour.”

“Why are you going there?”

“To evaluate the colonization firsthand. It’s the only way I’ll know for sure.”

“Know what?” she asked, as a cold dread settled over her.

“Whether or not you’ll need to nuke those islands.”

Ken Matsui stared out the window of the corporate HondaJet 420. He waited for the shock of his words to subside. Two over-the-wing engines raced them toward their destination in Honolulu. Though the aircraft was the fastest jet in its class, they had to refuel on Midway Atoll. The brief delay on the ground there had him pacing the small four-seater cabin.

I should never have agreed to stay silent.

He glared across the cabin at the slim figure of Aiko Higashi. She claimed to be with Japan’s Public Security Intelligence Agency. The PSIA oversaw and investigated national threats and monitored local extremist groups. But Ken suspected there was more to this woman’s background.

She certainly carried herself as someone with military training. Her haircut was trimmed in straight lines across her forehead and neck. Her navy blue suit was starched as stiff as her upper lip. Her expression seldom changed from its stern countenance as she had shadowed him these past months.

Finally, Kathryn Bryant returned to the conversation. Ken equally questioned whether the woman on the line was someone simply working for DARPA. Especially when word reached him about her request to speak to him. He had wanted to ignore the inquiry, but Aiko had insisted he take her call. Even now, she eavesdropped on the exchange, leaning imperceptibly forward from her seat.

“What makes you think such a drastic action might be necessary?” Bryant asked.

“Because I’ve seen firsthand the devastation wrought by the Odokuro.”

“Where? How?”

Ken stared over at Aiko, who offered the smallest of nods. She had already told him to be forthright with this caller, as if she knew the woman on the line and trusted her enough to receive this information.

Ken, on the other hand, didn’t know whom to trust. His parents had instilled in him a healthy suspicion of governments. The two had experienced firsthand how easily one could be chewed up or rolled over by those in power. His father had told him tales of the harsh, dehumanizing conditions found behind the barbed wire of the Japanese internment camps, where his dad was detained as a boy. The camp was located in the bucolic foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains, not far from the small town of Independence, a name his father found both ironic and disheartening. Likewise, his German mother had her own experiences in her home country during the war. Though she seldom spoke of that time, she had taught Ken to question authority and stand up for the oppressed.

Still, despite his ingrained distrust, he knew his story needed to be told.

Especially now.

“It happened eight weeks ago…” he started, his voice catching in his throat.

Has it been only that long?

It seemed like ages ago now.

He pictured the smirking face of his postgraduate student Oscar Hoff. The memory of gunfire echoed in his head. He closed his eyes, pushing back the pain and terror of that trip. Still, guilt knotted his gut. He held a fist clenched to his stomach, mirroring that tension.

“What happened?” Bryant pressed.

He swallowed before speaking, then slowly told the story of what happened on Ilha da Queimada Grande, the cursed place that First Lieutenant Ramon Dias named “Snake Island.” As he continued his story, his words became more rushed as the panic of that day returned. He described the dead bodies — both the smugglers and the swath of snakes — followed by the helicopter attack.

“They firebombed the island, burned it to the bedrock. But I escaped… and not empty-handed. I took a specimen, one of the lanceheads. Under the cover of night, I fled to the coast, to a small Brazilian village. Once there, I was afraid if anyone learned I survived…”

“You would’ve been killed,” the caller said matter-of-factly.

He found himself surprisingly relieved by this confirmation. He knew a good portion of his shame and remorse had less to do with Oscar’s murder than with his own silence afterward. The knot of guilt loosened the tiniest fraction. He unclenched his fist and let his arm relax.

He tried to explain his rationale. “I knew I had to return with what I’d taken from the island, to understand why this had happened. So I reached out to a colleague, someone I trusted at Tanaka. I needed the company’s deep pockets to extract me from Brazil and get me somewhere safe before anyone knew I was alive.”

“So Tanaka supplied you with false papers.”

He glanced over to Aiko, who nodded again, further proving there was more to these two women than either pretended.

“They did. I made it safely to Kyoto, where I holed up at a research lab to study what I’d found. The snake’s body was full of larva — the early instars of this species.”

“Instars?”

“Stages of insect development,” he explained. “The instars were devouring the snake from the inside.”

He pictured the gruesome sight when he sliced into the lancehead at the quarantined lab. White larvae had boiled out of the body.

But that wasn’t even the worst of it.

“Let’s get back to the matter of the island,” Bryant said. “It sounds like that isolated place was a test run by whoever orchestrated the attack on Hawaii.”

“You’re probably right, but I never imagined they had such ghastly plans. I assumed the island was merely home to a secret lab, one that lost control of its research, and as a fail-safe, they purged the place afterward, covering everything up.”

“Yet, you just happened to stumble upon that island by accident?”

“I thought so at first,” he admitted. Back then, he had dismissed this coincidence as a matter of being at the wrong place, wrong time.

Or so I tried to convince myself.

“But you have your doubts now?”

He stayed silent. Over time, he had indeed grown suspicious. It had left him feeling isolated and wary, especially on foreign soil. Sensing he was trapped, he had risked emailing a colleague, an entomologist at the National Zoo, to inquire if the man knew anything about this species. It had ended up being a dead end, but he’d had to try.

The woman on the phone spoke again. “You said Tanaka Pharmaceuticals funded most of your research through corporate grants. Was it the company who directed you to obtain venom samples from that island?”

“Yes,” he said hesitantly.

He stared over at Aiko, who didn’t blink.

“It makes me wonder,” Bryant said, “if Tanaka suspected a competitor was at work on that island and sent you to investigate.”

It was as if the woman were reading his own paranoid fears. He had never voiced it aloud, but he had come to wonder if he had ended up on that island as a pawn in some game of corporate espionage. In Japan, business was a blood sport, with operations often playing out in the shadows. Had someone at Tanaka heard a rumor of what was going on on Queimada Grande?

Was I sent in blindly to check it out?

It was a chilling thought.

But the woman wasn’t finished.

“If I’m right, this suggests Tanaka’s corporate spies directed you to that island based on intel from another company, one likely based in Japan.”

“Wh — why Japan?”

“From the choice of target for last night’s attack.”

Ken suddenly understood her train of thought.

Why didn’t I think—?

Aiko waved for him to pass the satellite phone to her.

He hesitated but obeyed.

She leaned over the phone. “Kon’nichiwa, Captain Bryant. It’s Aiko. Aiko Higashi. Sorry I didn’t alert you that I was aboard the jet with Professor Matsui. I wanted to see if you’d come to the same conclusion as our agency did.”

“Aiko, hello.” The woman on the line didn’t miss a beat, seemingly taking the presence of the intelligence officer in stride. “The conclusion was an easy enough leap to make, especially as I was suspicious from the start.” Her next words stunned Ken. “This might be Pearl Harbor all over again.”

Aiko agreed. “A biological Pearl Harbor.”

Ken turned to the window as the jet raced toward the chain of islands rising out of the ocean directly ahead.

If they’re right, am I flying straight into a war zone?

Kat led the director out of her office and across the communication nest.

She had finished the satellite call, which was rushed at the end as the jet made its final approach to the islands. She had instructed them to divert their aircraft from its intended destination of Honolulu and to land at Kahului Airport on Maui. From there they’d be airlifted to Hana to join Gray and company to evaluate the colonization of the swarm on that island.

The exact details of the threat remained frustratingly unclear as the call was cut short, but Kat already prepped an action plan. She ran it past her boss, turning to Painter.

“Aiko said she’d forward Professor Matsui’s research on the Odokuro species as soon as they land. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to consult Dr. Bennett, the entomologist at the National Zoo, to get his take on all of this.”

“We can definitely use his expertise.” Painter touched her arm as they reached the door out to the hall. “But how well do you trust this woman, Aiko Higashi?”

Kat took in a deep breath. “I know her on a professional basis, but not much beyond that. We ran up the ranks of our respective intelligence services around the same time. When I was in Naval Intelligence, she was working for the Japanese Ministry of Justice and was recruited by the Public Security Intelligence Agency. But she vanished from radar about two years ago, only to resurface again under the same PSIA banner.”

“And what do you think that implies?”

“A few months before Aiko disappeared, a pair of Japanese captives were killed by Islamic militants in Syria. After that, the prime minister came under pressure by the military. Currently their constitution — written after World War II — limits espionage activity on foreign soil. But many in power are trying to amend the constitution to centralize and expand Japan’s intelligence operations.”

“You’re thinking this woman could be an agent in some newly formed organization.”

“I’m suspicious. Knowing how fragmented Japan’s intelligence agencies are, it would take years for them to train handlers and field agents to run operations abroad.”

“So you suspect they’ve already started that process in secret while the slow wheels of government turn.”

“It’s what I would do.” Kat shrugged. “Plus, the Japanese are notoriously secretive, even more so than the British, where the existence of MI6 wasn’t officially admitted until 1994.”

“And if Aiko Higashi is part of this secret intelligence agency, what does that suggest as to her trustworthiness?”

Kat waved Painter toward the hall. “Same as me. Push comes to shove, she’ll put her country’s interest first.”

Painter nodded. “We’ll need to keep that in mind.”

Kat prepared to let the director return to his office, but before she could turn away, the communication tech gave her a wounded look and held aloft a phone receiver.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Another call,” he said. “Sounded urgent.”

She checked her watch. Surely Aiko’s plane hadn’t already landed.

“It’s from Simon Wright,” the tech informed her.

Painter stepped to her side. “The curator of the Castle?”

Kat frowned at the unusual call. Simon — known as the “Keeper of the Castle”—was the only staff member of the museum above them who knew about Sigma’s buried headquarters.

“What does he want?” she asked.

The tech’s gaze flicked toward Painter. “He’s asking for the director to come to a meeting at the Regents’ Room of the Castle. The request was passed through him by Elena Delgado, the Librarian of Congress.”

With a baffled expression, Painter crossed over and took the phone. “What’s this all about, Simon?”

Kat had followed her boss over and overheard the curator’s response.

“Dr. Delgado says she has information concerning events in Hawaii, something that harks back to the founding of the Castle itself.”

Painter looked flabbergasted. “What information? What is she talking about?”

“I don’t know for sure, but she claims to have knowledge about what was released in Hawaii. Along with a warning from the past.”

“A warning from whom?”

“From Alexander Graham Bell.”

11

Standing in the sunlit parking lot, Gray watched a small helicopter land in the neighboring soccer field. Another aircraft — a medevac chopper — sat in the middle of the baseball diamond. In the trampled outfield, temporary medical tents fluttered in the stiff morning breeze.

All around, a fleet of emergency vehicles lined the roads. They had arrived throughout the night, traversing the twisted and torturous Hana Highway, which hugged the rugged coastline. Bullhorns continually shouted orders, adding to the noisy chaos.

By now, the dead had been removed, but the injured were still being triaged. The worst afflicted were being shipped and distributed to various hospitals in Maui, some critical cases even to other islands. But with both Honolulu and Hilo attacked, beds were running low.

Out in the soccer field, a pair of figures climbed from the helicopter’s cabin. Gray lifted an arm. They spotted him and headed over, bowing beneath the spinning blades.

As they approached, Gray recognized them from Director Crowe’s description.

Professor Ken Matsui clutched a leather messenger bag to his chest as he hurried across the field. The toxicologist appeared to be in his mid-thirties, but from his tanned features and sun crinkles at the corner of his eyes, he had spent a good measure of his research time in the field. He also looked ready to work, dressed in khaki pants, boots, and a utility vest over a long-sleeved shirt.

He was trailed by an agent from Japanese intelligence. Aiko Higashi was whip-thin and crisply dressed. Her gaze swept across the commotion. Gray didn’t doubt she absorbed everything in that single glance.

He had also been informed as to why the pair had been sent here: to evaluate the threat level posed by the swarm’s colonization.

Gray’s job was to make sure they accomplished this as quickly as possible — which meant first getting them clear of the chaos in Hana and circumventing any red tape that might slow them down.

When Professor Matsui reached Gray, they shook hands, but the man’s eyes remained on a patient being stretchered toward the medevac helicopter. “What are they doing? This whole area should already be under quarantine.”

“It’s too late for that, Professor,” Aiko said as she joined them. “A local quarantine would be a waste of resources at this juncture, especially with multiple islands affected. Later, if your evaluation proves as dire as anticipated, federal emergency services will need those resources — and more.”

Gray frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

“Hawaii will need to be under quarantine, even blockaded. At that point, no one must be allowed to leave these islands.”

Gray took in this grim news as he led the pair toward his Jeep. Earlier, Painter had informed him about the professor’s belief that the only solution to this danger could be a nuclear one.

And if no one’s allowed to leave these islands…

Gray stopped the professor at the Jeep. “How long will it take for you to make your initial assessment?”

“Less than a day. But if I confirm my worst fears, we’ll have no more than three days before we’ll be faced with the inevitable.”

The professor looked hard at Gray, leaving no doubt as to what he was talking about.

“Trust me,” Matsui said as he turned to the Jeep, “if we reach that point, those left on the island will be begging for us to drop those bombs.”

A doctor in blue scrubs caught the tail end of the conversation as he passed their group. He looked quizzically back at them.

Not wanting to create a panic, Gray hustled everyone into the Jeep.

Palu was already behind the wheel. Gray had needed someone who knew the local terrain and had recruited the Hawaiian fireman. Palu agreed after Gray explained the seriousness of the situation. It hadn’t been hard to convince the big man. He had a wife and two children in town.

As soon as everyone was aboard, Palu took off. He drove them cross-country toward the rental cottage, skirting the main highway. They traveled dirt tracks and, at one point, cut straight through a coconut farm owned by a local nursery.

Professor Matsui clung to the door handle in the back as he was bounced about, but his gaze remained on the verdant landscape of lush green meadows and vast stretches of rain forest climbing up to the clouds that hugged the top of Mount Haleakala.

“Dear God, I hope I’m wrong,” he mumbled to himself.

As do we all.

The Jeep finally reached the cottage. Palu parked at the foot of the porch. Kowalski sat there with his boots on the rail, the satellite phone crooked by his ear. He nodded to Gray as the group climbed out, but he didn’t let their arrival disturb his call.

“I paid good money for it,” Kowalski said. “Tell the bastard that the poolside cabana is yours. If he gives you any trouble, I’ll take one of those beach umbrellas and shove it where there’s no goddamn sun to worry about.”

His girlfriend, Maria, had offered to stay nearby in Wailea. With her background in genetics, her expertise could prove useful during this crisis.

It seemed a prudent precaution at the time — but now that Gray had learned the true level of threat posed by the swarm, he might be needlessly risking the geneticist’s life.

Seichan appeared in the doorway. She squinted between swollen eyelids at the pair of strangers. Her focus lingered on Aiko Higashi, clearly sizing her up and evaluating this potential adversary. While Seichan had recovered her sight from the attack, her skin was a patchwork of bruises, all crisscrossed with scrapes and cuts.

Gray mounted the steps to join her. “We have drinks and food inside,” he informed the others. “We can compare notes while you fuel up. I want to be back on the road within the hour.”

Professor Matsui nodded. “The sooner, the better.”

With everyone on the same page, Gray made introductions all around.

The professor shook Seichan’s hand. “You can call me Ken. Especially considering what we’ll be facing together.”

He extended this invitation to the group by glancing around, but his gaze settled back on Seichan. She had that effect on most men, not to mention a few women.

To clarify matters, Gray slid an arm around her waist as they went inside. It was for the professor’s own good.

She’d eat you alive.

Gray led the group to a narrow dining table constructed of koa wood. A wicker ceiling fan slowly churned the warming air. As everyone settled, Gray remained standing, leaning on the back of one of the chairs. He fixed the professor with a stare.

“What exactly are we facing here?” he asked.

Ken opened his bag and removed a laptop and folders. He shuffled through them, buying himself time to collect his thoughts. He felt the scrutiny of these strangers and the weight of his responsibility.

Where to start…?

He finally settled on a folder of photos and read its tab.

“I’ve named this species Odokuro horribilis. And while I don’t know everything about this creature, what I do know is indeed horrible.”

Seichan shifted in her seat, wincing slightly. “I recognize the name Odokuro,” she said, her voice hoarse after whatever injuries she had sustained. “That’s a monster out of Japanese mythology.”

He nodded. “Gashadokuro is an ancient spirit, said to rise from battlefields, a skeletal giant made of the disarticulated bones of the dead. The only warning of its approach is the rattle of bones.”

Ken looked down at the folder again, drawn back against his will to Queimada Grande. He pictured the dark mist rising above the island’s rain forest. He remembered the strange hollow knocking that had accompanied the swarm’s appearance. He recalled even thinking at the time that it reminded him of rattling bones.

But that wasn’t the only reason he picked that monster’s name.

“Once gashadokuro has your scent,” Ken continued, “it will hunt you down, letting nothing stop it. Made up of loose bones, it can even break up into smaller pieces to squeeze through tight spaces, only to re-form again on the other side.”

“Like a swarm,” Gray mumbled.

Ken nodded. “And after it catches you, there’s no appeal, no way to stop it. It will devour your skin, organs, and blood, and add your bones to its own at the end.”

The big man named Kowalski leaned back in his chair with a groan. “Something tells me I’m not going to like the rest of your story.”

No, you’re not.

“Enough with ghost stories,” Gray said. “Tell us about these wasps.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “First of all, this species wasn’t born in any lab. From my initial study of its DNA, it doesn’t appear to be a genetically engineered monster, but a natural predator, something ancient, likely prehistoric. Wasps have been found in the fossil record going back to the Jurassic Period. Since then, the species has diversified and multiplied. Today there are over thirty thousand different species. Which proves how supremely agile they are at surviving. To accomplish that, they’ve adapted all sorts of strategies, often incorporating other insect traits and skills into their own arsenal.”

“And this species?” Gray pressed.

“I’ve never seen one so versatile and resourceful. For example, most wasp species can be divided into social animals or solitary hunters.” He noted their confused expressions and tried to explain. “Social wasps — like hornets and yellow jackets — build nests, have a queen who lays eggs, and employ a whole slew of drones that forage for food or are involved in mating or in protecting the hive. The venom of their stings is usually defensive, meant to induce pain as a warning to back off.”

The Hawaiian, Palu, rubbed his stomach. “Yep, got that message loud and clear.”

“Exactly. And if you ignore that warning for too long, additional stings can pump enough toxin into you to turn deadly.”

Gray grimaced. “As we witnessed last night.”

“But social wasps are relatively tame compared to solitary wasps.” Ken found himself staring at Seichan, somehow sensing this woman could relate to such a species. “These lonely hunters have developed a unique and deadly survival strategy. They don’t have nests or swarms like social wasps. Instead, the hunters of these species — all females — use their stingers for two purposes. The most important being the task for which the stinger was originally designed.”

“What do you mean?” Seichan asked.

Ken backtracked a little to clarify. “The stinger of all Hymenoptera species — whether a bee, a hornet, or a wasp — was originally an ovipositor, a biological syringe meant to poke through tough tissue and inject eggs beneath it. But over time, the ovipositor evolved into a weapon.”

“How?” Palu asked, still rubbing the spot on his belly.

“Once a queen became the exclusive egg layer for a hive, the other female wasps had no need for an egg sac at the base of their ovipositors. Instead, they transformed those sacs into a more useful purpose: to inflict damage.”

Gray understood. “By filling those sacs with venom instead of eggs.”

“Precisely. It’s also why you don’t have to worry about male bees or wasps. Being non — egg layers, they have no stingers.”

Kowalski shrugged heavily. “I’m not about to look under a wasp’s skirt to decide if it’s a boy or a girl. If it lands on me, I’m squashing it.”

Gray waved to Ken. “Go on. Back to these solitary wasps. With no hive queens, I’m assuming these female hunters continue to use their stingers — their ovipositors — to inject eggs.”

“They do. Like I said before, their stingers serve two purposes. To lay eggs, but also to inject a poison that subdues their host. Such a venom is seldom painful. In fact, sometimes it can trigger a euphoric high that leaves the host entranced. There are caterpillars who fall so deeply under the spell that they’ll willingly allow themselves to be dragged down a hole and buried alive. But the toxin’s effect varies by species. Some paralyze a host. Others can trigger a baffling neurologic effect, where the host will actually fight to protect the larva inside it. But all these different venomous strategies have the same purpose.”

“Which is what?” Seichan asked.

“To leave the host alive.” He saw the others understood the implication, but filled in the blank anyway. “Once those eggs hatch, the larvae inside have a ready-made meal.”

Sickened expressions spread around the table.

Better they know the truth now.

He pictured the storm of white larvae boiling out of the dissected lancehead.

“And the species dumped onto these islands?” Gray asked. “I’m assuming from its arrival as a swarm that we’re dealing with a social species.”

“No.” Ken slowly shook his head. “This species is both.”

“But wait? How can that be?”

“As I said before, this is an ancient species, one that likely existed before wasps differentiated into those two camps. Instead, this species shares characteristics of both evolutionary pathways.” He let that sink in before continuing. “And despite the damage wrought last night, you’ve not seen the worst that this species can do.”

Gray straightened. “What do you mean?”

“The swarming behavior of this species has one goal, one purpose.”

“Which is what?”

“To seek out and establish a lek.”

Kowalski frowned. “What the hell’s a lek?”

“It’s a mating territory.” He swept his gaze across those gathered at the table. “Which we must not let happen.”

Gray frowned at him. “Why?”

Ken allowed the group to see his seriousness and terror. “Because once that happens, this place will become hell on earth.”

The tiny drone was nearly blind and deaf. Two pinpoint black eyes, no more than a dozen facets apiece, strained for visual cues, but the world remained a colorless blur, shaded in grays. Only when close to an object could he see any details.

Instead, his head was dominated by a pair of antennae, each longer than his body and feathered at the end with puffs of delicate sensillae. As he flew, he waved those perceptive tools that he used to define his world by gradients of smells.

He lit upon a petal, drawn by the sweet nectar. His antennae probed for the source, pulling his head deeper into the flower. Lacking the strong mandibles of the others, he extended a long tongue and lapped at the richness found buried in the heart of the petals.

As he took his fill, he was content. The swarm had settled into a dense, shadowy forest — though to his weak senses, he could barely hear their hum and buzz. As he emptied the flower, he climbed to the edge of the petal and groomed the pollen from his limbs, fluttering his wings clean.

He must be ready.

Then he sensed it — faint at first, then undeniable.

A pheromone that his fine sensillae had evolved to detect. His blind head turned, tugged by his antennae. He leapt in that direction, unable to refuse. Chemicals fired the tiny knot of ganglions in his head. He drove faster. His wings buzzed with ferocity, threatening to burn through the reserve of nectar in his body.

He did not care.

He followed the trail of pheromones. The complex broth of hormones and scents overwhelmed him, filled his drab world, forming a cloudy image in the distance.

He raced others like him for the prize. They collided, rebounded, fought their way toward the source. Each struggled to be there first. The aroma fueled him as much as the sugar in his abdomen. Muscles in his thorax became fire.

Ahead, scent became shadowy shape.

Then, once close enough, those tiny eyes perceived the target — and shape became substance.

A hundred times his size, she hovered ahead, exuding a pheromone of receptiveness, fluttering in a haze of evolutionary demand. He and the others dove through that miasma to reach her. They came from all directions, climbing atop her, scrabbling over her.

He landed among them and clung with his hindmost legs, a pair of barbed claspers. Others crashed atop him, even broke his wings. Still, he dug his claspers deep into the jointed armor of her abdomen and held fast.

In turn, she fought them. She flung and contorted. Legs kicked and scraped.

Finally, their combined weight and interference with her wings drove her into a tumbling spin through the leafy bower and into the soft litter on the ground.

He and the others jostled and battled for position. From her flanks, pheromones continued to flow, rising like steam from scores of small pores lining her abdomen. He shifted to the nearest, intoxicated and drawn by that scent.

Once there, hormones forced his own abdomen to contract, extruding his phallic aedeagus. He jabbed it through the pore and into one of her countless oviducts. Locked into her now, his entire body clenched. He emptied everything into her until he was a hollow husk.

With nothing left to offer, he jackknifed his powerful claspers against her flank and threw himself off. The violence ripped the aedegus from his body, leaving it as a plug in her oviduct.

He fell, broken and wingless, into the soil.

Others did the same, shedding from her great body.

Though empty, his duty was not yet done.

Out of the haze and murk of his weak vision, a shadow pushed closer, becoming clearer to his tiny eyes. He recognized what approached.

A set of mandibles.

He knew what he still owed her.

She was hungry.

12

Gray leaned on the dining table. He stared as Professor Matsui pulled a set of photos from a folder marked ODOKURO and spread them across the patina of the old wood. Each picture showed a different wasp: some small, others quite large.

Gray struggled to comprehend what he was seeing.

“These are all incarnations of the same wasp species,” Ken explained as he organized his work. “The level of differentiation of these adults is fascinating. Their anatomy dictates their function. Each one serves a specific role in the swarm.”

Moments ago, Ken had explained how he came to study these wasps, how he had harvested larvae from a snake discovered on a Brazilian island and grown them in a lab in Kyoto. There he had watched his subjects molt through a series of larval stages, instars, until the final pupae produced the adults in the photos.

Ken shifted one of the pictures closer. It showed a tiny wasp with elongated antenna, its body covered in tiny hairs. “Take for instance these tiny scout drones. Their anatomy seems built solely to gather sensory data and share it with the swarm. I’m guessing they’re the group’s surveyors, evaluating and judging territory.”

Gray examined the photo. “I think I saw a bunch of these dead in the water when Seichan and I escaped the beach.”

“Really?” Ken rubbed his chin. “Perhaps they had served their purpose once the swarm made landfall, and died off. That’s interesting.”

To you maybe.

Still, the professor’s surprise was a reminder of how little they knew about their enemy. With only two months to study this species, Ken had made significant progress, but much remained unknown, especially as the professor’s research was all conducted in a lab versus in the field. Though considering the gruesome state of that Brazilian island, maybe keeping his investigation confined to a lab was smart.

Ken tapped another picture. This one showed a larger wasp pinned to a board. For perspective, a small ruler rested beside it. The armored body, striped in black and crimson, measured three inches across.

“I know you encountered this one,” Ken said.

Gray winced and nodded.

“This sterile female’s stinger wields a cornucopia of toxins in its venom. Unfortunately, I’ve not had enough time to fully assess all of its components. But this worker’s purpose is obvious.”

Gray could guess that answer. “To clear the way for the swarm.”

“And defend any lek it forms afterward.”

Gray frowned. “You warned us about that before, about the swarm seeking a mating territory.”

“Yes. It’s best you understand what’s at stake.” Ken searched through his photos. “Those first two photos illustrate what I had mentioned before, how this species acts like typical social wasps. They demonstrate swarming behavior, with drones serving different functions. Some are built to be searchers; others, defenders. But there are also what I call harvesters and gardeners. All typical of a swarm’s differentiation of duties.”

Ken finally found what he was looking for and slid two new photos toward Gray. “But this pair is different. They reveal that rather than a single queen ruling this hive, the breeding of this swarm is conducted by a collective of solitary wasps. And once a satisfactory lek is found, breeding will begin.”

Gray studied the two pictures. One was a blowup of a very tiny wasp, barely larger than a typical ant.

“That’s a male,” Ken explained. “He’ll mate with the larger female in the other photo.”

Kowalski whistled between his teeth. “She looks like an aircraft carrier next to that little bugger.”

It was an apt analogy. This breeding female was even larger than the stinging attackers from last night, well over five inches.

Luckily, none of us here were stung by that specimen.

Ken’s next words reinforced this sentiment.

“She is a veritable egg factory,” he explained. “I’ve never seen anything like her. She’ll mate with hundreds of males at the same time to collect enough spermatheca for her load. Afterward, she consumes the spent males.”

“She eats them?” Kowalski shook his head with disgust. “Remind me never to complain when Maria wants to cuddle afterward.”

Palu concurred. “Amen, braddah, amen.”

Professor Matsui ignored the pair. His expression was one of scientific curiosity rather than revulsion. “This species does not waste resources needlessly.” He pointed to the posterior of the female. “Look at its stinger. Almost a half inch long. In her abdomen, the eggs are on a conveyor-belt-like system. Once she finds a host, she’ll stitch that needle all over the body, injecting thousands of eggs. And note her thick hind legs; they’re extremely powerful. She can crack them together, like you might snap your fingers. When they do that as a group, it creates a weird rattling sound. And it’s loud, about the same decibels reached by cicadas.”

“Why do they do that?” Seichan asked.

“I… I think it acts as a crude form of sonar.”

She narrowed her sore eyes. “Sonar?”

“Even modern wasps deploy such a technique. They use sonar to scan a potential host for the presence of larvae, evaluating whether or not a target has already been parasitized by another female.”

“So,” Gray said, “she goes knocking to see if anyone’s home.”

Ken swallowed, his gaze momentarily distant. “It’s a disturbing noise. And heralds the beginning of the end.”

“Why?” Seichan asked.

“Because I’ve not told you the worst. You’ve not asked me the most obvious question about this prehistoric organism.”

Seichan frowned. “What question?”

Gray could guess and asked it out loud. “If this species is so ancient, where did it come from? How come these wasps are still alive today?”

Unfortunately, Ken knew the answer. “Because they don’t die.”

And I almost missed it…

Ken knew if he hadn’t stumbled upon this final detail concerning this species’ life cycle, they would already be doomed. No one would know the true threat posed by the colonization of these wasps. He had to get authorities here to understand the extent of the danger, which started with this motley group connected to DARPA.

He paced the length of the table, trying to shed his anxiety. “I warned earlier about how efficiently wasps have evolved since their first appearance during the Jurassic Period, how wasp species have developed clever strategies to survive, carving their own unique niche in an environment. Some pick only one host in which to lay their eggs, while others are generalists, choosing whatever organism is handy. Many modern wasps can even multiply without mating. In fact, there are a few species of wasps that have no known males.”

“Sounds okay to me,” Seichan mumbled.

“What about these wasps?” Gray asked.

“The Odokuro deploy several strategies for propagating their numbers. Like some of our modern wasps, each of their eggs produces multiple larvae. All of them appear pluripotent, meaning they are capable of becoming any of these adults.” He waved a hand across the spread of photos. “I still don’t understand what environmental signals or stressors drive a larva toward one adult version versus another. But this method is very robust at growing a swarm rapidly. From egg to adult takes about two weeks. And the species likely breeds continuously. I estimate the swarm’s size would grow exponentially, limited only by the amount of food and the number of viable hosts for its eggs.”

Ken tried to emphasize the significance. “Normally a colony’s size is limited by its sole queen. When the environment turns hostile — like during the cold of winter — the colony dies off. Only the queen survives. She digs in and hibernates during the freeze, but come spring, she emerges again, full of eggs, ready to establish a new colony.”

Gray’s face grew grim. “But that’s not the case here.”

Ken shook his head. “The Odokuro swarm will simply grow and grow.”

“But earlier, you mentioned a timeline of three days. Why? If these wasps take two weeks to mature, why is three days a deadline?”

Kowalski snorted. “And you said before that these buggers don’t die? I squashed a bunch of ’em. Looked pretty dead to me.”

Ken nodded. “The answer to both of your questions is the same. It’s the other way the swarm ensures its survival. Similar to those all-female wasp species, the Odokuro can multiply asexually. A process they do continuously during the larval stage, specifically when they reach their third instar, the third level of development.”

“Which I’m guessing must happen around day three,” Gray said.

“And I came close to missing it. Let me explain. An egg hatches almost immediately upon implantation and releases a load of the first instar larvae. They’re ravenous and will eat nonstop, eventually shedding their skin within a day, and becoming the second instar. The process repeats again until another molt produces the third. Then the larvae do something unique. They’re still small enough at that stage to drill into the bones of their hosts and nest in the marrow.”

Kowalski gave a shudder of revulsion. “I knew I wasn’t going to like this story.”

“You have to understand that all wasps are very clever at using a host’s own resources to hide their larva, even sometimes allowing a host to crawl around, completely oblivious of its own infestation until it’s too late.”

“What happens once the larvae are in those bones?” Gray asked.

“At first, I thought they were just feeding on the rich marrow, but when I examined the tissue microscopically, I found some strange debris left behind. I was ready to dismiss it as frass, or larval excrement, but the particles were too regular and abundant. Here, let me show you.”

Ken shuffled through the photos until he came upon an electron micrograph of one of these particles and passed it around.

“It looks like a crazy egg of some sort,” Palu said. “With lots of blisters on it.”

Gray squinted at the picture. “What is it?”

“Palu is basically correct. It’s a desiccated cyst, about a tenth of the size of a grain of rice. It’s full of those blisters. Well over a thousand. Each blister holds a miniature genetic clone of the third instar, only with tiny nubby claws.”

Ken showed them a scanning electron micrograph of it.

“Remember when I told you how wasps sometimes incorporate the strategies of other insect species?” He tapped the picture. “This is an example.”

“I don’t understand,” Gray said. “What strategy is it borrowing?”

“Are you familiar with tardigrades?”

Heads shook around the table.

“They look much like what’s shown here. They’re sometimes called ‘water bears’ because of their pudgy appearance, but they’re basically micro-animals, little larger than 0.05 millimeters.”

“And what do they have to do with these wasps?” Gray asked.

“Tardigrades are far older than wasps, almost twice as old, rising sometime during the Cambrian period. But today you can find species of tardigrades in every environment because they’re extraordinary survivors. When environmental conditions grow harsh, they can undergo a deathlike hibernation — known as cryptobiosis. They curl up into a dried-out ball, called a tun. In this suspended state, they can withstand temperatures close to absolute zero and as high as 300 degrees Fahrenheit. Not to mention crushing pressures or the vacuum of space. They can even survive massive doses of radiation. They are virtually indestructible.”

Ken pointed to the cyst in the photo. “Back in 1948, scientists in Japan showed that tuns could come back to life after one hundred and twenty years of cryptobiosis. And newer research suggests they could survive many times that, if not nearly forever.”

Gray lifted the photo of the cyst. “And you believe these wasps borrowed this survival skill from these tardigrades?”

“Why not?” Ken shrugged. “Even tardigrades learned this trick from other species. Almost eighteen percent of their genome comes from prehistoric plants and fungi. Including what’s been deemed the dark matter of life.”

“Dark matter of life?”

Ken nodded. “The term refers to bacteria that exist in the boundary between life and death. They’ve only recently been identified, described as Lazarus microbes. Like Natronobacterium, which came back to life after being encrusted in crystals for a hundred million years. Or colonies of Virgibacillus, which were revived after lying dormant inside formations for two hundred and fifty million years. And those are only a few. There are likely many more examples yet to be found.”

“And you believe these wasps incorporated some of these ancient survival strategies.” Gray turned to Ken. “Why? To what end?”

“I believe it’s an evolutionary safeguard. They leave behind this indestructible genetic trail, hidden and protected in the bones of their dead hosts. Perhaps to wait until those bones turn to dust, allowing the cysts to be blown far and wide, hopefully to be inhaled or ingested by some unsuspecting animal. Once inside a suitable host, they would hatch and continue their life cycle through the fourth and fifth instars, eating their way through that host until they burst forth as adults, allowing the swarm to be reborn again.”

Aiko Higashi spoke for the first time. “Like a phoenix rising from the ashes.”

Ken noted the ruminative quality to her statement, as if this detail struck her as significant. Still, she ignored his questioning glance, so he continued.

“By day three,” he said, “the swarms on these islands will become entrenched into the environment, down to its very bones, rooted so deeply there will be no eradicating it. And that’s not even the end of it.”

“What do you mean?” Gray asked.

“Remember that these wasps keep their hosts alive. So, while parasitized with larva, birds will take wing and spread it. Rodents will burrow away. Animals will migrate.”

“And people will travel,” Gray added dourly.

“If we don’t create a firebreak here,” Aiko warned, “it will quickly spread worldwide.”

“Wreaking environmental havoc.” Ken tried to express what was coming. “During my brief time with these wasps, I tested to see if they showed any pickiness in regard to the hosts they’re willing to parasitize.”

Seichan leaned forward. “Were they?”

“No.” He pulled forward the photo of the egg-laden female. “This stinger evolved during the Jurassic Period. Besides being a half-inch long, it’s forged of sclerotized tissue, nearly as hard as steel. It was meant to pierce tough hides, even penetrate between the armored plates of dinosaurs. Compared to prehistoric creatures, life here is an easy bounty. And worst of all, we’ve no natural defenses against this ancient species.”

“Meaning we’re sitting ducks,” Kowalski said.

Gray slowly nodded, plainly absorbing all this. “There’s certainly plenty of modern examples of the damage done by invasive species. Pythons in the Everglades. European rabbits in Australia. Asian carp in our lakes.”

“And those were merely species moving from one continent to another. We’re talking about a creature not seen in this world for eons.” Ken grew frustrated at his inability to convey the true extent of this threat. “I saw what was left on Queimada Grande. These wasps will lay waste to anything that crawls, slithers, or flies. It won’t even care if it burns out the local environment.”

“Because it has a backup plan to survive.” Gray shoved the photo of the cyst away. “So we stop that before it happens.”

Ken sighed.

Easier said than done.

Gray stood up. “Tell us what we should do.”

He turned toward the window, toward the midday brightness shining across the gardens. “First, we need to find where the swarm settled.”

Gray stepped over to the credenza and returned with a topographic map of the island. “Do you have any idea where we should begin looking?”

“From my brief study, the Odokuro don’t appear to be nest builders like social wasps. I suspect they’re more like solitary wasps in this regard, too. If so, they’ll seek burrows to create underground shelters.”

Palu leaned over the map. “Trade winds blow this way.” He drew a line from Hana into the forests that climbed the slope of Mount Haleakala. He stared for a long breath, then tapped a spot on the map.

The big Hawaiian turned to the others, grinning broadly. “I think I know where these li‘i buggers could be.”

13

Painter crossed through the octagonal-shaped rotunda on the second floor of the Smithsonian Castle. Doors led to various offices, but he aimed for the set that opened into the illustrious Regents’ Room. Voices echoed out through the half-open door.

“Let’s see what this summons is all about,” Painter whispered to Kat.

He kept his voice hushed, not out of secrecy, but out of respect for the history of the old building. The churchlike quality of the place, with its grand spaces, private chapels, and long galleries, weighed upon one’s sense of time. He could picture the first secretary, Joseph Henry — whose bronze statue graced the front of the Castle — walking these halls. There were even rumors the place was haunted. In fact, a séance was once conducted in the Regents’ Room, overseen by Henry himself, done at the bequest of Lincoln to convince his wife, Mary Todd, that spiritual mediums were frauds.

Painter found himself smiling at such a scene, his love of this place warming through him. He and Kat had ridden up in the hidden elevator from their subterranean headquarters to enter the Castle proper. The museum had closed thirty minutes ago, so the lower halls were only occupied by a handful of docents and a scatter of janitorial staff. He always enjoyed these after-hour moments in the museum, when he had the place mostly to himself. He would sometimes even wander the halls after midnight, using the quiet to help settle his thoughts. It allowed him to see problems more clearly, to unclutter his mind. The place also served as a stony testament to the respect for science, for the lessons taught by history. It reminded him of the important duty of Sigma.

Kat lowered her phone as they neared the entrance to the Regents’ Room. “Dr. Bennett confirmed he received Professor Matsui’s research notes. He texted that he’ll review them immediately.”

Painter nodded. He had spoken briefly with Gray before heading up to this meeting and had gotten a sketchy account of what had been released on the Hawaiian Islands. He hoped the entomologist at the National Zoo could shed further light on this threat.

Especially with the deadline set by Gray.

Three days.

With such a narrow window, he bristled at this summons, not wanting to waste any time. Still, he could not discount his own curiosity concerning this meeting. What light could the Librarian of Congress shed on any of this? How could it be connected to the founding of the Castle or even more unlikely, with Alexander Graham Bell, the inventor of the telephone?

Only one way to find out.

Painter knocked on the door and pushed it the rest of the way open. He waved Kat in first, then followed.

The Regents’ Room was dominated by a large circular table with the sunburst seal of the Smithsonian at the center. All around, velvet curtains framed the windows that overlooked the Mall and the rest of D.C. It was here that eighteen members of the Board of Regents met every quarter.

Currently, though, there were only two people present.

The curator of the Castle, Simon Wright, circled around to greet them. The man was in his mid-fifties with hair that had gone white at a young age. He wore it to his shoulders, brushed back like an aging rock star.

“Director Crowe, thank you for coming. And Captain Bryant, it’s always a pleasure to see you again. How are your girls?”

Kat shook the man’s hand and smiled at his genuine warmth. The three of them knew one another going back well over a decade. “I shipped them off to camp with Monk.”

“No kids? No husband? Then I must apologize for disturbing what normally must be a rare moment of R&R for you.”

“Considering the circumstances, I understand.”

Simon introduced them to the chamber’s other occupant, Elena Delgado, the current Librarian of Congress. His manner grew more formal. She had been appointed to the post only four months ago, the first Hispanic woman to hold this office. So none of them were well acquainted with her.

Still, Painter respected her curriculum vitae. She was the youngest of four daughters, born to migrant parents in California. Her academic and athletic prowess earned her a dual scholarship to Stanford. There she earned a doctorate in American history, while also winning both a silver and a gold medal at the Munich Olympics for swimming. Afterward, her interest in history kept her ensconced in library stacks, enough that she had earned a second PhD from the nearby University of Maryland in library sciences.

Painter happily shook her hand. Her grip was firm. It appeared, despite being sixty-four, that she kept her Olympic physique. Her only concession to age was the pair of reading glasses hanging around her neck by a thin silver chain that also bore two small crucifixes.

“I know your time is valuable,” she said abruptly and drew them to the table. “But I believe this is important.”

On the table before her rested two books. One was bound in thick leather, but the cover had been cracked and blackened, as if someone had tried to burn it. The other looked newer, with an elastic strap sealed around it, but the binding appeared hand-sewn, suggesting it was at least a few decades old.

She placed a palm on one of the books, almost possessively. “These volumes are from a special collection sustained by each successive Librarian of Congress. Few know of this private stack. Over the centuries, books have been disappearing from various museum’s racks, so it was decided to conserve a special library of texts important to our nation, books that might not necessarily be priceless — such as our copy of the Gutenberg Bible — but were of significant worth to keep secure nonetheless.”

Simon nodded. “Elena is right. As curator, I can attest that a good portion of the Smithsonian collection has a tendency to drift away. In total, about ten percent of our artifacts and books have vanished. And not just small objects. We’re talking about almost three dozen Tier Four items, each worth a million dollars or more.”

Kat looked shocked. “Were they stolen?”

Simon shrugged. “Some. Others were checked out, never to return. And I’m sure a good portion were simply miscataloged, lost somewhere at our Suitland storage facility.”

Painter knew about the site he was talking about. The Museum Support Center over in Suitland, Maryland. Its five buildings, each the size of a football field, warehoused 40 percent of the Smithsonian’s collection, more than fifty million items.

“Still,” Elena continued, “as you can imagine, the need arose to preserve those books that others might overlook, books that on face value might not merit being locked up under tight security, but were still too important to risk losing. Consider it our version of the Vatican Archives.”

Painter waved at the books on the table. “And these two are from that collection.”

Elena smiled, which it appeared she did easily. She pulled the newer book toward her. “In fact, the author of this book founded our archive. Archibald MacLeish, the ninth Librarian of Congress, who served during World War II. He had been assigned the task during the war to preserve our national treasures, dividing our most important pieces of history and hiding them around the country. Afterward, when he resigned as librarian and became the assistant secretary of state, he saw the need for some continuance of this project and left behind this legacy for the Smithsonian libraries, a special secret collection.”

“Starting with his own book?” Painter asked.

“And many others,” Elena corrected. “Though I think he did this to further bury these two volumes from the public eye.”

Kat clasped her hands, as if holding them back from grabbing the books to examine them. “What do they have to do with what’s going on now?”

“Everything… or maybe nothing. I don’t know. But when I told Simon about the story of these books, he thought I should share them with you two.” Elena eyed Painter and Kat with no small amount of suspicion. “Two members of DARPA, as I’m supposed to understand.”

Simon had kept mum about Sigma but he wasn’t a very good liar. The librarian clearly suspected there was more to this introduction.

Painter sidestepped the issue for now. “So what’s this story?”

“First, I should explain that I only stumbled upon these books out of personal interest. My doctoral thesis was on the Civil War, concentrating on the role of Lincoln’s cabal of close confidants, which included Joseph Henry, the first secretary of the Smithsonian, back when its collections were housed in this one building.”

Painter knew of the close relationship between those two men, again imagining the séance that had occurred in this very room.

Elena settled to her seat. “The story starts with Joseph Henry and a fire that almost burned down the Castle during the Civil War.”

From there, she told a fantastic tale concerning James Smithson, the man who left his fortune to the young nation, a legacy that would start the institution named after him. Most of her story was recounted in MacLeish’s journal on the table, how Joseph Henry had learned of an artifact buried in Smithson’s tomb in Genoa, something called the Demon Crown. Decades later, Alexander Graham Bell was sent on a secret mission, both to preserve the remains of Smithson and to secure this object, an artifact rumored to be dangerous, maybe even a weapon.

“What did he find?” Kat asked.

“According to MacLeish, Bell discovered a boulder of amber with the preserved bones of a reptile inside, maybe a small dinosaur. Like Smithson, the inventor left behind a cryptic note, warning that it was both dangerous and perhaps miraculous.”

Painter frowned. “Miraculous? How?”

“Bell claimed the object could hold the secret to life after death. But he never elaborated how he came to such a wild assertion.”

Painter glanced over to Kat. She had also heard Gray’s account of the threat posed by the ancient wasps plaguing Hawaii and how they could go into a state of suspended animation, what was termed cryptobiosis, and seed dormant cysts into the bones of their victims as a means of resurrecting their swarm centuries later.

Elena must have noted their silent exchange. “Does this mean something to you two?”

“Maybe, but go on. What became of the artifact?”

“Bell thought it best — perhaps following Smithson’s example — to rebury the object. But on American soil.”

“Where?” Kat asked.

“In a hidden chamber off the old utility tunnel that connects the Castle to the Museum of Natural History across the mall.”

Despite the seriousness of the matter, Painter could not help but be amazed.

All this started in our own backyard?

“MacLeish had been investigating the construction of a bomb shelter to protect our national treasures during the Second World War.”

“And he found Bell’s chamber.”

“But unfortunately, this discovery did not go unnoticed. MacLeish suspected afterward that one of the engineers involved in surveying the project had let the information slip out. The news reached the ears of our enemy at the time, who could not help but be interested in Bell’s warning about the buried object.”

Kat leaned closer, clearly fascinated. “What happened?”

“There was a firefight in the tunnel. The amber object was stolen by Japanese spies.” Elena stared significantly at the two of them, as if she also wondered if this attack on Hawaii could be some echo of Pearl Harbor. “MacLeish also copied down a symbol he found tattooed on one of the attacker’s bodies. He claimed the same symbol was somehow connected to a conspirator involved in the fire at the Castle almost a century earlier, as if the same group tried to erase evidence of this object in the past.”

“What symbol?” Painter asked.

“I can show you.” Elena lifted her reading glances, while reaching for the book. “But it looks vaguely Masonic.”

“Masonic?” Painter swallowed hard, while Kat sat back, her expression worried. “By any chance, did the symbol frame a moon and a star at its center?”

Elena lowered her glasses and frowned deeply at them. “It did. How did you know?”

Kat closed her eyes and swore under her breath.

Painter shared her sentiment.

No wonder Gray and Seichan were targeted.

The librarian looked between them. “Maybe it’s time you two started telling your story.”

Elena waited for an explanation. A familiar obstinate streak hardened inside her. She had been condescended to most of her life — from a father who insisted on her getting married and having a household of little niños… to professors who believed she only earned her place in the academic world through affirmative action.

At her age, after raising a daughter by herself and surviving breast cancer, she did not suffer fools lightly, and she certainly wasn’t going to be kept in the dark any longer.

What’s really going on here?

She was already suspicious when the museum curator, Simon Wright, had insisted she meet with these two representatives from DARPA at the Regents’ Room of the Castle.

Why here?

She eyed the young woman — Captain Kat Bryant, who looked like a well-made bed, all crisp lines and military tautness. Elena sensed an ally in her, especially when the woman gave her boss a stern look, as if to say let’s be up front with this lady.

But Director Crowe appeared as stubborn as Elena, his back stiffening, the muscles of his jaw tightening. Upon first meeting him, she had been momentarily taken aback by his striking looks, his penetrating blue eyes and dark hair — which included a snowy lock tucked behind one ear, which inexplicably intrigued her. She guessed he had some Native American blood in his background.

Still, he was getting in her way.

Kat must have sensed the growing impasse and offered a compromise. “Before we tell our side, perhaps you can finish yours.” She waved to the journal on the table. “Clearly Archibald MacLeish’s tale didn’t end with the theft of Smithson’s artifact. That book looks mighty thick.”

Elena hesitated, then sighed loudly, accepting that this might be the best recourse.

For now.

“You’re right about MacLeish’s story,” she said. “Archibald found the chamber in November 1944… and a week later, the man resigned. Right in the middle of the war. The tides were turning against the Germans, but Japan remained a major threat in the Pacific. MacLeish feared what the Japanese might do with what was stolen, so he went searching for the truth about it.”

“Like where it came from?” Kat guessed. “And why Smithson feared it?”

“Exactly. MacLeish intended to follow in Smithson’s footsteps, but it proved to be a difficult trail.” She pointed to the charred volume. “The man’s burned journal offered no clue to its origin, and most of Smithson’s personal papers were destroyed by that fire. Still, MacLeish was determined. He went to Europe, a continent still at war, and sought out anyone who knew the man in the past. Friends, fellow colleagues, relatives. He tried his best to backtrack from that grave.”

“What did he find?” Painter asked.

“More mysteries. You can read about it in detail, but the trail ended in Estonia, at the city of Tallinn neighboring the Baltic Sea.”

Kat’s expression sank with defeat. “So MacLeish never discovered the artifact’s origin?”

“He did not, but he heard a story from a geologist, an old man near his deathbed. Decades earlier, when the geologist was first starting his career, he ended up sharing drinks with Smithson at a tavern in Tallinn. Smithson was tipsy enough to tell a drunken tale, one that the geologist believed was pure fancy.”

Painter’s brow crinkled. “What story?”

“A harrowing tale of a group of miners who broke into a rich deposit of amber.” Elena touched Smithson’s charred journal, acknowledging the significance of such a discovery. “As they were digging, something was unleashed in that mine. A horrible disease carried by stinging insects. Giant wasps. They were said — and I quote—born right out of the bones of the rock. The only way to stop them from escaping was to firebomb the mine with the workers still down there and bury it afterward.”

Kat glanced to her boss, suggesting this story might not be as outlandish as it first sounded.

Painter leaned back. “You said MacLeish’s search ended there in Tallinn. I’m guessing he must have assumed this story was all an old wives’ tale and gave up his pursuit.”

“Maybe partly for that reason… but mostly because he was told this story on August sixth, 1945.”

Painter looked momentarily confused.

Kat explained. “The day the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima.”

Elena nodded. “Following this event, MacLeish grew less worried about some vague threat by the Japanese. He figured it was all a moot point by then.”

Painter shook his head. “Apparently he was wrong.”

“Which brings us back to the attack on Hawaii,” Elena said. “If there truly is a connection that trails from Smithson’s discovery to a terrorist attack in Hawaii, then perhaps someone needs to continue MacLeish’s work and find out where that artifact came from.”

“You’re right.” Kat turned to her boss. “If Professor Matsui was correct about the danger posed by this ancient species, then knowing its origin could be important.”

“Why?”

“Because these wasps went extinct in the past.” She must have noted his bewilderment and explained. “Why aren’t these wasps still around? Why don’t they dominate the world today? What stopped them from running amok in the past? Something must’ve driven this aggressive species into a state of cryptobiosis—basically into hiding.”

Elena didn’t follow all of this, but she knew when to stay quiet.

Painter looked at the books on the table. “So if we could find out what stopped them before…”

“Then maybe we could use it to stop them again.”

As the pair seemed to come to a mutual understanding, Elena knew it was time to press her advantage. “If you intend to pursue such an undertaking — to look for clues in Tallinn, in Estonia — you’ll need to know everything about MacLeish’s journey there.” She laid her palm atop the former Librarian of Congress’s book. “And where this goes, I go.”

Painter shifted to his feet, plainly ready to dismiss her. “There’s no need to risk those historic texts. A simple copy will do.”

Elena picked both books off the table. “Not if you hope to succeed.” She stared the man down. “You’ll likely need more than what can be found within these pages. You’ll want someone who knows every detail about these authors, especially Smithson.”

“In other words, you?” Painter asked skeptically.

Kat touched his arm. “Remember, we only have three days.”

Elena knew nothing about such a deadline, but she appreciated Kat’s support in this matter.

In the end, it was the curator, Simon Wright, who broke the stalemate. He cocked an eyebrow at Painter. “Sounds to me like it’s time you gave our new Librarian of Congress the full tour of the Castle.”

Fifteen minutes later, Kat held open the door to the security elevator. She enjoyed the look of surprise and wonder on Elena Delgado’s face as she stepped into the subterranean complex buried beneath the Castle.

“I never suspected such a place existed…” she mumbled, her eyes huge. “I feel like Charlie entering the chocolate factory.”

Painter smiled, leading the way, plainly warming up to the willful librarian. “Then I guess that makes me Willy Wonka.”

Elena blushed. “Sorry. I guess I spend too much time with my two granddaughters. I must have that movie memorized by now.”

Kat knew all too well that particular circle of hell, the nonstop loop of a children’s film playing in the background of one’s life.

“I’ll take you to my office,” Painter offered, “while Kat settles everything for the trip.”

“Jason has a jet prepping as we speak,” Kat said. “We should be wheels up within the hour.”

Elena glanced back, still struggling with all of this. “So soon?”

Kat nodded.

Welcome to Sigma.

She broke away from the pair as they reached the threshold of the communication nest. “I’ll join you in a few moments,” she said. “I want to make sure Jason is up to speed before I leave.”

As the two headed away, Kat spotted her second-in-command, Jason Carter. The young man, whose straw-blond hair had a perpetual cowlick, was bowed between two technicians.

“Well?” she asked.

He didn’t need any further direction and spoke without looking her way. “I just finished with Dr. Bennett. He’s agreed to join you two. He says he’ll need forty minutes to pack up all of Professor Matsui’s notes and meet you at the airport.”

“Good.”

For any hope of success, they would need to scramble every resource they could — which included bringing along their own entomologist. If there was some clue as to what held these wasps in check in the past, then Dr. Bennett’s expertise could prove invaluable at discovering it.

“Have you heard any further word from Gray?” she asked.

“No, not yet. The last update was that he and the others were following a lead on the swarm.” Without turning, he pointed an elbow at a tall Starbucks cup. “Vanilla latte. Double shot.”

She crossed to it, both hands out. Her fingers curled around its welcoming warmth. “Only a double?”

He eyed her sidelong. “Really?”

She ignored him and took a sip to clear the cobwebs. “What about the attacker who ambushed Seichan and escaped by boat?”

“Vanished. No telling where he might be now. But I’ve alerted intelligence agencies across the Pacific.”

Kat clenched her jaw, running a thousand details through her head. She hated to abandon her station with everything up in the air. She was leaving Jason with a herculean task. Not only would he have to coordinate operations on two sides of the world, but he would need to keep Painter fully updated, so the director could orchestrate what had to be done both politically and possibly militarily.

Let’s hope it doesn’t come to the latter.

Jason turned to her, easily reading her. “Don’t worry, boss. I got this.”

She nodded.

Of course he did.

Still, she went over some last details, making sure Jason had everything he needed. Once satisfied, she gave the room a final glance, then returned her attention to her second-in-command.

“Okay, the shop’s all yours.” She pointed at him. “Just don’t break anything.”

“Wow, I drop one coffee mug and you never let me forget it.”

“It was my favorite,” she mumbled and headed out.

As she crossed down the hall, she cradled the hot cup in her palms. She sensed she had forgotten something. Voices drew her ahead, toward Painter’s open office door.

She entered without knocking — then stopped.

Ah, that’s what I forgot…

A stocky man leaned against Painter’s desk, grinning at something Elena had said. He was showing the librarian his prosthetic hand, demonstrating the latest in DARPA technology. He had disarticulated the hand from his wrist and was wiggling the disembodied fingers.

Elena expressed amazement. “You can control it remotely.”

“And it has a built-in camera under the thumbnail,” the owner said proudly. “There’s even a small packet of plastic explosives wired under the palm for those special occasions when a simple handshake won’t do.”

“Monk?” Kat crossed farther into the room, flabbergasted at finding him standing there. “How… what are you doing here?”

He straightened sheepishly. He was dressed in shorts and a hoodie that showed a pine tree and the words CAMP WOODCHUCK.

“I figured you might need an extra hand.” He lifted his prosthetic, trying to make a joke. When she continued to frown, he snapped it back onto its titanium wrist sheath. “Plus, I figured this was the only way I’d get to spend any quality time with my wife.”

“Where are the girls?”

He swiped a palm over his shaved scalp. “I imagine terrorizing camp counselors about now. Which means they’re as happy as two hyperactive clams.”

Kat turned to Painter, suspecting the director had a role in arranging all of this.

He admitted as much. “Didn’t think you should be the only one chaperoning Dr. Delgado and Dr. Bennett to Estonia.”

Monk grinned. “Think of it as an all-expense-paid European vacation.”

Kat rolled her eyes.

Only, in this case, the fate of the world was at stake.

14

From the front passenger seat, Palu pointed ahead. “Take the next left.”

“What left?” Gray leaned over the wheel, squinting at the wall of ferns and ironwood trees. Branches scraped both sides of the rental Jeep.

They had been crawling and bouncing along a series of mud tracks that constituted a road through an unmapped section of the Hana Forest Reserve. They had left the highway’s blacktop nearly an hour ago, taking a detour off of Mill Place near the Hasegawa General Store. From there they had been forced to dodge stray cattle and skirt around taro fields.

Gray had wanted to cut straight across those fields, but Palu had shaken his head, deeming it pō‘ino, or bad luck: “Taro come from the body of the Father Sky and Mother Earth’s first son. It gives life.”

So Gray had taken the recommended detour, not wanting to tempt fate.

“How much farther?” Kowalski complained. His large frame was folded into the backseat next to Professor Matsui, who was otherwise alone.

Aiko Higashi had stayed behind at the cottage to coordinate with Kat on some new details regarding this threat, a connection going back to World War II, one possibly involving the Guild.

Gray’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror. Seichan trailed behind them on one of the motorbikes. They might need such a nimble vehicle for the rugged terrain ahead. After learning of a potential Guild connection in all of this, she had gone unusually quiet. Then again, she had become more reticent of late. Something was clearly bothering her, but he knew her well enough to give her the space she needed to work through it.

After consulting a compass, Palu called back to answer Kowalski’s question. “Another mile… maybe two, brah. That’s if the road’s not washed out from last week’s rain.”

Kowalski groaned, voicing Gray’s own concern.

Palu shoved an arm across the dashboard. “There’s the turn.”

Gray spotted it at the last second. He yanked the wheel hard, forcing the SUV into a sharp skid to enter the break in the forest. An even narrower track led ahead from here.

A glance behind revealed Seichan had managed the same turn. The cycle expertly swung onto the path, the rider hunkered low over the handlebars.

As he forged ahead, the windows to either side were swiped by massive fronds of tree ferns, known as hapu’u. It was as if they were driving through a prehistoric car wash. And maybe they were. The forest here looked untouched, with some of the huge trees likely thousands of years old.

A lacy frond smacked the front windshield as if warning them away.

Palu noted the affront and grinned. “Forest don’t like you haole. Only kama’aina know where I take you.”

Gray took him at his word. While tourism was a major source of income for the islands, the native-born Hawaiians still carved out places exclusively for themselves and defended them diligently. Like how the multimillion-dollar construction of a new telescope atop Mauna Kea was being held up by protests due to the site’s sacred history.

Across the islands, lines were literally being drawn in the sand.

Gray understood the local’s concern. After three months here, he recognized the deep bond between the island and its people. Their history was imbued into every rock, animal, and plant.

As if reading his thoughts, Palu stared out at the forest of tree ferns. “We use the golden hair — the pulu of the hapu’u—for stuffing pillows and mattresses. You can even eat the leaves and core.” He glanced over and grimaced. “Not good, though. Tastes bad.”

Gray wondered if Palu’s ongoing discourse about life here was more than nervous chatter, but rather an attempt to share with them what was at stake. If they didn’t stop the scourge unleashed on these islands, everything could be lost — not just the land, but its very history.

Knowing he couldn’t let that happen, Gray drove deeper into the forest. As they climbed the rugged flank of Mount Haleakala, the canopy grew higher. Occasional breaks allowed glimpses to the coastline behind them. From this height, the commotion around Hana was muted, the chaos muffled by both distance and the looming countenance of the mountain ahead.

As they gained elevation, the mists trapped beneath the canopy grew denser, wet enough to occasionally require a swipe of the vehicle’s wipers. Around them, the forest took on a ghostly character.

Professor Matsui spoke from the back, his voice hushed, perhaps overwhelmed by a sense of reverence. “Are those koa trees?”

He pointed toward a grove of tall hardwoods, the branches tipped with yellow flowers.

Palu smiled. “Yah, brah. Once, all of Haleakala was covered in koa forests. Only patches remain. Like this one.” He glanced back to the others. “It’s another reason we don’t tell haole about this place.”

Ken leaned forward. “Still, where we’re headed now — the collection of old lava tubes you described — such a place would be just what the Odokuro need. A perfect place to establish a lek.” He looked out the window. “They’d want a deep central burrow, shaded by a canopy, with an ample water source. And look at all the nectar-rich flowers around here.”

“Not to mention, plenty of hosts,” Gray added.

The rain forest around them teemed with life: birds, mammals, other insects.

Ken nodded soberly and settled back to his seat.

Gray tried to picture their destination. Three weeks ago, he and Seichan had visited Ka’eleku Cave on the northern outskirts of Hana. The touristy cave was a large and easily accessible lava tube, decorated with stalactites and chocolate-colored formations. Skylights — sections that had collapsed and were open to the blue sky — helped illuminate the long cavernous tunnel. It was a popular tourist attraction, reminding visitors of Haleakala’s fiery past, when flows of basaltic lava — both surface a’a and subterranean pāhoehoe—had formed Maui.

Many other lava tubes wormed throughout the flanks of Haleakala, most hidden by dense forest, their locations known only to the locals. Palu was taking them toward where a braided knot of tubes had collapsed long ago, opening a maze of tunnels, shafts, and caves. If the swarm had journeyed inland along the route of last night’s trade winds, this spot would be in their direct path.

On the ride up here, Gray had watched for any sign of the wasps, but so far, nothing. It was as if the entire mass had vanished, perhaps swept out to sea.

If only we could be so lucky…

Palu pointed ahead. “End of the road. Have to hike from here.”

That was obvious. The pair of rutted tracks ended at a sprawling banyan tree. Its crown rose seventy feet high and spread fifty yards wide. It was all draped and supported by hundreds of aerial roots, forming a woody curtain under the leafy bower.

“That can’t be good,” Kowalski said.

Gray recognized the same.

An old VW van sat parked alongside the tree.

“Somebody’s already up here,” Gray mumbled.

Palu scowled. “That’s Emmet Lloyd’s camper. Runs a tour company out of Makawao. Takes tourists on overnights. That kanapapiki should know better than to bring anyone up here.”

Gray stared beyond the banyan at the mist-shrouded forests.

Especially now.

Emmet hollered at his trio of charges. “Not so fast!”

He clambered down the slippery volcanic rock, grabbing at the towering poles of bamboo on either side to keep his footing. After packing their campsite higher up the flank of Haleakala, he had set a hard pace. All night long, a slew of helicopters had winged across the mountaintop. With no cell service, they were in the dark as to the situation, but something was definitely wrong. Whatever was going on was more than an ordinary search-and-rescue operation.

But at least we’re not far from where I parked.

Maybe another mile or so.

He used this small chunk of bamboo forest as a trail marker. It was not as extensive as the growth found to the southeast, but that area of Haleakala was trafficked by lots of day hikers. Such a place certainly didn’t match his tour company’s motto, which was painted on the side of his van.

To truly get off… get off the beaten track.

He half-slid down a mud-slick section of the trail, balancing on his feet, reminding him of his former glory as a surfer. He had been a champion in his heyday, but that had been a lifetime ago. Still, at fifty-two, he refused to give up his passion, financing his life on Maui by taking tourists — those with a more rough-and-ready bent — on camping trips deep into the forests around Haleakala.

He had spent three nights with his current group, a husband and wife, along with their eleven-year-old son, Benjamin.

“Slow it down, Benjie!” Paul Simmons warned, breathing hard, trying to match his son’s goatlike nimbleness.

The Simmonses owned a tech start-up out of San Rafael. Both parents were gym-fit. The husband was a CrossFit addict; the wife, Rachel, practiced yoga daily. Emmet had enjoyed watching her go through her poses the first night at the edge of a moonlit pool, the surface dappled by a thin waterfall. Her body was lithe; her long auburn hair, tied in a tail, swished with her every transition. When she bent backward, propped on her hands and feet, her breast pointing high…

He smiled at the memory.

Not a bad perk of the job.

He finally reached the parents, while their son raced ahead with the boundless energy of youth. Benjie vanished around a bend in the bamboo forest.

Emmet grew concerned, knowing how treacherous this particular terrain could be. This area was riddled with mossy holes and fern-covered drop-offs.

He pointed ahead. “Hey, you’d better rein your kid in.”

Paul suddenly yelped and swatted at his neck.

His wife turned, more exhausted than concerned. “Jesus, Paul. What’s the matter?”

Paul waved at something in front of his face — then his shoulders jerked to his ears, a gasp turned into a cry of pain. He fell to his knees, both palms clasping his neck.

Rachel grabbed his arm. “Paul!”

Emmet backed a step and searched around. Normally this bamboo forest had a magical quality to it, with its endless march of stout green poles, umbrellas of dripping foliage, all woven together by snaking threads of heavy mist. But now the place seemed suddenly eerie, a foreign landscape where they were unwanted intruders.

This sense of dread was enhanced by a low hum, one he hadn’t noted before because of his own panting. Now with his breath held, he heard it more clearly.

What is that?

He turned in a circle as Rachel got her husband back on his feet.

All around, sections of the mists stirred, swirled by some invisible force. The infernal humming set his hairs on end. He had never heard such a sound. Then he made out small black shapes buzzing through the mists, coming from all directions, heading for them.

“Run!” he warned.

He didn’t know the exact nature of the threat, but he knew they were in danger.

Rachel’s attention was on her trembling husband, who looked unsteady on his feet. “W-what?”

Emmet shoved past them and continued down the trail. Something smacked into his arm, landing on the long sleeve of his shirt. He gawked at the sight. A giant wasp or hornet sat there, wings vibrating. Shocked, he swung his arm against a bamboo trunk and knocked the creature off.

Fuuuuck…

“Wait!” Rachel cried after him as he fled. “Help me!”

Then Paul screamed again — and a moment later, a wail from Rachel.

Despite appearances, he wasn’t abandoning them. They were adults and knew the way down. They’d have to fare as best they could.

Instead, he ran toward his other responsibility.

Benjie.

He skidded around a bend in the trail, coming close to flying headlong over a short cliff. He regained his balance, relying on muscle memory from his surfing days, and sped down the trail.

Where the hell is this kid?

He cupped a hand to his mouth. “Benjie!”

Then he spotted the boy — not on the trail but in the woods to the left. Either the kid had lost the path or something had drawn him astray.

Either way…

“Get back over here,” he yelled.

Benjie looked scared, frozen in place. He must have heard his parents’ cries. He stared at Emmet, clearly hesitant to trust this near-stranger.

“C’mon, kid! We need to get off this mountain!” Emmet forced his voice away from its edge of panic. “Your mom and dad are right behind me. So how about you get back on the trail.”

Benjie’s gaze flicked all around. Finally he sagged and hurried toward the path.

Good going, kid.

Then on his third step, the boy vanished, swallowed up by the ground.

A cry of surprise burst from Emmet’s lips, echoed in a higher octave by the boy.

Panicked, Emmet shoved toward the spot. He crashed between teetering poles of bamboo, setting their lengths to swinging. They knocked hollowly all around him.

Like the rattle of so many bones.

After feasting on the males, she waited in the cool darkness. She reserved every motion after breeding, her entire being centered on her laden abdomen. Her antennae were curled atop her head, her four wings folded along her back.

Satiated, her senses had dulled.

Her large eyes remained unblinking.

The swarm had found refuge earlier and led her to this spot with trails of pheromones. She had settled into the welcoming darkness with those like her. As she readied herself, her legs tasted the water dripping over the rock wall. She sucked at the moisture occasionally.

It was all she needed for now.

Ganglions behind her eyes responded to the change of light — from brightness to complete blackness. Hormones surged through her, letting her know it was safe. She responded in kind and fertilized her thousand eggs with subtle contractions of her oviducts. The cells inside divided and divided again, packing each egg to bursting.

Once finished, her abdomen thrummed with demand.

A droplet of poison formed on the tip of her stinger.

Then an alarm spread, rising from the distant edge of their territory.

Threat… and possibility.

With the lek settled, the soldiers at the edges resisted their natural urge to attack anything that moved. Their aggression was tempered now by the need of the swarm. They allowed creatures to enter their domain, those who could serve the swarm’s needs. They let them draw close, only attacking enough to herd their prey in closer, goading them forward with pain.

She extended her antenna and monitored the trap by sound and smell.

Her abdomen curled and uncurled, loosening her eggs and driving them toward her sharp ovipositor. Still, she waited. Across the walls, others did the same. Some fluttered their wings, expressing desire. A few snapped their thick, sclerotized hind legs. Each crack resonated down the tunnel. The echoing helped give shape to the passageway.

Then a new note alerted her.

She listened to the change in cadence of the swarm’s buzz. The muscles of her legs tightened. She crouched on the wall. Driven by instinct, she kicked out her hind legs, joining the chorus of clacking.

Finally, her antenna picked up two scents: the pheromone of conquest and the carbon of breath.

It was enough.

She leaped into the air, wings buzzing to lift her heavy form. She headed toward the puffing exhalations. All around, those like her took flight or snapped their legs. The echoing allowed her to easily perceive obstacles in the pitch dark.

Though her eyes were still blind, the membranes over the hollow sockets on either side of her head were stretched taut and picked up every vibration. She trailed along streams of pheromones. Chitinous lancets honed her stinger, already lubricated with poison.

Her eggs would have to wait for now.

She clacked her legs together as she flew, casting out a sharp wave of sound ahead of her flight. As it rebounded back, it filled her head and gave shape to darkness. But she also began to hear something more within that cloud of exhalations.

A vibration, one she could not resist.

It echoed to her, drawing her faster. She must be there first. Light grew ahead, but she ignored the brightness and concentrated on the trembling in the air.

It grew clearer.

Becoming a rhythmic pulsing, beating fast.

She lowered her head, antennae stretched, and raced straight for it. The brightening tunnel crackled with more sharp snaps, triggering her to flick her own hard legs together, adding her cadence to the chorus.

Ahead, a thrashing shape appeared.

Panicked beats drew her toward it.

The reverberation of the swarm now penetrated flesh. Through a cage of bones, she watched a chunk of muscle pound and pound. She followed the cloud of carbon gasping from her target and dove through it.

She landed on soft skin, much more tender than ancient memories in her genetic code remembered. She had once sought out larger prey, those whose flesh had hammered with deafening beats, all guarded over by armor.

She easily slipped her stinger into that tenderness. Muscles at the base of her abdomen convulsed, pumping her poison deep. Her prey did not react. Her venom was not meant to bring pain — only control.

Once empty, she leaped away but stayed near, fluttering over her target. She wafted a net of pheromones over her prey, marking it as her own. Those laden with their own eggs fled out into the brightness, searching for other hosts.

She hovered in place.

Her antennae weaved the air as she waited.

She continually snapped her legs, evaluating her prey, making sure its flesh was uncorrupted by a previous incursion. Her abdomen held thousands of eggs. In turn, each egg nestled many larvae. Their hunger was her hunger. They would need plenty of meat, blood, bone.

To ensure that, she waited for her poison to fully take effect.

Her venom was meant to fell much larger prey, so it didn’t take long.

As she listened, the panicked beating slowed, then slowed again, becoming fainter.

In that cage of bone below, the chunk of flesh quivered, convulsing unsteadily.

It was time.

She dropped through the cloud of puffing carbon once again and landed on soft skin. She arched her abdomen. Eggs surged into position. Each sting would deliver scores of her progeny.

And with her prey subdued — she could stab over and over again.

She would not stop.

There was plenty of meat.

15

No doubt this is the right place.

Five minutes ago, Gray had parked the Jeep next to the banyan tree, only to hear faint screams echoing down the forested slope of the mountain. Fearing the worst, he had left the team to organize and grab their gear, while he and Seichan took off on the motorbike.

He leaned over the handlebars of the Yamaha off-roader, challenging the bike’s knobby tires and suspension for the precarious climb along a narrow trail.

Seichan clutched an arm around his waist. Her other limb balanced a large pack over her shoulder, crammed with fire blankets and a med kit, which included EpiPens.

He prayed they could reach the campers in time, but even before he and Seichan had reached the trailhead, the screaming had eerily stopped.

Too suddenly.

He gritted his teeth and goosed more speed out of the bike’s four-stroke engine. He expertly bobbled up the rocky trail, all but hopping from rock to rock, sometimes balancing on the rear tire. The motor growled in complaint, and mud flew behind them.

Gray searched the trail ahead.

Palu had given them vague directions to the old lava tubes.

Follow the trail. Watch where the forest turns into bamboo.

The Hawaiian had also warned them of the precarious nature of the upcoming terrain. A series of collapses had broken into a knotted labyrinth of old tunnels, riddling the slope with hidden chasms and fissures. The main entrance, the largest hole — what Palu called a puka—was near a small spring-fed pond.

The team would rendezvous there.

Behind the bike, Palu and Kowalski followed on foot, each carrying a pair of propane tanks outfitted with spark-igniters and timers, all courtesy of the fireman’s connections with his department.

Still, it had been Professor Matsui who had laid out this course of action. The plan was to dump those tanks down various skylights into the tunnels. If the swarm had gone to ground down there, the team’s goal was twofold: do as much damage as possible to the swarm, while also chasing off any survivors. By unsettling the wasps, Ken hoped to delay them from establishing a lek.

For now, it was a decent plan.

It could buy the island some time.

That is, if it’s not already too late…

With only one way to find out, Gray fought his bike higher up the mountainside. After another minute, he rounded a sharp switchback, and the forest miraculously changed. Hardwoods and ferns fell away, replaced by an endless stretch of green bamboo. The stout poles marched in all directions ahead. Mists hung heavy among the lilting emerald fronds.

Gray gaped at the sudden transformation.

With his attention distracted, he missed a figure stumbling out of the forest to his right. The man fell across the path, his shoulders slamming into the bamboo on the far side. His form crumpled to the ground.

Gray braked hard.

To avoid hitting the man, he jerked the bike off the trail and crashed into a tall thicket of ferns. The cycle toppled and threw off its riders. He rolled, compromised by the beekeeper’s coverall he wore, a precaution recommended by the professor. He and Seichan had donned the protective clothing before making the trek up here.

Gray quickly regained his feet and adjusted the veiled hood.

Seichan dragged her pack out of the lush underbrush.

They then converged toward the man on the trail.

Gray reached him first and dropped to a knee. The man appeared to be in his mid-fifties, balding with a mustache. Likely the tour operator, Emmet Lloyd. The man’s head lolled. Ropes of drool hung from his lips.

Gray grasped his cheeks. “Mr. Lloyd, where are the others?”

Emmet seemed to hear him, but the man’s eyes fought to focus. His pupils were huge.

Drugged or a concussion…

Seichan pushed next to him. She had the med kit open and an EpiPen in hand. She jabbed the injector into the man’s neck, shooting epinephrine into his system.

Professor Matsui had studied the toxins found in the venom of these wasps. It was his specialty. He had warned them of the poison carried in the stingers of the large breeding females.

A potent neurotoxin.

While epinephrine was no cure, Ken had said it should counteract some of the effect.

“Mr. Lloyd,” Gray repeated.

The pupils seemed slightly more responsive, but the man remained dazed and loopy.

“Gray,” Seichan warned.

He noted her tone and turned. She stood up and pointed out into the misty forest. Through the fog, columns of dark smoke — dozens of them — wafted up from the ferns carpeting the ground. A droning hum filled the forest’s undercarriage.

The swarm.

The wasps were abandoning their subterranean lair, likely drawn by the noisy approach of the bike. Gray pictured the knotted maze of lava tubes beneath the ground, all interconnected.

He glanced to the right.

More shadows curled into the white mists.

They were out of time.

He turned to Emmet and slapped his face.

Then twice more.

Finally, the man’s lips curled with irritation.

“Where are the others?” Gray pressed.

After a long moment, a tremoring arm lifted and waved at the trail ahead. Slurred words slipped from slack lips. “Up…”

“How many?”

To answer seemed to take all his effort. “Two…” he forced out. “Husband, wife…”

“We don’t have enough time to search for them,” Seichan said dourly.

She was right, but how could they abandon them?

A new crashing noise intruded, coming from behind them. They both turned. Palu appeared, half-running in his beekeeper’s getup. He hauled a propane tank in each hand, carrying them as effortlessly as a couple of pillows. The only sign of exertion was a sheen of perspiration glowing over his tanned features.

Despite the situation, he wore a big grin. “There you are, brah.”

Kowalski came puffing up behind him, gasping and looking close to keeling over. He dropped the tanks and leaned on his knees. A continual string of curses followed. “Christalmightymotherfuck…”

Gray waved to the swarm swirling forth from fissures and holes all around. “Get to planting those charges. Five-minute timers. We can’t let more escape.”

A good portion of their plan counted on catching the swarm while the majority remained underground. According to the professor, wasps were attracted to the sweet stench of propane gas and often nested near pilot lights. While the gas was normally odorless, companies added the odor to alert homeowners of a leak.

The plan was to open those tanks, drop them into the labyrinth of tunnels, and let the heavy gas spread throughout the lava tubes before the ignition set it all on fire. If they could get those spewing tanks underground fast enough, the odor might lure the swarm closer — hopefully near enough to be caught in the explosion.

Kowalski hauled up his tanks with a groan. “Let’s do this.”

Palu hesitated. “Where are those campers?”

Gray pointed to the path. “Up there. A husband and wife.”

“I know this trail.” Palu nodded to Kowalski. “We drop these in the tunnels, then go find them.”

Gray pictured the coming firestorm. “Five minutes,” he reminded the big men. “Whether you reach them or not, you haul ass off this slope before those timers run out.”

As they headed away, Gray hooked an arm around Emmet. He bent at the waist and hauled his slack form over a shoulder. As he straightened, he watched Kowalski lumber toward one of the smoky columns, waving wasps from his path. Once close enough, he lobbed a tank toward a fissure hidden there.

Palu followed this example, and the two men moved farther upslope, seeking new sites to plant their second charges.

Gray hefted his own burden and started down the trail.

Seichan headed to the bike.

Before Gray could take three steps, Emmet stirred, thrashing weakly. “No, wait…”

Gray stopped and turned, cheek to cheek with the man. “What?”

“Another… a boy… Benjie…” An arm pointed toward where Emmet had stumbled out of the forest. “Fell down hole.”

Seichan heard this and let out an exasperated sigh. “I’ll go look for him.”

Gray hesitated, but she scowled at him.

“Get moving.” She tapped her wristwatch. “I know.”

He checked his own watch as he headed down.

Five minutes… and counting.

Seichan clambered through the dense underbrush. It was like wading through a bog. Ferns grasped at her, thorns tried to tear her tough nylon-blend suit, and mud sucked at her rubber boots.

Frustrated, she was tempted to rip away the cumbersome outfit, but this was no bog and those weren’t mosquitoes buzzing through the air. She swatted wasps from her veil and slapped at bigger ones on her arms or chest. There was a limit to her trust in this suit. She recalled Matsui’s account of these creatures, how the wasps’ usual prey in the prehistoric past had been far better armored than her.

She also only had to look around to be reminded to be extra cautious. Small birds littered the ground, some wings still twitching. Off to the right, antlers poked above the brush, marking where a speckled deer had met a similar fate. And what she thought was a mossy boulder to the left was actually a collapsed wild boar, evident from the curl of its yellowed tusks.

Clearly the wasps had been busy.

Respecting the danger, she slipped a Maglite from a pocket of her backpack and twisted it on. She did her best to hurry from one smoky column to another.

Where the hell are you, kid?

She kept an eye on her watch.

Three minutes left.

She didn’t want to be here when those tanks exploded. Still, she pictured a delirious child trapped in those fiery tunnels and growled deep in her chest. She cursed his parents for putting him in harm’s way — not that they could’ve anticipated this exact situation.

But still…

She forged to the next fissure and pushed into the humming, battering cloud around it. She poked her flashlight through a break in the undergrowth. Her beam revealed a good-sized hole. She pointed her light through the skylight and into the tunnel. The floor lay twelve feet below.

Nothing but more wasps, crawling over every surface.

She turned away — but as her beam flashed across the far rim of a hole, she spotted a small print in the mud. Maybe a sneaker. The edge of the fissure looked freshly crumbled.

Swearing under her breath, she returned to studying the tunnel. From her vantage, she could only spy the immediate area below. The boy, frightened and panicked, could have crawled deeper into the system. Even a few yards and he’d be out of her direct line of sight.

Only one way to find out.

While she could have easily hopped down, she needed a way to climb back up. She had rope in her pack, but unspooling and rigging it would take too long.

Instead, she reached to her waist. After being caught unarmed back at the cottage last night, she had come fully prepared this time. Under her suit, daggers and throwing knives were hidden in wrist and ankle sheaths. For this chore, she snapped free a large Chinese cleaver from her belt.

She picked a bamboo stalk as thick as her wrist. With her blade freshly honed, she felled the trunk with one strong strike. She caught the pole as it toppled, then shouldered it to the hole and dropped one end to the floor below.

Two minutes.

She grabbed the green shaft, swung around it, and slid down its dewy length. Her feet crunched into a mat of wasps. She ignored the swarm’s alarmed and vigorous response at her intrusion. Wasps exploded off the walls and rose from deeper in the tunnels.

She crouched against their assault.

She pointed her beam down the tunnel.

First one direction, then the other.

Through the swirling cloud, she caught a flash of white skin and a small red sneaker.

Benjie.

She reached with her rubber glove, snatched his ankle, and pulled his gangly frame toward her. She didn’t have time to check to see if he was still alive. She simply picked him up and draped his small body across her shoulders in a fireman’s carry.

She crouched and leaped up. Her hands latched on to the pole, while her legs tucked. Using her boots as grips, she shoved higher. All would have gone well, but the freshly cut end of the bamboo slipped and danced wildly across the uneven damp floor below.

She crashed sideways, hitting the wall hard. She managed to keep hold of the bamboo, but the end of the pole skittered below for a long terrifying breath — until it finally found its grip again.

She hung there for another moment to be sure. The internal timer still counted down in her head.

Less than a minute.

She started her ascent again.

Only another four feet to go.

Then pain flared in her side, fiery and explosive.

Surprised, she slid down the pole’s length. Before her boots hit the ground again, her fingers clamped hard, stopping her fall. As she balanced the limp boy, she glanced to her side. She spotted a triangular tear in her suit.

Must’ve ripped it on the sharp stone when I hit the wall.

A wasp — one of the large soldiers — crawled out the tear and buzzed away, its work done.

Tears welled as agony racked through her.

She stared up as best she could.

So far…

Her only hope of escaping was to drop the boy and climb as swiftly as she could.

Still, she could feel the boy’s heartbeat pounding against her neck, as if begging her not to abandon him.

I’m sorry…

From under the bower of the banyan tree, Gray stared up at the forested flank of Haleakala. He didn’t need to check his watch. With each passing second, his heart hammered harder in his throat.

Off to the side, Ken knelt next to a dazed Emmet, who sat with his back to a tree trunk. The professor pressed two fingers to the tour operator’s neck, monitoring his pulse.

A crashing sound rose from the forest ahead.

Gray stood straighter as two large shapes burst into view, running headlong, ignoring the trail.

Kowalski and Palu.

They each had someone tossed over a shoulder.

“Found ’em,” Kowalski gasped as he skidded to a stop, breathing as heavily as a bull.

The professor waved them over. “Bring them here!”

Kowalski either ignored him or his strength gave out. He lowered a woman — the missing wife — to the leafy ground, then dropped to his backside. “How ’bout you come here.”

Palu unshouldered his burden beside the woman.

Gray moved toward them, but his gaze remained on the forest. “Where’s Seichan?”

Kowalski sat up straighter. “Whaddya mean?”

Gray realized the men had left before Seichan had gone to look for the boy.

Palu’s brow furrowed deeply, following Gray’s gaze. “We saw no one when we came down. But we were going wikiwiki… very fast.”

Gray stepped toward the forest.

Then where the hell are—?

A resounding explosion cut off his silent question.

Seichan rolled across a bed of damp ferns, purposefully soaking herself against a blast of searing heat. Two yards behind her, a spiral of blue-orange fire shot into the sky.

She remained low, gaping at the maelstrom around her. Swirling columns of flames exploded everywhere. She pictured the subterranean conflagration sweeping through the tangle of tunnels below and bursting forth through its many skylights and fissures.

She crawled away, nearly deaf, her retinas seared. The ground trembled under her with aftershocks. The volcanic rock of the slope was honeycombed with tunnels and caves. The concussive force of the trapped explosions must have further weakened the substructure.

As she fled, new chasms cracked open, expelling smoke, flickering with residual flames. Trees toppled and bamboo poles waved through the air.

She fought her way back to the trail. At some point, she must have lost her beekeeping hood, but the smoke and heat seemed to have driven off the swarm. She finally reached the path, doing her best to shield the boy with her own body.

Abandoning the child was never an option for her.

Especially not now.

Earlier, not knowing if she would survive, she had silently expressed her regret. (I’m sorry…) But her apology was meant for Gray, for making this choice to risk everything, including their lives together, for the sake of this boy.

Though, down deep, she knew she had risked much more and felt a twinge of guilt. She had no right to—

The ground jolted again, reminding her she was far from safe.

She firmed her arm around the boy and dragged him along with her. Ahead, she spotted a glint of metal and a black rubber tire.

The motorbike.

She left the boy on the trail, dragged the cycle up, and leaned it against a tree — then collected the kid again. Moments later she was seated with the boy cradled in her lap, his head rolled back on her shoulder. She hugged her arms around him to reach the handlebars.

Hang in there, Benjie… just a little longer.

It took her three tries to get the engine to turn over. She felt like crying with relief when the cylinders finally ignited and the motor growled under her. Before she could take off, the mountain shook violently, almost unbalancing her. She glanced to the right and watched the slope collapse in on itself, creating a massive smoking sinkhole.

The chasm grew rapidly as she watched, spreading toward her.

She leaned over the boy, throttled the engine up, and sped away.

As she outran the sinkhole, the world around her grew both hazy and too bright. She shook her head, which only set her vision to whirling. Colors bled around her. The path and forest shattered into a kaleidoscope of fractured images, spinning into and out of focus.

She could no longer tell if she was riding up or down.

Or even moving at all.

As the world lost all meaning, she held on to the boy.

I’m sorry…

This time, her apology was for the child.

She had failed him.

Even before the explosion had echoed away, Gray had started up the mountainside with Kowalski and Palu. As they climbed, thick smoke rolled down from above, filling the lower forests and making it harder to see. The ground continued to tremble underfoot, and volcanic rock cracked with thunderous claps, as if the mountain were tearing itself apart.

Panic set his heart to pounding in his ears.

Then a familiar rumbling whine rose from up ahead.

Gray stopped on the trail.

Out of the pall, a motorcycle shot into view. It raced toward them. At first, Gray thought Seichan was hunched over the handlebars with her usual fierce determination. Then he saw her body roll crookedly in her seat. One arm hugged a boy in her lap; the other weakly grasped the handlebar’s grip.

She looked barely conscious, likely keeping upright only by instinct and the gyroscopic balance of the bike’s momentum.

As the distance narrowed, she failed to acknowledge them, even when Kowalski called out and waved. Her cycle continued to fly toward them, gaining even more speed downhill.

Her luck — and consciousness — were not going to last much longer. Even worse, Gray and the others had just scrambled up a steep cliff face, climbing a series of precarious switchbacks to reach the top.

The bike aimed straight toward the cliff’s edge.

“Off the trail!” Gray yelled.

Kowalski and Palu shoved to the side.

Gray stepped with them, but stayed close to the path. He bunched his legs, tensing his muscles. He’d have only the one chance.

As the bike sped up to his position, he lunged out and dove across the cycle. He shouldered into Seichan, hooking an arm around her and the boy. He knocked them both out of the seat. They crashed headlong in a rolling tangle across a bed of ferns on the far side. Unmanned, the motorcycle continued down the trail, still impossibly upright — then flew over the cliff. It sailed far before finally dipping and dropping into the woods below.

Gray quickly checked Seichan and the boy.

Both seemed unharmed but unconscious.

Kowalski and Palu joined him, wearing matching expressions of concern.

Gray waved down the mountain. “Help me get them back to the Jeep.”

Palu took the boy, while Kowalski and Gray slung Seichan between them. In minutes, they were back at the banyan tree.

Ken rushed to them. “Thank God, they’re okay.”

But were they?

Gray lowered Seichan. “Professor, what’s wrong with them?” He waved to include the entire dazed group.

Ken glanced to the others, then back to Seichan. “Definitely the neurotoxin from the sting of a female breeder. They should recover with time.”

Gray sensed the man was holding back. “What else?”

“While you were gone, I… I examined Mr. Lloyd’s body with a magnifying glass. His skin is peppered with stings. But the sites don’t show the typical red welts that surround a soldier’s painful stings.”

Gray understood, remembering the professor’s description of the breeding female’s pattern of needling a host multiple times to implant her full load of eggs. “You’re thinking he’s been parasitized.”

“Maybe the others, too.”

Gray glanced to Seichan.

Ken must have read his thoughts. “The others were up there awhile, unconscious and immobilized. The female wasp would wait until her host was subdued before parasitizing them.”

So there’s hope.

Gray began to kneel next to Seichan — when a monstrously large wasp crawled out of a rip in her suit. It perched at the edge, its wings humming in a frenzied blur.

Gray recognized the creature from the professor’s photo collection.

A breeding female.

Kowalski kicked it to the side, then stamped it into an oily black puddle.

Gray looked at Ken. The professor’s despairing expression answered his unspoken question.

There was no hope now.

16

Safely back at the cottage, Ken stood on the porch, his arms crossed with worry. An ocean breeze carried the promise of a late-afternoon rain, along with the perfume of the gardens. The bucolic setting stood in stark contrast to the dark pall clinging to the flank of Haleakala.

While the quaking had stopped and the flames were subdued by the wet forests, Ken knew the true threat to the island remained. He anxiously waited to learn the extent of the danger, but other matters needed to be attended to first.

An ambulance turned on the gravel drive and headed for the highway. It carried the Simmons family and the tour operator. Palu had radioed for the paramedics to meet them here as the group frantically rode down the mountainside. By the time the Jeep reached the cottage, the neurotoxin’s effect had begun to wear off. Still, the afflicted needed further medical attention.

Palu had coordinated with his battalion chief to make sure the group was put into a quarantined ward at the local medical center. The extent of their parasitation still needed to be evaluated and monitored.

He tightened his arms, picturing the boy’s scared face, his tears. The family had clung dazedly together. He hadn’t explained to them the true nature of their medical state.

That could wait for now.

Still, he knew his reticence was born more out of cowardice than true compassion — and not a small measure of guilt.

If I had raised the alarm about this threat earlier…

The screen door opened behind him.

Gray poked his head out. “Seichan is awake enough to answer some questions, if you’re ready.”

“I… I am.”

Ken crossed to the door. As he entered, Gray gave Ken’s upper arm a reassuring squeeze, as if to say we’re all in this together. He appreciated the gesture, but he knew only one of their group was uniquely threatened.

Seichan sat at the dining table. Her skin looked ashen, her eyes glazed. Her palms clutched a mug of coffee. Earlier, Ken had been honest with her. She had demanded it, already suspecting the worst as she fought through the toxin’s haze.

Ken had urged her to go with the others in the ambulance, out of concern for her health, along with the danger she could potentially pose.

In three days.

She had refused.

Gray settled into the chair next to her, staying close. “Tell Ken what you told me.”

She stared into the steaming depths of her mug. “When I went looking for the boy, I saw animals lying prone all around. Deer, wild pigs, hundreds of birds.”

“Dead or alive?” he asked.

“Not sure about most of them. But some were still moving.”

“That’s not good, but also not surprising.” Ken slowly sat down, absorbing this information. “Like I said before, the Odokuro are generalists. They’re not selective in their choice of hosts. From what you described, we’ll have to assume a fair amount of the fauna up there is already contaminated.”

“What do we do?” Gray asked.

Ken frowned. “Teams will need to go up there immediately. Any bodies should be burned, but I don’t know how much good it will do. By now, most of the afflicted animals will have shaken off the neurotoxin’s effect and scattered. Worse, the surviving members of the swarm will eventually seek a new shelter and start the process all over again.”

“So what are you saying?” Gray asked.

The answer came from Aiko Higashi. The Japanese intelligence officer stood straight-backed on the table’s far side, her expression unreadable. “He’s saying it’s too late. With the wasps already breeding, the countdown must begin. In three days, we will have no choice but to turn these islands into a firebreak. The organism cannot be allowed to spread beyond these shores.”

Ken pictured the Brazilian island swirling with flames.

Gray’s face hardened, clearly not willing to give up. “Professor, is there any way of eradicating the larvae from the environment? Any weaknesses we can exploit to buy us more time.”

Ken noticed Gray’s hand resting on the thigh of the woman next to him. The question was clearly one of personal concern, too.

“Again, I only had a short time to investigate this species. I tried the usual drugs. Like Ivermectin, a medication effective against a wide range of internal parasites.” He shook his head. “It had no effect. Nothing I tried worked.”

Seichan fixed her gaze on Ken. “What’s going to happen?”

Ken looked away. He was tempted to sugarcoat the situation, but he knew the woman wanted brutal honesty.

“I examined your skin while you were unconscious.” He tried to keep his voice clinical, but his words cracked. “I… I found over a hundred stings. I estimate the number of implanted eggs to be well over several thousand.”

He glanced at her apologetically.

“Go on,” she said.

“The eggs likely hatched within minutes of implantation. Each producing a score of first instars. They’ll be microscopic as they burrow deeper. So you’ll likely not experience any clinical signs for most of the day.”

“And tomorrow?”

“They’ll molt into their second stage. The larvae by then will be about the size of a grain of rice. That’s when they’ll begin to inflict real damage. Luckily, they seem to avoid anything vital, shying away from the central nervous system and heart. Though I’m not sure how they do this.” He locked his gaze with hers. “Still, it will be painful — but not as excruciating as the third day.”

“When they start moving into my bones,” she said stoically.

Ken pictured the test rats he had used as hosts at the Kyoto lab. When they reached this stage, they had contorted in agony, biting at themselves. Some even ripped their bellies open, as if trying to reach the source of the pain. Opioids did little to relieve the torture. In the end, he had anesthetized his subjects and kept them asleep throughout the remaining gruesome stages.

“It will get worse and worse,” he told her.

“And at the end?” she asked.

Ken shook his head. He couldn’t be that honest. He shut his eyes but failed to block the image of the rats’ bodies as they finally succumbed. The fourth and fifth instars had laid waste to their hosts, hollowing them out before finally killing them. Afterward, the husk housed and protected the incubating pupae. Within days, the fledgling adults broke from their cocoons and ate their way out of their dead hosts.

He had unfortunately witnessed examples of that awful birth. It was something he could never unsee. The rats’ bodies had churned from the inside, as if still alive. What came next made him shudder where he sat.

Gray must have noted his distress. “We need to stop this from ever getting that far.”

Ken swallowed. “Like I said, nothing I tried worked. Even if I had more time, I’m not sure I would’ve been any more successful. Once parasitic larvae are entrenched, drugs are often useless.” To make this clear, he asked a question. “Are any of you familiar with screwworms?”

Palu scrunched his brow. “Screwworms?”

“They’re the larvae of blow flies. Cochliomyia hominivorax. The flies lay their eggs in wounds, and the maggots take root and start consuming tissue. Without prompt treatment, they can kill you.”

“What’s the treatment?” Gray asked.

“Only surgery. Digging them out. No drugs can touch them.”

Gray stared toward Seichan. “Then maybe with surgery…”

Ken squashed the man’s hope. “Screwworms only burrow shallowly. Not like these larvae, which dig deep and spread wide, beyond the reach of any scalpel.”

He watched despair set in.

Aiko stepped forward, as if she had been waiting for this moment. She leaned on the back of a chair. “As Professor Matsui has admitted, he’s only worked with the Odokuro for two months. But if the story out of Washington is true — about an artifact stolen during World War Two — then someone has possessed this scourge for decades. Which begs the question. Why wait to release the wasps until now?”

No one answered.

“Because something’s changed,” she said. “They must have learned a way to control this monster’s biology. Maybe even developed a cure.”

She looked at Seichan.

Ken frowned. “But if you’re right, where do we even begin to look?”

Aiko offered a small smile. “I have an idea.”

“What?” Gray asked.

“Let me begin by stressing that what I’m about to tell you is based on assumptions that could easily be wrong.”

Kowalski scoffed. “So, in other words, real solid ground.”

Aiko ignored him. “I discussed this all with Captain Bryant while you were gone.”

“You spoke with Kat?” Gray asked.

Aiko nodded. “We put our heads together. We know the range of the Cessnas used to distribute the swarms. Likewise, we suspect a Japanese connection behind all of this. So I compiled a database of Japanese companies who hold leaseholds or who have financial ties to any of the islands within the Cessna fleet’s range.”

“And?” Gray asked.

“There was a surprising number of possibilities. Asia invests heavily across Polynesia, with China and Japan hotly competing. But one site raised a significant red flag. A pharmaceutical company bought a small island. An atoll, to be precise.”

She pulled a map out of her pocket and unfolded it onto the table. The legend read NORTHWESTERN HAWAIIAN ISLANDS. It appeared to be a long chain of tiny islands that spread in a thousand-mile arc across the Pacific, stretching all the way to Midway Island and beyond.

Aiko explained. “The atoll is too small to be shown on this map, but it’s located near the island of Laysan.”

She tapped the spot on the map.

Palu shifted closer. “I know those islands. My bruddah and I sail out there sometimes. Very pretty. Very private. No one goes out there much.”

Aiko concurred with his assessment. “Most of the islands are uninhabited.”

Gray joined the Hawaiian in studying the map. “But why does this raise a red flag?”

“First, the company in question is a competitor with Tanaka Pharmaceuticals, the company who funded Professor Matsui’s work.”

Aiko glanced at him, but Ken needed no reminder that his ill-fated research trip to Queimada Grande might have had a darker purpose, turning him into an unwitting pawn in a game of corporate espionage.

Aiko moved on. “Second, the atoll in question once housed an old U.S. Coast Guard LORAN station. All that’s left of it is an unmaintained airstrip and some abandoned buildings.”

“Which if modernized,” Gray admitted, “would make for a convenient staging ground.”

“But which Japanese company are you referring to?” Ken asked.

“One that’s been on our radar for a few years. But for reasons that don’t seem connected to any of this. Black market deals. Financial malfeasance.” Aiko shook her head, clearly exasperated. “We could never build a strong case. Mostly because Japanese law tends to favor corporations.”

Ken knew that was certainly true. “So what’s the company’s name?”

Aiko lifted an eyebrow. “Fenikkusu Laboratories.”

Ken sat back in his chair. He recognized the name. Only now it had more meaning and significance.

“What?” Gray asked.

“The name Fenikkusu,” he explained. “In Japanese, it means phoenix.”

Aiko nodded. “An immortal creature reborn from its own ashes.”

Kowalski snorted. “Wonder where they got the idea for that name, huh?”

Aiko shrugged. “But like I said, all of this is circumstantial and possibly coincidental. We can hardly raid facilities owned by Fenikkusu Laboratories based on this.”

“Not until you have more evidence,” Gray said.

Aiko stared down at the map. “Which perhaps we could find on a small island in the middle of the Pacific.”

“Then we head over there,” Gray decided. Ken could see the wheels already turning in his head.

“I should go with you,” Palu interjected. “I know those islands. Even have cousins out in Midway, who might lend us a boat. Make good cover.”

Gray slowly nodded, clearly willing to accept this offer.

Seichan stood up. “I’m going, too.”

Gray’s gaze sharpened. “Maybe it’s better if—”

“I’m going.”

Ken tried to intervene, knowing firsthand what was coming. “For now, you should remain under quarantine. If not at the medical center, then at least here.”

Seichan swung her scorching gaze upon him. “Am I contagious right now, Doc?”

He tilted away. “Well, no.”

“Then I’ve got three days.”

She stormed off, slapping open the door to the porch.

As the screen slammed shut behind her, Kowalski held up both palms. “Just so you all know, I’m fine with her going.”

Gray slipped gingerly out onto the porch. He had waited for Seichan to stop pacing before coming out. It had taken her a full half hour to finally settle to a seat on the top step.

Still, he took measure of the storm clouds hovering over her shoulders.

“Hey,” he said.

She ignored him, keeping her back to him.

Not good.

He moved slowly, afraid to spook her. He extended an offering as he reached her side, his version of an olive branch.

“I minced up some fresh ahi.” He stared off into the gardens. “Since we’re leaving in an hour or so, I thought you might want to feed your stray cat one more time.”

She sighed heavily and took the plate.

He dropped to a seat next to her, but he kept a few inches between them as a buffer zone for now.

She mumbled, “What about your warning not to feed strays?”

“I think we’re way past worrying about one cat’s threat to the island’s biosphere.”

“That’s certainly true.”

Still, she refused to look at him.

“Seichan…”

“You’re not leaving me behind.”

“I know, but—”

“If I’m going down, I’m going down fighting.”

“I understand. We’ll find a cure.” He held out a hand, palm up. “Together.”

She sagged, releasing some of the tension in her shoulders, and reached over. She entwined her fingers with his. As he squeezed back, he felt a tremor in the fine muscles of her hand.

“You’ll be okay,” he promised her.

“It’s not me I’m worried about.” She finally turned to him, her cheeks streaked with tears. “I should have warned you before now.”

Gray’s brow knit with concern. He knew something had been bothering her for nearly a month. “What is it?”

She stared at him with fear shining in her eyes.

“I’m pregnant.”