The Demon Crown

17

Takashi Ito ignored his quiet visitor and knelt before a low table. It was a traditional kotatsu, which consisted of a wooden frame above a recessed alcove, all covered over by an antique quilt. Beneath the blanket, sand covered the sunken section of floor and supported a small coal brazier.

His thin, arthritic knees rested under the edge of the kotatsu, warmed by the heat of the coals. While it was already spring, the elevation of the resort town along the banks of Lake Kawaguchi kept the air cool. The lake rested eight hundred meters up the northern flank of Mount Fuji.

Kawaguchi was one of five lakes surrounding the sacred mountain, but it was the most famous due to its magnificent view. For centuries, artists had come to try to capture the beauty of the towering snow-capped summit reflected in the mirror-flat waters.

And always failed.

To truly appreciate it, one had to make the pilgrimage here.

Takashi stared out the wall of glass at the peak. It was why he chose this site several kilometers away from the bustle of the town’s many hotels and restaurants to build the latest research complex of Fenikkusu Laboratories.

The view was spectacular.

The shining summit of Fuji — a perfectly symmetrical cone — hung serenely in the sky. It transformed throughout the day as the sun coursed its path, from a crystalline diamond to a purple bruised shadow. According to Shinto mythology, it was home to the undying god Kuninotokotachi. Even its name, Fuji, was synonymous with immortal.

Takashi also appreciated the dichotomy of this mountain, serene yet turbulent. Fuji was an active stratovolcano that had laid waste to the surrounding area multiple times throughout history. The last eruption, back in 1701, rained burning cinders over a wide swath, destroying homes and temples, and blanketed Tokyo in ash, which led to a decade-long famine.

Yet the same peak was also the source of water for most of this land, irrigating rice fields and farms.

It was this clash of temperament that made Fuji the soul of Japan, representing its people’s capacity for great wisdom and serenity, while also demonstrating its willingness to destroy everything around it when agitated or threatened.

In the past, ancient samurai had even used this mountain to house their great training facilities. The land upon which this research laboratory sat was once home to the Tokugawa shoguns. It was those same warriors who had died in the temple of Kan’ei-ji back in Tokyo. Takashi pictured the stone memorial behind the temple, where he burned incense every year in memory of his beloved Miu.

So how could I not choose this site for my facility?

Also, there was a more practical reason. The town of Fujikawaguchiko lay only a hundred kilometers from Tokyo, where the corporation’s main headquarters was located. The facility’s proximity to the capital was convenient while maintaining its own isolation.

As it needed to be.

The staff here were all handpicked for their loyalty, discretion, and scientific knowledge. Average salaries were over sixty million yen, which also ensured lips remained sealed, as did exacting security measures that monitored everyone and every square centimeter of the buildings and its grounds.

Of course, such methods did not keep rumors about this structure from being whispered about by both competitors and anyone who happened to look past the security gates of the walled-off facility.

Perhaps I should have been more conservative in its design.

While there were many outbuildings, the main facility was a wonder of glass and steel, sculpted into the shape of a gojū-no-tō, a five-storied pagoda.

He had heard the nickname for this structure, sometimes out of derision, sometimes out of respect.

Kōri no Shiro.

The Ice Castle.

He appreciated the name and took it to heart himself. Especially in the depths of winter, when snow descended from the peak of Mount Fuji to cover the surrounding lands. The glass facility reflected this frozen landscape, becoming part of it, an icy apparition out of Japan’s ancient past.

Beyond such beauty, the facility’s engineering and design also served a practical purpose. Glass and steel would not burn if Mount Fuji should ever grow angry and rain flaming cinders over the town. Plus, unknown to most, the facility was more than its façade. There were five underground levels, the same number as were shining above. The laboratory bunker below hid the corporation’s greatest secret, with the bottommost floor capable of withstanding a nuclear blast.

Soon such secrecy would be rewarded.

His goal was nearing fruition. The horrors to come would serve as revenge for the slaughter of his beloved wife, Miu, to make the world suffer as he had. While at the same time, from this very temple, a transcendent Imperial Japan would be reborn.

As he sat and waited with his silent guest in his private suite — located in the highest tier of the glass pagoda — he occupied his time with a hobby practiced from his youth. Upon the quilted surface of the kotatsu rested a flat piece of glass that served as his worktable. A laptop stood open near his elbow, awaiting the scheduled video call from his grandson, but his focus was upon a folded piece of paper.

With great care, he made two more creases, pressing crisp lines. He had taken up origami as a boy, before being cast out by his family, and had never forsaken the art. It was a connection to his past, both personal and cultural — going back to when origami was first practiced in the courts of Imperial Japan. His passion for the art grew greater during his time with Miu. He had folded a menagerie for her, grew a garden of paper flowers, just so he could earn a rare smile from her. He believed this skill was part of the reason he had won her over.

Now he continued the practice for its calming effect, for its ability to exercise his arthritic fingers, even for its mathematical challenge to keep his mind as sharp as the creases in the paper. Over the decades, he had knelt at the feet of origami masters, honing his skills. Akira Yoshizawa had been one of his teachers, before the man died a few years back at the age of ninety-four.

The age I will reach at the end of this year.

He moistened his fingertips on a dampened sponge, employing the wet-folding technique developed by Yoshizawa, to make the final crease in his handiwork. Once done, he propped it on his glass desktop, balancing his work on its paper legs.

It was a praying mantis.

As was usual, he had no intent of his design when he started. He let his fingers dictate the flow and shape, reflecting his own meditative mind. But now finished, he could understand why he chose this particular figure.

He stared across the table to the woman kneeling silently in the formal seiza style. She wore a white kimono tucked into a knotted red hakama, along with straw sandals and split-toed tabi stockings. Her dark hair was braided and nested atop her head by the artful placement of decorative pins. Her clothing was typical for a miko, a Shinto temple maiden.

But Takashi knew the religion she practiced was one of blood and death.

He studied the praying mantis and knew what had inspired this design. It knelt across from him. Like him, the woman was trained by the Kage to be an assassin. For the past several years, Takashi and his grandson had been secretly collecting those who had survived the Kage’s purge, building and training a small army, a modern version of the shinobi, the shadowy warriors of feudal Japan.

This woman, though, had found him instead and had already proven her worth. She had provided information, which was confirmed by his contacts in Japanese intelligence, of an American group headed to Estonia. They were seeking the source of the amber artifact that had cost Miu her life. Wary of such an unusual pursuit, he had already dispatched a team to intercept them. He intended to discover the reason behind this strange trip and eliminate any threat it might pose.

His laptop chimed, announcing an incoming call, and its screen bloomed to life.

He reached over and tapped the phone icon to accept the call from Masahiro. His grandson’s face filled the new window. From under a brow shiny with sweat, Masahiro’s dark eyes glowered, but his gaze was cast down in shame. His grandson had already reported the events on Maui. While the general operation had proceeded according to plan, one failure blemished the operations.

The two agents of Sigma — the pair who had brought about the downfall of the Kage—still lived.

“Kon’nichiwa, Sofu,” Masahiro said gruffly, his eyes flicking upward. His grandson must have noted the anger shadowing Takashi’s face and dropped the informality. Masahiro needed to earn back Takashi’s respect before calling him grandfather, sofu, again.

“Jōnin Ito,” Masahiro started again, his head more deliberately bowed as he used the proper title.

“Report on the situation at the base?”

After fleeing Maui, his grandson had flown to the island of Ikikauō. Their base of operations was located on a small atoll, not far from Midway, where the Imperial Japanese Navy had suffered a humiliating defeat during World War II. It was only fitting that this new assault should rise from those same waters.

“Hai.” Masahiro bobbed his head once. “The data has been collected. The breeding pens are being dismantled. We should be clear for incineration by nightfall.”

Takashi noted the slightest shake of the woman’s head across the table. She had already shared her counsel. He eyed the woman.

“Are you sure they’ll go there?” he asked her.

She lowered her head once. She seemed certain the Americans — specifically the two operatives who survived the attempts to kill them — would track Masahiro back to Ikikauō. It seemed improbable, but Takashi had come to trust her.

Masahiro must have noted this brief exchange, his voice worried. “Jōnin Ito, all is on schedule. We can—”

Takashi lifted a palm to silence him. “You lost a good soldier. Genin Jiro. Your second-in-command. I am sending you a replacement.”

Takashi’s eyes flicked toward the kneeling woman.

Masahiro frowned. “But there is no time.”

Takashi took in a deep breath.

What does one so young know of time?

“You will continue operations as planned,” he ordered. “But you have a new mission on Ikikauō. A chance to redeem your honor.”

Takashi shared the details, while the woman waited. Her fingers had come to rest on a dagger hidden in the knot of her hakama. She called it an athamé, a blade intended for dark purposes. She had her own reasons for wanting the Americans lured into this trap.

As he instructed his grandson, he noted a small picture in the corner of his computer screen. It showed the face of the woman here, but it was nothing like the dark-haired beauty with black eyes and a perfect complexion seated across from him.

The photo showed a ghost. A deathly pale woman with icy blue eyes and hair the color of fresh snow. As if to defy her lack of pigmentation, she had a black wheel tattooed across the right side of her cheek and face. The symbol was presently powdered over and erased, such was her skill. Over her decades with the Kage, she had learned to transform that blank canvas into any number of faces, becoming a master of disguise and subterfuge.

No wonder she had survived the purge.

Still, Takashi had learned everything about her.

He read the Russian name at the bottom of her photo: Valya Mikhailov.

But even that name failed to describe who she truly was.

He nudged the praying mantis perched on the glass, knowing his fingers had instinctively captured her hidden nature.

This is who you truly are.

18

“I think we’ve fallen into a storybook,” Monk said.

Kat understood her husband’s sentiment. The city of Tallinn was one of the oldest European capitals, dating back to the thirteenth century. Despite its turbulent history — which saw the country fought over by its many neighbors — much of its medieval heritage had been miraculously preserved.

Especially here in Old Town.

As Monk drove, she stared out at the spread of cobbled streets and twisted alleyways, all framed by quaint red-tiled buildings painted in pastel shades, most dating back to the Middle Ages. The spire of St. Olaf’s Church towered above it all, the world’s tallest building throughout much of the sixteenth century.

Yet, out the other side of the BMW’s windows, a modern city beckoned, a metropolis of glass skyscrapers and angular architecture. In the new millennium, Tallinn had reinvented itself. What had once been a port city on the edge of the Baltic Sea, full of paper mills and match factories, had transformed into the Silicon Valley of Europe. Tallinn had more tech start-ups per capita than anywhere else. Even Skype was founded here.

Still, the people were proud of their history and celebrated it, like the festival under way now. Her group had been warned at the airport about Tallinna Vanalinna Päevad, or Tallinn Old Town Days. Men and women in period costumes crowded the medieval streets. Some climbed through the throngs on stilts. One stalked alongside their traffic-stalled vehicle on poles two stories high. All around, open-air stalls added to the congestion, selling local food or handicrafts.

A boy walked alongside their slowly moving sedan and knocked on their window. He held up a basket of Kalev chocolate bars and candy, all made in Estonia. He was dressed in a traditional loose linen shirt and trousers, both embroidered in a colorful pattern.

Monk pointed from behind the wheel. “We should pick up some candy for the girls.”

Kat lifted an eyebrow. “You want to give them more sugar?”

She suspected he really wanted the candy for himself. The man had an insatiable sweet tooth — and apparently he wasn’t the only one.

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind some chocolate,” Dr. Bennett said from the backseat, gawking at the midday festivities outside his window.

“Me, too,” Elena said with a grin.

Kat bowed to the majority and rolled down the window. The smells of sugary baked goods and sizzling meat piqued her own appetite. She bought several candy bars and a bag of caramels. She kept the bag for herself, purely for research purposes, of course, to evaluate the quality of candy manufacturing in Estonia.

As they cleared Old Town, the traffic finally opened back up. Despite the delay, it had taken them less than half an hour to drive from the Tallinn airport to the center of the city. Their destination appeared ahead: the Eesti Rahvusraamatukogu, or the National Library of Estonia.

“Impressive,” Elena said, eyeing the massive structure.

The sprawling eight-story brick building spanned the entire city block. Its façade looked like a Stalin-era tomb, a featureless gray limestone slab decorated with a single rosette window, all roofed over by a grim pyramid. The utilitarian design made a certain sense as the library’s construction had begun when Estonia was still under the iron thumb of the Soviet Union, but it was eventually finished after the country declared its independence in 1988.

The building now stood as a testament to Estonian fortitude.

But for their small group, the library was where they would seek to follow in the footsteps of Archibald MacLeish.

During the eight-hour flight here, Kat had read the former Librarian of Congress’s journal. MacLeish had arrived in Tallinn during a tense and bitter time, when the Soviets had come to occupy the city after driving the Nazis out with a series of savage bombing raids. Many civilians had been killed during the attack, including children. MacLeish had recorded the words found scrawled on the firebombed ruins of the Estonian Theatre, written by defiant locals: Varemeist tõuseb kättemaks! or Vengeance will rise from the ruins! At the time, MacLeish had been struck by the resilience of the people here, and even today the Estonians remained fiercely nationalistic, determined never to fall under occupation again, especially by the Russians.

It was also here where MacLeish had ended his search for the origin of James Smithson’s amber artifact — on the same day that “Little Boy” was dropped on Hiroshima. With the Japanese seemingly thwarted, MacLeish had abandoned his quest.

Leaving us to pick it back up again.

As Monk parked the car, Kat stared up at the looming building, momentarily overwhelmed by the enormity of their task. How could they hope to discover where Smithson had acquired his artifact… and do so in less than three days?

Elena must have sensed her despair and tried to reassure her. “The National Library is the largest in all the Baltic States. Besides what you see aboveground, there are two basement levels, where its most valuable books are stored. All told, its stacks hold over five million volumes, meticulously preserved in air-conditioned facilities. So, if there are any clues left behind by Smithson, they’ll be found here.”

As they climbed out, Dr. Sam Bennett craned at the expanse of the façade. He grated his palm over the stubble on his chin. “But where do we even begin to look?”

The entomologist was in his mid-sixties — though his hay-colored hair, sharp blue eyes, and ruddy skin made him look decades younger. Kat knew he still maintained a family ranch back in Montana and definitely looked the part of the cowboy. For the trip, he wore jeans, boots, and a plaid shirt, which he dressed up with a suit jacket.

Kat had noted Elena eyeing the man with not a small measure of interest. The librarian touched Sam’s elbow now and pointed toward the entrance. “The facility’s director, Gregor Tamm, should be waiting for us. He was kind enough to rally his staff to pull together anything concerning Smithson, especially the time he spent here. Hopefully there’ll be some clue as to where to search next.”

“Sounds good.” Sam smiled his appreciation. “Nothin’ like pulling a few strings to speed things along.”

Elena shrugged, blushing a bit. “One of the few perks of being the Librarian of Congress.”

Kat got them all moving toward the long flight of stairs up to the entrance.

Monk drew alongside her, taking her hand. “Ah, young love…” he whispered to her, nodding to the pair in front.

“Shush,” she scolded him, but she couldn’t hold back a smile.

Once through the imposing doors, a trim middle-aged man in a black suit strode toward them, his arm out toward Elena. His dark hair and thin mustache looked freshly waxed. He could easily pass as a butler in some aristocratic house.

“Tere tulemast, Dr. Delgado, welcome.” The man touched his chest with a palm. “I’m Director Tamm, we spoke on the phone.”

Elena stood straighter as she shook his hand. “Yes, thank you. I’m sorry to call you in the middle of the night and to impose on your staff like this.”

“No, no problem, I assure you. We were most happy to gather what you asked. Come with me.” He waved to the far side of the lobby. “We have a private reading room reserved for you.”

After introductions were quickly made, he guided them past several rare book exhibitions on the way to an elevator. They all piled into the cage. Once they reached the seventh floor, Tamm led them down a long hall flanked by bookshelves. The interior spaces here looked like a medieval castle, with cavernous galleries, tall archways, and bricked vaults. Statuary of mythical beasts graced pedestals and alcoves.

Kat noted a peculiar sculpture of a man with a rat’s body.

Before she could inquire about it, Director Tamm glanced back at the group. “I understand the Smithsonian hopes to learn more about its benefactor for an upcoming museum celebration.”

“That’s right,” Elena said haltingly, clearly uncomfortable with lying to a colleague.

Kat relieved her of this responsibility. “Smithson was an avid mineral collector, traveling across Europe to obtain unusual specimens. As you may know, his collection was lost during a fire in the nineteenth century. We’re hoping to rebuild his collection for an exhibit celebrating the Smithsonian’s founder.”

At least, that was their cover story.

“A most ambitious project,” Tamm acknowledged. “And what a glorious way to honor the man’s life. From what I’ve been able to glean overnight, Mr. Smithson’s esteem as a chemist and mineralogist has been glossed over by history, overwhelmed by his endowment to found your institution.”

“That’s what we’re trying to correct,” Elena said, sounding as if she were warming to the story. “To reveal the scientist behind the benefactor.”

Tamm nodded and drew them to an arched wooden doorway. Banded and studded with iron, it looked like it could have come from an old Estonian castle. “This is a reading room normally reserved for academic scholars from our local universities in Tallinn. I’d be happy to leave you to review what we’ve gathered. Or perhaps, as I’ve taken the liberty of curating much of the material myself, I could help you with your work.”

“We’d certainly welcome your assistance,” Kat said.

“It would be an honor.”

Tamm opened the door and waved them into a room that looked like a medieval cloister. There was even a tarnished suit of armor standing in a corner, guarding tall bookshelves full of dusty volumes along all four walls. A single wooden table divided the room. Before each chair, a reading lamp overlooked a tilted dais meant to hold an open book.

Kat expected to see a crooked-backed monk laboriously working on an illuminated manuscript. Instead, a lone young woman with a braided blond ponytail stood by a computer station next to the room’s single window.

Tamm introduced her. “This is Lara. One of our newest researchers.” He smiled at her. “And my daughter.”

Monk chuckled. “So she’s following in her papa’s footsteps.”

“I couldn’t be happier.”

Kat noted the man’s beaming pride and the daughter’s slightly embarrassed expression. Kat suspected Lara preferred to stand on her own merits. Or it could simply be the universal embarrassment daughters of this age felt for a doting father. She wondered when her own daughters would become just as exasperated.

Monk had another worry, whispering to Kat as they all filed inside. “Let’s hope the girls don’t follow in our footsteps. I think we should start pushing them toward a safer career path, perhaps handling pillows.”

“Knowing those two, they’d end up smothering one another.”

“Well, that’s true,” Monk said soberly. “So then maybe accounting.”

With their daughters’ futures still undecided, Kat and Monk followed Tamm to the table. Hundreds of books, periodicals, and newspapers were neatly stacked across its length.

Kat felt a sinking despair at the sheer volume.

“As you can see,” Tamm said, “my daughter and I have been quite busy. But perhaps if I knew more about what you were seeking, I might be able to point you in the right direction.”

Kat nodded. “We’re doing our best to follow James Smithson’s footsteps across Europe as he collected his specimens. We hoped to learn why he came to Tallinn.”

“Ah…” Tamm turned to the table, waving his daughter over to help. “Then you came here to learn about merevaigutee, what you call amber.”

Kat was glad the director’s back was turned, so he missed her startled expression. Elena and Sam both glanced at her, just as surprised. Monk simply looked worried, as if he expected something malicious afoot.

Tamm missed the silent exchange. “You see, I know exactly why James Smithson came to Tallinn.” He turned back around. “It was because of a secret he was keeping involving amber.”

How could the man possibly know this?

Puzzled and shocked, Elena took a step back. She bumped into Dr. Bennett. Sam caught her by the elbow and steadied her. His firm fingers gave her the strength to challenge the director.

“What do you mean?”

Tamm lifted a yellowed treatise bound in vellum from the table. “This is one of Mr. Smithson’s scientific papers. Its subject is quite esoteric, but we preserved a rare copy in our vaults because it pertains to our region’s history.”

Elena gingerly accepted the paper and read the handwritten title aloud. “An Account of Experiments with the Spirit of Amber.” She lowered the treatise. She knew from researching James Smithson that the man performed and recorded many of his own chemical experiments, but this was beyond her. “I don’t understand. What was he trying to accomplish?”

Lara answered, glancing down shyly. “I took the liberty of researching the topic. Spirit of Amber was also known at the time as ‘acid of amber.’ ” She pointed to the yellowed pages. “Even Mr. Smithson calls it that in his notes, where he explains how he created his own supply by heating up raw amber and distilling it into a whitish acidic powder. Today we know this compound as succinic acid.”

Monk cleared his throat, drawing Elena’s attention. She knew the man had an extensive medical background through his training with Sigma.

“Does that mean something?” Kat asked her husband.

Monk reached with his prosthetic hand for the treatise. Elena passed it to him. “Definitely want to read this. But I know about succinic acid. It’s produced by mitochondria in our cells as part of our body’s energy-generating system. It’s what keeps us alive.”

“But why would Smithson be experimenting with this spirit of amber?” Elena asked.

Kat looked worried and turned to Director Tamm. “Did Smithson perform these experiments here in Tallinn?”

“He did, but I’m afraid, if you read his notes, you’ll see he did not learn anything significant. It’s why he likely left these papers here and never officially published them. I believe he was keeping this all a secret.”

Elena knew the director was right. It was the same secret he took to his grave. Still, she wondered if Smithson might have left clues in those journals of his that were destroyed in the Castle fire during the Civil War.

If so, could he have hidden other clues elsewhere?

Before she could contemplate this, Monk turned to his wife. “Kat, I can tell you’re on to something.”

She dropped her voice, turning away from Tamm and his daughter. “From MacLeish’s account, Smithson had shared his drunken story of a mine disaster with a geologist here in Tallinn. Which suggests he must have already obtained his artifact before coming to the city.”

“Makes sense.” Monk nodded. “But why did he conduct these experiments?”

“What if he was trying to figure out how something trapped in amber could come back to life? I could easily see him believing some unknown property in the amber itself was life-sustaining and was trying to figure it out.”

“But, of course, he would’ve failed.” Sam interjected. “The physical properties of amber have nothing to do with sustaining any cryptobiotic cysts lying dormant in the trapped bones. That miracle was part of the wasps’ genetic makeup already.”

“Still, he couldn’t know that,” Elena said rather sharply, feeling she had to be Smithson’s advocate here. “And despite his failure, he was wise enough to recognize the artifact was too dangerous to bequeath to the United States — yet, at the same time, too miraculous to destroy.”

“He acted like a true scientist,” Kat admitted. “Both safeguarding and preserving the knowledge for future generations.”

Elena nodded. “Which was also his goal — only on a grander scale — when he financed the founding of the Smithsonian.”

Sam frowned. “But why set it in America? I always wondered about that.”

She shrugged, only able to guess at Smithson’s motivation. “He was born to an aristocratic family, but because his parents fell into financial hardship, he was never truly accepted by his peers. Due to that, I think he rankled against the rigid caste structure in Europe and knew his best hope for fostering a new period of enlightenment was in the New World, where ideas wouldn’t be strangled by the strictures of status and class.”

Elena had experienced herself the gifts of such a free society, rising from a family of migrant workers to become the Librarian of Congress.

Had Smithson envisioned and envied such a world?

Monk drew them back to the matter at hand. “That’s all fine and good, but if Smithson had already obtained his artifact before reaching this city, where did it come from?”

Tamm and his daughter had clearly tried to give them their privacy, but Monk’s question drew the director closer to their group. From the suspicious squint to the man’s eyes, he was beginning to wonder about their true purpose in coming here.

“I don’t mean to pry,” he said carefully. “But as I mentioned before, I do know why Mr. Smithson came to Tallinn. Perhaps such knowledge could help with whatever it is you seek.”

Elena glanced to Kat. For the moment, the director seemed willing at least to cooperate. She suspected her station as the U.S. Librarian of Congress had something to do with that.

Just as well I came on this trip.

Kat must have felt the same way. She nodded to Elena, clearly wanting her to press onward from here with the authority of her position.

“Director Tamm, I’m going to be honest with you,” she said. “We’re seeking to track down the origin of one of Smithson’s mineral specimens. It was a large chunk of amber. About seventeen pounds.”

She also held out her hands to demonstrate its approximate two-gallon size.

Tamm’s eyes grew larger. “Such an outstanding specimen. I can see why you would want a piece like that for your new collection.”

“Ideally,” Kat added, “we’d also like to acquire a sample from the same site where Smithson obtained his… for the purpose of authenticity.”

“Indeed. But Baltic amber is the best,” Tamm said with a measure of pride. “In the prehistoric past, these lands, even the neighboring sea, were covered by vast pine forests. It was from the sap of those giant trees that the rich amber deposits formed around here. Since then, pieces continually get churned up from the seafloor and wash ashore, but older veins run deep underground, some even several meters thick.” He stared at them. “Just imagine that.”

Elena found herself looking at her feet, trying to picture such vast golden flows.

“So, then is it any wonder,” Tamm continued, “that Mr. Smithson should come to this region looking for a perfect specimen of amber? Since ancient times, people have been coming to these shores to collect our amber. Both for its gemlike quality and its magical properties.”

Elena frowned. “Magical?”

“Indeed. Throughout history, amber has been valued for its healing properties and as a ward against evil, a way to keep beasts and monsters at bay.”

Elena shared a glance with Kat, wondering if Smithson had heard these same stories. If so, it would support Kat’s supposition that Smithson had conducted his experiments for a reason, perhaps to test such wild claims with science. Maybe Smithson wasn’t just looking for the presence of a life-sustaining healing chemical, but also testing the amber to see if it could be a ward against evil.

Could his experiments have been a search to find a cure against what was hidden inside?

Tamm continued again, drawing back her attention. “While I can’t tell you where Mr. Smithson discovered such an outstanding specimen, I do know the path he took to get here.” He turned away. “Let me show you.”

Kat followed the director over toward his daughter.

Let’s hope this leads somewhere.

Tamm glanced back to their group. “Are you familiar with the Silk Road?”

Kat frowned at the abrupt change of subject. “As in the ancient trade route, between Europe and China, where silk and other goods were shipped?”

“Precisely. But there is another trade road, one far older, tracing back five thousand years.”

What is he talking about?

Tamm turned to his daughter and spoke rapidly in Estonian. Lara nodded, tapped at the computer keyboard, and brought up a map of the eastern half of Europe on her monitor.

They all gathered around.

Tamm pointed to the dotted line coursing across the map. “This is known as the Amber Road. Along this route, cargos of precious amber traveled from St. Petersburg — where there are large deposits of amber — all the way down to Venice, Italy. From there, ships carried this treasure across the Mediterranean.” He looked at the group. “In fact, did you know that the breast plate of Tutankhamen is decorated with pieces of Baltic amber?”

Pride shone from the director’s face as he recounted this illustrious history of the region’s native gemstone.

Tamm continued, “Even the ancient Greeks prized Baltic amber, especially due to its mystical properties. Some twenty-five hundred years ago, Thales of Meletos rubbed a piece of cloth over a chunk of amber and produced sparks. He called this strange new force electricity, derived from the Greek word electron, which was their name for amber.”

“That’s interesting,” Monk said. “But what does all this have to do with James Smithson?”

“Everything.” Tamm’s eyes twinkled as he nodded to the map. “Mr. Smithson started his journey in Venice and traveled northward along the Amber Road. He intended to go all the way to St. Petersburg, but he ended his sojourn here in Tallinn. Though I can’t say why he stopped.”

Kat could guess. After his experiments had failed to produce any usable results, he must have forsaken his pursuit.

Tamm tapped the city of Tallinn on the map and ran his finger backward. “I have to imagine that Mr. Smithson must have discovered his specimen somewhere along this route.”

Elena glanced to Kat. “He must be right.”

She scowled at the map, studying the sheer length of the Amber Road.

If so, how can we hope to find the source in less than three days?

A possible answer came from Lara. “My father is not entirely correct.” She cast an apologetic glance to the director. “While Mr. Smithson was following the route north from Venice, once he reached the Baltic Sea he took a sailing ship along the coast to reach Tallinn’s port.”

“How do you know this?” Tamm asked, looking surprised.

She touched her computer keyboard. “This morning I took the liberty of searching electronic copies of ship records from the time Mr. Smithson was in our city. I found his name listed on a passenger manifest for a merchant vessel that had arrived from Gdansk, Poland.”

Kat leaned closer to the monitor and followed the road back to the Polish city. It sat at the edge of the Baltic Sea.

Monk bent down next to her. “If he traveled from there, that would narrow our search considerably.”

“To only half the Amber Road.” Kat sighed heavily. “But that still leaves a lot of ground to cover.”

Monk leaned his shoulder against hers. “We’ve done a lot more with a lot less.”

True.

Kat straightened and turned to Lara. “Were you able to learn anything more about Smithson’s travels?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Lara crossed her arms. “But Gdansk has been the center of the world’s amber trade for centuries. Back a few years ago, the city started a large amber museum. They have archival records tracing back to the founding of the first guild of amber craftsmen in 1477. Perhaps the museum might have some record of Mr. Smithson.”

Monk shrugged. “It’s a long shot.”

Kat nodded. “But like you said, we’ve done far more with less.”

As preparations were being made for their departure, Elena paced the length of the library table. She stared down at the record of life of the Smithsonian’s founder stacked on the table. It was as if his body were sprawled there.

Is this all that’s left after we’re gone?

Smithson had never married, never had children, and while his name was writ large in stone across the National Mall, few knew the man himself. All anyone could do was piece together bits and pieces of his life. She picked up the yellowed handwritten treatise, trying to understand this man who sought to better the world through science.

She returned the paper to the table.

You deserved better.

Sam stepped next to her. “Are you okay?”

She turned to her companion, who stood a head taller than her and a tad closer than she found comfortable. “Just tired,” she forced out. “And maybe a little wired at the same time.”

“Totally get that.” Sam glanced sidelong to their teammates. “Those two do not let any moss grow under their feet.”

She smiled.

That’s certainly true.

Off to the side, Monk finally ended his call with their jet’s pilot and spoke to his wife. “If we hurry, we can be wheels-up in an hour.”

Kat nodded. “Then let’s head out. Hopefully the town festival won’t bog us down.”

Director Tamm noted her concern. “Perhaps I can show you a route to the airport to avoid the worst of the congestion.” He stepped smartly toward the thick door. “There’s a map in the lobby.”

Monk and Kat followed at his heels, drawing Sam and Elena with them.

As they headed to the exit, Sam lifted an eyebrow toward Elena. “See what I mean?”

Tamm hauled open the door. “A festival parade is scheduled—”

A sharp clap cut him off.

The side of the director’s neck exploded, showering Kat with blood. His body fell back into the room.

Time slowed.

Lara cried out, sounding far away to Elena’s ears.

As if choreographed, Kat dropped and dragged Tamm’s body to the side, while Monk shouldered hard into the iron-banded planks of the door and slammed it shut.

A sharp knocking followed, as more rounds pelted the door.

Sam caught Elena around the waist, drawing her back and not letting go.

Monk held the door but called across the room. “Lara, is there another way out of here?”

The director’s daughter stood stiff-backed, her hands at her throat, her eyes too wide.

Kat pressed her bare palms against Tamm’s neck wound, trying to stanch the flow. “Lara, we don’t have much time.”

The young woman stared at the spreading pool of blood, her answer a low moan.

“No…”

19

Gray stood alone on the foredeck of the dark catamaran. A sickle moon hung low over the midnight waters, casting little light. He checked his dive watch, a steel Rolex Submariner.

Almost time.

Still, he clenched a fist, the cords of his forearm bulging, reflecting his impatience. It had taken the team nearly seven hours to reach their destination, arriving a few minutes before midnight. Back in Maui, they had commandeered the corporate HondaJet owned by Tanaka Pharmaceuticals and flown across the archipelago of the northwestern Hawaiian Islands to reach Midway. There they had rendezvoused with Palu’s cousins who owned a fishing catamaran, a Calcutta 390 customized with a pair of 550 Cummins diesel engines, and raced southeast at forty knots to reach these waters.

Gray lifted his binoculars to study their target. From two miles offshore, the island of Ikikauō looked like a forested hump rising from the waves. A handful of lights twinkled on the western side, marking a cluster of decommissioned U.S. Coast Guard buildings. They bordered a small runway of crushed coral.

Earlier, as their catamaran had neared the island, a small plane had landed there.

So somebody was definitely home.

Knowing that, the group continued to pretend to be a simple fishing charter. They kept well away from the island. Palu and his two cousins — who were shorter, rounder versions of the fireman — had positioned rods around the boat, acting as if they were trolling through the water for a little night fishing.

The others hid down below in the small cuddy cabin. The plan was to wait for the moon to set, then drop overboard in scuba gear and swim ashore. They needed proof that this island was the staging ground for the attack and to try to identify who was behind it.

A tall order… especially on hostile territory.

Gray lowered his binoculars and turned to the satellite map of the island. It was tacked to a board near the catamaran’s wheel. The thousand-acre island was really an atoll, nearly circular in shape, fringed all around by reefs. But the most unusual feature was the oblong lake resting at its center. It was surrounded by low hills covered in dense rain forest. According to the old Coast Guard records, the lake was over thirty meters deep in spots and very salty, which suggested it communicated with the neighboring ocean.

The slap of bare feet drew his attention around.

Palu climbed from the stern deck to join Gray in the boat’s tiny wheelhouse. The big Hawaiian must have noted Gray’s focus. He pointed to the map. “That’s why we call this island Ikikauō. Means Little Egg.” He tapped the lake. “See, here is the yolk.”

“Got it.”

“We name it also because of the life that hatches from here. Finches, ducks, terns, albatrosses. Then there’s the water ’round here… you can scoop a pail and catch a fish.” He grinned. “Maybe not that easy, but pretty close.”

Gray suspected Palu was sharing this as a reminder yet again of all that was at risk. The man’s mood grew pensive as he stared out to sea.

“According to our myths,” he mumbled, “Pele’s brother — Kāne Milohai — guards these islands way out here.” He glanced over to Gray. “But sometimes even the gods need a little help.”

“We’ll do all we can,” Gray promised.

“I know, I know.” Palu returned his attention to the map. “But this place has been threatened long before now. All these islands.” He waved to include the entirety of this remote stretch of his native homelands, then pointed to the southwest. “They sit at the fringe of the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.”

Gray stared out to sea. He had read of the swirling galaxy of trash that had formed in the nearby vortex of currents known as the Pacific gyre. Covering an area twice the size of Texas, the patch was composed of millions of small trash islands set amid a soup of floating rubber, degraded plastics, old fishing nets, and other debris.

Palu shook his head. “It’s slowly poisoning our lands. Washing more and more garbage onto the beaches. Wiping out birds, killing sea turtles. No one pays attention out here.” He shrugged. “The Papahānaumokuākea monument helps, but it’s not enough.”

Gray recognized the name of the protected marine reserve that surrounded the northwestern Hawaiian Islands.

Palu nodded to the map. “Unfortunately, this small island — Ikikauō—and many others sit outside the reserve.”

Gray nodded. “It’s probably why that corporation leased this place. Being beyond the reach of U.S. Fish and Wildlife, they’d have a free hand to do what they’d like with the place.”

“Maybe, but this island is still important to my people.” He pointed a thumb at his cousins. “Makaio and Tua say there are some old shelter caves with petroglyphs on the eastern side, even ruins of a heiau, an ancient Hawaiian temple.”

Gray appreciated the man’s heritage, but Palu was sharing this for another reason.

On the map, he pointed to the atoll’s eastern shore. “While these kanapapikis might not have to worry about Fish and Wildlife, they would know better than to trespass on this side.” He looked significantly at Gray. “Which means no one should be around there.”

Ah…

Gray now understood. “So you’re saying that’s where we should aim when we swim to shore.”

Palu’s grin returned. “From there, we catch them with their pants down.” He slapped Gray on the rear. “And smack their okole good.”

Gray rubbed the sting from his own rump and glanced over to the moon.

It had almost set.

Time to get moving.

Gray headed toward the cuddy cabin. “Let’s tell the others.”

Seichan pretended to be asleep on the tiny bed.

Kowalski, on the other hand, snored on the far side of the cabin, sounding as if he were being strangled. It was so loud she could barely make out Ken and Aiko whispering at a small table in the cabin’s kitchenette. But Seichan wasn’t trying to eavesdrop on the pair.

Instead, her palm rested on the flat of her stomach.

She tried to gauge what was happening inside her. With her eyes closed, she imagined the microscopic larvae rooting through her like worms in a rotted apple. She felt no sign of their presence, certainly no pain. According to the professor, that would soon change.

Still, her palm sought signs of the other life inside her.

How far along are you?

On the journey here, Gray had tried to question her about the pregnancy, but she only gave terse answers.

Maybe six weeks.

She pictured the baby at that age. From what she had read, it was about the size of a pomegranate seed. It should have a heartbeat by now — one too quiet to be picked up by any stethoscope, though an ultrasound might reveal its fluttering. Right now, the brain would be dividing into hemispheres and starting to cast out waves of electrical impulses.

Why didn’t you tell me?

Seichan recognized Gray’s wounded look as he asked this question. She had just shaken her head. She didn’t know herself — or maybe she feared the true answer and avoided looking too deeply.

Gray had tried another question.

Do you want to keep—?

She had stopped him with a scathing look and a sharper retort.

For now, it doesn’t matter what I want.

And that was the closest to the truth she was willing to admit. The decision could be taken from her at any time — maybe it already had. After all she had been through this past day, how could she know for sure?

It was better not to hope.

And even making a decision required hope.

Instead, she held on to one firm conviction. Her fingers curled on her belly, knotting into a fist.

Hope would not save her child.

The better path forward was one she knew well.

Vengeance.

If there was any hope of a treatment for her affliction — one that could save her and her baby — she would not stop until it was found and the perpetrators of this attack were either captured or killed.

Preferably the latter.

This thought relaxed her fingers. She rubbed her palm over her stomach, as if reassuring what impossibly slept inside her.

My baby…

The door to the cuddy cabin opened. Without looking, she knew who ducked inside to join them. She recognized his breath, his scent. Her hand settled to a stop over her lower belly, daring for the briefest moment to hope.

Our baby…

Gray fell backward over the starboard rail. He was last to go overboard, letting the scuba tank on his back drag him deep. To mask the group’s departure, they exited on the side of the catamaran opposite the island.

Once the dive computer on Gray’s wrist registered twenty feet, he balanced his buoyancy compensator. As he floated, he flipped down his DVS-110 diver night-vision system over his mask. Back on Maui, all the necessary equipment for the mission had been coordinated by Painter. Scuba gear had been sent from a Coast Guard station in Wailuku to their corporate jet. Everything had been waiting for them, including weapons and demolition gear.

Gray searched the waters. The other five members of the landing party hung in the darkness. They appeared as dim silhouettes. He signaled them by flicking on a UV penlight and pointing it due west toward the island. He got thumbs-up from everyone.

He would have preferred to swim dark, but with civilians in tow, he considered the lone UV light a reasonable risk. As he set off, he glanced right and left, making sure Ken and Aiko were not panicking. For this mission, the team might need the professor’s entomological expertise, and the intelligence agent had refused to be left aboard the boat, insisting she was best suited to gather any incriminating evidence to satisfy Japanese authorities.

Gray had reluctantly agreed. Time was too critical to be cautious. It would be up to Gray, along with Seichan and Kowalski, to do their best to protect the pair, while Palu would act as the team’s guide. The Hawaiian was the only one of them to have ever set foot on Ikikauō.

Ready to go, Gray reached to his chest where a ScubaJet was clipped to his vest. The torpedo-shaped propulsion system was only a little longer than his forearm, yet was strong enough to drag a diver at a heady clip through the water.

He made sure the others followed his example and hit the engine’s starter. He glided off at low power until they were all coordinated and traveling together like an underwater fighter squadron. Satisfied, he ratcheted up the high-torque motor, setting them to jetting just shy of six miles per hour. The speed should allow them to cross the two miles to the coast in under twenty minutes.

In the meantime, Palu’s cousins would slowly motor their catamaran farther out, pretending to be leaving in order to ease any suspicion.

As Gray headed toward the island, he kept an eye on the others, which was hard to do, due to the distractions below. Through the night-vision scopes, the single UV beam ignited the surrounding reefs into an electric kaleidoscope of fluorescent colors. It was as if everything in the sea had instantly evolved its own bioluminescence. Stony coral shone in hues of aquamarine and crimson. Anemones waved incandescent fronds of yellow and lime-green. Runnels of crimson traced the black spines of urchins. A lobster stalked past, shining as brightly as a lamp, while ahead, a manta ray glided at the edge of the glow, leaving behind a shimmering wake before it vanished into the dark.

Despite the wonder of it all, Gray forged ahead.

Occasionally other sights appeared, unnatural objects to this landscape: a ship’s anchor half-swallowed by coral growth, a new reef formed by the skeletal remains of an old World War II — era plane, even the barrel of an old bow gun poked out of the sand. They were all ghostly reminders of the fierce Battle of Midway, fought across these islands after Pearl Harbor.

As Gray continued, these sights fell away, vanishing into the darkness behind him. Even the hillocks of coral disappeared, replaced with sand. Soon the seabed began to rise under him, forcing him upward.

They had reached the shallows surrounding the island.

Gray clicked off both his light and the ScubaJet. The world collapsed around him, fading to a monochrome world of dull grays. As he swam onward, he used his compass and GPS to guide him the last of the way to the proper coordinates along the shoreline. He motioned for the others to stay underwater, while he rose and scoped the crumbled wall of rock beyond a thin strand of beach.

A darker shadow marked a cave, the one Palu had told him about, where the man’s ancestors had once sheltered while fishing and hunting among these remote islands.

With no alarm raised at his bobbing presence, he waved for the others to follow and headed to shore. They all clambered out of the water, shedding tanks and vests, and carried their gear in a low hustle into the shadows of the cave. They kept their wetsuits on. The drab black covering could help with camouflage.

“That was amazing,” Ken gasped breathlessly, still staring out to sea.

“But now comes the hard part,” Gray warned, as he huddled with the group. “The old Coast Guard station lies a mile due west. We have to assume they’ll be watching the neighboring coast and immediate area. Our best approach will be to haul our gear over the neighboring hills to reach the eastern edge of the inland lake.”

“We call it Make Luawai,” Palu whispered, his back to the group. “Means Deadly Well.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Kowalski mumbled.

Palu shrugged. “Just means the water is very salty. Bad to drink.”

The Hawaiian stood at the rear of the cavern. A moment ago, after getting an okay from Gray, Palu had flicked on a lighter, shielding the tiny flame with his palm. The soft glow illuminated a scatter of petroglyphs across the back wall. Stick figures with prominent triangular chests had been carved into the stone. Some sat in crude silhouettes of canoes, while others ran across the rock with fishing spears in hand. Dispersed among them were random concentric circles, along with renditions of fishes and sea turtles.

Palu’s back was hunched with sorrow.

Kowalski stood next to the big man’s shoulder and suddenly jabbed a finger at a petroglyph, his voice far too full of pride. “Look, a whale!”

“Koholā, brah,” Palu said, smiling, clearly snapping out of his melancholy. “That’s our name for ’em. Be respectful. It is my family’s aumakua, our personal god.” He puffed out his chest, thumping a palm there. “Maybe because all us keikikaneare grow so big.”

Kowalski turned, bumping his head on the cave’s roof. He rubbed his skull. “Maybe I better make Cola my god, too.”

“Koholā,” Palu corrected.

“Got it. Cola.”

“Close enough, brah.”

Gray waved the two men over and finalized their plan. “Once we reach the lake, we’ll proceed underwater again. Only this time we’ll be swimming entirely dark.”

He glanced over to Ken and Aiko to make sure they were comfortable.

Both nodded, though Ken looked scared.

Can’t blame him.

Gray rose out of the huddle. “Hopefully we can get close enough to figure out what the hell is going on here.”

Seichan straightened next to him — then clutched her left side, visibly wincing.

He caught her elbow. “You okay?”

“Just a muscle cramp.” She shook her arm free. “That’s all.”

Worried, Gray glanced to Ken, who looked even more scared now.

The cream-colored larva burrowed blindly through muscle. Its ten segments were barbed with spines, allowing it to corkscrew through sinew and fat. It was in no hurry as it feasted on blood and tissue. Muscular contractions of its pharynx extruded sharp chitonous mouth parts. It bit a chunk and swallowed the meal into its midgut, which was already full.

Only hours after bursting forth from an egg — one of several larvae packed inside there — it had already grown tenfold in size. It now stretched half a millimeter in length. Sensory nets in its elastic skin responded to the rapid growth. Hormones surged through its body. A new layer of skin had begun to form beneath the old, readying for the molt to come — which would allow it to grow tenfold yet again.

But first it needed more sustenance: sugar for the energy to drill deeper, protein to expand its length, fat as storage for what was to come.

Its hunger was insatiable and bottomless.

As it bored deeper, spines tore open a capillary. Blood bathed its segments. Spiracles along its sides drew oxygen from the hemoglobin, setting fire to its drive. Refueled, it burrowed onward, blind but not senseless.

In its wake, it exuded droplets, a trail of chemicals.

Some contained antimicrobials, meant to keep its macerated path from getting infected.

The meal must live.

Those same droplets also delivered biochemical messages into the host’s bloodstream. It used the body’s ready-made network of vessels to send information to other larvae who feasted elsewhere, both to coordinate their molts and to stake out territory.

But most important, such a communication warned of areas that were off-limits.

The nerves in its soon-to-shed skin responded to sound, to the heavy thudding of a muscle that kept their host alive. The sound, persistent and regular, reverberated through the tissues.

The four thousand larvae responded to millennia-old instincts to shirk from its source, to not feed from that deep sonorous well.

The meal must live.

The larva reacted and drilled away from that thumping beat. As it chewed deeper, a section of its segments brushed against a thin nerve. Electrical contact contracted the muscles on that side. The larva twisted its length away from that charge. All the while, its body also continually responded to a similar stimulation, one far larger.

Great waves of electrical potential wafted through the host, sweeping down from above.

Again, the larvae knew to ride that tide away from its source for the simplest of reasons.

The meal must live.

With its path laid out, it continued, delving ever deeper.

Then, as barbed spines ripped another capillary, a new biochemical warning arrived. Other larvae had detected a second muscular fluttering in its host, one different from the deep thudding. The same spot also cast out tiny waves of neurological activity.

The larva — like all the others — obeyed this new message and drifted away from that region, driven by millennia-old instructions in its genetic code.

Its goal was simple and ancient, driven by rudimentary imperatives.

Eat and grow…

Along with…

The meal must live.

But that last instruction was only for now.

20

Kat crouched over the body of Director Tamm. Hot blood seeped between her fingers as she did her best to stanch his neck wound. Though unconscious after hitting his head on the stone floor, he still breathed.

But for how much longer?

His daughter, Lara, remained stiff-backed with shock.

Sam stood in front of Elena, shielding her from the bloody sight while he tried to phone for help. A volley of rounds pelted the thick door, pinging off bands of iron on the outside. From the distinct lack of pistol blasts, the attackers’ weapons must be equipped with silencers.

“Can’t get a signal,” Sam said, holding his phone higher.

Kat considered this fact. The thick stone walls could be blocking the connection.

Or else someone’s jamming communication.

She looked at the door.

Either way, these were not simple thieves.

The shooting suddenly stopped, which was more disconcerting than the pinging. She had to imagine the assailants had come prepared to blow their way inside.

Monk must have had the same concern, his brow furrowing deeply. He still braced the door. He had levered down a latch to secure it, but the mechanism looked more decorative than anything, crafted to match the room’s medieval décor.

Her husband’s gaze swept the room. “Where’s a secret passageway when a guy needs one?”

Kat weighed the odds of reinforcing the door by pushing the heavy library table against it and holding the fort until help arrived. She dismissed it, knowing the plan would certainly doom Director Tamm and likely only get more people killed.

Gotta be another way…

Both Kat and Monk had holstered sidearms — SIG Sauer P226s — under their light jackets, but a firefight across the library could end with the same result.

She looked across to the room’s lone window. She had glanced out it earlier. It overlooked a sheer seven-story drop to an employee parking lot. The building’s exterior, though, was limestone bricks with mortar set deep enough for decent finger holds. Two stories down, a thin decorative ledge circled the building.

She calculated the odds.

Maybe with Monk’s help…

Her husband noted the direction of her attention. When she turned to face him, he easily read her plan.

“It’s insane,” he said, “but that’s one of the reasons I married you.”

Elena huddled with Lara under the library table. Next to them, Sam hunched over Tamm’s slack body. He had taken over for Kat and had a wadded handkerchief pressed against the director’s neck wound. The cloth was already soaked with blood.

We’re running out of time.

Kat must have noted the same but for a different reason. The woman straightened from where she had her ear against the latched door. “I can hear them doing something out there.”

“Probably planting charges to blow the hinges,” Monk warned. He crouched in a corner, struggling to lift an antique suit of armor.

“Then let’s go,” Kat said. She rushed from the door and retreated along one side of the table.

Monk finally shouldered his burden and barreled past on the other side. The pair converged on the lone window at the back. As Monk reached the table’s end, he grunted loudly.

A splintering crash followed.

Though she couldn’t see much from where she hid, Elena pictured the suit of armor shattering through the window and sailing in a long swan dive down to the parking lot far below.

“Hurry!” Kat urged as she joined her husband.

Through the broken window, bright music flowed into the room, rising up from the festival under way in Tallinn’s Old Town. The cheery notes were a sardonic counterpoint to the danger they were all in.

“Go, go, go…” Kat yelled.

A pair of loud blasts made Elena jump. She twisted around to peer past the chair legs toward the door. Smoke blew toward her as shards of shattered wood pattered the tabletop. A piece of twisted metal shot across the stone floor, bouncing like a skipped stone over water.

With the hinges blown off — as Monk had anticipated — the massive door fell into the room. It slammed hard and rattled once before settling to a stop. Boots pounded across it. Four men entered and spread out.

Elena dropped to her belly and glanced back to the window.

She spotted Monk’s hand clamped to the lower sill. His fingers shifted, doing their best to grasp a firmer hold.

She wasn’t the only one to spot the desperate movement.

Shouts erupted, both in Japanese and maybe Arabic.

Two of the masked men broke from the others. Flanking either side of the table, they rushed the window.

Elena covered her head, knowing what was coming. She imagined the looks of surprise when the two only discovered a disembodied hand grasped there.

Even though it was expected, the explosion made her gasp. Monk had warned them of the fail-safe built into his prosthesis, a packet of C4 hidden under the palm. The force of the blast tossed the two men’s bodies across the room. The entire table shifted forward two feet. Chairs tumbled across the floor. Books and papers flew high.

Without waiting for the dust to settle, Monk and Kat fired from where they hid atop the bookshelves to either side. The pair had counted on the broken window and the earlier splintery crash to draw the attackers’ focus.

It appeared to have worked.

Caught in the pair’s crossfire, the remaining two masked men crumpled to heaps by the crashed door.

Monk and Kat dropped together to the floor, landing at the same time. Like a choreographed dance, they raced through the chaos to the door, moving in perfect step. They paused in unison at the threshold, then rolled into the hallway, guarding both ways and each other.

As the ballet ended, Kat leaned back into view. “Clear. Let’s go.”

Elena crawled forward, while Sam reluctantly passed his duty to Tamm’s daughter.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Elena touched Lara’s arm. “We’ll get a medical team up here right away.”

It was all they could do. She hated to abandon the young woman, but Kat had warned them that if any other assailants were in the area — in the lobby or outside — their continuing presence risked more deaths.

They had to leave.

But not by the front door.

Elena clutched Lara’s staff badge by its lanyard. It would allow them to access the library’s book elevator at the other end of the hallway. The plan was to drop down to the basement level and exit through the employee parking lot, where hopefully no one was watching.

As Elena fled with Sam at her side, she cast one glance back at the smoky ruins of the room. She ignored the pools of blood, the broken bodies. Her eyes fixed on the handful of fiery pages fluttering down.

It was all that was left of Smithson’s legacy here.

All gone.

She turned away and ran after Kat, who took the lead with her husband trailing them all. She clutched the pair of crucifixes hanging from her reading glasses, one for each of her granddaughters. She prayed that the next steps along Smithson’s trail were not so bloody.

Still, she held out little hope.

Back out in the bright afternoon, Kat led her group through the crowded heart of Old Town. Music blared, hawkers shouted from streetside shops, children danced around legs. Laughter abounded, some drunken, others in good cheer.

The bloodshed and mayhem at the library seemed nothing more than a bad nightmare. No one at the festival seemed to have noted the commotion, likely due to the fact that the explosions and gunfire had erupted at the back of the hulking building. The only signs of the prior chaos were distant sirens closing in on the National Library.

Kat had alerted authorities as soon as the group had reached the basement and discovered their phones worked again. She also informed the handful of library staff found there about the director’s condition. She asked them to help Lara with her father. Suspicion shone in their eyes at the sudden arrival of this clutch of strangers into their midst, but the pistol in Kat’s hand had discouraged any probing questions.

Once outside, she had headed immediately for the bustle of the festival. She knew better than to return to their parked sedan, knowing it might be watched. Plus the crowds and commotion in the narrow streets and alleys should hopefully confound anyone tracking them.

For now, putting distance between them and the library was the priority. After that, she would make arrangements to rendezvous with their private jet.

She glanced at her phone’s GPS map to make sure they didn’t get lost in the maze of medieval streets. She pointed to the next left turn. “That way.”

She turned to make sure the others heard her.

Sam and Elena nodded, both far paler than normal.

She had been pushing them hard.

Beyond them, Monk caught her eye. He must have noted the pair’s condition, too. He silently warned her that the two researchers were reaching their limit.

She nodded back.

Time to get out of this labyrinth, find a taxi, and head to the airport.

Distracted and worried, she ignored the motorcycle cruising through the crowd. It was not an unusual sight. Only bikes, Vespas, and tiny European two-seaters dared the narrow, cobbled streets of Old Town.

Still, as she swung away, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She had learned long ago to trust this warning, when her body sensed a threat before her mind registered it. The cycle carried two riders, both helmeted, their faces obscured. But these were no festivalgoers; their entire body language read military.

Unfortunately, her gaze lingered on them a fraction too long.

Stupid.

The motorcycle engine screamed and shot forward. She went for her holstered sidearm. Monk noted her motion and twisted sideways, grabbing at his own weapon.

They were both too slow.

The cycle reached them. The driver snapped a kick into Monk, slamming him into a wall. Kat freed her weapon, but the riders were already atop them. Without the bike slowing, the passenger in back lunged out. He hooked Elena around the waist, threw her across his lap, and jabbed her neck with a syringe.

Tires burned rubber on cobbles and spun away.

Kat lifted her freed weapon, but the cycle was already deep in the crowd. She didn’t have a clear shot. Still, she ran to where the bike turned into a pedestrian alley.

The cycle zigged and zagged through shoppers, al fresco diners, and street musicians. Confounding the matter, the alley was lined on one side by shops, all covered from the sun by awnings, creating a dark tunnel under them.

She immediately lost sight of the kidnappers.

Monk ran up to her.

She turned and pointed. “Boost me up.”

He knew better than to question her. He dropped to one knee and offered her the other. She vaulted atop it and leaped. Monk’s hand on her buttock propelled her higher. She landed on her belly atop the nearest awning and used the spring of the taut fabric to gain her feet.

Then ran.

She fled across the continuous spread of stall canopies, leaping the occasional gap. By racing above the crowds, she avoided the congestion below. She prayed for the motorcycle to be bogged down by the pedestrians, enough for her to catch up.

She kept her ear tuned for the whine of the two-stroke engine.

Then heard it.

Up ahead, maybe another twenty yards.

She sprinted, doing her best to close the gap.

Unfortunately, the end of the alleyway appeared ahead, marked by a tile-roofed bridge arching from one side to the other. It was the gate through the medieval city wall. Once the kidnappers left Old Town, the streets would open up for them, and she’d lose them forever.

She ran faster — but quickly saw a problem.

A small square opened before the foot of the gate. The row of canopies ended short of the plaza. Her flight was about to run out of runway.

Still, she didn’t slow.

As she neared the end, she caught sight of the motorcycle. It shot into the square, scattering pedestrians. One of the festival’s many stilt-walkers — a fellow in motley costume on a pair of two-story-high poles — could not get out of the way in time and got sideswiped. One stilt was knocked loose.

Kat thanked this small bit of luck and shoved her weapon into her belt.

She reached the last awning and leaped headlong over the crowd. She caught the loose stilt as it toppled and used her momentum to turn it into a pole-vaulter’s stick. Grasping hard, she levered her body, kicking out with her legs — and sailed high across the square.

She hurdled over the motorcycle as it was forced to slow at the gate’s bottleneck. She rolled in midair. People scattered in a panic, allowing her to land in a crouch, absorbing the impact with her legs, facing the bike.

The motorcycle shot straight at her.

She grabbed her pistol from her belt, pointed one arm, and fired.

The round shattered the helmet’s visor.

The cycle toppled, skidding on its side across the cobbles, passing her on the left.

The rider in back leaped at the last moment and rolled safely away. She leveled her weapon as he rose, but he twisted around and fled into the stunned onlookers.

Kat rushed forward.

Elena had been knocked free of the cycle when her kidnapper had leaped off the backseat. Elena tried to sit up, but she was clearly dazed — whether from the crash or from whatever was loaded in the syringe.

Likely a sedative to subdue their target.

Kat helped her sit. “Are you okay?”

Elena looked at her limbs, then at the gawking crowd. “I… I think so.”

Loud honking drew both their attentions back to the alleyway. A small electric-green Mini Cooper jammed into the square. The already panicky crowd fled out of its way.

Kat guarded over Elena and lifted her SIG Sauer — then lowered her weapon when she spotted Monk behind the wheel. He must have commandeered or carjacked the vehicle.

He sped up alongside them and braked hard. Before coming fully to a stop, he yelled out the open window. “Get inside!”

Sam popped the rear door.

Kat hauled Elena up and toppled with her into the backseat. She reached back and yanked the door closed behind her. “Go!”

Monk gunned the engine and set off for the gate. In moments, the small car raced under the arched bridge and out of Old Town.

Kat climbed into the front seat, leaving Sam with Elena.

Monk turned and asked the question plaguing her since the attack. “How did they know we were here?”

Kat had already come to only one conclusion. Besides a handful of people at Sigma, the only others who knew of this planned trip were Japanese intelligence.

And among them, one suspect stood out.

Aiko Higashi.

She reached to her jacket for her sat-phone. “I need to reach Painter.”

“Why?”

“To get him to warn Gray.”

“About what?”

Kat stared worriedly at Monk. “I think he’s about to walk into a trap.”

21

Geared up, Gray waded into the brackish water.

It had taken the team twenty long minutes to hike through the densely forested hills to reach the eastern shore of the flat lake at the island’s center. They were forced to move slowly, using night-vision scopes to see, careful not to disturb the flocks of nesting birds. Under the dark canopy, bats had swooped at them.

As he entered the lake now, he hoped the bats were the only ones to note their progress. Ahead of him, Make Luawai stretched a quarter-mile wide and twice that in length. The air above the lake stank of brine, while a pall of tiny biting flies and noisome gnats hung heavily over the dark surface. Still, there was life below, evident from the occasional flop of a fish darting up at the clinging cloud of insects.

“Watch your step,” Gray warned, as he headed out into the lake. “The bank drops away steeply.”

He found himself neck-deep after only two meters. Even through the wetsuit, the lake felt distinctly warmer than the surrounding ocean. Still, it wasn’t pleasant, more like wading into lukewarm soup. The strangeness was amplified by the lake’s hypersalinity. With a salt content three times higher than the sea, the water buoyed his body unnaturally.

Before ducking below, Gray searched the opposite shore one last time. His night-vision goggles discerned a vague glow rising beyond the fringe of hills on that side, marking the site of the old Coast Guard installation.

All remained quiet over there.

Satisfied, he slipped underwater. Once everyone joined him, he quickly got the group moving. They swam fifty yards out, then returned to gliding through the water, propelled by the muffled hum of their ScubaJets. Only this time he kept their flight path shallower in the water, sticking to a depth of ten feet. At this level, starlight still filtered down, enough for their night-vision goggles to pick up.

Not that Gray needed even that meager illumination. He could’ve made this swim naked with only his compass, gauging the distance by the count of his blind kicks. But he had to accommodate the civilians in their party. The little bit of illumination should allow them to keep within sight of one another, which would hopefully lessen any chance of panic.

Unfortunately, such a precaution wasn’t only for the benefit of the civilians.

As Gray glided, he glanced over his shoulder. During the overland trek, Seichan had tried to mask the pain she was in, but Gray had read the sheen of her skin, the faltering to her sure footing, the heavier panting to her breath. The discomfort seemed to be growing steadily worse. By the time they reached the lake, her jaw muscles had stood out as she clenched her teeth against the visceral pain.

He grew more worried when he couldn’t spot her now. He knew she was at the back of the group with Palu, but apparently she had fallen even farther behind.

He felt a pang of regret.

I should’ve been firmer with her before, insisted she remain on Maui.

Still, knowing her, she would’ve found a way to follow them. Back in Hana, he had recognized the stubborn set to her stony face. He had seen that look often enough in the past. But in this case, he had also sensed a deeper well to her determination, one possibly due to the extra life she now guarded.

Trusting she would fight to her last breath, he faced forward again — and came within a breath of running his face into a wall. He canted to the side at the last moment. The obstruction was an upended wing of an old plane. As he shot past the wreck, the ScubaJet on his chest brushed the metal, scraping away a layer of algal growth.

Once clear, he switched off the jet and twisted around. The others noted his near collision. Ken and Aiko swept wide to either side. Gray immediately lost them in the murk as their ScubaJets sped them away.

Swearing under his breath, he signaled Kowalski by pushing his body in Aiko’s direction and pointing, then he swam after Ken. He trusted he could outkick the man’s jet, but as an extra measure, he also clicked on his UV light, using it like a lamp in the dark.

Ken appeared ahead. The man had the wherewithal to switch off his ScubaJet’s engine and spotted the light. Gray swam up to him, offered a questioning okay sign, and got a thumbs-up from the man. Still, Ken’s eyes were huge behind his mask.

Together, they headed toward where Aiko and Kowalski had vanished. Gray proceeded with caution as the UV light revealed the sprawl of a graveyard around them. The sphere of his glow swept over the tangled wrecks of four or five planes. Pieces were strewn far and wide. Half of a propeller stuck up out of the sand, looking all too appropriately like a cross in a cemetery. Fuselages lay cracked open below. Broken wings pointed crookedly in every direction or were pancaked into the silt.

All the wreckage was coated and draped with mats of algae.

Still, Gray recognized the planes’ design, mostly from the prominent circle visible on one wing and the nose of a black torpedo poking out from under a plane. The wrecks were a squadron of World War II Japanese torpedo bombers — Nakajima B5Ns — usually launched from nearby aircraft carriers.

Gray pictured what must have been a pitched aerial battle over this island, part of the four-day-long Battle of Midway. The decisive naval fight dealt a crippling blow to the Japanese Imperial fleet, one from which they would never fully recover.

As he stared across the graveyard, dark shapes appeared out of the gloom.

One small, the other large.

Aiko and Kowalski.

The pair headed for the beacon of Gray’s light.

As they closed in, Gray swung in a complete circle.

So where were Seichan and Palu?

In the tumult, Gray had lost track of the two. Were they still behind the rest of the team? Or had they missed the commotion and obliviously sped past this location already?

He had no way of knowing, but the contingency plan in case anyone got separated was to meet at the predetermined coordinates along the western shore, or if compromised, to retreat to the shelter cave.

With no other choice, Gray signaled for his group to continue onward. Still, as an additional precaution, he had them all stick closer together now. He didn’t intend to lose anyone else.

As they left the wreckage behind, the lake bottom fell away again, dropping precipitously into a darkness that extended beyond the reach of his glow. It was as if the group were sailing into a vast void.

Feeling exposed as they glided out into that abyss, he doused his light, but not before pointing his beam behind the team, hoping it might act as a last beacon for Seichan and Palu.

That is, if they’re even back there.

He finally relented and thumbed his light off.

As if upon this signal, the void below exploded with a dazzling brilliance. Shocked, he flipped his night-vision goggles off his mask. Still, his overwhelmed retinas remained blinded. It took him two full breaths for the flare of the flash to die down enough for him to see.

Far below, a large complex now glowed across the lake bottom. It had the appearance of a giant circuit board, one that had suddenly sprung to life. He could make out interconnecting clear tunnels that linked an array of glass-domed chambers, creating a multilevel maze. Other darker spots marked the location of steel-walled rooms.

Gray understood what he was seeing.

An underwater lab.

He could also guess its purpose: What better way to safeguard and quarantine any work done on a dangerous organism?

Still, the glowing lab was not the major source of the blinding radiance. That came from the nose of a submersible shooting upward toward the trapped group, blazing a cone of brilliance before it.

With no way to outrun such a swift craft, Gray gathered the others. They were in varying degrees of shock and panic — or, in Kowalski’s case, sullen resignation.

Gray motioned for the group to head to the surface.

Pools of light shone up there, too, closing in from the western shore. The muffled rumble of motors reverberated through the water.

Boats…

His team was being squeezed, from top and bottom.

As Gray reached the surface, he stripped off his swim mask. The others followed suit. A trio of pontoon boats aimed for them. Assault rifles bristled from the shadowy figures aboard.

Gray took a small amount of consolation that they weren’t immediately fired upon, but he was not surprised. He expected the island’s owners would want to interrogate the trespassers.

But apparently others weren’t needed for questioning.

A loud explosion echoed to the southeast.

They all turned and watched a fireball roll into the dark sky.

Kowalski scowled darkly at the sight, knowing as well as Gray the likely source of the explosion.

The catamaran.

Gray was glad Palu was not here to see this. He stared across the dark lake, again wondering where the other two had vanished. While their absence had concerned him earlier, now it gave him hope.

At least they aren’t caught in this snare.

Motion drew his attention down into the water.

Meters below, an arrow of brilliance angled away from their bobbing group, marking the passage of the submersible. But rather than descending back to its watery berth, it sped off toward the graveyard of the Japanese planes, sweeping right and left, clearly searching.

Gray prayed the others were safe and well hidden.

Especially with a glowing shark now patrolling these dark waters.

Seichan braced her arms and legs against the fuselage walls, pinning herself within the plane’s wreckage. The Japanese bomber had cracked upon impact, splitting the hull in two. She kept her back to the cockpit, where the collapsed skeleton of the pilot still hung in a knot of moldering belts.

The name of the lake—Deadly Well—proved all too true for that airman.

Let’s hope it’s not the case with us.

She stared across the two-meter gap of open water that separated her from the aft end of the aircraft. Palu had crammed his shadowy bulk into that half. It was a tight fit. Due to the dark depths, she could only imagine the strained expression behind his mask.

Moments ago, the two of them had entered the fringes of this sunken graveyard. They had lagged behind the rest of the team — or rather, she had. Palu had kept at her side, likely upon Gray’s orders.

She had been having difficulty with her ScubaJet. It refused to click into its highest gear, forcing her to compensate with kicks to keep her moving as fast as the others.

Normally it wouldn’t have been an issue.

But her current situation was far from normal.

Even now, sharp knives of pain carved through her muscles. Her arms trembled as she pressed her palms against the inner hull. Every fiber in her back burned, sculpting her spine with fire.

She took a moment to lean on her Guild training. She quieted her mind, shuttering away the discomfort behind cold walls. She drew deeply upon the oxygen in her tank. She had been taught that pain was the body’s early-warning system. It did not necessarily equate to damage or disability, which seemed to be the case here. While everything ached or burned, she sensed her overall strength remained.

For now.

And now was all that mattered.

Gray and the others were in trouble.

As she and Palu had traversed the graveyard, the world ahead had exploded with a silent mushroom cloud of brilliance. The algae-coated debris field stood out starkly against that flare. Her mask’s goggles amplified the blaze, burning a temporary hole in her vision.

Still, she had left the night-vision gear in place and instinctively moved into the shadows — where she had lived most of her life. She scouted for shelter, drawing Palu with her, until she came upon the broken plane on the lake’s bottom.

They were lucky to have found it so quickly.

As she reached the hiding place, a two-man submersible had risen out of the depths. In the blaze of its lamps, she made out dark motes rising toward the surface.

Gray and the others.

Soon thereafter, bright boats appeared, skating across the roof of this watery world. With their quarry trapped, the submersible swung its nose toward the graveyard and headed this way. Its light swept back and forth.

Does it know we’re here or is this search merely precautionary?

Either way, she could not outrun it.

As it entered the graveyard, she studied her adversary. The submersible was really a two-man sled, what was known as a wet sub, with its riders outfitted in full scuba gear. A Lexan glass hood covered the bow end but was open to the water at the back. Under the hood, a pilot sat behind the wheel, while a passenger crouched behind. The rider had his legs bunched under him. His hands clutched grips on the bottom of the sled to hold him in place. With his head ducked low, the hood protected the bulk of his body from the sub’s draft through the water.

Submersibles like this were used by various militaries to sneak divers into enemy territory. The sub here looked designed for a similar purpose, especially as Seichan noted the speargun poking above the shoulders of the rider in back.

Equally vexing, she also spotted a pair of steel spear points flanking the nose light. It seemed the sub had its own weaponry.

As the craft entered the debris field, the rider dove sideways off the sled. He swam lower, while the sub angled higher. It looked like the diver intended to search the graveyard and either eliminate or drive any potential targets out of hiding.

Unfortunately, only four or five planes had crashed into the lake, so the number of hiding spots was limited. The diver was surely familiar with those spots. He dropped straight for a neighboring wreck. He pointed the light affixed to his speargun through the shattered cockpit window. The fuselage lit up from within, with beams blazing out of cracks in the hull.

Satisfied that no one was inside, the diver aimed for their shattered plane. He led with his light, shining it between the two halves. Both Seichan and Palu retreated deeper into their respective sections of the plane. With the additional illumination, she could now see the Hawaiian’s face. She pantomimed by lowering her arms and mimicking a bear hug.

Palu squinted behind his mask, his nose crinkling in confusion.

She had to trust he’d figure it out.

As the waters separating them grew brighter, she readied her two weapons, one in each hand as she braced her legs. She waited for the black-steel tip of the speargun to enter her field of view — then tossed her first weapon out into the gap.

The momentum of the diver carried him forward to meet face-to-face the shock of what she had thrown out of the fuselage.

It was the pilot’s skull.

The white bone struck the enemy’s face mask.

Reacting with basic human nature — both at the unexpected attack and the nature of the object staring hollowly back at him — the diver twisted away. He swung his speargun toward Seichan’s half of the fuselage, while falling back toward the other.

Before he could fire, thick arms grabbed him from behind and pulled him into the aft end, like a trapdoor spider pulling in its prey.

It seemed Palu had finally understood.

Seichan kicked off the cockpit seat and flew across the gap. She risked a fast glance up. The sub’s beam searched the wreckage to her left.

Good.

Diving to join Palu, she struck the trapped diver and pressed the barrel of her SIG Sauer against his chest. She angled the barrel up as she fired. The shot was muffled but still loud. She trusted the whining rumble of the sub’s engine would mask the noise. Shooting a pistol underwater was problematic. Most handguns could fire one shot before becoming disabled. Even then, the kill range was limited to less than two feet. She counted on that limitation to keep the slug inside the dead man.

While a dagger made more sense in a close-quarter battle underwater, she feared her target might thrash too much. The blood trail from a large gaping wound would be as obvious as a smoke signal to the hunter above.

Instead, she pulled the barrel away and pinched the hole through his rubbery suit. Once satisfied the diver had succumbed, she scraped a wad of algae from the wall and plugged up the bullet hole. She then snapped the flashlight off the speargun, handed it to Palu, and pointed in the direction of the searching sub.

Pretend to be the diver, she willed him.

He nodded his understanding, shimmied past her, and dove low across the sand. He led with the beam of his light. Palu was roughly the same size as the diver. Hopefully the ruse would last long enough.

Once he was away, Seichan ripped off the dead man’s mask, which covered his entire face. He also had a radio headpiece. She ripped it away, secured it to her own, and switched masks. By the time she blew out the water to clear the mask, darkness had fallen over the plane’s wreckage as the false diver and sub headed away.

She finally abandoned her hiding spot and rose out into the black water.

Despite the pain racking her body, she felt calmer in her natural element, a shadow in the darkness.

A voice whispered in her ear, speaking Japanese. It was the sub’s pilot radioing his partner. “Any sign of the targets?”

Seichan knew a response was needed. The dead diver looked to be Japanese, so she answered in kind, only gruffly. “Ōrukuria.”

All clear.

She continued to rise, drawing level with the slowly retreating submersible. She then set off in its wake. Agony flared with each kick, but she focused on her target, drawing slowly closer.

Below, Palu continued his charade, pausing every now and then to inspect the wrecks, which helped keep the sub idling along.

Ahead, the pilot sat under his hood, silhouetted against the brightness of his craft’s light. She kicked harder, stirring up those fiery embers in her lower belly and legs.

Finally, she whispered into her radio, her Japanese flawless from her youth spent in Southeast Asia. “Movement five meters ahead. Do you see anything?”

The pilot responded, “Nothing from up here.”

Counting on the pilot’s increased focus below, she swept up behind the back of the sled, pointed the stolen speargun, and fired.

The shaft shot through the open back end of the glass hood and impaled the pilot through the neck, nearly taking his head off. Blood bloomed and quickly filled the Lexan dome. Unguided now, the sub slumped toward the bottom, spilling a crimson trail behind it.

Out here alone, she didn’t fear anyone seeing this particular smoke signal. Still, she sped after it. As she reached the sled, she grabbed one of the handgrips on the bottom and propelled herself forward. She manhandled the pilot out of his seat and tossed his body out the back. With his BC vest deflated, his heavy gear dragged his corpse to the waiting graveyard.

Seichan gained the controls. Though she had some experience piloting such craft, she was rusty. Still, after a few attempts, she got the sub spiraling down toward Palu. The Hawaiian had noted the bloody descent of the pilot and waited not far from the body.

Likely making sure it wasn’t me.

Once she was close, he kicked off the bottom and joined her in back.

He pointed up, his expression questioning.

She shook her head and pointed down.

Time to pay the locals a visit.

Before heading off, she took mental inventory. She had an assortment of sheathed daggers hidden all over her body, and her waterlogged SIG Sauer could be dried out and made serviceable again. While it wasn’t a lot of firepower, she would manage. To help her, she would lean upon a skill not taught to her by the Guild, but instead by the father of her unborn child, a man who was the master of lateral thinking, of shrewd improvisation.

If I intend to rescue Gray, then I’d better act like him.

Still, as she turned the wheel and engaged the thrusters, a flare of fire burned through her limbs. Her vision narrowed to a pinpoint. She bunched over the wheel, one palm on her belly, willing the pain away — not from her body, but what she guarded inside.

She breathed heavily, noting the needle in the red zone of her oxygen meter.

Running out of time.

She sat straighter, knowing how true this was for all of them.

Especially one.

As she aimed the sub down, she made a promise — to Gray, to herself, but mostly to her unborn child.

I won’t fail you.

Still, a dark question had been growing steadily inside her over the past hours.

How much am I willing to sacrifice to keep that promise?

22

Now what…?

Painter rode up the security elevator from Sigma command toward the first floor of the Smithsonian Castle. He had been summoned from the bowels beneath the museum by its curator, Simon Wright. Painter didn’t have time to waste, but the Keeper of the Castle had insisted Painter would want to see this for himself.

If nothing else, I get to stretch my legs.

He had been buried underground all night, taking a brief hour-long catnap around 5 A.M. He had been coordinating with various agencies around the globe. As soon as he put out one fire, another started.

As the elevator doors opened into a security vestibule manned by an armed guard behind a desk, Painter’s phone chimed in his hand. He glanced down and recognized the number. He nodded to the guard, who stood straighter, silently acknowledging Sigma’s director. The room was additionally safeguarded by electronic surveillance and countermeasures. Even the door into this small chamber required a special black keycard with a holographic ∑ embossed on it.

Painter lifted his phone and stepped aside. He held off exiting the private vestibule. “Kat, how is Dr. Delgado doing?”

“She seems to have shaken off the worst of the sedative.”

Painter pictured the attempted kidnapping of the Librarian of Congress from the streets of Tallinn. Though the woman had been saved, the reported attack at the Estonian National Library raised all manner of concerns.

Kat continued, “Thanks for expediting a medical team to the tarmac. Monk was worried about her blood pressure, but she seems to have shaken off the drug’s effects. She insists that she’s good to keep going.”

“I’m not surprised. The woman didn’t strike me as a shrinking violet.”

“Oh, she’s about as purple as a violet, but out of anger. I think I learned a few new Spanish curse words.” Kat sighed. “I also heard Director Tamm is in surgery. His condition remains critical. If it wasn’t for him and his daughter’s help…”

Her words trailed off, wrought with guilt. Painter knew that particular misery all too well. “Then let’s make sure we put their hard work and sacrifice to good use. When are you scheduled to depart for Gdansk?”

“We’ll be wheels-up in five minutes. But I wanted to touch base one more time before we left. To see if you or Jason had made any headway as to who attacked us and how they knew we were in Tallinn.”

Painter heard the frustration in Kat’s voice. Her expertise was in intelligence gathering. Out in the field, she was cut off from her resources and clearly chomping at the bit to take control.

“Jason is still chasing some leads. The kid’s good. You concentrate on learning what you can in Gdansk about where James Smithson acquired that artifact. We need some answers. Hawaii is becoming more chaotic by the minute.”

“What’s the status?”

“The death count is now over two hundred. But more and more people are flooding hospitals and medical centers, hauling in patients in a half-comatose state.”

“Like the four who Gray pulled off of Haleakala?”

“Seems so. The number of people parasitized is rising by the hour. Medical personnel are struggling to find a way of treating them. Kowalski’s girlfriend, Maria, has joined a task force in Hana, to lend her genetic expertise in studying the organism.”

“Shouldn’t she have already been evacuated?”

“She refused. Even knowing the risk of being trapped on the island as quarantine measures are being instituted. As she said, I’m trusting you all to put out this fire.”

“Sounds to me like Kowalski better put a ring on that woman’s finger before she wises up about him.”

Painter smiled. “That’s certainly true.”

“How’s the quarantine going?”

“Right now, it’s simply adding to the panic and chaos. A riot broke out in Honolulu as the National Guard was mobilized. Soldiers are doing their best to cordon off the nesting areas, but the colonies seem to be moving constantly and splitting into multiple territorial leks. It’s like trying to catch butterflies with a net full of holes.”

“I heard they were testing a bunch of different insecticides.”

“So far, those attempts have only succeeded in riling the wasps up and scattering the swarm. Even worse, there are now reports of wasps being found on Molokai and Lanai.”

“So they’re already hopping between the islands?”

“It would seem so. But either way, there’s no telling how many parasitized birds and animals have recovered from the neurotoxin and are on the move, which will only further entrench this colonization across the islands.” Painter struggled to grasp the enormity of the danger, both to the islands and to the world at large. “Flights have already been grounded, which is adding more fuel to the panic out there. And a naval blockade is currently being set up around the islands to keep anyone from entering or leaving the area.”

“That still might not be enough,” Kat warned. “A quarantine over such a large area is untenable. Eventually something or someone will break out and carry this scourge to the mainland.”

Painter knew she was right. He remembered Ken Matsui’s warning about the drastic measures that might be necessary.

You’ll need to nuke those islands.

He prayed it didn’t come to that. But he had already heard rumblings up the various chains of command, as this scenario was being judged and weighed. One strategy being actively considered was to evacuate the populace via airlifts and aircraft carriers to the abandoned military site at Johnson Atoll, some eight hundred miles to the west — then sterilize the Hawaiian Islands with tactical nuclear strikes.

Still, such a plan presented a mountain of problems. Johnston Atoll was only three thousand acres in size, hardly large enough to hold Hawaii’s entire populace. And some people would likely refuse to evacuate. Then, afterward there was the question of what to do with the relocated population.

If any of them had been parasitized and were incubating larvae, the whole cycle could begin again. Did that mean those islanders could never be let off of Johnston Atoll? Would their relocation be a lifelong prison sentence?

“We need a better solution,” Painter mumbled to himself, but Kat heard him.

“We’ll do our best to see if there are any answers at the end of Smithson’s trail,” she promised. “But what about Gray and his team?”

Painter knew she feared the other team was walking into a trap, one possibly laid by Aiko Higashi. After being ambushed in Tallinn, Kat seemed certain her mission to Estonia was leaked to the enemy by someone in Japanese intelligence.

“So far, I’ve not heard anything from Gray,” Painter said with a sigh. “But he went radio silent before heading to the island. Jason has his ear to the ground, awaiting any update.”

“I hope he’s safe, but even more, I hope he finds something out there.”

As do we all.

Painter checked his watch. “I need to sign off. Simon Wright is waiting for me. Let Jason know when you land in Gdansk.”

“What does the curator want?”

“That’s an excellent question.”

Painter ended his call, pocketed his phone, and headed out the door of the security vestibule. The museum had opened less than an hour ago, so a few clutches of people hung around various exhibits. No one gave him a second look as he exited the nondescript door.

He headed toward the Castle’s north entrance. Simon asked Painter to meet him in a small chapel-like alcove to the left of the entrance. It held Smithson’s memorial and crypt. Painter had visited the place many times over the years. It seemed only fitting to pay his respects to the man who had founded this institution to science, history, and knowledge.

Ahead, Simon waited at the chapel’s threshold. He wore a crisp suit and his shoulder-length white hair was combed back, exposing the lines of worry creasing his forehead. He spotted Painter and lifted his arm.

“Thank you for allowing me to impose on your time once again. But I thought this might be important.”

“What did you want to show me?”

Simon waved him into the chapel and stood before the towering tomb with his hands on his hips, admiring it. Painter had to admit it was impressive. A giant white stone urn rested atop a decorated marble sarcophagus, which in turn sat upon a case that currently held Smithson’s remains.

“I’ve walked past this crypt countless times,” Simon admitted, “but now I wonder if Smithson was trying to tell us something. Maybe preserving something in stone, something that couldn’t be burned in a fire like his journals.”

“Tell us what?”

Simon glanced back. “About what he hid in his tomb.”

Painter frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Not only were James Smithson’s bones brought over here from Italy by Alexander Graham Bell, but nearly a year later, this monumental crypt was packed up and sent here.” Simon patted its side affectionately. “This is his original tomb that once sat in the San Beningo cemetery overlooking Genoa, Italy.”

Painter knew that was the case, but not why this was significant.

“Smithson’s nephew — Henry James Hungerford — arranged for this monument to be built for his uncle’s grave, but the symbolism that decorates it has remained a speculative mystery. Some believe it was Smithson himself who designed these specific symbols to mark his tomb, a nod to his interest in classical knowledge. Look at these lion’s paws supporting the urn. Such decorative features can be found throughout the ancient world. Greece, Rome, even Egypt. The paws are supposed to represent strength.”

Simon waved at other carved elements. “The laurel branch symbolizes the Tree of Life. The bird is the soul ascending to Heaven. The scallop shell, with its ties to the sea, signifies eternity and rebirth.”

The curator raised an eyebrow at Painter.

Painter understood what the man was inferring. “You think he put that scallop shell on his tomb to indicate his crypt held something that could be reborn, that could be immortal. That’s a fair stretch, Simon.”

“Maybe.” He pointed to the top of the urn. “See that pine cone finial atop the urn? It represents regeneration. Seems like a theme to me.”

Painter crossed his arms, unconvinced.

Simon noted his posture, smiled, and shifted attention to the row of designs under the lid of the urn. “Notice the three figures to the right of the central scallop shell. Again, a shell that symbolizes rebirth.”

Painter stepped closer, peering up at those three symbols. A cold shiver crested over his spine. Why didn’t I see this before?

The three carvings next to the shell were a serpent, a chunk of rock, and a winged insect.

Painter lifted his hand and ran his fingers over the stone in the center. “You’re thinking this is supposed to be the chunk of amber.” He moved to the snake. “And this reptile depicts the dinosaur bones trapped in the stone. And on the other side, the winged insect—”

“Most believe it’s a moth,” Simon said. “Born out of a cocoon, it epitomizes life after death. But maybe the symbol is meant to have a dual meaning. Representing not only rebirth from death — but also depicting the very creatures that could perform that miracle.”

Painter ran his fingertips across the symbolic line, as if reading a message left in Braille by the Smithsonian’s founder. “Wasps born out of amber from the bones of a reptile.”

Simon stepped back, returning his hands to his hips. “If he carved this warning on his tomb, it begs the question—”

“What else has he written here?”

Painter’s gaze swept the fanciful decorations. Could there truly be some answer here? If not a cure, then maybe at least some hint as to where he acquired his artifact?

He clapped the curator on the shoulder. “Simon, I may have to recruit you.”

“Thanks, but I like my job as it is. Especially as I don’t get shot at while doing it.”

Painter pointed to the crypt. “Can one of your staff photograph this tomb — from top to bottom and all sides — and forward them to me?”

“I’ll do it myself right away.”

“Thanks.”

Painter turned and headed away. He wanted Kat to get her eyes on those pictures as soon as possible and prayed it might offer some clue on her search. He also wanted Gray to view them, as the man had an uncanny mind for seeing what was hidden in plain sight.

Unfortunately, there was one big problem with this plan.

Where the hell is Gray?

23

Ken shivered as the elevator descended into the island. He wore only his swim trunks. Still, it wasn’t his near-nakedness that chilled him. It was the sight of the assault rifles pointed at their group. Four guards, all Japanese, shared the large cage, their weapons aimed at the captives’ chests.

Aiko stood next to Ken, stripped to her one-piece swimsuit. Gray and Kowalski flanked them both, also only wearing trunks.

After being captured, the party had been marched to the west side of the island, where a cluster of cement-block Coast Guard buildings with rusted metal roofs topped a set of hills. The outpost overlooked a dark airstrip of crushed coral that paralleled the shoreline. A small jet and a larger-bellied transport plane were parked at the nearest end.

As the group was herded toward the largest of the Coast Guard buildings, a sleek white boat swept into view in the cove below. It skated atop a pair of tall hydrofoils until it neared a long pier, where it slowed and sank to its keel.

Ken could guess where it had come from. A column of smoke still obscured the stars to the south, marking all that was left of the fishing catamaran.

Once inside the cavernous Coast Guard building, the group had been stripped of all their gear, including their wetsuits. They were taken to where a shaft had been jackhammered through the concrete foundation. The cage of a freight elevator hung in a frame. It was the size of a one-car garage. The upper half was open, framed by bars.

Unable to face the black-eyed stares of the rifles any longer, Ken focused on the rock walls sweeping past the cage as they descended. The upper layers of the island had been compressed coral, but now they were dropping through a core of dark volcanic basalt. The history of the island was written into its geology. Born long ago of volcanic eruptions along the mid-Pacific ridge, the islands had been slowly drifting to the northwest, pushed by tectonic forces. Over time, the islands rose higher, pushed up from below, exposing their aprons of coral to the sun.

Ken tried to draw strength from the hard stone around him — but then the elevator came to an abrupt stop. Jarred, he bumped into Gray, who grabbed his elbow. The man’s iron grip steadied Ken’s balance.

Maybe that’s the strength I need to count on here.

A guard posted outside the elevator pulled the gated door open. Ken and the others were marched at gunpoint into a tunnel cut through the island.

As they were forced along, Aiko studied the shaft. “They must have used the shelter of the Coast Guard buildings to hide their mining operations.”

She sounded calm, almost impressed.

Ken’s heart pounded in his throat. He wiped sweat from his forehead. He realized how much he didn’t fit in with this bold group.

The tunnel ended at a circular steel door, thick enough to seal a bank vault. It stood half-open. Ken was the last of their group to pass through. Despite his terror, he gaped at the sight that opened before him.

A glass tunnel extended out into the dark lake, lit by a strip of LED lights running the length of the arched roof. No starlight reached this depth. The illuminated complex was a world unto itself. Its interconnecting tunnels and rooms — set amid a maze of three levels — looked like a space station lost in some starless void.

One member of their group had a different reaction. “Looks like a Habitrail,” Kowalski commented drily. “Only we’re the stupid hamsters stuck in here.”

A gruff voice growled behind them, “Keep moving.”

As they continued into the complex, Ken noted an order to the sprawl. They were entering the middle level of the facility. The floors above and below appeared to be subdivided into sections, each of which was centered on a glass-domed chamber. The layout suggested the work here must be highly compartmentalized.

Perfect for maintaining quarantine.

The reason for that precaution became immediately clear. They passed a side tunnel that led to one of those domed chambers on this level. An airlock sealed its entry, but through a glass window, a black mass could be seen churning over every surface inside. Dark streamers swirled through the air.

Ken squinted and slowed his steps to get a better look, but he was prodded to keep going.

Aiko glanced at him, her brow knit with concern.

“I… I think those were all soldier drones in there. The big crimson-and-black ones.” He stared across the glowing complex toward the other chambers. “Maybe they’ve divided the swarm into its component parts to study each one separately.”

Elsewhere in the glass tunnels, technicians in white lab jackets hurried about. Ahead, men in blue maintenance coveralls pushed a line of heavily laden carts toward them, requiring their group to flatten to either side to allow them to pass.

“Must be preparing to clear out of here,” Gray mumbled as they rolled past.

Ken feared what that implied.

What does that mean for us?

Once the parade of trolleys passed, the group was led to the end of the tunnel, where a central core connected all three levels. As they reached the hub, stairs spiraled up and down, but they were marched toward a room at the heart of the entire complex.

The lead guard pressed a button next to a set of double doors and leaned his lips near a speaker. He spoke rapidly in Japanese, too low for Ken to pick out any words.

As the man stepped back, the doors glided open, revealing a circular office centered around a wide desk made of polished teak. Shelves of the same wood swept across the back of the room, framing the desk in the center — along with the man who sat behind it.

The stranger stood as they were all forced inside. He looked to be no more than thirty. He was dressed in a business suit, tailored to accent his toned, muscular physique. Dark eyes, as black as his trimmed hair, narrowed as they entered, taking in each of them for one long breath, clearly sizing them up.

Though his expression was stoic, a cloud of anger hovered over him, evident from the twin lines between his brows and the hard edges to his lips.

Surprisingly, Aiko was the first to speak. She gave the smallest bow of her head. “Kon’nichiwa, Masahiro Ito.”

The man’s lips hardened, the lines deepened. He was clearly irritated at being named outright like this. After a distinct lapse, he collected himself and spoke. “Ms. Higashi.”

“You know each other?” Gray asked, casting a sidelong look at Aiko.

“Hai.” She gave a deeper bow toward the man, then lifted an arm. “May I present Masahiro Ito, vice president of research and development for Fenikkusu Laboratories.”

Ken had already noted the gold corporate logo centered on the wall behind his desk. It depicted a fiery circle enclosing a stylized bird with wings of flames. A ruby the size of a thumbnail served as the eye of the phoenix, the mythical namesake for the pharmaceutical company.

Aiko spoke in Japanese to Masahiro. “How is your grandfather’s health?”

Masahiro slowly sat, answering in kind, a formal dance ingrained into all Japanese businessmen, this courteous acknowledgment of ancestry and heritage between peers. “He is well.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.” Aiko gave another slight bow of her head and ended this brief ritual by switching back to English. She fixed the man with a steely gaze. “Then perhaps you’d like to explain your family’s attack upon the Hawaiian Islands.”

Ken flinched at her abruptness.

Masahiro did not react. “I don’t believe any explanation is necessary nor required, considering the circumstances.” His gazed flicked to the armed guards. “But all is going according to my grandfather’s plan. Except for one detail.”

His eyes narrowed, shifting to Gray. “Where is your partner?”

Gray glanced over to Kowalski, feigning bewilderment. “He’s standing right here.”

Masahiro stood again and leaned forward. “The woman… your woman. The treacherous kisama who brought down the Kage.”

Kowalski tilted over to Gray and spoke out of the side of his mouth. “I think he’s talking about Seichan.”

Gray gave the smallest shake of his head, then straightened, shedding any semblance of subservience. He matched the other’s gaze, unblinking and cold, letting anger creep into his voice — all to add weight to his next lie.

“She’s back in Maui. Quarantined and sick after being parasitized by whatever you bastards unleashed on the island.”

Masahiro locked eyes, trying to judge his truthfulness.

While the team had failed to escape this ambush, their midnight swim and landfall on the dark side of the island must have helped mask their true number.

Ken felt a flicker of hope.

Masahiro settled back into his seat. “Then perhaps my efforts on Maui were not a total failure. Even if only indirectly, my actions have doomed your woman to a miserable and painful death.”

Gray didn’t have to feign looking distressed at this news.

Then a cold voice rose behind them. “The prisoner is lying.”

Ken turned to see a striking figure stalk across the threshold, escorted by a cadre of armed men. The woman had snow-white hair, only a shade lighter than her pale skin. A prominent black tattoo marred one side of her face, forming the broken half of a wheel.

Piercing ice-blue eyes swept the room and settled on Gray.

The man’s entire body tensed, as if coiling to lunge at her.

He clearly recognized her.

Valya Mikhailov…

Gray clenched his fists to hold back from attacking her outright. After events in Africa last year, he had known this ghost of an assassin still lived. She’d even had the gall to leave a white rose with one black petal on her twin brother’s gravestone.

Gray stared at the black wheel covering one side of her face, depicting a Kolovrat, a pagan solar symbol from Slavic countries. But her cheek bore only half the symbol; her pale brother had carried the other. Last year, Anton had died in the Arctic, far from his sister. From the fury smoldering in her eyes now, he knew whom she blamed for her brother’s death.

As she spoke to Masahiro, her gaze never shifted from Gray. “The woman was not aboard the boat. We searched it thoroughly.”

Past the door, a pair of familiar figures stood with their shoulders hunched, their faces glowering. It was Palu’s cousins, Makaio and Tua.

Gray felt a measure of relief. Though far from safe, at least the brothers were still alive. Valya must have raided the catamaran and blown it up after grabbing Palu’s cousins.

Masahiro scowled with disdain at the woman. “Then perhaps she was left back on Maui after all.”

“No,” Valya said firmly. “She’s here on this island. Somewhere.”

“You can’t be certain of—”

“She’s here.” Valya cut him off with a glare, then pointed to Gray. “And he’s going to tell us where.”

Masahiro looked both doubtful and irritated. Clearly there was no love lost between this pair. “What does it matter? We’re scheduled to be off this island in forty minutes, burning everything behind us.”

“Because your grandfather—Jōnin Ito — will want to know she is dead. Especially after your earlier failure.”

She let that barb sink in, then faced Gray. “Besides, forty minutes is more than enough time for me to break him.”

Gray simply stood straighter.

Try me.

Accepting his silent challenge, she turned to the men behind her and pointed to Palu’s cousins. “Take them where I told you. But we’ll need one more. Someone to make him more pliant.” She turned back around, her gaze settling on Aiko. “Perhaps a woman…”

Masahiro stood up. “No. According to my grandfather, Ms. Higashi is not to be harmed. She has been useful in the past and may be again.”

Gray glanced to Aiko.

What did he mean by that?

Aiko remained expressionless, both at Valya’s threat and Masahiro’s insinuation.

“Then a civilian.” Valya nodded to Ken. “An innocent in all of this.”

“Again no.” Masahiro stalked around his desk to confront her. “During his brief work with the wasps, Professor Matsui has accomplished far more than any other researcher. My grandfather even found his name for the species—Odokuro—to be an inspired choice, harkening to our mythology and heritage.” He faced Ken. “Jōnin Ito believes, with the right persuasion, he might be convinced to join us.”

From the professor’s aghast expression, this seemed doubtful.

“Then that leaves me little choice.” Valya turned to the only other member available. “Take him.”

Kowalski groaned, but a poke in the ribs by a rifle got him reluctantly moving toward the door.

Gray took a step forward. “Where are you taking them?”

Valya’s lips thinned, showing an edge of teeth, her version of a smile. “To test how strong your will is.” She turned and headed out. “And your stomach.”

With Aiko at his side, Ken followed Gray up the sweep of stairs. Behind them, two guards pointed assault rifles at their backs. Ahead, the pale woman led the way, accompanied by another pair of armed guards.

Masahiro Ito stalked beside her, his every motion stiff and impatient. He checked his watch twice as they climbed to the top level of the lab complex.

Once there, the group was guided into one of its four sections. A pair of men in white lab jackets noted their approach and turned down a side tunnel to get out of their way. Both kept their gazes low, but one glanced over his shoulder toward where they were headed, where Kowalski and Palu’s cousins had most likely been taken.

As the lab tech turned back around, Ken caught a glimpse of his fearful expression.

That can’t be good.

After another crisscrossing of tunnels, the group reached a wall of glass that looked into a small steel room. Chains were bolted to the floor. Inside, guards snapped cuffs onto the wrists of the three prisoners who stood there, pinioning their arms out to the sides.

Makaio and Tua wore matching expressions of wide-eyed terror. Kowalski simply glowered under dark brows, looking like he wanted to punch someone really hard. Unfortunately, he was staring through the window at Gray, as if blaming his partner for his current predicament.

Valya also faced Gray. “I will give you three chances to reveal where your woman is hiding. This is the first. Before matters get messy. Cooperate and your friends’ deaths can be swift and merciful.”

Gray’s face remained stoic, but his eyes flashed with barely constrained fury.

Valya shrugged. “So be it.”

After the three men were secured, she tapped a knuckle on the glass. The armed guards hurried out of the room and into the hallway. They sealed a door behind them, wheeling a locking mechanism closed, similar to a hatch on a submarine.

Ken noted the perforated steel floor beneath the bare feet of the trapped men. He pictured seawater surging up from below.

Are they going to be drowned in there?

Instead, motion drew Ken’s attention to the far wall. Next to a low windowless hatch, a row of seamless drawer fronts rotated open, hinged along the bottom, forming small shelves.

A flow of darkness spilled out from them and washed into the sealed chamber.

But it wasn’t water threatening the men.

Ken realized this cubicle must adjoin one of those glass-domed test chambers. Only the neighboring pen here didn’t house soldier drones armed with agonizing stings.

It held something far worse.

Each of the wasps flooding into the chamber was wingless, about the size of a pecan. Though small, they made up for their size by their sheer numbers — along with the strength of their robust mandibles.

Back at his lab in Kyoto, he had witnessed what these drones could do when loosed upon a rat.

I can’t watch this.

He wanted to retreat from the window, but a rifle barrel pressed against his spine and held him in place.

Gray noted his distress, glancing over to him for some explanation.

Ken couldn’t speak. Before him, the horde poured out of the neighboring pen and pooled onto the floor. The mass then swept outward along the room’s edges. He recognized this pattern from before, as the drones encircled their prey in order to trap it.

To the side, Valya spoke and lifted two fingers toward Gray. “This is your second chance to speak.”

Gray ignored her, his attention still on Ken. “What are they?”

He had to swallow to answer. “Harvesters.”

It was truly they.

The small drone bumped carapaces with its neighbors. Long antennae tangled. Countless legs rubbed all around, making it difficult to tell where an individual ended and the horde began.

Strengthening this bond, their bodies were covered in tiny hairs. For many in the greater swarm, those fine filaments simply gathered pollen. For the horde, the hairs had adapted long ago into tools of communication. Through the brushing of those hairs, chemicals and pheromones continually passed across the mass of their bodies, merging one into many.

As the group flowed into this new landscape, their finely attuned senses identified the presence of prey. This detection was amplified a thousandfold by the rest of the horde. Hormones responded, firing the thick muscles woven around sharp mandibles.

Likewise, a gland between their eyes excreted a droplet of oil into their mouths, containing 2-hepatnone, a paralytic agent. Unfortunately, the poison of a single drop was only strong enough to incapacitate a caterpillar or some other small insect, but when working together, combining their strength, the horde could take down much larger prey.

In addition, their saliva held a potent slurry of digestive enzymes, strong enough to soften the hardest tissues. It was a trait that had evolved back when their meals were covered in armored scales.

Driven by behavior locked into their genetic code, the horde spread outward into two pincers, intending to snare their prey within their midst.

All the while, they continued to gather information about their meal, mostly gauging levels of threat. Still, the horde had little to fear. Their bodies were protected by hard shells, designed long ago to withstand tremendous forces, like the crushing footfalls of ancient giants. Within moments, estimates of risk were collected and shared.

As a consensus began to build, calculations became instructions.

Targets were selected, dividing the feast before them.

Finally, several groups within the horde snapped their hind legs, clacking them loudly and rapidly. Others took up this chorus. It was both a signal to be ready and a means by which the horde could more deeply analyze the quality of the meal before them.

Their reverberations echoed all around, returning with additional details.

First, only form, shape, and size.

But as the cacophony increased in volume, magnified by their great numbers, it succeeded in penetrating through the outer surfaces of their prey to reveal the feast within.

Around a core of hard bone, meat flexed, blood pumped, and viscera knotted. Electrical potential flowed throughout all, churning most strongly inside the skull.

At the sight of such a rich bounty, hunger flared throughout the horde, stoking an insatiable longing to strip the prey bare, to leave nothing behind but bones. The ravenous crescendo built until it could no longer be denied.

Moving as one, the horde descended upon the feast.

Nothing would stop them.

Nothing could stop them.