The light above them switched from red to green. A moment later, the back hatch opened. Both men closed their helmets over their heads, which allowed them to use their night vision as they descended at terminal velocity. Knight gave Bishop a thumbs-up. Bishop nodded. And the pair leapt, one after the other, into the whipping, frigid winds above Uluru. The
Knight focused on the ground below. Their targets had been watched via satellite throughout the day. A group of twenty people, five of whom were on the list the team had received, had spent the night around a bonfire, reenacting the rituals, dancing, and storytelling of their ancestors. The fire, being the only source of light for three hundred miles, was easy to spot and the Delta duo aimed their bodies, now living missiles, toward the fiery target. The group of aboriginals was tucked inside a deep valley, which meant they would have to land on the nearby desert and hike in. The trek would only add a few minutes to their travel time, but with helicopters already inbound and due to arrive in twenty minutes, there was no time to delay.
As they closed in, Knight’s keen eyes saw an aberration far above the target area. “What the…” He’d seen something moving. He squinted, searching for movement, but found nothing.
“What is it?” Bishop asked, his voice coming in clear through Knight’s earphone.
“I don’t know. I—” Movement streaked across Knight’s vision again and he saw it for what it was. “Never mind. Condensation on my visor.”
“Knight, Bishop, you read?” Deep Blue’s voice filled their ears.
“Loud and clear,” Bishop replied.
“Listen, there’s some seismic activity in the area some of the analysts are concerned about. Shouldn’t be a big deal, but the sandstone valley is crisscrossed by tiny fissures created by thousands of years of rain runoff.”
“Got it,” Knight said. “Watch for falling rocks.”
“Exactly.”
“Thanks for the heads-up, Blue, but it’s time to pull!”
Bishop and Knight’s parachutes deployed like gunshots, ripping open one thousand feet from the desert floor. Seconds later, they were rolling on the ground, gathering their chutes, and running toward the faint glow of the nearby valley, where large shadows danced in the firelight.
Sometimes, after completing a HALO jump, rookies stumbled on shaky legs or fell to their knees, wobbly from adrenaline. But Bishop and Knight had long ago overcome the post-jump shakes, so when both men suddenly found themselves off balance, they knew something was wrong.
They paused.
“That was a little more than a tremor,” Bishop said.
Knight placed his bare hand on the ground. The sand was shaking, as though to the steady rhythm of a bass- laden hip-hop song. Either that or something—
Knight’s head shot up as a distant squeal rolled over the desert. “Was that a car?”
Bishop shook his head, cautiously moving toward the valley ahead. “I don’t think so. It sounded more like a —”
The scream came again, this time shrill and very human. Both men slid their weapons from their backs and ran as fast as they could to the cacophony of terrified cries pouring from the valley, praying someone would still be breathing when they arrived.
NINE
Richmond, Virgina
KING’S JAW HURT from fifteen minutes of grinding teeth. The drive back to his childhood home had been slowed by traffic and had taken ten minutes longer than usual. All the while, he worried about having to have his father, who he’d just been reunited with, committed to some kind of mental institution. And with ten years of anger and frustration yet to be expressed, let alone forgiven, King was not happy about his father getting the clean slate a mental illness would provide.
He reminded himself that when his father left, he’d been sane. That, at least, provided him with some anger to hold on to. He glanced over at his father, who watched their hometown pass in a blur as they rounded Swanson Drive, the last in a series of suburban streets that led to the house. The man’s face was older, more wrinkled, but at peace.
“Ignorance is bliss, right?” King said under his breath.
To his surprise, his father had heard. “That’s why crazy people are so happy.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
Peter grinned at him. “Except I’m not crazy.”
“Mom’s dead, Dad.”
“Buried her yesterday.”
King nodded, glancing quickly at his father. The man was certifiable. “Open casket.”
“Did you look at her wedding ring?”
The rock in his mother’s engagement ring had been red. A ruby. Given to Peter by his soon-to-be fiancee’s father, a German jeweler. King thought about his mother’s body, about her hands folded over her chest. He couldn’t recall seeing the ring.
“Didn’t, did you?”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” King said, becoming annoyed with the insanity of this conversation and the disrespect it showed his mother.
“You know, you were a smart kid. I thought you could tell the difference between your mom’s body and a wax figure. Cost a pretty penny.”
“Just … shut up until we get home.”
A gentle ring sounded from his father’s pocket. King shot him a curious glance. “Thought you were hard up for money.”
Peter smiled. “Did I say that?” He answered the phone. “Hey.” He looked at King while he listened. “We’re almost there. No, not yet. He’s okay. Shaken. Yup. Okay. Love you, too, Babushka.”
King’s eyes were wide and his foot had fallen off the gas pedal. Babushka. He hadn’t heard the word in ten years and its use—a pet name for his mother—came slamming back into his mind. He grew serious, with murderous intent in his eyes. “That’s not funny.”
His father held out the phone. “You can ring her back if you want, but I think seeing her in person would —”
King yanked the wheel, turning onto Oak Lane, and hit the gas. Twin streaks of black rubber lanced out from the back tires as the car shot down the street. A second set of streaks squealed onto the pavement as, fifteen seconds later, King hit the brakes. He slammed the car into park in the middle of the street, flung himself from the car, and ran for the front door.
King twisted the doorknob and put his shoulder into the door like he was raiding a terrorist training camp. He scoured the living room and found it empty. Circling through the dining room, he entered the kitchen, where his mother spent most of her time either cooking or sitting in the breakfast nook, looking out at the backyard trees and her bird feeders.
The kitchen was empty. Feeling a growing anger at his father for perpetrating such a sick joke, but clinging to desperate hope, he opened the fridge. A full pitcher of lemonade, swirling with pulp, rested on the top shelf. King stared at the amber liquid and just as he started wondering if his father had come here earlier and made it himself, a gentle feminine voice broke his heart.
“Sorry to cause you so much pain, Jack—”
King turned and faced his mother, his legs weak, his mouth hanging open.
“But it had to be convincing.”
* * *
