“We surrender!” he called out.
The jet boat’s momentum carried them to the stern ramp and nosed them halfway up. Weapons tracked them on both sides.
A commotion followed.
The captain of the boat appeared at the top of the ramp. His dark features and heavy shadow of beard marked his Arab heritage. He was flanked by a thin, mustached man and a hard-muscled woman with a stern blond bob.
“On your knees!” the captain said, pointing a pistol.
They obeyed.
The captain barked an order in Arabic. Four men came racing down the ramp and dragged the boat the rest of the way up, then tied the craft in place, ensuring they didn’t try to flee. Another two boarded and pulled their arms down, cuffing them behind them.
Only then did the captain and the others come forward.
The thin man approached on Seichan’s side of the vessel, commenting in a stiff British accent. “She would be a perfect research subject, don’t you think, Petra?”
The blonde crossed over to Gray. “Careful, Dr. Blake. That one’s not for you. At least not yet.”
Petra leaned toward Gray. “Or this one. We thought hunting you or one of your colleagues would be harder. That makes me suspicious.”
She lunged a hand at his neck, fast enough to catch his throat. He reflexively tried to pull away. A ghost of a smile appeared, amused by the surprise in his expression. Her other hand moved equally swift. A needle jabbed into his throat. A burn, like acid, spread as she pushed the plunger.
He coughed at the intense pain.
Petra straightened. “No, we have special plans for this one.”
“What plans?” Blake asked, but his question had a faltering note, as if he didn’t want to know the answer.
“He’s a skilled sniper,” Petra began.
Gray fought to listen, but the acid burned through his consciousness. The world constricted, her voice drifted back down a long tunnel.
Her final words trailed to a whisper as he slumped to his side, sprawling next to Seichan. His vision narrowed to a pinpoint. Through that tiny hole, he watched Seichan shift her knee, switching off the camera attached to Kane’s abandoned vest, hiding the fact that she had been recording the conversation before the others grew any wiser.
He prayed someone was listening-someone
This was the pirate bounty they’d risked so much to steal.
The most valuable treasure in the world.
Information.
As Gray faded to black, those last disturbing words followed him into oblivion:
THIRD
HUNTING GROUNDS
***
32
July 3, 1:04 P.M. EST
Washington, DC
Painter waited for the storm.
He stood in the central hall that cut through the lowermost level of their command bunker. Here Sigma hid its deepest secrets. He stood outside a room that only a handful of people had entered in the past five hours. His muscles knotted as he kept his post.
He wanted to pace away his anxiety-needed to pace.
It had been almost a day since he heard any word concerning Kat and Lisa, and even then, it had only been some grainy footage caught on a bank ATM camera.
Not a word or sighting since.
It ate a hole through his gut, through his spirit.
But he had a duty that could not be forsaken.
At the end of the hall, the elevator chimed and opened. The first two people to exit were members of the Secret Service. They both eyeballed Painter. One came down the hallway; the other remained behind and waved President James Gant out of the elevator.
Two more agents followed behind.
General Metcalf accompanied the president. “This way, sir.”
Gant’s gaze locked onto Painter. A black cloud darkened his aspect: the fury in his eyes, the flush on his face, the hardness to his every move. Even his stride was angry. Painter hoped he could get a word out before getting punched. And he wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t still be slugged afterward. But the risk had to be taken.
The fate of the country depended on the next few minutes.
The press corps believed the president was attending a private meeting with the director of the Smithsonian. Even Gant thought he was here on Metcalf’s behalf to listen to Painter give an impassioned plea to save Sigma from the ax. The president had only agreed to come here after intense backroom negotiations by Metcalf. The general had to call in many political chits to get these five minutes of the commander in chief’s time.
Gant checked his watch as he crossed those final steps.
Apparently, time was already ticking down.
“This is a courtesy,” Gant said, his Carolina drawl thick with disdain. “Because of General Metcalf’s long, distinguished career. That’s the only reason I’m here. And this is the
“Understood, Mr. President.”
Gant balled a fist. “So speak your piece and let’s be done with it.”
Painter instead turned to Metcalf. “What about the Secret Service agents?”
“Thoroughly vetted,” Metcalf answered. “All four. You’ll need them for what’s to come.”
Gant looked between the two of them. “Need them for what?”
Painter stepped back. “Before I speak, Mr. President, I need you to see something.”
Turning, Painter crossed to the door behind him. One of the Secret Service agents followed him. Painter opened the way and let the man go inside first to inspect the room. When he came out, his face was paler.
“Clear,” the agent stated, then stepped aside.
Painter held the door and nodded to Gant.
Glowering and straightening his tie, the president strode into the room.
Painter followed, shadowed by another agent, while the others took posts in the hall.
Gant stepped woodenly to the hospital bed. He stopped at the edge, his posture ramrod-stiff-then he collapsed
