Bloodline

Painter knew the next part of this discussion would take some delicacy. What transpired here was for the president’s ears and eyes only.

Him, and one other.

Jason Carter worked at the desk computer in the medical office, where Painter and the president had been holed up. His Secret Service agents continued to watch the hall, with one posted next to Amanda.

Jason finally nodded, ready to proceed. He had the necessary footage transferred and keyed up.

Painter faced Gant. “As you know, Mr. President, we already suspected the Guild had a hand in the kidnapping of your daughter.”

Gant’s eyes darkened. “I’ve read the intelligence briefings.”

“Exactly, but the Guild is not their true name. It’s more of an umbrella designation encompassing the group’s many cells around the world, a network of agents and operatives ensconced in various militaries, governments, research institutions, and financial circles. There are many levels within this organization, some go by other names, but recently I’ve uncovered a clue to the true leaders, the puppet masters of the Guild.”

Gant focused harder on him. “Go on.”

“This inner circle has also hidden under many names, burying themselves in countless secret societies to cover their footprints, going back centuries.”

“Centuries?” a skeptical note rang in the man’s voice.

“At least to the Middle Ages,” Painter confirmed. “Maybe even farther back into the past.”

He flicked a glance toward Jason. The young analyst was tracing the lineage of the Gant family deeper into history, but it was slow going, and that track grew fainter, worn away by time into mere rumor and suspicion.

“What about now?” Gant said, keeping his eye on the target. “What do you know about their operations today?”

“We know two things. First, we know they’re tied to your family.”

Gant choked slightly. “What?”

Painter forged on before he lost the man completely. “Second, we know the name most commonly associated with them is the Bloodline.”

Gant stirred at the mention of that word, plainly recognizing it. Painter was not surprised by his reaction. Amanda had known the name, too, but he wanted to hear what the president had to say.

“Director, I respect you. I owe you a great debt of gratitude, but you’re chasing ghosts. You’ve taken rumor and hearsay and added flesh and bone to it.”

Painter remained silent, letting Gant have his say.

The president continued, “Suspicions plague most rich families. Rumors wrapped in conspiracies entwined in maniacal plots. Take your pick. The Kennedys, the Rockefellers, the Vanderbilts, the Rothschilds. In the past, each one of them has been tied to secret societies and global machinations. And we’re no exception. Go ahead and pluck any card out of that conspiracy deck-Freemasonry, the Trilateral Commission, skull and Bones, the Bilderberg Group-and you’ll find some story connecting them to our family.”

Gant shook his head, plainly disappointed. “That name-Bloodline-that’s our family’s personal boogeyman. Made to scare children into obeying. Stories about a family within our family. It’s not supposed to be mentioned beyond our doors. Growing up, I heard all sorts of tales, mostly spoken under bedcovers at night. Of people who mentioned that name too loudly-only to suddenly disappear.”

I’m sure they did, Painter thought. Likely killed or recruited into the fold.

“You’ve been hoodwinked, director. Sold a bill of goods if you’ve fallen into that conspiratorial trap.”

Painter felt the wind dying in the man’s sails, knowing now was the time. He nodded to Jason. “Bring up the footage I asked you to prepare.” He returned his attention to Gant. “Amanda described a symbol painted on that tent-cabin in Somalia. We found that same mark again closer to home. At the fertility clinic where she had her in vitro fertilization performed.”

Jason stepped back. On the monitor, Kat’s footage began to play. It showed her again rushing up to a set of large steel doors.

“Pause it there,” Painter said, fighting down a pang of worry for Kat and Lisa.

The video stopped and focused squarely on the center of the door. A large embossing stood out plainly: a crimson cross with genetic code wrapped within it. Earlier, Amanda had recognized it, claiming it was a symbol tied to the Bloodline.

From Gant’s flinch, he knew it, too. He leaned closer, his voice hushed. “Impossible.”

Painter motioned for Jason to continue the footage. “This is what that symbol hid.”

Painter didn’t watch the video. He didn’t need to see that again. Instead, he studied the president’s profile. The blood visibly drained from the man’s face. His lips parted in a silent gasp of horror.

Knowing he’d seen enough, Painter made a cutting motion across his own neck.

Jason ended the playback, leaving the president stunned.

It took a long minute for Gant to look away from the screen, to turn haunted eyes toward Painter. Behind that glassy numbness, Painter knew Gant pictured his own daughter.

To his credit, the man nodded, accepting the truth. As he stood, his voice hardened to a vengeful edge. “If you’re right, if members of my own family perpetrated such atrocities, committed such cruelties upon my daughter, I want them hunted down.” His anger focused on one question now. “Where do we start?”

Before Painter could answer, another person must have heard Gant’s rising anger and recognized it.

“Daddy…?”

Everyone turned back to the hospital bed in the next room. The patient’s eyes were open. She searched blearily.

“Amanda…!” Gant rushed to her bedside, crashing to one knee to take her hand. “Baby girl, I’m here.”

Amanda found her father’s face. But rather than relief, a faint reflection of Gant’s fury shone there. Her fingers tightened on her father’s hand. She fought through the dregs of her sedation.

He consoled his daughter. “You’re going to be fine.”

Amanda wanted no such reassurances-only results.

“Daddy, they took William. They took my baby boy. You-” Her fingers clutched until her knuckles paled. “You get him back.”

The demand took the last of her strength. She stared into her father’s face, exacting a promise from him. With her duty passed on, her eyes rolled back. Her fingers slipped free.

The neurosurgeon stepped forward. “She still needs more rest.”

Gant ignored him and turned to Painter, still on one knee. His face was forlorn, but his eyes were determined.

“What must I do to get my grandson back?”

Painter pictured the video footage shot by Kane’s vest camera: showing a mouse’s-eye view from the bottom of a boat. He had watched it several times over the past half-day-the boat chase, the capture, the drugging of Gray Pierce-each time grateful for the man’s ingenuity and sacrifice in securing this secret footage. It offered them a slim chance to turn the tide against the enemy.

Painter intended to take it.

“What do you need me to do?” Gant pressed.

Painter stared him in the eye and told him the blunt truth.

“You need to die, Mr. President.”

33

July 4, 11:34 A.M. EST

Washington, DC

Gray rode back into the world on a bolt of lightning.

The electric shock burned through his skull, as if someone had shoved the right side of his face against a red- hot stovetop. He gasped, tried to roll away from the pain, but could not escape it. The only relief came as the burn