‘I’m… not sure.’ Get off now, before you say too much… ‘I have to go, I’m sorry-’
‘Lauren, wait-’
She disconnects the comm link. Oh, God, oh my God… those bastards-they killed him! She covers her face, tears pouring from her eyes, sadness and fear taking her breath away. If they think I know something, they’ll come after me, too!
‘Stop! Get a grip and think. First step, erase the data trail.’ She turns to the main computer terminal. ‘Computer, erase all communication records received over the last week, with the exception of the last outgoing call.’
ACKNOWLEDGED.
Lauren’s hands are trembling. Okay, you can’t go home… can’t stay here… Who can I tell? Who would believe me?
A sudden noise-outside the lab. ‘Computer, seal the outer lab doors.’
ACKNOWLEDGED.
A knock outside the lab door.
She whispers, ‘Computer, who’s out there?’
CAMPUS SECURITY.
‘Shh. Reduce volume 80 percent and run a background check on the guy outside the lab door. I want a name and time he’s been on the job.’
COLLIN SHELBY. TRANSFERRED TO CAMPUS PATROL 19 NOVEMBER 2033.
November 19… only three days ago. Jesus, these guys move fast.
More banging, this time insistent. ‘Hello? Whoever’s in there, could you unseal the security doors please?’
Cold beads of sweat pour down Lauren’s face. ‘Computer, shut down and lock out all terminals, access code Beckmeyer Tango-Zulu-8659.’
ACKNOWLEDGED.
Gotta disappear fast, before he overrides the lock.
She looks around, desperate, then notices the antique letter opener.
Outside the lab door, Collin Shelby slides his bogus identification card across the magnetic seal. ‘Computer, override lock. Security, Shelby 28497-M.’
The doors hiss open. Shelby enters the lab, stun gun in hand. ‘Ms. Beckmeyer?’
No response. No one visible.
The guard looks around, then checks Gabeheart’s private office.
Empty.
‘Computer, locate Lauren Beckmeyer, microchip identification 341124876-FL-USA
LAUREN BECKMEYER IS OFF-LINE.
‘Off-line?’ Shelby looks around. Sees the letter opener, stained with blood on Gabeheart’s desk. Locates the remains of the crushed microchip implant in the trash can.
‘Clever girl.’
Shelby removes a palm-sized device from his jacket and attaches it to Gabeheart’s computer, overriding the lockout mechanism. ‘Computer, access all e-mail records and hard drive documents and delete.’
Thousands of records flash past the small screen in an instant.
Collin Shelby is a member of UMBRA, a mercenary subcontracting organization that functions in extreme sanction situations for the DIA, CIA, and NSA and maintains liaisons with senior FBI personnel. Formerly labeled the ‘Talent Pool,’ the shadow organization’s primary cover is the prevention of terrorist activities.
Shelby has no idea why he has been ordered to assassinate Lauren Beckmeyer, nor does he care. A harsh by-product of the new global Internet and unified monetary system is that terrorist organizations can now recruit young and old, male and female from any nation and every walk of life. Last month’s biological attack at the 9-11 Memorial killed more than sixty civilians. If the death of one confused college student can prevent more bloodshed…
E-MAIL RECORDS AND HARD DRIVE DOCUMENTS HAVE BEEN DELETED.
Shelby detaches the remote link and looks around.
Inches beneath the soles of his boots, hidden below the lab’s gridlike paneled floor, is a terrified Lauren Beckmeyer. She is scrunched up in a tight crawl space containing computer cables and circuitry, her bleeding palm wedged firmly in her mouth, preventing her from wheezing out loud.
The guard touches the comm link on his forearm. ‘It’s Shelby. She’s gone.’
‘Did you erase Gabeheart’s records?’
‘Yes, sir. Where do you want me?’
‘We’ve got her dormitory covered. Join Bates at her fiance’s place.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The guard looks around one last time, then leaves.
Lauren remains hidden, her pulse pounding in her ears.
32
Wednesday Dawn
The sound of a brook, running beneath the wooden structure.
A bird chirps somewhere in the garden.
Immanuel Gabriel opens his eyes, surprised to find a slight Asian man in an orange monk’s robe standing in the entry of the open shoji.
‘Ni hao.’ The man grins.
‘Knee who?’
‘I said, “good morning.” Did I startle you?’
‘Everything startles me these days. Guess you’re looking for my brother?’
‘Bu shi.’
‘I’m sorry, did you say bullshit?’
‘ Bu shi means, “that is not right.” I am here to meet you and escort you to your brother. I was observing you as you slept. Your soul is not at peace.’
‘No bu shi.’ Immanuel stands, offering the Asian his hand. ‘Samuel Agler.’
‘Chong Xiong.’
He shakes the Tibetan monk’s hand, registering the power behind the smaller man’s grip. ‘I take it you’re one of my brother’s teachers.’
Chong grins. ‘There is a robe in the bathroom. Please get dressed and follow me, your brother is waiting.’
Immanuel heads for the bathroom, his stomach grumbling. Get dressed and follow me… who’s this guy think he is? He tugs the shoji shut behind him, urinates, washes his face, then gets dressed in the white kung fu clothing.
Exiting the bathroom, he heads straight for the kitchen. ‘Hey, Mr. Chong, you want some breakfast?’
‘We will not eat at this time.’ Chong points outside. ‘Please.’
‘But I’m hungry.’
‘Master your appetite.’
‘How do I do that?’
‘Imagine a dead rat, its steaming intestines draining on your fly-infested morning toast.’
Immanuel swallows the bile rising in his throat.
