A shout burst from the hallway outside.
Gray stood, staring through the bulletproof window in the door.
A flashlight clicked on down the corridor, revealing a cluster of men around their fallen teammate. The tallest of the lot—burly-chested, with chiseled aristocratic features—turned and stared back at Gray.
They made eye contact across the distance, the other glowering in fury.
A teammate touched the man’s shoulder and pointed to his watch. They plainly had no time to force Gray out of the locked room, not with law enforcement closing a noose around the area and the charges about to blow.
With a silent growl fixed to his lips, the leader waved the others up the stairs, then fled with them.
Gray turned and opened the door that led into the server farm. A half flight of metal stairs led down to the air-conditioned, insulated space. From his perch, he searched the rows of tall black mainframes. He noted packages of C-4 affixed to the closest racks, their timers glowing, all counting down from 90 seconds.
He bellowed into the space. “Monk! Jason!”
Along the back row, a door to one of the towering refrigerator-sized mainframes swung open. Monk and Jason fell out, untangling their limbs.
Thank God . . .
Gray waved. “Move your asses!”
They came running, dodging down the rows of servers. The pair bounded up the metal stairs to reach the data center room.
Gray unlocked the door to the hallway with a swipe of his card.
Monk slapped Jason on the back. “Quick thinking, kid.”
Jason got knocked a step forward but collected himself. “It’s common for server farms to be overbuilt,” he explained, “to leave empty racks for future expansion. Figured DARPA would do the same.”
Gray led them out and sprinted for the stairs. “This way.”
Reaching the stairwell door, he found no body, only a pool of blood.
“See you had some trouble reaching us,” Monk said, noting the stain.
“More men were upstairs, too. They executed Dr. Raffee.”
Monk swore as they rushed upward, sprinting from landing to landing. “Any idea who they were?”
“They took the body below, but there are four more on the seventh floor. We might be able to ID them.”
That’s if there’s a building still standing after all of this.
They burst out onto the ground floor and ran across the lobby. Gray spotted the slack form of one of the building’s security guards collapsed behind his desk. Anger fired through him anew. He pictured the face of the assault team leader, and silently promised to even the score.
But that would have to wait.
Gray shoved out the front doors and raced across the apron of patios with the others. As they reached the sidewalk along North Randolph Street, a low rumble shook the ground, accompanied by a deep boom. Several of the building’s lower windows shattered outward. Moments later, black smoke began to roll out into the night.
In the distance, a chorus of sirens echoed, descending toward their location.
Monk sighed heavily. “So much for DARPA’s big move.”
Gray herded the others away, leaving the cleanup to the approaching emergency crews. He wanted to get back to Sigma command, but more important, he wanted answers.
Who the hell sent that team . . . and why?
8
April 28, 6:02 A.M. PDT
Sierra Nevada Mountains, California
I hope I’m doing this right . . .
Jenna stood in the staging tent at the rally point outside of the hot zone. Through the translucent walls, the sunrise was a muffled brightness to the east. The air inside the tent smelled of a slurry of acidic chemicals and body odor.
Something must have shown on her face because Dr. Cummings—Lisa, she reminded herself to call her—came over to her side. Both of them were already in their one-piece disposable Tyvek suits, which were said to be impermeable to most chemicals.
At least I certainly hope so.
As an additional safeguard, they were instructed to duct tape the ends of their gloves to the sleeves of their suits.
“Looks good,” Lisa said, checking her over. “I’ll help you into the next layer.”
“Thanks.”
They crossed to a row of bright red encapsulation suits that hung from a rolling rack. The second layer would cover them from head to toe, completely sealing them from the outside atmosphere. They would breathe inside via air masks and shoulder-harnessed oxygen tanks.
Together the two women helped each other into the respective suits. Jenna felt a claustrophobic moment of panic as the final seal was secured, gasping within her mask. Trying to hide it, she stood up and took a few steps, as if testing the weight of the tanks.
“Strutting the runway, I see.” This came over the voice-actuated radio fitted into their air masks.
She turned to see Gunnery Sergeant Drake salute her, equally encased in what was euphemistically called a bunny suit.
“How could I not?” she responded back. “Especially when I’m wearing the height of fashion.”
She tried to sound light, but it came out more doleful to her ear.
“You’ll be fine,” Drake said, reaching to give her a pat on the shoulder.
She shied away, fearful of ripping something.
“The suits are tougher than they look,” Lisa assured her.
The woman’s brother, Josh, stood behind her, also suited up. Another two Marines would be joining them in this expedition, but in her nervousness, she had already forgotten their names.
The radio gave a burst of digital noise, then a new voice intruded. “Transport’s ready to move you all out.”
It was Director Crowe. He was ten miles away, back at the Marine base, overseeing this mission and coordinating the emergency response teams around the region.
His other duty—and an important one—was to pet-sit Nikko.
She already missed the husky. His absence left her feeling unbalanced, but no one made biohazard suits for dogs.
“How’s the video feed from the cameras?” Lisa asked, waving a hand in front of her face.
“Perfect,” Painter replied. “With the satellite connection, I should be able to watch over your shoulders as you proceed. So be careful out there. Follow proper protocols and avoid any unnecessary risks.”
“Yes, Dad,” Josh mumbled under his breath, but it still came through clearly over their sensitive radios.
Painter ignored him and continued. “So far the margins of the hot zone seem to be remaining stable, but we don’t know what other dangers are out there.”
Jenna stared through the translucent walls of the tent, thinking about where they were going. The quarantine border was a mile off. The toxic gas had finally reached its maximum spread in the last few hours, settling to the ground. Chemical monitoring stations ringed the area, watching in case the winds shifted and stirred up the dirt and sand.