The third had dropped low behind an old-model Volvo, plainly recognizing the tides had turned.
Drake rose to his toes, glancing to Painter, to his wounded shoulder. “We got this last one,” he said, getting a confirmatory nod from his two teammates as they climbed out to the street. “This is what Marines are built for.”
Painter knew better than to protest. “Try to take him alive.”
As if sensing his coming demise, the hidden man started shouting—not at them, but from the sounds of it, into a phone or radio, likely calling for help or backup.
Painter caught a few words in Spanish, but the rest was a mix of some unknown native patois. One word in Spanish caught his attention. It was repeated again, more urgently.
Mujer.
Painter tensed, glancing back to the café.
Mujer meant woman.
“Where’s Jenna?” Painter asked, his heart pounding harder.
Malcolm kept his gaze on the Volvo across the street. “Inside. It’s all clear.”
Or maybe not.
Disregarding the threat of the shooter, Painter bolted for the door and rushed inside. He held his pistol up with his good arm and scanned the tables, the bodies, and waded through the aftermath of the gun battle. He checked behind the counter, the kitchen.
A spat of gunfire echoed to him from the street.
A moment later, Drake burst into the café through the front door. His face looked stricken, scared, revealing a depth of emotion beyond the simple concern for a teammate.
“Jenna?” he asked.
“Gone.” Painter nodded toward the street, knowing they had one chance of discovering who had taken her. “What about the third shooter?”
Drake understood the significance of his question, going paler. “He shot himself.”
Dead.
Painter breathed heavily.
Then we lost her.
8:22 A.M.
The world returned to Jenna on waves of pain. Blackness shattered into light that was too bright, sounds too loud. She lifted her head from the rattling floor of a van, igniting a lancing stab that ran from a knot above her left temple to her neck.
Oww . . .
She bit back a groan, fearful of attracting the attention of her kidnappers. She took a fast assessment of her situation, her heart pounding in her throat. From her vantage, all she could see out the window was the upper floors of buildings sweeping past and the tangles of power lines.
A trickle of blood traced fire down her left cheek.
She remembered the ambush, allowing anger to hold back the terror icing at the edges of her self-control. She had been crouched behind the café counter, watching Malcolm and Schmitt cross to the window and start shooting into the street. The deafening barrage covered the approach of her attacker from the kitchen area. The only warning was a soft honeyed scent.
She turned to find a dark woman with shadowy eyes crouched a yard away, the balls of her bare feet positioned perfectly to avoid the broken glass on the floor—not to avoid getting cut, but in a feral level of stealth.
Before Jenna could react, the woman lunged, her arm sweeping wide whip-fast. The butt of a pistol cracked against Jenna’s skull. Her vision flared brightly, then collapsed into a black hole, dragging her consciousness away with it.
How long was I out?
She didn’t think it was long. Not more than a minute or two, she guessed.
From the front passenger seat, a face turned to peer back at her. Long black hair framed a darkly beautiful face. Her skin was the color of warm caramel, her black eyes aglow. Still, an edge of threat shone through those handsome features, from the hard edge of her full lips to the glassy-eyed menace in her gaze. It was like confronting the cold countenance of a panther in a tree, displaying nature at its most beautiful—and deadly.
Jenna wanted to retreat from that gaze, but she held the other’s stare, refusing to back down. Not that Jenna could do anything more. Her wrists and ankles were secured with plastic ties.
The bright tinkle of a ringtone interrupted the standoff. The woman twisted back around as the driver passed her a cell phone.
She brought it to her ear. “Oui,” she answered, her voice as silky dark as her complexion. She listened for a long breath, then glanced back to Jenna. “Oui, j’ai fini.”
Jenna knew she must be the topic of this conversation. Someone was confirming that she’d been captured, or at the very least that one member of the American team had been grabbed. She strained to eavesdrop on the rest of the conversation, but she didn’t speak French. Still, she could guess who was on the other end of that line.
Cutter Elwes.
Apparently he must have had someone watching that guesthouse, making sure any trail that Amy had left in Boa Vista was continually under surveillance. Or maybe that kindly proprietor was not as kindly as she appeared and had sent word of the Americans who had come calling. Either way, Cutter must have ordered a local team to apprehend one of them, someone he could interrogate to find out how much the world knew about him, about his operations.
As a dead man, he plainly wished to remain in his currently deceased state.
The van fled faster as it broke free of the central district of Boa Vista. Jenna craned over her shoulder, fearful for Drake and the others. Had they survived the firefight? She prayed so, but she held out no hope that they would be able to track or follow her.
She faced around again, recognizing a hard truth.
I’m on my own.
After several more minutes, the van braked hard, sliding Jenna forward a couple of feet. She scooted up. Out the front window spread a rusted slum, the homes densely packed, clearly fabricated from whatever could be scavenged. But this wasn’t her kidnappers’ destination.
An old helicopter rested on a dirt pad. Its rotors already chopped at the air, preparing to depart.
Jenna despaired.
Where are they taking me?
8:32 A.M.
Still in Cutter’s main lab, Kendall stood at the threshold to a neighboring Level Four biosafety facility, where a few technicians labored inside, their suits tethered with yellow air hoses. A moment ago, Cutter had stepped away to take a call. Kendall breathed deeply, still struggling to decide whether to help the bastard or not.
If I don’t, the entire world could be destroyed.
If I do, would the end result be the same?
He balanced on a dagger’s edge, his decision teetering upon one unanswered question: What was Cutter’s plan for Kendall’s synthetic eVLP? He remembered the man’s worrisome description of that perfect empty shell.
A Trojan horse . . . a flawless genetic delivery system.
Cutter clearly planned on filling that Trojan horse—but with what?