The Extinction Files: The Complete Series, page 93
“Right.”
One of the Crown Victorias led them onto the tarmac, its lights off, the passenger window down, the short-haired man poised with an automatic rifle. Desmond saw Conner’s Suburban parked at the entrance to the airport, blocking the gates. The two security operatives stood beside it, guns at the ready.
The plane was almost to the runway when the first shots ricocheted off the Crown Victoria. But the shots didn’t come from the Suburban—the angle was wrong.
Desmond dashed to the opposite side of the plane, waited, and saw a muzzle flare from the grass on the Bair Island side.
“Shooter in the grass!” he shouted. “Bay side. Eleven o’clock.”
More shots. The Crown Victoria sparked like a pack of firecrackers. A clang sounded off the plane’s fuselage, then another.
“He’s trying to shoot the tires!” Desmond called.
The airport had only one runway. He and Ward had to take off now or surrender.
A round of automatic gunfire sounded, this time from behind the plane, the bullets striking the tail fin.
“Hey!” Desmond turned toward the cockpit, but a massive explosion drowned him out. Through the window he saw the Crown Victoria engulfed in flames, the front left corner lifting into the air. The car almost flipped, but settled back onto the ground.
A grenade—and an expert shot at that.
Ward swerved the plane. Desmond flew across the cabin, rolled off a seat, and hit the floor at the base of a couch. He heard more shots hitting the plane’s metal skin.
The plane accelerated. From the floor, Desmond saw Ward pushing the throttle forward. He crawled up onto the nearest seat and peered out the windows. There were three shooters running down the tarmac, their rifles flaring. It reminded him of the orange lights flashing on switches in a data center in the Rook facility, with his brother at his side—the man now directing the shooting.
The wheels lifted off the ground. The aircraft wobbled. The engines roared, and the shooting stopped.
Desmond climbed over the seats to the back of the cabin for a better view. One of the shooters ran back to the burning Crown Victoria, where the agent in the passenger seat had climbed out. He pulled the man up and searched him. And then the darkness consumed the scene, and all Desmond could see were the beady runway lights. The Bayshore Freeway was dark and empty—something he had never seen as long as he had lived in the valley.
He walked to the cockpit, where he found Ward talking into a smartphone, giving orders and updates.
“Hey,” Desmond whispered.
Ward held the phone to his shoulder.
“One of the agents got out of the car. They’ve got him—”
“I’ve got X1 units inbound.”
Desmond didn’t give that plan much success. Conner had proved himself quite adept at urban warfare.
“Does he know where we’re going?”
Ward rolled his eyes. “Hughes, I don’t even know where we’re going.”
“What?”
“Hold on.”
Ward returned to his call, which apparently was with Rubicon ops.
Desmond settled into the co-pilot seat and studied the instrument panel. Fuel level was good. Not dropping. There were a dozen other readouts, only a few of which he understood.
When Ward ended the call, Desmond said, “So where—”
The man took a folded paper from his inside jacket pocket and handed it over.
Desmond opened it and read the single line of handwritten text.
“What is this?”
“Apparently, it’s a note from your past self to whatever the hell you are now. You gave it to me in that hangar back there a month ago when you asked us to dig your tunnel. Said it was my eyes only. Not even Avery.”
Desmond read the sentence again.
It lies in the bend, where blood turned to water and darkness turned to light.
“What does it mean?” Ward asked.
“I assume you’ve been trying to figure it out?”
“We have. Best at the CIA and FBI counterintelligence have been working on it.”
“Best guesses?”
“The bend, mention of water and blood, they were thinking the Red River, maybe a location in Oklahoma. Couple of guys thought it was the Blood River in South Africa, the reference to the Zulu battle in 1838 and then 40, the Dutch alliance with the indigenous tribes the reference to the light and dark.”
“Good theories,” Desmond said. And they were. But they weren’t correct.
“You don’t know the answer?”
“I do. Fly east. To Oklahoma.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Ward engaged the autopilot, stood, and walked out of the cockpit. Hughes was sprawled out on the couch that ran along the left wall of the cabin, sawing logs. Whatever his brother had done to him, it had left him shaken, weak, and sleepy.
Ward eyed the sleeping figure. Initially, Hughes had been a fulcrum with which Avery would split open the Citium and stop a conspiracy. But somewhere along the way, he had become an altogether different entity to her. Precious. Untouchable. An item she loved, nearly worshiped.
And it was Ward who had brought them together. He had recruited Avery right out of college, her mother dead, her father in assisted living, then round-the-clock care. She was pure of heart when she showed up at his office in Research Triangle Park, a truly good person. But the world had changed that. Her job had changed her, and he had given her that job.
And then this monster, Hughes, had changed her.
Now Ward didn’t know where her allegiance lay—to the enigma snoring on the couch, or to him and the United States government. Sex changes everything, Ward thought. It was a variable counterintelligence agencies and computer algorithms would never be able to factor in. Almost like a viral infection that rewires a brain, changes emotions, even alters the lens through which a person sees the world.
Perhaps it didn’t matter. Hughes was their only way in. These people—the Citium—were a black box buried in a black box, and Ward had no choice but to follow this rabbit hole wherever it led. There was no other play. He needed Avery, and they needed Hughes.
And things were going to get messy.
He took out the sat phone and called his best agent, perhaps one of the best who ever lived.
Chapter 58
As a boy in Stalingrad, Yuri had learned to hide. To slow his breathing and remain quiet and listen. For years, he had lived like that, moving from one place to another as the siege dragged on and the city crumbled block by block, leaving dead bodies in its wake and driving the living back, like rats out of a sewer. That’s what his childhood had felt like, and that’s how he felt in that moment, hiding in the Cave of Altamira. But he did it then and he did it now, because he had to—in order to survive. He wasn’t above doing whatever he had to. So he listened, and when he heard the vehicles crank, he listened more closely, waiting for the sound to fade into the distance.
He ran out, into the blinding afternoon sun, shielding his eyes as he moved to the visitor center. His men were alive—tied up and gagged. The phones and radios lay in a shredded heap. That was smart—and unfortunate for him.
“Quien habla español?” he yelled.
Several men writhed and lifted up, looked toward him as they screamed into the gags. He untied them. He needed locals, someone who knew the area.
“Aeropuerto?” one of the men asked.
“No,” Yuri said quickly. “We need a car first. Then a boat. They’ll soon be watching the airports.” He motioned to the door. “Go. Split up and find a car. Return here, and I’ll make sure you escape.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Yuri and three of the mercenaries were riding in a Dacia Sandero, bouncing along the curving, hilly roads, heading toward the coast. At the small town of Suances, they found a yacht club. It was half empty, and the boats that remained had apparently been abandoned. There was an Azimut 50 among them, with almost five hundred gallons of fuel in the tank, and jugs of water in the lower deck. They gathered food from the other boats and a working sat phone.
As the vessel powered out of the harbor and into the Bay of Biscay, Yuri dialed the Citium Situation Room. He was quickly transferred to Melissa Whitmeyer. From the tone of her voice, he knew something was wrong—and it wasn’t what had happened at Altamira.
“Sir, Mr. McClain has been trying to get in touch with you.”
Yuri sat down on the plush white leather sofa and stared at the teak floor. “Put him through.”
Conner’s voice was heavy with emotion. “I lost him.”
“It’s okay—”
“No. It’s not.”
“The tracker?” Yuri asked.
“Still in place, but…”
“Don’t lose hope, Conner. This isn’t over.” Yuri paused. “Where is he now?”
“Heading east. Toward Oklahoma.”
“He’s going home. Maybe he hid Rendition there.”
“Maybe. Where were you?”
“We have had a setback here.”
Conner was silent a long moment. “He’ll tell them where the island is.”
“We don’t know that. Hughes was drugged when he left the island. Even if he marked the stars, he couldn’t find us.”
“I lost the doctor, too—Park. He’ll definitely tell them.”
That was a problem. But Conner needed something else now, and Yuri knew exactly how to give it to him. “Listen to me. None of that will matter soon. If we complete the Looking Glass, nothing else will matter. Focus, Conner. Now is our moment. We must persist. We always knew this would be difficult. We are being tested.”
Conner’s tone changed, the dread and worry fading away. “What do you want me to do?”
“Get to an airport. And be ready when I call you.”
When Conner disconnected, Yuri dialed Whitmeyer again.
“I need a plane. And a new team.”
“Santander is the closest—”
“No. That’s where Shaw went. She’ll have put them on alert.”
“Stand by.”
He heard her making calls in the background and typing on her keyboard. “I can get you a plane in Bilbao, but personnel is going to be a problem. We allocated everyone to Altamira. You could go back and—”
“I can’t go back. Prep the plane. And keep an eye on Hughes’s tracker. Is the biometrics working?”
“Yes. Heartbeat was through the roof during his escape. I think he’s sleeping now.”
“Good.”
Yuri walked to the edge of the main deck and glanced up at the sun deck, where one of the Citium Security operatives was driving the boat, the other smoking a cigarette. The third man had gone down to the lower deck to one of the cabins to sleep.
“I have another tracker you need to activate,” Yuri said quietly. “I want you to allocate all resources—and I mean every satellite we have or can get control of. We can’t lose this one.”
“Understood.”
Chapter 59
Avery watched the screens in horror. The situation room at the Dallas–Fort Worth airport was in chaos. Since the internet had gone down and martial law had been declared, the unease gripping the nation had grown by the day. Food rationing had added to the fear, and there were now riots across the nation, protests, even bands of paramilitary groups organizing, gearing up to fight. Those who had survived the X1 pandemic were afraid the next disaster was already starting—and that they might not survive this one.
The scenes made her realize how delicate the social fabric of the human race truly was. People’s confidence in government and police—the order of things—was the glue that held society together. And that glue was coming unstuck. Once it was gone, instilling that trust again would be very difficult. The damage being done might soon be irreparable.
Her first call after landing at DFW had been to the Raleigh-Durham X1 ops center to check on her father. He was living in the camp at the Dean Dome in Chapel Hill, where David Ward had promised her that he would be taken care of, that his name was on the list of high-value individuals. Even without the crisis, he needed taking care of. Alzheimer's took more of him every time she visited.
“Agent Price,” one of the operators said. “You’ve got a call.”
She put on the headset. “Price.”
Ward’s voice was muffled by background noise—an airplane, Avery thought. “We’ve got him.”
“Hughes? How? When?”
“He came through the tunnel a half hour ago. There’s something else. He remembers everything. Meeting me at the airport, asking me to build the tunnel. Everything.”
Everything, Avery thought. Including them. She had told herself that she didn’t care if he remembered. But she did. Now that he had regained his memories, she could admit it to herself: she cared. A lot. And she wanted to see him. She wanted—needed—to sort out what they were. But there was a more pressing matter.
“Rendition?”
“He knows, or at least, he thinks he knows where he hid the key to finding it.”
“Where are you now?”
“In the air.”
“Destination?”
“We’ll get to that. But we need to make a stop first.” Ward hesitated. “We need to check him out.”
“No—”
“I promise you he won’t be harmed. Unless he makes us.”
“I swear, if you hurt him or kill him, I’m done.”
Silence on the line. Then: “Are you finished, Agent?”
Avery sighed. “Where can we meet?”
“What about Shaw? The older Shaw?”
“We’ve reached the end of the road here. She’s waiting. I can tell.”
“Waiting for what?”
“For whatever Desmond is going to do next. Or Yuri. I’m not sure.”
A long pause, then Ward said, “So we either take her off the table or we keep her close.”
“She still knows more than anyone else. But she has an agenda. I don’t trust her.”
“It’s your call.”
“Okay.”
“There’s something else. I know how you feel about him, Avery. I need to know you can set that aside. There’s more at stake here.”
Her tone turned combative. “What do you want me to say?”
“If we’re standing in a room—him and me, hands raised, you on the other end of a Sig Sauer, who do you shoot?”
Avery exhaled into the phone’s receiver. “I’d shoot him in the shoulder and kick you in the nuts.”
Ward couldn’t help but laugh.
“Probably punch you in the face for good measure,” she added. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come up. Now, I’m going to need that location.”
“Oklahoma City. Hurry.”
When Avery disconnected the call, she found Lin standing close by, staring directly at her. The older woman motioned to a nearby conference room.
When they were alone inside, Lin closed the door and said, “Desmond?”
“He’s escaped.”
“Status?”
“We believe he knows where Rendition is. He’s en route.”
Lin stepped closer. “Good.”
“Why do you need it? It’s part of what you’re doing too, isn’t it? Your answer to Yuri’s Looking Glass.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Miss Price, we don’t have—”
“What don’t we have? Time?”
“Precisely.”
“Well, you’re going to make time. Because you have to. Because I’m the only way to get to Desmond. As of right now, I can have you confined to this facility.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m not. I’m tired of being a pawn in your games. Yuri’s and Desmond’s too. I’m tired of not knowing what’s going on. You’re going to tell me what Rendition is and why you need it—or you’re not leaving this facility.”
Lin broke eye contact. “Very well. Rendition was the last piece of the Looking Glass constructed. And arguably the most complex. It was Desmond’s project and life’s work, as you likely know, given how close the two of you became.” Lin studied Avery for a second, but the younger woman said nothing. “I want it for a very different reason than Yuri.”
For the next ten minutes, Lin told Avery what the reason was, and what the Looking Glass was, and her alternative—the Rabbit Hole, she called it. It was driven by a particle accelerator about fifty miles from the Dallas area.
“That’s where you sent the samples—and Peyton. To the accelerator?”
“Correct.”
“When you say we need to rendezvous with Desmond, you mean…”
“You and I, Miss Price.”
“Not Nigel, or Adams, or Rodriguez.”
Lin nodded.
“Because one of them let Yuri loose,” Avery said. “Or one of us. Or Peyton.”
“It’s only logical to leave them here,” Lin said. “You and I will go.”
Almost against her will, Avery’s imagination took over. She saw herself descending the plane’s staircase, Desmond waiting on the tarmac. It would be so different from their reunion on the Kentaro Maru. And with Yuri still at large, looming, no doubt searching for Desmond, a final conflict was likely. It could be her last chance to see him.
Peyton’s last opportunity, too.
Avery considered that. Peyton had helped save Avery’s life on the Isle of Citium. And despite their past disagreements, Peyton had always been straight with her. The woman deserved to see Desmond again, especially if it was her last chance, just like Avery’s. Avery owed that to her—and to Desmond, no matter which one of them he chose.
“We’re taking Peyton with us.”
“No—”
“She comes along or you don’t. Decide.”
Chapter 60
Desmond awoke less sore and groggy than before. The plane was dropping. Through the oval windows he saw a line of steel and glass buildings: dark tombstones in an urban graveyard. Desert beyond. Not Oklahoma City. He forced himself to move, up, off the couch, through the cabin and to the cockpit door, which was closed.
