Kill Shot (8 page)

Her lips quirked in either a grimace or an
attempt at a smile, he couldn’t be sure which, but she didn’t
answer the question.

“Now that we’ve had our moment of bonding,
you might want to change out of your jammies for our recon meeting.
Jack lives to torture, and he’ll be here in about thirty
seconds.”

Even as she said it there was a knock at the
door.

“Punctual as always.”

Ethan speared his fingers through his hair
and went to do just that, not sure if he’d passed or failed
whatever test she’d just given him. At least he was still
alive.

***

“This is very cool,” Jack said, circling the
table of a 3-D hologram of the National Museum in Tehran. “Nice
going, kid.”

“We’ll need at least two men on the inside,”
Grace said. “Two more on point, and then Wonderboy here can set up
as home base.”

“Three on the inside would be better,” Ethan
said. He changed screens so the interior of the museum glowed with
blue lights. Splotches of red lit up where cameras were located,
and green lines crisscrossed in the main showroom where infrared
beams rotated on a timer.

“That’s too many bodies,” Grace argued.
“Three gives the opportunity for someone to get left behind if
things go to shit.”

“Agreed,” Jack said. “Two can do it. Where’s
the entry point?”

Ethan narrowed the hologram to a small
section. “The roof. They’ve got skylights, but I’ve got something
to get through the security there.”

“What about guards?” Grace asked.

“That’s where things get tricky. The guards
are hired guns, no more than a couple dozen, and only a handful of
those are official employees on record. The government is still
pretty shaky with the new transition, and money is scarce, so
they’ve hired out without asking a lot of questions to fill holes.
There have been threats against some of their national treasures,
so that’s why security at the museum has been upped.

“There are a lot of factions who still
oppose the Iranian government, and from the background checks I’ve
done on some of the guards, they definitely fall into that camp. We
could always try to pay the guards off. Several of them are barely
scraping by.”

“No. Too big of a chance that one of them
will cave under pressure if questioned.” Jack rubbed the back of
his neck. “Let me make some calls. I have a few men I trust who are
still in the area. We need to know exactly how many we might be
facing in and outside the building. We’ve got a good start
here.”

Grace’s laptop beeped from the living area,
and she went to see what it had come up with. Ethan’s apartment was
set up much like hers. An open living space where there were no
walls between the kitchen and dining room, and a private bed and
bath off the kitchen. The only difference in their spaces was that
Ethan had a large workroom filled with electronics and his 3-D
Hologram machine, which he for some reason felt the need to
christen Wanda. The furniture in Ethan’s apartment was more
masculine and modern than hers—sleek black leather and glass
tables—and he definitely had more clutter. There was a basket of
clean clothes on the floor, computer parts and gadgets on every
available surface, and a video game console and wires scattered
every direction.

She stepped around the mess and sat on the
edge of the sofa, pulling the laptop closer to the edge of the
coffee table. She’d been running probable scientists and doing
research on them since she’d left Gabe in the gym the night before.
There was no way she’d have been able to go back to sleep after
that fun encounter. So work had been her only option. Ethan and
Gabe weren’t the only two who knew how to use a computer, though
she wasn’t afraid to admit that her skills came nowhere close to
theirs.

“What’s up, Red?” Jack called from the other
room. “Anything exciting?”

“I think I’ve got a hit on a scientist who’s
a viable candidate for recreating The Passover Project. I did some
research last night and ran some probabilities, and less than half
a percent of all scientists at various universities and institutes
around the world have the genius to even guess at a formula as
complex as this. And the percentage shrinks even more when you
narrow the scientific field. We’re looking at four, maybe five men
who can pull this off.”

“So who’s your top pick?” Jack asked.

“The deeper level background checks just
finished, and it looks like a Dr. Allen Standridge quietly resigned
from MIT three years ago after a couple of graduate students
complained they saw him experimenting on human test subjects
without the people’s knowledge. It was never proven since it was
their word against his, and Dr. Standridge insisted the students
were just holding a grudge because he’d rejected their theses. But
it made the MIT board nervous enough to ask for his early
retirement and resignation.”

“And what’s Dr. Standridge been up to for
the past couple of years?” Jack asked.

“That’s the million-dollar question. He’s
disappeared, or at least he’s hidden himself well enough that my
limited tracking abilities can’t find him. I couldn’t find a death
certificate or an obituary. And his name’s not attached to any new
project. I figured I’d turn this over to Ethan. He’ll be able to
dig deeper.”

Ethan followed Jack into the room, his
glasses skewed on his face and his hair mussed. “Rad. I like spying
on other people. You find out the damndest things. They’re
strange.”

Jack snorted out a laugh, and Grace buried
her face in the computer so Ethan wouldn’t see her smile. God,
everything about this mission felt odd to her. She’d cut herself
off so completely for the last two years that being around anyone
was a culture shock. Guilt ate at her. She shouldn’t be smiling and
enjoying the excitement of starting a new team mission while her
daughter was buried in the ground back in Virginia. Not while her
murder was still unavenged and the monster who had killed her was
roaming free.

Her smile disappeared, and she watched Ethan
pull a can of soda from the fridge and pop the top, oblivious to
their amusement or anything else. She and Jack had been rotating
the room, checking their positions in the windows and watching for
anyone outside who happened to pass by the building more than once
or seem too interested. They’d been doing the things they’d been
trained to do to stay alive. But Ethan just existed in his own
world. He’d make a terrible field agent, and she hoped to God they
didn’t get him killed. She had enough blood on her hands.

“What are you guys staring at?” Ethan asked,
his drink to his lips. Grace looked at Jack and she could tell he’d
just had the same thought. Ethan was either going to be a great
help or a huge hindrance. Only time would tell.

A hard knock on the apartment door kept them
from having to answer Ethan’s question. Gabe came into the room,
his iPad cradled under his arm and his phone in the other hand.

“We’ve got another infection site. It’s the
same MO,” he said, placing his things on the coffee table before
looking at Grace.

The tension in the room skyrocketed, and she
broke his gaze, returning her attention to the computer screen. She
heard Jack mumble something profane under his breath, and Ethan, as
unworldly as he was, asked, “What’s going on?”

Gabe headed into the kitchen and came back
with a cup of coffee. He took a sip and grimaced, and Grace felt a
small satisfaction at his pained look.

“Christ, Grace, do you always have to boil
it to death?” Gabe went back into the kitchen and poured milk into
the mug.

Jack broke the tension by picking up Gabe’s
iPad and scrolling through the pictures of the new infection site
he had stored on it. “This site isn’t wiped clean like the others.
They didn’t finish the job.”

“No,” Gabe said. “I’ve been monitoring the
World Health Organization’s communications since Bennett sent me
that package a couple of weeks ago. I got a hit about five a.m.
from a panicked caller in central Mexico that a small native tribe
was showing signs of an unknown virus. There are more than a
hundred dead, but they’re at the seventy-two hour mark, and there
are still survivors.”

“Maybe it really is an isolated epidemic,”
Grace said.

“Maybe, except a witness came forward and
said a white man had been asking for directions to the village. The
WHO doctors at the site said they’ve never seen any type of virus
like this one before. They said it’s unheard of for a disease that
takes affect so quickly and violently to stay contained within one
tribe.”

“So the question is, what’s the nature of
that particular tribe—that it only affected them and no one else?”
Grace asked.

“Bingo,” Gabe said with a nod. “The Ahnimado
Tribe prides themselves on being pureblood. They’re a tribe of less
than a hundred people who all share the same genes. Marriages must
take place within the family, and no outsiders are allowed in their
village.”

Grace took the iPad from Jack and looked at
the pictures. “So if we assume whoever made this batch of The
Passover Project used a specific Ahnimado’s DNA as a test for the
weapon, then we can also assume that they’re getting closer to
finding the formula. The Ahnimado have all fallen ill because they
share common DNA linked to their pureblood lineage.”

Gabe nodded and said, “The virus doesn’t
seem to be contagious, and the doctor said they didn’t have much
hope for the remaining survivors. It’s as if they’d all been
purposely wiped out.”

“Did the witness give an ID of the man?”
Jack asked.

“I’ve just put Logan on a plane to go find
out. He’s going to check out the site in person and see if there
are any survivors who are able to speak.” Gabe turned to Ethan. “Is
there progress on the museum?”

“Jack has some ideas,” Ethan said,
shrugging. “I just build the incredible machines. Someone else does
all the real work.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “We’ve got the basics,
but I’ll feel better about it after I contact some people. The kid
has the design of the structure right, and we could get in and out
if that was all there was to it. It’s the nonelectronic aspects
that are going to give us the most trouble. Bullets beat machines
any day.”

“Let me know if you need any help,” Gabe
said, gathering his things and heading for the door. “Grace, I need
to speak to you a moment.”

Grace followed Gabe reluctantly into the
hallway, aware that two curious stares followed them out. She
closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, crossing her
arms over her chest and mentally preparing for Gabe to bring up
what happened between them earlier that morning.

“I have a contact who said Tussad is
visiting his sister in Abadan.”

Grace straightened from the wall, the news
not what she’d been expecting. “What? How long has he been there?
How did you find out so fast? Dammit, I’ve paid contacts near there
to let me know as soon as he steps foot on Iranian soil. Why the
hell wasn’t I contacted?”

“We both know that what you’re paying your
contacts can be beaten. It’s why you agreed to this deal in the
first place. My pockets are deeper than yours. Besides, I’ve had
all your communications intercepted since you’ve been here.”

“Goddammit, Gabe—”

“You work for me now, Grace. You agreed. No
outside jobs. I gave you my word we’d get Tussad. I’m
delivering.”

“You can’t cut me off from my contacts
completely. I won’t be here working for you forever.”

“Maybe not, but we’ll cross that bridge when
we come to it.” He waited her out while she fumed silently. There
was no way he was going to let her go back to the life she’d been
living the last two years. Not even the most hardened criminals
lasted long in that kind of work.

“Fine. Tell me about Tussad.”

“He’s been in Abadan since early yesterday
morning. It’s up to you if you want to try and flush him out now or
wait until later.”

Gabe’s face was unreadable as he waited for
her to make a decision.

“Does your contact think he’ll still be
there by the time we can fly in?” she asked.

“According to my contact, Tussad is there
for the three-day birthday celebration of his mother. He’ll be
there at least another twenty-four hours.”

Grace nodded and swiped her card in the
elevator. “Then we don’t have a moment to spare. I assume you have
a weapons room in this monstrosity?”

“You could say that.”

“Good. When do we leave?”

Washington, D.C.

William Sloane had just sat down to
breakfast on his private terrace when his butler tapped gently on
the door.

“Excuse me, sir. There’s a Mr. Shawn Kimball
at the door. He’s quite insistent on seeing you, though he’s not on
your list of callers for the day. He said you’d want to hear what
he has to say. Should I send him away?”

“I’ll see him. Send him in, Peters.”

“Very good, sir.”

Peters backed out of the room, and Sloane
slathered his English muffin with butter. He glanced at his watch
and saw it was just after seven. He had meetings that started at
eight, and he was already dressed in an expensively cut suit the
color of charcoal. Ruby cufflinks glinted in the sun when he turned
his wrists just right, and business documents sat neatly stacked at
his elbow.

He was an affluent man, though a busy one,
and nothing could ruffle the calm exterior and quiet determination
that had made people give him the nickname of Bulldog over the
years. He didn’t take his attention from the meal or papers in
front of him as soft-soled footsteps made their way closer. He
chewed quietly and looked out at the blooming gardens he’d had
built in the back of his Georgetown home.