“The spotted hyena,” Baldric continued. “The species is the second-largest carnivore in Africa, capable of dropping a bull wildebeest all by itself.”
Gray frowned. The creature on the monitor was no ordinary hyena. It massed three to four times the normal size. And the pale fur. Some combination of gigantism and albinism. A mutated monstrosity.
“What did you do to it?” he asked, unable to keep the disgust from his voice. He also wanted to keep the man talking, buying time. He matched gazes with Monk, then returned his attention to the old man.
“We made the creature better, stronger.” Baldric glanced to his grandson. Isaak continued to watch the play dispassionately. “Did we not, Isaak?”
“Ja, grootvader.”
“Prehistoric cave pictures in Europe show the great ancestor of today’s hyena. The giant hyena. We’ve found a way to return Crocuta to its former glory.” Baldric spoke with the same scientific dispassion as when he had discussed breeding black orchids. “Even enhanced the species’ intelligence by incorporating human stem cells into its cerebral cortex. Fascinating results.”
Gray had read of similar experiments done with mice. At Stanford, scientists had produced mice whose brains were one percent human. What the hell was going on here?
Baldric stepped to the blackboard with the five runic symbols. He tapped the board with the cane. “We have a series of Cray XT3 supercomputers working on Hugo’s code. Once solved, this will allow us to do the same with mankind. To bring about the next evolution of man. Out of Africa again, man will rise anew, putting an end to the mud races and racial mixing, a purity will supersede all. It only waits to be unlocked from our corrupted genetic code and purified.”
Gray heard echoes of the Nazis’ Übermensch philosophy, the superman myth. The old man was mad. He had to be. But Gray noted the lucidity of his gaze. And on the screen lay proof of some monstrous success toward that end.
Gray’s attention shifted to Isaak as he tapped a key and the mutated hyena vanished. Insight flashed through him. The albinism in the hyena. Isaak and his twin sister. The other white-blond assassins. Children all. Baldric hadn’t been experimenting only with orchids and hyenas.
“Now let us return to the matter of Painter Crowe,” the old man said. He waved a hand toward the screen. “Now that you understand what awaits the young meisje in the cage if you don’t answer our questions truthfully. No more games.”
Gray studied the screen, the girl in the cage. He could not let anything happen to Fiona. If nothing else, he needed to buy her time. The girl had been pulled into all of this because of his own clumsy inquiries in Copenhagen. She was his responsibility. And more than that, he liked the girl, respected her, even when she was being a pain in the ass. Gray knew what he had to do.
He faced Baldric.
“What do you want to know?”
“Unlike you, Painter Crowe has proven more of an adversary than we had anticipated. He has vanished after escaping our ambush. You’re going to help us find out where he’s gone.”
“How?”
“By contacting Sigma command. We have a scrambled, untraceable line. You’re going to break communication silence and find out what Sigma knows about the Black Sun project and where Painter Crowe has gone into hiding. And any hint of treachery…” Baldric nodded to the monitor.
Gray now understood the strident lesson here. They wanted Gray to understand fully, strangling any hope of deception. Save Fiona or betray Sigma?
The decision was momentarily postponed as one of the guards returned with another of Gray’s demands.
“My hand!” Monk called out, noting the prosthesis carried by the guard. He struggled, his elbows still bound behind his back.
Baldric waved the guard forward. “Give the prosthesis to Isaak.”
Isaak spoke up, speaking Dutch. “Did the lab clear it of any hidden weapons?”
The man nodded. “Ja, sir. All clear.”
Still Isaak inspected the prosthetic hand. It was a marvel of DARPA engineering, incorporating direct peripheral nerve control through the titanium wrist contact points. It also was engineered with advanced mechanics and actuators that allowed precise movements and sensory input.
Monk stared at Gray.
Gray noted Monk’s left fingers had finished tapping a code on the contact points of his right wrist’s stump.
Gray nodded, stepping closer to Monk.
There was one other feature of DARPA’s electronic prosthesis.
It was wireless.
A radioed signal passed between Monk and his prosthetic hand.
In response, the disembodied prosthetic clenched in Isaak’s grip.
Fingers formed a fist.
Except for a raised middle finger.
“Screw you,” Monk mumbled.
Gray grabbed Monk’s elbow and yanked him toward the double doors that led into the main house.
The explosion was not large—no more than an extra loud and brilliant flash grenade. The charge had been blended directly into the plastic sleeve of the outer hand, impossible to detect. And while it wasn’t much, it proved enough of a distraction. Cries of surprise and pain erupted from the guards. Gray and Monk slammed through the double doors, fled down the hall, and took the first turn. Out of direct sight, they pounded across polished hardwood floors.
Alarms immediately erupted, clanging and urgent.
They needed an escape route ASAP.
Gray noted wide stairs leading up. He guided Monk to them.
“Where we going?” Monk asked.
“Up, up, up…” Gray said as they fled, taking two steps at a time. Security would expect them to make a break for the nearest door or window. He knew another way out. In his head, a schematic of the manor house revolved. He had studied the estate closely as they were marched over here. Gray concentrated, trusting his sense of direction and position in space.
“This way.” He hauled Monk off a landing and down another corridor. They were on the sixth floor. Alarms continued.
“Where—?” Monk began again.
“High ground,” Gray answered and pointed toward the end of the corridor where a door awaited. “To the walkway in the canopy.”
But it wouldn’t be that easy.
As if someone had overheard their plan, an inner metal shutter began lowering over the exit door. An automated lockdown.
“Hurry!” Gray yelled.
The shutter trundled quickly, already three-quarters closed.
Gray sped faster, leaving Monk behind. He grabbed a hall chair as he ran past it and flung it ahead. It landed on the hardwood floor and skittered across the polished surface. Gray chased after it. The chair struck the closed outer door as the inner metal shutter clamped down atop it. Gears ground. A red light flared above the doorway. Malfunction. Gray was sure some warning bulb was already flaring in the mansion’s main security nest.
As he reached the door, the wooden chair legs splintered and cracked, crushed beneath the grinding shutter.
Monk ran up, out of breath, arms still clamped behind his back.
Gray ducked under the chair and reached for the knob on the exit door. It was a strain with the shutter blocking the way.
His fingers clamped on the knob and twisted.
Locked.
“Goddamn it!” he swore.
More of the chair cracked. Behind them, the tromp of boots echoed, coming fast up the stairs. Voices barked orders.
Gray twisted around. “Brace me!” he said to Monk. He would have to kick the far door open.
On his back, legs pistoned up and ready, Gray leaned against Monk’s shoulder for leverage.
Then the exit door simply popped open ahead of him, revealing a pair of legs in camouflaged khakis. One of the walkway patrols must have noted the malfunction and come to investigate.
Gray aimed for the man’s shins and kicked out.
Caught by surprise, the man’s legs went out from under him. He hit his head with a clang against the
shutter and landed hard on the planks. Gray dove out and clocked the man again with his heel. His body went slack.
Monk followed, rolling to Gray, but not before kicking the trapped chair free of the shutter. The metal security gate continued its descent and slammed closed.
Gray relieved the guard of his weapons. He used a knife to slice away Monk’s bindings and passed him the man’s sidearm, an HK Mark 23 semiautomatic pistol. Gray confiscated the rifle.
Weapons in hand, they fled down the canopy bridge to the first crossroads. It divided just as the bridge reached the jungle. They checked both directions. So far it was all clear.
“We’re going to have to split up,” Gray said. “Better our chances. You have to get help, get to a phone, contact Logan.”
“What about you?”
Gray didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
“Gray…she may already be dead.”
“We don’t know that.”
Monk searched his face. He had seen the monster on the computer screen. He knew Gray had no choice.
Monk nodded.
Without another word, they fled in opposite directions.
6:34 A.M.
Khamisi reached the canopy walkway, scaling up a tree on the opposite side of the glade. He moved swiftly and silently.
Below, the ukufa still circled the tree, guarding its trapped prey. The loud bang a moment ago had startled the ukufa. It had dropped from the tree, wary and cautious. It stalked around the tree again, ears high. Alarms and klaxons echoed out from the manor house.
The commotion also concerned Khamisi.
Had Tau and Njongo been discovered?
Or maybe their camouflaged base camp outside the estate grounds had been found? Their rallying point was disguised as a Zulu hunting campsite, one of the many such nomadic camps. Had someone realized it was more than that?
Whatever the cause of the alarm, the noise at least had made the giant hyena monster—the ukufa—more guarded. Khamisi used its distraction to reach one of the overhead bridges. He rolled onto the planks, freeing his rifle. Anxiety kept his senses sharp. Terror, however, had shed from him. Khamisi had noted the creature’s ambling gait, the soft rattling growl, a few sharp nervous cackles escalating into whoops.
Normal hyena behavior.
Though monstrous in size, it was not something mythic or supernatural.
Khamisi took strength in its flesh.
On the bridge, he hurried along the planks to where it crossed near the boy’s tree. He unhooked a coil of rope from his pack.
Bending over the walkway’s steel cabling, he spotted the boy. He whistled sharply, a bird call. The boy’s attention had remained focused below. The sudden noise above his head made him flinch. But he glanced up and spotted Khamisi.
“I’m going to get you out of there,” he called out in low tones, using English, hoping the boy understood.
Below, something else heard Khamisi, too.
The ukufa stared up at the bridge. Red eyes locked onto Khamisi’s. Lids lowered as it studied the man on the bridge. Teeth bared. Khamisi read a calculating attention in its focus.
Was this the creature that had ambushed Marcia?
Khamisi would have liked nothing better than to unload both barrels into its smiling face, but the noise of the large-bore rifle would draw too much attention. The estate was already on full alert. So instead, he placed the rifle at his feet. He would need both arms and shoulders.
“Boy!” Khamisi said. “I’m going to toss you a rope. Snug it around your waist.” He mimed what to do. “I’ll pull you up.”
The boy nodded, eyes wide, face swollen from crying and fear.
Leaning over the edge, Khamisi swung the coil of rope and tossed it toward the boy. The rope unfurled, crashing through the leaves. It failed to reach the boy, nesting up in the branches above.
“You’ll have to climb to it!”
The boy needed no goading. With a chance to escape, his effort at climbing grew more determined. He scrambled and kicked and got himself up to the next branch. He tied the rope around his waist, shaking it loose from the branches. He showed some skill with the rope. Good.
Khamisi pulled in the slack, bracing it around one of the steel cable posts supporting the bridge. “I’m going to start pulling you up! You’re going to swing out.”
“Hurry!” the boy called out, too sharply and too loudly.
Khamisi pivoted on a hip and saw the ukufa had noted the boy’s renewed movement. It drew the monster like a cat after a mouse. It had mounted the tree and was climbing up, digging in its claws.
With no time to waste, Khamisi began wheeling the rope up, arm over arm. He felt the boy’s weight burden the rope as he was lifted free of his perch. Bending to check, he spotted the boy swinging back and forth like a pendulum.
The ukufa did, too, eyes tracking the arc. It continued its climb. Khamisi read its intent. It was planning to leap and snag the boy, like bait on a line.
Khamisi hauled faster. The boy continued to swing.
“Wie zijn u?” a voice suddenly barked behind him.
Startled, he almost let go of the rope. He craned over a shoulder.
A tall, lithe woman stood on the walkway, dressed in black, feral-eyed. Her hair was blond but shaved close to the scalp. One of the senior Waalenberg children. She must have just stepped onto this section and discovered him. She had a knife already in one hand. Khamisi dared not let go of the rope.
Not good.
Below, the boy cried out.
Khamisi and the woman glanced down.
The ukufa had reached the boy’s former perch and bunched up for its leap. Behind Khamisi, the woman laughed, a match to the cackle of the creature below. The planks creaked as she stepped toward his back, knife in hand.
They were both trapped.
6:38 A.M.
Gray knelt at the crossroads. The elevated walkway split into three paths. The left led back to the manor house. The center walkway skirted the forest’s edge and overlooked the central gardens. The path to the right simply headed straight off into the heart of the jungle.
Which way?
Crouched, Gray studied the slant of shadows, comparing it to the pattern he had studied on the LCD monitor. The length and direction of the shadows had offered a general clue to the position of the rising sun in respect to the location of Fiona’s imprisonment. But that still left a large swath of estate to cover.
Feet pounded on the walkway, shaking it slightly.
More guards.
He had encountered two groups already.
Gray shouldered his rifle, rolled to the edge of the walkway, and dropped off its edge. He hung by his arms to the cabling and worked hand over hand to the leafy shelter of a tree branch. A moment later, a trio of guards clattered by overhead, bouncing the walkway. Gray clung tightly, jiggled about.
Once they were past, he used the tree branch to scoot back onto the path. Hooking and swinging his leg over, he noticed a rhythmic vibration in the cable in his hand. More guards?
Flat on his belly on the planks, he leaned an ear against the cable, listening like an Indian tracker on a trail. There was a distinct rhythm to the vibration, audible, like a plucked string of a steel guitar. Three fast twangs, three slow, three fast again. And it repeated.
Morse code.
S.O.S.
Someone was knocking out a signal on the cable.
Gray crouched and sidled back to the branching of the walkway. He felt the other support cables. Only one vibrated. It led off along the path to the right, the one headed into the depths of the jungle.
Could it be…?
With no better clue, Gray set off down the right path. He kept pace near the walkway’s edge, attempting to keep his tread silent and the bridge from swaying. The path continued to diverge. Gray paused at each crossing to find the cable vibrating in code and followed its trail.
Gray was so focused on the path, that when he ducked under the heavy frond of a palm leaf he s
uddenly found himself staring at a guard only four yards away. Brown-haired, midtwenties, typical Hitler youth. The guard leaned on the cable handrail, facing Gray’s direction. His gun was already rising, as he’d been alerted by the shuffle of the palm tree.
Gray didn’t have time to get his rifle up. Instead, still moving, he slammed his weight to the side—not in an attempt to dodge the coming slug. The guard couldn’t miss at this range.
Gray struck the cabled handrail, jarring it.
The guard, braced against it, bobbled. The muzzle of his rifle jittered too high. Gray closed the gap in two steps, getting under the rifleman’s guard, the pilfered dagger already in his hand.
Gray used the man’s imbalance to silence his scream, planting the dagger through the man’s wind box, severing his larynx. A twist and the carotid spurted. He’d be dead in seconds. Gray caught his body and heaved it over the rail. He felt no remorse, remembering the guards laughing as Ryan had dropped into the monster’s den. How many others had died that way? The body fell in a shushing whisper of leaves, then crashed into the grassy underbrush.
Crouched low, Gray listened. Had anyone heard the guard’s fall?
Off to the left, surprisingly near, a woman shouted in accented English. “Stop kicking the bars! Or we’ll drop you now!”
Gray recognized the voice. Ischke. Isaak’s twin sister.
A more familiar voice responded to the woman. “Sod off, you bony-assed prat!”
Fiona.
She was alive.
Despite the danger, Gray grinned—both in relief and respect.
Staying low, he snuck down to the end of the walkway. It dead-ended at a circular path that edged an open glade. The one from the video. The cage was suspended from the elevated walkway.
Fiona kicked the cage’s bars. Three fast, three slow, three fast. Her face was a mask of determination. Gray felt the vibration under his feet now, transmitted along the cage’s support cables.
Good girl.
She must have heard the alarms from the manor house. Perhaps guessed it might be Gray and sought to signal him. Either that…or she was just damned pissed. And the pattern was just an annoying coincidence.