“All the colubrid snakes are slightly venomous,” Ian continued his report. “There are nearly two thousand different species of them. And — uh-oh —”
“What is it?” asked Jake.
“The Red List of Threatened Species lists ours as vulnerable. That’s only one step better than endangered. Apparently, this part of Cambodia is big on crocodile farming, and the Tonle Sap water snake was a widely used crocodile food. The only problem is the crocs can eat them faster than the snakes can reproduce.”
Amy frowned. “Five hundred years ago, when the antidote was created, they were probably all over the place.”
“That won’t help us now,” Jake put in nervously. “We need that venom!”
“Relax.” Amy’s reply sounded more like an order. “We got whiskers from an extinct leopard; we can find venom from a threatened snake.” She glanced in the rearview mirror to find a quizzical expression on Ian’s fine features. “What’s the problem?”
“I think Pony’s computer is trying to tell me something,” Ian replied. He swiveled the screen toward Atticus. “You see that? ‘Code A’? What do you think it means?”
Atticus shrugged. He was an eleven-year-old genius, but his area of expertise was dead languages and ancient civilizations. Computer technology was several centuries too recent for him.
All at once, Amy stomped on the brake with every ounce of power in her serum-enhanced muscles. The other three were nearly pitched out of the vehicle as the Jeep lurched to a halt behind a stopped bus. Amy stared in amazement. Less than an hour ago, they had been traveling through isolated rain forest terrain. Now the buildings of Guatemala City were clearly visible in the distance, and the Cahill team was stalled in the largest traffic jam any of them had ever seen.
Thousands of screaming fans packed the broad Avenida Simón Bolívar. The mayor was in attendance, along with a gaggle of local VIPs, most of them with their young daughters in tow. Camera phones waved and flashed. So great was the demand to upload pictures that the Guatemalan servers for Facebook and Twitter crashed. The line for autographs measured in kilometers. The crowd noise was an uninterrupted roar, punctuated by applause. It was an absolute mob scene.
Or, in the life of pop star Jonah Wizard, just another day.
“Wassup, yo?” Jonah greeted the next girl in line, an adoring preteen who didn’t seem to speak a word of English. Wielding a fat Sharpie, he scribbled a quick signature on her CD, and another on her arm when she held it out to him. “Thanks for coming out. ’Preciate the support!”
Standing behind the autographing table, Broderick Wizard, Jonah’s father, wore a scowl as he texted on his BlackBerry. “I have to tell you, Jonah, I don’t get it. When you said you had to drop out of the public eye, I was okay with that. Then, six months in, when you told me to set up an appearance, I never asked why. I just made it happen. But I’m asking you now — why did it have to be here?”
Jonah motioned to the legions of fans, which only made them scream louder. “Look around, Pops. Can’t you feel the love?”
His father was unconvinced. “You get love in New York. Also London, Paris, Tokyo, anywhere. But you said it had to be Guatemala and it had to be today. Why?”
Jonah had an excellent answer to this question — although not one he could give to his father. The Cahill team had to get to Jonah’s private jet, but Pierce had substantial assets hunting for them. A group of kids could stay hidden, but not a Gulfstream G6 parked on a runway. The goons would stake out the airport and open fire on anybody who approached the plane.
There was only one solution. Pierce didn’t dare attack when there were people around. And drawing a crowd happened to be Jonah’s specialty.
He surveyed the street up and down, his famous eyes coming to focus on an open Jeep stalled in the traffic snarl. He might have failed to notice the three young passengers, but the driver was something else. She fairly glowed with strength and vitality. It was natural to pick her out of a crowd of thousands. He felt a stab of dread as he remembered what it was that made his cousin Amy stand out.
He got up from his chair and took a flying leap off the stage.
“Jonah!” his father howled in dismay.
There was never any danger. Jonah knew that his sea of admirers would catch him before he hit the pavement.
Broderick Wizard was at the edge of the platform, gawking at his son. “What are you doing?”
“It’s all good, Pops!” Jonah called back at him. “But you’re going to have to fly home commercial! I need the jet!”
By that time, the Guatemala City police had reached him and were clearing a path through the throng. High-fiving and wassup-ing all the way, Jonah led them to the Jeep and swung himself aboard. “Good timing,” he approved. “The Wiz was getting writer’s cramp.”
“Real smart, Jonah,” Jake scolded. “Who knows how long we’ll be stuck here. Pierce will have time to see us on TMZ and send half his army after us.”
Jonah addressed his police escort. “Need you homeys to get us to the airport. You know, el runway-o —”
“Aeropuerto,” supplied Atticus.
Nodding their understanding, the police officers organized themselves into two lines, opening up a path for the Jeep. Just outside the throng, a cavalcade of motorcycle cops surrounded the Cahills for their ride.
“Those goons are going to have a heart attack when we drive up to the plane with half the Guatemalan police force!” Atticus crowed.
“That’s how I do,” Jonah acknowledged modestly.
His fans cheered, waved, and threw flowers as he passed among them, perched on the tailgate.
“Later, Guatemala City!” bellowed the famous voice. “Gotta hop! Adiós, yo!” He grinned down at his cowed Jeep-mates. “Anybody need a lift to Cambodia?”
Chapter 3
A battery of spotlights fixed on J. Rutherford Pierce.
Technically, he had not yet declared that he was running for president. But it was the worst-kept secret on the planet. Everybody knew he was bound for the Oval Office. What was not general knowledge was that the White House was only a small part of his overall plan.
But first things first — this rally in New York’s Central Park. CNN estimated the crowd at upward of half a million. That was a lot of eyes on Pierce as he strutted onstage before an enormous banner that read:
It was the slogan of the Patriotist Party — the organization that was poised to rocket Pierce to the highest office in the country.
“I’ve got nothing against international cooperation — so long as America calls all the shots!” he harangued the audience, who cheered even louder. “One nation, one vote may be fine at the UN, but I don’t like those odds. We worked hard to get where we are, and now we’re going broke buying things we invented from foreign countries! And our current president thinks that’s just fine. Well, I say this land is —”
“Our land!” roared the crowd with a single voice that rose into the atmosphere.
As he basked in their adoration, a tremor caused his right leg to spasm. Determined not to show any weakness, he converted the involuntary shudder into a karate kick. The audience ate it up. It was almost like he was striking a blow against America’s enemies.
Once the election campaign started, all he had to do was let the current president talk about being global citizens, one country among many, a whole international community, blah, blah, blah. Then a series of small nuclear explosions would rock several far-flung cities on distant continents, and the voters would face a simple choice: bet America’s future on a crumbling world order of dangerous and unstable foreigners, or take control in a manner befitting the greatest nation that had ever been.
No one would ever find out that the atomic blasts had been arranged by Pierce himself — at least, not before Election Day. By the time the truth came out — if it ever did — J. Rutherford Pierce would be es
tablished as more than just a president. He would be a dictator, commanding a United Planet Earth.
But first things first.
“My fellow Americans, I stand before you a humble man, grateful for your loyalty and support. And now I’d like to introduce you to the woman whose love and guidance keeps me humble — my beautiful wife, Debi Ann.”
Debi Ann stepped out from the wings and took his arm. If the crowd of loyal Piercers noticed how bland, ordinary, and, well, old she looked, it did not come across in the tumultuous ovation. She was actually six years younger than her husband, but Debi Ann had not been receiving the “protein shakes” dosed with serum, like the rest of her family.
Not her fault, Pierce reminded himself. It had been his decision to keep at least one Pierce non-fabulous for ordinary Americans to relate to. And anyway, no serum could do anything for Debi Ann’s colorless personality. She wouldn’t crackle if you put four thousand volts through her. Face it, marrying her had been one of his bad decisions — and he had an attic full of her homemade teddy bears to prove it.
One day — after all his plans had come to fruition — he would have to find a painless way to put her out to pasture. But that was in the future. Presidential candidates had perfect marriages to perfect women. He embraced her fondly. The gesture concealed another tremor, this one in his right arm. The audience ate it up.
He experienced an if-only moment as he remembered the girl he’d really wanted to marry, the exquisite Hope Cahill, the one true love of his life. Of course, Debi Ann Starling was a Cahill, too, but as different from Hope as marbles from diamonds. A lot of men would have pined away, but not Pierce. He had channeled his disappointment into a far more productive emotion: bitter hatred of the woman who had rejected him. Hope was gone now, dead in a tragic fire. So the target of all that ill will was her two children, Amy and Dan. He had already used his media empire to ruin their reputations. And he would not stop until they joined their parents in death. It was not the primary objective of Pierce’s grand plan, merely a pleasant fringe benefit.
Those kids had no idea that their mother had spurned J. Rutherford Pierce. But they would pay the ultimate price for it anyway.
Halfway to her lips, the crystal glass shattered in Amy’s hands. Cranberry juice ran in rivulets down her arm, followed by a darker red. Blood.
“Chillax with the Waterford,” Jonah groaned. “My bank’s not what it used to be since I stopped touring.”
Jake was already by Amy’s side with a first aid kit. “You’ve got to ease up, Amy,” he urged, dabbing at her palm with a gauze pad soaked in disinfectant. “You don’t know your own strength anymore.”
“I’m fine,” Amy said irritably. “I think the serum boosts clotting factor, too. See? It’s already stopped bleeding.”
The group was aboard Jonah’s jet, heading westward across the vast Pacific Ocean en route to Cambodia.
“I’m not just talking to hear the sound of my own voice,” Jake persisted. “What do I have to do to make you appreciate the kind of danger you’re in — tie you to a chair?”
“In actuality,” Atticus put in, “the whole group of us probably couldn’t tie her to a chair.”
“It’s not just strength,” Amy tried to explain. “It’s everything. I can hear the pilot flicking switches in the cockpit, and see every tiny flaw in the fabric of Jonah’s shirt —”
The star snorted indignantly. “Yo, cuz! I bought this on Rodeo Drive! Are you saying the Wiz got ripped off?”
Amy went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “My reactions are instant. If you show me a chessboard, I can see thirty moves ahead.”
“You might not have thirty moves,” Jake said bitterly. “You’ve got seven days, tops, and three of them are already gone!”
An explosion of light and color went off in her head, the grand finale of a Fourth of July fireworks display. The hallucinations were the flip side of the tremors. Her brain was seizing up, not just her body.
She sat down next to Ian, who was still hunched over Pony’s laptop.
“I’m still getting the Code A signal,” he said, looking exhausted. “Do you think it’s some kind of error message?”
Amy was doubtful. “There’s no error Pony wouldn’t have known how to fix. If there’s a Code A, it’s because he wanted it to be there.” Her fingers danced across the keyboard at light speed. The monitor flickered once and displayed a map of the world, with a pulsing red dot at the center of the screen.
Ian sat forward, eyes wide. “A tracking beacon?”
Amy pointed to the dot, which was over the Pacific Ocean just off the Central American coastline. “Whatever he’s tracking is headed for Asia.”
Jake peered over her shoulder. “We’re headed for Asia. Could that be us?”
“I see why his dizzying intellect appeals to you, Amy,” Ian sniffed. “Naturally, Pony would track one of his own allies. Why didn’t I think of it?”
“Ian has a point,” said Amy. “The beacon must be on another plane, a couple of hundred miles ahead of us.”
Jonah sat up. “You think it’s Pierce’s jet? How would that crew know where to go?”
“Pierce has Olivia’s book,” Amy concluded, “and the enhanced reasoning to figure out what it means.”
Jonah was on the intercom in a flash. “Speed up, yo,” he instructed. “I guess what I’m trying to say is: Follow that plane!”
Chapter 4
When Dan next saw the light of day, he was still tied to the seat in Pierce’s jet. Something felt different, though. . . .
There was no airplane movement. They were on the ground.
He was still fuzzy from the chloroform. Could they be in Cambodia already? Surely he hadn’t been out for that long.
Two figures gradually came into focus — Cara and Galt.
“He’s awake,” noted Galt. “Let’s continue the interrogation.” He sounded eager.
Cara stepped into the aisle in front of him. “I’ll tighten his bonds so he can’t get away.”
Her brother snorted. “That shrimp couldn’t bust out of a wet paper bag.”
Dan swallowed a retort. The last thing he wanted to do was give Galt any additional motivation. The kid was already pounding his fist into his palm. His knuckles looked enormous.
Cara began to work on the rope around Dan’s left wrist. “Do you want to have to tell Dad we lost him? We’re not in the air, Galt. If he gets loose, he could make a run for it . . .”
Bewildered, Dan sat back and took in the situation. As Cara Pierce continued to lecture her brother on the importance of tightening the knots, she was actually loosening them! In fact, the ropes were now so slack, he was pretty sure he could slip out of them any time he wanted.
“. . . all he’d have to do is pop the main door. And how hard is that? You remove the panel, pull down the lever . . .”
Dan was stunned. Was he reading this correctly? Pierce’s own daughter was providing detailed instructions on how he could get away. She was either completely stupid or she wanted him to escape!
He decided to take a chance. His lips formed the word: When?
Her reply was barely a whisper: “You’ll know.”
The copilot appeared in the cockpit hatchway. “We’re all refueled and ready for takeoff. I need everybody in their seats.”
Galt scowled at Dan. “You’re off the hook, Cahill, but not for long. As soon as we’re airborne, I’m coming back to finish our conversation.”
As the Pierce siblings strapped themselves into their private loungers in the front, Dan strained to see over his shoulder. The three goons sat around a small table in the aft part of the cabin, scarfing sandwiches and playing cards. If this wasn’t you’ll know, then you’ll know was never coming.
The fuel truck backed away and the jet began to taxi toward the runway. Dan wriggled his arms free and plotted a mental co
urse to the aircraft door. It was mid-cabin — not far from Galt, but behind him. And he and his sister were facing forward for departure.
The jet executed a small turn and began to roll forward, picking up speed. It was now or never.
Dan vaulted over a row of seats and reached the door in a single bound across the aisle. Cara’s “instructions” did not let him down — the cover, the lever . . .
As the plastic panel hit the deck, a loud “Hey!” rang out behind him. Dan didn’t hang around to find out which of the three goons had noticed him. He pushed with all his might. An alarm bell sounded in the cabin.
As the hatch came open, a blast of heavy tropical air nearly threw Dan back across the aisle. He bent his shoulder into the gale and fairly hurled himself outside. As his body toppled out of the moving jet, he bounced down the mini-stairway formed by the door. He hit the tarmac hard and went into a roll in an effort to get himself away from the aircraft. He leaped back up to his feet and broke into a limping run toward the large hangar complex about two hundred yards away. Surely there were people there — airport personnel and security guards, who wouldn’t let him be kidnapped or worse.
That was when he saw the other plane.
It was coming right at him, wheels down, about to land on the runway the Pierce jet had just crossed. Its nose was so close that he could see the horrified face of the pilot behind the cockpit glass.
There was nothing Dan could do but drop flat, hug the blacktop, and pray. The Gulfstream roared in, its heavy tires passing just a few feet over his prone body. He felt the hot backwash of the engines, accompanied by an overwhelming suction. Then he was airborne, wrenched from his purchase on the pavement like a tiny bug pulled by the force of a vacuum cleaner.
In horror, he watched the airstrip fall away as he was drawn higher and higher in a tug-of-war between jet power and gravity.
Wham! He slammed down against the runway with such violence that everything went dark and he was certain he was dead.