Текст книги "The Judas Strain"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“Lisa, check Nasser for Vigor’s phone! Get Painter on the line!”

She shuffled behind him.

As he slowly turned, guarding the well, Gray noted Nasser out of the corner of an eye. He lay on his back, one arm twisted under him, broken at the shoulder. Blood bubbled from his lips. Shattered ribs. But he still lived. Eyes tracking Gray, full of dismay and confusion.

Die wondering, you bastard.

Nasser finally obeyed, sighing out his last breath, eyes going blank.

Seichan voiced Nasser’s question. “So where did you get the gun?”

“I arranged it with Painter. Back in Hormuz. I didn’t want him to mobilize any local teams here. But I did ask for one small concession. A single gun, smuggled into the Elephant Bar bathroom before we ever got there, taped behind a toilet. I knew Nasser might still be suspicious of me, even search me multiple times. But Kowalski…”

Gray shrugged.

“At the bar, I remember,” Seichan said. “Before we left. Kowalski said he had to ‘take a leak.’”

“I knew we’d be searched before the meeting at the bar. It was the easiest way to get a gun to us afterward. To keep it close until my parents were safe.”

Kowalski grunted. “Jackass should’ve watched the goddamn Godfathera few more times.”

Lisa called behind him. “I have Painter on the line.”

Gray’s fingers tightened on his pistol. “My parents? Are they—?”

“I already asked. They’re safe. And unharmed.”

Gray let out a long breath of relief.

Thank God.

He cleared his throat. “You’d better tell Painter to set up a quarantine perimeter, at least a ten mile radius around the ruins.”

Gray pictured the cloud of toxic gases, surely rich with the Judas Strain. The gateway had been open for only twelve minutes, slammed closed and bleached by Nasser’s bomb. A small blessing there. But how much of the Judas Strain had gotten loose?

Gray glanced at Susan. She huddled in the doorway. Kowalski guarded her. Had she succeeded? Gray was aware of everyone who shared the well with him. Each had contributed in no small measure to get them here. But had it all been in vain?

Lisa spoke up. “Quarantine’s under way.”

Gray searched the top of the well, weapon high. There was still a Guild army out there. “Then tell Painter we could use some help here, too.”

She relayed the message – then lowered the phone. “He says it’s already on the way. He said look up.”

Gray glanced skyward. The rich blue of the afternoon sky swirled with stiff-looking hawks, wings wide. Scores of them, converging from all directions. But these hawks carried assault rifles.

Reaching a hand back, Gray asked for the phone.

Lisa slapped it into his palm.

Gray put the receiver to his ear. “I thought we agreed notto mobilize a local response.”

“Commander, I don’t exactly classify forty thousand feet in the air as local. And besides, I’m your boss. Not the other way around.”

Gray continued to watch the skies.

The strike team plummeted toward the ruins, spreading out in an attack pattern. Each soldier had a fixed-wing glider harnessed to his back, like miniature wings of a jet fighter, allowing for high-altitude deployment.

They dove downward.

Spiraling and spiraling.

Then on one signal, each man pulled his ripcord, all shedding wings in unison. Glide chutes deployed, snapping wide for the last stretch of their descent. Like a choreographed dance, they swooped in from all directions.

Others noted the dramatic approach. Gray heard boots pounding on stone, most heading away. Gray imagined black berets were being stuffed into garbage cans as the Guild’s mercenaries hightailed it out of here.

But not all were so craven.

A few spats of rifle fire echoed. Slow at first, then furiously. A firefight raged for a full, tense minute. A glide chute swept overhead, the pilot firing on the fly. Then another, his legs lifted high as he prepared to alight on the ruins. Bodies thudded, landing all around the well, probably zeroed in on the phone in Gray’s hand.

A man suddenly lunged over the well’s low wall, a bit too quickly.

Gray came close to shooting him until he recognized the jumpsuit. U.S. Air Force.

“You blokes all okay?” he called down in an Aussie accent, unhooking his chute.

Lisa shoved past Vigor, her voice full of amazement. “Ryder?”

The man grinned down at her. “That man of yours…Painter…bonzer bloke! Let me come along for the ride. It’s not climbing over electrified nets with cannibals…but then what is?”

Someone called out.

Ryder lifted an arm, acknowledging, then glanced back down. “Hold fast! Ladders on their way!” He rolled away and vanished.

Gray continued to keep guard over those here, his weapon ready.

It was all he could do.

That, and one last thing.

He lifted the phone to his ear again. “Director?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for not listening to me, sir.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

19
Traitor

JULY 14, 10:34 A.M.

Bangkok, Thailand

A week later Lisa stood at the window to her room in a private hospital outside of Bangkok. Tall walls surrounded the small two-story facility and its lush gardens of papaya trees, flowering lotus, sparkling fountains, along with a few quiet statues of Buddha wrapped in saffron robes, trailing thin spikes of smoke from morning prayer sticks.

She had said her own prayers at dawn this morning.

Alone.

For Monk.

The window stood open, the shutters thrown back for the first time in a week. Their quarantine was over. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of jasmine and orange blossoms. Beyond the wall she heard the slow bustle of village life: the lowing of oxen, the chatter of a pair of elderly women passing the gates, the heavy tread of an elephant dragging a log, and best of all, unseen, but as vibrant as sunshine, the laughter of children.

Life.

How close had they come to losing it all?

“Did you know,” a voice said behind her, “that standing in front of the window, the sun shines right through that hospital gown? Leaves very little to the imagination. Not that I’m complaining.”

She turned, swelling with joy.

Painter leaned against the door frame, holding a paper-wrapped bundle of yellow roses, her favorite. He was dressed in a suit, no tie, clean-shaven and scrubbed. He had a slight tan after a week in the tropics, out of Sigma’s subterranean lair, setting off the spark to his blue eyes and dark hair.

“I thought you weren’t going to be back here until late tonight,” she said, stepping away.

He entered the room. Unlike the sterility of most hospital accommodations, the private facility had rooms lavishly appointed in teak. It was also adorned with vases of flowers, even a pair of fishbowls, swimming with tiny, orange-and-crimson goldfish.

“The meeting with the Cambodian prime minister was postponed until next week. And is probably unnecessary. Even the quarantine there will be ending within the next few days.”

Lisa nodded. Crop dusters had spread a weak solution of disinfectant over the outlying areas. The ruins of Angkor Thom had been soaked thoroughly. The refugee quarantine camps had revealed some cases, but they were responding to treatment.

The cure had worked.

Susan was in another wing of the hospital, under the strictest guard, but even that was proving an unnecessary caution. She had indeed come forth with the cure, walking through fire to do it. Afterward, there remained no trace of the virus– cisor trans—inside her. It was all gone.

Except for the cure.

It proved not to be an antibody, or an enzyme, or even a white blood cell. It was bacteria. The same cyanobacteria that had made her glow.

The second toxic exposure had altered the bacteria yet again, churning the life cycle fully around. Like healthy lactobacillus in yogurt, the bacteria, when ingested or inoculated, produced beneficial compounds that destroyed any toxic bacteria generated by the Judas Strain and scavenged away all trace of the virus itself, digesting it.

The cure produced symptoms equivalent to a mild flu, then you were immune from further reinfection. The bacteria also appeared to act as a vaccine in healthy subjects, offering immunity against exposure, similar to the Salk’s vaccine against polio. But best of all, the bacteria also proved easy to culture. Samples had been passed to laboratories around the world. Vast quantities were already being generated, a global storehouse to stamp out the early pandemic and protect the world from any future recurrence.

Health organizations continued to remain vigilant against such an event.

“What about Christmas Island, where it all started?” Lisa asked, sitting at the edge of her bed.

Painter replaced some wilting flowers with his roses. “Looking good. By the way, I read some of the papers your friend Jessie stole from the cruise ship before it sank. Apparently, as the Guild departed Christmas Island, they had dumped a tanker load of bleach along the windward shoreline. Not out of any altruism, mind you. Just trying to wipe out the major bloom, to confound any competitors to their discovery.”

“Do you think that will keep the bloom from reappearing?”

Painter shrugged, stepped to the bed, and sat down. He took her hand – not in any purposeful way, just reflex, which was why she loved him so much.

“Hard to say,” he answered. “The typhoon swept over the island. International teams of marine scientists are monitoring the waters – led by Dr. Richard Graff. After his help with the crab situation…figured he deserved the assignment.”

Lisa squeezed Painter’s hand. The mention of Graff only reminded Lisa of Monk. She sighed, watching the twirl of goldfish in the bedside bowl.

Painter freed his hand, put his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close. His other hand found hers again. He knew where her heart lay at the moment. His voice dropped to a soft rumble, setting aside some of his playfulness.

“You heard we were interviewing all the survivors of the Mistress of the Seas.”

She didn’t answer, just slid her arm around his waist. She knew the news to come was bad.

The island was still under quarantine, a joint venture between Australia and the United States. Australian commandos had been able to orchestrate a massive evacuation of the ship as it burned and sank. Most of the Guild’s work now rested a thousand feet underwater, a new addition to the deepwater home of the predatory squids. It made diving on the wreck extremely dangerous. The squids had been classified as a new species of Taningia,granted the name Taningia tunisin the memory of Susan’s husband.

Yesterday Lisa had spoken over the phone with Henri and Jessie at the refugee camp on Pusat. They had survived, managing to protect most of the patients and WHO staff, aided by the cannibals during the chaos. Everyone was now undergoing treatment, and so far, faring well. The only exceptions were those few who had passed into a full maddened rave. The brain damage appeared permanent. Most of the afflicted had died when the ship sank. Not a single member of the Guild team made it off the ship alive.

Except perhaps one.

Jessie had told Lisa a story of the evacuation. He had come upon a padlocked hold. He heard children crying inside. He had broken through in time to rescue the children, who told the story of a strange angel who came and gathered them all together, locking them up out of harm’s way. This angel had then led a group of the ravening patients away from the hold, using herself as bait.

The children had described their angel.

Flowing black hair, dressed in silk, silent as the grave.

Surina.

She had vanished away.

Painter continued. “We interviewed everyone in camp.”

“About Monk,” she whispered.

“One of the WHO doctors had been hiding out on the ship’s deck. He had binoculars. He watched your escape in the Sea Dart. Through binoculars, he saw Monk fall, witnessed the net dropping over him, dragging him down.” Painter paused to take a tired breath. “He never resurfaced.”

Lisa closed her eyes. She felt something burst inside, spreading a burning acid through her veins, weakening her. A part of her still had been hoping…some thin chance…It was why she had knelt outside before one of the Buddhas.

She had been praying he was still alive.

“He’s gone,” she murmured, fully admitting it to herself.

Oh, Monk…

Lisa hugged tight to Painter. Her tears soaked through his shirt. Fingers clenched to him as she assured herself with his physicality. “Have you told Kat yet?” she mumbled, resting her cheek against his chest.

Painter remained silent.

Lisa felt him tremble.

He had.

She pulled his hand from her shoulder and kissed his palm.

He spoke in a whisper, coarse and deep. “Don’t you ever leave me.”

Lisa remembered why she had gone on this mission. To evaluate her life outside of Painter’s shadow. To get some perspective as their lives merged together, professionally and personally.

She had learned her answer.

From cannibal attacks to the tortures of madmen.

She knew she was strong enough to stand alone.

But…

She leaned up, kissing his lips, whispering.

“This is where I belong.”

12:02 P.M.

Gray crossed down the hospital’s garden path. He had changed into jeans, boots, and an untucked shirt with a tropical print. It was good to be in regular clothes, to shed the hospital gowns. It also felt good to be outside, under the sun, though his lungs still felt heavy and the bright light stung his sensitive eyes. He was still healing, but his restless energy after a week indoors had built to an edgy irritation.

His pace quickened, his stride lengthening. He had circled the entire garden, full around the building. He wanted no surprises.

He had been plotting this for the past three days, and now the timetable had been moved up. The gate to the hospital appeared ahead.

They were allowed to leave, but only as far as the surrounding village.

Rounding a corner of a tall hedgerow, Gray came upon a small alcove, a private altar with a fat Buddha draped in red silk. A few smudge sticks lay on the ground, but currently the smoke came from another source.

Kowalski leaned on the Buddha, a palm atop the stone head. He removed the cigar from his mouth, puffing a long thick cloud.

“Oh, yeah…” he moaned in grudging contentment.

“Where did you get a – oh, never mind.” Gray held out a hand. “Were you able to find what I asked for?”

Kowalski stubbed out his cigar on the Buddha’s shoulder.

Even Gray cringed a bit at the casual sacrilege.

“Yeah, but what do you want with all this?” he asked, and lifted a paper-wrapped bundle from behind his back. “I bribed my nurse while getting a sponge bath. Of course it was a guy. Took all the fun out of it. But he was able to buy what you wanted.”

Gray took the package and turned to head off.

Kowalski crossed his arms, his brows heavy with disappointment, even heaving out an irritated sigh.

Gray stepped back. “What’s the matter?”

Kowalski opened his mouth – then closed it.

“What?” Gray pressed.

Kowalski flipped his hands in the air. “First…well, all this time, I didn’t get to shoot a single goddamn gun. Not a rifle, not a pistol, not a popgun! I mean I might as well have been on guard duty back home. All I got for my troubles was a bunch of needles stuck in my ass.”

Gray stood a moment, staring. It was the longest speech Kowalski had ever given. He was plainly passionate on the subject.

“I’m just saying…” Kowalski blurted, suddenly mildly chagrined.

Gray sighed. “Come with me.” He stalked off and headed toward the gate. He did owe the guy.

Kowalski followed. “Where we going?”

Gray led him to the gate. The guards on duty nodded to them. Gray tucked the package under his arm and fished out his wallet. He stripped out a bill and passed it to Kowalski as they stepped through the gate.

“What am I supposed to do with ten dollars?” he asked.

Gray stepped farther out and pointed down the road to where a work crew labored. Thailand-style. Four men and their two work animals.

“Look…elephants,” Gray said.

Kowalski stared down the dirt track, down to the bill in his hands, then back out to the elephants. A giant grin split his face. He strode off, turned back, struggled to express his thanks, failed, then headed down the road again.

“Oh, yeah, I’m all over this elephant ride…” He lifted his arm. “Hey, you! Gunga Din!”

Gray turned around and headed back inside.

Poor elephant.

12:15 P.M.

Vigor rested in his bed. He had a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. He had books piled on his nightstand, crowding his goldfish bowl. He had articles printed out and stacked on the other side of the hospital bed: on angelic script, on Marco Polo, on the history of the Khmers, on the ruins of Angkor.

He was presently rereading for the fourth time the scientific report Gray had sited, an article in Sciencemagazine from 1994, relating the study of human language to DNA code.

Fascinating…

Motion at his open door drew his attention from the paper. He spotted Gray. “Commander Pierce!” he called out.

Gray paused at the door, checked his watch, then leaned in. “Yes, Monsignor.”

Vigor was surprised at the formality. Something had set Gray on edge. He waved the man inside. “Come in for a moment.”

“I have just that…a moment.” He stepped inside. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Vigor waved away such matters. “I read this article. I didn’t realize that only three percent of our genome is active. That a full ninety-seven percentis junk and codes for nothing. Yet, when this junk is run through the cryptography program testing for language, even such random garbage also reveals a language. Amazing.” Vigor took off his glasses. “Gray, what if we could understand that language?”

Gray nodded. “Some things may be forever beyond us.”

Vigor scowled gently. “Now I certainly don’t believe that. God didn’t give us these big brains and not want us to use them. We were born to question, to search, to strive for a fuller understanding of the universe, both external and internal.”

Gray checked his watch again, subtly, a flick of his eyes down to his wrist, not wanting to appear rude.

Vigor decided to quit torturing the young man. He plainly was busy. “I’ll get to my point. Remember back in the barrel vault beneath the Bayon, I mentioned how the angelic script – the possible written form of this unknown genetic language – could be the Word of God mapping out something greater in us, maybe something buried in that ninety-seven percent of our genetic code that is considered junk. What if it’s not junk? Maybe we even caught a glimpse of that greater part of us.”

“How do you mean?”

“The woman Susan. Maybe her transformation was a peek into the true translation of the angelic script?”

Vigor read the disbelief in the commander’s face and held up a hand. “I talked to Lisa earlier this morning. She mentioned how she believed Susan’s brain was fully excited by the energies of the bacteria when exposed to sunlight, awakening those parts of the human brain that are otherwise dormant. I find it interesting that only a tiny fraction of our genetic code is active, and at the same time, we only utilize a small portion of our brain. Don’t you find that odd?”

Gray shrugged, noncommittal. “I suppose.”

Vigor continued. “What if all that angelic script maps out our fullpotential, that which still remains hidden in all of us, waiting to be awakened? According to the book of Genesis, God made us in his image. What if that image is yet to be fully realized, buried in dormant sections of our brain, hidden within the angelic language of our junk DNA? Maybe all that script written on the walls under the Bayon, glowing in the dark, maybe the ancient writer was attempting to understand that potential, too. You mentioned yourself how it was incomplete, sections missing.”

“That’s true,” Gray conceded. “And you raise some interesting conjectures worth exploring, but I don’t know if we’ll ever know the truth. Susan is back to normal, and I heard from Painter that an excavation team was able to breach the foundation vault beneath the Bayon. Some of the walls were found intact, but Nasser’s acid bomb had stripped the surfaces clean. Nothing remains of the script.”

Vigor felt his heart sink. “A shame. Still, I wonder about something that we never found down in the cavern.”

“What’s that?”

“Your turtle,” Vigor said. “You thought that the vault might contain a deeper mystery, something that represents the incarnation of Vishnu.”

“Maybe it was just the Judas Strain. The glowing pool. Even you mentioned how the ancient Khmer probably stumbled upon the glowing cavern and attributed it to some god’s home. Maybe Vishnu’s.”

Vigor stared at the commander. “Or maybe Susan was a glimpse of that greater mystery, a peek at the godlike or angelic potential hidden inside all of us.”

Gray finally shrugged, plainly ready to dismiss it. But as Vigor had hoped, he noted a slight pinch to the man’s brows. Curiosity. He wanted Gray to keep his mind open.

Still, Vigor also saw that something more urgently pressed upon the man’s mind and attention. He waved Gray out.

Vigor called to him as he stepped out the door. “Give my best to Seichan.”

Gray stumbled a step, frowned a bit, and headed away.

Vigor replaced his reading glasses.

Ah, sweet youth…

12:20 P.M.

Gray handed the cup of coffee to the guard outside Seichan’s door. “Is she awake?”

He shrugged, a young sandy-haired ensign from Peoria. “Don’t know.”

Gray pushed through the door. It was a dull assignment for the ensign. The patient was almost continuously sedated after going through a second operation for her gunshot wound. Seichan had retorn her injury and had been bleeding internally.

All because she had saved Gray’s life.

He remembered Seichan’s arms carrying him, the pain in her blistered face, her swollen eye. But he hadn’t known that by coming back for him she had almost died.

Gray entered her room.

She lay handcuffed to her bed, arms spread to either side.

She wore a hospital gown and was covered with a clean sheet.

The room, built for mental patients, was sterile and cold. The only furniture was the bed and a rolling stand shoved against the wall. A high, narrow window had steel shutters over it.

Seichan stirred as he entered. She turned her head. Her face hardened with a slight downcast to her eyes, ashamed at her immobilization. Then anger flared up and burned all else away. She tugged at one of her handcuffed wrists.

Gray came and sat on the bed.

“Even though my parents are alive,” he started right in, “that doesn’t mean I forgive you. That I’ll ever forgive you. But I do owe you. I won’t let you die. Not this way.”

Gray pulled the handcuff keys from his pocket. He reached out and lifted her wrist. He felt her pulse quicken under his fingertips.

“They’re sending you to Guantánamo Bay in the morning,” he said.

“I know.”

And like Gray, she also knew it was a death sentence. If she wasn’t immediately executed, the Guild would assassinate her to silence her, or one of the other intelligence agencies would. The Israeli Mossad still had an open kill order on her.

He slipped in the key and turned the lock. Her cuff snapped open.

Seichan sat up, still wearing a glint of suspicion.

She held out her palm for the key, testing him.

He gave it to her. As she undid her second cuff, Gray placed the package Kowalski had obtained on the bed.

“I have three sets of clothes: a nurse’s uniform, local attire, and something in camouflage. There’s also local currency. I couldn’t do anything about ID, not on this short notice.”

Seichan’s other handcuff snapped free. Turning, she rubbed her wrists.

The soft sound of a body hitting the floor sounded past the door.

“Oh, and I drugged the guard.”

She glanced to the door, then back to him. Her eyes sparked. Before he could move, she lunged, grabbed his collar, and pulled him to her. She kissed him hard, her mouth parting, tasting sweetly medicinal.

Gray instinctively pulled back. He hadn’t come here to—

Oh, screw it…

He reached to the small of her back and cupped her tightly to him. Never releasing, she climbed into him, onto him, over him. Her feet lowered to the floor. He twisted, falling back.

He heard the snickof shackles.

She pushed off of him.

His right wrist had been handcuffed to the bed.

He glanced up in time to see her elbow swinging toward his face.

His head cracked back. He tasted blood on his lips.

She leaped on him, pinning him to the bed, sitting on his chest. She raised her fist. He lifted his free arm to block. She cocked her head. “This has to look convincing, or you’ll be the one sitting in Guantánamo for treason.”

She was right.

Gray lowered his arm.

She struck him hard, splitting his lip. His head rang with the blow. She shook the sting from her hand – then raised her fist again.

“And this is for not trusting me,” she said, and lashed out again.

Blood spurted from his nose. He felt himself drift away, then back again.

She leaned down, near his ear. “Do you remember that little promise I made to you at the very beginning?”

“What’s that?” He turned to the side and spat.

“That I’d reveal the mole to you after this was all over.”

“But there was no mole.”

“Are you certain of that?”

Her eyes hovered over his. Suddenly he wasn’t so sure.

She sat back and whipped out with her elbow, a glancing blow to his eye.

“Christ!”

“That’ll swell fine.” She rubbed her lips, studying him, like an artist over an oil painting in progress. Then said, “I’m the mole, Gray.”

“What—?”

“A mole planted inside the Guild.”

She slammed a fist into his other eye. His vision went black for a breath.

“I’m one of the good guys, Gray. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

Gray lay there dazed, from her words, from her blows.

“A double agent?” he coughed out, incredulous. “Two years ago, you shot me! Point-blank in the chest.”

She cocked her fist again. “I knew you had on liquid body armor. Didn’t you ever wonder why I was wearing the same? Catch a clue, Gray.”

Her fist hammered down, rocking his head back. She then pinched the bridge of his nose, plainly wondering if she should break it.

“And the anthrax bomb,” he said. “At Fort Detrick?”

“Already sterilized. A dud. I was planning on blaming the bomb’s designer.”

“But…the curator in Venice?” he sputtered out. “You killed him in cold blood.”

She slashed her fingernails down his left cheek, digging deep furrows of fire. “If I hadn’t, his whole family would have been slaughtered. Including wife and daughter.”

Wincing, Gray stared up. She had an answer for everything.

Seichan leaned back, cranking the heel of her hand up to her ear, eyeing his nose. “And I’m not stopping…not after five years, not when I’m this damn close to discovering who leads the Guild.”

She punched down, but he caught her wrist this time.

She leaned her weight, pressing down on him.

“Seichan…”

She stared down at him, muscles straining, eyes fiery, as if in pain. Their eyes met. She searched his face, looking for something. She didn’t seem to find it. For a flash, he saw disappointment in her eyes. Also regret…maybe loneliness. Then it was gone.

She slammed him with her other elbow, a blow to the ear, scattering stars across his vision. He released her. She fell back, scrambling off of him.

“That’ll do,” she mumbled, turning away.

She crossed to the clothes, shed her hospital gown, and quickly donned the nurse’s uniform, including a demure silk scarf to hide her healing face. She kept her back to him.

“Seichan?”

Once dressed, she didn’t say a word, only stepped to the door. She wouldn’t even turn, only asked one last thing of him, spoken softly, a lifeline thrown back toward him.

“Trust me, Gray. If only a little. I’ve earned that much.”

Before he could answer, she left. The door swung closed behind her.

Trust me…

Heaven help him, he did.

He shoved up in the bed, his face throbbing, his one eye swelling.

Fifteen minutes passed. Long enough to ensure that she escaped.

Finally Painter appeared at the door, pushing inside.

“Did you get all that?” Gray asked.

“The wire picked up everything.”

“Could she be telling the truth?”

Painter frowned, staring back at the door. “She is a consummate liar.”

“Maybe she had to be. To survive inside the Guild.”

Painter undid the handcuffs. “Either way, the passive tracer we planted in her belly during the operation will allow us to track her whereabouts.”

“And what if the Guild finds it?”

“It’s a plastic polymer, invisible to X-ray. They’ll never detect it.”

Unless they cut her open.

Gray stood up. “This is wrong. You know it.”

“It was the only way the government would allow us to free her.”

Gray remembered Seichan’s eyes, staring down at him.

He knew two truths.

She had not been lying.

And even now, she was certainly far from free.