James Rollins: Bloodline

She stood at the foot of Amanda’s bed in a protective pose. “Jimmy,” she said, her voice equally changed, flat and affectless, indicating how much of a consummate actress she had been. “You’ve ruined everything.”

He realized the truth at that moment. “You’re a part of the Bloodline. Like my brother.”

“Robert was nothing. He was ignorant of my involvement. Only a useful tool to hide behind. Nothing more. The Lineage will survive. We always do. It is our birthright. Born from exiles cast out into the desert wilderness-we still survive.”

He stood, stunned.

“And we have not lost everything. You’ve given us Amanda. Willful and unpredictable, she is unfit for the Lineage, but she is still clearly blessed. We failed with her first child, but she will give us more until we find that special female child, the one who will lead us out of the wilderness once again, more powerful than ever.”

He took a step forward, realizing they were planning on taking Amanda. He pictured the women floating in the tanks.

Teresa backed to the edge of the bed, never letting down her guard. “But first, to open a path back into the wilderness where we can hide”-she pointed her pistol at his face-“we need chaos.”

Like a dead president .

“Good-bye, Jimmy.”

“Good-bye, Teresa.”

He flinched back as Amanda-seated in her bed behind Teresa-swung the IV pole and clubbed the weighted bottom into the side of his wife’s head.

Bone cracked and blood burst out of her nose.

She fell with a momentary look of bewilderment.

Her first real emotion since she pulled the gun.

Jimmy went for the weapon, realizing that the gunfire had ended out in the hallway. He started to bend-when the door crashed open.

Turning, he prayed it was his own Secret Service detail, that they had survived the ambush.

This was not his day.

Two women in uniform burst inside, weapons pointed.

Teresa’s detail.

They froze, seeing Teresa on the floor, unmoving.

Out in the hallway behind them, a small figure slid past the door on his knees along the blood-slicked floor. He had a pistol pointed.

Two pops.

Two clean shots to the back of the women’s heads.

Then he slid out of view.

Amanda still sat on her bed, holding the IV pole. “Who was that?”

Jimmy pictured the face of the young man, the analyst from before. He couldn’t remember his name, but he knew one thing about the boy.

“That was my new best friend.”

July 12, 10:10A.M. EST

Washington, DC

Painter stood at the foot of Amanda’s bed at George Washington University Hospital. He had his arm around Lisa’s waist as she reviewed the young woman’s chart. Mother and child had been here for a week, transferred shortly after the revelation of the president’s miraculous recovery following the assassination attempt.

James Gant was at the same hospital, two floors up, in his own secure wing, all the better to hide his feigned post-op recovery. Only those who knew the truth were allowed access. The shooter remained a mystery, more fodder to add to the myriad conspiracies surrounding presidential assassinations.

Off in South Carolina, the destruction at the Gant family estate was kept hushed and restricted from view by the no-fly zone. The official story was that a natural sinkhole had opened in the mountains on their property, accompanied by a quake strong enough to cause a gas leak and explosion at the Lodge. The report of the heroic death of Robert Gant-who died in the fire, while trying to rescue people-helped divert attention from the truth. A handpicked detachment of the National Guard, sworn to secrecy, still continued the cleanup of the dead pods that littered the surrounding landscape.

Lisa finally lowered the charts of Amanda and William.

“Happy?” Painter asked.

“Everything seems to be in order.”

Lisa was having a hard time letting go, feeling a personal responsibility for the child. The child had his own team of geneticists, allergists, and neonatologists who were overseeing the boy’s care. He continued to shed away the rest of the PNA, becoming a normal little boy. Any further allergic responses were watched closely and ameliorated.

But she wasn’t the only one concerned for his well-being.

“When do you leave?” Amanda asked, cradling the sleeping child in her arms.

Tucker sat next to her bed, a large stuffed dog at his elbow, a gift for the baby. “Tomorrow morning. Kane and I are headed to Russia.”

One of Kane’s ears swiveled toward his handler, but he never lifted his head from the bed’s blanket, his eyes watching every small facial tic of the dreaming baby, sniffing occasionally at the footy pajamas.

“Make sure you visit if you’re ever in Charleston.”

“I’ll do that.” Tucker stood up, kissed his own fingertips, and gently touched the crown of the child’s head.

Amanda tilted the baby out of the way and raised an arm, wanting to hug Tucker. He obliged, keeping it brief-or at least, he tried to. She held him tightly with all the stubbornness of the Gants. She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

He straightened, a blush rising to his face.

Painter and Lisa also said their good-byes. Out in the hall, Lisa crossed to talk to the doctors at the nursing station.

Alone with Tucker, Painter tried one more time. “Sigma could use your help. And Kane’s. We have a lot of work ahead to root out the rest of the Bloodline.”

That statement was true, but they were already making significant strides to that end. Armed with Jason’s database, they had many names to pursue. Threads were being pulled, and the tapestry woven over millennia was starting to shred. Gray was right when he said that in the modern age it was harder to hide. The wildernesses of yesteryear had shrunken, offering less shelter.

Painter knew with certainty.

The Guild was dead.

“But we always have new crises to attend, too,” Painter pressed. “We could use someone with your unique talents.”

Tucker gave him a crooked smile. “I’ll pass. I’ve never been much of a team player. But if you ever need me, you have my number.”

Tucker turned and headed down the corridor, Kane at his knee.

Painter called out, “Wait! I don’t have your number.”

Tucker twisted around, walking backward a few steps, his crooked smile straightening. “Something tells me, director, if you ever need me, you’ll find me.”

He was right.

Painter lifted his arm in a good-bye.

Tucker merely swung around and vanished around a corner. The last sight was Kane’s tail wagging, ready for their next adventure.

Painter watched a breath longer, knowing that wouldn’t be the last he would see of Tucker and Kane.

Lisa finally rejoined him. “Ready?”

Oh, yeah .

They headed out of the hospital, hand in hand, into the brightness of a new day. A horse-drawn carriage waited at the curb, covered in her favorite chrysanthemums, each petal a deep burgundy trimmed in gold.

Jason had hunted down that rare specimen, getting a large shipment in time. Kowalski was assigned to arrange the livery service. He spent the entire week exiting rooms with the same joke: Sorry, gotta see a man about a horse .

In a few more steps, Lisa recognized the flower and immediately suspected something was up.

“Painter…?” she warned.

He walked her to the carriage, helped her up, then dropped to a knee on the carriage step, revealing the small velvet-lined box in his palm.

She covered her cheeks. “No!”

“I haven’t even asked the question yet.”