James Rollins - Altar Of Eden

Jack nodded.

Blackwater was a private corporate security force contracted by the U.S. government to serve in Iraq and Afghanistan. Basically they were mercenaries. Jack had worked alongside several members of Black-water in Iraq. He had no beef with any of them, though there was a certain level of resentment among U.S. troops. Both armies fought in the same terrain, but the Blackwater mercenaries were both better equipped and better paid. In fact, most were former soldiers recruited after leaving the service. Even Jack had been approached and considered it.

Then the scandals broke out about Blackwater: testimonials of secret assassination programs, weapons smuggling, massacres of civilians, even the deaths of federal witnesses.

In the end, Jack had opted to protect the homeland here.

“Why bring up Blackwater?” he asked.

“Because the corporation earned over a billion dollars in government contracts since 2000. And they’re only one of six hundred such firms operating in the two theaters of war.”

“I’m well aware,” he growled, urging the man to get to the point.

“Then what you might not know is that such contracting is no longer limited to just paramilitary firms-the scientific community has also been co-opted. Hundreds of research groups have hopped on the bandwagon. Large and small. And from what I’ve heard, the competition is not only fierce-but also cutthroat.”

Jack hadn’t known about this detail. He pictured the animals, the assault force, the brutality.

“With such vast sums of money involved,” Carlton continued, “the scandals of Blackwater are spreading like a virus through these scientific communities. Accusations of corporate espionage, vandalism, outsourcing of research to third-world countries to avoid regulations. The list goes on and on.”

Jack understood the doctor’s concern. Such a description certainly fit with all that had happened.

A door swung open behind him. Lorna’s brother had returned from the medical ward. His arm was in a plaster cast from hand to elbow. His gaze was glassy from painkillers.

Randy stirred and opened one eye toward Kyle. “Great,” he mumbled under his breath. “So one of the Polks has rejoined us. Guess that means someone’s gonna try to kill me again.”

Kyle scowled at Randy. “What’re you talking about?”

Jack stepped between them. His head pounded. He didn’t need any more aggravation, especially from Randy. Whatever wall had dropped between the two brothers out in the woods had risen back up in the light of day.

“Randy, just keep your mouth shut for once.”

His brother glowered and crossed his arms. “I’m just saying, whenever Menards and Polks mix, someone in our family gets killed-or nearly killed in my case.”

Kyle’s face went a deep red. “So then what about my sister? You and your brother are here swilling coffee and stuffing your faces with doughnuts while she’s still in danger.”

“There’re doughnuts?” Randy asked, sitting straighter.

Kyle shook his head and turned his wrath on Jack. He lifted his arm. “I’m all fixed up. So what are we going to do about Lorna? You said you had a way of finding her.”

“Calm down. I do… or hope I do.” He glanced over to the computer forensics expert.

“How?” Kyle pressed. His voice lost its angry edge and took on a more plaintive tone.

Jack picked up the Faraday cage holding the surgically removed tags. “With these.”

When the power had been cut off at ACRES, Jack had been examining one of the tags. As the lights blacked out, he had pocketed it for safekeeping, wanting to examine it in more detail later. But when he abandoned Lorna in her office, he did more than just leave her with the tranquilizer rifle.

“I planted one of these tags on Lorna. In her pocket.”

The tension in Kyle’s face softened with hope.

“My God,” Zoë mumbled. “You think we can use it to track her?”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

The forensic expert must have heard their talk. “I think I can make it work,” he called over. “It’s definitely a form of GPS technology. If all the tags use this same technology, I should be able to find her. Though it might take a while. I’ll have to hunt satellite by satellite.” He swung around to face them. “It would be faster if I had some general idea where to begin looking.”

Jack contemplated all he’d learned from Carlton and his own suspicions. “Mexico, or somewhere off the coast,” he guessed. “Maybe the Caribbean. They wouldn’t be too far. But definitely south of the U.S. border.”

Carlton nodded his agreement.

Kyle sagged again. “That’s a lot of territory to cover. I should know. The oil company I’m contracted with has platforms up and down the Gulf Coast.”

“That’s good to hear,” Jack said. “Because if I’m right, we may need to use one of those rigs as a base of operations.”

Kyle glanced to him. His eyes lost some of their glaze, calculating and taking strength from the fact that he could be useful. Still, his main concern remained, and he mumbled it aloud.

“Is she still alive?”

Lorna marched down the dock toward the villa. Behind her, the man named Connor gripped a pistol in his hand, but he didn’t even bother pointing it at her.

What was the use? Where could she go?

They’d even taken her cuffs off.

Rubbing her wrists, she followed behind Duncan. The scarred man led the way toward a covered breezeway at the end of the dock. The air was fragrant with sea salt and the cinnamon scent of the mangrove forest. She noted a few beach chairs out on the sand and a row of yellow sea kayaks. It looked like any other island resort.

Until you looked closer.

At the edge of the beach, shadowed by the palms, stood men in camouflage gear with shouldered rifles. Up higher, an elaborate antenna-and-dish array covered the villa’s roof, far more than necessary for phone and satellite television service. There was also an eerie silence here. No reggae music, no laughter, only the gentle wash of waves on the beach.

The atmosphere felt charged, as if a storm were brewing.

Maybe it was the tension in the face of the guard who met them at the breezeway. She noted a flicker of fear in his eyes as he pulled Duncan aside for a private conversation.

Waiting, Lorna stood on the dock under the baking midday sun. The ringing in her ear had disappeared, but the motion of turning her neck to scout her surroundings triggered a stab of pain from the goose egg at the back of her skull. Still, if she hadn’t stopped, she might have missed it.

A blue tarp lay spread at the far end of the beach.

It looked like it covered some beach craft, except she saw Duncan glance that way, too. Only then did she notice the black stain running from the tarp to the water, like a trail of oil. But Lorna knew it wasn’t oil.

Focused, she noted a pale white shape sticking out from under the sheet.

A human hand.

Duncan rejoined them. He faced Connor. “They had another infiltration last night. It swam in. Killed Polaski. Wounded Garcia before it was shot.”

“How could it have caught them off guard? What about the tracking tags?”

“I don’t know. I’m off to talk to Malik about that. He left word for me to join him in the lab.”

Connor pointed a thumb at Lorna. “What about her?”

Duncan shrugged. “Bring her along. Lock her up in one of the holding pens down there until I’m ready for her.”

They set off again, passing down the breezeway and across an expansive patio. The lounge chairs and teak tables were empty, except for a pair of dark-skinned men wearing lab smocks. One smoked a cigarette listlessly, holding the filter toward his palm in a European fashion. His companion sat with his head in his hands.