James Rollins - The Eye of God - A Sigma Force Novel

Fired by equal parts adrenaline and guilt, he yanked open the car door, hopped in, and took off. He raced through the outskirts of D.C., zipping through gears, punching past stop signs.

Still, he could not outrun the ghosts of his past—of his fellow teammates, of a kid brother who had laughed in the face of death.

Having survived, he must now live for all of them.

That truth, that burden of responsibility, grew heavier with every passing mile, every passing year. It was becoming too much to bear.

Still, he did the only thing he could.

He pressed harder on the gas.

6:34 P.M.

“You look a bit overwhelmed,” Painter said.

And why wouldn’t I?

Jada stared down at the thick mission dossier on her lap. She sat in Director Crowe’s subterranean office. She felt suddenly claustrophobic, not so much because of the mass of the Smithsonian Castle above her head, but because of the weight of the packet resting on her knee.

And all it signified.

She was about to travel halfway around the world, to search for a crashed military satellite that might hold the fate of the world, or at the very least make or break her career as an astrophysicist.

So , yeah , as the once nappy-headed girl out of Congress Heights who ran home from school every day to keep from being beaten up because she was an honor student and liked books . . . I’m feeling a little pressure.

“You’ll have a good team with you,” Painter promised her. “It’s not all on your shoulders—nor should you let it be. Trust your team.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

She took a deep steadying breath. Painter’s office was spartan, limited to a desk, a filing cabinet, and a computer, but the space as a whole had a worn-around-the-edges warmth to it, like a comfortable pair of tattered sneakers. She noted the personal touches. On the cabinet rose a swirling chunk of black glass that looked like a sculpture but was more likely a memento. On the wall, suspended in a shadow box, was a curved fang from some jungle beast, but it seemed impossibly long. And on his desk stood a cluster of framed photos of a woman.

Must be his fiancée.

He had mentioned her often on the flight here and clearly loved her.

Lucky lady.

The room also plainly served as the hub for Sigma command. Three large video monitors had been mounted on the walls around his desk, like windows upon the world. Or in this case, the universe .

On one screen was a real-time view of Comet IKON; on another, the final image taken by the falling satellite; the last showed a live feed from the Space and Missile Systems Center out west.

The scuff of shoes and low voices drew her attention to the door. Kat Bryant appeared with someone in tow.

“Look who I found,” Kat said.

Painter stood and shook the tall man’s hand. “About time, Sergeant Wren.”

Jada found herself also on her feet.

This had to be her other teammate. Duncan Wren. He was surprisingly young, likely only a couple years older than her. She sized him up. His physique was bulky and hard, filling out his marine T-shirt, with tattoos peeking down from the sleeves. But he didn’t seem muscle-bound, far from it. She imagined he could match her stride for stride in a sprint—and she was fast.

She shook his hand, noting the scraped knuckles. “Jada Shaw.”

“The astrophysicist?” he asked.

Surprise sparked in his green eyes, irking her somewhat. Over her short career, she had seen that look plenty of times. Physics was still a man’s world.

As if to look her over better, he brushed back a few stray locks of dark blond hair, laced with lighter streaks that didn’t come out of any bottle.

“Great,” he said with no hint of condescending sarcasm. He placed his fists on his hips. “So then let’s go find us a satellite.”

“Jet is fueled and waiting,” Kat said. “I’ll take you there.”

Jada’s heart climbed higher in her throat. This was all happening so fast.

Duncan touched her elbow, as if sensing her growing panic.

She remembered Painter’s earlier advice.

Trust your team.

But what about trusting herself?

Duncan leaned toward her, his eyes crinkling with concern but also shining with damnable enthusiasm. “You ready?”

“I guess I’d better be.”

“That’s all anyone can ask.”

Before they left, Kat stepped around them and placed a folder on Painter’s desk, keeping a finger on top of it. “The latest report on Gray’s plan of operation in Hong Kong.”

He nodded, sighing a bit. “I skimmed it earlier on the computer. That’s a dangerous path he’s about to tread.”

“It seems he’s willing to walk it for Seichan.”

6

November 18, 8:04 A.M. HKT

Kowloon, People’s Republic of China

Gray prepared to enter the lion’s den.

Or lioness, in this particular case.

He stood on the street amid the crush of the morning rush hour in the Mong Kok district of the Kowloon peninsula. People raced through the morning drizzle, heads low, some with umbrellas, others with wide bamboo hats. Everywhere his eye settled, there was movement. Cars crept down the narrow streets between towering skyscrapers. Laundry flapped from balconies like the flags of a thousand nationalities. Crowds milled and flowed.

Even the smells changed with every breeze: the sizzle of pork fat, the burn of Thai spices, the pungent stink rising from the overflowing trash bins, the stale whiff of perfume from a woman passing close by. Calls echoed all around him, mostly the pleas of commerce, drawn by his white face.

Hey , boss , guess how much for a suit . . .

You want copy watch , yes . . .

Food is very good , very fresh . . . you try . . .

The cacophony of Kowloon deafened the senses. New York City considered itself crowded, but it was a ghost town compared to the squash of humanity found here. The Kowloon peninsula was half of what was considered Hong Kong. The other half across Victoria Harbor—Hong Kong Island—was a place of mansions, glittering skyscrapers, and green parks, all surrounding the majesty of Victoria Peak.

Earlier this morning, with the sun not yet up, Gray and Kowalski had chugged into the local waters aboard their stolen speedboat. The skyline of Hong Kong Island beckoned, looking like a modern-day Oz, an Emerald City that promised magic, where every wish could be granted for the right price—which, in fact, might be true of the decadent place.

Instead, Gray had directed Kowalski to pull into a derelict dock on the darker, urban side of Hong Kong, here in Kowloon. They took a short two-hour nap in a nondescript hotel as they waited for intel from D.C. Once the information came through, Gray led Kowalski to the red-light district of Mong Kok with its chaotic array of karaoke bars, brothels, saunas, and restaurants.

“This way,” Gray said after checking a map.

He headed away from the clamor of the main drag and down a maze of tight alleys. The earlier pleas for attention dwindled with every new twist, the invitations transforming into sullen glares of suspicion at their pale faces.

“I think that’s the building up ahead,” Gray said.

Passing a final turn in the narrow street, he reached a trio of seventeen-story apartment complexes, all connected by bridges and ramshackle construction into a single massive structure. It looked like a rusted mountain held together by the accretion of corrugated tin, patches of wood, and refuse. Even the balconies, unlike those on the nearby buildings, had been sealed shut behind gates. But even here, laundry hung from the bars or streamed on strung ropes, flapping in the wind.