Free The Midnight Watch: A Sigma Force Short Story by James Rollins Page B

list of field agents best suited for this investigation.
    Jason’s voice caught his attention as Dr. Gutierrez answered the call. After some back and forth, the young man sat straighter and placed his cell on speakerphone mode. “And who called you?” Jason asked her.
    A small voice whispered from his phone, but the confusion was plain. “They said they were with Zoological Park Police. Claimed someone had broken into my office. They were sending someone over to collect me. But . . .”
    Her voice trailed off.
    “But what?” Jason asked.
    “It’s just . . . I don’t want to sound racist, but the caller was hard to understand. He had a thick accent. Asian, I think. It’s probably nothing, but I got a bad feeling after I hung up.”
    Jason glanced worriedly in Painter’s direction. “Did you tell him your location?” he asked the woman.
    “I . . . I did.”
    “Where are you now?”
    “I’m at the National Museum of Natural History. I was collecting DNA samples from some of the exhibits as part of my program. It’s easier after hours. I told the caller I would wait for them outside the museum at the corner of 12th and Madison.”
    “Stay put.” Jason looked to Painter for confirmation. “We’ll meet you inside the museum.”
    Painter nodded.
    From the small speaker on the phone, a new noise erupted: a sharp and strident ringing.
    Alarm bells.
    The researcher’s voice rose above the din. She sounded spooked. “What do I do?”
    Jason eyed Painter while offering the young woman one hope. “Hide.”
    Painter thought quickly. With an alarm being raised at the museum, he had no time to summon an outside field operative. He momentarily considered going himself, but he knew he was needed here to help hold local law enforcement at bay—at least long enough to safely extract the woman.
    That left only one Sigma member to assist Jason—someone still on the premises at this late hour. He pictured the muscled bulk of the former navy seaman, with his shaved head, his crooked nose, and his thick Bronx accent.
    Dear god, help us all. . .
    J OE K OWALSKI LAY on his back in a puddle of oil. He gave the wrench a final tug to tighten the new filter on the old Jeep. He wiped the surface clean to make sure that the gasket had stopped leaking.
    That oughta do it.
    He rolled out from beneath the vehicle and shifted over to a cigar resting atop an overturned glass cup. Still on his back, he placed the stub between his lips and drew a couple hard pulls to get the end glowing brightly, then sighed out a long stream of smoke. Maybe it was stupid—and definitely against the rules—to be smoking in Sigma’s motor pool, but who was around to complain at this late hour?
    He had the place to himself—which he preferred.
    He climbed to his feet and inspected the ’79 Jeep CJ7 that he was restoring. He had bought the off-roader three months earlier from a retired Forest Service member who had driven it hard, then let it sit idle for almost a decade. Never a good thing for a beast that loved to tear through a rugged landscape. Kowalski had already done a mild rebuild on the Chevy 400 motor, while troubleshooting issues with the transmission, steering, and drivetrain, but he still wasn’t entirely happy with the wiring.
    The open-body exterior was a patchwork of bondo and primer, with some of the original olive-green paint showing. The front seats and rear bench, all original, were ripped and worn. He’d eventually get around to sprucing it all up, but for now, he appreciated his progress.
    “You might be an ugly son of a bitch,” he mumbled around his cigar, “but you can at least haul ass now.”
    He stared across the handful of other vehicles in the motor pool, mostly a sleek and polished mix of Land Rovers, German sedans, and a pair of Ducati motorcycles. He ran his palm over the Jeep’s quarter panel, feeling the rough texture of bondo and a small buckle from an old fender bender, all testaments to its hard use and