Free The Judas Strain by James Rollins

Buddha’s belly.”

3
Ambush
     
    J ULY 5, 12:25 A.M.
    Takoma Park, Maryland
     
    “W HAT THE HELL is going on?”
    “I don’t know, Dad.” Gray hurried with his father to close the carriage doors to the garage. “But I intend to find out.”
    The two had hauled the assassin’s motorcycle into the garage. Gray had not wanted the bike left in the open. In fact, he wanted no trace of Seichan left here. So far there had been no sign of whoever had shot her, but that didn’t mean they weren’t coming.
    He rushed back to his mother. As a biology professor at George Washington University, his mother had taught plenty of pre-med students and knew enough to belly-wrap Seichan’s wound in order to stanch any further hemorrhaging.
    The assassin hovered at the edge of consciousness, drifting in and out.
    “It looked like the bullet passed clean through,” his mother said. “But she’s lost a lot of blood. Is the ambulance on its way?”
    Moments ago Gray had made an emergency call with his cell phone—but not to 911. Seichan could not be taken to any local hospital. A gunshot wound required answering too many questions. Still, he had to move her, get her medical attention as soon as possible.
    Down the street, a door slammed. Gray listened, jumpy at any noises, his senses stretched to a piano-wire tautness. Someone called out, laughing.
    “Gray, is the ambulance on its way?” his mother persisted in a harder tone.
    Gray just nodded, refusing to lie out loud. At least not to his mother. He turned to his father, who joined them, wiping his palms on his work jeans. His parents thought he was a laboratory technician for a D.C. research company, a lowly position after being court-martialed out of the Army Rangers for striking a superior officer.
    But that had not been the truth either.
    Only a cover.
    His parents knew nothing about his true profession with Sigma, and Gray meant to keep it that way. Which meant he needed to bug out of here ASAP. He had to get moving.
    “Dad, can I borrow the T-bird? All this Fourth of July commotion, emergency services are overloaded. I can get the woman to the hospital faster myself.”
    His father’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, but he pointed toward the back door to the kitchen. “Keys are on the hook.”
    Gray ran and leaped up the rear porch steps. Cracking open the screen door, he reached inside and grabbed the jangling key fob from the hook. His father had restored a 1960 Thunderbird convertible, raven black with a red leather interior, tricked out with a new Holly carburetor, flamethrower coil, and electric choke. It had been moved out to the curb for the party.
    He ran to where it was parked with its top down, hopped over the driver’s door, and slid behind the wheel. A moment later, he was roaring in reverse and backed into the driveway, bouncing a bit in the seat as he hit the curb. His father was still troubleshooting the rebuilt suspension.
    He choked it into park, engine running, and ran to where his mother and father knelt at Seichan’s side. His father was already scooping her up.
    “Let me,” Gray said.
    “Maybe we shouldn’t move her,” his mother opined. “She took quite the fall and roll.”
    Gray’s father ignored them both. He heaved up, cradling Seichan in his arms. His father might be missing a part of a leg and mentally slipping a few gears, but he was still as strong as a draft horse.
    “Get the door,” his father ordered. “We’ll get her spread out across the backseat.”
    Rather than arguing, Gray obeyed and helped get Seichan inside. He opened the door and folded the front seat down. His father climbed into the back and draped her with deliberate gentleness, then settled into the rear seat, supporting her head.
    “Dad…”
    His mother climbed into the passenger front side. “I’ve locked the house up. Let’s go.”
    “I…I can take her on my own,” Gray said, waving them both out.
    He was not headed to any hospital. His earlier phone call