Free The Judas Strain by James Rollins Page A

had been to emergency dispatch, where he was immediately put in contact with Director Crowe. Thank God he’d still been there .
    Gray had been ordered to a safe house, where an emergency medical evacuation team would rendezvous to evaluate and treat Seichan. Painter was taking no chances. In case this was all a trap, she was not to be taken to Sigma’s headquarters. A known assassin and terrorist, Seichan was on the most-wanted lists of Interpol and a score of intelligence agencies around the world. Rumor had it that the Israeli Mossad maintained a shoot-on-sight order on her.
    His parents had no place being here.
    Gray stared at the steel in his father’s eyes. His mother’s arms were already crossed over her chest. They were not going to budge easily.
    “You can’t come,” he said. “It’s not…not safe.”
    “Like here’s any safer,” his father said, waving an arm back toward the garage. “Who’s to say whatever gangbangers or drug dealers who shot her aren’t already on their way here?”
    Gray had no time to explain. The director had already dispatched a security detail to protect and watch over his parents. They would be arriving in the next couple minutes.
    “My car…my rules,” his father finished with a rumble of finality. “Now go, before she starts seeping through your mother’s bandages and messes up my new leather seats.”
    Seichan groaned, stirring in pain and confused agitation. One arm lifted to her bandage, clawing. His father caught her fingers and lowered her hand. He kept hold of it, reassuring as much as restraining.
    “Let’s go,” his father said.
    The rare tenderness more than anything broke through his constraint.
    Gray climbed into the driver’s seat. “Buckle in,” he said, knowing the sooner he got Seichan to the safe house, the better for all of them. He’d deal with the fallout later.
    As he started the engine, he caught his mother staring at him. “We’re not fools, you know, Gray,” she said cryptically, and turned away.
    His brows furrowed, more in irritation than understanding. He shifted the car into gear and shot down the driveway. He took the turn onto the street rather sharply.
    “Careful!” his father barked. “Those are new Kelsey wire wheels! If you goddamn scratch them up…”
    Gray sped down the street. He made several fast turns, minding the wheels. It felt good to be moving. The 390 V 8 growled like a beast. An ember of grudging respect for his father’s handiwork burned through his exasperation.
    His mother glanced down the street as he turned in the opposite direction from the nearest hospital, but she remained silent and settled deeper in her seat. He would find some way of dealing with his folks at the safe house.
    As Gray sped through the midnight city, he still heard occasional firecrackers popping. The holiday was ending, but Gray feared the true fireworks had yet to begin.
    12:55 A.M.
    Washington, D.C.
     
    S O MUCH FOR holidays off…
    Director Painter Crowe stalked down the hall toward his office. Central Command’s skeletal night staff was rapidly swelling in numbers. A general alert had been dispatched. He’d already fielded two calls from Homeland Security. It wasn’t every day you had an international terrorist fall into your lap. And not just any terrorist, but a member of the shadowy network known as the Guild.
    Often competing with Sigma, the Guild hunted and stole emerging technologies: military, biological, chemical, nuclear. In the current world order, knowledge was the true power—more than oil, more than any weapon. Only in the Guild’s case, they sold their discoveries to the highest bidder, including Al Qaeda and Hezbollah in the Middle East, Aum Shinrikyo in Japan, and the Shining Path in Peru. The Guild operated through a series of isolated cells around the world, with moles in world governments, intelligence agencies, major think tanks, even international research facilities.
    And once, even at DARPA.
    Painter