Free Species II by Yvonne Navarro Page B

made for my country, and I’d make it again in a heartbeat. Maybe you need to learn the meaning of the word sacrifice.”
    “No, you listen, pal.” Press was practically snarling now, right up in the colonel’s face. “I almost got killed chasing the last alien she-bitch you guys spliced together. If the government was stupid enough to make another one—and I don’t doubt that for a moment—let it clean up the mess!”
    Surprisingly, Burgess stayed cool. “We didn’t make this one.”
    “Yeah?” Press turned and started to walk back toward his demonstration area. “Well, too bad. Count me out of the search party anyway.”
    “One million dollars.”
    Press stopped—he couldn’t help it. “What?
    “Cash,” Burgess said softly. “Non-traceable, non-taxable. For two weeks of work.” He waited a beat, then asked, “Are you sure you won’t reconsider?”
    Press swiveled on one heel and turned to scowl at the smug-looking Carter Burgess.
    God, he really hated this bastard.
    “I can’t tell you how much I despise getting up this early,” Press said as he stared morosely out the side window of the government-issue Chevrolet sedan. Dawn over the city of Washington, no matter how beautiful the day promised to be, did nothing to cheer him up.
    From the seat next to him, Colonel Burgess ignored Press’s comment and opened the leather briefcase on his lap. A quick check to make sure the soundproof glass between them and the driver was closed, and he began flipping through a packet of papers inside. “After the Sil fiasco,” he said matter-of-factly, “the President authorized the Pentagon to form a committee to study the situation and how it was resolved. Absolutely classified, of course.”
    “Of course,” Press mimicked. He turned his level gaze on the colonel. “Why worry the public? Besides, the American taxpayers definitely need more committees.”
    Burgess was looking at him, but Press could’ve sworn the man hadn’t heard a bit of his sarcastic comment. “The committee is composed of four-star generals,” he continued. “These sons of bitches have seen this country through every military crisis since World War Two. They make the kind of decisions that grunts like you and I can only dream about—”
    “Speak for yourself,” Press cut in. “I’m fairly certain we have different career goals.” He paused. “Besides, that alien—Sil—wasn’t a military crisis. She was a government fuck-up, pure and simple.”
    Burgess opened his mouth to reply, then held back as the car rolled to a stop at the double-gated outer checkpoint of Monroe Air Force Base. There would be no mistakes here; the armed guard checked everyone’s papers, including the colonel’s, before allowing the sedan to pass through the gate with instructions to the driver to turn right at the directional sign marked BIOHAZARD 4 and stop for another identification check. He finished his instructions with a crisp salute that disappeared behind the tinted glass as Burgess’s driver hit the button to raise the windows in the car.
    “The Sil experiment was a mistake,” Burgess admitted. He pulled a small bottle of Visine from his pocket and dribbled a bit into his good eye before turning to look at Press. “But we’re ready for them now that you’re back in the game.”
    A game, Press thought wearily, although this time he kept his mouth shut. The fool was actually calling this a game. These types never learned. “Why are you involved?” he asked aloud. “You were always strictly search-and-destroy.”
    Burgess shrugged carelessly as he indicated his glass eye, but Press wasn’t fooled. This man still cared very much about that loss. “What happened in Costa Rica put an end to my field-mission days.” He grinned, but it, too, wasn’t a genuine expression. “So Uncle Sam found me a new niche.”
    Press grinned nastily. “Hire the handicapped.”
    “You’re a funny guy,” Burgess told him with a sour look. He glanced