Germ

Though she hadn't realized it at the time, the sound of Allen's scream outside the hangar had propelled her into what Donnelley used to call Full Battle Mode. It was a state of heightened awareness, when every synapse sparked for only one purpose: to survive. Muscles moved, seemingly on their own and aided by healthy doses of adrenaline, to aim a firearm with point-blank accuracy or move her out of harm's way. It was like a drug, and coming down was hard. After having functioned at 200 percent, even briefly, both mind and body plunged into exhaustion. Soldiers knew it. And cops. Donnelley had been both, and he'd taught Julia how to control the descent, to keep the specter of danger alive in her mind even after its white-hot breath had cooled from her skin, until she was truly safe and ready to rest. Such thoughts fooled the body to attentiveness and tricked the adrenal gland into doling out enough super-juice to keep the mind alert. By giving that specter the cold, impassive face of Atropos, she now found keeping it alive disturbingly easy.

Stephen said nothing. His attention was riveted on the trucks and their lights. If, by chance, Allen wasn't on the Cessna, Atropos would have dumped his body somewhere between the hangars and his jet— precisely where the searchers were looking now.

After the jet took off, Stephen and Julia had no time to scout the area. On the other side of the terminal, three trucks had converged from various points and sped toward them. They'd barely made it to the alley ahead of the trucks, and through the hangar to the van in the parking lot ahead of the men who'd clambered from them.

Julia lowered the binoculars and went to a memory: Allen's attempt to speak while Atropos was gripping his neck. What had he tried to say? She moved her mouth silently, visualizing Allen's face. He had been grimacing in pain. Would that have distorted his lip movements enough to prevent her from deciphering his words? His jaw had moved twice, indicating a two-syllable word or two monosyllabic words. She went through the alphabet, comparing the movements of her mouth to his.

She was thinking of words that started with s when she felt a tug at the binoculars. She let Stephen take them. Stress etched furrows into the flesh around his eyes, on his cheeks above the beard, on his forehead.

She touched his arm. "We'll get him back."

His eyes remained glued to the search area. One of the cops had broken away from the illuminated witness to wave his flashlight beam over the tarmac behind the cars.

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Alive."

He lowered the binoculars to glare at her. "You don't know that." Cold. Angry. He lifted the binoculars again and scanned out the windshield.

"They took him, Stephen. They took him for a reason. They'll ransom him for the chip. They'll keep him alive until they have it in their hands. That buys us time to figure out a way to get him back."

They watched as the cops climbed into their cruisers and drove single file toward the terminal. The search trucks switched off their lights and followed, leaving the area dark except for a bold strip of light falling from the slightly open hangar doors, through which the dungareed mechanic disappeared. In another minute, that light also winked out.

"Why don't we just turn over the chip?" Stephen asked, surveying the darkness outside.

"Because that won't save him." Julia shifted in her chair so she was fully facing him, one leg tucked under herself. "That chip is evidence of something. I wish I knew what, exactly. But I'll bet it's not something these guys need to complete whatever it is they're doing. They want the chip only because it's evidence they don't want getting in the wrong hands. We've seen it. We've seen them. At least, some of them. We're as much a liability as the chip is. They're out to destroy us and the chip. They think they're going to use Allen to get the three of us and the chip all at once."

"So we're all dead." Stephen's deep, unwavering voice made the proclamation sound as though it had already happened.

"No," she said. She tried to back it up with a powerful fact. All she could say was, "Just . . . no."

A wry smile bent the hair around his mouth. "You have another plan, I suppose?"

"Look, they took the gauntlet too," she said. "It's on the plane, has to be. That means we can track it."

"Then what?"

"We go get Allen." This time she did sound certain.

Stephen looked out the windshield at the dark airport. He closed his eyes. His lips moved in silent prayer. She thought he'd fallen into a kind of trance and would be like that for some time; then he looked at her again. His face still harbored searing concern, but a measure of peace had returned to his eyes.

"Let's get to it, then," he said, keying the van to life and slamming it into gear.

sixty-seven