Germ

"Good lu—" He stopped, then gripped Stephen's shoulder firmly, shook his head. "To hell with luck. God be with you." He turned his eyes to her. "Both of you."

At that moment, Julia realized how intensely he wanted to join them, to go all the way and damn the torpedoes. He'd witnessed the mournful aftermath of countless abductions, attended the funerals of people who'd gone to the air base for revenge. He'd been waiting for justice a long time. Now someone was going to try. But he knew it wasn't his time, not yet.

She nodded and turned into the black coolness of the mine. Stephen brushed past her, taking point. Ten paces in, she looked back. Tate was squatted like a guardian troll in front of the radiant mouth of the mine, his forearms resting across his knees. She stifled the urge to call out to him, to plead for him to come. She wanted to say, How can we possibly do this without your help? Instead, she followed Stephen deeper into darkness, wondering if this mine would prove to be their River Styx.

When she turned again, Tate was gone.

ninety-one

Stephen braced his feet and hands against the rusty

metal rungs set in the concrete tube that ascended from the mine like a chimney and pushed his shoulder into the manhole cover above him. It rose slowly, sounding like a mason jar when you unscrew the lid. Blinding light sliced into the pitch darkness of the shaft. And something else. The stench of rot—it pierced his nostrils and stung his eyes, perhaps not as effectively as the gaseous irritants cops use to incapacitate suspects, but enough to force shallow breaths and teary vision. Squinting, he made out the source—and also the reason Tate thought this was a safe entrance into the compound: he was behind a trash container roughly the size of an eighteen-wheeler. Sludge oozed down its side and through unseen holes in its bottom, forming pools that collected tissue paper and cans and other refuse the way tar pits entrap animals.

Metal wheels held the container ten inches off the ground, giving him a view of the base beyond. Straight ahead and down a grassy incline were the Quonsets Tate had described. That's where they'd find the stairs into the underground complex—and Allen, Stephen prayed. He looked off to the right, and his heart jumped. There, a hundred yards away, was the entrance gate and a guard shack. They were the first things he recognized from the home movie Despesorio Vero had smuggled out—the second video, which showed the air base. The sense of being here, of having made the journey in search of his brother, made the hair on his arms stand up.

Two guards were talking, submachine guns at their sides. A collection of battered metal trash cans next to the Dumpster nearly shielded Stephen's position. He and Julia would have to be careful when they emerged.

He eased the cover down, pinching off the light. He snapped on his flashlight. Below him, also clinging to the rungs, Julia peered up.

"Can we get to the stairs?" she asked. Her whispers sounded loud in the concrete shaft so near the enemy.

"I think I spotted the building they're in. There are guards at the front gate, within view. I don't see any way to just slip in. We're near a Dumpster. Maybe we can—"

The entire shaft rumbled around them. Flakes of rust rained down from the bottom of the manhole cover. Under Stephen, one end of a rung popped loose, and his foot sailed into Julia's forehead. She lost her grip. For a moment she remained suspended over the fifty-foot drop to the mine floor, her body wedged diagonally in the shaft; her cheek was pushed into the side; her feet fought for traction on the opposite side.

Stephen's flashlight struck the top of her head and tumbled down, strobing until it hit the earth and blacked out. Julia fell and jerked to a stop as Stephen grabbed the shoulder strap of her knapsack. She flailed her arms in the dark until she found the rungs and pulled herself to them.

Above them, sirens sounded.

ninety-two

Karl Litt had just finished scouring Dr. Rankin's blood off his hands and arms and was watching the last pink swirl slip down the drain when the blast quavered through the bathroom. He gripped the edge of the countertop. It felt like the bumper of a very powerful car, ready to roll. The light flickered. He caught his sunglasses as they slipped off the counter. Someone screamed in the hall— impossibly loud. Then he realized it was the base's air raid siren, which Gregor had made functional shortly after they'd leased the base. He yanked his handheld out of his pocket.

"Was ist los!" he yelled. What's happening?

"Air strike!" Gregor answered. "I saw it. One of the hangars went up. A jet. Here comes—"

Another explosion. This time the thunderous sound echoed through the handheld's speaker, breaking up into squeals and static.