While he chalked up all these modifications to professional need, he knew down deep it was something more basic. Even before being approached by Sigma, he had already begun altering his body with tattoos. He knew these changes had more to do with Billy, with the way he died, his body ravaged by cells gone mad. These modifications were Duncan’s way of taking control, of defying cancer. It was his armor against the vagaries of fate, where a body could suddenly turn against itself.
His first tattoo had been a copy of Billy’s palm print. He inked it over his heart and later added the date of his brother’s death. Duncan often found his own hand covering that mark, wondering what twist of genetic fate had allowed him to live while his brother had to die.
The same could be said of his friends who had never returned from Afghanistan, those few who had caught a stray bullet or who were the first to step on a hidden IED.
I lived. They died.
It defined a fundamental constant of the universe.
Fate was a cruel, heartless bitch.
Fired by equal parts adrenaline and guilt, he yanked open the car door, hopped in, and took off. He raced through the outskirts of D.C., zipping through gears, punching past stop signs.
Still, he could not outrun the ghosts of his past—of his fellow teammates, of a kid brother who had laughed in the face of death.
Having survived, he must now live for all of them.
That truth, that burden of responsibility, grew heavier with every passing mile, every passing year. It was becoming too much to bear.
Still, he did the only thing he could.
He pressed harder on the gas.
6:34 P.M.
“You look a bit overwhelmed,” Painter said.
And why wouldn’t I?
Jada stared down at the thick mission dossier on her lap. She sat in Director Crowe’s subterranean office. She felt suddenly claustrophobic, not so much because of the mass of the Smithsonian Castle above her head, but because of the weight of the packet resting on her knee.
And all it signified.
She was about to travel halfway around the world, to search for a crashed military satellite that might hold the fate of the world, or at the very least make or break her career as an astrophysicist.
So, yeah, as the once nappy-headed girl out of Congress Heights who ran home from school every day to keep from being beaten up because she was an honor student and liked books . . . I’m feeling a little pressure.
“You’ll have a good team with you,” Painter promised her. “It’s not all on your shoulders—nor should you let it be. Trust your team.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
She took a deep steadying breath. Painter’s office was spartan, limited to a desk, a filing cabinet, and a computer, but the space as a whole had a worn-around-the-edges warmth to it, like a comfortable pair of tattered sneakers. She noted the personal touches. On the cabinet rose a swirling chunk of black glass that looked like a sculpture but was more likely a memento. On the wall, suspended in a shadow box, was a curved fang from some jungle beast, but it seemed impossibly long. And on his desk stood a cluster of framed photos of a woman.
Must be his fiancée.
He had mentioned her often on the flight here and clearly loved her.
Lucky lady.
The room also plainly served as the hub for Sigma command. Three large video monitors had been mounted on the walls around his desk, like windows upon the world. Or in this case, the universe.
On one screen was a real-time view of Comet IKON; on another, the final image taken by the falling satellite; the last showed a live feed from the Space and Missile Systems Center out west.
The scuff of shoes and low voices drew her attention to the door. Kat Bryant appeared with someone in tow.
“Look who I found,” Kat said.
Painter stood and shook the tall man’s hand. “About time, Sergeant Wren.”
Jada found herself also on her feet.
This had to be her other teammate. Duncan Wren. He was surprisingly young, likely only a couple years older than her. She sized him up. His physique was bulky and hard, filling out his marine T-shirt, with tattoos peeking down from the sleeves. But he didn’t seem muscle-bound, far from it. She imagined he could match her stride for stride in a sprint—and she was fast.
She shook his hand, noting the scraped knuckles. “Jada Shaw.”
“The astrophysicist?” he asked.
Surprise sparked in his green eyes, irking her somewhat. Over her short career, she had seen that look plenty of times. Physics was still a man’s world.
As if to look her over better, he brushed back a few stray locks of dark blond hair, laced with lighter streaks that didn’t come out of any bottle.
“Great,” he said with no hint of condescending sarcasm. He placed his fists on his hips. “So then let’s go find us a satellite.”
“Jet is fueled and waiting,” Kat said. “I’ll take you there.”
Jada’s heart climbed higher in her throat. This was all happening so fast.
Duncan touched her elbow, as if sensing her growing panic.
She remembered Painter’s earlier advice.
Trust your team.
But what about trusting herself?
Duncan leaned toward her, his eyes crinkling with concern but also shining with damnable enthusiasm. “You ready?”
“I guess I’d better be.”
“That’s all anyone can ask.”
Before they left, Kat stepped around them and placed a folder on Painter’s desk, keeping a finger on top of it. “The latest report on Gray’s plan of operation in Hong Kong.”
He nodded, sighing a bit. “I skimmed it earlier on the computer. That’s a dangerous path he’s about to tread.”
“It seems he’s willing to walk it for Seichan.”
6
November 18, 8:04 A.M. HKT
Kowloon, People’s Republic of China
Gray prepared to enter the lion’s den.
Or lioness, in this particular case.
He stood on the street amid the crush of the morning rush hour in the Mong Kok district of the Kowloon peninsula. People raced through the morning drizzle, heads low, some with umbrellas, others with wide bamboo hats. Everywhere his eye settled, there was movement. Cars crept down the narrow streets between towering skyscrapers. Laundry flapped from balconies like the flags of a thousand nationalities. Crowds milled and flowed.
Even the smells changed with every breeze: the sizzle of pork fat, the burn of Thai spices, the pungent stink rising from the overflowing trash bins, the stale whiff of perfume from a woman passing close by. Calls echoed all around him, mostly the pleas of commerce, drawn by his white face.