Altar of Eden (13 page)

Hidden in the bayou, Duncan Kent sat in an ebony-hulled jet boat. He sucked on a cherry Life Savers. Four other men, all equipped in body armor, shared the craft with him. Another boat, a twin to his, floated twenty yards to his right. The team, ten in all, had been handpicked by Duncan. They were the elite of Ironcreek Industries.

Duncan studied the alligator farm through a pair of night-vision binoculars. Since sunset, the two boats had run dark through the swamps. The only light in Duncan’s boat was the small GPS unit held in his other hand. He had used the device to track the specimen from the coast. Each beast of the Babylon Project had been tagged with an electronic marker.

The plan was for a quick kill and extraction, to take down the jaguar during the night and leave no trace behind. As luck would have it, the first part of his mission had already been accomplished. He stared through the binoculars at the cooling bulk of the great cat. It was a significant loss, but not a fatal one to the Babylon Project.

He recalculated his mission objectives as he watched a small group labor around an injured man on the ground. The man writhed in agony, while another sat on his chest. A blond woman set about cinching a makeshift tourniquet around a severed limb.

Duncan lowered his binoculars. His team had arrived too late. Even with the tracker, it had taken too long to home in on their target.

No matter.

With the cat dead, the body would have to be secured. But not now, not with the Coast Guard on its way. He would have to bide his time, discover where it was taken. Still, bile burned in his gut. He had warned the CEO of Ironcreek about the risks of transporting specimens during a tropical storm, but his warning had fallen on deaf ears. His superiors were on a tight timetable. The specimens had been headed to Ironcreek headquarters in Bethesda, Maryland, to demonstrate the viability of the Babylon Project.

It was essential to Ironcreek’s future. When it came to private military contracting, competition had grown fierce. With wars being fought on two fronts—Iraq and Afghanistan—the business of supplying men, supplies, and new technologies for the battlefield had grown into a multibillion-dollar industry. Ironcreek competed with Raytheon, Air-Scan, DynCorp, and many others for government contracts. The key to thriving in this environment was to carve out a unique niche, to supply a service or product unlike any other.

Where outfits like Blackwater specialized in security and protection services, Ironcreek Industries concentrated on research and development for the military. In fact, their main competition wasn’t from other private outfits, but from DARPA itself, the U.S. Defense Department’s R&D agency.

Already the government was moving forward with various bioengineering projects, treading too heavily into Ironcreek’s territory. DARPA was wiring rats and sharks with cerebral implants, learning to control them like biological robots. They were inserting electronic chips into insect larvae, so moths and flies would mature with the chips grown
inside
them. The list went on and on. The latest had DARPA dabbling into the genome itself, to find ways of enhancing performance through direct genetic manipulation.

To survive, Ironcreek needed a leg up in this burgeoning industry. They found it in Iraq within a biological weapons facility hidden in the heart of the Baghdad Zoo, a laboratory Ironcreek learned about from intelligence tortured out of an Iraqi military scientist. They had paid well to keep that intelligence secured within their own circles.

Duncan had been the one sent over to secure the research and any viable specimens. He had paid for the bounty with his own flesh. Written across his body in scars was proof of the project’s viability. On the left side of his face, four ropy scars ran from the crown of his head to his chin. After a week in a coma, it took nine surgeries to rebuild his nose, fix his broken jaw, and screw in dental implants. Damage to his salivary glands and ducts left him perpetually dry-mouthed, alleviated somewhat by sucking on lozenges and hard candies.

More scars mapped his body—but not all of them were physical. Some nights he woke with his sheets tangled, soaked with sweat, his lips snarled in a scream of pain and terror. Memories of that morning in Baghdad—of the beast leaping on him, tearing into him—marked him as surely as any scar.

The creature had once been a chimpanzee. If it hadn’t been half starved and debilitated by neglect, Duncan would not have survived. Still, he had given his blood for this project. He wasn’t about to see it exposed and destroyed. Not when they were so close.

He recognized that there were problems, like the recent aberrations that had begun to arise at the test station on Lost Eden Cay. But when it came to success in the marketplace, speed often outweighed precaution.
Safety first
was the motto of the spineless.

Duncan lifted an arm and waved it in a circle. The quiet burble of the boats’ water-jet engines grew sharper as the boats turned away and fled back toward the extraction point.

“Sir?” his second-in-command asked, filling that one word with both respect and meaning.

What’s the plan now?
he was asking.

Duncan pocketed his GPS unit. “The surviving specimens are still locked up at that animal research facility by the river.”

In order to safeguard Ironcreek’s interest and limit exposure, the test subjects would have to be either secured or destroyed. He checked his watch and calculated a time line. They were running out of night, but he dared not waste another day.

“We’ll hit it tonight,” he said. “A surgical strike before sunrise.”

In his head, he began formulating an attack strategy, but his second-in-command had one more question.

“Sir?”

Once again, Duncan knew the query behind that one word and answered it. “No survivors.”

Lorna stood on her front porch. Sunrise was only a couple of hours away. She should be bone-tired, but the opposite was true. She was wired, still running on adrenaline from all that had happened during the night.

A step below her, Jack waited.

He had driven her from the New Orleans Border Patrol station, where she’d finished giving a statement. The campers were all safe, treated for some minor burns and smoke inhalation. The boy seized by the jaguar had been evacuated by a Life Flight air ambulance, as had Garland Chase. The man had lost a lot of blood, along with most of his left leg to the alligator, but he’d live.

The Coast Guard had wanted to shoot the gator, but Lorna had argued against it, explaining how the gunshots and fire had riled the beast, causing it to lash out with a million years of defensive instinct. The farm owner’s daughter—the one who dove in and rescued Garland—looked ready to throw herself between the Coast Guard sharpshooter and the gator.

In the end, Elvis lived.

Unfortunately the same couldn’t be said about the jaguar and her cub. Their carcasses were airlifted to ACRES. The animals’ deaths were a tragic loss, but Lorna had also watched three men’s bodies hauled out of the forest, their skulls crushed, their throats ripped out. The cat was a man-eater, a remorseless killing machine, too dangerous to be allowed to live.

Still, not all of the aftermath was tragic. The pilot of the crashed helicopter had survived, found in the wreckage with a broken arm and collarbone. Likewise, a lone pirogue had paddled into the park, appearing on the opposite side of the farm. The Thibodeaux brothers— thought lost to the cat—had survived their encounter, along with Jack’s two teammates. T-Bob had had enough swamp savvy to abandon the canoe and retreat his group up a pair of tall cypresses. From the high vantage point and hidden from the cat, he’d taken potshots to drive her off.

Lorna pictured the mother’s limp bulk rising into the air, hauled aloft in a cargo net. She was anxious to get back to ACRES, but Jack had insisted she fly with him back to New Orleans aboard a Coast Guard chopper to give a statement. Afterward, he offered to drive her home, then to the docks to retrieve her Bronco. She wanted to grab a change of clothes and head directly out to ACRES.

“I’ll wait here,” Jack said from the porch step.

He stood in his undershirt. His uniform top had been shredded and bloodied by the cub’s frenzy. His left arm was bandaged from wrist to elbow.

“Don’t be stupid. Come inside.” She nodded to his arm. “You’re already seeping through your gauze. I’ve got a first-aid kit inside. I’ll put on a fresh wrap before we head out. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

He tried to hide his injured arm. “I’ll be fine.”

“Cat bites and scratches shouldn’t be taken lightly,” she warned, and she certainly had the scars on her arms to prove it. “Did they give you any antibiotics?”

“A prescription. I’ll pick it up in the morning.”

She rolled her eyes. Clearly the Coast Guard medical team knew nothing about feline injuries—but then why would they? There weren’t a lot of feral cats on the high seas.

“Are you allergic to penicillin?” she asked and turned to the front door with her keys.

“No.”

“Cats carry a form of
Pasteurella
in their mouths, a toxic and septic bacterium. I’ve seen animal health technicians lose fingers and parts of hands from neglected bite wounds. Antibiotics must be started immediately. I have some Augmentin inside. I always keep a supply in case I need to self-medicate.“ She glanced back to Jack. ”But you didn’t hear that from me.”

He finally relented and climbed the last step to the porch. She tugged open the door, flicked on the light inside, and led him into the foyer.

“The kitchen’s in back.” She pointed. “I’ll grab my kit and meet you there.”

She climbed the stairs to the upper landing, taking the steps two at a time. Her abraded back protested, but she didn’t slow.
Definitely wired.
She retreated to the hall bathroom and opened the medicine chest. Rows of prescription pill bottles lined the shelves, along with various toiletries and sundries. She grabbed the bottle of Augmentin and shook it.
Plenty still left.
She also snatched a fresh roll of gauze, hydrogen peroxide, and iodine.

As she closed the medicine chest she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was a scraggly mess, half plastered to her skull. Her clothes had fared even worse. She wasn’t a vain woman, but there were limits even for her. She abandoned the medical kit into the sink and turned to the tub. She twisted on the shower, waited for the steam to rise, then climbed in fully clothed. She let the water run over her for a full half minute. With her eyes still closed, she stripped to the skin, let the blistering-hot water scald over her, then finally climbed back out and toweled off.

In another few minutes, her hair was brushed loose to her shoulders and she’d hurried to her room naked and changed into a fresh pair of jeans and white tank top. Retrieving the medical kit, she headed downstairs.

She found Jack sitting at the kitchen table, his back to her. His head was hanging, half drowsing from his posture. She hated to disturb him and paused in the doorway.

For just a moment she flashed back on Tom. As she caught Jack in half silhouette, the family resemblance was uncanny. Relaxed with his guard down, Jack looked ten years younger. She could see the boy hidden behind the hardness of the man, almost a ghost of his younger brother.

He must have heard or sensed her presence. His head jerked up and toward her, his face going stony again. Still, his Cajun accent drawled softly, huskily.

“Lorna . . .”

The one word flushed goose bumps along her arms. His gaze traveled sleepily up and down her body, taking in her new clothes. If not so exhausted, he might not have been so brazen about it. Under his raw gaze, a warmth traveled deep into her belly and settled there.

Discomfited, she hurried to the table and dumped the medical supplies down, then crossed to the sink to get a glass of water for him to take with the antibiotics. She was glad to have her back to him as she turned on the tap.

Get ahold of yourself already . . .

Glass in hand, she turned back around. “Better take two pills. Then let me check that arm.”

As he shook out the pills into his palm, she pulled up a chair and laid out the fresh gauze and a bottle of Betadine. He craned back to swallow the antibiotics. She noted the pinpricks of blood that stained his undershirt.

“Did anyone treat the wounds on your chest?” she asked.

“They’re just scratches.”

Annoyance burned away the residual discomfort of his close presence.

“Take off your shirt,” she said.

“They’re nothing.”

She waved at him. “Don’t argue.”

He gave her a tired sheepish look, then, in one pull, shed his shirt. His bare chest and belly were crisscrossed with shallow scratches. The movement and pull of cloth set a few to bleeding again. No one had bothered to clean them.

She sighed. “There’s a full bath with a shower off the sleeping porch in back. I want you to take hot water and soap to any and every wound from that cub.”

“We don’t have time—”

“Doctor’s orders.” She stood up. “There are clean towels in there. I’ll get you a fresh shirt. My brother’s about your size.”

He looked ready to argue, but she pointed her arm.

“Go. I’ll make a fresh batch of coffee and warm some leftover beignets.”

That seemed to satisfy him, and he headed off toward the bathroom.

She pulled out a teakettle and a French press to make coffee. As the water heated she picked up the phone and punched in the number for ACRES. She called the genetics lab, figuring someone was still there.

The line picked up. The voice spoke in an impatient rush. “Dr. Trent here.”

“Zoë, it’s Lorna.”

In the background, she heard the neurobiologist’s husband, Paul, talking animatedly about RNA transcription errors. She also recognized Dr. Metoyer’s muffled voice but couldn’t make out his words. None of them had left. They were pulling an all-nighter, too.

“I was just checking in,” Lorna said.

“Then you’d better stop checking,
chica,
and get that butt of yours over here! You’re missing all the fun. And I can use a little estrogen here.”

She smiled at her colleague’s excitement. “Had to pick up a few things from home. I should be there in the next hour. Is the DNA analysis finished?”

Zoë’s voice grew more serious. “Not yet. Should be done by the time you get here. But the MRI data finished compiling. The results showed some strange neurological anomalies.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s too much to go over on the phone. Oh, and just so you’re prepared, about an hour ago we performed a series of EEGs on your animals.”

Electroencephalograms?

“What? Why?” Irritation dulled her initial excitement. Lorna felt protective of the recovered animals. They had been traumatized enough. “Any live testing should have waited until I was on the premises. You all know that.”

“I know, I know. But the procedure was noninvasive. We’ll explain it all when you get here.”

“I’ll be right over.” She hung up the phone, knowing her last words sounded as much a threat as a promise.

The teakettle whistled for her attention. She packed the French press with a chicory blend from Cafe du Monde and allowed the simple routine to resettle her thoughts.

Down the hall, she heard the bathroom door pop open. Jack returned with his hair wet and his skin almost steaming. He came in barefoot, wearing only his work trousers and a towel over one shoulder.

“I heard talking as I was drying off. Everything okay?”

“Will be once I get over to ACRES. Something’s got them all worked up.”

Jack nodded to the table. “Then this can wait. I can take care of all of this after I drop you off—”

“Sit.” She pointed a cup of hot coffee toward the table. “Sugar? Cream?”

“Black will do.” He sank reluctantly back into his seat.

Lorna checked the scratches and bite wounds, satisfied that he’d scrubbed them clean. “This’ll sting.”

She painted the marks with Betadine, noting his skin flinch with each touch, but the deeper underlying muscle never moved and his breathing never changed its steady rhythm. She felt an impulse to press her ear to his chest, to listen to his heart, to monitor that rhythm, too, but she restrained herself.

The only other reaction from his body was a flush along his neckline and a hardening of his abdominals, as if he were preparing to take a blow to the stomach. She suspected it wasn’t all from the pain. Confirming this, he shifted self-consciously.

As she worked in silence, she noted several old ropy scars across his left shoulder, neck, and down his back. Without meaning to, she allowed one finger to lightly trace one of the scars.

“Shrapnel from an IED,” he explained matter-of-factly. “A roadside bomb.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean . . .” Her hand dropped away, and her face heated with embarrassment.

She finished her ministrations and replaced the bandage on his arm.

When she glanced up, she found him staring her full in the face. His eyes were like a wolf, raw and unreadable. He leaned closer. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her, but instead he reached to the cup of coffee on the table.

“Thanks.” He stood up. “You said something about a new shirt.”

“That’s right,” she stammered out, feeling stupid for forgetting—
and for stammering.
“I’ll get one from my brother’s room.”

She was happy to flee the room. She wiped her damp hands on her jeans. She blamed the fine sheen of perspiration over her body on the night’s humidity. Or maybe it was just the exhaustion, weakening her guard. Or maybe it was the boy she’d noted in the slumbering man. An echo of Tom, of long nights in each other’s arms.

She might have forgotten, but her body had not.

She dragged a clean T-shirt from her brother’s dresser and hurried back to the hallway where Jack waited. He tugged into the shirt. She was wrong about Jack being the same size as her brother. The shirt was a tight fit and clung to his shoulders and chest.

“Ready?” he asked as he shoved into his socks and boots.

She nodded and pulled open the front door, glad for the cool night breeze on her heated face.

Out of the shadows in the front yard, a hard shout called to her.

“Where the hell do you think you’re all going?”