Predator One (34 page)

Shit. He’d be worth billions now.

Instead, where was he?

Sitting on a toilet on an island somewhere, while absolute fucking madmen waited for him. While maniacs used his software and quantum technology
for what? A stock market and commodities scam? Okay, sure, it was on a global scale, but still. It was a scam. Doctor Pharos was basically a bureaucrat turned big-time con man. Somewhere on the larceny scale between Bernie Madoff and the old robber barons. White-collar thieves. Diamond-cuff-link gangbangers.

Which made him—what?

An accomplice?

A tool?

A lackey?

The speech Pharos gave him
back there was impressive. So impressive that Davidovich was tempted to buy the con. But the man was really a bureaucrat and not a salesman. He was good at pitching, but he wasn’t great at it.

And Davidovich knew that the man wasn’t as smart as he thought he was.

Pharos believed the hook was set, that all he had to do was jerk the line to reel Davidovich in.

The scientist got up and washed
his face. Thoroughly. Then he wet his fingers and ran them through his thinning hair. He leaned on the edge of the expensive sink and looked into the eyes of a man he did not truly know. An absent father. A husband who despised his wife. A failed son.

A brilliant scientist.

An innovative genius.

A captive.

A slave.

All of those things.

And people were dying because of him. He looked—as he
had looked so many times since Boy captured him—deep inside his soul for some faint flicker of conscience. That inward look had always been like looking through black glass. There was never any light to see.

Never.

Never.

He sank to his knees and wrapped his arms over his head.

Why the fuck was there nothing in there to see?

Chapter Seventy-four

UC San Diego Medical Center

200 West Arbor Drive

San Diego, California

March 30, 7:17
P.M.
Pacific Standard Time

The woman entered the hospital wearing a hat with a floppy brim and oversize sunglasses. Not at all unusual in Southern California. She was tall and slim, with an olive complexion and good bones. Men noticed her, even wearing a belted trench coat. She was
the kind of person who got noticed. She was aware of it, and she used it.

At her side walked an enormous dog. An Irish wolfhound. Forty inches at the shoulders. Two hundred pounds of muscle and bone covered in wiry smoke-gray hair. Eyes that swept left and right and missed nothing.

The dog wore a blue vest belted with Velcro and printed with the words
SERVICE DOG—ALL ACCESS
in friendly letters.
A caduceus was embroidered on the top.

The woman and the dog crossed the lobby, and every eye was on them. The security guard looked first at her, then at the dog, then at the vest, then at the woman’s legs, and then back to the dog. He moved in to intercept her before she got to the reception desk.

“Excuse me, miss? Is your dog registered?”

The woman turned slowly toward him. She smiled a
faint, tremulous smile. A cautious smile.

“Yes, she is,” she said. “Do you want to see her license?”

“Please.”

The woman fumbled in her pocket, and as she did so she became less of an exotic beauty and more of a woman with clear disabilities. Not blind, but vision impaired. She went through several pockets of her trench coat before producing the proper license issued by the state of California.
The guard barely glanced at it. He already felt enormously awkward, a reaction triggered by the woman’s obvious discomfiture.

The dog sat and waited with quiet patience, her dark brown eyes seeming to take in everything in the lobby without appearing to react to anything. Like a good service dog is trained to do.

“That’s okay, miss,” he said quickly. “Can I be of assistance?”

“Oh,” said the
woman, “I—I’m here to visit a friend of mine. She was brought in yesterday.”

“I can help you with that,” said the guard, taking her elbow—the one farthest from the dog—and guiding her to the reception desk. The dog, prosaically, stood and followed. People in the lobby pretended they weren’t watching.

“Thank you,” said the woman. She had a soft voice and a mild Italian accent.

“Carol,” said
the guard to the receptionist, “could you help this lady?”

“Sure,” said a bright-eyed Asian woman. “Who did you want to see, miss?”

The woman smiled a warm and grateful smile. “My friend’s name is Doctor O’Tree-Sanchez. She was brought in yesterday. She’s pregnant.”

The receptionist’s smile flickered. “I’m afraid Doctor O’Tree-Sanchez is not allowed to have any visitors.”

“Is Ms. Flynn with
her?”

“Um…”

“She called me this morning and asked me to come by. Junie Flynn,” said the woman. “Could you contact her and say that I’m here?”

The receptionist and the guard exchanged a look. The woman, behind her big sunglasses, appeared to be staring in the wrong direction. The dog looked bored.

“Okay,” said Carol. “But I can’t promise anything. We have strict orders.”

“I understand.”

“Who should I say is here?”

The woman said, “Maria Mandocello.”

The receptionist nodded and made the call. She spoke to the federal agent guarding the patient and was surprised to have the call passed to Junie Flynn, who was some kind of liaison to the agency overseeing Doctor O’Tree-Sanchez.

“Put her on, please,” said Junie Flynn. Carol handed the phone to the guard who placed it carefully
in the blind woman’s hand. There was a brief conversation that Carol couldn’t quite hear, and then Ms. Mandocello handed the phone back to Carol, though she extended it in the wrong direction. Carol, tolerant and experienced, reached over to intercept it without comment. She put the phone to her own ear.

“Is everything okay, Ms. Flynn?”

“Yes. I’ll be right down,” said Junie Flynn, and disconnected
the call.

They waited there for almost three minutes. Saying very little. Talking nonsense stuff. The weather. The terrible events in Philadelphia. Like that. Then the elevator doors slid open and two figures stepped out. A Japanese man with a hard, flat face and eyes that appeared to be absolutely lifeless, and a woman with wild blond hair and blue eyes that were filled with light.

And with
pain.

The blonde spotted the woman at once and immediately rushed toward her. She saw the dog and her stride faltered, but the blind woman held out her hands and took the other woman into her arms. They embraced like friends who loved each other but had been apart for far too long. It was so genuine a thing that Carol the receptionist and Myron the guard smiled at each other. The dog sniffed
the blonde and turned away, as if to say, “Noted and filed away.”

“God!” said Junie, “it’s so good to see you.”

“Sorry it’s for this reason.”

“I know. But thanks for coming. It means a lot.”

“Anything for the family.” She glanced toward the elevator. “I can’t stay long—I’m in the middle of something that won’t wait—but I brought a friend. This is Banshee.”

Junie bent and ruffled the head
of the gigantic dog. Most people would never dare do something like that. Not to a dog who looked like she would not enjoy that sort of thing from strangers. But the big wolfhound gave a couple of brief wags of her tail.

“She likes you,” said Ms. Mandocello.

“I like her. She has a big spirit.”

“She does.”

“There’s a lot of light around her.”

Ms. Mandocello only smiled at that.

Junie turned
to the receptionist. “It’s okay, Carol. I’ll take her up.”

“She’s not on the list, Ms. Flynn,” said Carol hesitantly.

Junie flashed her a big smile. “Check again.”

“Don’t bother,” said the Japanese man. He opened his identification wallet and flashed a National Security Agency badge. The name on the adjoining card read
SPECIAL AGENT SAMUEL THOMAS IMURA
. “Ms. Mandocello is approved.”

Carol
nodded. The security guard relaxed.

Agent Imura shook hands with the visitor, then held his hand out to the dog.

“What was her name again?” he asked.

“Banshee,” said Ms. Mandocello.

“Nice.”

“She isn’t.”

Sam smiled. “I mean the name.”

Ms. Mandocello smiled, too. “It’s good to see you again, Sam.”

“Good to see you, too, Violin.”

He did not say that name loud enough for anyone but Junie
to hear.

The two women, the DMS agent, and the Irish wolfhound named Banshee headed over to the elevators.

Chapter Seventy-five

Thomas Jefferson University Hospital

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

March 31, 9:14
A.M.

I tried checking myself out of the hospital, got as far as the nurses’ station, and then the shakes hit me. I staggered, dizzy and sick. Nausea was like a fist to the gut, and when I opened my mouth to tell the nurse I wanted to leave, I vomited all over the counter.

The nurses hustled
me back to bed, cleaned me up, and, despite every protest I could make, shot me up with something that dropped me into a big, dark hole.

I slept badly and dreamed of monsters. Of fleet-footed scavenger animals that ran wild through the brush. Of a man with the body and clothes of a priest and the laughing head of a demon.

I dreamed that everyone I loved was dead. Not dying … already gone.

I woke in the dawn’s early light, shaken and afraid.

When I got out of bed, I expected to fall down, but even though the floor did an Irish jig for a wild moment, the world steadied. My stomach no longer felt like it was filled with greasy dishwater.

So, I found fresh scrubs in a hall closet and this time managed to convince the nurse that I was leaving. They can’t legally keep me. They tried,
though. Got to give them that.

I grudgingly accepted a wheelchair ride to the front door, then tottered to the front door like an old man who’d lived a hard life. Every single inch of my body hurt. My hair hurt. My shoes hurt.

My heart hurt.

Top was waiting in the lobby, scowling and chewing on a wooden matchstick.

“Bunny’s bringing the car around,” he said, then gave me a sour up-and-down
appraisal. “You up for this, Cap’n?”

“Sure.”

“You lying to me?”

“Sure. Still going, though.”

“Okay. But if you look like you’re going to fade on me, I’m going to put you on the bench, you dig?”

“Yes, mother.”

Top showed me his teeth. Not sure if you’d call it a smile.

He smile faded as he studied my face. “What is it?” he asked. “Did something else happen?”

It was a simple question with
a terribly complex answer.

“Not here,” I said. “In the car.”

Black Bess pulled up outside and Top helped me into the back. He climbed into the shotgun seat.

“You guys have your go bags?” I asked.

Bunny ticked his head to the back bay. “Always. Where we going?”

“Airport first, then Florida.” I licked my lips, which were as dry as my throat. Then, as Bunny pulled away from the curb, I laid
it on them. Rudy and Nicodemus. Aunt Sallie. Bug’s mother.

Regis.

My fears about Davidovich and the Seven Kings.

All of it.

They’re good friends, and this was a bad thing to do to them. I watched what it did to their faces, how it changed them. Bunny’s face fell into sickness; Top’s turned to stone. We all have our own ways of processing hurt and anger.

Top, Bunny, and I—we were all feeling
it. We grieved for Bug and feared for Auntie, but none of us knew what we could do to help them. We were killers, not healers. And as much as we wanted to, we couldn’t raise the dead.

They asked a lot of questions as we crept through traffic. I gave them what few answers I had. Then we fell into a bitter silence that lasted from when Bunny got onto I-95 in Old City to when we pulled into the
security lot at the airport. I saw my jet on the tarmac and a smaller one standing apart, waiting for Top and Bunny. I saw Birddog standing by my ride, and there was Ghost sitting beside him. Battered and bandaged but alert.

Bunny killed the engine and we sat for a moment longer, saying nothing, thinking bad, bad thoughts.

Nobody wanted to say it, so I said it. “We’re going to find these sons
of bitches, and we are going to wipe them off the face of the earth.”

Bunny grunted. A low, dangerous sound. “For Bug, for Aunt Sallie. For Circe and Rudy. For everyone at the ballpark.”

Top said it best. “We been sidelined watching the world burn, Cap’n. That shit’s got to stop.”

“Hooah,” I said softly.

“Hooah,” they echoed.

“Nico-fucking-demus?” said Top slowly. “Shee-e-e-e-e-et.”

“How’d
he get to Rudy?” said Bunny. “Cowpers said he cleared the chapel?”

“That’s what he said,” I said. “Our guys are reviewing the hospital security footage. So far, nothing. He slipped past us.”

“I’m going to have me a long and meaningful chat with Cowpers,” Top said. “I’d like to know how the fuck he could miss someone hiding in a room as small as a hospital chapel?”

“Cowpers is pretty sharp.
Wouldn’t be like him to miss something like that.”

“All I’m saying,” muttered Top, “is he better have a damn good explanation, or I’m going to put my whole foot up his ass.”

We got out of the car. They took their gear and headed toward their jet. I leaned against the fender and dug my cell phone out of my pocket.

Called Junie.

I needed to hear her voice. Not only to know that she was okay,
but because she was my tether to hope and optimism and all the things I fight for.

“Joe!” she said as she answered. I could tell from her voice that she’d been crying. “I just called your room, and they said that you were discharged. What are you doing?”

“It’s okay, baby,” I soothed. “I’m fine. Dented but that’s all. Look, Junie,” I said, “Church told me about what happened to Rudy.”