Bloodline (Sigma Force 8)

Gray dropped flat, sliding on his belly, pistol pointed forward, gripped in both hands. He fired three fast rounds.

The gunman tumbled headlong down the steps from the raised porch. He landed hard, but from the placement of Gray’s rounds, all to the face, he was surely dead before he even hit the ground.

Tucker stared at the tiny screen as Kane closed in on the second barrel.

00:23

The dog would never be able to work the transceiver free in time, and with the device activated, any attempt to remove it could set it off prematurely.

“Kane!” he yelled, not bothering with the radio. “To me!”

Gray scrambled to his feet and looked over at him.

Tucker pointed toward the crawlspace between the pilings. “It’s set to blow! Twenty seconds.”

The two men sped toward the tent.

Kane flew into view, tail high, and ran to Tucker’s side. The group reached the porch steps together, pounded up, and shoved through the spring-loaded door.

The makeshift medical ward looked as stripped and vacated as the rest of the camp: upended boxes, stray pieces of hospital gear, a toppled privacy screen. The place had been abandoned in a hurry. They must have suspected time was running out for them.

But the ward had not been entirely emptied.

At the rear, a hospital bed rested against the back wall. It was not vacant. A blond woman lay under a thin blanket, an oxygen mask over her face, her limbs secured with leather straps. The bedding over the mound of her belly was stained red, soaked through. More blood ran from under the blanket and pooled on the plank floor.

Gray rushed forward, yanked away the mask, then ripped back the covers. He exposed what had been so chastely hidden.

Tucker fell to his knees in horror.

They were too late.

16

July 2, 8:30 A.M. EST

Washington, DC

“NO!”

The anguish in that single word, that long, sustained note of pain and grief, echoed off the walls of the small conference room. The First Lady swung away from the screen, covering her face as if to make the sight go away.

Her husband stood stiff, frozen, staring unblinking at the screen.

No one said a word—Teresa’s cry encompassed everything.

The last image remained fixed in Painter’s eye, when Gray pulled back the bedsheets. Someone had operated on Amanda, sliced her open from rib to pelvis, exposing the ruins of her empty uterus. They’d performed a C-section, stolen the baby, and left Amanda’s dead body behind like an empty husk.

On the screen now, Painter watched Gray swing away, grabbing up Tucker from the floor. The image bobbled wildly as the two men and the dog fled the cabin. He understood their haste. They’d all seen the barrels of kerosene, the glow of the explosive charge, and the timer counting down.

An image of running legs, a distant forest—then a bright blast that sent everyone tumbling forward. A fireball rolled overhead. The second barrel of kerosene rolled off to the side, jettisoned clear by the blast wave, leaving behind a trail of oil before it vanished out of view.

The audio feed frazzled, then went silent.

A moment later, Tucker’s face appeared as he checked on his dog. His mouth moved, but there was no sound. In the background, Gray got up on his hands and knees, hurriedly shrugging free his shoulder pack, which was on fire. He threw it aside and rolled in the dirt to put out the smoldering back of his shirt.

They’d live.

Painter should have felt relief—but he was not there yet.

Teresa burst out of her seat and into her husband’s arms. It was not to seek comfort. Her fists pummeled his body, sobs shook through her, weakening the effort. Tears flowed down her face.

“This is your fault!” she yelled into his chest as James Gant pulled his wife tight to him. “All our fault … they … they cut my baby open!”

She sagged in her husband’s arms, pressing her face into his chest, still shaking her head, trying to dismiss what she saw.

He held her up, looking over the crown of her head at Painter.

Anger burned through the raw grief in his stony eyes, directed at Painter, at Sigma.

The president’s brother stood and gently coaxed the grieving parents toward the door. “Go, Jimmy,” Robert urged. “Take care of your wife. We can handle matters from here.”

Gant didn’t resist. The pair, still wrapped together, bonded by unimaginable grief and horror, slipped out of the room, gathering Secret Service men in their wake.

The defense secretary, Warren Duncan, placed a hand on Robert’s shoulder. “Sir, why don’t you go, too? Family should be together during times like this.”

Robert’s normally gentle and even tone turned acerbic. His gaze passed over Painter, scorching him with his bitterness. “Someone in the family should bear witness to the end of this f**ked-up mission.”

Painter’s boss closed his eyes and gave the smallest shake of his head, utterly embarrassed and defeated.

On the screen, the dog’s-eye view showed a pair of trucks careening into the campsite, guns silently blazing from their side windows.

Despite the futility of the operation, it wasn’t over.

3:34 P.M. East Africa Time

Cal Madow mountains, Somalia

“Go for cover!” Gray hollered.

He ran with Tucker and Kane away from the blasted ruins of the cabin. Black smoke swirled across the camp as flaming debris littered the ground and continued to drift down in flaming bits of tent fabric. The thick pall of smoke offered them enough cover to make a break for the forest as two Land Rovers skidded into the camp from the road.

Automatic fire sprayed from windows, mostly directed back the way they’d come, aiming for the others hidden in the forest. A furious firefight continued back there; likely his team had managed to ambush the third vehicle from the roadblock, but that battle was still far from over.

Before Gray, Tucker, and Kane could reach the shelter of the forest, their retreat was spotted. Gunfire ripped toward them. Kane yelped and sped faster. Tucker gave chase—but not before Gray grabbed the man’s rifle out of his fingers.

He swung it toward the Rovers and fired, cracking one of the side windows and forcing the shooter to duck.

“Go!” Gray yelled to Tucker. “Make for the others!”

Gray ran to the side, drawing fire. One of the Rovers fishtailed in the sandy soil and sped back toward the road, intending to go to the aid of the embattled third truck. The last Rover circled the smoking ruins of the cabin, coming around to face Gray head-on.

Then a new noise cut through the peppering blasts.

The gunplay lulled for a breath as the others heard it, too.