The Judas Strain - James Rollins [14]
Gray offered no argument.
When Gray was young, his father had worked the Texas oil fields until an industrial accident had disabled him, taking a leg off at the knee, turning an oilman into a housewife. Gray had found himself bearing the brunt of his frustration, always found wanting, never able to be the man his father wanted him to be.
Gray watched his father stare at his hands and recognized a hard truth. Maybe all along his old man’s anger had been directed inward. Like now. Not so much frustration with a son as a father’s anger at failing to be the man he wanted to be. And now once again, disability was slowly taking even that away.
Gray sought some words.
As he searched, the roar of a motorcycle sliced through any further contemplation. Down the street, tires squealed, vandalizing asphalt with rubber.
Gray straightened and placed the coffee can atop the bench. His father cursed the rude driver, probably a drunken reveler. Still, Gray swept an arm and doused the garage lights.
“What are you—?”
“Stay down,” Gray ordered.
Something was wrong…
The cycle appeared, a black and muscular Yamaha V-max. It roared into view, skidding sideways. Its headlamp was off. That’s what had set Gray’s nerves jangling. No spear of light had blazed up the street, fleeing ahead of the engine’s growl. The cycle was running dark.
Without slowing, it skidded sideways. Rear tires smoked as it tried to make the sharp turn into their driveway. It hesitated, balanced, then ripped forward.
“What the hell!” his father barked.
The rider overcompensated for the turn. The bike bobbled, then the bump of the curb sent the vehicle careening to the side. The rider fought for control, but the rear fender caught the edge of the porch step.
The bike went down in a showering skid of red sparks, becoming yet another Fourth of July display. Thrown, the rider shoulder-rolled end over end, landing in a sprawl not far from the open garage.
Farther down the drive, the bike’s engine choked and died.
Sparks blew out.
Darkness descended.
“Jesus H. Christ!” his father exclaimed.
Gray held a hand back for his father to stay in the garage. His other hand pulled a 9mm Glock from an ankle holster. He crossed toward the prone figure, all dressed in black: leather, scarf, and helmet.
A soft groan revealed two things: The rider was still alive, and it was a woman. She lay curled on her side, leathers ripped.
Gray’s mother appeared at the back door to the house, standing in the porchlight, drawn by the noise. “Gray…?”
“Stay there!” he called to her.
As Gray approached the downed rider, he noticed something lying steps away from the bike, its black shape crisp against the white cement of the driveway. It looked like some stubby pillar of black stone, cracked from the impact. From its dark interior, the glint of a metallic core reflected the moonlight.
But it was the glint of another bit of silver that caught his eye as he stepped to the rider’s side.
A small pendant around the woman’s neck.
In the shape of a dragon.
Gray recognized it immediately. He wore the same around his own neck, a gift from an old enemy, a warning and a promise when next their paths crossed.
His grip on his pistol tightened.
She rolled from her shoulder to her back with another small groan. Blood streamed across the white cement, a black river forging toward the mowed back lawn. Gray recognized a raw exit wound.
Shot from behind.
A hand reached up and pulled back the helmet. A familiar face, tight with agony, stared up at him, framed in black hair. Tanned skin and almond eyes revealed her Eurasian descent and her identity.
“Seichan…” he said.
A hand reached to him, scrabbling. “Commander Pierce…help me…”
He heard the pain in her words—but also something he’d thought he’d never hear from this cold enemy.
Terror.
2
Bloody Christmas
JULY 5, 11:02 A.M.
Christmas Island
JUST ANOTHER LAZY DAY at the beach…
Monk Kokkalis followed his guide along the narrow strand. Both men wore identical Bio-3 contamination suits.