The Judas Strain - James Rollins [150]
Monk glanced over at the raiding party, armed with bone axes and AK-47s. Lightning flashed, limning the army with fire. Eyes glinted from ash-painted faces.
In that momentary flash Monk felt a twinge of misgiving, a moment of unease. He shook it away. It was just the storm feeding his fears.
“Let’s go find my partner, and get the hell out of here.”
5:02 A.M.
LISA LAY STRAPPED to a steel surgical table, tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. She hung from her arms, wrists snugged in plastic ties over her head. Her legs were loose, unable to touch the floor. She wore only her hospital gown. Cold sweat plastered the thin cotton to her skin, while the steel of the table chilled her back.
She had been tied here for over an hour.
Alone.
Hopefully, forgotten.
To one side a stainless-steel tray held a line of tools used for forensic autopsies: cartilage saws, dissecting hooks, snipping scissors, postmortem needles, spinal cord chisels.
Dr. Devesh Patanjali had removed the tools from a black leather satchel, held open by Surina. He had precisely lined each instrument atop a stretch of green surgical drape. A steel bucket hung from the foot of the inclined table, ready to catch the flow of blood.
While he laid out his tools Lisa had attempted everything to dissuade him from the torture to come. She had tried appealing to his reason, explaining that she could still be useful. That once Susan was recaptured, Lisa would lend her full support to derive a cure from the woman’s blood and lymph. Hadn’t Lisa already proven her ingenuity?
Despite her best arguments, Devesh had ignored her. He simply lined up each tool, one after the other, on the tray.
Eventually, her arguments turned to tears. “Please…” she had begged.
With Devesh’s back turned, Lisa’s attention had turned to Surina. But there was no hope to be found there, only a deadened disinterest, her face carved in cold marble. The only bit of color was the ruby bindi dot on her forehead, reminding Lisa of a drop of blood.
Then Devesh had received a call. He answered it and grew plainly excited, pleased with what he was hearing. He spoke rapidly in Arabic. All Lisa understood was the word Angkor. Devesh left, stalking out of the room, shadowed by Surina. Devesh hadn’t even looked back.
So Lisa hung here, not knowing what was happening.
But she knew her fate.
The polished surgical instruments glistened. If she shifted, the blood pail rattled at the foot of the table. She teetered between exhaustion and a keening edge of terror. She almost welcomed the return of Devesh. The waiting, the anticipation, threatened to unhinge her.
Still, when the door finally did open, she cringed, gasping out slightly. She couldn’t see who entered, but she heard the click-clack rattle of wheels.
A gurney appeared into view, pushed from behind.
A small figure was draped atop it, tied down, spread-eagled.
Devesh spoke, shoving the gurney so it came to rest directly in front of Lisa. “Sorry for the delay, Dr. Cummings. My call took longer than I anticipated. And it took me some time to track down our subject here.”
“Dr. Patanjali,” Lisa begged, staring at the gurney. “Please, no…”
Devesh stepped over to his tools. He wore a white apron over his clothes, having shed his jacket. “Now where were we?”
Off to the side, Surina glided into view, hands folded, demure. But her eyes held a rare flicker of fire. Angry.
Devesh continued to speak. “Dr. Cummings, you were quite correct earlier. Your expertise may prove of value as we finalize our study. Yet still, it seems some punishment is in order. Someone will have to settle the debt of blood that I can’t collect from you.”
Lisa stared down at the gurney, at the gagged and wide-eyed figure.
It was the girl, the same child whom Devesh had threatened earlier—then let go and murdered Dr. Lindholm instead. But there would be no scapegoat this time. Devesh intended to slaughter this little lamb, while making Lisa watch.
Devesh pulled on a pair of latex surgical gloves and picked up the cartilage knife. “The first cut