The Judas Strain - James Rollins [29]
Painter shook his head.
Impossible.
…they are the language of the angels.
1:04 A.M.
GRAY SPED DOWN Greenwich Parkway into the exclusive Foxhall Village subdivision. He reached the end and made a left turn onto a tree-lined street. He slowed. He let the Thunderbird’s idling engine carry him forward. The safe house appeared ahead, a two-story red-brick Tudor with forest-green shutters, a match to the woods of Glover-Archibold Park upon which the home backed.
With the top down, he could smell the damp forest.
Nearing the house, he noted the front porch light was on, as was a lamp in the upper corner window.
The all-clear sign.
He turned and bumped into the driveway, earning a groan from their injured passenger.
“Where are we?” his mother asked.
Gray braked under an overhanging porte cochere on the left side of the house. A side door to the house lay steps away. He had attempted repeatedly to get his parents to vacate the car, but with every hospital and medical center they passed, they only became more stubborn. Or at least his mother did. His father remained at the same level of muleheadedness.
“This is a safe house,” he said, seeing little reason to dissemble now. “Medical help should be on its way. Stay put for now.”
Gray cut the engine and climbed out.
On the far side of the car, the side door to the house opened. A large shadowy figure filled the doorway. A hand rested on a holstered weapon at his hip. “You Pierce?” the man asked, gruff and short, eyeing the additional passengers with suspicion.
“Yes.”
The figure stepped out into the light. He was an ape of a man, thick-limbed, stubble-cut brown hair. He was dressed in military fatigues. Not exactly keeping a low profile.
“Name’s Kowalski. I have Crowe on the horn for you.” He raised his other hand and held out a cell phone.
Gray headed around the back of the car. He had not been looking forward to this conversation with the director, to explain his blown cover. It was not exactly covert to have your parents tagging along.
Even the guard stationed here seemed baffled by the elderly pair sharing the open convertible. He studied the new arrivals with his brows bunched into a knot over his forehead. He scratched his chin.
“Three fifty-two?” he asked as Gray came around.
Gray could not fathom what he meant.
His father answered from the backseat. “No, it’s a three-ninety block. Rebuilt V8 from a Ford Galaxie.”
“Sweet ride.”
Plainly the guard hadn’t been studying his parents, only the car.
Seichan stirred in the backseat, perhaps somehow noting the lack of wind and motion. She struggled weakly to sit up.
“Can you help get her inside?” Gray asked the guard. He noted the lower half of a U.S. Navy anchor on the man’s right biceps as he accepted the phone. Ex-military. No surprise there. If there had been a picture under jarhead in the dictionary, it would’ve been this man’s mug shot.
His mother opened the passenger door. “Where’s that medical help?” She seemed to find little hope in the large form of the guard, even clutching her purse a bit tighter to her side.
Gray held up a palm, asking for patience.
“Ma’am,” Kowalski said, and pointed to the kitchen. “There’s a medkit on the kitchen table. Morphine stabs and smelling salts. I’ve laid out a suture pack.”
His mother eyed the man with a more studied appraisal. “Thank you, young man.”
With a more withering glance in Gray’s direction, his mother headed inside.
Stepping out of the way, Gray spoke into the phone. “Director Crowe, Commander Pierce here.”
“Is that your mother who just got out of the car?”
How the hell…?
Gray searched up and spotted the video camera hidden under the porte cochere. It must be sending a live feed to Central Command. He could feel heat rise at his collar.
“Sir—”
“Never mind. Explain later. Gray, we’ve intel out of Rome, related to our new arrival. How is the prisoner holding up?”
Gray eyed the back of the convertible. The guard and his father were discussing the best way to move Seichan’s limp form. He noted the fresh bloom of blood in the