The Judas Strain - James Rollins [30]
“She’s going to need immediate attention.”
“Help should be there any minute.”
The trundle of a heavy vehicle sounded. Gray swung around. A large black van turned and headed down the street.
“I think they’re here,” he said with a relieved sigh.
The van reached the house, shifted to the curb, and braked at the foot of the driveway. Gray felt a twinge of unease, hating to be blocked in, but he recognized the van. It was Sigma’s medical response team. The camouflaged ambulance was based on the same design as the vehicle that accompanied the president, capable of handling emergency surgery if necessary.
“Give me an update as soon as their evaluation is over,” Painter said. The director must have spotted the van also.
The side doors of the van shoved open. Three men and a woman, all in surgical scrubs and matching loose black bomber jackets, exited the van with coordinated skill. Two men yanked a stretcher, legs unfolding beneath it. They followed the third man and the woman, who strode forward to meet Gray. The man held his hand out.
“Dr. Amen Nasser,” he said.
Gray shook his hand, appreciating the cool, dry grip. Calm and in control. The doctor could be no older than thirty, yet he carried himself with firm authority. His complexion was the hue of polished mahogany, unlike the woman, whose skin was more the color of warm honey.
Gray studied her.
Though of Asian heritage, the woman plainly sought to downplay it. She had shaved her head to a crew cut and bleached her remaining hair an ice blond. Entwining tattoos also circled her wrists in a Celtic pattern. While such severity had never appealed to Gray before, there remained something strangely seductive about her. Perhaps it was the emerald of her eyes, a feature that needed no other embellishment. Then again, it may have been the way she moved, leonine, muscular, balanced. Like much of Sigma, she must have had some military training.
The woman nodded to Gray. No introduction was offered.
“I’ve been informed of the situation,” the team leader continued, his words precise, plainly foreign-born, with a trace of an accent. “I’ll ask you all to stand back and let us work. We will transfer the patient to the surgical bay inside the van. I will send out Anni with a status report shortly.” He finally acknowledged the woman.
The other two men rushed past with the stretcher. The doctor followed, while Anni remained where she was, leaning on a hip.
The cell phone in Gray’s hand began to vibrate as he stepped aside. The team leader spoke rapidly. Gray finally recognized the accent of the team leader.
Dr. Amen Nasser.
He was Egyptian.
1:08 A.M.
PAINTER STOOD IN front of the wall monitor directly behind his desk. The plasma screens on the other two walls displayed live video of the first and second floor of the safe house. The one behind his desk pixilated with digital feed from the exterior camera.
“Pick up the phone, Gray!” he yelled at the screen.
The controls for the cameras were down a floor in main security. Painter had no way of swiveling the camera. He had seen the med van park at the edge of the screen, but it wasn’t until a second ago that he had spotted the pair who had stepped into view in front of Gray.
Neither of them worked for Sigma.
Painter knew all the personnel.
The van might be Sigma’s, but the team inside was not.
A trap.
On the screen, Gray flipped open the cell and raised it to his ear. “Director Crowe—?”
Before Painter could answer, a thin foot kicked out and smashed the phone against Gray’s head. With a snap of cellular crackle, he went down, caught off guard.
“Gray…”
The image on the screen suddenly jumped—then went black.
1:09 A.M.
THE FIRST SHOT took out the camera.
Head ringing, Gray heard the muffled cough and splintering shatter. He twisted around.
“What the hell?” his father bellowed as the camera’s debris rained down on him. He was still crouched in the backseat with Seichan.
The guard, Kowalski, was on the other side of the car. He froze like a deer in headlights, a grizzled two-hundred-pound