A muffled whump rippled through the concrete. The roof shook beneath Hawkins.
The unsecured hatch rocketed open and then, torn from its hinges, launched into the air, chased by a forty-foot-tall column of fire. Heat washed over Hawkins. He covered his face and rolled away from the flames.
Then, as quickly as it began, the flames shrank away. Whatever fuel had been sprayed into the building’s interior had been burned away. And since the majority of the building’s contents—concrete, metal, and glass—didn’t burn, the building structure remained intact. Black smoke—all that remained of the twisted menagerie—billowed from the open hatch.
“If they didn’t know where we were before,” Bray said, climbing to his feet, “they know now.”
Hawkins stood. “They knew before.”
“You think the pressure we felt was some kind of signal?”
With a nod, Hawkins said, “I felt the same thing before Jim attacked. He had some kind of implant where his ears should have been.”
Bray winced.
“I think that pressure we’re feeling is actually a sound. A tone maybe. Just out of the range of human hearing. I think most of the chimeras here, with the exception of the crocs, have been trained to obey audio commands. The tones. The bells. The—”
“—horn,” Bray finished. “We heard it just before DeWinter was taken.”
“And before Joliet was taken.”
As though on cue, the horn ripped through the air. The deep bass tremble of the horn sounded louder than ever. Both men covered their ears until the five-second-long blast finished.
Hawkins raised the rifle. He’d lost count of the number of rounds he had left, but thought there were at least three or four. But there was nothing to shoot. They stood alone atop the massive, slightly domed roof. Most of the 360-degree view was jungle, but Hawkins could see the orchard, garden, and farm beyond. On the other side of the building was a dirt road that wrapped around a bend. Hawkins drew an imaginary line where he thought the road would lead and found a bit of light gray concrete that signified the presence of another, newer building. He pointed to it. “Let’s go that way.”
Bray headed to the building’s side. “The ladder is over here.”
Just a few steps into his dash for the ladder, Bray flinched and grabbed his shoulder. “Ow!”
Hawkins rushed to his side. “What happened?”
“Felt like something stung me,” Bray said.
Hawkins knew that bullet wounds could sometimes feel like insect bites when the victim had no context for the pain. It would hurt like hell a few seconds later, but the initial pinch of bullet piercing skin could be deceptively minor. He pulled Bray’s hand away from his shoulder and was happy to see no blood. What he did find was a small, oily stain and the remains of a small plastic capsule.
“Smells like flowers,” Bray observed.
Hawkins nodded. It was the same smell Joliet had pointed out before she’d been taken. He didn’t think it was a coincidence.
The horn.
The scent.
Bray was about to be taken.
Hawkins slapped his hand on his back. “Ouch!” His hand came away wet with oil.
He spun, looking for whoever was shooting at them. The small, plastic balls couldn’t travel far. He found his answer at the ladder.
Kam climbed into view. He was dressed, as usual, in blue pants and a red polo shirt. Only his Red Sox cap was missing. There were two additions to the outfit, though. He had one handgun tucked into his waist, and another in his hand, aimed at Hawkins.
“Kam?” Bray said. “What the hell?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bray,” Kam said. His voice held no amount of malice. The apology sounded genuine.
Bray took a menacing step toward Kam, but Hawkins grabbed his arm, stopping him cold. “Hold on.”
Kam walked toward them, stopping halfway between them and the roof.
“Are you okay, Kam?” Hawkins asked, thinking about how Jim had been altered. As much as it seemed Kam was complicit, it was possible he simply had no choice. “Are you hurt? Did they do anything to you?”
Kam flinched with surprise. “You’re concerned for me?”
“You’re my friend,” Hawkins said.
A frown appeared on Kam’s face. “I am sorry.” He pulled the trigger twice.
Hawkins looked down and found a dart buried in his chest. He yanked it out, but knew he was too late. His legs already felt weak.
Bray fell to his knees. He tugged a dart from his shoulder. Then he slumped forward onto the roof, unconscious.
Hawkins fought to stay upright. He knew what was coming, even before he felt its hot breath on his neck, before its shadow fell over him. The horn somehow activated the creature. The scent, maybe some kind of pheromone or powerful extract, provided a target.
With a shout, Hawkins raised the rifle and turned.