At some point, Monk had stood up, terror stiffening his spine. Cold sweat slickened his palms. His breathing gasped between clenched teeth. He could not even speak.
Painter, likely anticipating his distress, threw him a lifeline. “Thanks to Kat, we have one advantage. From the way the figures were cloaked in the video, Valya remains unaware we know she is behind this kidnapping.”
A breath rattled from Monk, allowing him to speak. “Where are we at in tracking her?”
“We’re working on it,” Painter said. “But we must be cautious. If we blanket the Northeast with her photo, she’ll know her cover is blown. We’ll lose this small advantage. So, I’m working surreptitiously through back channels, enlisting only those we trust the most.”
Monk understood but chafed against such restraint. He could not stop picturing Harriet’s face on the video, her features pinched with a familiar mix of fear and anger.
Painter continued: “We’re also using DARPA’s latest software to scour footage from security and traffic cams. Unfortunately, Valya made the process more difficult, somehow blinding cameras at and immediately around Commander Pierce’s home. Still, we’ve set an ever-widening grid across D.C. and beyond to search for her.”
Monk shook his head, doubtful that such a plan would be successful. “That pale-faced witch is a master of disguise.”
“True, but our face-recognition software is state of the art. Most algorithms search a dozen key facial features at most to identify a subject. DARPA’s latest targets over a hundred. It’s capable of seeing through makeup, facial prosthetics, even surgical alterations. If Valya shows her face—disguised or not—we’ll spot her.”
Holding his phone in an iron grip, Monk noted the time. A clock was already ticking down in his head. Less than twenty-four hours. He tried not to think about someone holding Harriet’s thin wrist to a wooden chopping block, the fall of a machete, her screams.
“Forensics finished its sweep of Gray’s house,” Painter said. “They’re sorting through the blood evidence, most of it from the intruders, quite a bit of it.”
Monk’s gaze flicked to Kat.
Good job, honey.
“We’re already analyzing the DNA in the hopes of identifying others—more of Valya’s team—to help expand the search. Still . . .”
Painter’s voice trailed off, the implication clear.
“We’re not likely to find Valya in the next twenty-four hours,” Monk said.
Make that less than twenty-four hours.
“No,” Painter admitted. “The only chance would be if Kat knew something more, something that could narrow the search parameters.”
Monk stared at his wife’s sunken features, the mechanical rise and fall of her chest. His eyes traveled from the hospital bonnet that hid a net of EEG electrodes over her scalp and up along a wire to a monitor. The screen ran with scribbling lines, a seismic Richter scale of her neurological activity. Upon scanning these readings, Dr. Grant had mumbled to a colleague, running a finger along one line on the screen, note the low voltage with burst suppression.
Translation: Kat’s no longer here.
“She gave us all she could,” Monk said.
“Lisa thought maybe with—”
“What? Enough time? To hell with that. Harriet is running out of time. Same with Penny and Seichan.” Reminded of Gray’s girlfriend and unborn child, Monk took a step away from Kat’s bed, knowing there was nothing more he could do here. “I’m heading out to join Gray, where I can do some good.”
Or simply do something.
Monk was done waiting.
A long silence followed. Monk braced himself to argue with the director, to state his case. If they failed to find Valya, the best hope for the kidnapped trio was to secure the missing tech.
Finally, Painter spoke. “There’s an F-15 Eagle fueling at Naval Air Engineering Station in Lakehurst. By helicopter, you can be at the station in twenty minutes.”
Monk shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course, the director—always an astute judge of character—had anticipated his reaction and had already rallied transportation.
Painter continued: “Gray should be landing in Lisbon within the hour. I’ll coordinate a rendezvous with him once you’re on the ground out there. But, Monk, you know what’s at stake. We can never turn this tech over to Valya.”
“Understood. But we have no leverage without it.”
“Then as long as we’re on the same page, you’d better haul ass.”
Resolute in doing just that, he hung up, crossed to Kat, and kissed her cheek. Despite his need to hurry, he lingered, sensing this was the last time he would get a chance to kiss his wife.
Still, he knew she would have wanted him to pursue this.
He shifted his lips to her ear. “I’ll save them. I swear.”
He straightened and wiped tears from the corner of his eyes—then headed toward the door. Out in the hallway, Lisa spotted him. She broke away from Dr. Grant; the two looked like they’d been in some intense conversation.
She hurried toward him. “Where are you—?”
“To Portugal. To help Gray with his search.”
Lisa glanced into Kat’s room. Monk’s cheeks heated, knowing she must think he was abandoning his wife. “I get it. You should go,” she said, proving to be as good a judge of character as her husband. “Painter just texted me . . . about the video. I couldn’t watch it.”
“I have to do what I can,” Monk said.
“Of course.” She reached and squeezed his upper arm in sympathy. She glanced over to the neurologist, then into Kat’s room. “While you’re gone, there’s something we could try. Something highly experimental. It won’t heal her, but it might—”
Monk broke free of her grip. “Do what you think is best, Lisa. I trust you.”
“Yes, but—”
He brushed past her. “Just do it.”
He headed down the hall. He didn’t need false hope. Instead, he needed to focus on his next step . . . and the one after that. Each stride took him farther away from Kat but hopefully brought him closer to saving his girls—and Seichan.
He knew Gray must be just as worried and terrified for her and his unborn child.
Still . . .
Gray, I need you at your best.
Monk pictured Harriet’s frightened face.
We all do.
Third
Eve of Destruction
13
December 25, 5:05 P.M. WET
Lisbon, Portugal
In a remote corner of the Lisbon airport, Gray crouched before the open door of a travel locker. He distributed the arsenal of weapons stashed inside, all arranged by Painter.
The locker room—a long, narrow alcove off the main concourse—was empty. Still, Kowalski’s bulk hid his actions from both the terminal and the space’s lone security camera. Due to customs and heightened airport security, they’d had to abandon their personal sidearms aboard the jet.
Gray snugged a fresh SIG Sauer P365 into a holster at the small of his back, hidden under the fall of his jacket. The 9mm semiautomatic’s compact size made it a perfect concealed-carry weapon. Jason slipped an identical pistol into the shoulder holster under his cardigan. The guns came equipped with night sights and extended magazines, allowing for a twelve-plus-one capacity.
Thirteen rounds total.
Normally such a number would sound unlucky, but when it came to a firefight, those extra shots could mean the difference between life or death.
So definitely not unlucky.
Kowalski let out a low whistle of appreciation as Gray handed over the man’s weapon. “Merry Christmas to me. And I didn’t have to sit on Santa’s lap.”
The black FN-P90 was a NATO bullpup assault rifle with the capability to switch fire from single shots to burst rounds, or flipped into fully automatic mode, firing nine hundred rounds a minute. The 5.7x28mm cartridges could penetrate Kevlar. Still, its compact design—a mere twenty inches long—allowed for relatively easy concealment.
Kowalski shrugged off one shoulder of his long leather duster to sling the weapon along his side, where he happily patted it. “Here’s a puppy I’m happy to feed.”
Gray passed him a heavy bag of extra box magazines, each holding fifty rounds, plenty of feed for this hungry bullpup rifle.
Kowalski pulled his long coat back on and jostled his body to settle everything in place. His ankle-length duster could hide enough weapons to invade a small third-world country.
“What now?” the big man asked.
Gray passed a bag to Jason, which contained more equipment, including night-vision gear, then stood. “Painter arranged for us to interview Dr. Carson’s family—her husband and her daughter Laura. To see if they’ve received any further word from the two young women.”
Mara Silviera and Carla Carson.