Mara felt the same. They’d known each other for half a decade, those formative years from sixteen to now, when both were maturing out of childhood toward the women they’d become. In the past, they had no trouble talking, though it was usually on the phone, or over long e-mail chains, or exchanged in short, excitable texts. A majority of their relationship was long-distance, but the world had grown much smaller. Pen pals no longer had to wait weeks or months to communicate.
Still, separated by an ocean, the two had spent little physical time together. Their friendship, their bond, their deep connection was mostly born from sharing their thoughts, dreams, fears, and hopes.
Mara stared back at Carly, at the curls crowning her brow. If only Mara had the nerve to speak now, the courage to fill that last gulf between them, to say what was unspoken.
Mara waited too long.
Carly bowed her head, a touch shyly, and turned her attention to the door. She asked the question plaguing them both.
“Who the hell are these bastards?”
5:18 P.M.
Gray weighed his options.
He eyed the silver Desert Eagle pointed at his face, imagining it was chambered in a .357 or .44 Magnum. Its owner’s gaze was steady, no-nonsense. The man would not bother with anything smaller. To make matters worse, Gray was practically sitting on his own weapon. Kowalski, cramped in the back, surely couldn’t swing up his rifle. And Jason already had his palms raised.
Bailey, if that was even his real—
“My name is Finnigan Bailey,” their captor said. “But friends call me Finn.”
“Don’t think I’ll be calling you that anytime soon,” Gray said. “And let me guess. You’re not with the DSS.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t count myself among such an illustrious group. But I’m with an organization perhaps equally loyal to their pursuit. Maybe more so.”
Gray guessed from his Irish brogue that the man was with the New Irish Republican Army, the latest incarnation of the IRA. It seemed all manner of terrorist organizations were coming out of the woodwork, pursuing Mara Silviera’s work, attracted by its potential.
Bailey reached his free hand to his chin, loosened his tie, and undid the top two buttons, revealing his true affiliation. His outer dress shirt hid a thinner black shirt beneath, along with the peek of a white Roman clerical collar.
Gray failed to hide his shock.
That can’t be authentic.
Bailey lowered his gun. “Sorry about this, but as armed as you all are, I couldn’t risk you doing something rash.”
“Motherf—” Kowalski bit off the end of his curse.
Baily pretended not to hear. “I had to get you out of the airport in such a manner that any prying eyes would assume the same as you.”
Jason dropped his hands to his lap. “That we were traveling with the Carsons’ protection detail to meet the family.”
“Then if not there, where are we going?” Gray asked.
“I’m taking you to Ms. Silviera and Ms. Carson.” His voice firmed, serious. “They will need your help. I can only hope your resourcefulness proves as good as your reputation.”
Gray struggled to catch up to the swift change in circumstance.
Can I even trust this guy? Who says he’s even a priest?
Bailey seemed to read his distrust. “I assure you I am Father Bailey.” That twinkle again in his eye. “Would a priest lie?”
Kowalski snorted. “How about a priest pointing a friggin’ gun at your head?”
“I would’ve never shot you, not even in self-defense.”
“You tell us that now,” Kowalski grumbled. “I practically shi— Had an accident.”
Gray leaned forward, still suspicious. “Who are you? What’s going on?”
The van slowed and came to a stop in front of a tall house at the edge of a square. Bailey nodded toward the building. “Once inside, I’ll tell you everything. I’ll lay all my cards on the table.” The amusement still sparkled in those green eyes. “And I mean that literally.”
5:35 P.M.
Carly heard the door unlock and stood up from the bed. She balled a fist and took a step to put herself between Mara and whoever entered. She tensed a back leg, shifting her weight, ready to lash out with a kick, if given an opening.
Mara climbed to her feet behind her.
“Stay back,” Carly warned her friend.
Out of the glare of the brighter lights in the next room, a figure emerged. He stepped into the room, holding up empty palms. Carly frowned, not understanding. The tall man was dressed all in black: boots, pants, belt, shirt. The only exception was the flash of white under his chin, marking a distinctive collar.
A priest?
Surely this was some ruse, some trick to get them to trust their captors.
“Ms. Carson, Ms. Silviera, please accept my apologies for keeping you both waiting for so long. And in the dark, so to speak. It took me longer than I anticipated to bring all the players into the same space.” He stepped back and gave a small bow toward the next room. “If you’ll join us, perhaps we can get to know one another.”
Carly hesitated, then realized the futility. Still, she whispered to Mara. “Stay near me.”
At the first chance, we’re getting the hell out of here.
Mara didn’t need to be persuaded. As Carly headed toward the door, Mara clung close, becoming her shadow.
The priest led them down a short hall to a dining room. The space was cheered by a marble fireplace dancing with flames, wood crackling with invitation. Tall windows overlooked the square, framing the two towers of the church on its far side. The sun had set, but a twilight gloaming still persisted, setting the church’s stone fa?ade to glowing, as if the place of worship still retained some of the holy day’s light and warmth.
“We’ve set up a light meal,” the priest said, drawing her attention to the table and the group of men gathered around it.
Platters of cheese, bread, and an assortment of fruit made her stomach growl. How long had it been since she’d eaten? Mara also eyed the bounty with both hunger and suspicion.
As they crossed to the table, Carly judged the hard-looking crowd. Standing near the exit were the two men who had ambushed them at the bar. She glared over, but they remained expressionless. Across the table were three strangers. She innately sensed—from their clothes, postures, expressions—they were American even before they spoke.
The priest made introductions all around and urged them to sit.
She was right about them being Americans. The tallest—with a perpetual scowl locked around a smoldering cigar—looked like something out of a horror story, all muscle, from toes to his brain. The other two looked just as hard, but more approachable. One had an intensity that was difficult to stare directly at, especially into those storm-gray eyes. The last was closer to her own age. With tussled blond hair, he could almost be considered cute. He offered an embarrassed smile as they approached, his gaze lingering a touch longer on her.
Carly was not unaccustomed to such attention.
Still, she didn’t return his smile.
“Come,” the priest insisted. “Sit.”
They all settled to the table, each to their own side, with the priest still standing at one end. “Commander Pierce, just to break the ice, perhaps you should be the first to lay your cards on the table. I think that would expedite matters considerably.”
“What are you talking about?” the man asked harshly, clearly no fan of their host, which made Carly trust him a little more.
“I’d suggest starting with your ID. From your organization.”
The commander remained still for a breath, then a light dawned in his eyes. He reached to a pocket, removed a wallet, then pulled out a black, metallic-looking card. He flicked it across the table. It came to a stop between her and Mara.
From its glossy surface, a silver hologram hovered.
It was a single symbol—a Greek letter.
Mara gasped and shared a worried look with Carly. “Sigma.”
Carly let steel fill her spine, enough to risk staring into the cold fire of those eyes. “Who are you?” She nudged the card. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“We’re members of Sigma Force, an organization affiliated with DARPA.”
Mara frowned. “The U.S. military’s R-and-D group?”
“The same. It was DARPA that was funding your research at the university, via money channeled through Bruxas International.” His gaze turned to Carly. “Your mother knew of our involvement and was sworn to secrecy. We suspect the Sigma symbol generated by Mara’s AI might’ve been a call for help.”
Mara leaned forward. “I wondered the same thing myself.”
The young blond man—Jason—spoke. “But can you be sure? The appearance of this symbol could just be a coincidence. Maybe we’re all reading too much into this digital Rorschach.”
“Perhaps.” Mara shook her head. “But there’s no way to tell. Not without Xénese and its programming.”
“And you lost it,” Gray said, clearly having heard their story. Still, there was no blame in his voice or manner.
“But we managed to keep the hard drives housing my subroutines,” Mara added.
Carly nodded. “We were able to wrench those from the bastards who attacked us.”
. . . and who killed my mother.
Mara swallowed. “I think we would’ve lost those, too, if we’d not had some advanced warning.”