She frowned. France?
“We don’t know how or why . . .” Bailey faced the group again. “But they intend to destroy Paris.”
15
December 25, 6:10 P.M. WET
Airborne over the Atlantic
Monk couldn’t outrun his demons—even at twice the speed of sound.
It didn’t help that he was crammed into the weapons system officer’s seat behind the pilot of an F-15 Eagle. The restraint harness locked him into the cramped compartment. He could hardly move his legs, and the noise-attenuating headphones built into his helmet barely muffled the agonized scream of the jet’s twin Pratt & Whitney engines. Furthermore, the oxygen mask strapped to his face only heightened his sense of isolation, piquing his claustrophobia.
He glanced to the clock glowing on the console in front of him.
Still another forty minutes to go.
Traveling at supersonic speeds, he was due to land in Lisbon only two hours after leaving the naval air station in Lakehurst, New Jersey.
Still, the journey felt interminable.
He could not stop worrying about Kat or picturing Harriet’s scared face on the video. His eyes kept flicking to that damned clock, watching the minutes tick down while he was strapped in this isolation chamber hurtling over the dark Atlantic. He was less concerned with his arrival time in Portugal than he was with the deadline set by Valya Mikhailov.
Only twenty-two hours . . .
Before that pale bitch started carving up his little girl.
A squelch cut through the engine roar filling his head. “Patching a call from D.C. to you,” the pilot radioed back.
Had to be Director Crowe.
Monk was not disappointed. Painter—likely sensing his need for distraction—had been regularly updating him. Still, with each call, his heart clenched ever tighter in his chest, as he feared the worst, especially about Kat.
“Monk, you should be landing soon,” Painter began. “I wanted to—”
“How’s Kat?” Monk asked.
“Sorry, of course. She’s stable, but no change. In fact, I’ve got Lisa on the other line. She wanted to talk to you. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to connect with you before your boots hit the ground.”
“What’s the other reason?”
“I already told you that we decrypted the video file to pinpoint the drop-off coordinates in Spain.”
According to the information buried in the message, Valya wanted the stolen tech to be taken to a location in central Madrid. If they failed to meet her deadline— Monk couldn’t think about that. “Go on.”
“The data embedded in the file also had a text address, a way to communicate with the kidnappers—with Valya. It’s intended as a means to coordinate with her when we secure Mara Silviera’s project. Taking advantage of this, I texted her early. Demanding proof of life. I told her we wanted evidence that both the girls and Seichan were still alive, still in good health.”
“Have you heard back?”
“Not yet, but when I do, I’ll forward everything.”
Monk blew out a breath, desperately wanting that proof.
Painter continued: “I’m also hoping that by further opening lines of communication—exchanging messages back and forth—Valya might slip up, enough for us to trace those lines back to her.”
Smart.
Still, Monk held out little hope. The Russian witch was too clever to let her guard down, especially around Director Crowe.
“It could also possibly buy us more time,” Painter added. “I’ll do my best to use this gambit to delay matters. My plan is to insist next that she show proof that Gray’s child is unharmed. Hopefully coordinating an ultrasound or some other proof will put off this deadline a bit longer.”
But would it be long enough?
None of this mattered if they failed to secure that tech.
“Any word from Gray?” Monk asked.
“Not yet. He was set to interview the U.S. ambassador’s family.”
“Is he still at the airport?”
“No. From the team’s GPS on their sat phones, it looks like they’ve settled at an off-site location. Possibly the family’s been moved or maybe he’s following a lead. Once I get an update, I’ll let you know.”
Good.
Monk was anxious to join Gray and the others.
“But like I mentioned,” Painter said, “the more important reason for this call was to patch you in with Lisa. She wants to update you on Kat.”
Monk sucked deeper from his oxygen mask, bracing himself.
After a few hiccups with the connection, Lisa came on the line. “Hi, Monk, how are you holding up out there?”
He checked the altimeter reading. “I’m currently holding up at forty thousand feet.” His attempt at humor was meant to break the tension, but instead came off too acerbic, revealing his exasperation with this question, but he saw no reason to take it out on Lisa.
“Sorry, we’ll be landing shortly,” he said lamely. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“You headed out so quickly I never had a chance to explain something that Julian—Dr. Grant—suggested we could try with Kat.”
He remembered Lisa standing in the hospital corridor, deep in conversation with the neurologist. “Well, you got me cornered now. Stuck in this flying toaster. What did you want to go over?”
“Actually, I wanted your permission.”
“For what?”
She told him.
Even with the insulation of his flight suit, Monk’s body went cold.
“I know how this sounds,” Lisa said. “You better than anyone understand what I’m asking.”
As he pictured the described procedure, his arm rose. He intended to run his palm across his shaved scalp, a nervous gesture. Instead, his prosthesis thumped against his helmet.
“And I need to stress that Julian believes attempting this is burning a bridge. If we attempt it, we will never get Kat back. This isn’t a cure but a death sentence. Still, it’s also our best and only chance to learn if Kat knows anything else.”
Monk swallowed. “In other words, you’re asking permission to kill Kat.”
“For a chance to save your girls.”
But only a chance . . .
Still, it was enough.
“Do it.”
1:28 P.M. EST
I’m sorry, Kat.
Lisa prayed she wasn’t needlessly torturing her friend.
She sat in the observation room of a surgical suite. A pair of neurosurgeons had finished dissecting down to the vagus nerve in Kat’s neck, where they had wrapped it with electrodes, and were now closing her up. Simultaneously, Julian worked with a surgeon to drill and seat another electrode into the thalamus of her brain.
Knowing her critical condition, the group operated swiftly. They were not even risking anesthesia, seeing little need, as the EEG of Kat’s brain activity still tracked no wakeful response.
For once, Lisa prayed Kat was not there, not feeling any of this.
Lisa’s only sibling was a brother in California. And though she had only known Kat for some handful of years, the two had grown to be as close as sisters. The sister I always wanted. Kat had even served as Lisa’s maid of honor at her wedding, when she married Painter. And in some ways, they even shared Lisa’s husband. As Sigma’s chief analyst, Kat spent more time with Painter—both in the past and now—than she did. Kat was Painter’s right hand, his confidante, his sounding board.
Lisa never felt resentful or jealous of that bond. In fact, she appreciated it more than she ever shared. Kat filled holes in Painter’s life that Lisa could never fill. It made Painter more complete, a better husband, even a better man.
Knowing what she was losing—what they were all losing—she had been doing her best to stay professional throughout this ordeal. She plastered on a confident and competent face for Monk, but deep inside, she was grieving. Her ribs ached from suppressing her sorrow, holding it in with each breath.
Finally, Julian turned from the surgical table and gave Lisa a thumbs-up. Nurses and doctors readied Kat for transport. It took a herculean effort, as her body was covered in a chaos of tubes, wires, and lines and was still hooked to a ventilator.
Lisa headed down to meet Julian. By the time she got to the recovery room, the neurology team had stripped gloves, masks, and gowns. Their excited chattering irritated her, but their manner seemed positive.
A moment later, Julian followed Kat as she was wheeled inside. The recovery room had already been cleared and prepped for this next stage of the procedure.
Lisa joined him. “How did things go?”
“As good as can be expected,” he answered. “But from here . . .”
Julian shrugged and directed the nurses to position Kat’s bed between two computer stations. On one side, an EEG machine waited to have its cap of electrodes returned to Kat’s shaved head. On the other rested a new piece of equipment, a shoe-box-sized unit that trailed wires to a dangling series of anode and cathode contact pads.