“She?”
“Yes, the meta is female. Her name is Farrow and she’s deadly. Mom, grab your purse, the car keys, take Maze for protection, and get out of the house right now! I’m going to call you in exactly thirty minutes to check on you. It’s 6:05; I’ll call you at 6:35. Do you understand?”
“How do you know about the meta, Alik?”
“Creed. He’s trying to earn his soul back. I’ll explain later. Just go!”
“I love you, Ali. Tell Evan I love him.”
“We love you too, mom. Now, go!”
42 Farrow’s Pursuit
The humidity and heat were extreme, but she had already calculated for that. The home of Dr. St. Paul was thirty-nine meters south, southeast of the position she chose because of its dense foliage and easy line-of-sight to the front door of the house where the doctor’s vehicle was parked. Dr. Winter, the primary target, had not shown her face yet, but she would eventually, and when she did, Farrow would be waiting.
Lying in wait for nearly three hours now had left Farrow’s usually steady nerves somewhat frazzled. Under ordinary circumstances, she could stalk her target as long as necessary without the slightest unease, but this was different. Something about this assignment made the hair on the back of her neck bristle. Three hours felt like three days.
Sure she was just psyching herself out, she allowed herself a moment to look away from the sniper rifle’s telescopic lens and rub her eyes.
Get it together, soldier, she scolded herself. This is just another assignment. You’ve done this before, and you’ll do it again. Come on. One shot, one kill. One shot, one kill. One shot, one kill.
Her mental brow-beating was halted the moment she saw movement at the back door. A male with white hair was exiting the house with a long surf board tucked under his left arm. It was Dr. St. Paul. Right at his heels was the bizarre pet the Winter family kept. She had seen him before—back in California when she was sent to the hospital to count dead bodies. That was the growling thing that looked at her like fresh meat. Even through her scope, she got a clear picture of the coyote. He was huge—probably fifty-five or sixty pounds. And it behaved like a loyal dog, not a wild canine. Not wanting to alarm her primary target, Farrow chose not to fire at the aging man or the coyote, but observed them instead.
The old man walked toward the beach. He lifted his right hand to his brow to block the sunlight so he could see more clearly the waves as they broke. The coyote had wandered away from the water’s edge following instead an interesting scent back up toward the trail that ran beside the house. His nose was to the ground as his silver coat shinned in the Hawaiian sunlight.
Not wanting to get distracted, Farrow repositioned her scope to the house. There was no movement there. By the time she panned back to the old surfer, he was already on his board and paddling out into the water. The coyote was almost completely obscured by the undergrowth along the trail. He was really after something, but it hadn’t occurred to Farrow that he may have been tracking a very familiar scent. Not until it was too late.
Just as the coyote began to howl mournfully with intermittent barks, an image darted across her mind. That spot was the exact location on the trail where M57 was running days before when she had delivered Dr. Williams’ “gift.” The coyote must have been tracking the girl’s scent. She was, after all, his owner.
He was howling like a bloody demon now. It was clear he found something, but what would he have found that had Meg’s scent on it? Did she drop something that day? Farrow didn’t think so. Was she bleeding? Doubtful. It would have left a very small mark where the dart impacted her neck. Maybe there would have been a negligible spot of redness at the injection site itself once the dart was removed and…that’s when she realized what was causing the coyote to howl.
The dart.
Creed, the incompetent, moony-eyed, idiot! He must have left the dart in the grass! Farrow was mentally screaming in fury over Creed’s misstep that could cost them their objective. Her one last glimmer of hope was lost when it was Dr. Andrews who came running out of the house to check on the coyote, and not Dr. Winter.
With an anger that seethed hotter and hotter inside her, the metasoldier watched the man run to the coyote, lean down and pick something up. The coyote jumped up and down excitedly beside him as he frowned at the object in his hand, yelled to Dr. St. Paul, who was already on his way back to shore with all the ruckus from the canine, and ran back into the house. Within seconds, all the subjects were out of sight and the gift was in their hands.