“And…”
“Why, exactly, am I here?”
Keasling raised his hands toward Fiona. “Babysitting duty.”
Aleman sighed. “Ahh. Right.”
“It’s dangerous work, I know,” said Keasling. “Try not to get yourself killed.”
The smiles around the room were impossible to hide. Lewis Aleman was a dangerous man in his time. But since an injury took him off field work he’d spent most of his time behind a computer. Watching Fiona was a welcome change. He turned to Fiona. “We’ll bust out the Master Sergeant and kill us some aliens.”
She grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.
“Adorable,” Keasling grumbled, then raised his voice. “Wheels up in thirty minutes. Night is falling on the other side of the planet and we want you back in the air and on your way home by sunrise.”
SIX
Richmond, Virgina
KING’S EGGS WERE cold, not to mention runny. The burnt toast chewed up as well as a slab of cardboard. The orange juice was watered down. And the sausage, cheap as it was, encased more cartilage than pork. But the breakfast, courtesy of his father’s favorite hometown diner, was like heaven coated in maple syrup compared to the silence between King and his father.
What could be said to a son you deserted? To a father you’d put out of your mind? A lot, King knew, but he wasn’t ready. Not by a long shot.
After ten minutes and one forced-down sausage, King had had enough. He’d faced down the world’s most dangerous terrorists, the mythical Hydra reborn, and a horde of Neanderthal women. He could handle his father. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Did you make it to the funeral?”
His father looked up briefly, met King’s eyes, and then returned his gaze to his rubbery pancakes, which still held two miniature ice cream scoops of butter. “Nope.” He squished the butter with his fork, oozing the congealed paste through the tines. “I only found out two days ago and the bus was slow.”
“Where were you coming from?”
“Butner.”
King sat up straighter. “North Carolina?”
“Yeah, you know it?”
King chuckled and shook his head. “I’m stationed at Fort Bragg. You’ve been living two hours from me. Butner … Must have been one slow bus.”
The diner door slammed shut as a patron left. Peter jumped, looking at the door and then taking a quick look around the room. He relaxed again and squinted. “What?” When King’s statement registered, he took a deep breath and found the courage to ignore the subject. “How’s that working out for you? The military?”
“It’s a living.”
“Deployed?”
“A few times.”
“Anywhere interesting?”
“Haven’t left the planet yet.” King didn’t want to talk about himself, so he quickly U-turned the conversation back to his father. “I thought you went to California.”
“It didn’t take.”
“Couldn’t find any of those California girls to take care of you?” King inwardly winced at his low blow. He had no idea what the temperament of his father was like now. As a child, the man wouldn’t have stood for King’s “flack,” but now …
“You’re not going to turn this into a soap opera, are you?” his father said without a hint of humor.
The man hadn’t changed a bit.
But King had. He didn’t have to sit and listen to his father. “Nice seeing you, Pop.” He placed a twenty-dollar bill on the table and stood. He stopped briefly to admire the diner’s Elvis clock and headed for the exit.
“Jack, hold on,” his father said.
King hadn’t had a father since his teen years and he’d long ago grown accustomed to that fact. No father was better than a bad father. He continued toward the exit. Seeing the man had only reinforced his fears about caring for Fiona. The man’s blood was his own. If fatherhood was hereditary, he would eventually fail the girl. When he knew she was safe again, he’d make sure she found a good family to take care of her.
“Jack. Stop.”
King paused for a moment, but not because of his father’s voice. Something deep within had struck home. A pang of guilt, only a quiet whisper before, had been revealed for what it was. Without even realizing it, King was planning to do exactly what his father had done. He was going to give her up. He was going to leave her.
Feeling sick to his stomach, King reached for the door.
“King, wait!”
He stopped, his fist gripping the door’s push-bar, the bells just starting to jingle. He turned back to his father. “What did you just say?”
His father looked stunned by the incredulous look in King’s eyes and fidgeted uncomfortably as King pounded back toward him.
Waitresses, expecting a fight, stepped behind the long counter. Patrons swiveled in their chairs, turning their backs to the pair, not wanting to be involved. King stopped at the table, placed his fists on its surface, and leaned over his father. “How do you know that name?”
His father gave an awkward smile. “I named you, Jack.”
King reached under his coat, pulled out his handgun, and placed it on the table. It was the second time that day he’d threatened his father with the gun, but this time it was not an accident. “You … called … me … King.”
“Must have heard the nickname from your mother.”
“Mom didn’t know it.”
“Well, I—”
Without raising the gun, King cocked the hammer. “Who are you?”
“I’m your father.”
“Who else are you?”
King’s father cleared his throat. He stared at the table like he was in shock, but then all his fear and worry melted away. An act. A smile crept onto his face. “You know what, you’re right. The time for games is over. Why don’t we go back to the house? Have a glass of your mother’s lemonade.”
“It’s gone. I finished it.”
“Don’t worry, Jack. I’m sure she’ll have made some more by the time we get there.”
SEVEN
Annamite Mountains, Vietnam
THE SMELL OF the jungle—moist earth and organic rot—hit Rook like a childhood nightmare, bringing back memories of fear, suffering, and the stuff of monsters made real. When the Chess Team last set foot in the mountainous region of Vietnam known as the Annamite Convergence Zone, where Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia’s borders merged, they had not only come face-to-face with the last remnants of mankind’s Neanderthal ancestors, but also their modern-day hybrid brood. Not to mention Vietnam’s now disbanded special forces unit known as the Death Volunteers.
Rook looked at Queen, whose black face paint covered the star-and-skull brand she’d received at the hands of the Death Volunteers. To her credit, she seemed unfazed by their return to the site of her torture. Of course, she was Queen. He expected nothing less.
They stood in darkness at the edge of the jungle, looking at the concave remains of Mount Meru cast in shades of green through their night vision goggles. Hidden inside the mountain had been the last city of the Neanderthal people; a masterpiece of ancient construction lit by the refracting light of giant crystals, it was the inspiration for the design of Ankgor Wat in Cambodia. But now the place was a ruin.
Every entrance had been crushed. Brush and saplings had already begun to reclaim the clearing that housed the hybrid workforce, where Rook and Queen had made a half-naked dash through the rain before facing off against a hybrid and two tigers. All that remained were shards of stone spear tips flattened into the earth.