King and Queen checked the bodies for identification, Knight searched the bathroom.
As Queen rifled through the dead man’s pockets, she spotted a necklace poking out from under one of the beds. She picked it up and looked if over—a silver chain and cross. The cross design was simple and held a small black stone in the middle.
King saw it dangling. His eyes widened as he reached out for the necklace.
She handed it to him. “Recognize it?”
“Yeah,” King said. “It was Julie’s.”
As he looked the necklace over, memories of it around his sister’s neck came back to him. It had been a gift from their father. After she died in the plane crash, his mother wore it. Every day. He’d never seen her take it off. But here it was, on the floor.
King unclipped the chain, wrapped it around his neck, and refastened it. With the necklace hidden beneath his shirt, he turned to Queen. “Call it in.”
Queen nodded, switched on her cell, and left the room.
“King,” Knight called from the bathroom. “Check this out.”
The bathroom looked normal until Knight stepped to the side, revealing the sink. A board had been placed atop the basin, serving as a workspace. The makeshift countertop held several small electronic components, spools of impossibly thin wires, miniature microchips, a magnifying glass, soldering tools, and pill-sized capsules. Knight picked up one of the completed devices and handed it to King.
A mixture of confusion, anger, and sadness filled King as he looked at the tiny device that perfectly matched the tracking device he’d found hidden in his pocket. His chest ached as the memory of his last good-bye with his parents returned. His mother’s firm embrace. The slow slide of her hand against his side as they separated.
His mother had bugged him.
Betrayed him.
“What do you think?” Knight asked.
It pained him to say it, but he couldn’t deny the evidence. “My parents are still Russian spies, and they almost got us killed.”
As his mind raced to put together any missing pieces, anything he’d missed, something else nagged at him. Some other unanswered question. Then he remembered. Turning to Knight, he asked, “What happened to Ridley?”
EPILOGUE
Somewhere
THE TEN-FOOT-SQUARE CELL was empty, save for a single chair and its occupant, a prisoner, and his interrogator. The man in the chair was gagged—jaw spread wide holding a red ball gag. He was strapped to the chair around the chest and waist. There was no need to bind his arms and legs because he had neither.
His interrogator walked around him in lazy circles. “This can end whenever you want it to.”
The man’s shouted reply was muffled and distorted, but the tone was defiant.
The interrogator chuckled and jabbed a finger into the open wound where the man’s shoulder should have been.
The man wailed in horrible pain as the interrogator twisted his finger deeper into the flesh until it struck the man’s rib cage.
“Whenever you want it to end…”
A sucking pop filled the air as the finger was quickly extracted from the meat.
The man screamed again.
“You’re probably wondering how this is possible?”
The man made no reply other than his heavy breathing.
“The Hydra can’t regenerate without a sufficient supply of water, which it can leach from the air itself on a humid day. You were given enough water for your torso to regenerate, but without more, you will remain a quadruple amputee. The pain you’re feeling is your dry cells screaming out for fluid. You can’t even bleed. As you’ve probably noticed, the air in this cell is not only hot, but also very dry. Your wounds will remain open indefinitely. Your bones will not heal. Your mind will not rest. The pain will never dull.”
The interrogator crouched before the legless torso, looking at the fragment of femur protruding from the man’s partially formed thigh. He grasped the bone with two fingers and wiggled it.
The prisoner’s breathing sped up.
“You will tell me everything about the language of God.”
The interrogator quickly slid his finger inside the bone, pushing hard, compressing the marrow.
A fit of spasms shook the prisoner. His voice became a high-pitched shriek. But when the finger was removed, his face twisted with rage. He shouted a string of muffled curses.
The interrogator simply smiled and stood. He leaned forward, placing his hands on the arms of the chair. He looked the prisoner in the eyes. “Perhaps you haven’t fully grasped the situation, Mr. Ridley. I am not who you believe me to be. I am not who your enemies believe me to be. And I can do this until the end of time, can you?”
ALSO BY JEREMY ROBINSON
The Didymus Contingency
Raising the Past
Beneath
Antarktos Rising
Kronos
Pulse
Instinct