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  The words resonated with King. He wasn’t a good father. He knew that. How could a single man on the world’s most mysterious and elite Delta team attend to a thirteen-year-old girl? But that wasn’t his father’s point. The point was, he would die to save Fiona.

  Strange, that a man who spent the last ten years in prison could make so much sense, King thought, and then held his breath. Peter had gone to jail and suffered the loathing of his son so that he could have a normal childhood. He had given up his life to protect King from the realities of their past. The tough old ex-con, ex-spy, without realizing it, had just told King he loved him.

  “I understand, Dad. Thanks.” King headed toward the jet and looked back with a grin. His mother grew weepy as he climbed the ladder. He turned back toward Decon where Aleman stood in the doorway. “Find them someplace to stay.”

  Aleman saluted in reply.

  He climbed into the jet’s rear section, sat down, and strapped in. He tapped the pilot’s head and they began moving back out of the hangar where an empty runway awaited.

  As the jet taxied out of the hangar and Aleman walked toward them, Peter looked down at Lynn’s teary face. “All set?”

  She nodded and said, “I don’t like this.”

  Peter squeezed her arm. “He’ll be fine.”

  Aleman arrived and said, “How do you feel about Best Western?”

  “As long as they have a continental breakfast, I’m good,” Peter said.

  The three exited the hangar together and watched King’s F/A-18 roar into the air, headed east. A loud boom washed over them as the jet broke the sound barrier, becoming a distant speck in the sky.

  TWENTY

  HE SAT TWO hundred feet beneath the surface of the earth surrounded by darkness, and yet able to see. The large circular space had once served as a kind of sitting room, a bath perhaps, but had, for the past year and a half, been used as a laboratory, though some might call it a torture chamber. His test subjects included insects and animals from the desert above, humans from surrounding villages, and even the earth itself. They were like clay in the hands of an artist, malleable, but his skills needed honing and his manipulations often cost the living their lives while the inanimate found life—at least temporarily.

  Those brought to life had vastly different roles. The quickly animated stone subjects were large, strong, and doltish. But they followed orders without pause or moral hindrance. Unfortunately, they didn’t last long. If he didn’t repeat the words that granted life within fifteen minutes, they would return to their prior state. Clay held together best, enduring without need for a repeated imbuement, and with it, his finest creations came to being.

  But there was more to accomplish. Much more. He had a firm grasp of manipulating the inanimate, but the animate still eluded him. And that was key. A computer programmer couldn’t rewrite software code if he didn’t know the language in which it was written. But if that language was learned, the code could be hacked and rewritten. The same was true of the human mind, the world’s most sophisticated, organic computer. And he was close to deciphering the original coded language. Once he knew the language, he could rewrite the code of the human mind. Only a few fragments of knowledge still eluded him and they were nearly lost to time.

  Sometime, far in the past, the human race spoke one, unifying language. But suddenly, as though erased from the minds of its speakers, the language was lost—though not completely. Fragments of the ancient language remained hidden in the new dialects, passed down orally through generations. Even fewer fragments had been etched into stone by those wise enough to realize the knowledge would die with them. Identifying the lost written fragments had taken time, but the tracks of the ancients were easy to follow once you knew what to look for. With the last stone fragments still being tracked down, there was time to perfect a few more tricks.

  He read through his notes one last time as he would soon attempt something he knew could have disastrous results. Even the smallest mispronunciation could undo him. He might survive, in fact he didn’t doubt it, but even a small explosion could reveal his position to his enemies stationed above.

  He sipped from his teacup and noticed the time. The others would be checking in soon.

  A blue glow lit the space around the man as he turned on his laptop. It revealed lab tables covered with cages, some containing rodents or reptiles. Several different types of rock, sand, clay, and crystal filled a collection of bowls. Lines of metal bars came next—an assemblage of earth elements.

  The laptop chimed a moment later. Seth. The man answered it, looking at a reflection of his own face. “All went well, Alpha,” Seth said. “All living specimens have been eradicated and all traces of the written language have been destroyed. No interruptions this time.”

  A second chime indicated a second call. Enos. Opening the second call and networking the three, Alpha said, “And how is Australia?”

  “No problems,” Enos said. “Have you heard from Cainan yet?”

  They were all nervous about Cainan. Their successes around the globe couldn’t dull their apprehension about facing the mass of special Forces stationed at Fort Bragg. At the same time, it was an excellent test of their true capabilities.

  He glanced at his watch, seeing Seth and Enos do likewise on the screen. How alike they all were.

  The computer chimed.

  Cainan.

  Alpha took the call and patched it in, allowing the five of them to talk as though each were in the room despite being worlds apart. “Cainan.” The tone of his voice was loaded with questions that didn’t need to be voiced.

  “Bragg is in ruins. The U.S. special forces took large casualties and were unable to mount a successful counterattack.”

  Alpha knew well enough that Cainan was delaying the meat of his report. He cleared his throat. “And the girl, Fiona?”

  “He was there.”

  “King?”

  “No, the other one,” Cainan said. “The thorn in our side. He took her.”

  Alpha grimaced. The man, whose identity and location were still unknown, but were being tirelessly researched, had first made his presence known at the Siletz Reservation in Oregon. In the confusion, the girl had escaped into the arms of Delta, behind the fortified walls of Fort Bragg. And since then he had thwarted many of their attempts to eliminate those that, know it or not, had the knowledge to undo what had taken half his life to achieve. They had succeeded in as many attempts, but the cumulative knowledge of those now protected in secrecy …

  He pushed his fears aside, focusing on the problem at hand. “King will go after her. Wherever he goes, follow him.”

  Enos nodded. “He’s resourceful. He’ll find her.”

  “He’s being tracked?” Alpha asked.

  Cainan’s head bobbed up and down. “The assets did their job. He’s on a jet over the Atlantic.”

  “Alone?”

  “The other chess pieces left earlier, each leading an individual team. I don’t know where.”

  Alpha’s eyes widened momentarily and then he chuckled. “They’ve gone looking for others. Identify which at-risk languages are the most likely targets.”

  “You don’t want us to intercept?” Cainan said.

  Alpha was grinning. “Not at all. But I think letting several countries know that U.S. special forces intend to invade their territory and abduct their citizens will create a hostile atmosphere that might do the work for us. If any of them are headed for Russia, our friends there will be most welcoming, I’m sure. That would leave only King as a concern for the future.”

  “And what if King finds us?” Enos asked.

  Alpha smiled and stood, taking a small lizard by the sides and picking it up. “I am leaving for Pontus shortly. And should he track us here…” He held the lizard up and spoke the ancient words he had recited so many times in his mind. The lizard began thrashing in his hand, changing before their eyes. “He will find only death.”

  Seth, Enos, and Cainan watched with
wide eyes as the video appeared on their laptops in Vietnam, Australia, and the United States. Identical grins stretched on their faces.

  After placing the still changing lizard into a large cage, Alpha returned to his seat and paused. Something about killing King was unsatisfactory. The man had taken everything from him except the one thing no man could take: his life. King deserved worse. He deserved to know the same pain. “On second thought, Cainan, take the girl. Bring her to me. If King survives the journey, we will welcome him here.”

  He disconnected the call and powered off the computer. When the screen went black, he caught his hideous reflection in the glossy laptop display and frowned. “I’ll take care of you soon enough,” he said before closing the laptop.

  He sat back and looked at a clipboard. A long list of communications gear—satellite dishes, servers, routers, miles of cable, and enough computing power to handle a worldwide network—ran down the page and onto two more following it. The writing was in Russian, but after forming an alliance with factions of the Russian military, he had taken the time to learn the language. They were supplying him with the means to change the world, while he supplied them with technological advances. The least he could do was learn the language. It would soon be extinct.

  Once he had the missing pieces of the ancient language and the equipment from the Russians was connected, he would access the world’s media—TV, Internet, radio, everything—and undo the damage done to mankind so many millennia ago. The world had been fractured. The original code had been rewritten.

  It could be rewritten.

  He would remake mankind.

  In his image.

  He turned to the collection of insects caged on the table behind him and leaned down to them. “But first, let’s see what can be done with you.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Rome, Italy

  AFTER A FIVE-HOUR flight that ended on the USS Enterprise aircraft carrier deployed to the Mediterranean Sea, a two-hour boat trip, undercover, to Porto Cesareo, followed by a six-hour drive to Rome, King found himself exhausted. To wake himself up and help him fit in with the nighttime tourists, he helped himself to a large cioccolato fondente gelato that Rook had raved about since Queen made him try it during their second trip to Gibraltar. The dark chocolate snack not only tasted good, but was packed with caffeine and sugar that King could already feel opening his eyes.

  Working his way through the crowds of locals and tourists mingling by the shops and cafés of the Piazza d’Aracoeli, he paused to watch a family snap photos in front of a Renaissance fountain. The mother and son stood in front of the father, who held a second son on his shoulders. They smiled as a college student used their camera to snap a photo. The flash lit the street and snapped King out of his thoughts. He turned away and quickened his pace.

  The street rose up and merged with the Piazzo Venezia, which he crossed and then stopped, looking up. Before him was a staggered ramp of short and deep stairs that led up the Capitoline Hill. Two statues of caped men standing with horses known collectively as the Dioscuri—Castor and Pollux, the sons of Zeus—stood at the top of the hill. Behind them was a large, open plaza designed by Michelangelo with a bronze statue of Marcus Aurelius on horseback. The plaza was surrounded by large buildings built during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, but the one that interested King lay straight ahead—the Palazzo Senatorio, or Senatorial Palace, now used as city hall. He headed up the steps of the bell tower–topped building, past a fountain featuring several river guards, and approached the front door.

  Despite being closed for business and to visitors, it was the building through which he would gain access to the Roman Forum’s ruins. The door inched open at his approach. After making sure no one was watching, he slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

  The main hall inside the palace was dark, lit only by a single flashlight, but King could see the face of George Pierce smiling at him. They had connected by phone during King’s long drive to Rome and he had explained everything as best he could and, hopefully, got Pierce’s mind working on solving the problem of locating a second Herculean Society getaway.

  Having seen each other at Lynn’s funeral, which Pierce now knew was bunk, and after speaking for an hour on the phone, the two had no pleasantries to exchange. Pierce motioned down the hall with his head and said, “Follow me.”

  They wound their way through the hallways, heading for the back door that led directly into the ruins of the Roman Forum.

  “So how did you manage to get an all-access, after-hours pass to the ruins?” King asked as they descended a staircase.

  “Actually, it wasn’t me. Mayor Alemanno owed Augustina a favor.” Augustina Gallo, a friend and colleague of Pierce, had been central to uncovering the location of the Herculean Society hideout beneath Gibraltar. In doing so she had saved the team’s lives and provided the means to restore Pierce back to his fully human self after Manifold Genetics had modified his genetic code using the legendary Hydra’s DNA. “So the doors were left unlocked while the guards looked the other way. In fifteen minutes we wouldn’t be able to get in.”

  “How are we going to get out?”

  Pierce paused at the exit and looked back at King. “I have no idea, but if we get arrested your bosses can pull a few strings, yes?”

  “A few,” King said.

  The door swung open revealing the darkness of night beyond. The warm air outside carried the smells of the city, but the streetlights ringing the acres of land did little to light the ruins. With the moon covered by clouds, Pierce’s flashlight shone like a beacon. It would make them easy to spot, but Pierce didn’t seem to notice as he took out a second flashlight, clicked it on, and handed it to King. He didn’t like being exposed, but had little choice. Time, as usual, was not on his side, and a daylight search in the midst of tourist throngs would draw unwanted attention.

  As he stepped out into the ruins and moved his flashlight side to side he realized what an impossible task this could be. The ancient site included several temples, basilicas, and atriums, some built on top of one another, forming layers of history. On the far side of the space was the Coliseum, which was brightly lit in the distance. That seemed as fitting a place as any for Hercules and his wraiths to hide out, but impossible to search in solitude. King sighed, not knowing where to begin.

  Pierce clapped him on the shoulder. “Have no fear, George is here. This way. I have an idea.”

  King followed Pierce into the ruins, descending a path of large flat stones spaced out just enough for tufts of grass to grow—the remains of an ancient roadway. The path was fenced in on both sides by short black metal fences that seemed more like a reminder to stay off the ruins than an actual deterrent. During the day the site might inspire awe, at night King felt the ruins looked more like some eerie underworld that housed creatures of the night. The truth, he knew, might not be far from that. But despite what he thought might be waiting for them under the earth, it was their exposure to onlookers that had him on edge. He couldn’t help but feel they were being watched. There was no evidence of it. Just his instincts.

  Instincts he had come to rely on.

  He drew his Sig Sauer pistol and held it in line with his flashlight. It wasn’t always effective against regenerating capybara, Hydras, Neanderthals, or giant rock monsters, but it almost always gave him a head start, and that could save his life, and Pierce’s.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Washington, D.C.

  PRESIDENT DUNCAN SAT in the backseat of The Beast, a black stretched Cadillac with five-inch-thick military armor, run-flat tires, and bulletproof glass. The car could protect him from almost any enemy, except one: the press.

  The assassination attempt on his life a year earlier, which almost led to a global pandemic, coupled with the fourth major attack on U.S. soil in the nation’s history, had the press swirling like vultures. This wasn’t a terrorist attack on civilians like the World Trade Center or Siletz Reservation, which rallied the nation toge
ther. It was an assault on the country’s most elite military facility. An act of war. Worse, it was a successful attack.

  Thanks to the earlier successes of his presidential career, stamping out terrorist organizations around the world, the press saw this as retribution. To the world it looked like he’d picked fights with the world’s terrorist organizations and grossly underestimated their resources. Speaking volumes to this were the number of American dead and injured, not to mention the complete lack of enemy casualties.

  Duncan and many of the soldiers at Bragg knew that was because the enemy had simply fallen to pieces, but he couldn’t very well say that on television. The American public would think him insane and incompetent.

  Instead, he would do something he loathed. Something he had done only once before as president.

  He would lie.

  When the attack on the Siletz Reservation had gone public it was declared a terrorist attack. But with no one claiming responsibility and their investigations turning up no leads, the country’s anger had been swallowed and contained, but not forgotten. The country’s rage simply lay in wait for a target.

  Once again, without an enemy to point his finger at, without a clear target of the nation’s wrath, not to mention the military’s, the American people would have no outlet for their anger. Unfortunately, there was always someone who would attempt to turn that anger toward his office. Presidents were blamed for scores of the world’s problems, especially when someone was gunning for the job. With an election year coming up, the political wolves smelled blood. Lance Marrs, a senator from Utah and the man who ran against Duncan in the last election (and lost), had come out with guns blazing. The man hit every media outlet that would have him, blasting Duncan for not only failing to prevent the attacks, but inviting them. It was the same old shtick from Marrs, but people were buying into it this time.

  A small flat-screen TV that swung down from the car’s ceiling played his latest news conference. The man was doing his best to look presidential. Hair slicked back. Trophy wife waiting off to the side with a candy smile. Flag pin prominently on his chest. “Tom Duncan has failed the American people, not once, not twice, but three times now. When the good people of this nation elected him president, I accepted the decision. The people had spoken, and as one of the people, I accepted my defeat.”