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Damn.

  Sazma Marcko was dead. In an American hospital.

  * * *

  September 25

  FBI Field Office, Chicago

  Gabe’s smartphone buzzed and he glanced down. Langley. Good. Maybe he’d get some news.

  “MacNeil,” he snapped into the mouthpiece as he settled onto the chair in an office he’d borrowed from one of Helen Darrow’s colleagues.

  “Gabe, it’s Inez.” Inez Macready was one of the computer geeks, and if she was on the line, she had news.

  “It’s about time you called,” he said, only half teasing. “I thought you’d forgotten about me. Someone else must’ve come in with something sexier than a crusty jump drive. An Al-Qaeda laptop, maybe? An Aum Shinrikyo smartphone?” Inez had had the thumb drive they found in the Siberian ruins for more than a week, but he hadn’t been holding his breath for any good news. Who knew how long it had sat there, and in what condition.

  “Sexier than your stuff? Never,” she purred. “I’d’ve been back to you sooner, but we had a hell of a time trying to make sure we didn’t set off an internal worm that would’ve corrupted the drive. There were three of them. Someone wanted to make sure the drive was secure, which means it must be valuable. Then it took time to dig through the encryption, plus some of the external parts of the drive were corroded. Wanted to make sure we didn’t do any more damage when we were pulling out the usable part of the hardware. It was a beast getting into the data—there was a lot of stuff on there, and we’ve only been able to get to the most recent layer. Which, by the way, had been deleted at one point.”

  “So basically, the drive was protected by worms and passwords but it didn’t have any data on it? Any current data, anyway?” His spark of hope faded.

  “That about sums it up. Lots of security for nothing…but it’s a damn good thing I’m a brilliant forensic investigator. I was able to recover the most recent cache of data, which, like I said, had been deleted anyway.”

  “And?” Gabe felt his heart rate kick up a little. Deleted data could be good. Whatever people tried to get rid of was usually more interesting than that which they didn’t.

  “It’s a list of names. I’m emailing it to you right now so you have it, but I figured I’d better call and let you know it’s coming.”

  “Oh, you just wanted to hear my Southern,” he teased, already opening his email. “Be honest.”

  “Yeah, right,” she replied, her own drawl even more pronounced than usual. “Because I have no idea what a West Virginian sounds like.”

  He chuckled into the phone. “You might have a point. Anything else?”

  “You’re gonna love me.”

  “Really?” His voice dropped with interest. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t lead with the good stuff. What?”

  “Fingerprints. Got a few partials off the drive itself, and some others on the plastic it was wrapped in…” Inez’s voice trailed off temptingly.

  “You got a hit.”

  “Well, I didn’t, but the lab did. Two of the partials were matched to one Dr. Reuben Aleksandr—the Russian spelling—Varden. No record, though. I’m sending you his abbreviated stats along with the list of names we found on the drive. I’ll let you know if we find anything else. But for now, I hope this gives you something to chew on.”

  “Damn straight,” he muttered into the phone. “Thanks, Inez. You’re the best.”

  “I know.” She disconnected the call just as Gabe’s email downloaded the new message.

  He clicked on Varden’s info first. “Doctor? Hmm. What kind of doctor?” he muttered, scanning the details. Born 1975, Moscow. Really? Not Siberia? Hmm. Unmarried. No children. Pre-med at Oxford. Graduated from USC med school. Residency in Boston. General surgery. Hell, the man got around. And had credentials.

  Gabe narrowed his eyes. “Sure you’re the same guy?” he asked himself, clicking on the photo. The file image was probably a decade old, but still, clearly, it was the same Rue Varden who’d plugged him with a bullet at close range five years ago. It was those piercing green eyes and Slavic features that confirmed it.

  “What the hell happened to ‘first do no harm,’ asshole?” he asked the sober-faced image, then read further. “No current residence listed. New Orleans a few years, left in ’03…Haiti? Hmm. That was after the hurricane. What was he doing there? Then wha—the University of Michigan Hospital, Ann Arbor?” He sucked in his breath and looked again.

  Yep. Dates of employment were a span of six years, off and on as a relief physician. He’d finished up just about a year ago. Off and on. Coming and going. Sonofabitch, the man had been underfoot for years. Within ten miles from Marina, working in her backyard—so to speak. Could not be a coincidence.

  The question was…had she known?

  Mouth in a flat, grim line, he reached for his phone to call her, then stopped. “Better look at the other stuff too,” he told himself, clicking on the other attachment to Inez’s message.

  The list of names she’d culled from the flash drive he found in Siberia showed up in document format. Fifteen people and their respective corporations. Though he didn’t know them all, from their names it was clear this was an international collection. Then, halfway down, he saw it: Cora Allegan/Vision Screen Industries.

  Oh boy.

  He reached for the phone again.

  SIXTEEN

  September 25

  University of Illinois

  Champaign, Illinois

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Eli Sanchez’s voice held a note of glee. “Suborder…possibly… No, it can't be… Archostemata? But…no, no freaking way. Unbelievable,” he murmured, his eye sockets firmly planted on the microscope.

  Ake glanced at Michael, who was sitting on a chair in the lab doing something on his smartphone. Hopefully getting a reservation for dinner somewhere in the area. They weren’t actually in Chicago, but there had to be some good restaurants in Champaign…

  “What do you mean?” Ake asked, returning his attention to the man who was one of the most prominent beetle experts in the world. He’d expected a fifty-something-year-old man with threading gray hair and beetle-like bug eyes, a small paunch, and maybe a goatee.

  The only part he’d been right about was the goatee. Dr. Sanchez couldn’t be more than forty and looked more like he belonged in a reggae band than in an insect lab. Of obvious Hispanic descent, he had shoulder-length dreadlocks, a single gold hoop in his right earlobe, and a dark brown goatee. The dreads were tied back, showing the small tattoo of a Chinese symbol on the side of his neck just above a faded red t-shirt. He was tall and lanky, and wore an open lab coat with the sleeves rolled up to bare muscular forearms. Jeans and Birkenstocks completed the look.

  He was, Ake admitted freely, quite a package. Straight, too. Damned waste. He glanced at Michael, who, thankfully, seemed immune, and felt a tug of affection for his longtime partner. But then he turned his attention back to the entomologist and enjoyed the view.

  Sanchez pushed back from the microscope, the wheels of his chair as enthusiastic as the excitement lighting his dark eyes. “Where did you say you found this specimen?”

  Ake explained again, then said, “I just want to know what kind of bug—er, beetle it is. And if it could possibly have caused some sort of electrical malfunction in our power grid. I know it’s a long shot, but there doesn’t seem to be any other explanation.”

  “Unfortunately, what I have here—these charred pieces of elytra and tarsus, and a hint of thoraces—just isn’t enough to allow me to fully categorize the type of Coleoptera, although it’s possible it’s an Archostemat…but that would be highly improbable.”

  He grinned at Ake’s blank look, a wide flash of straight white teeth. “Sorry. Basically, of what you’ve given me, I’m only able to salvage parts of the hard outer wings of the insect, and a few small pieces of leg and thorax—the torso. There are over four hundred thousand species of coleops—”

  “Coleops?” Ake couldn’t quite keep t
he frustration from his voice.

  “Right. Beetles. There are over four hundred thousand species of beetles in the world, and except for very basic categorization, it’s often impossible to classify them without an intact specimen that can be dissected and examined internally. However,” he continued, his voice filling with excitement again, “there’s one thing I can tell you about this particular beetle. Its elytra—the hard covering, which is like an outer wing that protects the under, or hindwing—is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “The copper color?” Ake asked dubiously. This was a wasted trip. And they were too far away to make a detour to Chicago for a show, either. “I’ve seen lots of bugs—er, beetles—with copper wings like that. The Japanese beetles that infest my raspberries are almost that color.” He frowned, reminded he was going to have to empty the traps he’d set for the pests when they returned.

  Sanchez was nodding vehemently. “Yes, exactly. There are many species of beetles that have a metallic reflective color to the elytra. Blue, copper, green. But this one…I’m going to have to send it to a lab to be certain, but I suspect this beetle’s wing is actually made of copper.”

  “Meaning…?” Ake pressed.

  “Meaning I believe there is actual elemental copper in the makeup of the beetle. Lots of it.”

  Ake blinked. A feeling of something dark and unpleasant settled over him…as if he were just about to learn something he didn’t want to know. “Are you saying this is a mechanized insect? Not a real bu—er—insect?”

  Good grief. Had someone released a swarm of tiny mechanical creatures that sabotaged his plant? Terrorists with minuscule, robotic insects. His insides began to swish with nausea.

  “No, it’s a real insect,” Dr. Sanchez told him earnestly. “It was a living creature at one time. That I’m fairly certain of…but if I could just get more pieces of the specimen, I could tell you more. There’s hardly enough here for me to look at.”

  “I have my crew searching for more, but so far all they’ve found are those burned-out clumps of them.”

  Burned out and melted together…like metal. Not like living entities, but more like a mechanical—or what did they call them? That new trendy fashion and mechanical style—steampunk. That was it. Could they be like steampunk insects?

  But the beetle guy believed it was a real bug.

  Impossible. Unbelievable. But at the same time, it felt creepily right.

  “If you find any more, get them to me. I'll be able to tell you more. I’ll also tell you this, Mr. Akinowski: from what I can tell, there’s nothing like this species of beetle anywhere in North America.”

  * * *

  An unknown location

  Cora looked up as the door to her room opened. Her stomach lurched and went into turmoil, but she kept her expression calm and neutral as she stood and moved to the center of the space—the same way she did on the day she learned she wouldn’t be ousted as CEO of Vision Screen Industries.

  Roman Aleksandrov, the man who’d threatened her earlier, entered—but this time he wasn’t alone. Accompanying him was an elderly man who walked under his own steam, but slowly and carefully.

  He was so old, Cora wasn’t certain of his age—but she wouldn’t have been surprised if he was into three digits. He wore the same type of clothing as her other captors with the exception of Roman: the simple undyed linen tunic over matching loose trousers. His stark white feet were bare.

  “I am Lev,” he said, fixing her with bright and intelligent but watery blue eyes. “Son of Gaia.”

  Son of Gaia? Was that like Son of Adam, or something more esoteric—at least in his mind?

  She remained silent as he trudged across the wooden floor, hardly lifting his feet. For a wild moment, she considered launching herself toward him and taking the weakling captive, using him as a bartering tool for her escape, but Roman gave her a cold warning look that told her she wouldn’t have a chance.

  He would probably be right.

  Despite his frailty, the old man exuded confidence and charisma, as well as something indefinable…almost otherworldly. Something that made Cora reconsider her impression that he was fragile. Something that made the hair on her arms stand on end.

  Lev eased himself into the chair she’d vacated, leaving Cora to tower over him. “You have committed crimes against our Mother Earth,” said the elderly man. His voice did not match his body. It was strong and purposeful, yet low and rich at the same time. “Against my mother. You will have the opportunity to pay her recompense, and if she is merciful, you might survive.”

  By now it was clear this man was the one with the true power; that he could overrule Roman Aleksandrov and anyone else in this strange compound. Cora knew he was her best chance to change the tide, and she spoke earnestly. “I feel great remorse for what happened with my organization, and the misunderstandings and miscommunications that caused such terrible things to happen. I have already offered to pay whatever—”

  “Be silent.” Lev’s voice lashed out, and, surprised by its vehemence and overt disgust, she obeyed. Power radiated from him even more strongly now as his eyes narrowed coldly on her. “The only reason you feel remorse, Cora Allegan, is because you are here. There were no misunderstandings, no miscommunications in your organization. You were solely responsible for the decision to ravage our earth. To violate our mother. To put capitalism and greed ahead of the greater good.”

  She swallowed hard, suddenly lightheaded and breathless. How could he know this? How? Colton Krawchuk had been dead for more than two years, and he was the only one who knew she’d made the decision to dump the monitors and pay whatever fines they might incur. Might being the operative word, for Cora had made a lot of friends at the EPA.

  “I…I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her hands were ice cold and she felt her insides loosening and shifting with terror.

  “As am I.” Lev glanced at Roman, who stepped forward and spoke.

  “As I said in our prior meeting, you cannot return to us what has been taken from our earth. You cannot fix it, just as any violation of any living being cannot be undone. We Skaladeskas pass judgment upon you for your transgressions, but we do not sentence you. Your fate is for Gaia to decide.”

  He smiled and moved closer to her. “Good luck, Cora Allegan. I hereby release you into the arms of Gaia. If you survive, so be it. If you do not, ’tis nothing more than our earth exacting Her revenge upon you.”

  He was holding something slender and silvery. Before she could react, he grabbed her from behind and jammed the needle into her shoulder.

  The room shimmered and her knees buckled. She hardly had time to draw in a breath before everything went dark.

  SEVENTEEN

  September 25

  Chicago

  Helen looked up from the tablet as Gabe walked into her office.

  As always, he moved with that long, sleek stride, and, as usual, he had a fiery, intense expression in his eyes. He filled the room with his presence: broad shoulders, dark, mismanaged hair, confident movements, and he wore his nondescript CIA suit well enough to attract notice from all the females in the office. So much so that the admins had fairly fought over who would give up her desk for him to use.

  She managed to submerge her own bump of attraction, the little surge of memory that nudged her on the rare occasion she saw Gabe, and gave him little more than an inquisitive look. “You’ve got something.”

  He settled into the chair across from her, and instead of lounging in it as he sometimes did, he sat straight up and shoved his own iPad across the desk at her. “We found a flash drive in the remains of the Skaladeska compound in Siberia. Tech managed to pull this data off it.”

  She took the tablet and saw he’d pulled up a list of names. “Cora Allegan. Holy shit.”

  “I’ve already got someone working on the rest of the list.” Gabe leaned over to thunk a finger onto the screen. “This guy, Lo Ing-wen from Oh Yeh Industries—that’s a mega furniture manufacturer
in China—he disappeared two weeks ago. So far that’s the only hit, but…”

  Helen pressed her lips together instead of saying the vulgar word that came to mind. Some of the names on the list were familiar to her—Fortune 500 companies or mega-international ones. Others she didn’t recognize. There were fifteen names; it would take some time to find out what they needed to know about each of them. She looked back up at Gabe, but before she could speak, her desk phone rang.

  “Agent Darrow.”

  “Hyram Puttesca is here for you.”

  Perfect timing. “Put him in Room 3.” She replaced the phone and rose, smoothing her ice-white suit. “With me, MacNeil. You’ll want to hear this, I think.”

  Helen was aware of the way Gabe’s eyes slid over her as she came around the edge of the desk, navigating in impractical silvery-gray heels she had no business wearing in the office…but had pulled out of her closet because he was here today and she knew they made her butt and legs look great.

  Eat your heart out, hot stuff.

  Eight years ago, they’d been a lot more than friends and well past merely lovers…but when she was promoted to special agent in charge and sent to Chicago, things fizzled. Distance, travel, and work schedules, confidentiality issues between their respective jobs—and, if she were going to be completely honest, a bit of insecurity on her part—had combined to cause the demise of their relationship. No hard feelings, no drama—it just ended.

  “I’ve got Dr. Hyram Puttesca in consult,” she told Gabe as he followed her down the corridor. “He was the attending physician for Sazma Marcko in the ER. He’s the one who noticed the Skaladeska mark on his arm, and was smart enough to look it up—then notified us. Sharp guy.”

  “Did they find anything in Marcko’s personal effects?”

  “There was a car rental agreement. I’ll send you the specs. I was just reviewing the report when you came in.” She brandished her tablet, which housed the information she’d been perusing, and opened the door to her interview.