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Prologue
Kidal, Africa
Deckard Sloane was a killer. And he liked it. He stepped off his private jet into the hot African desert, adjusted his wide-brimmed hat, and curled his lip in disgust at the sight before him. Dust swirled in devilish whirls, and the fine grains lodged themselves in crevices best left without agitation. His eyes watered, and though his lips pressed tightly together, gritty particles crunched like bits of broken shell between his molars.
Ramshackle huts sat in drunken rows, pieced together with mud, worn cloth, and brittle straw. Crude benches were scattered around the remains of long-cold fires, and a thick iron stewpot lay haphazardly on its side, thickly crusted with old food.
He sneered in disgust, and he looked down at the orange dust ruining his shoes. How did people live in such…conditions? In his mind, people who didn’t measure up to his level of status and intelligence were nothing more than animals anyway. Thinking of them in that capacity eased his conscience as he stood over their lifeless bodies.
The body count was just shy of a hundred—a paltry sum in comparison to some of the other test sites—but every death brought him closer to finding the original components of the formula. Each test only improved his chances of succeeding—the rush of power overflowing inside him with every death.
He walked through the wasteland of scattered bodies, stepped over emaciated limbs, and barely spared a glance at the remains of a group of children. There were no consequences to face if the experiments failed as this one had. His reach was vast—his influence unparalleled—and his pockets were deep.
The cleanup was already underway. It would take mere hours for the bodies to be incinerated. For the crude huts to be leveled and the ground swept clean of any reminder that humans had once been present. Life was an experiment. And there were always winners and losers.
His smile of grim satisfaction had more than one of the workers in gray jumpsuits with the black logo over the breast pocket heading in the opposite direction.
“Mr. Sloane…Mr. Sloane?”
Deck startled at the high-pitched, nasally voice of his head scientist and watched with hidden revulsion as Dr. Allen Standridge lumbered over. Standridge was as wide as he was short. Sweat stains yellowed his too-small lab coat, and a white button hung limply by a lone thread, as if it knew its days were numbered and it would never have the satisfaction of penetrating a buttonhole again. Standridge’s disheveled hair was dampened at the temples, and his round glasses sat atop a pug nose.
But under the layers of fat and distaste was the mind of a genius.
“Standridge,” Deck acknowledged with a sharp nod, not bothering to extend his hand. “Are we getting closer?”
“It’s all trial and error at this point, sir. Every test brings new results. The more data we collect, the better.” He pushed his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose so his muddy eyes were amplified behind Coke-bottle lenses.
That’s what Deck liked about Standridge. Morals never got in the way of an experiment, which was exactly why Standridge had been let go from his position at MIT. The chemicals for healing were never quite as appealing as the chemicals for killing.
“So what you’re telling me,” Deck said, “is we’re no closer to having the formula than we were the last time we stood over a pile of dead bodies.” Sweat dripped from the nape of his neck down his spine and a red haze of anger clouded his vision. Nothing would give him more satisfaction than putting his hands around Standridge’s pudgy neck and squeezing. “What you’re telling me is that the Passover Project is useless.”
“Yes…” Standridge said. “I mean, no.” He grimaced and shrunk as far as he could into his lab coat. “We’re working on a very short timeline. We’ve made tremendous progress in the last year. They worked for three years on the Manhattan Project before they had a viable product.”
“We don’t have three years,” Deck said. “And the Passover Project has already been developed. All you need to do is re-create it. My patience grows thin, Dr. Standridge. Failure to complete this experiment is not an option. There are other scientists with your skill. If there isn’t progress on your next test it’ll be your last. And you won’t be sent to your retirement with benefits, if you understand my meaning.”
It gave Deck satisfaction to see Standridge’s pasty complexion turn paler. Fear was a powerful motivator.
“I know I’m getting closer, Mr. Sloane. Maybe two more experiments before you have the final product in hand,” Standridge whined. “We can’t rush a weapon of this magnitude. It has an enormous number of variables. There’s never been anything like this. Even the atomic bomb pales in comparison. The man who created it has no equal.”
“Obviously,” Deck said, arching a brow in disappointment. “I’m a busy man, Standridge. Your next test site is a Native American tribe in Central Mexico. The chief is your target. If you manage not to screw it up, he’ll die a quick death. If you do manage to screw it up…well, let’s just say you and the chief will have a lot in common. I hear these experiments are quite painful.” Deck gave Standridge a sharp, cruel smile. “I believe I read in your report that test subjects screamed for hours.”
He turned and walked back to his plane, confident he was one step closer to being the most powerful man in the world.
ChapterOne
Colombia—Near the Border of Venezuela
By her calculations, Grace Meredith had exactly five and a half seconds to take out six targets before an alarm sounded. She had a round in the chamber and five in the magazine of her M40A5. Piece of cake.
She ignored the mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds searching for exposed flesh, and she disregarded the sweat that dripped steadily down her spine as she looked through the scope of her rifle. The temperature was in the mid-nineties, but the canopy of trees that blanketed the area held the heat in like an oven and slowly baked anyone who didn’t have shelter with a running AC. Her body and mind were disciplined, so the discomforts barely registered.
Colombia wasn’t known for its gentle climate. Or gentle anything for that matter. Gemino Vasquez was Colombia’s baddest arms dealer, and lately his biggest client had been North Korea. But Vasquez had something Grace wanted very badly. Something that would bring in a big, fat paycheck from the South Korean government.
She shifted slightly, and the bark of the large tree branch she’d lain on for the last four hours ground against her stomach. But her focus was absolute. Not even the hundred-and-fifty-foot drop to the ground could distract her.
The orange sun blazed just over the tops of the trees, but it would disappear completely in another twenty minutes. By the time it was gone, she’d have the flash drive in hand and already be across the border to Venezuela.
Grace did one final check of all her equipment and took a deep, steadying breath, slowing her heartbeat so her pulse would be in time with-b each shot. She’d hit the sentry at the top of the Vasquez compound first and then take the rest in order from left to right. She pushed her feet against the tree for balance. The clock ticked in the background of her mind as she put the slightest amount of pressure on the trigger.
