Invasive by Chuck Wendig Page A

burnished red wood and Hannah sees centerpieces of white orchids, palm fronds in bronze vases, a ceiling fan, and an outrigger canoe propped up against the curvature of the far wall. The windows—round portholes—are open, letting in a breeze that smells of salt air and flowers.
    The kitchen is open air, on the side of the room opposite the decorative canoe. Dinner is serve-yourself, though she sees a couple of cooks working behind the scenes—one who looks like a stout, linebacker-bodied native woman and the other a wan wisp of a man.
    Those in attendance—maybe twenty-five people—turn, juddering their chairs to see who’s coming in. Judging by the looks they give her, they know who she is and they are not pleased to see her. But judging by the looks they give Ray, they don’t want to see him, either.
    Interesting, Hannah thinks.
    David Hamasaki, his smile never wavering, claps his hands. “Everybody, our guest has arrived. This is Hannah Stander of the FBI—”
    â€œConsultant,” she asserts, but David doesn’t correct himself.
    â€œShe’s going to be with us for the next two to three days, and she’ll go back on the boat with some of you who are cycling out of the lab rotation. I expect all of you to give her your attention whenshe requires it so she can make the best assessment possible for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
    A few people lift their chins or offer a small wave in greeting. Most don’t do a damn thing. They run the gamut, though Hannah can tell most of these folks are scientists and not support staff. A few are even in their lab coats. Most of them are young.
    David pulls up a chair for her at one of the tables toward the canoe. “This is us,” he says, smiling warmly and patting the chair: a move that is either pedantic and condescending or genuinely welcoming. She can’t quite tell yet.
    They join a narrow-shouldered, big-hipped woman with punky bleach-blond hair; a severe-looking Indian man; a scruffy, average-looking white guy with a muss of hair, dark stubble, and horn-rim glasses; and an impossibly tiny Filipino woman with a disdainful set to her lips and a pair of hot-coal eyes searing holes right through Hannah.
    Before Hannah even sits, the little woman twists up her face and says, “ Kalokohan .” It’s said so vehemently she’s amazed the woman doesn’t spit afterward.
    â€œI’m sorry?” Hannah says.
    The man in the glasses smiles. “It’s Tagalog for ‘trivial.’”
    â€œIt’s Tagalog for ‘ bullshit, ’” the woman corrects. Then she offers up the fakest smile Hannah has ever seen. “Hello, I’m Dr. Mercado.”
    David laughs nervously. “Nancy is our team lead.” Then he goes on to introduce the others, all project leaders:
    He points to the one with spiky bleach-blond hair. “That’s Kit Reed, leader on the Aedes aegypti mosquito project. Next to her”—he points to the stone-faced Indian man—“is Ajay Bhatnagar, project leader on what we call the ‘pollinator project.’ And the man who has clearly forgotten to shave yet again is Will Galassi, head of Special Projects. We are missing one person, though—”
    As if on cue, a big-bellied, blush-cheeked man in a pink polo and a rumpled lab coat comes bolting through the doors that lead deeper into the labs themselves. He’s got a mess of dirty-blond hair,the curls kept tight to his bowling-ball head. “Sorry! Sorry,” he says, adjusting himself as he sits. “Hey, everybody. Hope I didn’t miss anything.” Before anybody can speak, he turns to Hannah. “You must be the lady from the CIA—”
    â€œFBI,” Hamasaki corrects.
    â€œRight! Right. Right. I’m Barry.”
    â€œDr. Barry Lowe,” Hamasaki says, more formally.
    Then, in what must be his version of a deep, sultry soul-singer voice: