The Judas Strain by James Rollins Page B

along.
    Even the guard stationed here seemed baffled by the elderly pair sharing the open convertible. He studied the new arrivals with his brows bunched into a knot over his forehead. He scratched his chin.
    “Three fifty-two?” he asked as Gray came around.
    Gray could not fathom what he meant.
    His father answered from the backseat. “No, it’s a three-ninety block. Rebuilt V8 from a Ford Galaxie.”
    “Sweet ride.”
    Plainly the guard hadn’t been studying his parents, only the car.
    Seichan stirred in the backseat, perhaps somehow noting the lack of wind and motion. She struggled weakly to sit up.
    “Can you help get her inside?” Gray asked the guard. He noted the lower half of a U.S. Navy anchor on the man’s right biceps as he accepted the phone. Ex-military. No surprise there. If there had been a picture under jarhead in the dictionary, it would’ve been this man’s mug shot.
    His mother opened the passenger door. “Where’s that medical help?” She seemed to find little hope in the large form of the guard, even clutching her purse a bit tighter to her side.
    Gray held up a palm, asking for patience.
    “Ma’am,” Kowalski said, and pointed to the kitchen. “There’s a medkit on the kitchen table. Morphine stabs and smelling salts. I’ve laid out a suture pack.”
    His mother eyed the man with a more studied appraisal. “Thank you, young man.”
    With a more withering glance in Gray’s direction, his mother headed inside.
    Stepping out of the way, Gray spoke into the phone. “Director Crowe, Commander Pierce here.”
    “Is that your mother who just got out of the car?”
    How the hell…?
    Gray searched up and spotted the video camera hidden under the porte cochere. It must be sending a live feed to Central Command. He could feel heat rise at his collar.
    “Sir—”
    “Never mind. Explain later. Gray, we’ve intel out of Rome, related to our new arrival. How is the prisoner holding up?”
    Gray eyed the back of the convertible. The guard and his father were discussing the best way to move Seichan’s limp form. He noted the fresh bloom of blood in the center of her belly wrap.
    “She’s going to need immediate attention.”
    “Help should be there any minute.”
    The trundle of a heavy vehicle sounded. Gray swung around. A large black van turned and headed down the street.
    “I think they’re here,” he said with a relieved sigh.
    The van reached the house, shifted to the curb, and braked at the foot of the driveway. Gray felt a twinge of unease, hating to be blocked in, but he recognized the van. It was Sigma’s medical response team. The camouflaged ambulance was based on the same design as the vehicle that accompanied the president, capable of handling emergency surgery if necessary.
    “Give me an update as soon as their evaluation is over,” Painter said. The director must have spotted the van also.
    The side doors of the van shoved open. Three men and a woman, all in surgical scrubs and matching loose black bomber jackets, exited the van with coordinated skill. Two men yanked a stretcher, legs unfolding beneath it. They followed the third man and the woman, who strode forward to meet Gray. The man held his hand out.
    “Dr. Amen Nasser,” he said.
    Gray shook his hand, appreciating the cool, dry grip. Calm and in control. The doctor could be no older than thirty, yet he carried himself with firm authority. His complexion was the hue of polished mahogany, unlike the woman, whose skin was more the color of warm honey.
    Gray studied her.
    Though of Asian heritage, the woman plainly sought to downplay it. She had shaved her head to a crew cut and bleached her remaining hair an ice blond. Entwining tattoos also circled her wrists in a Celtic pattern. While such severity had never appealed to Gray before, there remained something strangely seductive about her. Perhaps it was the emerald of her eyes, a feature that needed no other embellishment. Then again, it may have been the way