The Judas Strain (Page 126)

Once dressed, she didn’t say a word, only stepped to the door. She wouldn’t even turn, only asked one last thing of him, spoken softly, a lifeline thrown back toward him.

"Trust me, Gray. If only a little. I’ve earned that much."

Before he could answer, she left. The door swung closed behind her.

Trust me. . .

Heaven help him, he did.

He shoved up in the bed, his face throbbing, his one eye swelling.

Fifteen minutes passed. Long enough to ensure that she escaped.

Finally Painter appeared at the door, pushing inside.

"Did you get all that?" Gray asked.

"The wire picked up everything."

"Could she be telling the truth?"

Painter frowned, staring back at the door. "She is a consummate liar."

"Maybe she had to be. To survive inside the Guild."

Painter undid the handcuffs. "Either way, the passive tracer we planted in her belly during the operation will allow us to track her whereabouts."

"And what if the Guild finds it?"

"It’s a plastic polymer, invisible to X-ray. They’ll never detect it." Unless they cut her open. Gray stood up. "This is wrong. You know it."

"It was the only way the government would allow us to free her." Gray remembered Seichan’s eyes, staring down at him. He knew two truths. She had not been lying. And even now, she was certainly far from free.

Epilogue

August 11, 8:32 a .m. Takoma Park, Maryland

"The restoration job looks great," Gray said.

His father slid a cloth moist with Turtle Wax over the hood of the Thunderbird. They had rescued the convertible out of impound, towing it away on a flatbed. Painter had arranged to have the T-bird repaired at the best classic restoration shop in the D.C. area. His father had gotten it back last week, but this was the first time Gray had seen it.

His father stepped back, hands on his hips. He wore an oil-stained undershirt and long shorts, showing off his new leg, another courtesy of Sigma, DARPA-designed, exceptionally realistic. But it wasn’t the leg that concerned his father at the moment.

"Gray, what do you think of these new rims? Not as nice as my old Kelsey wire wheels."

Gray came around to stand next to his dad. They looked the same to him. "You’re right," he said anyway. "These suck."

"Hmm," his father said noncommittally. "But they were free. That Painter fellow was pretty generous."

Gray could get a sense of where this was leading. "Dad . . ."

"Your mother and I talked it over," he said, still staring at the wheels. "We think you should stay with Sigma."

Gray scratched his head. He already had his letter of resignation in his pocket. When he had returned from Cambodia, he had found his father in the hospital, his chest burned from Taser strikes. His mothers arm was in a sling from a minor fracture to her wrist. The worst was his mother’s black eye.

All because of him.

He had almost lost it in the hospital.

What security could he offer his parents if he continued? The Guild certainly knew who he was, where to find his folks. The only way to keep them safe was to resign. Painter tried to assure him that the Guild would back off. That retribution and retaliation were not their methods. In future missions, Painter had assured Gray his parents would be secured before he left.

But some missions came crashing up your driveway in a motorcycle.

There was no way to plan against that.

"Gray," his father pressed, "what you do is important. You can’t let worries about us stop you."

"Dad. . ."

He lifted his hand. "I’ve said my peace. You make your own decision. I have to figure out if I like these rims or not."

Gray started to turn away.

His father reached out, grabbed his shoulder, and pulled him into a one-armed hug. He gave him one squeeze—then pushed him away a bit. "Go see what your mother is burning for breakfast."

Gray crossed to the back door and met his mother coming out.

"Oh, Gray, I just got off the phone with Kat. She said you were heading over there this morning."

"Before I go to the office. I have some of Monk’s stuff on the front porch. Dad’s letting me borrow the T-bird so I can run some errands for Kat this afternoon, too."

"I know the funeral isn’t for another two days, but I have some pies. Could you take those over, too?"

"Pies?" Gray asked doubtfully.

"Don’t worry. I bought them from the bakery down the street. Oh, and I have some toys for Penelope. I found this cute jumper with elephants and . . ."

He just kept nodding, knowing eventually his mother would stop.

"How is Kat holding up?" she finally finished.

Gray shook his head. "Good days and bad."

Mostly bad.

His mother sighed. "Let me get those pies. Last time I saw Kat she was thin as a rail, that poor girl."

Gray soon had a paper grocery bag stacked with boxed pies. He headed through the house to the front porch. He pushed outside and crossed to the stack of boxes. They contained everything from Monk’s locker and a few things kept at Gray’s apartment.

Gray also had a box to take to the funeral home. Ryder Blunt, the billionaire, had returned Monk’s prosthetic hand, having to cut through the wing strut of his seaplane to free it. Kat had refused to even look at it. And Gray didn’t blame her. But she did ask that the hand be added to the empty casket that would be lowered into Arlington National Cemetery. They were each supposed to also bring tokens of remembrances to include in the casket.

Gray had found a copy of Monk’s favorite movie. The man had left it at Gray’s apartment after a pizza-and-popcorn night. Sound of Music. Monk knew all the words, singing along as he bounced Penelope on his knee. Monk had the biggest heart of any man he knew.

He would’ve made a great father.

Gray crossed to the porch swing. He pulled out his letter of resignation folded into threes, crumpled a bit. He straightened the crinkles between his thumb and forefinger. He wished he could talk to Monk about this.

As he sat, he heard something scratching among the boxes.

The neighborhood squirrels were fearless.

Oh, damn, the pies. . .

Gray got up and crossed to the stack. But the noise wasn’t coming from the bag of pies. He frowned. He shifted around until he found the right box.

What the hell?

Gray removed the top.

Painter hadn’t only commissioned the repair to his father’s leg and trashed T-bird. He had not wanted to send Monk’s hand into the ground all charred. So he had the prosthesis meticulously restored. It rested in a foam mold.