The Berserker's hands filled his vision as it leaped at him.

And that's when Samson Riggs felt that burn, that high, that adrenaline rush. He heard his scream change into a roar, felt his mouth curl into a brutal smile.

At the edge of death he came alive.

He went in and down, twisting right as the Berserker lunged; Riggs chopped sideways with an elbow, knocking the monster's ma.s.s over and past him. The creature hit the corner of the door frame, spun awkwardly, and fell outside in the hall. Riggs drew his pistol as he rose. He fired, fired, fired. A security guard with a b.l.o.o.d.y mouth staggered away from the bullets, his face disintegrating. Another clutched at his throat and vomited blood.

Gomer was beside Riggs, but the young man was not firing. His gun hung limply from one hooked finger as his body juddered and danced with convulsions as the infection from his bites did their terrible work. He gave Riggs one terrified, despairing look and the colonel shot him between the eyes.

He saw a third guard's head snap back as g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger punched a round through his eye socket. But then g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger screamed as the second Berserker plowed into him and bowled him over behind the conference table. Blood splattered the walls.

Riggs fired at the Berserker, but then someone grabbed both of his ankles and yanked with such sudden ferocity that Riggs fell forward. Too hard, and too fast. He got one hand and both forearms out in time to try to break his fall but the force was too overwhelming.

His chin hit his right wrist and his gun went spinning across the floor.

Riggs twisted around as the Berserker from the hallway began climbing up his body. He saw a ma.s.sive fist driving down toward his face.

And then the world became a fractured dreamscape of red and black and nothing.

Chapter Ninety.

The Locker Sigler-Czajkowski Biological and Chemical Weapons Facility Highland County, Virginia Sunday, September 1, 11:14 a.m.

We came in low, making maximum use of cover from the forest and the mountain slopes, and we swung around so the sun was behind us. The road leading to the tractor store snaked along, looking like it came from nowhere and went nowhere. The store was a wide spot on it, high up on the mountainside. There were six vehicles in the parking lot. One late-model gray Lexus-Van Sant's car-one SUV, and the rest were pickups. This was Ford country.

Well beyond the building, we could see the SWAT teams at the one-mile perimeter. Lots of guns, lots of backup if this got weird and spilled out into the open.

My earbud buzzed and Church was there. "Deacon to Cowboy."

"Go for Cowboy.

"Be advised, Shockwave Team has encountered significant resistance at the second location."

"What kind of-?"

"We have lost all contact with them," said Church. "It is possible we have lost those a.s.sets."

Lost those a.s.sets.

I sagged against the door frame as my heart turned to ice. How can three small, clinical words truly carry the weight of their meaning? The a.s.sets were people I knew and cared about, including my friend and role model, Samson Riggs.

Lost?

There was only one meaning for that word and it was so huge and ugly that I wanted to close it out on the other side of the door. To deny its reality. The Civilized Man inside my head felt close to tears. The Warrior wanted to taste blood.

Beside me Ghost whined softly.

Church gave me no time for grief, though. "Give me a sit-rep."

In as human a voice as I could manage, I said, "We're at the landing zone."

"Cowboy," said Church, "Shockwave walked into a trap. Expect the same and proceed accordingly."

The words were as clinical as the others, but the meaning was very clear and filled with an anger Church would never allow himself to show. He was telling us that the rule book had just been run through a shredder. The Warrior grinned at that thought.

"We know we're being played," I growled. "Maybe her endgame is the Easter Egg." That was the radio code name for the Ark. "And maybe not. Either way, she has to know we're coming. If she expects to take possession of the package, then she has to clear the road. That means if she's here, then she has to cancel us out. If she's not here herself ... then we need to determine where the handoff will be. It's got to be a place she can control. Somewhere we can't control."

"Do you have anything in mind."

"Yeah. Tell Bug that this is on him. Mother Night is his to find. He needs to crawl inside her head and figure out where she will be to take possession of the Easter Egg."

"Yes," said Church. "And Captain ... good hunting."

I looked at my team. We were all on the same channel, so they heard the news, too. There was hurt on their faces. And fear. And one h.e.l.l of a lot of murderous rage.

"Listen to me," I said, keeping my voice level. "I know that we all want a piece of Mother Night. We want to tear her world apart. But we can't go in hot and stupid. That will get us killed and guarantee her a win. We keep our s.h.i.t tight. We watch each other's backs, we pick our targets, conserve our ammunition, and if we have to pull triggers then we kill the enemy. But we do it cold. You hear me?"

"Hooah," they said. They all said it. That might have been the moment when Noah, Dunk, and Montana stopped being newbies and became Echo Team for real. I thought that's what I saw in their eyes. I hoped that's what I saw.

"Then lock and load," I told them.

I tapped my earbud. "Cowboy to Birddog."

"Go for Birddog," he replied. He was the crew chief on the second bird.

"Status on the stinkbots?"

"They're scratching at the door, boss."

"Then let 'em out."

The pilot of my chopper went high and wide, turning to give me a better view of the other helo. The side door on the second Black Hawk rolled back and I saw two figures crouching there, the folds of their hazmat suits whipping in the rotor wash. They each held a small machines that looked like a metal wasp. Elegant in an ugly way. Birddog-the biggest man on the tech team-leaned out and flung one of the drones into the wind. It swirled out of control for a moment, then as it reached the outer edge of the rotor wash its own engines stabilized it and it flew away smooth and straight. Another followed, and another.

The official designation for them was some gobbledy-gook like man-portable hand-launched self-propelled aerial bio-aerosol ma.s.s spectrometer. Flying BAMS units, for short. We called them stinkbots. Birddog gave them individual names. Huey, Dewey, and Louie.

Understand, Echo Team had to go in there, we had to see what was happening in the Locker even if the sensors on the stinkbots lit up like Christmas trees. However, there was a splinter of comfort in know exactly how high and how smelly was the pile of s.h.i.t we were about to step in.

When the last of the stinkbots was deployed, Birddog rolled the door shut and the helo lifted high into the air. Top and Bunny huddled with me over the screen display on the tactical computer strapped to my forearm. Three small windows opened up to display the data feeds from the drones. Each box included a sliding color scale, safe green on one side and alarming red on the other. We were all cl.u.s.tered together so tightly that I could feel the waves of tension rolling off of the others, and it was a match for my own.

"What happens if we get a hit now?" asked Dunk. "Outside the containment?"

"Then you'd better be right with Jesus, son," muttered Top.

Dunk tried to laugh it off, tried to smile through it. No one else matched his grin, and it drained away pretty quickly.

I pointed at the ceiling of the Black Hawk. "Mr. Church is keyed in to the telemetry from the stinkbots. If the seif-al-din or any of the other cla.s.s-A pathogens is out, then there's only one fallback plan. Total sterilization of everything within six square miles. Somewhere up there are fighter bombers carrying fuel-air bombs. And if that doesn't get the job done then to save the country they won't hesitate to turn this part of Virginia into a big, glowing hole in the world."

"That's some total wrinkled yak b.a.l.l.s," observed Ivan.

Bunny gave them a frank stare. "If you were in the driver's seat on this, how would you play it?"

Ivan shook his head. "I'm not saying I'd do it any other way, Hoss. What I'm saying is that this is some total wrinkled yak b.a.l.l.s right here."

Bunny considered. "Yeah. Can't argue with that."

Top snapped his fingers. "The stinkbots have processed the first air samples."

We looked. The feed was coming in from Huey. We stared at the sliding arrow and willed it to stay in the green. Dewey and Louie sent their data. The arrows on all three 'bots trembled.

Trembled.

But they stayed green. For now.

"I don't know whether to feel relieved," said Lydia, "or not."

"Not," said Bunny. "'Cause it means we still have to go in there."

"Yak b.a.l.l.s," Ivan said again.

We all nodded.

"Okay," I told the pilot, "put us down."

Chapter Ninety-one.

Residence of the Vice President of the United States One Observatory Circle Washington, D.C.

Sunday, September 1, 11:17 a.m.

Collins walked through the rooms of an empty house.

His wife was in Boston with the kids. It was a publicized event for her, a speech at a fund-raiser for one of her causes. Education or some such s.h.i.t, he really didn't know and didn't care. All that mattered was that she was there and he was here. It was the forty-third day out of the last forty-nine that she'd been somewhere else. As he poured a scotch he had to admit to himself that she knew.

Somehow, despite all his precautions, she knew.

Not specifically about Bliss. Nor did she know, he was sure, about the two pages, the reporter from USA Today, or that French broad-what the f.u.c.k was her name? Amy Something?-from the European Trade Commission. There was no way for her to know specifics about any of them. No, it was simply that she knew. Knew he was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around. Knew their marriage was a joke, a thing that existed in name only. Knew that it was over for them. Just as he knew she would not officially leave him while there was even the slightest chance that he could become president. The power was too juicy. After all, Hillary didn't leave Bill even though everyone in the world knew he was d.i.c.king around. No, she wouldn't divorce him. She was married to the power.

But G.o.dd.a.m.n if the place didn't seem empty without her and the kids.

The Secret Service thugs downstairs and outside didn't qualify as company.

He went into his study, turned on the TV to watch the latest on the C-train thing, freshened his drink, and flung himself onto the couch. The press, in a remarkable and unprecedented show of solidarity, was frying the president for the slaughter. U.S. Special Forces in a ma.s.s execution of citizens. That was going to change the entire shape of the government.

His cell rang, and when he looked at the display it said MOM. He always appreciated that. If, for any reason, his phone records were subpoenaed they would show that the call did, in fact, originate from his mother; however, it was all part of the magic Bliss did with her little mutant computer He debated whether to answer it or not. Every bit of contact with Bliss-or with Mother Night, as she insisted on being called-was a deadly risk.

"f.u.c.k it," he mumbled, and punched the b.u.t.ton.

"h.e.l.lo, sonny boy," she said.

"Don't call me that," he growled. The voice simulation software she used as part of her scrambler technology did way too good a job of making her voice sound exactly like his mother's. It was freaky and it made him feel like he wanted to go wash his hands with strong soap.

She said, "Are you keeping up with current events?"

"Funny. Remote tribes in the Amazon know what's going on. You certainly went whole hog on this, honey. Talk about market saturation."

"Power of social media," she said. "They'll probably impeach your running mate. I may have just made you president."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

"Why are you so sour?" she asked.

He sipped his scotch and crunched some ice. "Really loved the anthrax thing. That was a bit of a surprise. They said there was enough anthrax in there to kill half of Washington."

"Not really. Maybe half of Congress, which wouldn't be as tragic."

"Tragic? Really? Do you even know what that concept is all about?"

"Of course I do," she said. "I'm immoral, not amoral."

"I wish you wouldn't sound so happy about it."

"Aren't you? Not about the anthrax, I mean. About the whole thing?"

"Happy? Of course I'm not happy. Christ, don't you know me yet?"

"Yeah, I know. You've given me the speech. It's not about destroying America, it's about rebuilding America. A patriot's revisionist view. Necessary evils, like performing an emergency amputation to prevent gangrene from spreading. Yes, Bill, I know the story."

"It's not a 'story,' d.a.m.n it," he said, anger burning in his chest. "This is the only way to save-"

"-America from itself. Yes, I know," she insisted. "I really do know. Calm down."

"Don't f.u.c.king tell me to calm down, you crazy b.i.t.c.h. And don't you dare trivialize this. We're doing G.o.d's work here."

The silence on the other end of the line was profound and heavy, and it went on so long Collins thought she'd hung up.

"Are you there?" he demanded.