Threshold (12 page)

A massive force struck the rear side of the car, sending it into a three-hundred-sixty-degree spin. As the tires squealed, filling the air with the scent of smoldering rubber, King caught a quick glance of a largely shapeless, but four-legged, mass still in pursuit despite the constant bombardment of rounds fired by concealed special ops soldiers.

King yanked the wheel, compensating for the spin, and setting them back on course. He gunned the engine and shouted to his parents. “Everyone okay?”

Lynn slapped him on the shoulder three times. “Just go, go, go!” She watched over her shoulder as the thing gave chase. For a moment it appeared they would outrun the monster, but a sudden shake, followed by the left rear wheel’s rubber shedding off and rolling to the side of the road, slowed their progress.

King saw the creature gaining once again and made the final turn toward the barracks where he knew the highest concentration of soldiers would be—and, he hoped, Fiona.

At least one of his hopes proved true. Rounding the corner, he saw a line of Delta operators armed with a vast array of heavy-hitting weapons, from grenade launchers to antitank missile launchers laying in wait.

Knowing the speeding car with three passengers was not the enemy, the soldiers split and allowed them to pass. King stopped the car and directed his parents to the nearby barracks. “Hide in there. I’ll come get you.”

To his relief, his parents followed his orders, moving into the building, weapons high and ready … like people trained to handle weapons. Trained to kill. He forced the thought of his mother killing a man from his mind and joined the men at the line.

“Where’s my team?” he shouted to Jeff Kafer, a fellow Delta team leader with a blond mop of hair and a thick mustache. He didn’t know him well, but Rook and Kafer were friends. Both were loud and liked to tell jokes at the bar. Both had several sisters. And both loved their weapons like children.

“Not on base, King,” Kafer replied. “And you know I don’t know where.”

“Have you seen Fiona?”

Kafer motioned toward the garage fifty feet behind them. “Saw Aleman back there. Looks injured, but he might know.”

“Here it comes!” one of the men shouted.

Kafer raised his voice to make sure everyone heard him. “Wait on me!”

The line took aim at the charging mass of stone and waited.

King did not. He turned and ran for Aleman, who he could see slumped against one of the large garage doors, a smear of blood stretching down to the back of his head. He didn’t get ten feet before Kafer yelled, “Fire!”

The air filled with the sounds of launching ordinance one moment and a rapid succession of explosions the next. King turned and saw the giant creature charging through the onslaught. Several explosions sent pavement flying into the air. Direct hits shot chunks of its body flying. A few misses shredded parked vehicles. Despite the brute force of the attack, the thing showed no response, felt no pain. It simply charged forward. When one of its legs burst free, it ran on three.

It wouldn’t be stopped.

As the line of men realized this, and knew just as surely that they couldn’t get out of its way in time, they raised their arms and turned their heads, as a natural reaction to being trampled. King raised his M4 and fired, just as the beast reached the line of men.

But the useless bullets King fired never hit their mark. Instead, they sailed straight through a cloud of dust that burst out and over the line of men. The giant had disintegrated. Whether from the attack or some other reason, King didn’t care. It was gone, and Aleman was down.

As King rushed to Aleman’s side he heard the pop of gunfire cease around the base. The battle was over.

“Lew,” he said, kneeling down by Aleman’s body. “Lew, wake up.”

Aleman’s eyes blinked open. “King…”

“What happened?”

Aleman tried to sit up, but a stab of pain kept him down. “Took a hit to the head. Shrapnel I think.”

“Where’re the others?”

“Gone,” Aleman said.

“Fiona’s with them?”

Aleman frowned and King knew the answer before the man said the words. “They took her.”

King clenched his fists. Fiona was gone.

His daughter was gone.

At that moment all of King’s fears became realized—Jack Sigler never would be, nor should be, a father. And if he were somehow able to bring her back alive, he would find a better, and safer, home for her. King picked up his friend and headed for the barracks where a makeshift triage was already being set up.

As King passed, Peter saw a flicker of something in King’s eyes, an anger bordering on primal, screaming for revenge.

“What’s going to happen?” Lynn asked her husband as he closed the door.

“I’m not sure,” he said, meeting her eyes with a strong gaze that communicated more than words, “but whoever did this…” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to be them when Jack comes calling.”

“Are you sure this isn’t more than he can handle?” she said, lowering her voice to a strong whisper.

Peter took her arm. “He’ll handle it.”

“I couldn’t live with myself if something happened and we—”

Peter took hold of her other arm and pulled her close. “
He’ll handle it.
We Sigler’s are hard to kill.”

“I hope that’s true,” she said. “For both of them.”

SEEK

SIXTEEN

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

DESPITE AN UNCEASING
urge to find out who was behind the attack and where Fiona had been taken, King was duty-bound to aid in the rescue efforts under way around Fort Bragg. Collapsed buildings buried the dead and dying. Triages treated burns, puncture wounds, and crushed limbs, some of which had to be amputated. Outside of a war zone, he’d seen nothing like it.

And neither had America.

The attack, seen and heard for miles around, was impossible to hide from the media. At first, news helicopters had hovered outside the no-fly zone, zooming in for close-up shots of the rescue operation under way, but they had since been chased away by several deadly attack helicopters now securing the aerial perimeter. Shots from visitor camera phones flooded YouTube. And a few reporters, who were already on the base when the attack occurred, took advantage of the chaos, hiding in the ruins and snapping photos of bloodied soldiers, destroyed buildings, and parking lots filled with overturned vehicles.

By the time the military launched a full-scale search to find and remove press from the base it was too late to contain the story. The world knew about the attack on Fort Bragg. The images of destroyed buildings and dead soldiers revolted each and every American who saw them.

Once they were sure the press had been cleared, the pilots of the large green and white helicopter known as Marine One were given the go ahead. The presidential helicopter swung into view above the base accompanied by two fully armed AH-64D Apache Longbow attack helicopters. A squadron of F-22 Raptor fighter jets secured the airspace above and around the base, their engines a constant roar in the sky.

The grass of the barracks’ central quad bowed away from the massive helicopter as it set down, the chop of its blades slowing. As the rotors stopped spinning a small group of soldiers gathered to see if Marine One carried who they all thought it did. When the door opened and President Thomas Duncan stepped out, his face grim, each and every one of the beaten and tired men snapped sharp salutes.

All but one.

King walked past the saluting men and stomped toward the president, who he knew as Deep Blue. Two Secret Service men moved for King but Duncan stopped them with an open hand.

The Secret Service men looked uneasy as they eyed the messy-haired man dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt approaching the commander in chief. The raw anger in King’s eyes set the president’s guardians on edge, but they stood down. King stopped and didn’t bother with a salute. “Fiona’s gone.”

Deep Blue’s eyes opened wide. “What?” Duncan had been so inundated with presidential damage control in the wake of the incident that he had yet to read the detailed briefing from General Keasling. “How?”

“Last I checked Lewis was still unconscious, so I’m not sure.”

Duncan turned and looked at the destruction, meaning to walk toward the line of approaching generals and their marine escorts. King took his arm. “Why wasn’t I told about the mission?” King asked, his voice tinged with anger.

Duncan looked at King’s hand then met the man’s eyes.

“You put Fiona’s life at risk.”

“There was no way to know
this
would happen,” Duncan said, motioning to the destroyed base. “We thought you needed more time to grieve your mother’s—”

“My mother’s not dead,” King said.

Duncan looked stunned.

King pointed to his mother, who was helping pass water out to the wounded. She saw him pointing and gave a little wave. Duncan smiled sheepishly and raised his hand to her. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

King shook his head. “We can figure out how that story fell through the cracks later. I need to find Fiona. Now.”

Duncan looked around. The approaching generals, most of whom did not know the president was also Deep Blue, were almost upon them. He leaned in close to King. “I’m going to be out of commission until things settle down. Every move I make is being watched. But I want you to do whatever it takes, King. Keasling has a blank check for this. The gloves are off. Find your daughter. Find who did this. Figure out what they want and put a stop to it.”

King nodded and turned to walk away, but this time Duncan took hold of him and turned him around.

“You and I may think of each other as equals, King, but when we’re in public remember who you are. And who I am.” He glanced at the approaching generals. “People are watching.”

Despite King’s frosty mood he snapped a salute. “Yes sir.”

King walked away as the swarm of marines and generals overtook Duncan and moved him to a more secure location. With the team due to arrive at Pope Air Force Base in an hour, he would meet them there, put the pieces together, and then turn them loose. But first he needed Aleman for information, his parents for good-byes, an ass-load of weapons for the obvious, and a few friends to level the playing field.

SEVENTEEN

Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina

FORTY MINUTES AFTER
meeting the president, King stood outside Hangar 7, Delta’s personal hangar that typically housed the
Crescent
. Right now it was devoid of any aircraft but held four Delta teams made up of five soldiers each. The men, dressed in black fatigues, quickly off-loaded their gear from the two large trucks that had carried them to the airfield and stood before King. The four team leaders approached.

Jeff Kafer, call sign Mouth, thanks to his audiobook narrator’s voice, said, “I hear you’ve got an ‘ask and you shall receive’ order from Keasling. Well, you asked and we’re here, so mind telling us what this is about?”

King motioned to the open hangar. “Come with me. You can brief your men when we’re done.”

The five team leaders entered Decon, where a bandaged but conscious Lewis Aleman sat waiting behind a laptop. General Keasling stood in the corner, his short arms crossed over his chest. As the men entered the room, the tension became palpable. They’d all seen friends and comrades killed and the shock from the strange attack had not yet worn off. The team leaders, who were accustomed to sitting around this table with their own teams, sat down and turned to Keasling. He motioned their attention to King, who stood at the head of the table. “He’s running the show.”

“As of this moment,” King said, “your teams are serving under the Chess Team. Each one of you will serve under a member of my team and will obey their orders as though each and every one of them was God himself. You will be Pawns One through Five with the team leader’s designation coming first.