“Go,” Kat said, without pausing. “I’m out the door already with the bomb team. I’ll alert local forces en route.”
He snapped his phone closed and simply ran for the door. Seichan bolted out of her chair and followed.
She must have gleaned enough from listening to his end of the conversation to know what was happening. They fled together out the door to the street. He searched for a cab. She ran out into the street, where the midday traffic had stalled. She headed straight for a stranded motorcyclist and whipped out her black SIG Sauer. She pointed it at his head.
“Off.”
The young man leaped and fell away.
She caught the bike one-handed before it dropped and turned to Gray. “You fit to ride?”
Until he knew otherwise, he was wired and focused.
He leaped into the seat.
She climbed behind him, wrapped her arms around him, and said in his ear, “Break any rules you need to.”
He gunned the motorcycle and did just that.
The flight through the city was a blur, wind whipping, leaping curbs, dodging pedestrians. As he made the turn onto Sixteenth Street, he saw a thin column of smoke in the air. Piney Branch Road lay in that direction. He choked the throttle and raced down the rest of the way.
Emergency vehicles were already there, lights blazing, sirens going.
He braked hard, skidding sideways, and leaped off the bike. An ambulance sat crooked in the road, half up on the curb.
He ran toward it.
Monk came hurtling around the blind corner, still in his hospital gown.
He must have stolen the ambulance and used the sirens to beat Gray here from Georgetown University Hospital.
Gray came running up and saw the answer to his unposed question in Monk’s face. His friend held up an arm, stopping him, but didn’t say a word, just one tiny shake of his head.
Gray crashed to his knees in the middle of the road.
“No . . .”
Chapter 44
June 8, 7:22 A.M.
Washington, D.C.
“Where are my girls?” Monk called out into the apartment.
“Your girls are still asleep,” Kat replied from the couch, “and if you wake them, you’re staying up with them all night like I did.”
She was resting on a maternity pillow, her back still aching from the delivery three days ago. She’d been two weeks early, but all had gone well with the birth of their second child, a baby girl. Monk was now surrounded by women here in the apartment, which was okay by him. He had enough testosterone for the whole family and was certainly around enough testosterone at work.
He plopped down on the couch next to Kat and placed the white take-out bag between them. “Feldman’s bagels and cream cheese.”
She placed a hand on her belly. “I’m so fat.”
“You just had an eight-pound three-ounce baby girl. No wonder she demanded to come out early. No room in there.”
Kat made a noncommittal sound at the back of her throat.
He lifted the bag out of the way, slid closer, and put his arm around his wife. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, and kissed her hair—then, after a long moment, added, “but you sort of stink.”
She punched him in the shoulder.
“How about I warm up the shower—for the both of us?”
She mumbled into his chest. “That would be nice.”
He began to scoot up, but she pulled him back down.
“Just stay here. I like this.”
“Well, you’re going to get a lot more of this. Me, sitting around the house.”
She looked up. “What did Painter say?”
“He understood, accepted my resignation letter, but he wanted me to think about it while I’m out on family leave.”
She settled against him, again making that noncommittal sound.
They’d had long conversations about his resigning from Sigma. He had a wife and two children who needed him. After getting shot, having a bomb placed in their home, and seeing the devastation that had been wrought upon Gray’s family, he figured it was time. He already had offers from various biotech companies in D.C.
The couple remained locked in each other’s arms, simply enjoying each other’s warmth. He refused to put this at risk any longer.
Finally, Kat swung around, and with a bit of effort, put her feet in his lap. “Since you’re no longer working . . .”
He took her feet and began to rub them, one-handed. His new prosthesis wouldn’t be ready for another four days, but apparently one hand was enough.
She leaned back, stretching, and made a sound that was definitely not noncommittal. “I could get used to this, too.”
But such bliss could not last.
The small wail rose from the next room, starting low and rising quickly to an earsplitting pitch. How could so much sound come out of such a little package?