“Here I engineered in a sequence of genes from the carnivorous sundew,” Cutter explained. “Including intensifying its digestive enzymes.”
Kendall’s stomach churned as he turned to stare at the dark garden spread below. “How many others?”
“Hundreds of species. But they’re just the first wave. I also took the step to genetically bind each alteration to sequences of DNA retrotransposons.”
Kendall began to fathom what Cutter intended. Retrotransposons were also called jumping genes, named for their ability to leap between species in a process called horizontal gene transfer. Geneticists had come to believe these jumping genes were potent engines of evolution, passing traits across species lines. Recent studies of cattle DNA showed that a full quarter of their genome came from a species of horned viper, proving that Mother Nature had been shuffling genes for millennia, creating hybridized species since the dawn of time.
But it was no longer just nature.
“This is how you plan to speed up evolution,” Kendall realized aloud. “You intend to use these traits tied to jumping genes to spread what you’ve created far and wide.”
“Each species will be like a seed cast to the wind. One hybrid will lead to two, two to four. In all that shuffling, can you imagine what new species will arise? What new combinations will appear? All of them fighting to survive in this damaged world we created.”
Kendall pictured a great conflagration spreading through the rain forest and across the world.
If Cutter could accomplish so much already, why does he need my engineered armor shell? What does he plan to put inside it?
There had to be another step to this madman’s scheme.
“A new Eden beckons,” Cutter continued, his voice exultant. “We are at the threshold of a new world. A genesis so dramatic we could witness it in our lifetime. I want to share that with you. Will you help me achieve it?”
Kendall faced the raw passion standing before him and did the only thing he could. He had to survive long enough to stop the man.
“Yes . . . I’ll help you.”
8:44 A.M.
“We have to go after her,” Drake said, stomping back through the carnage left in the wake of the firefight, followed by his two teammates.
Painter knelt over one of the survivors, a young waitress. He had a towel pressed to her side, stanching the blood from a round through the lower abdomen. His own shoulder burned from the bullet that had torn a chunk from the back of his arm. Earlier, Malcolm had quickly bandaged it from a med-kit in his backpack.
The three Marines had already swept the streets behind the establishment, but there was no sign of Jenna.
Painter understood the frustration he heard in Drake’s voice.
In the distance, sirens descended toward this location. They would lose even more time dealing with local authorities.
A groan sounded from behind the counter.
So somebody finally decided to wake up.
Painter waved Schmitt to take his place. “Get a pressure wrap on this woman.”
As the Marine obeyed, he crossed to the source of the noise. A figure lifted his head from the floor. His hands were tied behind his back. Blood soaked the mask that hid his features. It was the gunman who Jenna had cold-cocked during the fight. In their hurry, Jenna’s kidnappers must have believed he was dead, especially from all of the blood.
Painter stepped over and ripped away the mask, earning a satisfying cry of pain. More blood poured from his shattered nose. His eyes were already nearly swollen shut.
“Take him,” Painter ordered Drake.
The sirens were louder now.
He saw that Schmitt had finished securing a tight wrap around the waitress’s belly. She should survive.
“Let’s go,” Painter said and waved everyone out.
Drake and Malcolm headed for the back door, the groggy gunman slung between them. Their SUV waited in the rear alley. It had been moved there by the Marines to facilitate a swift evacuation.
Drake manhandled their prisoner into the backseat. “What if this bastard doesn’t talk?”
Painter used a knuckle to wipe up a drop of the man’s blood from the car seat. “Maybe he won’t have to. But we’ll need help.”
21
April 30, 6:02 A.M. PDT
Sierra Nevada Mountains, California
Hang in there, Josh . . .
Lisa sat on an uncomfortable stool in the patient containment unit. She held her brother’s hand, wishing she could shed her gloves and truly touch him. Though he was right here, she felt a gulf between them. And it wasn’t just the barrier of the polyethylene suit that separated them. The medically induced coma had stolen Josh from her: his raspy laugh, his ready joke, his blushing bashfulness in the presence of a pretty girl, his studious frown when hanging on a rope from a cliff face.
All gone.
Josh had been placed on a respirator a few minutes ago as his condition deteriorated. Each inhalation was too sharp, too regular. Off to the side, monitors clicked, hummed, and gently beeped. That was all that was left of her brother’s energetic and full life.
The radio inside her suit buzzed, drawing her back straighter. She girded herself for more bad news. Then a familiar and welcome voice filled her head. She squeezed Josh’s hand harder, as if trying to urge her brother to keep fighting, that Painter would save him.
“Lisa,” Painter said, “how are you holding up?”
How do you think I’m doing?
Tears suddenly sprang to her eyes and ran down her cheeks. She had no way to wipe them away. She swallowed a few times to hide them from her voice.
“It . . . it’s not good out here,” she said, struggling to hold it together. “Every hour things get worse. I don’t know if you heard, but Lindahl has ordered a nuclear device to be shipped to the mountains. It’s en route and should arrive by this afternoon.”
“And there’s no way to deter him?”
“No. At daybreak, a whole team of surveyors mapped the contaminated areas—or at least those areas actively showing die-offs. It’s worse than the overnight reports indicated. The organism is still spreading, approaching what Lindahl calls critical mass, the point where even a nuclear option might not work. Nuclear scientists are still doing calculations of load and the radiation levels necessary to achieve the highest level of lethality.”
Lisa put as much urgency into her voice as she could muster in her exhausted state. “We need answers to stop this nuclear juggernaut. Or at least, some hope of a solution.”
She stared at Josh’s face, at his waxen complexion.