Chapter 2

2

May 10, 4:17 P . M . EDT

Washington, D.C.

Commander Gray Pierce raced his motorcycle through the afternoon rush hour of D.C. traffic. His bike, a Yamaha V-Max, was two decades old, but its well-maintained engine rumbled like a pissed-off puma between his thighs.

Its ferocious timbre matched his mood.

He sped along Jefferson Drive through the heart of the city. To his left, the greensward of the National Mall shone a bright emerald, bisected by sandy paths. But ahead, the street was shut down, cordoned off with cement barricades and patrolled by police on horseback and on foot. A pair of army Humvees were also parked beyond the barrier, guarding the ruins of the Smithsonian Castle.

Seven weeks ago—on the first day of spring—a series of bombs had ripped through the red-stone structure. The Castle, a national treasure built in 1855, was the Smithsonian's oldest building. It had survived fires and political storms over the past century and a half. Now it was a pile of rubble, though its east wing and two of its Gothic towers still stood. The remainder of the building was a blasted mix of crumbling walls, caved-in roofs, and blown-out windows.

Thankfully, there had been only three deaths, workers who had been inside the building at the time. Since the start of the year, the Castle had been undergoing a major renovation and was closed to the public, so the building had been nearly deserted.

The radio inside Gray's helmet squawked with static, then a stern voice warned him. "Move your ass. We're going to be late."

A sleek Ducati Scrambler—a dark Nightshift edition—sped past him through the traffic with a roar of its engine. The rider, decked in black leather, boots, and helmet, looked back at him. Though Gray couldn't see through the polarized face shield, he pictured the narrow-eyed glare cast his way.

Gray throttled up and closed the distance with the other bike. "We're fine," he radioed back. "The meeting isn't scheduled for another—" He checked the holographic heads-up display glowing inside a corner of his helmet and grimaced. "Two minutes."

An irritated growl answered him—coming from both rider and cycle. The Ducati shot away, taking a sharp turn onto Twelfth Street, leaving the National Mall behind. Gray leaned hard, nearly scraping his knee on the pavement, to follow.

As he did, he caught a last glimpse of the bombed-out Castle.

He knew what the damage represented.

A declaration of war.

Over the past weeks, no one had claimed responsibility. Actually, some had, but their assertions were quickly refuted and dismissed. The true culprits remained unknown. Surveillance footage, both from cameras and satellites, had failed to reveal who had planted the bombs or how such a heinous act could have happened.

The Joint Terrorism Task Force continued orchestrating daily bomb sweeps of the area. Cable news channels debated, pointed fingers, and stoked conspiracy theories. Still, for those who knew the Castle's greatest secret, the target of the attack was obvious.

Gray hunched lower in his seat.

It was us.

Of that he was certain.

Gray was a member of Sigma Force, a covert team of field operatives working under the auspices of DARPA, the defense department's research-and-development agency. They were all former Special Forces soldiers, recruited in secret and trained in various scientific disciplines to protect the globe against all manner of threats. Their name arose from the Greek letter ∑, which represented the "sum of the best," the merging of brain and brawn, of soldier and scientist. Their motto was a simple one: Be there first .

In this case, as the other rider attested, Gray was failing in that mission.

He trailed close behind the Ducati and merged onto Independence Avenue. The pair circled behind the Castle, where gardens spread to the rear of the building. Fifteen years ago, Sigma had constructed its headquarters in a series of abandoned WWII-era bomb shelters beneath the Castle. The long-forgotten bunker served the agency well, both for its level of secrecy and for its proximity to the Smithsonian Institution's many labs and resources. Additionally, the Castle was within an easy walk to the major touchstones of governmental power—which of late was more of a problem than a boon.

Sigma's director—Painter Crowe—was dealing with a political firestorm after the bombing. While only those with the highest security clearance knew Sigma even existed, all of them had been bearing down upon the agency, especially the group's overseer, General Metcalf, the current head of DARPA.

Everyone needed answers—and if not that, then a fall guy to blame. Gray hoped this priority summons from the director was about the bomber's identity and not about dissolving Sigma, which was a grim possibility.

His helmet phone chirped with an incoming call. He took it, wincing slightly, expecting it to be Director Crowe. "Go ahead," he answered.

"Where are you two?" It was Monk Kokkalis, a fellow Sigma operative and his best friend. "Painter is pacing a hole through his office rug."

"We'll be there in a few minutes. We're about to head underground."

"Get here. Something major is up. Kat won't even look at me, but her face is drawn as tight as a drum. She clearly knows why we were summoned."

"Understood."

Captain Kathryn Bryant was Sigma's chief intelligence analyst and Monk's wife. She was also the agency's second-in-command.

"We'll be right there." Gray ended the call.

Gray swung into the entrance of a nondescript parking garage on the opposite side of the street from the Castle. A metal security gate ratcheted up, responding to a transponder in his helmet. Both bikes dove down a ramp and into a subterranean space. From there, they circled into a tunnel that ran beneath Independence Avenue. As they sped down the passageway, a series of electronic checkpoints registered their progress. The route led deep under the four-acre garden behind the Castle.

Finally, they reached a subterranean motor pool directly beneath the Castle. The space was full of Land Rovers, German sedans, and a handful of motorcycles. Gray joined his bike with the others and cut the engine. He quickly dismounted and removed his helmet.

The entrance into Sigma Command was sealed off by vault-like steel doors. He headed to a biometric reader and registered a retinal scan and palm print, but the door remained locked. The electronic surveillance in the garage had recognized another was present who had not yet identified themselves.

Gray turned to the Ducati as its rider swept off the bike. "Seichan, you'll need to scan in, too. They've upped security since the last time you were down here."

With the snap of a chin strap, Seichan yanked off her helmet. A drape of ebony hair fell to her shoulders. She gave Gray a scathing look and tugged down the zipper of her leather jacket, exposing a maroon blouse.

"Heightened security?" she scoffed. "Better late than never, I suppose."

She crossed to him, moving with a leonine grace, all sinew, muscles, and long curves. The almond complexion of her skin—marking her Eurasian heritage—shone through a sheen of perspiration. Her emerald eyes smoldered with barely restrained fury.

"Crowe better have answers," she warned. "If this is just some organizational pissing contest..."

Gray understood the source of her frustration and anger. The two had left their two-year-old son at the safehouse. She did not like being away from Jack's side—especially now.

Following the attack, the entire agency had gone into lockdown. Painter was taking no chances, especially when a hit-and-run maimed a pair of operatives shortly after the bombing. Another agent was killed by a sniper while out jogging.

Someone was clearly targeting Sigma teams.

Since the lockdown, there had been no more incidents, but no one was fooled into believing that the threat was over. The enemy had only momentarily retreated, likely to regroup and reassess before striking again. Everyone remained guarded, knowing they were in the calm before the storm.

Gray hooked an arm around Seichan's waist as she joined him. "We'll get back to Jack as soon as possible."

She scowled at him, but she still leaned into his side, allowing herself this rare moment of reassurance. Despite her stoic front, cracks showed from the tension. Her lips were bloodless and thin; the curve of her jaw was hard from clenched muscles.

It was the unknown that wore on her, on all of them, but she was taking it especially hard. And it wasn't just the lack of knowledge about the bomber that kept her on edge. It was the unsettled fate of the organization.

If Sigma were shut down, Gray had plenty of options open to him. He had joined the armed forces when he was eighteen, become a ranger at twenty-one. Painter had personally recruited him into Sigma. He had been picked less for his military background and more for what Seichan described as his strange mind , his ability to perceive patterns where no one else could.

He didn't know where that talent came from. While growing up, Gray had always been pulled in different directions. Maybe his upbringing had made him look at things differently, to try to balance extremes. Or maybe it was something genetic, ingrained in his DNA, that allowed him to see those patterns.

No matter the source, he knew it was a skill set that other agencies would value.

The same was not true for Seichan.

She had been an assassin for an international criminal organization. Brutalized and molded from a young age, she had developed her own bloody skill set, but it was not something easily included on an application or résumé. While she had eventually turned against her bosses and come to work with Sigma, she remained estranged from the surrounding world. Few knew her true background. Several countries' intelligence agencies, including the Mossad, still maintained a kill-order on her.

Sigma had become her home—first out of necessity, later out of hope for a different life, and now it offered a new beginning with Gray and Jack. No one, not even Painter, could say what her fate would be if Sigma folded. The agency was her cover, her protection. Without it, she would become unmoored—and as much as she tried to hide her feelings, it clearly terrified her.

"We'll be okay," Gray said lamely, drawing her closer. He lifted his left hand to show the gold band encircling a finger. "And we still have a wedding to plan."

Her attempt at a smile came off as a grimace. "I don't know which is worse: dealing with a bomber or figuring out the seating chart for the reception."

Seichan slipped out of his embrace and stepped to the biometric scanners. After her identity was confirmed, the reinforced steel doors parted. Gray felt his ears pop as the positive pressure ventilation wafted over them, maintaining the clean-room nature of the facility.

They headed together into the lowermost level of the command center.

Gray stared up, picturing the director's office three flights above.

For better or worse, let's discover our fate.

4:34 P . M .

Director Painter Crowe remained seated behind his desk as he waited for the latecomers to settle in. A tension headache had taken root behind his eyes.

But, at least, I still have a head.

He had been in his office when the Castle had been bombed. He had heard the explosions, felt the quake of those blasts. The lights had failed for several dark seconds before the emergency generators had kicked in. He had ordered an immediate evacuation of the facility, fearing it might collapse—but in the end, the old WWII shelters had proved to be as bomb-proof as their name attested. The deep bunkers had sustained minimal damage.

As Commander Pierce entered, Monk gave Gray a brief hug and clap on his back. The other returned it with the same affection. They shared a bond deeper than mere brotherhood. It was forged of bloodshed, tragedy, and sacrifice.

Outwardly, though, the two could not be more different.

Monk was a former Green Beret and still looked it, from his stocky bulk to his shaven scalp. The crown of his head barely reached Gray's chin. He wore a loose windbreaker over a tight-fitted T-shirt with a growling bulldog, a countenance not all that dissimilar to the man's own face. But that tough exterior hid a mind as sharp and quick as any chess champion.

Gray, on the other hand, stood six-foot-two, with a lean musculature that masked the lethality of his quick reflexes. His ruddy complexion marked his former Texas roots, as if the Lone Star sun had permanently branded him. But his Welsh blood showed in his strong jaw, intense blue eyes, and dark hair, which he kept lanky on top and shaved close on the sides.

Painter waved to the chairs. "We should get started."

Gray took his seat, but he kept his leather jacket on, as if he did not intend to stay long. Seichan dropped next to him, looking equally impatient.

Painter recognized the tension they were under and their worry for Jack. The pair's son shared the same safehouse at the edge of Rock Creek Park with Monk's daughters. The two families had been sheltering this storm together.

The last member of the meeting strode into the room. Kathryn Bryant had been shuffling throughout the day between Painter's office and Sigma's intelligence nest, which was her fiefdom and domain.

She touched Seichan on the shoulder as she crossed to Painter's desk. This gesture—from one worried mother to another—was a warm one. Still, Kat's manner was otherwise stiff, angry. She carried herself as if she were about to go to war—which might very well be the case.

Like all Sigma members, Kat had a military background. In her case, it was in naval intelligence, but no one would mistake her for a pencil pusher. Like her husband, she had not shed the taut mannerisms drilled into her by the armed forces. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was combed and braided in the back, as conservative as her attire: navy blue suit, crisp white blouse, black leather pumps.

"Now that we're all here," Painter started.

"This is everyone?" Gray sat straighter, glancing around. "I thought this was an all-hands-on-deck briefing. In fact, why aren't we heading off to the conference room?"

"This is a need-to-know sort of meeting," Painter corrected. "I've not even shared this intel with General Metcalf, or anyone at DARPA. In fact, there's much I haven't shared with any of you."

Seichan frowned. "What do you mean by—"

Painter held up a hand. "First, let me say we may have caught a break on the bomber. Unfortunately, what we've learned in the last eight hours does not necessarily equate to certain guilt. As you know, every military and government office tied to national security, counterterrorism, and intelligence operations has been hunting for the bomber—or for any organization, domestic or foreign, who might want to target the Mall. But most of those hunters have one hand tied behind their backs."

"Because they don't know about us," Gray answered.

Painter shrugged. "Some do, some don't, some suspect. Still, failing to know the intended target is a huge handicap. Metcalf has advocated for pulling us out of the shadows, to expose our organization."

Monk groaned. "Which would cripple our effectiveness."

"If not destroy us," Gray added.

"I've managed to hold him off for now, mostly because there haven't been any further attacks. But if that should change...?"

Painter let that question hang in the room for a breath.

Gray finally shrugged out of his jacket and settled deeper in his chair. "What have you learned?"

Painter turned to his second-in-command. "Kat, can you bring up the video from ADX Florence?"

"Give me a moment to transfer the footage." Kat slid around the desk to access Painter's terminal.

He moved aside to allow her room, which wasn't hard. His office could be considered spartan at best. Beyond his mahogany desk, the only nod to luxury was a Remington bronze seated on a pedestal in the corner. It featured an exhausted Native American warrior slumped atop a horse. It had been a gift from his former mentor, Sean McKnight, who had founded Sigma and died to protect this bunker years ago.

And now I may lose it all.

Guilt tightened his jaw as he found himself staring at the bronze.

Sean's gift was meant to honor Painter's heritage. When Painter was younger, few people recognized his mixed Native American status, but as he approached fifty, his skin had grown ruddier, his cheekbones more prominent. And while his hair remained dark, a single lock of white now crested over one ear, looking like an eagle feather.

For Painter, though, the statue no longer represented his heritage. It had come to embody his burden as Sigma's director. The mounted warrior's face hung low, etched with exhaustion and grief. To Painter, it reminded him of the cost of battle for any soldier.

And maybe that was Sean's intent in this gift, too.

Kat finally cleared her throat and straightened. "I have the video from ADX Florence keyed up. I'll bring it up on the left monitor."

Painter swung around. Three large 8K monitors covered the walls behind and to either side of his mahogany desk. He sometimes scrolled different landscapes to create the illusion of windows in his confined office, but they only reminded him of how trapped he was underground.

"Here we go," Kat said.

The monitor's screen filled with a picture of a series of low-brick buildings, cement towers, all surrounded by tall fences encased by curls of razor wire. It was all backdropped by a wall of mountains.

"This is ADX Florence," Kat said.

Seichan uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. "Which is what?"

Gray's brows pinched with confusion. "The Alcatraz of the Rockies."

Painter nodded. "It's a supermax federal penitentiary in Colorado. It houses prisoners deemed to be the most dangerous, especially to national security. One cell block has been dubbed Bomber's Row, due to the various domestic terrorists who have been housed there over the years. Timothy McVeigh, Terry Nichols, Ramzi Yousef, Ted Kaczynski."

"I don't understand," Monk said. "What does a supermax facility in Colorado have to do with the bombing here?"

"Good question," Painter said. "It's why it took us so long to make a connection."

Kat tapped on the terminal keyboard. "This is footage from inside, from a visitor's center."

A grainy video from a closed-circuit security system started rolling on the screen. The image was split, showing both sides of a glass partition that separated prisoners from visitors. The room was deserted, except for a single posted guard and two figures seated at one booth. The pair leaned in close, phones at their ears.

"Is there any audio?" Monk asked as the video ran silently.

"Restricted," Kat answered. "This was a privileged conversation between a lawyer and his client."

"Who's the prisoner—" Gray's words choked off as the man leaned out far enough to reveal his face. "That bastard."

"Senator Kent Cargill," Kat confirmed. "Or rather former senator. He's better known as Inmate 4593."

Painter waited for the shock and anger to wane. The man had betrayed his country. His actions had led to hundreds of deaths. Sigma had exposed him a couple of years ago, but prior to that, the senator had also sat in one of these office chairs after his daughter had been kidnapped.

"Kat and her team have been canvassing, reviewing, and interviewing anyone who had knowledge of Sigma Command's location."

"And who might hold a grudge against us," Gray added.

Kat nodded. "It took us this long to come across this video. It was taped a month prior to the bombing."

Monk sighed. "But what's the significance of this one meeting between Cargill and his lawyer?"

"His lawyer's colleague," Kat corrected. "A junior partner in the firm, according to a background check prior to the visit. It was Jason who noted how this particular visitor was very coy with the cameras, as if they had foreknowledge of their locations in the room."

Jason Carter was a twenty-six-year-old former hacker who had been recruited by Sigma a few years back. His black-hat skills, raw ingenuity, and sharp eye had earned him a position at Kat's right side.

"But the lawyer made one slip-up," Kat said.

She sped the video forward. The visitor leaned down to remove something from a satchel. Kat froze the footage. The camera had captured a three-quarter profile.

"Kat was able to nab a few other photos during the intake process," Painter added.

She nodded and brought up a row of pictures, some blurry, others full body, of the visitor.

"It's a woman," Monk said.

"Not just any woman," Kat said. "And certainly not the junior associate of Cargill's law firm. Though, the make-up and prosthetics made her look very much like that junior partner."

Gray swore harshly.

Monk stiffened.

Kat continued, "The NSA has developed some sophisticated facial-recognition software. Jason improved on it. We ran these images through the program, inputting photos of the most likely suspect."

"And you got confirmation," Gray said.

Kat tapped a button. On the screen, the three-quarter profile shed its artifice to reveal a pale, phantom face beneath. Someone they all knew well.

Painter studied those gathered in his office.

Only one of them remained stoic and unsurprised by this revelation.

5:02 P . M .

Seichan shook her head, accepting the inevitable. Sigma had made many enemies over the years, so had she. But there was only one foe whom both she and Sigma shared.

"Valya Mikhailov," she muttered.

Seichan studied the spectral visage hidden behind the mask on the screen. The features appeared pale, but not as ashen as the woman's true complexion. Valya suffered from albinism. Her skin was the color of Carrera marble, her hair chalk-white. Yet, defying the assumption that all those afflicted had red eyes, her irises were an ice blue.

The only other blemish—visible even on the ghostly image—was the shadowy remains of a black tattoo. It depicted half of a black sun, casting out kinked rays across her left cheek and brow. It was a Kolovrat , a pagan solar symbol from Slavic countries. It had once been tied to witchcraft but later was co-opted by nationalistic parties, including Neo-Nazis.

But Valya was far from a nationalist of any country.

She and Seichan had both been assassins with the Guild, sisters in the same deadly profession. After Seichan had helped Sigma destroy the organization, Valya had survived, bitter and vengeful. In the power vacuum left behind, Valya had gathered new forces, slowly rebuilding the organization under her own merciless leadership.

Sigma had crossed paths with them several times, embittering both sides.

Gray shifted in his seat, drawing Seichan's attention from the screen. "Cargill must have told her where our command center was located. Did anyone question him? Confirm that he told her our location?"

"We tried," Kat answered. "He lawyered up. We'll get nothing out of him. He certainly doesn't want any culpability for the bombing placed on his shoulders."

"So even with this information," Painter said, "Valya's guilt is not certain. Her culpability in the bombing has yet to be firmly established. Still, we all know she certainly has motive to attack us."

"What about opportunity ?" Monk said. "Is there any evidence she was in D.C. at the time of the bombing?"

"None," Kat answered. "If she was here, she covered her tracks well. The problem is that whoever planted those devices knew well enough to stay out of sight."

"Plus," Painter added, "there were glitches in eight of the Mall's surveillance cameras, which happens periodically, but those cameras were likely taken out. We know Valya has plenty of resources at her disposal, while being unbound by the restrictions and restraints put on us."

"So, she had the means to attack us," Monk huffed out.

Kat nodded. "With the Castle undergoing renovations—with its spaces gutted and emptied—many of its interior cameras were non-operable. It was the perfect window for Valya to attack. That is, if it was her."

"Screw if ." Seichan burst up, bumping her chair back. "It was her."

Gray tried to draw her back down, but she shook free and stalked the edges of the room.

"We all know it's her," she said. "We've suspected it from the beginning."

Painter held up a palm. "True, and I have acted accordingly. Like I said, there are some details that I've not shared with anyone, not even you all."

"Like what?" Gray asked.

Kat answered, "Early on, I had compiled a list of the most likely suspects, with Mikhailov at the top. Since the attack, I've been in constant contact with various intelligence services, both here and abroad. While Valya herself is a ghost, a handful of her associates—low-level operatives and contacts—are known well enough for us to trace her organization's movements, not in any granular detail, but enough to glean a general trend of direction."

"And?" Seichan pressed. "Spit it out. What are you dancing around?"

"After the attack, we suspected she retreated to Eastern Europe, maybe Russia, perhaps to lay low for a spell. It's also where we believe she's set up her headquarters. In her home country."

"Her and her brother's," Seichan reminded them.

The room quieted, reminded that Valya's grudge ran deeper than simply thwarted global ambitions. There had once been another who carried the other half of that black sun, only across his right cheek and brow—Valya's twin brother. Four years ago, Anton Mikhailov had been killed during a Sigma operation. He had died helping them.

Still, Seichan knew who Valya truly blamed for the loss of her sibling.

Gray cleared his throat. "If Valya's holed up in Russia, it will be hard for us to reach her, especially with the current political climate."

"Perhaps," Painter said, "but having already suspected who we might be dealing with, I took some preemptive countermeasures."

"What do you mean?" Seichan asked.

Before the director could answer, a commotion erupted at the doorway.

Jason Carter burst into the room. "We've got trouble."