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  He noticed another door to the right on the far wall.

  A muffled female voice screamed again; this time, LT could make out the word please.

  “Bin-go,” Gable stated.

  There was nothing to it but to do it.

  The two men posted on either side of the locked door. A single shot rang out, followed by a scream. Gable blasted the lock with the automatic shotgun.

  LT’s brain registered details as they moved in: a windowless room, maybe eight by fifteen; one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling providing dim illumination; three women in various states of life and death. A filthy, older man with an ancient Uzi sprayed bullets at them, two of which hit LT in his body armor, center mass, just after he squeezed off a burst with his rifle. LT’s aim proved superior—one of his rounds found the man’s larynx, another found his jugular vein, causing a fine red mist to spray across the room. LT dropped to his knees and gasped for breath after the punch of the bullets, but far from his first time getting shot, he knew he’d be fine.

  His focus zoomed in on the other cartel thug, who held a shapely yet battered brunette woman hostage with a pimp-chromed .45 pressed to her temple. LT recognized her from the mission briefing as their main objective, Diane Laird. Her two friends, likewise kidnapped, lay at opposite ends of the room on thin, filthy mattresses saturated with blood. One woman, obviously dead, was missing half of her blonde head; the other might still be alive. The thug’s eyes latched on Gable, who had his shotgun leveled at the man. LT knew he wouldn’t fire—no way could Johnny Gable engage the tango without killing the woman. The AA-12 wasn’t designed for precision work.

  “Come on, pendejo,” the Mexican taunted Gable.

  The sweaty cartel member’s gold toothed smile and wide eyes would have appeared maniacal to eyes less seasoned than LT’s. In truth, the man was scared shitless and doubtless resigned to his fate. He would blow Mrs. Laird’s gorgeous head off within the next few seconds. LT had his weapon on the guy but didn’t have a shot.

  “You ain’t winnin’ this,” Gable growled, taking a step closer. “I want what we came for.”

  Something arced over LT’s head. It landed on the wooden floor with a solid thunk and rolled toward the thug and his hostage. For an instant, the Mexican took his eyes off Gable and LT, who at the last second shielded their faces as the flash-bang grenade exploded.

  LT heard cursing from both men in the room and a scream from Mrs. Laird, followed by a shot from the .45 as he tried to regain his senses. He gazed up and saw Max stride through the door as he fired two silenced rounds from his rifle. The thug’s .45 dropped with finality to the floor. Mrs. Laird lay on the floor, sobbing and holding her ears. Gable had dropped to his knees, shaking his head.

  Irish joined them at the door. “Strike three,” he called flatly, though one corner of his lip curled up in satisfaction.

  LT released a pent-up breath, his ears still ringing. “Yeah... You can still pitch ’em, Irish.”

  Max took in the room with expert eyes, noting that Gable wore an irritated expression and hadn’t transitioned to a more precise weapon. “We done wasting time, gentlemen?” Max strode out of the room, yelling over his shoulder, “Grab the bodies and get her ready for transport.”

  The image on the giant flat-screen monitor froze once again.

  Elizabeth Grey gritted her teeth and growled. She had several million dollars invested in this new satellite-messaging technology and, as of yet, it didn’t function any better than Skype or Facebook Messenger. Her IT director would receive an earful of bile in the morning.

  “Say again, Dr. Jung,” Elizabeth instructed when the doctor’s image reanimated. “I didn’t get any of that.”

  “Sorry, Ms. Grey. Now, let’s see...”

  Elizabeth’s eyes darted to the other monitor as she waited for the doctor to collect his thoughts. The live video feed showed faceless men in white rubber HAZMAT suits trudging into an ice cave. The video shifted to another camera inside the ship. There, two scientists attempted to squeegee a puddle of the black matter into a container for further study. The substance separated into several black iridescent blobs that seemed to roll effortlessly across the shiny metallic floor, forcing the scientists to give chase. Its consistency reminded Elizabeth of mercury. The goo didn’t have a name yet—simply ‘the substance’ to all concerned—but its discovery would rock the scientific world. A living specimen of primitive extraterrestrial life made for the greatest discovery in mankind’s short history on the planet, along with the extraterrestrial ship they were still exploring.

  Elizabeth thought of the hundreds of millions of dollars in company funds and her own fortune she had dumped into this project. She’d paid five million to silence the hermit trapper who had found the narrow ice cave leading to the derelict spacecraft buried deep in an isolated Alaska mountainside. The trapper took the money and promptly disappeared. Her investigators confirmed he’d abandoned his shack in the wilderness for a condo in Aruba. They would continue to surveil him to ensure he kept his silence. And that trapper constituted only the beginning of her expenses.

  The most loyal foremen and workers from her construction division had built Base Camp and widened the ice cave to allow easier access to the ship. It had taken months to even gain access to the ship’s interior. Her team had tried all sorts of high-tech tools and substances to cut into the hull. In the end, high-pressure water eroded a breach in the ship’s hull. Greytech’s top scientists presently swarmed throughout the spacecraft, gathering samples of the goo and earmarking other alien technologies for further research.

  They had gained access to only a small fraction of the ship. What they’d discovered already presented a lifetime of research. Secrecy was paramount, and her entire security apparatus, both onsite and here at corporate headquarters, remained constantly on full alert to spot any potential information leaks. The field operation had been impossible to fully hide. All moves by a Fortune 500 company such as Greytech were observed by the business media, and the government had likely taken an interest in her project as well. So, she hid the project in plain sight and billed it as an archeological expedition. She even went as far as making a generous donation to the archeological department at her alma mater, saying that it had always been one of her passions.

  If the government were to find out what I’ve got...Elizabeth’s eyes fell on the portrait of her son, Edward, propped up on her glass desk. No. No, that’s not going to happen. It’s locked down tight. I just need more time.

  Dr. Jung, haggard from lack of sleep, continued, “The mere longevity of the organic matter is astounding, considering the spacecraft crashed before the last Ice Age. That it remained alive and active with no apparent life support is nothing short of a miracle. And if more specimens are preserved in the cargo hold, they may be even healthier. This substance has presented some very unusual cellular qualities. All indicators support the likelihood of sentience.” He smiled, the crooked slant of his lips matching that of his thick, horn-rimmed spectacles, likewise askew. Though extremely intelligent, Ms. Grey insisted that he keep his comments brief and free of scientific jargon, which tried her patience.

  She tried not to show her pleasure at this information. “What about the other specimen, the passenger?”

  “Dr. Rogers has informed me that her team needs more time to study the passenger and the life-support technology sustaining it before attempting revival, or they risk losing this one as well.”

  “I won’t have this one dying, Dr. Jung. Impress upon Dr. Rogers the urgency of the passenger’s survival. If you don’t think she’s up to the task, let me know and I will find someone who is.” The passenger could save her years of research and clear up all mystery of the craft’s origin, provided they could communicate with it.

  Dr. Jung grimaced before he continued. “Dr. Rogers wishes to spend another ninety-six hours examining the life support technology before attempting to revive.”

  “She has seventy-two, no more. What were
the DNA results for the dead passenger?”

  “Inconclusive so far. Dr. Rogers’s people are working feverishly, I assure you.”

  Elizabeth sighed and took a moment before confirming a course of action. As important as the passenger was, the goo remained even more so. Such longevity. Does it have curative properties as well?

  She would never find out if the government stepped in.

  Elizabeth Grey had never been one for extracurricular interests. Her passion involved developing new technology, her lifelong work. Her only other interest, alien phenomenon. Now she had reason to pursue it, as well as specimens to study—specimens that might provide a cure for terminal illnesses. Hell, specimens that might unlock the very secrets of immortality. Finally, her billions and resources might have found a cure for Edward.

  “Right now, the substance concerns me more than the passenger, Doctor. All scientists, with the exception of Dr. Rogers’s team, will concentrate on collecting and qualifying the substance. We need to learn all we can as fast as we can. We’re running out of time. I can’t keep this quiet for much longer.”

  “Yes, Ms. Grey. All available resources are being brought to bear, I assure you.”

  “I want progress, Doctor, not assurances. Contact me with updates every eight hours. There is another delivery of advanced test equipment arriving tomorrow morning, along with more scientists and engineers. Find suitable work for all of them. No one sits idle on this project.”

  Dr. Jung nodded emphatically. “Yes, Ms. Grey, I will see to it.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  Dr. Jung hesitated and peered off-screen. He swallowed hard before he spoke. “Yes, we are missing a researcher. There may have been a security breach. Mr. Salerno will brief you on the details. I will update in eight hours as requested.”

  “Very good, Doctor.”

  Nicholas Salerno, Director of Security on site, appeared on screen, his visage tired as well. His dark, spiked hair showed more grays than she remembered. “Ms. Grey, we are unable to locate Greg Ramone, Dr. Lawrence’s research assistant.” A file readout and a picture of the young man appeared on the other screen. “He left the camp late this afternoon to check some perimeter sensors and never returned. This is the most recent footage we have of him.” A video of Mr. Ramone checking out with the security guard played on the screen as he spoke.

  He continued, “We conducted a search and found some...remains...but no body. It appears that he may have been attacked by some sort of wildlife, perhaps a bear.” A grainy picture of some trampled ferns covered in blood appeared.

  “We also found this.” He held up a satellite phone in front of the camera. “It isn’t one of ours. It appears to have been smuggled into the site.”

  Ms. Grey took a breath before responding. “No one leaves the camp alone anymore, and they all must be cleared by you. Find out how he got the sat phone into camp and who he contacted ASAP. You assured me you could keep this site secure, and I’m holding you to that. Take care of this loose end personally. Record it as an accident, but do whatever it takes to keep OSHA out of this.”

  A nightmare scenario played out in her mind: the entire area sealed off; the spacecraft dismantled and shipped to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base for studies, the results of which would never be revealed; the goo’s healing properties isolated and put to use, though only to keep certain select people alive. Her Edward would die, but David Rockefeller might live another hundred years courtesy of her discovery.

  Enough. There would be no government intervention. Besides, she had already taken steps to avoid that. She would go viral with her discovery when the time was right. After that, the government could try all it wanted to deny the existence of extraterrestrial life, but it could never bury the technology. She suspected that this might not be the first time humanity had found evidence of alien life.

  Elizabeth tapped the keyboard on her desk. Mr. Salerno disappeared, replaced by an overhead view of the ship’s cargo hold, packed full of gleaming spherical containers, each the size of a compact car. They were seamless and appeared to be chrome plated, though Elizabeth knew they were constructed of a stable, super-dense isotope, unhexquadium-482, a substance well beyond humanity’s current scope of manufacture. The engineers roaming the hold examined them closely, searching for a way to crack one open.

  Elizabeth watched the monitors, toggling continuously through over three-dozen live camera feeds covering both the ship and the base camp. Everyone moving; no one goldbricking. As she watched, she mentally noted some minor improvements in procedure that she would relay to Dr. Jung in the morning.

  Her gold watch read one thirty-two a.m. “Lights dim.” She swiveled her chair around and examined her reflection in the window. Considered beautiful by any standards, she could see only fatigue and age in her countenance. Raindrops trickled down the smoked glass windows of her corner office, the lights of Seattle’s skyline setting them agleam like so many cats’ eyes. All furniture and appliances in the room were streamlined and ergonomic. The office was spacious enough, though hardly the huge workspace preferred by most CEOs of Fortune 500 companies. Elizabeth concentrated better in a limited workspace, always had. She’d composed her most brilliant academic works in a squalid ghetto apartment a few blocks from the University of Chicago, back in the days when she had to scramble for grant and scholarship money while waiting tables thirty hours a week. She still practiced austerity in her personal habits. No lasting success had ever been founded upon overindulgence.

  Likewise, no one had ever become rich by sleeping eight hours a night. Elizabeth slept when she had to, and never for more than four hours at a stretch. She had a private bedroom, bath suite, and fitness spa built next to her office, accessible by a concealed door. Though she owned a lavish home, she lived at work for all intents and purposes. Her home served for entertaining, but there had been little to celebrate as of late.

  Yawning, she rose and started for bed.

  Faintly, as she began falling asleep while typing notes into her tablet, Elizabeth remembered she had neglected to call Edward. She hadn’t seen him in several days, with the alien project consuming all her time. She thought about calling—her phone beside her on the nightstand within easy reach—but did not. He was likely on morphine and asleep for the night. Besides, she wanted to contact him with solid information, with hope. Would she have it in eight hours? Likely not. But by tomorrow evening...

  She fell asleep thinking of Edward in the full vitality of his youth, cured and prepared to conquer the same world she had.

  Max negotiated the Suburban through the no-man’s-land of abandoned buildings, vacant lots, and scattered slum housing that made up the far west side of Mexicali. Riding shotgun, Sugar gave him directions to the airport via the Google Earth app. Sugar remained in fine spirits, though he had been injured in the firefight when bullets chewed up the remains of the front guard shack, propelling wooden shards through the air at a deadly velocity. He and Max each had several small splinters sticking out of their camo utilities, but Sugar had taken a six-inch shard in his left bicep. He’d pulled it out himself after the battle, but if he remained in pain, it didn’t show.

  “Bang a left here, Chief,” Sugar instructed.

  “Gotcha.” Max turned accordingly.

  He glanced into the rearview to check on Diaz and his patient, Mrs. Laird. He didn’t bother asking her condition since she’d been tortured and raped multiple times and forced to watch both of her friends die from the same treatment. LT’s crew had extracted the bodies of the other women as well, so their families would at least have the comfort of laying them to rest. Their corpses lay folded in body bags in the SUV’s cargo section amongst weapons and some remaining ammunition. The dead were never left behind, if at all possible. From day one of his Marine training: never leave a man behind. It wasn’t good for morale, Max knew, but more importantly, it wasn’t good for business.

  “All right, make this right, and that should take us out to t
he main road,” Sugar instructed.

  Max turned. Coach, piloting the SUV at Max’s bumper, followed. This dirt road was an improvement, relatively flat and somewhat free of holes. Max dropped his foot, eager to put Mexicali and this goat fuck of a mission behind him. May I never return to this hellhole again.

  “Sweet, sweet pavement!” Sugar pointed ahead to the next intersection. “Right here takes us straight to the airport.”

  Max slowed to make the right. Partway onto the road, he stopped the Suburban dead.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Sugar asked, his voice dropping an octave.

  Max pointed right. The distant horizon grew brighter, though not from the dawn, as it was only one in the morning. Lightning strobed red and out of rhythm, beating the night sky from behind a rise. It crested the horizon two klicks distant and broke into a myriad of flashing red.

  “Federales,” Max said as he wrenched the steering wheel left and floored the SUV.

  Coach’s voice crackled in Max’s headset. “Chief, what the fu—Never mind.” He followed Max onto the highway.

  Mrs. Laird began to panic in the back seat. Diaz busied himself trying to calm her.

  “Sugar, find us a spot down this highway, a nice straightaway just past a bridge if there is one.”

  “On it.” Twenty seconds passed before he announced, “Got it.”

  Max tapped a contact on his phone and dialed, the tone coming over the speakers via Bluetooth. “Yeah, Max?” answered a deep voice appropriate for a radio host.