The captain shut the safe, locked it, and the beeping stopped. He brought the puck over to one of the stainless-steel tables. Blaine knew what he had to do next, and he held his breath in anticipation. It would be a delicate operation.

Laying the puck on the stage of a stereozoom microscope, the captain examined its surface for at least five minutes before making a small mark on it. Then he took a scalpel from the pouch of his biosuit and, with surgical care, cut a small tile of white plastic from the puck. Contained within that tiny piece of plastic, Blaine knew, was a tracking microchip.

The captain flicked the plastic piece to the floor and kicked it under the yellow biosafe with the side of his shoe.

Blaine shivered again. His fingers were already growing numb from the cold. The captain seemed immune.

“I’ll take that, if you don’t mind,” Blaine said, pointing at the puck.

The captain handed it to him. “Be very, very careful, sir. If you drop it, the world as we know it ends.”

A moment later they emerged from the vault, and were forced to wait once again for their visors to unfog. It took longer this time. Even so, everything was ticking along like clockwork.

They made their way back through the lab until they had reached the decontamination showers and air lock. The shower accommodated only one person at a time, and the captain entered first. The automatic door rumbled shut; Blaine could hear the hissing sound of the chemical decontaminants spraying down the captain. The sounds stopped; the outer door opened with a whoosh of the air lock. A moment later the inner door opened to admit him to the shower. He stepped inside and was momentarily engulfed in a blast of chemicals, while a metallic voice instructed him to raise his arms and turn around. Then the door opened and he stepped into the ready room—to find the barrel of a gun pressed immediately against his visor.

“Give me the smallpox,” said a voice Blaine recognized as that of Gideon Crew.

Stone Fordyce heard the chopper before he saw it: a UH-60 Black Hawk, coming in low and fast from the east. He had moved to the far end of the parking lot, near the gates to the motor pool, and he took refuge from the rotor wash behind a Humvee on blocks. The Black Hawk slowed and turned, touching down on the tarmac of the nearly empty lot. Fordyce waited for the craft to settle. As the rotors spun down, the cabin door opened and six SWAT team members hopped out, wearing full body armor and carrying M4 carbines. A moment later a civilian stepped down and Fordyce was startled, and encouraged, to see that Dart himself had come along. More proof that calling Dart had been the right choice.

He watched as they moved out of the backwash and gathered near the doors of the building.

Fordyce straightened up and came out from behind the car, showing himself. Dart saw him and gestured him over.

Fordyce jogged up to the group of soldiers, who fanned out in a semicircle as he arrived—a lieutenant, a warrant officer, and four specialists.

“Are they still inside?” Dart asked, stepping forward.

Fordyce nodded.

“And Crew? Where’s he?”

“Still down in Level Four, as far as I know. As you requested, I’ve initiated no contact.”

“Any sign of activity? Confrontation?”

“No.”

“Any other security involved? Alarms or alerts?”

“Nothing as far as I can tell. It’s been as quiet as a tomb here.”

“Good.” Dart checked his watch. “They’ve been inside for almost fourteen minutes, by my reckoning.” He frowned. “Listen, Agent Fordyce. You’ve done a fine piece of work. But your job is now done and I don’t want anything, and I mean anything, going wrong. We’re going to let the professionals handle it from this point on.” He extended his hand. “Your sidearm, please.”

Fordyce slipped it out of its holster, held it out to Dart butt-first. But even as he did so, he was surprised at the request. “Why do you want it?”

Dart took the weapon, examined it, racked a round into the chamber, then raised his arm and pointed the gun at Fordyce’s chest. “Because I’m going to shoot you with it.”

A noise, shockingly loud; a burst of white; and Fordyce was punched backward, the round striking him square in the breastbone and knocking him to the asphalt. He had never in his entire life been so surprised, and as he stared wide-eyed into an impossibly blue summer sky, he was unable to process what had happened to him even as the last of his life fluttered out, blue rushing to black.

With the barrel of the Python on his visor, Blaine froze. Taking advantage of this, Gideon reached quickly down to the biopouch of the man’s bluesuit, unsnapped the flap, and slipped his hand inside. His fingers closed over the still-cold disk, which he removed and placed in his own pocket with care. Keeping the gun on Blaine, he unsealed the hood of his own bluesuit and pulled it off, allowing him to see and breathe better.

“Gideon,” was all Blaine managed to say, in a quavering whisper.

“Lie facedown on the floor next to the captain, arms extended over your head,” said Gideon, more loudly than he intended.

“Gideon, I want you to please listen—” Blaine began, his voice muffled by the hood.

Gideon pulled back the hammer of the Colt. “Do as I say.” He tried to control the shaking of his hands. The idea of killing Alida’s father was horrifying, but he knew the situation was far too critical for him to show any weakness.

He watched as the older man lay on the floor, arms extended. They were both still in their bluesuits, their weapons holstered underneath. Disarming them was going to be awkward, and the captain in particular had the look of a dangerous opponent. Keeping the revolver aimed at him, Gideon took out his cell phone with his other hand and called Fordyce.

After a few rings it switched over to voice mail.

He put the cell phone away. Fordyce was somewhere out of range—which would explain why he’d never gotten the agent’s call. He would have to deal with this himself.

“Captain,” he said, “remove your hood with one hand, keeping your other hand extended above your head and in sight at all times. If you try anything, I’ll shoot to kill.”

The captain complied.

“Now you, Blaine.”

As soon as Blaine got his hood off, he began to talk again. “Gideon, I want you to hear me out—”

“Shut up.” He felt sick, tried to master the shaking of his hands. He turned back to the captain. “I want you to stand up slowly. Then, with your left hand, remove your bluesuit, keeping your right arm extended from your body and in sight at all times. If you so much as twitch, either of you, I start firing and won’t stop until you’re both dead.”

The captain complied and—a credit to his intelligence—didn’t try anything. Gideon was absolutely serious about killing them both, and they must have sensed it.

When the bluesuit was off, Gideon had the captain lie back down on the floor, then searched him, recovering a 9mm sidearm and a knife. He tied the captain’s hands behind his back with some surgical tubing that was lying on the adjacent lab table.

He turned to Blaine. “Now you. Take off your suit just like the captain.”

“For Alida’s sake, listen—”

“One more word and I’ll kill you.” Gideon felt himself flush deeply. He had been trying to keep the whole awful question of Alida out of his head. And here her father was playing that card right up front—the bastard.

Blaine fell silent.

When the bluesuit was off, Gideon searched Blaine, snagging the man’s firearm—a beautiful old Colt .45 Peacemaker with staghorn grips—and tucking it into the waistband at the small of his back.

“Lie back down.”

Blaine complied. Gideon tied his hands with more surgical tubing.