Behind them, from the tunnel opening, excited voices echoed forth.

The pirates had spotted the tunnel’s end.

Graff took a step forward, clutching his shoulder. A large crab, hidden under a fern leaf, swiped at his toe and cleaved clear through the plastic.

The doctor retreated back, mumbling under his breath again. It was the same mantra as on the stairs, only now Monk understood it…and couldn’t agree more.

“We really should have rubbed that Buddha’s belly.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know, Dad.” Gray hurried with his father to close the carriage doors to the garage. “But I intend to find out.”

The two had hauled the assassin’s motorcycle into the garage. Gray had not wanted the bike left in the open. In fact, he wanted no trace of Seichan left here. So far there had been no sign of whoever had shot her, but that didn’t mean they weren’t coming.

He rushed back to his mother. As a biology professor at George Washington University, his mother had taught plenty of pre-med students and knew enough to belly-wrap Seichan’s wound in order to stanch any further hemorrhaging.

The assassin hovered at the edge of consciousness, drifting in and out.

“It looked like the bullet passed clean through,” his mother said. “But she’s lost a lot of blood. Is the ambulance on its way?”

Moments ago Gray had made an emergency call with his cell phone — but not to 911. Seichan could not be taken to any local hospital. A gunshot wound required answering too many questions. Still, he had to move her, get her medical attention as soon as possible.

Down the street, a door slammed. Gray listened, jumpy at any noises, his senses stretched to a piano-wire tautness. Someone called out, laughing.

“Gray, is the ambulance on its way?” his mother persisted in a harder tone.

Gray just nodded, refusing to lie out loud. At least not to his mother. He turned to his father, who joined them, wiping his palms on his work jeans. His parents thought he was a laboratory technician for a D.C. research company, a lowly position after being court-martialed out of the Army Rangers for striking a superior officer.

But that had not been the truth either.

Only a cover.

His parents knew nothing about his true profession with Sigma, and Gray meant to keep it that way. Which meant he needed to bug out of here ASAP. He had to get moving.

“Dad, can I borrow the T-bird? All this Fourth of July commotion, emergency services are overloaded. I can get the woman to the hospital faster myself.”

His father’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, but he pointed toward the back door to the kitchen. “Keys are on the hook.”

Gray ran and leaped up the rear porch steps. Cracking open the screen door, he reached inside and grabbed the jangling key fob from the hook. His father had restored a 1960 Thunderbird convertible, raven black with a red leather interior, tricked out with a new Holly carburetor, flamethrower coil, and electric choke. It had been moved out to the curb for the party.

He ran to where it was parked with its top down, hopped over the driver’s door, and slid behind the wheel. A moment later, he was roaring in reverse and backed into the driveway, bouncing a bit in the seat as he hit the curb. His father was still troubleshooting the rebuilt suspension.

He choked it into park, engine running, and ran to where his mother and father knelt at Seichan’s side. His father was already scooping her up.

“Let me,” Gray said.

“Maybe we shouldn’t move her,” his mother opined. “She took quite the fall and roll.”

Gray’s father ignored them both. He heaved up, cradling Seichan in his arms. His father might be missing a part of a leg and mentally slipping a few gears, but he was still as strong as a draft horse.

“Get the door,” his father ordered. “We’ll get her spread out across the backseat.”

Rather than arguing, Gray obeyed and helped get Seichan inside. He opened the door and folded the front seat down. His father climbed into the back and draped her with deliberate gentleness, then settled into the rear seat, supporting her head.

“Dad…”

His mother climbed into the passenger front side. “I’ve locked the house up. Let’s go.”

“I…I can take her on my own,” Gray said, waving them both out.

He was not headed to any hospital. His earlier phone call had been to emergency dispatch, where he was immediately put in contact with Director Crowe. Thank God he’d still been there.

Gray had been ordered to a safe house, where an emergency medical evacuation team would rendezvous to evaluate and treat Seichan. Painter was taking no chances. In case this was all a trap, she was not to be taken to Sigma’s headquarters. A known assassin and terrorist, Seichan was on the most-wanted lists of Interpol and a score of intelligence agencies around the world. Rumor had it that the Israeli Mossad maintained a shoot-on-sight order on her.

His parents had no place being here.

Gray stared at the steel in his father’s eyes. His mother’s arms were already crossed over her chest. They were not going to budge easily.

“You can’t come,” he said. “It’s not…not safe.”

“Like here’s any safer,” his father said, waving an arm back toward the garage. “Who’s to say whatever gangbangers or drug dealers who shot her aren’t already on their way here?”

Gray had no time to explain. The director had already dispatched a security detail to protect and watch over his parents. They would be arriving in the next couple minutes.

“My car…my rules,” his father finished with a rumble of finality. “Now go, before she starts seeping through your mother’s bandages and messes up my new leather seats.”

Seichan groaned, stirring in pain and confused agitation. One arm lifted to her bandage, clawing. His father caught her fingers and lowered her hand. He kept hold of it, reassuring as much as restraining.

“Let’s go,” his father said.

The rare tenderness more than anything broke through his constraint.

Gray climbed into the driver’s seat. “Buckle in,” he said, knowing the sooner he got Seichan to the safe house, the better for all of them. He’d deal with the fallout later.

As he started the engine, he caught his mother staring at him. “We’re not fools, you know, Gray,” she said cryptically, and turned away.

His brows furrowed, more in irritation than understanding. He shifted the car into gear and shot down the driveway. He took the turn onto the street rather sharply.

“Careful!” his father barked. “Those are new Kelsey wire wheels! If you goddamn scratch them up…”

Gray sped down the street. He made several fast turns, minding the wheels. It felt good to be moving. The 390 V8 growled like a beast. An ember of grudging respect for his father’s handiwork burned through his exasperation.

His mother glanced down the street as he turned in the opposite direction from the nearest hospital, but she remained silent and settled deeper in her seat. He would find some way of dealing with his folks at the safe house.

As Gray sped through the midnight city, he still heard occasional firecrackers popping. The holiday was ending, but Gray feared the true fireworks had yet to begin.

So much for holidays off…

Director Painter Crowe stalked down the hall toward his office. Central Command’s skeletal night staff was rapidly swelling in numbers. A general alert had been dispatched. He’d already fielded two calls from Homeland Security. It wasn’t every day you had an international terrorist fall into your lap. And not just any terrorist, but a member of the shadowy network known as the Guild.