Threshold Read online

  The momentum of the missed blow pulled the man forward. King raised an elbow to jab into the man’s back, but before he could, the man charged, burying his shoulder into King’s gut. King fell back under the weight.

  In the second it took the pair to fall to the pavement, King completed his assessment of the man’s fighting ability. He was a brawler. All heavy punches and big blows, concentrated into a single devastating attack. Old-school fighting. It worked wonders against people who didn’t know how to fight, but King’s abilities could be matched by very few people.

  As he fell back, King dropped his weapon, took the man’s trench coat in both hands, and hopped up, placing his feet against his opponent’s waist. With all of his weight pulling on the man, King controlled the fall. When they struck, King rolled and pushed with his legs, sending the man sprawling into the grass.

  King stood as the older man climbed up and raised his fists in front of his face like a boxer. He came in fast, taking hard swings that King easily dodged or deflected. With the element of surprise gone, the man didn’t stand a chance.

  After dodging a jab to his face, King caught the man’s arm and, once again, used the man’s own momentum to fling him to the grass. The man climbed to his feet slower than before, which gave King time to pick up his weapon and aim it at the man’s back.

  The man raised his hands in submission. The fight was over.

  “Turn around,” King said.

  The man turned around, head lowered, then slowly looked up at King’s gun. King blinked as recognition and a flood of memories and emotions hit him all at once. The man standing before him was his father, Peter Sigler.

  “Don’t shoot,” his father said.

  King gave his father an up-and-down glance. He wore an old gray suit beneath the trench coat. His face wasn’t exactly clean-shaven, but neither was King’s. His once-black hair was now peppered with gray, especially on the sides. And despite the wrinkles marking the fifty-five years on his face, his body looked well, and strong. For a moment, King felt as though he were looking through a time portal at his future self. But there was something off—the fear in his eyes.

  King lowered the weapon. “I’m not going to shoot you, Dad.”

  Peter’s eyes went wide. He hadn’t got a good look at King’s face while staring down the barrel of his handgun. “Jack?”

  The man’s hands started shaking. He took hold of one with the other and squeezed. “I didn’t know who you were. I thought you might be—”

  “Be what?” King asked.

  “I don’t know, with the church. A gardener. I thought the graveyard might be closed.”

  He was about to ask why he’d run from a gardener, but then thought, Of course he ran, that’s what he’s best at. Running. That didn’t explain the brawling, but his father was a stranger to him now. Who knew who he’d become.

  King turned his back on his father, looking toward his mother’s grave, silently asking for guidance and the will to not pull the gun on his father again. “Then you weren’t here to see me.”

  King holstered his weapon and moved to walk past his father.

  “Well, I’m seeing you now, aren’t I?”

  For a moment King’s angry resolve held out. But seeing his father again in the wake of his mother’s death … it was a pain he didn’t want to carry on his own. He motioned with his head for his father to follow him. “You hungry?”

  As King walked away, he wasn’t sure if his father would follow or run again. But a moment later, the sound of scuffing shoes on pavement revealed his old man was done running. At least for the moment.

  FIVE

  Fort Bragg—Decon

  “WHAT IS SHE doing here?” Keasling asked about Fiona, who was sitting comfortably in the seat that was normally occupied by King.

  “This has something to do with my grandmother,” Fiona said to the stout but gruff brigadier general. “And who killed her.”

  Queen quickly cleared her throat. “Sir, everyone charged with watching Fiona and keeping her safe is either in this room or unavailable.”

  Keasling looked around. Sitting around the long executive table were Fiona, Queen, Knight, Bishop, Rook, and Lewis Aleman, the team’s former field operator turned computer whiz and walking Wikipedia. The room itself, known as Decon, or Limbo, depending on whom you asked, was nothing to get excited about—simply a rectangle with one wall of glass looking out into the hangar bay that held the Crescent, the team’s high-velocity, stealth transport. But the technology hidden within the table and walls was something else entirely. Concealed computers and a large view-screen allowed the team to coordinate and plan some of the most risky, high-tech, and successful Delta operations no one ever heard about.

  “I don’t like it,” Keasling said. “The kid shouldn’t be here.”

  “It’s all right, General.” The voice, recognizable to everyone in the room, and most Americans, came from the large screen built into the front wall of the room. To the team he was Deep Blue, their handler. To everyone else, he was the president of the United States. On screen they could see the man’s balding head, charming smile, and kind, gray eyes. The only thing marring his presidential image were a few small scars on his cheeks and eyebrows, reminders of his years as an Army Ranger.

  Keasling turned toward the screen that offered them a view of the Oval Office and the hidden camera that allowed Deep Blue to see all of them on his laptop. He nodded. “Mr. President.”

  “She deserves some answers,” Knight said. “It’s been nearly a year.”

  “Agreed,” Deep Blue said, “but I’m afraid all we have is more questions. And a lead.” He looked at Keasling. “Show them.”

  Keasling opened a folder on the tabletop and took out an opened envelope. It was addressed to Jack Sigler. “We’ve been monitoring King’s e-mails and snail mail—” He caught Rook’s aghast expression. “With King’s approval. This came in today. The letter was opened and red-flagged twenty minutes ago.”

  He took out photocopies of the page and passed them around the room. They all read the brief note quickly.

  King,

  Keep them safe.

  25°21'5.17"S

  131° 2'1.07"E

  Akala Dugabu

  Balun Ammaroo

  Warrah Ammaroo

  Elouera Kurindi

  Jerara Mundjagora

  14°49'51.03"N

  107°33'41.22"E

  Any you left alive.

  “Ahh shit.” Rook looked at Fiona. “Sorry.”

  She shrugged. “What’s wrong?”

  “The second set of coordinates,” Bishop said, shaking his head slowly. “We recognize them.”

  “Where is it?” she asked.

  “The stomping ground of some of our old acquaintances,” Rook replied. “Mount Meru. Vietnam.”

  Fiona’s eyes went wide and she sucked in a quick breath. She’d spent the last year being regaled with stories of the Chess Team’s adventures and the creatures, madmen, and amazing science they’d encountered. She knew that Mount Meru was where Bishop found the crystal that hung around his neck, where Queen received the bright red scar on her forehead, and where Rook had been made Alpha male by the last surviving Neanderthal Queen. “Red.”

  “That’s right,” Keasling said, crossing his arms, which was the general’s body language for: don’t bother trying to argue with what’s coming next. “Rook. Queen. You’ll be headed back to the Annamite Mountains. You will search for any hybrid or Neanderthal survivors. Should you find any, tranquilize them and bring them home. The Vietnamese government is still embarrassed as hell over what happened last year, so there were no issues getting you clearance to return to the site.”

  Rook leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And I’m going because…”

  “Because, sweet cheeks, you’re the least likely to get killed.” Keasling smiled. “Being ‘the Father’ an’ all.”

  “Just making sure.”

  “And the other location?” Bisho
p asked.

  “Uluru, Australia.”

  “Ayers Rock,” Knight said. “These are aboriginal names.”

  Keasling nodded. “Glad to see at least one of you has learned something this year. The coordinates are on the southern side of the rock. No one has lived there for ten thousand years. The site is mostly a tourist trap now, but we think these people are there now, or will be soon.”

  “Listen guys,” Deep Blue said, “we all know what happened to the Siletz Reservation last year, so we have to assume that these people are in danger, too.”

  “Why not just call some government blokes in Australia and have them pick up the people?” Fiona asked Deep Blue, tinging the words “blokes in Australia” with an Australian accent.

  He smiled. He hadn’t had much time to see Fiona, but the regular reports he got from the team included updates on the girl. He knew she was intelligent, straightforward, and genuine. He would try to be the same for her. “Given the identity of the person sending the message—”

  “Hercules,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Riiight.”

  Deep Blue cleared his throat. “And the unusual circumstances surrounding the destruction of the reservation, not to mention the amount of red tape and time it would take to interview the survivors, who may be in grave danger, would bring our investigation to a standstill. Good enough?”

  Fiona grinned. It wasn’t lost on her that the president, the man her grandmother had voted for, had just answered her question very seriously. “Quite,” she said.

  “Any more questions?” Keasling said.

  Aleman raised his long arm. “I didn’t receive any briefing on this and there seems to be no relevant tech in need of explanation.”

  “And…”

  “Why, exactly, am I here?”

  Keasling raised his hands toward Fiona. “Babysitting duty.”

  Aleman sighed. “Ahh. Right.”

  “It’s dangerous work, I know,” said Keasling. “Try not to get yourself killed.”

  The smiles around the room were impossible to hide. Lewis Aleman was a dangerous man in his time. But since an injury took him off field work he’d spent most of his time behind a computer. Watching Fiona was a welcome change. He turned to Fiona. “We’ll bust out the Master Sergeant and kill us some aliens.”

  She grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

  “Adorable,” Keasling grumbled, then raised his voice. “Wheels up in thirty minutes. Night is falling on the other side of the planet and we want you back in the air and on your way home by sunrise.”

  SIX

  Richmond, Virgina

  KING’S EGGS WERE cold, not to mention runny. The burnt toast chewed up as well as a slab of cardboard. The orange juice was watered down. And the sausage, cheap as it was, encased more cartilage than pork. But the breakfast, courtesy of his father’s favorite hometown diner, was like heaven coated in maple syrup compared to the silence between King and his father.

  What could be said to a son you deserted? To a father you’d put out of your mind? A lot, King knew, but he wasn’t ready. Not by a long shot.

  After ten minutes and one forced-down sausage, King had had enough. He’d faced down the world’s most dangerous terrorists, the mythical Hydra reborn, and a horde of Neanderthal women. He could handle his father. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Did you make it to the funeral?”

  His father looked up briefly, met King’s eyes, and then returned his gaze to his rubbery pancakes, which still held two miniature ice cream scoops of butter. “Nope.” He squished the butter with his fork, oozing the congealed paste through the tines. “I only found out two days ago and the bus was slow.”

  “Where were you coming from?”

  “Butner.”

  King sat up straighter. “North Carolina?”

  “Yeah, you know it?”

  King chuckled and shook his head. “I’m stationed at Fort Bragg. You’ve been living two hours from me. Butner … Must have been one slow bus.”

  The diner door slammed shut as a patron left. Peter jumped, looking at the door and then taking a quick look around the room. He relaxed again and squinted. “What?” When King’s statement registered, he took a deep breath and found the courage to ignore the subject. “How’s that working out for you? The military?”

  “It’s a living.”

  “Deployed?”

  “A few times.”

  “Anywhere interesting?”

  “Haven’t left the planet yet.” King didn’t want to talk about himself, so he quickly U-turned the conversation back to his father. “I thought you went to California.”

  “It didn’t take.”

  “Couldn’t find any of those California girls to take care of you?” King inwardly winced at his low blow. He had no idea what the temperament of his father was like now. As a child, the man wouldn’t have stood for King’s “flack,” but now …

  “You’re not going to turn this into a soap opera, are you?” his father said without a hint of humor.

  The man hadn’t changed a bit.

  But King had. He didn’t have to sit and listen to his father. “Nice seeing you, Pop.” He placed a twenty-dollar bill on the table and stood. He stopped briefly to admire the diner’s Elvis clock and headed for the exit.

  “Jack, hold on,” his father said.

  King hadn’t had a father since his teen years and he’d long ago grown accustomed to that fact. No father was better than a bad father. He continued toward the exit. Seeing the man had only reinforced his fears about caring for Fiona. The man’s blood was his own. If fatherhood was hereditary, he would eventually fail the girl. When he knew she was safe again, he’d make sure she found a good family to take care of her.

  “Jack. Stop.”

  King paused for a moment, but not because of his father’s voice. Something deep within had struck home. A pang of guilt, only a quiet whisper before, had been revealed for what it was. Without even realizing it, King was planning to do exactly what his father had done. He was going to give her up. He was going to leave her.

  Feeling sick to his stomach, King reached for the door.

  “King, wait!”

  He stopped, his fist gripping the door’s push-bar, the bells just starting to jingle. He turned back to his father. “What did you just say?”

  His father looked stunned by the incredulous look in King’s eyes and fidgeted uncomfortably as King pounded back toward him.

  Waitresses, expecting a fight, stepped behind the long counter. Patrons swiveled in their chairs, turning their backs to the pair, not wanting to be involved. King stopped at the table, placed his fists on its surface, and leaned over his father. “How do you know that name?”

  His father gave an awkward smile. “I named you, Jack.”

  King reached under his coat, pulled out his handgun, and placed it on the table. It was the second time that day he’d threatened his father with the gun, but this time it was not an accident. “You … called … me … King.”

  “Must have heard the nickname from your mother.”

  “Mom didn’t know it.”

  “Well, I—”

  Without raising the gun, King cocked the hammer. “Who are you?”

  “I’m your father.”

  “Who else are you?”

  King’s father cleared his throat. He stared at the table like he was in shock, but then all his fear and worry melted away. An act. A smile crept onto his face. “You know what, you’re right. The time for games is over. Why don’t we go back to the house? Have a glass of your mother’s lemonade.”

  “It’s gone. I finished it.”

  “Don’t worry, Jack. I’m sure she’ll have made some more by the time we get there.”

  SEVEN

  Annamite Mountains, Vietnam

  THE SMELL OF the jungle—moist earth and organic rot—hit Rook like a childhood nightmare, bringing back memories of fear, suffering, and the stuff of monsters made real. When the Chess Team last set foot in the
mountainous region of Vietnam known as the Annamite Convergence Zone, where Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia’s borders merged, they had not only come face-to-face with the last remnants of mankind’s Neanderthal ancestors, but also their modern-day hybrid brood. Not to mention Vietnam’s now disbanded special forces unit known as the Death Volunteers.

  Rook looked at Queen, whose black face paint covered the star-and-skull brand she’d received at the hands of the Death Volunteers. To her credit, she seemed unfazed by their return to the site of her torture. Of course, she was Queen. He expected nothing less.

  They stood in darkness at the edge of the jungle, looking at the concave remains of Mount Meru cast in shades of green through their night vision goggles. Hidden inside the mountain had been the last city of the Neanderthal people; a masterpiece of ancient construction lit by the refracting light of giant crystals, it was the inspiration for the design of Ankgor Wat in Cambodia. But now the place was a ruin.

  Every entrance had been crushed. Brush and saplings had already begun to reclaim the clearing that housed the hybrid workforce, where Rook and Queen had made a half-naked dash through the rain before facing off against a hybrid and two tigers. All that remained were shards of stone spear tips flattened into the earth.

  The place was dead.

  “No one has walked here, let alone lived here, since we left,” Queen said.

  Rook knelt and pried a stone ax head from the earth. He felt its still sharp blade with his thumb. “Don’t forget that these guys almost inherited the earth,” he said. “Wouldn’t have hesitated to kill either of us.”

  “I remember…”

  “Then you might also remember that they didn’t always walk on the ground.” Rook motioned up with his head.