FRANCESCA CURLED INTO THE CORNER of the couch. Emptiness gnawed at her insides. It was her new state of being, and nothing in the world could change it. Her husband was dead, the world thought she and her friends were terrorists, and—
She grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it.
Lacey placed a hand on hers. “It’s going to be okay.”
Francesca sensed the lack of conviction in her friend’s words, and that made her feel even worse. At thirty-three, Lacey was six years younger than Francesca, and despite the emotional and physical torment they’d faced the past week, the blond actress still looked like a college coed. Her zest for life and fearless determination made it seem as if nothing fazed her. Usually that was the case, but not now. Francesca’s empathic gift allowed her to see beyond Lacey’s facade, and they both knew it. They were wearing casual clothes but felt like they were at a funeral.
Lacey sighed. “I’m scared, too.”
Marshall and Tony rose from the dining table to join them. Jake’s best friends both looked worn out. They felt the pain of Jake’s loss as deeply as Francesca did.
“We’re all scared,” Marshall said as he sat next to his wife.
Tony sat across from them. The seasoned cop’s New York accent was thicker than usual. “But that don’t mean we ain’t gonna get through it,” he said. His wife and two kids had been at the airport to meet them when they returned from Hong Kong. Francesca had envied their long group hug, until Tony’s relief at seeing his family vanished when the video of Jake was splashed across the TV monitors.
It had been doctored to appear as if Jake had admitted guilt to the very string of terrorist acts he and his friends had prevented. When similar videos appeared featuring Tony and the others, Tony had pulled out all the stops to move his family to a safe house. His wife had been furious, insisting they stay together. But Tony wouldn’t have it. The target was on his back, not theirs, and he wasn’t about to place them in harm’s way. Again.
Francesca had wanted to send her children with them, but Doc had convinced her otherwise. They’d been part of what had happened in Hong Kong, and he’d insisted the kids would be safer in his care along with the rest of them. She’d finally agreed, but since then she’d had a growing sense it might have been a mistake. It was why she’d just agreed to Tony’s plan.
She followed Tony’s glance at the open bedroom door at the rear end of the suite. The sliding glass door was open, and Doc stood on the walkway overlooking the pool. Sixty-eight-year-old Dr. Albert Finnegan headed up a clandestine arm of The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA) stationed in a secret underground facility, nicknamed Area 52, in Northern Nevada. Doc had met Jake eight years ago, shortly after the first alien pyramid had been launched, and he’d been a close family friend ever since. He knew the videos were a lie and was doing everything in his power to protect Francesca and her friends. But he still worked for the government, and that meant he bore the brunt of the pressure from those in power who weren’t convinced of their innocence.
It was the same around the world. The outcry against Jake and his friends was brutal, fueled by radicals who claimed vindication for their beliefs that America was the true Satan, spawning its own form of terror across the globe. The faked video admission by Jake—that he’d been responsible for the launch of the alien grid that nearly destroyed the planet—was all the proof they needed. The voices from the few who knew better, like Doc, were quickly drowned out. But that didn’t shake Doc’s determination to keep them safe until the world could be made to see the truth.
So when Doc’s team first saw the anonymous postings featuring photos of the secret blast doors at Area 52, accompanied by claims that Jake and the rest of them were being housed there, he’d been quick to react. He’d feared someone in his organization had leaked the information, and when he learned a team was en route from Washington, DC, “to take the terrorists off your hands,” he’d decided to move them to a new location that even his superiors didn’t know existed. Doing so without approval would likely cost him his job, but he hadn’t hesitated.
Doc was speaking to someone on the phone, and the deep furrow between his bushy white eyebrows told Francesca the conversation wasn’t going his way. When he noticed her concerned stare, he turned away. He was a good man who’d been fiercely loyal to Jake. The thought of betraying his trust didn’t sit well with her.
“This traffic rift could be just the thing,” Tony whispered. “It might be a hell of a lot easier to break away here than waiting until we get to the new location.”
“In broad daylight?” Marshall asked. “With hundreds of people outside who might recognize us? The last time I checked the darknet, the reward on our heads was approaching two million dollars. And when I say ‘on our heads,’ I mean it literally, because the only reason they want us taken alive is so they can behead us on live TV.”
Francesca shivered. Marshall had explained earlier that the darknet, or deep web, was the restricted-access portion of the internet utilized by the underworld, where drugs, arms, even children could be bought and sold anonymously without fear of tracking by the authorities. It was a panacea for criminals and terrorists around the world, and unnamed radical groups were fueling the fervor for the capture of Jake and his friends—with a growing pot of money.
Crowdfunding at its worst.
Lacey said, “It doesn’t matter. We’ve got to do it. I love Doc for trying to protect us, but we’ve got to get out from under the government’s thumb while we still can.”
“What about wheels?” Marshall asked.
“You kiddin’?” Tony said. “We’re surrounded by parked cars.” He pulled a folded wire coat hanger from under the couch. “And I’ve got a skeleton key.”
Tony’s smile was forced. The normal twinkle in the big man’s expression was gone, and that spoke volumes to Francesca. If tough-as-nails Tony was worried, they were in big trouble. How would they survive out there on their own? A selfish part of her wished the friends who had been with them at the airport had stuck around. But once the videos appeared, the homecoming celebration had broken up quickly. Jake’s Air Force pals Cal and Kenny, who had yet to be implicated, had reluctantly returned to their duty station in San Diego, and Tony’s family had been whisked away by a couple of his cop buddies. Becker and Jonesy had wanted to leave, but they’d been front and center on the videos so Doc’s government team had insisted they remain. Becker had winked and said, “Sure, mate. No worries.” But ten minutes later the Australian Special Forces operatives had vanished into the crowd, and by now were lying low in the outback. As for Lacey’s friends Pete and Skylar, whose help had meant the difference between life and death for all of them, they’d scoffed at the notion of accepting protection from the government. Hollywood was the stunt team’s home turf, and they’d insisted they could take care of themselves.
It’s just us, Francesca thought, searching for courage in the eyes of her friends but not finding it. Jake’s death had taken a piece of each of them. And they don’t even know the worst of it yet. She choked back a sob. They looked at her, and the deep concern that radiated from them broke her resolve. She burst into tears.
Lacey moved to embrace her. “We’ll find a way past this.”
Francesca shook her off. “No, we won’t. I won’t.” She dropped her face into her hands. Her voice quaked. “It’s Alex.”
“Oh,” Marshall said with a sigh. “Of course. What he’s been through is unthinkable. It’s no wonder he hasn’t spoken a word since it happened.”
“He’s a tough kid,” Tony said. “We’ll stand by him. He’ll snap out—”
“No!” she cried. “He won’t snap out of anything. He’s extremely sick.”
“Huh?” Tony said.
“My boy,” she said between sniffles. “He’s dying.”
“W-what?” Lacey said.
Marshall gaped.
Tony leaned forward and placed a hand on her knee. “No. How?”
The words tumbled out of her. “I found out that morning. Before we were all taken. I was going to tell Jake that night, but now…” Her chest hitched.
“Dear God,” Lacey said.
They let her cry for a moment, not pressing her with the questions she knew were spiraling through their minds. Marshall rushed to the bathroom and returned with a box of Kleenex. She took one and dabbed her eyes and face. “The doctor said his body’s cells are aging out of control. He wanted to bring Alex in for a bunch of tests.”
“But he seems fine,” Marshall said.
Tony said, “It’s gotta be a mistake.”
She shook her head. “No. Not a mistake. There were a few subtle changes over the past few months that I ignored—his hair growing faster, his voice breaking a couple times, and even when Jake commented that his physical coordination playing catch had seemingly improved overnight.” She bit her lower lip. “I discounted it all, attributing it to an early onset of puberty. Then, two weeks ago…” Her gaze lost focus as she relived the moment. “I was holding his hand when I noticed the texture of his skin had lost its softness, and when he returned my gaze, I saw something in his expression that reminded me of my grandfather. Alex has always seemed wise beyond his years, but this was something different, and the closer I looked the more I realized his eyes had actually changed. It was as if they’d lost some of their luster.” She shivered at the memory. “That’s when I took him to the specialist. He ran a full battery of tests, and I played it off to Alex as a special physical the whole family was going to have after everything we’d been through. I met with the doctor last week to go over the results. They were irrefutable. Alex’s body is aging too fast, and the doctor’s not sure why. But the tests he conducted so far indicated it’s not something that was inherent since birth, like progeria or other aging syndromes. In Alex’s case, the genetic anomaly appears to have been recently acquired from some...external source.”
“External source?” Tony asked hesitantly.
Lacey gasped. “Oh my God.”
“The grid,” Marshall said. “He was connected to it.”
“Damn,” Tony said. “How long before, uh…I mean—”
“S-six months.”