Director Romero? What are you doing here?” Ms. Skoglund asked, her eyes wide with shock.
“I’m sorry,” Lobo said, smiling as he walked into the light. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Instead of a uniform, he was dressed casually in a ski jacket, blue jeans, and work boots. Agent Graves stood behind him in a driving cap, scarf, and a long coat that was big enough to hide at least one gun.
“You didn’t. It’s just that . . . well . . .” Ms. Skoglund looked at the floorboards. “I know this might seem strange, but . . .”
“Now that you mention it, a midnight rendezvous between a teacher and student is a bit odd,” Lobo said, his manner calm. “Particularly since Cadet McAlister isn’t in any of your classes. Or am I mistaken?”
“No, sir, you’re not.”
“It’s not her fault,” Colt said. “I asked her to meet me.”
Lobo raised a single eyebrow.
“I overheard my grandpa on the phone this afternoon,” Colt said. “He was talking about something called Operation Nemesis, but when I asked him about it, he wouldn’t tell me anything. I figured Ms. Skoglund would know what it was.”
“And what did you find out?”
Colt looked over at Ms. Skoglund, then stared at the ground.
“That’s not an answer,” Lobo said. He took a step toward Colt and his eyes narrowed. “Tell me what you know.”
“That it had something to do with Senator Bishop . . . and that he didn’t die from a heart attack.” Colt made sure he was looking directly into Lobo’s eyes. “He was murdered.”
“I haven’t seen mention of that in any of the reports.”
Colt shrugged. “Your name came up too.”
“Really?”
“They think you did it.”
Lobo grabbed him by the shirt and drove him against a post. “Don’t play games with me, boy,” he said, his lip curled into a snarl. “I want to know everything that you heard.”
Colt struggled to breathe, and Lobo relaxed his grip, though not by much. “Operation Nemesis is a covert project where you’re working with an assassin to eliminate people like Senator Bishop, or anyone else who threatens to cut your funding or replace you.”
“I don’t suppose you were accessing files that you weren’t supposed to see, were you, Kirsten?” Lobo asked, though he didn’t bother looking at Ms. Skoglund.
“It doesn’t matter,” Colt said. “They already knew.”
“And who is they?”
“The Department of Alien Affairs. They’ve been investigating you for over a year.”
Lobo smiled. “They need me, you know. The politicians might not admit it—not to you or the reporters or the sheep that vote them into office, but it’s true. They rely on men like me to do the work they aren’t willing to do.”
“Murdering innocent people?”
“Innocent? Tell me something . . . when the Thule come in force—and they will—who do you think will stand on the front lines? The politicians? Their sons and daughters? Of course not. Yet they sit in their ivory towers and slash our funding so they can pander to voters . . . the same voters who will be slaughtered because we don’t have the weapons to defend ourselves. And I’m the murderer? I’ve done everything I can to save the masses, and if that calls for a few casualties along the way, then so be it!”
As Colt watched over Lobo’s shoulder, Agent Graves morphed into Heinrich Krone. The assassin pulled out an H&K USP 45 with a tactical light mounted beneath the barrel. He pointed it at Ms. Skoglund, and that’s when the lights went out.
She took advantage of the diversion and ducked behind the old Ford before he could fire his weapon. At the same time, a red light no bigger than the tip of a drinking straw danced across Krone’s chest. It bobbed like a gnat until it landed in the middle of his forehead.
“Get down!” Lobo shouted.
There was a pop, followed by the sound of shattering glass. A tranquilizer dart ripped through the barn, narrowly missing Krone before it bit into the wall. At the same time, metal canisters the size of soda cans broke through the windows, filling the room with noxious smoke.
Men in riot gear burst through doors and windows, the beams from their tactical lights crisscrossing through the darkness like incandescent threads of spiderweb. They were dressed in black from their helmets and ski masks to their gloves and boots. Each wore infrared goggles, and they were armed. Colt thought he could see Giru Ba, and he couldn’t tell if Grandpa was standing next to the Ford. His eyes burned from all the smoke.
“We’ll take the tunnels!” Lobo ran toward one of the stalls, but Krone hesitated. He dug into his pocket, pulled out a concussion grenade, and set the detonator.
“Grenade!” Colt shouted.
The safe choice would have been to get as far away from the barn as he could, but when Colt heard the sound of a door slamming shut, he knew where Lobo and Krone had gone. There must have been an entrance to the underground tunnel system hidden in the floorboards, and Colt wasn’t about to let them get away. He dived into the stall and scrambled on his hands and knees, his fingers searching for the entrance.
“Come on!”
His fingers finally found a brass handle on the floor, and he pried the trapdoor open as a shockwave shook the building. Bats shrieked, windows exploded, and the ceiling caved in as he slipped into the darkness. He didn’t fall far, but the ground was hard and air burst out of his lungs.
The darkness was suffocating, and the walls felt like a tomb as he lay still, listening for any sound of Lobo or Krone. All he could hear was a constant ringing sound, which he figured was an aftereffect of the grenade. He pulled out his LED flashlight and flicked it on. He was in an empty room with cement block walls and a low ceiling that exposed rafters overrun by cobwebs.
“Colt . . . can you hear me?” Danielle asked. Her voice sounded faint, and there was a slight crackle, but Colt was just happy that he wasn’t deaf. “Please tell me you made it out of there.”
“Not exactly.” He stood on uneasy legs. “I’m in some kind of cellar under the barn. Where’s Ms. Skoglund?”
“She’s safe, and so is your grandpa,” Danielle said. “Did you see what happened to Lobo and Krone?”
“They’re down here with me.”
“What?”
Colt walked over to a wooden door that creaked as he opened it. On the other side was a narrow corridor choked in shadow. “It looks like the cellar connects with that tunnel system beneath the campus. There’s no way we’re going to find him.”
“Wait a minute,” Danielle said.
Colt could hear what sounded like a zipper, followed by a sound of shuffling papers. “Okay, I found the map that shows the tunnel system. I can’t see any other entry or exit points near the barn.”
“What about the river?” If Lobo couldn’t get to his SUV, the water was his best bet for escape.
“There’s a boathouse about a quarter mile north.”
“That’s where he went.”
“But—”
“Look, I know what you’re going to say, but I have to finish this,” Colt said. “Tell Giru Ba to send a team of agents over there, and I’ll make sure they don’t come back this way.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“I’ll be okay. But I’m going to need your help.”
He decided not to use the flashlight. Lobo and Krone would be able to see a light long before he saw either of them. He’d rely on Danielle and her map to guide him through the twists and turns instead.
“Okay, you should see a slow curve up to the left,” Danielle said. “Once you make it past that, it should only be about two hundred yards to the boathouse.”
Colt stopped. He thought he heard voices. He crept forward, careful not to shuffle or scrape his boot against the ground. Up ahead, tiny eyes flashed yellow, and he could just make out the silhouette of what looked like a possum or a very large rat. It stared at him for a long moment before it turned and skittered into the shadows.
Suddenly the silence was overwhelming. The voices had stopped, but Colt pressed forward, each step an act of the will. His mouth was dry. His hands itched. He turned cautiously around the corner and something heavy hit him in the chest, knocking him to the ground.