Page 2 of The Lazarus Protocol

Someone screamed.

The van door slid closed, and the vehicle sped away as quickly as it had come.

Steph picked up her pace to a run, clipping a woman as she passed. “Sorry.”

Pain thrummed through the outside of her arm, a stinging sensation she dismissed. What they’d done to Dr. Warrington was far worse than an insect bite. She sucked in a breath, catching her knees before her legs gave out beside the man she’d been trying to convert to a CIA asset.

Blood coated his lips and the front of his shirt. Both eyes were swollen completely shut, and several of his fingernails had been removed. The only identifying feature was the name badge from that Edinburgh conference clipped to his shirt pocket.

Steph turned away, and the world swam around her. Realizing something was very wrong with her, she managed to reach up and clasp the necklace she wore. Then she squeezed the buttons on the top and bottom of the vial-shaped device.

Noise buzzed in her ears.

She took a step, her limbs like leaden weights she had to drag along. A vehicle pulled in front of her, far too close. Not the van again. This was a silver car.

The back passenger-side door was opened from inside.

Steph tried to turn away when someone caught her, holding her up. A woman. She smelled like jasmine. No.

The open car door loomed in front of her.

No.

TWO

Undisclosed Location, West Virginia

Noah Rourke took the switchbacks fast, wishing he were on his motorcycle for this and not driving the most boring car in the universe. But the title was clean, and it was registered to him at the address where his business was technically based.

Making sure it was all above board was boring as all get-out, sure. But driving up to the entrance where their security would run his plates, do facial rec on his mug, and probably use some kind of X-ray to see the VIN number of the car—and where the steel pin resided in his spine—he had to have impeccable credentials to get in the front door.

Especially if the whole point was to convince the CIA to trust him.

Later, he could take his bike out for a ride.

“Morning, sir.” The guard stared down at him through wraparound sunglasses. White shirt, black slacks, and a gun on his hip. But Noah wasn’t going to make the mistake of underestimating the⁠—

Noah held out his credentials and did a double take. “Billy Frampton?”

The guard tipped his head back and laughed. “Only frogmen call me Billy.” He snatched the IDs out of Noah’s hand.

“I recognized you on account of your inherent resolve.” Noah figured the guy would remember the operation the USS Harry S. Truman had been on the year his SEAL team were on board for precisely two weeks. Long enough to cause plenty of problems. But they had completed the mission.

“I still gotta run your name.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Noah put the car in Park and waited while Billy went to his guard shack and sat at the computer. Probably should’ve mentioned his appointment with Division Chief Thomas Kraus.

His phone vibrated from the clasp on his dash, and his brother’s name flashed on the screen, backed by an image of Caleb smiling with his wife. It was still odd to see the guy actually smile. Same way it was odd to see someone who looked so identically like Noah with a woman.

Go figure.

Noah slid his finger across the screen. “Hey, bro. I’m at the entrance of you-know-where.”

“I won’t keep you long.”

“He’s running my ID now,” Noah said. Huge black walnut trees flanked both sides of the asphalt lane in front of him, blue sky stretched above them with clouds threatening from the east. Chain link, topped by razor wire. Yeah, this entrance made the place look like an upscale prison. Hopefully, he wouldn’t end up having to Shawshank his way out.

“That why I’m getting flashes of nerves?” Caleb said.