6:06 p.m.
1 hour 54 minutes until Cassandra’s deadline Lien-hua, Ralph, and I skidded to a stop in front of the huge, slithering blaze that had all but consumed Building B-14. The ocean stretched like a dull smear of oil in the background.
A cluster of military personnel, firefighters, and even a smattering of what appeared to be privately hired security detail scurried around the burning building. Thankfully, the fire’s location on the amphib base precluded a crowd of civilian onlookers.
Ferocious bursts of flame crackled and flared from the building, and the air all around us was scorched hot with soot and ash. The rigid heat from the flames kept us at a distance, but I caught sight of the Navy Fire Suppression Unit doing their best to direct their streams of water at the flames licking out of the windows. They aimed four hoses at the heart of the building, but in reply, the fire just ate the roof and roared toward the night sky.
Austin Hunter had made it out of the building just in time.
He crouched low, scanned the area. Clear.
Now, to get off the island and save Cassandra.
General Biscayne crept down the stairs and peered between the curtains, the revolver he always kept under his pillow gripped tightly in his hand.
A car in his driveway.
A man walking up the stone path to his door.
Military uniform.
Not Sebastian Taylor.
But who?
Then Cole recognized him: Sergeant Bier, one of his assistants in the Department of Defense. Cole lowered his gun. Opened the door just as Sergeant Bier was about to knock.
The sergeant saw the gun in Cole’s hand and froze. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes, of course. What is it, Sergeant?”
“Project Rukh, sir.” The sergeant kept his eye trained on the general’s gun. “There’s a problem. There’s been a security breach in Building B-14.”
“What?”
“A fire. I was told to deliver the message in person. They believe the fire was intentional, sir.”
The general felt his gut tighten.
It had to be Victor Drake. It had to be.
So, Drake wanted to play it like this, huh? In order to hide his failure in completing the project, he decides to burn down the research facility that the military was providing him. Then he could just use the fire as an excuse for not delivering the device.
It sounded exactly like something a spoiled, self-centered billionaire would try. OK. You want to play hardball; it’s time to play hardball.
“Contact the members of the oversight committee,” General Biscayne said as he spun away from the door. “And arrange for an immediate flight to San Diego. It looks like I’ll be meeting with Mr. Drake a day early.”