Bloodline

Everything looked deserted, untouched.



“Over here,” Tucker called quietly. “I think we found something.”



Kane sniffed furiously at one of the doors along a curved bay of elevators.



Gray crossed toward him, collecting Seichan along the way.



She stood off by herself, staring into one of the aquarium pillars, her face unreadable. As he reached her, she nodded to the glowing and swirling pillar of jellyfish in front of her, reading the sign.



“It’s a giant hybrid of Turritopsis nutricula.”



He shook his head, not understanding.



“At the end of this species’ life, the adult jellyfish reverts back to a juvenile state. This cycle repeats over and over again, starting fresh each time.”



She stared over at the bloodied girl. Her eyes were damp with tears, possibly seeing herself lying there. Did she wish for such a chance—for both of them—to be reborn, to start again pure and untainted, to have their childhoods back?



“The process makes the jellyfish immortal,” she whispered.



He nodded, understanding this unusual marvel of nature.



No wonder it’s the mascot for the Eternal Tower.



But Seichan had a different viewpoint about life everlasting and mumbled it aloud. “It’s so horrible.”



Gray didn’t comment as she turned away. He followed silently with her and allowed her to work through her grief, to process it. He did keep close to her side, letting fingers brush along the back of her hand, the one that had thrown the dagger.



He expected her to pull away, but she didn’t.



They joined Tucker and Kane.



Kowalski stood nearby, neck craned, staring up, following the coil of the crystal staircase through the heart of the eternally spiraling tower.



Gray followed his gaze.



Again nagged by something.



Something about the shape …



6:47 P.M. EST



Washington, DC



The DNA molecule slowly spiraled on the computer screen, a dance of code that mapped out the human body in all its glory—but this fragment of genetic material was unlike anything Painter had ever seen diagramed. A third strand snaked within the heart of the typical double helix.



“What do you make of it?” Painter asked, using the mystery here to keep him distracted from his worries about Kat and Lisa.



“It’s a triple helix,” Renny Quinn said, his voice flush with awe. “The Holy Grail of genetics.”



Renny leaned his large fists on Kat’s desk to stare closer. Sigma’s resident biogeneticist had been summoned to help Painter sift through the huge volume of data coming from that lab’s servers. The man was of Irish descent, with a ruddy complexion and dark auburn stubble over his scalp and cheeks. He was also a former college boxer—which included a fair amount of bare-knuckle brawling, a habit that got him discharged from the army rangers.



Afterward, Sigma grabbed him. Renny proved the stories true of men with big hands—but in his case, it meant he had a huge brain. And Renny was going to need it to slog through this mountain of data.



The files from Charleston arrived disordered and unclassified, much of it in raw code. Kat must not have had time to pare the data down to the most essential files. Instead, what arrived was the definition of a data dump—a load far more than the SD card in her pen could handle. A lot of the files came corrupted, others not fully decrypted. As a consequence, it could take days, if not weeks, to decipher, decode, and repair the damaged files.



Still, it didn’t take a computer engineer to ascertain that most of the files dealt with advanced genetics and reproductive studies, all tracing directly or indirectly back to this one image.



“A triple helix of DNA,” Painter said, staring at the monitor, as perplexed as he was intrigued.



“Actually …” Renny leaned over and dragged a finger down two of the spiraling backbones. “These strands are deoxyribonucleic acid, or DNA. The third—this snake wrapped around the tree of life—is peptide nucleic acid, or PNA.”



Renny tapped the new helix. “This strand is artificial. Man engineered this, not God. What we’re looking at is the result of cybergenetics, the merging of biology and technology.”



“Is that even possible?”



“Not only possible. It’s been done. A team over at the University of Copenhagen have already managed to insert a PNA strand between two DNA strands. In a test tube, of course. But the only obstacle to moving their research to the next stage is a simple hurdle.” Renny nodded to the screen. “That triple helical assembly isn’t stable in water. Build a raincoat around that strand and the whole world changes.”



Painter frowned up at him. “What do you mean?”



Renny explained. “Our entire genetic code is built on four chemical bases: guanine, adenine, thymine, and cytosine. G, A, T, C. From that four-letter vocabulary, all life is formed.” He cocked an eye at the spiraling molecule. “But PNA is not restricted to those four letters. Can you imagine what could be created with more letters of the alphabet? We could rewrite mankind.”



Despite Renny’s obvious excitement, Painter imagined only horrors.



“But far more importantly,” Renny pressed, “this cyberstrand of PNA can be designed to specifically turn on and off certain genes. PNA has already been used to cure a form of muscular dystrophy in lab mice. But that’s just the beginning. The potential is limitless. We’re talking about blocking cancer, treating hundreds of genetic diseases, even extending life.”



Renny stared longingly at the computer. “If DNA holds the key to life … then PNA is its lock pick. For whoever holds that tool in hand, nothing would be impossible.”



Painter’s dismay grew darker, picturing the lab in Charleston, the women floating in tanks.



Jason tapped at the open office door and saved him from having to ponder worse. “Director, I’m sorry to interrupt, but we just finished receiving an extremely large file from Charleston. I thought you might like to see it. The folder’s name is HISTORY AND ORIGINS.”



Painter sat straighter, happy to forgo any more biological discussions for now. He wanted to get to the root of everything and that file name sounded promising: history and origins.



Jason dashed some of that hope. “But, sir, the folder is badly corrupted. We’re working on it, but I can forward what we have so far, a couple odd pictures and documents.”



“Do it,” Painter said.



Jason pointed to the computer. “Already done.”



No wonder Kat loves this kid.



Painter swung to the keyboard and clicked open the first few uncorrupted documents. A drawing filled the screen.



It showed a trio of men, in colonial attire, with their arms clasped together: gripping right hands above their heads and left hands below. In both of the upper corners of the sketch, a three-headed snake coiled.



“What is this?” Painter mumbled, not expecting an answer—but he got one.



“That’s the Holy Royal Arch,” Renny said, sounding equally surprised to know the answer.



Painter turned to him. “How do you know that?”



“Because I’m a member of the guild.” Renny must have read Painter’s stunned look. “Not that Guild. I’m talking about the Masons. My family has been members going back to our time in Ireland.”



Painter pointed to the screen. “And this?”



“Don’t know a whole lot about it. What’s drawn there is the ritual of three-times-three, a sacred number in freemasonry. It’s a part of the initiation into the Royal Arch Degree, but plenty of mystery surrounds that exclusive degree, like its exact origin. It’s said to be tied back to the Knights Templar. The three-times-three ritual … in other words, nine … represents the original nine founding members of the Knights Templar.”



Painter stared at the screen. What is this drawing doing on the servers of a genetics lab?



Despite the oddity, he had a suspicion of the answer—but only because of the previous discussion with Renny. Painter studied the three men entwined together, the three-headed snakes. It was eerily similar to the three-stranded helix, three wound together as one. Even Renny had used the term a snake wrapped around the tree of life to describe the triple helix.



Painter read the annotation at the bottom of the drawing, stating the source: a book titled Duncan’s Masonic Ritual and Monitor, printed back in 1866.



How could a book dated almost a century and a half ago be referencing—at least symbolically—a triple helix?



Painter was reminded of the file folder’s name.



History and Origins



Sensing the importance here, he wanted the rest of this folder decrypted as soon as possible—if it was possible.



Jason suddenly dashed back to the door with grim news. “Director! We just lost connection to Charleston. The feed from Captain Bryant’s device suddenly ceased in midtransmission.”



Painter sat straighter. “The pen’s battery? Did it die?”



“No, sir. This time we were monitoring the charge levels. It was still good.”



Painter’s heart sank, knowing there was only one explanation left.



Jason stated it aloud. “Someone must have discovered her bug and disabled it.”



But what did that mean for Kat?



26



July 2, 6:48 P.M. EST



Charleston, South Carolina



“Find them!”



Kat slipped silently into a side room off the dark lab hallway. Before disappearing inside, she caught a peek of Dr. Marshall at the far end, storming out of her office, surrounded by a cadre of security guards.



“Split up! Search every closet, storage space, and lab on both sides!”



Kat closed the door quietly, struggling with the handle due to her greasy palm. The room was lit only by the glowing screensaver of a computer monitor. Again it depicted that strange triple helix. Kat hoped the files she’d been downloading had reached somebody at Sigma.



As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she noted the neighboring wall contained shelves of five-liter glass jars, reflecting the meager light. Dark things lurked and floated inside. Kat caught the barest glimpse of curled tiny fingers. She turned her back, not wanting to see more, not after witnessing the horrors out in the main room, the women in the tanks. These jars likely held the end product of that research.