For the first time since the power was cut off at ACRES, Jack felt a surge of confidence-not enough to wash away his bone-deep fear for Lorna, but it was enough.

“What do you mean?” Kyle pressed. “How are we going to find her?”

Jack pointed up the tree. “With their help.”

ACT THREE. BEASTS OF EDEN

Chapter 37

For once in her life, Lorna had no fear of flying. She stared at the sweep of sunlit blue water below the small plane. The sea stretched to the horizon in all directions, interrupted by a scatter of islands to the south. She felt no anxiety as the plane sped due south: no sweating palms, no palpitating heart.

She only felt numb.

Like a looped film reel, she kept picturing Jack’s truck exploding, followed a heartbeat later by ACRES disappearing into a hellish fireball.

All dead…

While she should fear for her own life at the moment, she felt nothing, hollowed out and empty. Even the pounding in her head seemed a distant thing. A goose-egg-size knot had grown behind her left ear. A vague ringing persisted on that side.

Tinnitus, she diagnosed, secondary to the injury.

They’d offered her a minimal amount of medical care, but mostly they’d been on the move. Her kidnappers had driven her to a clearing in the bayou. As the sun rose a helicopter had flown her to a waiting ship anchored beyond the barrier islands in the Gulf of Mexico, then she’d been transferred onto a seaplane. They’d been in the air for over three hours, heading as near as she could tell into the western Caribbean, possibly toward Cuba.

She turned from the window as the man who had captured her ducked out of the cockpit into the main cabin. The plane sat six passengers and was luxuriously appointed in leather with mahogany accents. Whoever was financing this operation had deep financial pockets.

The man with the scarred face joined her and her two guards. He had showered aboard the ship, and his hair was fixed by gel into a greasy look. She studied the scars over his face and neck as if reading a map. He’d been attacked by some animal. Maybe a lion from the severity of his old injuries. He had never introduced himself, but she had heard one of the men call him Duncan.

He didn’t acknowledge her as he sat down next to a muscular man with a leathery face and red hair scalped into a military cut. He’d been assigned to watch over her. Not that there was much for him to do. Her hands were cuffed, but at least in her lap now. She had not offered any resistance. She was at their mercy, and so far they hadn’t treated her too roughly.

She figured she’d learn more by being compliant than by screaming and thrashing. Still, as Duncan joined them, that hollowness inside her began to fill with a burning vitriol. It dripped like bile into her heart and spread.

The bastard sat down, ignoring her. He turned to the redheaded commando. “Still no word from Daughtery. He should have reported in by now.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“When we get to the island, roust up some eyes and ears in New Orleans. I want to know what happened back there after we left.”

“Yes, sir. But you know Daughtery. Always a bit of a loose cannon. Probably ended up in the French Quarter. Got himself drunk on Bourbon Street and is sleeping it off with some whore.”

“If so, I’ll cut off his left nut the next time I see him.”

“Might not make a difference. To rein him in, you’ll have to cut ’em both off.”

Duncan acknowledged this by raising one eyebrow, as if seriously considering this option. He finally leaned back but looked little placated. His hard eyes gazed somewhere beyond the cabin of the seaplane.

She kept a sidelong watch on him, not trusting him.

He must have sensed her attention. Without moving a muscle, his gaze hardened on her.

With a sigh, he leaned forward. She noted the slack on the left side of his face, likely nerve damage. He reached to a pocket and slipped out a roll of tropical-flavored Life Savers and offered her one.

She shook her head.

He shrugged, popped one in his mouth, and sighed. “You impress me, Dr. Polk.”

She tried not to flinch at the use of her name. She had no ID on her. He must have noted some reaction. His lips thinned to a ghost of a satisfied smile. He had purposely used her name to unsettle her.

It had worked.

He continued: “By my estimation, you alone took out at least three of my men.”

She heard no anger in his voice, no threat of revenge.

“Impressive,” he said. “And smart. I hope you’ll prove as smart once we reach the island. My superiors and I will have some questions for you. Cooperation will be rewarded.”

And if she didn’t cooperate, the threat was plain in his eyes.

Instead of further unsettling her, the intimidation only helped center her. She spoke for the first time. There was no use begging for her life. She knew it was forfeit. Instead, she wanted answers for the bloodshed and death.

“What’s behind all this?” she asked. She tried to sound confident, but she had to struggle not to let a quaver enter her voice. “The genetic changes in the animals, all you’ve done to cover it up… what are you all doing out here?”

Duncan took her questions in stride. A part of her hoped he’d refuse to answer, but he showed no reluctance in responding, which unnerved her more than his threat a moment ago. If she had any question of surviving this ordeal, it was dashed by his candor.

“We call it the Babylon Project.”

Babylon?

He read the confusion in her face. “Named for where it all began. In a word, we’re involved in biowarfare. Or more specifically, I should say bioweapon systems. As you’ll soon see, what you stumbled upon is merely a scratch on the surface of larger ambitions. When we’re done, the way wars are fought will be forever changed.”

For the first time, true fear filtered through to her. This was no mere smuggling operation tied to a clandestine research project. It was much bigger.

Before more could be explained, the pilot came over the radio, cutting them off. “We’ll be landing in five minutes. Everyone buckle up.”

Lorna turned to the window again. The seaplane dipped toward the set of islands she had noted before. Most appeared to be sandbars supporting a tree or two. The grouping formed a gentle arc centered on a larger wooded island shaped like a dumbbell. They looked to be two islands that had fused together long ago by a bridge of sand and mangrove forest.

The seaplane dove toward the western half of the island. A deep cove scooped out an arc of white sand. Beyond the beach, a whitewashed villa climbed in a series of stacked tiers up a steep forested hill. A series of blue pools spilled from one level to the next. As the seaplane banked and angled for a descent into the cove, she got a bird’s-eye view of the island’s eastern half. It appeared deserted and untamed.

Thousands of such small islands and cays dotted the Caribbean. Many were privately owned and shifted national allegiances as easily and as often as one changed hairstyles. If someone wanted to set up a private research facility-one that was isolated and beyond the rules and regulations of modern society-here was a perfect place to do it.

The seaplane swept cleanly into the cove and dipped to the water. Fountains sprayed from the twin floats as the craft landed and glided toward a stone pier. Ahead, white sand sparkled against the blue water. Palms and mangroves shadowed the interior. A flutter of native doves took wing from the dense forest, disturbed by their approach.

It appeared to be paradise-but she knew it held a darker secret, a black heart kept out of direct view.

Lorna let out the breath she’d been holding.