“I assume Drake wasn’t working with you anymore,” said Erin, “or you wouldn’t have been surprised. So what happened? Did he have a disagreement with the rest of the group?”

“No,” said Fuller, shaking his head. “He was incinerated in an explosion.”

46

KYLE HANSEN HAD been listening attentively to Erin’s tale of her meeting in Palm Springs with Steve Fuller and a very much alive alien named Fermi. She had been standing when she had begun, but five minutes earlier she had slid her hand down the steel strut to which it was attached to sit cross-legged on the cool garage floor. Soon after this she had begun to slump even farther and her voice had noticeably weakened.

Finally, she stopped altogether, and Hansen could tell she was struggling to keep her eyes open.

“Erin?” he said anxiously. “Erin, are you okay?”

“No,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I’m feeling … dizzy. Insulin shock,” she mumbled.

“You’re diabetic?” said Hansen in disbelief. How had Drake missed this? Even if it was adult-onset diabetes, this was something that should have been in her file.

“I keep it … secret. Don’t like … showing … weakness.”

Hansen couldn’t believe it. He knew she didn’t like to show weakness, but she hadn’t seemed the type to hide something like this.

Could this really be happening? On top of everything else? Just when Erin was revealing to him the rationale for her seemingly inexplicable behavior. And given what she had said already, the rest of her story was critically important. If there was a God, he didn’t appear to be a big fan of Kyle Hansen and Erin Palmer. What next, an earthquake?

But worse than her not finishing her story, her very life could be in danger. Hansen seemed to recall that insulin shock in diabetics could be fatal if not treated.

Erin pointed at the display case on which Zalinsky had set the items he had taken from her. A silver cylinder still rested there. “Glucagon injection,” she whispered faintly. “For emergencies. In the … thigh.” With that, her eyes slid shut again and she looked to be unconscious.

Hansen shouted at the top of his lungs and continued to do so until both Gibb and Zalinsky raced into the garage, guns drawn.

As soon as the door opened, Hansen stopped shouting.

The two mercenaries surveyed the room for hidden danger and to make sure their prisoners were still restrained. Seeing no reason for alarm, they lowered their weapons.

Hansen gestured toward Erin with his free hand. “She’s in insulin shock,” he said rapidly. “That cylinder you took from her is an emergency dose of … I think she said glucagon. But whatever it is, you have to inject her. Now!”

The two men glanced at each other as if uncertain what to do.

“You know Drake wants to interrogate her,” barked Hansen. “You think he’ll be patting you on the back and giving you a bonus when he gets back here and she’s dead? Come on! Every second counts.”

Gibb walked over to the steel cylinder and carried it gingerly to Hansen, as though it were booby-trapped and might explode at any second. “Open it,” he said.

Hansen gestured for Gibb to put it in his right hand, which was cuffed to the home gym. When Gibb did so, Hansen held the metal tube between his thumb and index finger and used his free hand to press a small metal dot extending out from one end, hoping this would open it. Sure enough, one half of the silver tube rolled back inside the other half, lengthwise, to reveal a glass syringe, filled with a colorless liquid.

“Take it,” said Hansen. “Carefully.”

Seeing that the cylinder contained exactly what Hansen had said it would seemed to galvanize Gibb, and he took it as instructed.

“Now jam it into her thigh,” ordered Hansen. “Quickly! And make sure she gets it all. Go!” he screamed.

Gibb pulled a combat knife from a sheath at his ankle and cut a seam in Erin’s pants at the thigh so he wouldn’t have to risk damage to the needle by stabbing through her clothing. He plunged the needle into her leg and emptied the entire contents of the syringe.

Hansen exhaled loudly. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Both Gibb and Zalinsky remained in the garage to see what would happen. Within minutes Erin’s eyes fluttered open.

She caught Hansen’s eye and smiled weakly. “Thanks,” she whispered. She noticed that Gibb still had an empty syringe in his hand. “And you too,” she said to him.

“Will you be okay?” asked Hansen.

Erin nodded. “Feeling much better already.”

After another few minutes of recovery, Erin rose from the floor and looked over at Gibb. “Thanks,” she said again. “But I’m okay now. No need to babysit any further.”

Gibb thought about this for a few seconds. Finally, reaching a decision, he turned to Zalinsky. “Let’s go,” he said. Seconds later they had exited back through the door into the mansion and were out of sight.

After they left, Hansen stared at Erin reproachfully. “I know you don’t want to show weakness, Erin. But keeping something like that a secret is dangerous.” He turned away. “Jesus, we could have lost you.”

“It was stupid of me,” admitted Erin. “And very bad timing. But let’s talk about the wisdom of this another time,” she continued, her voice regaining strength by the second. “Right now, I need to finish telling you what’s really going on here.”

Hansen nodded. “Go ahead,” he said, eager to hear the rest. But also wondering what other obstacles the fates might choose to throw at them next.

47

“DRAKE WAS INCINERATED in an explosion?” repeated Erin. What did that mean?

“Obviously,” continued Steve Fuller, “reports of his death were greatly exaggerated.” He raised his eyebrows. “But we didn’t know that at the time. We only learned this recently. When we were gathering further intel on you. Imagine our surprise when we heard his unmistakable voice over your phone.”

“Did he stage his death so he could go AWOL?” asked Erin. “So he could take more dramatic steps than the rest of the Wraps were willing to take to save us?”

Fuller shook his head. “This was the most important assignment ever given to a Wrap in their history. There is zero chance this was his motive. And no one believed in what we’re doing more than Drake.”

“So what’s your explanation?”

“The Hive,” said Fermi grimly. “It must have found a way to penetrate his defenses and control him. Which is alarming on many, many levels.”

Erin’s eyes narrowed. “You actually think part of this hive-mind is present here on Earth?” she said.

“That has to be it,” said Fermi. “How the Hive managed to learn about this mission we may never know. But the truth is, this is a pivotal point in a war that won’t take place for thirty-two thousand years. So it wouldn’t surprise me if the Hive attempted to infiltrate Drake’s mind with more than the usual tiny fraction of its full capabilities. To gain a foothold. Given his genetically engineered defenses to this, the Hive must have had to work carefully over many years to breach. We didn’t think this was possible no matter how long it tried, but we must have been wrong.”

“But how can you be so sure this is true? You say yourself you thought a breach was impossible. So even an improbable solution makes more sense. Maybe Drake finally went crazy from being around us for so long.”

“I wish that were the case,” said Fermi. “But not only did we hear his voice, we heard what he’s been up to. With you. Curing psychopathy. Which we quickly recognized as a stunningly brilliant plan by the Hive to win the war before it begins.”

“I don’t understand. Curing psychopathy sounds more like a plan from an actual Wrap. One pushed over the edge and wanting to go on offense rather than defense to protect humanity. If Drake were controlled by the Hive, why wouldn’t he just nuke us into oblivion?”