A nitro bomb hidden in the fire extinguisher in the lab would serve as the trigger. Once it blew, the explosion would travel through the building via the gas lines, setting off the dozens of caches of nitro strategically placed where they would do the most damage. In a very short time, there would be no serum left, and no building, either. Most important, all notes, drawings, and formulas regarding Gideon Cahill’s creation would be incinerated.
A small charge was attached magnetically to the extinguisher. Sammy set the delay for three minutes, and paused. “Together?” he asked Nellie.
Their thumbs met on the button and they pressed. The readout jumped from 3:00 to 2:59 and began counting down. There was no turning back now.
The two donned breathing masks. Sammy climbed up on an experiment table and held a small flask directly under the poison detector on the ceiling. He popped the stopper, and a wisp of sarin gas was drawn up into the unit. Instantly, alarms howled throughout the building. An automated voice boomed out of the PA system.
“Contamination alert! Evacuate immediately!”
Sammy jumped down and they burst into the corridor, which was already filled with agitated staff members. In a vast lab filled with chemicals, a contamination alert was nothing to be ignored. Where was the guard? Had he abandoned his post?
Sammy pointed. There he was, searching the turbulent throng for a supervisor and instructions. He looked uncertain, but — bad sign — his gun was drawn. At last, he reversed course and came racing toward the lab.
The prisoners ducked into the men’s room.
“He has no breathing mask,” Nellie whispered in alarm.
“The gas has dissipated by now,” Sammy assured her.
They watched through a crack in the door as the man disappeared into the lab. Finding no one, he reemerged, and ran off in another direction. The two dropped their own masks and counted off another ten seconds as the sirens blared on.
“Contamination alert! Evacuate immediately!”
When they ventured into the hall, the crowd of staff members had thinned considerably as everyone made for the exits. Sammy and Nellie dashed off against the flow of evacuees, toward the complex’s main office suites. A few of the scientists tried to warn them they were headed the wrong way, but it was out of concern for their safety rather than an attempt to keep them prisoner. They were free — at least as free as they could be while trapped in the basement of a building that was about to blow sky high.
The alarm resounded in the stairwell.
“Contamination alert!”
Sammy glanced at his watch for a time check. “Two minutes!” he called to Nellie. She nodded and kept on moving. They were right on schedule, but it was going to be tight.
At the main basement level, the halls were deserted and the wail of the siren swirled around them, echoing off the walls. Nellie broke into a sprint, but slowed as Sammy began to fall behind. They had dreamed up this plan together, made it a reality together, and set it in motion together. And now they would be going out together — or not at all.
“One minute!” Sammy panted behind her.
Nellie wheeled around a corner, and their destination beckoned at the end of the long corridor — the luxurious suite of offices. She dashed for it, with Sammy perhaps ten yards behind. They were going to make it!
A strong arm reached out and grabbed her around the neck, stopping her progress so suddenly that she almost strangled. “Going somewhere, missy?” came a smooth, oily voice over the din of the alarm.
She recognized her attacker immediately. Dr. Jeffrey Callender, the lab’s physician and the founder of the Callender Institute, where Fiske Cahill was being “treated.”
“Let her go!” boomed Sammy.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Callender replied in a falsely pleasant tone. “It wouldn’t take much for me to snap her lovely little neck. I’m a doctor, after all.” He looked down at Nellie. “Such a shame that would be. I’ve become rather fond of your pastries.”
“We’ve all got to get out of here!” she shrilled. “Can’t you hear the alarm?”
“Yes, but since you two are running in the opposite direction, I assume you know something nobody else does.”
Sammy blanched. “As I suspected.” Callender was triumphant. “The alarm is cover for your pathetic little escape attempt. Or perhaps something else? There’s no exit here. . . .”
“For God’s sake, let us go!” Sammy roared. “The whole building’s set to explode in thirty seconds!”
“You must think I’m really stupid —” the doctor began.
“You are really stupid!” Nellie howled. Channeling all her strength, she pulled her right hand free and sucker-punched him in the face. Enraged, Callender reached for her again, and Nellie understood that if she allowed him to recapture her, it would mean the end of her life. She might ultimately win the fight — but not before the entire complex went up in a fireball.
With a grunt of anger and purpose, she rammed her shoulder into her opponent’s chest. As he staggered back, Nellie brought up her foot in a karate kick and landed a direct hit on the long nose. There was a sickening crunch of shattering cartilage, accompanied by Callender’s howl of agony.
Sammy was upon him in an instant. Not trusting his boxing skills, the young scientist drove the top of his head into Callender’s chin. The doctor dropped where he stood, dazed.
A little dazed himself, Sammy checked the time. “Ten seconds!”
They raced down the hall and into Dr. Benoit’s office. As they burst through the door, Sammy pulled a small remote control from his pocket. It was programmed to set off another nitro bomb — the smallest they had created. The charge was hidden beneath the leaves of a potted plant sitting on a high shelf against the wall — a foundation wall.
He pressed the button and they braced themselves for the blast that would breach the corner of the foundation, collapse the bricks above it, and open up an escape route from the complex.
Nothing happened.
Sammy pressed again and again with no result. The remote had failed, and there was no time left to tinker with it. The three minutes had ticked away. Brilliant as it was, their plan had been undone by its smallest component.
We’re going to die.
Strangely, facing the end, Nellie’s first thought wasn’t of Sammy or even herself. It was of her beloved kiddos, Amy and Dan, and the awful fact that she’d never bail them out of trouble again. . . .
The first explosion rocked the building, followed by a roaring sound as the gas lines ignited and the planned disaster spread. They could feel the wall of heat building behind them and picture the column of flame that surged through the building, destroying everything in its path.
In a last-ditch effort to save their lives, Nellie picked up the paperweight from Benoit’s desk and hurled it at the plant. The heavy glass struck the bottle of nitro, smashing it into a million pieces. The unstable chemical compound went off, blowing a hole in the wall the size of an SUV. An avalanche of rubble rained down — fragments of bricks and concrete, a blizzard of plaster dust, earth, and grass.
Sammy and Nellie climbed the mound of earth and debris, eyes stinging from the smoke and soot. Through the dense fog twinkled a single star —
The outside world!
Legs pumping like pistons, Sammy and Nellie scrambled up from of the steaming office, hit level ground, and began to run. Direction was not important; only distance mattered.
When the fire in the building reached the dozens of caches of nitro spread along Kablooey Avenue, a series of mammoth blasts assaulted their eardrums and lit up the night around them. It was like a string of firecrackers, only each individual bang was a spectacular detonation. A second or two later, the wreckage began to pelt down around them — bricks, wood, furniture, equipment, and a blizzard of burning embers.
Still they ran, g
rateful to be alive, and hoping to stay that way.
“Look out!” Sammy took hold of Nellie’s shoulders and jerked her violently to the left. A heavy centrifuge slammed into the space she’d occupied a split second before.
A burning clamp struck Sammy in the back, nearly knocking him flat on his face. Without missing a step, Nellie beat out a small fire on his lab coat.
When at last she risked a quick glance over her shoulder, an appalling sight met her eyes. The Trilon Laboratory complex had vanished as if it had never existed. In its place was a charred, slag-and-scrap-filled crater, still ablaze. If an asteroid had struck the Delaware countryside right here, it could not have done any more damage.
“I guess those test tubes are” — her breath came in gasps — “pretty darn sterilized right about now!”
“Do you think everybody made it out?” Sammy panted.
“Everybody but Callender! Come on! When the cops get here, we need to be long gone!”
As they sprinted for the cover of the trees, they passed a large piece of steel debris that had been thrown more than three hundred yards from the building. Nellie recognized it immediately. It was a piece of her kitchen counter — dented, singed, but spotlessly clean.
Chapter 18
“This is Siem Reap center calling private aircraft P-JW en route from Gander, Newfoundland. . . . You are not cleared for landing. Repeat: not cleared. Please acknowledge.”
In the tower, the air traffic controller sat at his radar screen watching the flashing dot that was the approach of a Gulfstream G6 belonging to international superstar Jonah Wizard. The man’s attention was divided between the monitor in front of him and the teenager standing directly behind him — Galt Pierce.
“Negative,” crackled the reply from Jonah’s pilot. “My approved flight plan is from Gander to Siem Reap.”
“No!” Galt’s voice crackled with electricity. His father was counting on him to keep that plane from landing. This was Galt’s big chance to regain his rightful place as Dad’s favorite. “Tell him to go someplace else!”
Obediently, the controller radioed, “Please divert to Phnom Penh or Bangkok. You are not cleared for approach.”
“I’m nonstop from Newfoundland,” the pilot replied, “running low on fuel. Must land to gas up. Over.”
In answer, Galt thrust his cell phone to the controller’s ear.
“Listen, you steaming backwater traffic cop!” roared the angry voice on the other end of the line. “This is J. Rutherford Pierce speaking! Do you recognize that name, or do I have to tap it out in code with two coconuts?”
“Sir!” the man exclaimed in a frightened whisper. “I cannot send away an aircraft that’s in need of fuel! It’s against every international agreement!”
“The only nation you need to agree with is the good old US of A! You’ll understand that better when I’m president. Now send that plane away!”
Trembling now, the controller spoke into his microphone. “You are not cleared, P-JW. Please divert as directed.”
“No can do, Siem Reap Tower,” the pilot returned. “I’m coming in. Requesting runway assignment.”
“No runway assignment!” bellowed Pierce over the phone.
“Dad, I got this!” cried Galt, determined to make the most of this opportunity to step up in his father’s eyes. He turned to the controller. “No runway assignment!”
“I am sorry, P-JW,” the man began, haunted. “I regret to inform you that the Siem Reap Airport will not accommodate you —”
Then it happened. The lights went out in the control tower. All computers and radar screens went dark. The intercoms fell silent.
“What’s going on?” Galt demanded.
“We have lost power!” the controller exclaimed in alarm. “This has never happened before!”
“Fix it!” shouted Pierce through the phone.
The man ran to an electrical panel and began flipping switches, but to no avail. “I don’t understand. The runway lights are illuminated. The terminal is fine. Power is everywhere — except here in the tower!”
“Well, I understand!” came a roar from the phone. “You’ve been hacked, you clown!”
Galt felt cold panic. None of this was his fault, but if the mission failed, he’d get blamed anyway. “Call April May!” Galt sputtered. “She can undo this!”
Outside, Jonah’s jet skimmed low over the horizon and set down on Runway Two.
“The plane!” croaked Galt. “Do something! Impound it!”
The controller shrugged helplessly. “I have no such authority.”
“The Cahills!” Even through the handset, Pierce’s rage was palpable. “Get out there, Galt! Stop them — even if you have to tackle the pilot and sit on him!”
“Got it, Dad!” Galt raced for the exit and nearly knocked himself unconscious. The swinging door would not budge. Dazed, he turned to the controller. “Why won’t it open?”
“My access panel is not operating. We must be in lockdown mode.”
“Why?”
“I think perhaps your father is correct,” the man informed him solemnly. “We have been hacked.”
Under cover of the jungle just beyond the runway, Cara leaned over her keyboard, her fingers flying. “You guys better move it,” she told the Cahills. “I can’t keep the tower dark forever.”
They watched the jet taxi toward them and stop in close proximity, as if it had been summoned like a pet dog. The door opened and the copilot appeared.
The Cahill group ventured out of the trees.
“Is everybody okay, boss?” the man asked Jonah.
“It’s all good,” Jonah replied, “so long as we bounce before the tower powers back on.”
“We need to take on fuel if we’re going to make it all the way to the States,” the copilot informed him seriously.
“No can do,” Jonah replied. “Siem Reap’s too hot, yo, and I’m not talking about the weather!”
Cara looked up from pounding her laptop. “I’ve booked you a fuel stop in Bangkok, Thailand.”
“Can we make it that far?” Dan asked anxiously, hanging on to the handle of the portable aquarium with its precious cargo.
“On fumes,” the man acknowledged.
“Hey, if it isn’t off the chain, the Wiz wants no part of it. Welcome aboard, homeys!”
They filed up the small staircase — Amy, Dan, Jake, Atticus, Hamilton, Jonah, and Ian. Cara stayed behind. It was important for her to rejoin Galt and the family. Her new job would be to serve as the Cahills’ agent on Pierce Landing.
Ian lingered on the bottom step, reluctant to part from her. “I’m sorry we doubted you. I of all people should have understood that having a bad parent doesn’t necessarily make you bad, too.”
“I would have doubted me, too,” she said. “It’s not easy to get past last names like ours.”
Ian marveled at the comment. Kabra and Pierce, two surnames as loaded as hand grenades. This Ekat girl was cleverer than the inventor of the polo-saddle iPhone dock. “You really came through for us, Cara. If I don’t see you again — that is, if I don’t survive whatever’s coming — I want you to know that —” His ordinarily nimble mind let him down, and he announced, “Should I ever be subjected to torture, it will be you I think of as I attempt to hold out.”
“How romantic,” she told him with an odd grin.
“My point, in actuality —” he blurted. Now he sounded like Atticus Rosenbloom. All he needed was the dreadlocks. This shouldn’t be so hard for a Lucian — “is, well — you’re the greatest.”
“Second greatest,” she amended. “Pony was the greatest. I’m just a worthy adversary.”
“Yes, but what I actually meant was —”
Hamilton reached down from the plane, grabbed Ian by the collar, and hauled him bodily aboard. “Let’s go, lover boy
. You’re holding up the works.”
The door closed, and the plane turned around. Ian was at the window to catch a last glimpse of Cara as the jet started back to the runway. She was waving at all of them, but he was positive that her farewell was aimed especially at him.
Jonah bounced his passport off the back of Ian’s head. “Seat belt, bro!”
And by the time he could buckle up and look out again, Cara had retreated into the jungle. Right then, Ian knew with absolute certainty that he would never again meet anyone who understood him so completely — who grasped what it meant to be a Kabra or a Pierce.
At that instant, the tower lit up like a Christmas tree, online once more.
Three police SUVs drove over the countryside and bumped onto the tarmac of the landing strip. Sirens wailing, they accelerated fast, closing the gap with the Gulfstream. But they couldn’t outrun the power and thrust of jet engines. The G6 burst forward and lifted off into the sky, folding its landing gear beneath it.
In the distance, the lotus spires of Angkor Wat silently watched them go.
Chapter 19
PIERCE PROMISES “BIG NEWS” AT CLAMBAKE
A spokesman for J. Rutherford Pierce has promised a key announcement at the media tycoon’s “All-American Clambake” this Sunday, in two days’ time. It is widely speculated that this “big news” will be the announcement that Pierce intends to run for president on the Patriotist ticket, a party created by the billionaire himself.
Pierce, who emerged from obscurity to control the world’s largest media empire, has taken the political scene by storm. He will enter the presidential race as an instant heavyweight and odds-on favorite to win. The clambake will take place on Pierce Landing, the family’s private island off the coast of Maine. The guest list has not been published, but sources say it will include celebrities, former presidents, sports heroes, royalty, Nobel laureates, and at least half of Forbes’s list of the wealthiest individuals. Media outlets from thirty-seven different countries will be carrying the event live, and the TV audience is projected to dwarf even the Super Bowl’s.