Commander Gray Pierce raced his motorcycle through the afternoon rush hour of D.C. traffic. His bike, a Yamaha V-Max, was two decades old, but its well-maintained engine rumbled like a pissed-off puma between his thighs.
Its ferocious timbre matched his mood.
He sped along Jefferson Drive through the heart of the city. To his left, the greensward of the National Mall shone a bright emerald, bisected by sandy paths. But ahead, the street was shut down, cordoned off with cement barricades and patrolled by police on horseback and on foot. A pair of army Humvees were also parked beyond the barrier, guarding the ruins of the Smithsonian Castle.
Seven weeks ago—on the first day of spring—a series of bombs had ripped through the red-stone structure. The Castle, a national treasure built in 1855, was the Smithsonian’s oldest building. It had survived fires and political storms over the past century and a half. Now it was a pile of rubble, though its east wing and two of its Gothic towers still stood. The remainder of the building was a blasted mix of crumbling walls, caved-in roofs, and blown-out windows.
Thankfully, there had been only three deaths, workers who had been inside the building at the time. Since the start of the year, the Castle had been undergoing a major renovation and was closed to the public, so the building had been nearly deserted.
The radio inside Gray’s helmet squawked with static, then a stern voice warned him. “Move your ass. We’re going to be late.”
A sleek Ducati Scrambler—a dark Nightshift edition—sped past him through the traffic with a roar of its engine. The rider, decked in black leather, boots, and helmet, looked back at him. Though Gray couldn’t see through the polarized face shield, he pictured the narrow-eyed glare cast his way.
Gray throttled up and closed the distance with the other bike. “We’re fine,” he radioed back. “The meeting isn’t scheduled for another—” He checked the holographic heads-up display glowing inside a corner of his helmet and grimaced. “Two minutes.”
An irritated growl answered him—coming from both rider and cycle. The Ducati shot away, taking a sharp turn onto Twelfth Street, leaving the National Mall behind. Gray leaned hard, nearly scraping his knee on the pavement, to follow.
As he did, he caught a last glimpse of the bombed-out Castle.
He knew what the damage represented.
A declaration of war.
Over the past weeks, no one had claimed responsibility. Actually, some had, but their assertions were quickly refuted and dismissed. The true culprits remained unknown. Surveillance footage, both from cameras and satellites, had failed to reveal who had planted the bombs or how such a heinous act could have happened.
The Joint Terrorism Task Force continued orchestrating daily bomb sweeps of the area. Cable news channels debated, pointed fingers, and stoked conspiracy theories. Still, for those who knew the Castle’s greatest secret, the target of the attack was obvious.
Gray hunched lower in his seat.
It was us.
Of that he was certain.
Gray was a member of Sigma Force, a covert team of field operatives working under the auspices of DARPA, the defense department’s research-and-development agency. They were all former Special Forces soldiers, recruited in secret and trained in various scientific disciplines to protect the globe against all manner of threats. Their name arosefrom the Greek letter ∑, which represented the “sum of the best,” the merging of brain and brawn, of soldier and scientist. Their motto was a simple one:Be there first.
In this case, as the other rider attested, Gray was failing in that mission.
He trailed close behind the Ducati and merged onto Independence Avenue. The pair circled behind the Castle, where gardens spread to the rear of the building. Fifteen years ago, Sigma had constructed its headquarters in a series of abandoned WWII-era bomb shelters beneath the Castle. The long-forgotten bunker served the agency well, both for its level of secrecy and for its proximity to the Smithsonian Institution’s many labs and resources. Additionally, the Castle was within an easy walk to the major touchstones of governmental power—which of late was more of a problem than a boon.
Sigma’s director—Painter Crowe—was dealing with a political firestorm after the bombing. While only those with the highest security clearance knew Sigma even existed, all of them had been bearing down upon the agency, especially the group’s overseer, General Metcalf, the current head of DARPA.
Everyone needed answers—and if not that, then a fall guy to blame. Gray hoped this priority summons from the director was about the bomber’s identity and not about dissolving Sigma, which was a grim possibility.
His helmet phone chirped with an incoming call. He took it, wincing slightly, expecting it to be Director Crowe. “Go ahead,” he answered.
“Where are you two?” It was Monk Kokkalis, a fellow Sigma operative and his best friend. “Painter is pacing a hole through his office rug.”
“We’ll be there in a few minutes. We’re about to head underground.”
“Get here. Something major is up. Kat won’t even look at me, but her face is drawn as tight as a drum. She clearly knows why we were summoned.”
“Understood.”
Captain Kathryn Bryant was Sigma’s chief intelligence analyst and Monk’s wife. She was also the agency’s second-in-command.
“We’ll be right there.” Gray ended the call.
Gray swung into the entrance of a nondescript parking garage on the opposite side of the street from the Castle. A metal security gate ratcheted up, responding to a transponder in his helmet. Both bikes dove down a ramp and into a subterranean space. From there, they circled into a tunnel that ran beneath Independence Avenue. As they sped down the passageway, a series of electronic checkpoints registered their progress. The route led deep under the four-acre garden behind the Castle.
