Deadly Divergence

enough!

1

FLORIDA KEYS

MIDSUMMER

’Riah, look out!

Mariah Conners threw herself flat on the swampy ground as high-caliber bullets whistled past her windblown auburn hair. Shrill, warbling screams echoed through the gnarled, moss-draped cypress trees. Her partner ejected an empty clip from his gun, and slapped another into place. More explosive staccato shots rang out as he took aim and fired again. And again. And again.

Damp slime oozed between her clutching fingers as she warily crept across the sodden marsh. Mac was in danger—but she didn’t dare glance back. She had to reach José before those hideous creatures attacked again!

Their young guide was sprawled face-down in the muck. His tanned neck was bent at an unnatural angle. Even before she gently rolled him over, she knew he was dead.

Quinn MacAllister paused in mid-turn long enough to make his own judgments. An immense set of razor-sharp claws had sliced through the boy’s chest like soft butter, spilling entrails and bone fragments across the soggy ground.

He winced. No one deserved to die like that.

But at least it had been quick—the cheerful teenager had never known what hit him. That was more than Conners and he could expect, unless they managed to escape fast!

Get him in the boat, ’Riah! he yelled, swinging his gun around to cover their hasty retreat. Hurry!

She didn’t waste breath arguing. Mac was right—they could never leave the boy here in these endless swamps, to be eaten by those horrible, ravenous things!

More shots echoed through the trees as he fired again. Fierce snarls abruptly crescendoed into wailing shrieks of agony. That made five down. Out of how many? Nine? Ten? A thousand?

Conners hadn’t survived eleven years as Mac’s partner just to be shredded by a tribe of putrid swamp monsters! Taking a deep breath, she hooked both hands beneath José’s lax shoulders, and began tugging him toward their flat-bottomed air boat. Every soggy yard seemed like five miles as she stumbled through a maze of half-submerged roots, fighting to keep her balance.

"Come on, Mac! she shouted over her shoulder. We can’t win this one!"

Just a few more feet…

Her sturdy hiking boots sank deeper as oozing muck gave way to muddy slime. Fallen branches snagged and caught at José’s torn clothing. The boy’s head rolled limply to one side, and brushed against her bare arm. She stifled a shudder, and pulled harder.

Almost there…

Without warning, a huge ugly shape launched through the shadows with vicious claws extended. Distorted features made its hideous face seem all the more grotesque.

A startled scream erupted from her throat as she caught a horrifying glimpse of snaggled razor-sharp teeth. Then the howling beast slammed her down into the muck, and her head struck a submerged tree trunk with devastating force.

Stars danced before her eyes as it rose over her, baring inch-long talons for a final lethal blow.

MacAllister whirled, and the Glock bucked in his hands once, twice, three times.

’Riah!

He was already running, heedless of his own safety, before the last bullet thudded into its falling target.

The murky water was stained with blood, and his pounding heart faltered. Then he kicked at the behemoth’s shoulder, and it fell aside with a muted splash. Three jagged bullet holes were bored through its wide chest. Blood seeped through its slimy pale fur and slowly leaked into the water.

’Riah! He dropped to his knees and felt for her pulse. It was faint but steady beneath his searching fingertips. A heartfelt sigh of relief escaped him, and his tensed muscles relaxed.

Snarls and eerie yowling brought him up short. Turning, he yanked Conners’ gun from its holster and slowly rose to his feet. Silence fell across the swamp as he aimed her weapon at the nearest slathering monster.

The burly creature froze in its tracks, and seemed to hunch down slightly. MacAllister kept the deadly 9mm targeted on its massive head.

Even the fitful humid breeze seemed to hesitate as Mac grimly faced down his snarling adversary. Venomous glares bridged the fathomless gap between them.

Then the hideous creature slowly backed away, and melted into the deepening shadows without a sound. A dozen other dark, misshapen forms moved with him, and were gone.

Mac realized he was shaking with reaction. He took a deep calming breath, and bent down beside his partner again. A livid purple bruise was already darkening her pale forehead. She’d have one helluva nasty headache when she regained consciousness.

But at least they were both still alive.

Grimacing, he scooped her up and carried her over to José’s swaying air boat. The sooner they left this wretched swamp behind, the better!

A weathered tarp was folded neatly in the curving prow. He shook it out, and grimly carried it back to their young guide’s sprawled body. Somehow, even in death, the boy’s youthful face looked merry and carefree.

There’s no justice in this world, he sighed for perhaps the hundredth time that week.

Sighing, he wrapped José’s limp corpse in the woven tarp, and laid it in the wide, flat prow. Then he clambered aboard, and gripped the tiller tightly in one hand.

He’d never piloted an air boat himself, but this was no time to play it safe. Those vicious nightmares might return at any moment!

Huge rotors whirred to life behind him, blowing long hanging tendrils of Spanish moss off the nearest shaggy cypress trees. The boat lurched forward under his novice touch. He strangled back a muttered curse, gritted his teeth, and concentrated on steering it out of the swamp, not into another fallen tree trunk.

Conners began to stir as he finally managed to clear the last submerged roots. Mac? Her ragged whisper was hoarse with pain.

Before she could try to move, he leaned down and laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. The boat wobbled one last time, then eased into a narrow moss-draped channel.

Lay still, ’Riah, he urged, focusing on the treacherous shadows sliding past. We’ll be home soon.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

FBI SPECIAL AGENT QUINN MACALLISTER’S APARTMENT

THREE WEEKS LATER

A small blur of bright colors swam before Mariah Conners’ bleary gaze, gliding sinuously from side to side.

Something was watching her?

Prickles of alarm raced down her spine, forcing her back to full awareness. The bright blur resolved into a vivid inch-long fish swimming just beyond her nose. She blinked a few times, brushed tousled auburn hair out of her eyes, and painfully lifted her head. Nearly a dozen smaller fish, so tiny that they were almost invisible, were darting back and forth amid the tank’s swaying artificial plants.

Mac? She cleared her throat, and her voice emerged stronger. I think one of your fish had babies.

Probably. Her partner was sitting across the cozy living room, staring intently at his computer screen. Sarah warned me they’d breed like crazy.

Mac’s new neighbor was a busty, energetic young blonde who wore tight black leather miniskirts and too much makeup. She played her music too loudly, smoked nasty-smelling cigarettes, and flirted outrageously with Mac whenever possible.

Not surprisingly, the two women despised each other.

You can’t always pick your neighbors, she thought with a sigh. And you have no business interfering when Mac only chats with her to be friendly. He’s a big boy. He can handle Slutty Sarah without you running interference.

Her own apartment was halfway across town, in a slightly better part of town. No one there dressed like a hooker on the prowl! But Mac’s apartment was closer to work, so she’d…

Wait a minute, she hadn’t stopped by after their shift was over!

The last thing she remembered, she’d been working down in the labs, and…

How did I get here? She sat up too fast, and had to grab the couch arm to keep from folding over. Nausea rose in her throat.

She swallowed hard, and breathed slowly until colorful dots stopped dancing in front of her eyelids. Her slender fingers pressed against her temples, searching for the elusive pressure points to block out another pounding headache.

Three guesses. Mac swiveled around in his chair, and aimed a baleful look in her direction. His angular face was drawn with frustration.

She only needed one. Miranda ratted me out.

Miranda, he corrected with a scowl, went down to see how your research project was going, and found you nearly unconscious. If she hadn’t called me instead of the medics, you’d have woken up in the hospital.

I’m fine. She mustered a weak smile. It’s just this pinched nerve. Cautiously she rotated her right shoulder, and winced. I hate taking those muscle relaxants. They knock me out.

Mac heaved a weary sigh, and raked both hands through his thick coal-black hair.

Mariah had been in pain ever since they’d returned from the Keys three weeks ago. He hated to see her like this! Normally she radiated strength and vitality, and her slanting emerald eyes sparkled with energy. The powerful muscle relaxants she’d been prescribed made her drowsy and listless. Even her silky golden-red hair looked limp and dull.

A broken collarbone should have put her on the Disabled list…but somehow she’d convinced their supervisor, Assistant Director Thompson, to turn a blind eye. It wasn’t the first time she’d been able to wrangle small concessions from him. One way or another, she always managed to secure exactly what they needed without raising any red flags further up the chain.

Mac knew she’d welcomed the chance to head back down to the labs. Some of the world’s top researchers had made Quantico’s extensive laboratories their home. They each had their specialties, and they guarded them like a mama grizzly with her cubs. But Connors was well-known and well-liked. He didn’t know anyone else who had free access to so many labs, and the top-secret research materials each one produced.

By hook and crook, and cashing in a lot of favors owed, she’d managed to secure a small room for her own clandestine experiments. Only a select few—their sometimes partners, Jim Austin and Randi Adams, and their boss, A.D. Thompson—knew just what she was working on.

Without Thompson’s approval, her lab would have been closed down three years ago when massive budget cuts had swept through the Bureau. But Thompson had a vested interest in keeping her busy whenever Mac and she weren’t required in the field. He suffered from spinal Chordoma, a rare, slow-growing form of malignant bone cancer.

Surgeons had been able to remove part of the tumor, and heavy doses of radiation kept it from spreading. But there were no known treatments to completely eradicate it.

Conners’ most recent experiments had arrowed in on a series of inhibitors that were starting to show promise. That was why they’d headed down to the Keys. A fellow researcher had gotten wind of a new medicinal plant that showed surprising similarities to her inhibitors.

Maybe it had just been a rumor—a whisper in someone’s ear, who whispered in another’s, and another’s, and another’s. But they couldn’t afford to ignore even the slightest chance. Thompson wasn’t just their boss—he was their close friend.

The trip down had been fairly uneventful. They were used to driving long distances in the dead of night.

But when they’d finally reached the target area, they’d been attacked by those bizarre creatures, and they’d barely escaped with their lives!

Mac was sure there were still thousands—maybe hundreds of thousands—of life forms in the remotest wilds that hadn’t yet been identified. Certainly he’d never seen reference to anything like those vicious monsters in any zoology class he’d attended!

They’d been intelligent. No one would have believed him, so he’d kept his unlikely opinions to himself. But those shrill warbling shrieks and the bitter hatred in those huge gleaming eyes still jolted him awake at night.

Fortunately, because she was far too active and impatient to tolerate inactivity for long, his lovely partner healed quickly. She’d grimly worn a sling for two weeks, then thrown it in the trash and vowed to ignore the residual pain.

But a pinched nerve was hard to ignore, especially when her experiments required fine motor control.

Mac wished he could help—but putting him in a lab coat was like unleashing a toddler in the proverbial china shop. Things were going to get knocked over and broken, period. He was swift and agile in the field…but a total klutz with delicate lab equipment.

Besides, whenever she was down in the lab, he was stuck in the dreaded phone rooms. Petulant teenagers, cheating spouses, obscene calls between separated lovers…he heard it all. And hated every moment of it.

One time, and only once, he’d tried to keep count of how many boring, innocuous phone calls he’d eavesdropped on during his dreary eight-hour shift. He’d lost count before noon, somewhere past three hundred.

Mariah drew in a deep breath, then let it out in a slow relieved sigh. The acupressure was starting to work. She hated pinched nerves, and she hated migraines. But she hated the drugs that relieved them even more.

Mac worried when she was hurt. He didn’t like to admit it, of course. Everyone thought he was Mr. Sexy Tough Guy with his rugged face, deep navy eyes, and broad shoulders. The faint hint of Texas drawl in his low voice didn't hurt his image, either.

Quinn MacAllister was a lethal shot with everything from bladed weapons to handguns to high-powered rifles. But she knew a gentler side of him. He’d stop the car and hold up traffic for blocks to rescue a wandering kitten.

Her forearm ached. Absently she rubbed it before realizing the pinprick stinging was from a hypodermic needle.

So that was it. Randi had found her sagged over her workbench with another stress-induced migraine, and had raided her cabinet for the Sumavel she’d shoved into the back corner. It worked quickly and efficiently, but it knocked her out cold every single time. And left a vile taste in her mouth when she re-awoke.

She supposed she should be grateful for Randi’s timely intervention. But in her opinion, the cure was nearly as bad as the problem.

Worse yet, the day was only half-over, and she knew Mac would never let her go back and finish her shift.

Sometimes she felt she was just a hair’s breadth away from finding a cure. It was maddening to be so close, and have something as trivial as a migraine headache interrupt! Yet the harder she struggled to focus, the more elusive the answer became. It just wasn’t fair!

So…Randi had medicated her and called Mac for help…and she’d probably been unconscious before he could hotfoot it down from the telephone room. Heaven only knew how they’d smuggled her out without raising a ruckus.

Or maybe they had. Mac wouldn’t care, not when her health was threatened. That, she thought with a wistful smile, was true love.

Waking up face-to-face with a startled guppy wasn’t at the top of her favorites list…but at least the fierce throbbing pain was receding.

Mac was watching her with that intense gaze that always pierced right through her. She smiled again, more genuinely this time, and reached for the Pepsi he’d thoughtfully set on the nearby table. Thanks, she murmured, lifting it in a wry toast. This’ll help.

So will this. He tapped a long finger against his glowing computer monitor. "Two weeks’ worth of rest and fun in the sun!

Look, he added when her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to protest. I know how important your research is, ’Riah. But you’ve been working too hard. Even Thompson agrees.

That made her blink at him in wounded surprise. I can’t leave now! she protested. I need to monitor this last series of tests! One of them might be the key I’ve been searching for!

Or you might put yourself in the hospital. He crossed the room in three long strides, and perched beside her on the low couch. He isn’t willing to let that happen, ’Riah. And neither am I.

Gently he placed his hands on either side of her head, and began stroking her clammy forehead in steady circular patterns. In any case, it’s out of my hands. He’s ordered us both to take a two-week leave of absence, effective tomorrow morning. And I don’t think you’re going to talk him out of this one.

That stung. Her lips tightened with mutinous anger.

Privately Mac had to agree with her. He knew how promising this new line of biomedical research might be. Thompson’s timing couldn’t have been worse! But his first concern was for ’Riah’s health—and on that issue, MacAllister and he were in full agreement.

Think of it this way, he added with a wry grin. You can’t be expected to perform efficiently when you’re falling apart. Inefficiency on your part will reflect directly on him.

She made a rude noise under her breath, and he almost laughed. So much for appealing to her scientific temperament!

Well, he hadn’t really expected it to work.

Stick to the truth, Mac. It’s what you’re best at!

He cares, ’Riah. A lot more than he’ll admit. He doesn’t like to see you sick or hurting. And you have been in a lot of pain lately.

Her mouth twisted into a bitter scowl. But over the past five years, Thompson had become her friend, too. And you did for friends what you wouldn’t for strangers. Even if it did mean totally reorganizing your busy schedule for a frivolous trip that, in her mind, was a complete waste of time.

Reluctantly she sighed. I like the idea of a vacation, I really do. God only knows the last time either of us took any time off! But Mac, what about his cancer? What if it starts to progress again while we’re gone?

That worried him, too. They’d had a good relationship with their old supervisor, Anthony James. When he’d retired, they hadn’t exactly seen eye to eye with their new boss. The battle of wills between them had been fierce.

But over time, animosity had given way to grudging respect, then to genuine friendship. He’d walk naked on flaming coals before he let anything happen to Thompson.

You’ve said yourself it’s a very slow-developing cancer, he soothed her. His surgeon was able to remove nearly two-thirds of the tumor, and the radiation treatments are keeping the remainder in check.

I know. She frowned. I know. But I feel so damned helpless! And now when I’m so close…

’Riah. He curled his fingers around hers, and gave them a gentle squeeze. "Two weeks isn’t going to make any real difference. You’ll come back at it fresh—and then you’re going to leap forward, and make some real strides.

So. He leaned back in the couch beside her, and draped an affectionate arm around her slender shoulders. Like it or not, early tomorrow morning we’re boarding a plane for Bermuda. Thompson pulled some strings, so we’ll be flying in style. No fourth-class steerage this time.

Conners sat motionless on the couch, and stared blindly across his small living room.

Two weeks in scenic Bermuda.

Sunny beaches, exotic night clubs, warm tropical breezes.

No stress whatsoever.

It was a surefire recipe for disaster.

2

WASHINGTON NATIONAL AIRPORT

WASHINGTON, D. C.

NEXT DAY - 6:00 A.M.

Even at dawn, Washington National Airport was bustling with travelers, businessmen, tourists. Sleepy-eyed people of every age, every nationality, every financial strata straggled through the wide, brightly-lit corridors.

This, Mac mused as he followed his partner into a security checkpoint, was the true American ‘melting pot.’ A vast hodgepodge of colors and creeds unmatched anywhere else in the world.

Sometimes he loved D.C., and sometimes he hated it. But the nation’s bustling capital radiated an intense energy, a dynamic vitality, that he’d never sensed anywhere else.

Anything could happen here…and frequently did.

Over the years, many of his colleagues had tired of the frenzied, ceaseless activity. But he never would, no matter how long he lived or how far he traveled. Mac found himself curiously comforted by that realization.

The TSA guard’s eyebrows flickered in mild surprise as both agents flashed their FBI badges, surrendered their weapons and overnighters for inspection, and walked briskly through the controversial ‘nudie scanner.’ Probably wasn’t used to seeing government agents dressed so casually, Mac reflected as he retrieved his 9mm on the other side, and tucked it securely in its holster again.

Well, he couldn’t dress like a GQ advertisement all the time, not if he wanted to retain his sanity! His comfortable blue jeans and dark green polo shirt might not be the FBI’s traditional uniform, but damn it, he was on vacation! Not a vacation of his choosing, perhaps, but nevertheless he intended to make the most of it.

Why on earth did everyone assume he should have brand-new, expensive luggage, just because he was a Federal agent? He liked his weather-beaten old backpack. Each faded stain, every hand-mended rip spoke to him, reminding him of the incredible adventures Conners and he had survived over the past several years. Those were memories he never wanted to lose.

Ignoring the security guard’s disgruntled sideways glance, he scooped his worn leather jacket and battered flight bag off the narrow conveyer belt.

Mariah was already striding down the first slide-walk. She was still exasperated by Thompson’s cavalier order, and it showed in the taut set of her shoulders.

Years of shared hardships and dangers had melded them into an unbeatable team. In crisis situations, they thought as one, reacted as one. They knew and trusted each other implicitly.

Yet there were disadvantages to such an intimate emotional bonding. What one felt, the other invariably shared. If their empathic link was ever formally tested, they’d break all the scales.

Conners, wait up! Several sleepier travelers edged out of his way as he jogged down the creeping conveyor ramp to catch up with her.

I thought we were flying in style, she grumbled as he slid a soothing hand down her slender back. No fourth-class steerage this time.

Out of Miami, yes. He hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder, then snagged her carryall. No lifting, he reminded her with a wicked grin. Nothing heavier than a Mai-Tai for the next two weeks.

Mai-Tai, Shmai-Tai. But she muttered it under her breath, and let him swing her bag over his broad back. Mac, what the hell am I going to do in Bermuda for two whole weeks?

Have fun. Or at least, he amended with an ironic grin, as much fun as either of them were capable of having. They were both confirmed workaholics. It was a wonder they hadn’t collapsed from nervous breakdowns years ago!

But just think…no life-threatening field cases, no sterile little cold labs, no noisy coma-inducing phone rooms! Two glorious weeks in sundrenched Bermuda, sipping frosty drinks under waving palm trees, swimming in the warm ocean, basking on some faraway pristine beach!

Maybe he’d been a bad influence on his lovely partner. Maybe she simply didn’t remember how to relax anymore!

But there were plenty of things to do in Bermuda. Scuba diving, swimming, sailing, deep-sea fishing, water skiing, parasailing, horseback riding—all kinds of energetic sports for an energetic FBI agent.

And then there were the exotic nightly shows at their luxurious resort, not to mention sightseeing and biking all over the pretty little island…

He’d keep her busy somehow. He’d given Thompson his word—and where Mariah Connors was concerned, his word was golden.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

MIAMI, FLORIDA

MIDMORNING

Quinn MacAllister loved to fly. He couldn't remember a time, even as a young child, when he hadn't liked traveling in an airplane. There was something wonderfully exhilarating about soaring through the sky at incredible speeds, about swooping and gliding on the fluid air currents like a graceful bird.

If he was ever reincarnated—assuming such a thing truly existed, and he made no bets in either direction—he hoped to come back as an eagle.

By temperament and habit, he was already a confirmed night-owl. He thought best at night, worked best at night, and could function efficiently at ungodly hours when the majority of his coworkers were sluggish and barely conscious.

Mornings often found him groggy, moody, desperate for a stimulating cup of strong coffee. And he understood, at a gut level, why they shot prisoners at dawn…they were too lethargic to put up a fight!

But there was something special about seeing dawn's first bright rays stream across the vast shimmering ocean beyond their soaring plane. And the sky was so calm and crystal-clear this morning!

Conners had already drifted back into a restless sleep. He let her rest. There would be other mornings, other flights. Pain and stress had stretched her nerves tighter than a drum. Sleep would do her more good than staring down at the patchwork hillsides and rippling aqua waves gliding beneath them.

His serene pleasure lasted only until they debarked at Miami’s sprawling terminal.

They’d been there dozens of times, and he recognized every waving palm tree and gurgling ornamental pond. It wasn’t his favorite airport, but they tried to keep it clean and gaily subtropical. Points for that, he supposed.

Anxious travelers bustled back and forth, bound for connecting flights around the corner and clear across the world. Tinny recorded messages echoed through myriad overhead speakers.

Please do not leave your luggage untended…

Yeah, yeah, he’d heard it all before.

Terrorism was always a threat these days…job security, he thought with a grimace…but today the guards were looking cheerful and relaxed. No suicidal bombers were skulking in dark corners; no uncontrolled planes were plummeting through the skies.

There was no reason why a wave of icy dread should envelop him the moment his feet touched the sloping jet ramp.

Conners felt his sudden jolt, and glanced quickly in his direction with a worried question in her slanting emerald eyes. He could only lift one broad shoulder in a helpless shrug. No clue.

He never knew when a hunch was going to sneak up and rap against his skull. And all too often, until things actually went to hell around him, he had no idea where the danger would strike. It was extremely frustrating.

Well, he’d been warned…so he would simply have to keep his eyes and ears open, and