Sebastian had told her the location of the blood farm, as well as where to find the hidden access area and the code. She shared none of that with Roland. The moment she did, he would send her on her way to be interrogated by a bunch of pencil pushers while he went off to the blood farm, to claim all the glory.

She wasn’t seeking glory. She wanted to see the blood farm.

“Where?” Roland snapped, his face red with anger.

“Downieville,” Ellie said.

“The hell’s that?”

“The guy was dying. I didn’t ask for directions.”

“Address?”

Ellie hesitated.

Roland glared at her, incredulous. “What, you thinking you and I are just going to waltz in there and free ’em? I need support staff, make travel arrangements. Give me the address. Now.”

“Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception,” she said. “And if you’re thinking of just leaving me here because you’re pissed off, don’t. You’ll need an access code. I’ll give it to you when we get there.”

Roland was on his phone as they drove out of the parking lot. He didn’t put the call on the car’s Bluetooth, so she couldn’t hear the conversation. Ellie guessed he was talking to his boss or some other higher-up; he kept saying “sir” as he brought the person on the other end of the line up to speed about the recent developments. Whoever he was speaking to must have been pleased, because Roland’s voice grew lighter, and the tension he’d been carrying in his jaw and shoulders relaxed a bit.

Roland hung up, tossed the phone in the cubbyhole. “This boy, Jonathan Cullen,” he said. “Who is he?”

“My twin brother.”

Roland shifted in his seat, thinking. “Your file says you’re an only child.”

“My file is missing a lot of important facts.”

“Such as?”

“Let’s start with my name,” she said. “It isn’t Ellie Batista.”

* * *

Ellie had never heard of Downieville, had no idea where it was. A quick Internet search on Roland’s phone told her it was a “census-designated place” in Sierra County, which was in the northern part of the state and bordered Nevada. It had a population of fewer than two hundred people, and the town had no restaurants or grocery stores. That was all the information she got before Roland took his phone back to answer an incoming call. He spoke cryptically, so she couldn’t glean anything from his conversation.

Reaching Downieville by car would take nine hours. Roland, through the FBI’s LA field office, had made arrangements to borrow, under the government’s law enforcement assistance program, a helicopter from the Homeland Security Division of the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department, located at the airport in Long Beach.

The helicopter, painted green and gold, was the same type of amphibious aircraft used by the president of the United States, and by the navy for search-and-rescue missions, medevac, and shipping. It was called a Sea King, and in addition to being able to handle any type of weather conditions, the helicopter was known for its speed. They made it to a landing pad just outside of Downieville in under an hour.