“Maybe this is something else,” Dr. Rogner suggested, doubtfully.

Behind them, Elaine Rockford, Butler’s assistant, cleared her throat.

“Uhm. Ma’am?”

“It has the same shape and body type,” Dr. Butler mused, ignoring her in favor of the skull in her hands. “If the metal was some kind of armor, then my guess would be that this one wasn’t suited up when the missile hit it, but if that was the case, it shouldn’t be in one piece.”

“Ma’am,” Elaine piped up again. “You might want to have a look at this.”

“What is it?” Dr. Butler asked, slightly irritated by being asked to abandon her line of thought, but too aware of the urgency in her assistant’s voice to blow her off again.

“It’s a hole,” Elaine said, nervously. “In the bottom of the crate.”

Dr. Butler’s eyes widened behind the mask. She handed the skull to Dr. Rogner, who immediately froze so as not to endanger the priceless bone.

“A hole?” Dr. Butler stalked over to the box in question to peek inside. “If the container was contaminated, that might explain the—” She stopped, almost swallowing her tongue when she realized what had her assistant so rattled. “Fuck me,” she whispered, and the switch from consummate professional to freaked-out individual almost made Rogner drop the burnt head in his hands.

“What?” he asked, stepping closer as well. He wasn’t the only one.

Within moments, the team was gathered around the box, jostling for position to stare at the hole.

“This was made from the inside,” Dr. Butler declared tonelessly. “This facility might’ve been compromised. I’m initiating lockdown.” She strode over to the communication unit set into a wall panel next to the bulletproof observation window. “This is Lieutenant Dr. Leandra Butler. I’m calling a Code Red. I repeat: Code Red. Seal the base.”

Damn it. Shit like this wasn’t supposed to happen outside of movies.

TEN

SOMEWHERE in the middle of Die Hard 4, Riley decided he’d had plenty of time to not think and any more not thinking would definitely qualify as brooding. That was usually the point when he turned to work, exercise, or drink. Thanks to his post-Misha twitchiness, he was currently unemployed, so work was out. He wasn’t comfortable leaving behind his truck in order to take off on a long run, not under the circumstances, and he didn’t have the patience to go find a gym. Drink won by default. It helped that Riley’s stomach had calmed down enough to go from queasy to hungry. Dinner, then. Ideally, followed by something alcoholic or chocolaty, but preferably alcoholic. He’d been invaded by an alien. More than enough reason to skip the brownies and go straight for the tequila.