“Gina, a major Delta Force operation is being planned for the area. Your satphone is off-line, though. We can’t locate you.”

“There’s some kind of jamming taking place. Magnetic jamming. I’ve been trying to get it up for hours.”

“Where’s Bryan?”

“We think he went in with the drone that crashed.”

“It crashed?”

“In Golden Gate Park. He was aboard at the time. I’m with the two surviving members of his team, Dr. Hicks and PFC Richardson. We need help here, we’re being hunted. Without the drone, the hybrids’ effectiveness is reduced, but they will find us.”

Langley broke over her voice. “We have coordinates on her satphone now,” a young voice said.

“Gina, we’ve got you! Just stay there—are you under any kind of immediate duress?”

“Get us help!”

“Okay, we will come to whatever last location we have for you. Delta Force will come.”

“Delta Force. Good. Send them. All of them.”

“Gina, we’ll be there by nightfall.”

“And you, too? Bring as much support as you can. We need personnel, we need communications. Weapons. Get every Metal Storm in the country.”

“The three at Fort Yuma?”

“For God’s sake, get them all!”

“Are you sure you’re okay? Because you sound odd.”

“I’m being hunted down! I’m on the run! And if you don’t get here pronto, I’m gonna sound damn odd because I’m gonna be dead.”

“That’s my Gina!”

“How long exactly?”

“Eight hours tops.”

“Faster than that! Way faster!”

“I’ll do all I can.”

From George’s standpoint, it seemed that Gina disconnected normally. But the hand that flipped the switch that concluded the satphone call was not hers. Its owner, however, was certainly in possession of an extensive knowledge of the way she used words and an uncanny ability to mimic her voice, thanks to the knowledge of her extracted from Dr. Turner’s brain.

The hybrid stuffed the satphone into a pocket. Keeping under the trees, careful not to show itself to any satellites, it approached another such soldier, a male, which was pulling what appeared to be blankets off the branches of a tree. Its movements were clumsy, and when the female blundered into it, they both snarled like animals. The distorted faces of Linda Hicks and Pete Richardson could be seen as the soldiers gathered their skins.

Feeling their way, they went into the Glade with them. There was a struggle in the dim room, the sounds of grunting and sliding, low curses, a wet noise.

One figure dragged a chair into the doorway, where it sat down in the light. This was the female hybrid—or had been. Incredibly, what appeared to be a completely different person took the chair.

It was Linda Hicks, her skin once again rosy and her eyes vivid with life. She sat absolutely still, her face impassive. She did not blink.