This was already a disaster, and he could see where it was going. He was apparently the only person on the planet with much of an ability to resist the hybrids, and as far as he was concerned, his own loyalty was a huge question.

He stepped out onto the porch, then went down the alley beside the restaurant, moving silently, his eyes and ears alert to any sign.

*   *   *

Gina was on I-70 heading north when the wind finally began to slow. The mountains ahead were effectively containing the storm, and a few minutes later the satellite phone became operational again.

She’d made it out of a difficult situation, but she felt no pleasure or relief. She had to get things under control, and frankly, she doubted her ability to do that.

As she drove westward, the first call she made was, once again, to George. No good. He might possibly be briefing up the chain right now, but she couldn’t know that. So her second call was to the Pentagon, and she found its communications intact.

Soon, she was on the line with Assistant Secretary of the Air Force Jock McMarkell. Following regs to the letter, she gave him her code, not her name. The name didn’t matter, anyway. The code told him how he should respond to her request, and next to that for a presidential emergency, it would be the most secure and urgent he would be aware of. “May I know the nature of the problem?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I just need you to provide an aircraft.”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Finally he said, “You do understand that the Rendition Act prohibits our transporting prisoners for the purpose of violent interrogation.”

“You won’t be transporting a prisoner at all.” She wished she could tell him more, but that was out of the question. The only time she intended to reveal her secrets was when she was laying the situation out for the president.

“Very well. The aircraft will be there for you when you reach Altoona. And God bless you, young woman.”

“Thank you, sir.” After she clicked off the phone, she reflected on how alone in this world she actually was. She had lived not for Mark but for wanting Mark. Even now that she’d possibly killed him, the desire continued, whispered words of love being exchanged with what was probably an imaginary friend.

Mist came as she reached the higher elevations, billowing across the highway in ranks of fog soldiers whose sad march turned the trees to ghosts and made it seem as if the road stretched forever.

She drove on, deep into the center of America, struggling not to feel once again the evil pleasure killing Mark had given her. What was the matter with her? She’d felt the way she imagined torturers must feel, performing intimate acts of pain on helpless flesh.