“Progress is an ugly word,” said Bug. “I’ve been noodling around on some dark web sites, and all I can find so far is that one of Kuga’s black market crews moved some weapons into the U.S. via trucking routes from Canada. Don’t have manifests, but it’s a fair amount. And, before you ask, I had MindReader poke around in surveillance logs from the CIA, DoD, and Homeland, but there’s no indication of any nuclear materials. My guess is it’s guns and ammo.”

“Being sold to whom?”

Bug fished around in the mess of papers on his desk, found a pair of stapled pages, and handed them to Church.

The big man scanned the lists. “These are mostly militia groups. Some very far out on the political fringe.”

“All with avowed nationalistic politics. Bunch of ’em are white supremacists, too.”

“But not all,” mused Church.

“No. Doesn’t mean much except they’re buying from the same vendor. Kuga’s undercutting everyone else’s prices.”

“Put Nikki Bloom on this,” said Church. “Her whole team. There’s a pattern in here, and we’re not yet seeing it.”

Bug glanced up at him. “You think there really is something big brewing?”

“I do.”

“Any idea what?”

“No. That’s why I want Nikki on it. Nobody finds a pattern better than she does.”

“Agreed. I’ll go over this with her right away.” He paused. “Is this on the same level of hush-hush as tracking Joe?”

“No. Brief Scott on it as well.”

“Okeydokey.”

“This is all very good work, Bug.” Church stood up. “You know that I appreciate all that you do.”

Bug smiled faintly. “You don’t need to say it.”

“I do,” said Church, “and should probably say it more often.”

With that, he left the office.

CHAPTER 61

VAN DIJK BIOMECHANICA

ROTTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS

“Tell me about the American Operation,” said the man. “I won’t ask again.”

The scientist backed away, his feet slipping in the blood. He wanted to turn, to run, but the dog stood there by the exit to the stairs, and the big man with the knife was between him and the main door. The scientist’s name was De Vries. He was corrupt, and willingly so. He was bought and owned and content with that. He was also trapped.

“Please…,” he mewled.

“I can make you tell me,” warned the big man. “You know I can.”

The knife was red, and the hand holding it was scarlet to the wrist. All around the room was evidence of what the knife could do and what the man was willing to do.

If this man was really a man at all.

There was something wrong about him.

He seemed to be darker than anyone should be, given the bright fluorescent lights. And there was something in his face, in his eyes. They seemed to burn, to give off real heat.