‘No way.’ Lauren grabs Immanuel’s arm. ‘Wherever he goes, I’m going, too.’

‘Out of the question,’ Chaney states.

‘Either she comes, or I stay,’ Immanuel says.

Chaney eyeballs his godson, who returns the old man’s glare. ‘God dammit, I’m too old for this foolishness.’ He looks at Lauren, the girl desperate. ‘Okay, everyone in the goddam car!’

Meteorology Lab, University of Miami
7:50 a.m.

The Meteorology Center is a beehive of activity as dozens of technicians from the Earth Systems Management Agency track Super-Cane Kenneth, its monstrous eye less than twenty miles offshore.

Bruce Doyle stares at the cyclone’s image on his screen.

Sweet Jesus, it’s heading straight for Biscayne Bay …

Two floors down, Special Agent Collin Shelby sips his coffee as he waits for the latest encoded dispatch from UMBRA headquarters in Virginia. Twenty hours earlier, Lauren Beckmeyer’s fiancé had placed an unsecured communication from Miami Beach. Satellite eavesdropping had immediately zeroed in on both subjects, who had headed north and were given shelter in a Delray Beach home registered to a retired airline pilot going by the name of Frank Stansbury. This last bit of information was quite disconcerting. What if it’s another biological attack …

Shelby’s communicator vibrates. He places the sunglasses on his face, reading the encrypted message appearing across the inside of the tinted lenses.

ALERT: SUBJECT’S VEHICLE TRAVELING SOUTH ON

SH-95, HEADING FOR MIAMI.

FLOOD ZONE.

Shelby rubs his sleep-deprived eyes. ‘Flood Zone’ was UMBRA’s term for killing the subject and all witnesses. Whatever act of terrorism this Lauren Beckmeyer and her accomplices were planning had to be something big.

The government assassin checks his weapons, then grabs his rain gear and heads for the door.

Inside the Limousine, Miami Beach, Florida
9:36 a.m.

Immanuel squeezes Lauren’s trembling hand.

They are seated in the back of the swaying limo, along with his mother, Ennis Chaney, and Dr. Mohr’s wife, Eve. The two bodyguards are up front, praying the autopilot will guide them to their undisclosed destination before Super-Cane Kenneth pummels them to death.

The wind is howling so loud, the rain beating on the exterior with such force that communication is impossible. Only the former president knows where they are going, and he refuses to say.

After ninety minutes of steady driving, they exit the Smart-way interstate and snake their way through streets flooded with ocean and rain.

Twenty minutes later, the vehicle abruptly stops.

The rain has eased, the wind turning to a high-pitched whistle, as if they are parked in a tunnel.

Immanuel presses his face to the bulletproof glass. Through the foggy window he sees a brick wall. ‘Wait a second … I know this place.’