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Monica sighed. “It can’t be that many.”
“One was too many,” Lund shot back. “That was the deal in exchange for our cooperation and for keeping lawyers out of it.”
The elevator beeped at their floor, and they emerged into an office area with cubicles and rows of office doors, all facing the exterior windows. The fluorescent lights were dreary. It reminded Roth of one of the old buildings at Hayward State, before it had been renamed, where he’d both worked and gone to college. He’d hated the fluorescents and ratty carpet.
Monica took them to a conference room and held the door for them. Two more special agents were waiting inside.
“Hello, Lund,” said Carter coldly.
The dislike between the men was mutual. Roth didn’t much care for Carter either. Carter had a perpetually annoyed look on his face. Moreover, he seemed to be a political man, someone who’d worked his way up the FBI ranks through maneuvering and intrigue. Still, they had no choice but to deal with him. He’d been appointed the special agent in charge of the Salt Lake field office after his predecessor was blown up at Bozeman Yellowstone International Airport trying to apprehend Jacob Calakmul.
“This is Executive Assistant Director Brower,” Monica said, gesturing to another man seated at the table. He was a big guy, midforties, with all the expressive personality of a sourdough roll. He looked like the quintessential fed—regular suit, cropped dark hair with a receding hairline, and the cool eyes of a man who interrogated murderers.
Roth scratched his chin, feeling out of place.
Lund leaned back against the conference room door. He didn’t reply to Carter’s greeting.
“Have a seat, if you will,” Carter told them. Agent Sanchez sat down across from Brower. Roth took the seat next to hers, and the boys settled in at the far end of the table, looking as sheepish and uncomfortable as Roth felt. Lund didn’t sit at all.
The tension in the room was palpable.
“Monica said there was some news,” Roth said when he could no longer stand the silence.
“And hopefully she didn’t tell you any of it on the way up in the elevator,” Carter said. He wasn’t in a good mood.
“I didn’t,” Monica said with an exasperated sigh.
Brower said nothing. He was studying Roth closely, which made Roth even more uncomfortable. Roth began to tap nervously on the table.
“Good clue about the archaeologist,” Carter said. “Dr. Estrada did some work with National Geographic on Maya ruins. He’s run airplanes out of Guatemala over the jungles and captured mountains of data. Including, it seems, from part of Mexico.”
Roth leaned forward in surprise. “That’s excellent news!”
Carter wasn’t smiling. “Unfortunately, someone else got to him first.”
Roth stopped breathing. “What?”
Monica spoke up. “Someone pretending to be with the bureau spoke to him yesterday. He was persuaded to reveal that on one occasion, he and his pilot had crossed into Mexican airspace and found a site that wasn’t on any of the charts. Although he didn’t relate exactly what he saw to the imposter, he disclosed that something . . . inexplicable occurred over the site. When we interviewed him, he told us that a storm nearly crashed the plane.” She gave him a significant look. “He said he’s flown through dozens of storms, and this one was uncanny. It literally came out of nowhere.”
“Dude,” Brillante said, shaking his head. “Like during the games!”
“What did the imposter do?” Roth asked worriedly.
Monica’s mouth pursed. “The servers at the Qualcomm Institute at UC San Diego have been hacked and are now under a ransomware lockdown.”
“Ransomware?” Roth asked, confused. He’d heard the word before but couldn’t come up with the meaning off the top of his head.
“Ransomware is a cryptovirus,” Brower said tonelessly. “This particular one is highly sophisticated. They’re not asking for money. They’re asking for you.”
CHAPTER THREE
FBI HEADQUARTERS—J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING
WASHINGTON, DC
January 8
Roth’s stomach took another lurch. He kept taking hits, and he wasn’t sure how many more he could absorb. The death game. His wife’s diabetic coma. The FBI raid on their house in Bozeman. Hiding out in a prepper cabin to protect his kids from Calakmul’s men. Then, worst of all, his friend Moretti’s betrayal. Calakmul had his daughter and possibly his wife, and he still wanted more. He’d never be satisfied until the Roths were all dead, the way he’d thought they would be after the death game just over a year ago.
