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  Still wearing her gloves, Jill grabbed a knife and peeled the box open like she would a package she received in the mail. The cardboard gave way, and Jill carefully peeled back the flaps after setting aside the knife. A white box was cradled inside the cardboard, and Jill could’ve sworn she saw cold steam rising. She carefully undid the silver latch on the front of the white box, holding her breath as the top came unlatched and she lifted it -- only to recoil in horror upon the sight of a human heart.

  Shock and nausea coursed through Jill, and she covered her mouth with both hands. She was unable to tear her gaze away from the now-open box, its contents pretty much the worst thing she could’ve imagined outside of a bomb. And even with no clue, no indication, of who the heart once belonged to, Jill knew: someone had just sent her Dr. Roberts’ heart.

  Chapter 28

  David Gregor was known for many things. He was a Maryland native turned Forbes 500 honoree, an internationally renowned businessman and philanthropist who worked diligently to fight the AIDS epidemic in impoverished portions of Africa. He was also one of the nation's most visible political activists, to the point where he would even disclose exactly how much money he donated and to whom. The national media loved him for it, so much so that they would ignore his less savory exploits -- like the on-going FBI investigation into a sex trafficking ring allegedly linking Gregor Enterprises to an organized crime syndicate in Thailand.

  Dressed in his trademark crimson suit, with matching tie, Gregor watched the scenery as his limo passed through the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. His lobbying efforts in Congress to fight a bill that would tighten regulations on overseas trading had fallen on deaf ears, but he was confident they hadn't heard the last of him on Capitol Hill. He had three hours to get home; he was throwing out the ceremonial first pitch later that night at the Orioles' playoff game against Anaheim. The ALCS was tied at a game apiece, and Baltimore was in the midst of a buzz it hadn’t seen in almost fifteen years. The black and orange cap clashed with his suit, but he'd make it work.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling out the device, Gregor’s expression soured when he saw who was calling. Running fingers through his ghost-white hair, Gregor closed the partition between himself and the driver, confident that he had adequate privacy. He reluctantly pressed his thumb against the touchscreen with a sigh.

  "What did I tell you? I call you, not the other way around."

  "Yeah, well." The voice on the other end was gruff, with a hint of annoyance. "You're gonna thank me once you hear what I have to say."

  "I already know about Dr. Roberts." Gregor poured himself a glass of scotch, downing the amber liquid in one gulp. "I always knew Project Fusion would get him killed. Just wish it hadn’t been in my city."

  "I'm not calling about Trent. I have some information that I think you might be very interested in."

  "Unless you're telling me the Commerce Committee is reconsidering my proposal," Gregor poured another glass of scotch, "I seriously doubt I'd be interested in what you have to say."

  "I know who the vigilante is."

  Gregor paused with the glass inches from his lips. He stared at the device in his other hand, wondering if perhaps he'd misheard. Setting his glass down, he leaned forward in his seat, pursing his lips. "You fucking with me, Freeman?"

  "Not at all." There was a long pause on the other end, and Gregor momentarily thought the line had disconnected. He almost jumped when the other man spoke again. "She's a badge."

  It made sense, if Gregor really thought about it. The vigilante -- known in some circles as Bounty -- always seemed to be in exactly the right place at the right time to break up whatever Gregor or his associates were trying to accomplish. Over the past year alone, three shipments from France had been intercepted in Annapolis, and every time, people spoke of a mysterious black figure with a glowing red eye. If this vigilante had law enforcement ties, that made her a lot more formidable than just some whacked-out kid playing hero.

  "I trust you have a name."

  "Andersen." Freeman spoke without hesitation. "Jill Andersen."

  Familiarity turned into full-blown recognition for Gregor. He downed his scotch with a grin, ignoring the burn that slithered down his throat. Grabbing the phone again, he took the device off speaker and pressed it to his ear. "So she's one of yours."

  "She was one of mine. Now she's a problem."

  "Not anymore, she's not." Ending the call, Gregor pocketed his phone and opened the partition again. He couldn't wipe the grin off of his face, reaching over to tap the driver on the shoulder, smiling into the rear view mirror.

  "Mr. Gibbs, when we get home, place a call to Captain Daniel Richards. I believe I have some information that he'll find very interesting."

  Chapter 29

  Five years ago...

  Jill considered herself fortunate that the Army kept her in the Eastern Time Zone when they assigned her to Fort Eustis in Virginia. Not that she got the chance to get away all that often, but it was nice to know that if she did have a weekend free, all she had to do was hop on the interstate for a couple hours and she'd be back home. This was not one of those weekends, though -- not with representatives from the Pentagon scurrying across the base like cockroaches.

  Jill and Lieutenant Colonel Freeman sat side-by-side in one of the second-floor conference rooms in the central command center. She was on-edge, her left leg bouncing up and down as she hunched over the desk with her elbows pressed against the wood. Meanwhile, Freeman sat back with his arms folded across his chest, impatience and ire building in his dark eyes. He glanced at the time piece on his left wrist, sighing and shaking his head.

  "He's late."

  As if on cue, Dr. Trent Roberts walked into the conference room with a stack of folders and papers tucked under his right arm. The balding man with the wire-rim glasses spilled all of his papers on the conference table, giving Jill and Freeman an apologetic smile before crossing to the far wall to bring down a projector screen. He returned to the table to fumble with his papers some more, huffing an exhausted sigh when he finally found the one he was looking for.

  "Lieutenant Colonel Freeman." He hastily shed the white lab coat draped over his shoulders, tossing it into one of the empty chairs to his right. "Andersen."

  "Let's just get on with this," Freeman growled. "I have a briefing with the Pentagon in thirty minutes."

  "Then I guess we should just get right down to it." Dr. Roberts' voice was surprisingly upbeat for a workaholic scientist, his upper-crest British accent barely noticeable at first. "I trust you're both familiar with Project Fusion. The, uh... basics, at least?"

  Jill shrugged. "Yeah... we're not really here for a lecture, Doc. And, with all due respect, I don't need you to tell me how dangerous this is. I get enough of that from him."

  Dr. Roberts took a seat at the head of the table, straightening his canary yellow tie. "That's for the Pentagon's benefit. See, if something goes wrong, they don't want you coming back at them with lawyers."

  Freeman rolled his eyes. "Because that's helpful."

  "Then allow me, sir," Dr. Roberts shot him a knowing glance, "to present 'the help.' Project Fusion, the result of nearly a decade of work in all corners of the --"

  "Yeah yeah yeah," Jill interrupted. "You worked on political prisoners in Syria until you perfected the formula."

  Dr. Roberts stared at Jill and Freeman in stunned silence, and the look on his face nearly drove Jill to laughter. She suppressed it, though, thanks to the glare she was getting from her commanding officer. "I read the file. Not everything is classified around here."

  "Well, in that case..." Dr. Roberts stood, the projector screen illuminating. Schematics and equations littered the screen, most of the writing too small to read -- and what Jill could read looked like it was written in another language. She'd been a pretty good science student when she was in school, but whatever this was went way over Jill's head. "Cybernetic technology has practically boomed in the last ten years. It's
uncanny, the things we can accomplish."

  The more excited Dr. Roberts got, the more noticeable his accent became. "Replacing lost limbs with prosthetics that are just as efficient and fluid as the real thing. Last month, a man in Denmark received the first-ever successful cybernetic heart transplant. He's out of the hospital, shows the heart activity of a fit 25-year-old, and has even begun playing golf again."

  Dr. Roberts began pacing back and forth in front of the projector screen, clicking on a small remote in his palm to change the screen. Each image was less intelligible than the last. "Project Fusion's about more than that, though. We're not in the business of fixing what's broken. We're here to take what already works and make it better."

  He clicked on the remote again. Schematic drawings spread across the screen. "Infrared sight. Titanium-enforced limbs. Spinal fusion that renders paralysis nigh impossible."

  Seeing the skepticism etched onto Jill's face, Dr. Roberts returned to his seat, leaning forward on his elbows to speak directly to her. "Remember at boot camp, when you had to do all that running? And it was slow, and plodding, and your legs were killing you, and you thought at any moment you might revisit that morning's breakfast?" He smiled when her features softened. "Well, after Project Fusion, people will be capable of running far faster for far longer. They will stronger than ever. Have more endurance. You wouldn't be invincible, Andersen, but you'd be bloody close."

  Freeman rolled his eyes. "Right, she'd be a regular Captain America."

  "No." Dr. Roberts' smile grew. "She'd be better. No red, white, and blue suit, for one thing. If you ask me, I always found that a bit tacky."

  Jill's eyebrows raised. "Bad time to mention we won the Revolutionary War?"

  The smile disappeared from Trent's face. "I care far more about the war you shouldn't be fighting in the first place."

  Ignoring Dr. Roberts' editorializing, Jill turned to her commanding officer. "Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  "You know you never have to ask me that."

  She leaned in, her green eyes darkening. "I don't care if this kills me. Cause if I'm gonna go, it's gonna be on my terms, not cause someone shot down my plane or I happened to be driving down the wrong street in Baghdad."

  Freeman shook his head. "Jill, your four years are over in six months."

  "At which point, I'll go back home, enroll in the academy, and get my badge."

  He sighed and leaned back in his seat. "I don't like this."

  "Sir," Dr. Roberts interjected, "I'm afraid you don't have much say. The Pentagon has already given the green light to any enlisted who wish to volunteer."

  Freeman stood. "Then the Pentagon is allowing soldiers to die when we need all the numbers we can get."

  Jill rolled her eyes. "Maybe they should've thought about that before starting this war." She turned her attention back to Dr. Roberts, who was regarding her with a neutral expression, his hands clasped together on the conference table. "I'm in."

  Chapter 30

  Present day…

  “It belongs to our victim, alright.”

  Juanita Gutierrez peeled off her baby blue latex gloves and tossed them into a nearby trash can before leading Jill out of the morgue and into her office -- which, miraculously, didn’t smell of ammonia and death. Juanita huffed an exhausted sigh when she lowered herself into her seat, a large black swivel chair that boasted all of life’s ergonomic bliss without actually delivering on any of it. Then again, given that Juanita spent most of her professional time on her feet, even that rickety chair by Jill’s desk in the precinct was a welcome respite.

  The light embedded in the ceiling flickered, and Juanita rolled her eyes. “One of these days, that thing’s gonna blow,” Juanita shook her head, “and someone over at Maintenance is gonna get a nasty message.”

  “Can you tell anything?” Jill asked. “Other than who the heart belongs to?”

  “I doubt it.” Juanita shrugged. “I mean, I’ll check for DNA and particulates, but I don’t think I’ll find anything.”

  Jill focused her gaze on a random scuff mark on the floor, partly because finding that one random space and locking in on it helped her sort through everything floating around in her head. She figured whoever left that heart at her door was the same person who killed Dr. Roberts, and it all but affirmed Jill’s theory that his murder was related to Project Fusion -- and, by extension, her.

  The overhead light flickered again, snapping Jill out of her self-imposed trance. She leaned back against the chair next to Juanita’s desk, smiling a little at the framed photo of the lead ME and her younger brother when they were attending a Dodgers game. Juanita was ever the doting, protective older sister, even back when they were children.

  “Jill,” Juanita cocked her head to the side as she spoke, “what’s up?”

  “Hm? Nothing.”

  “Please.” Juanita rolled her eyes. “I see it all over your face, girl. That’s not nothing.”

  “I came home to a heart in a box.” Jill shrugged. “I mean, I don’t care how badass everyone thinks I am, that’s more than a little creepy.”

  “True.” Juanita leaned back in her chair, resting her hands on the back of her head. “But there is something to be said for a key piece of evidence being brought to you, instead of you having to go out and find it yourself.”

  “Also true.” Jill nodded and smirked. “Now, if the killer would just walk into the bullpen and offer a confession, I could file the paperwork and be home in time for the game tonight.”

  “You think whoever left the heart at your door is the same person who killed Dr. Roberts?”

  “I’m willing to bet a month’s salary on it,” Jill said, leaning forward until her elbows rested on her knees. “Anything on the metal you found?”

  “As I expected, it was a surgical blade,” Juanita explained. “Heavy duty, made from a metal compound used in Germany. I’ve put out feelers to the manufacturers over there, but without a serial number, I’m not optimistic.”

  “That’s something, though,” Jill said as she stood. “We know whoever did this has resources. I can’t imagine importing high-end cutlery from Europe is cheap.” Jill glanced at her watch, sighing as the expression on her face soured and her eyes darkened. She glanced up at Juanita, whose face morphed in sympathy as she stood and placed a soft hand on Jill’s shoulder.

  “Today’s the day, isn’t it?”

  “Yep.” Jill sucked in a deep breath and straightened her back. “I’ll be back. Buzz if you find anything.”

  Chapter 31

  Jill hated going to Annapolis.

  The drive itself wasn't bad -- just over half an hour if traffic cooperated. But what the capital of Maryland represented for Jill was what made her despise the place. Her father, Paul Andersen, was being held in one of Maryland's most secure facilities, counting down his days until the state would stick a needle in his arm. Every time she made the trip, the thought sent a shudder down her spine and a boiling sensation in her gut. Frankly, Jill was surprised she could still feel a chill down her spine. She figured the titanium fusion would've rendered that sensation moot.

  Every time Jill made the trek to Annapolis, she told herself it was her last -- because Jill was convinced she had reached a point where she could no longer handle these visits. Seeing her father so despondent, so accepting of his fate despite the fact that he was so obviously not guilty was hard to watch, both as his daughter and as a person who spent her life digging in search of the truth. Paul was once that sort of person, but solitary confinement with the eventual promise of death had apparently changed him far more than Jill anticipated. Every time she saw Paul, Jill said goodbye. Yet she kept coming back.

  Jill flashed her badge to the security guard at the gate, though she didn't really need to anymore. Tony knew who she was and why she was here; visiting once a month for the past three years, she was something of a regular. She pulled her car into one of the few remaining open spaces, tucking her hair into a ponytail as s
he walked toward the facility. The building was tan and completely nondescript, save the small sign by the door announcing it as a state correctional building. There was no mention of Death Row or its inhabitants.

  Yet another security guard -- a skinny man in his fifties named Al -- buzzed Jill in without a word, and her heart skipped a beat, like it always did, when she saw her father sitting at a table with his hands cuffed to a chain leading to the floor. His orange jumpsuit hung loosely off his body, a lifeless look permanently etched into his eyes. Not even the sight of his daughter could liven them. Paul hadn't shaved in about three weeks. His beard was unruly, a strange mix of his natural brown color and gray. Under different circumstances, Jill might not have recognized him. She sat across from Paul, trying to ignore the bulletproof glass separating them. She gave her father a tiny smile, unbuttoning her blazer.

  "Hi, Dad."

  His eyes flickered -- happiness, maybe -- but the emotion disappeared as soon as she saw it. "Hey, kid."

  When she started making these visits, Jill hated having a guard watching over them. She had understood the need for it, understood that prisoners weren't entitled to privacy with their visitors -- lawyers excluded -- but it didn't make the visits any less awkward. But now, she'd grown used to having Al eavesdropping on their conversations. Al was a nice man, had a son about to go Penn State on a track scholarship. He was friendly with Paul, which Jill appreciated.

  "How ya doin'?" Jill tried to keep her tone light.