Now Chris understood. “I see. So while IMIS can observe a shrug, it has no way to actually transmit that gesture through the vest’s speaker.”
“Bingo!”
“Wow. That is weird.”
“It shouldn’t be able to translate gestures in both directions, but it does. And we don’t know how.”
Chris thought it over. He didn’t know the answer either. He had a suspicion but nothing concrete. It was a topic that Alison and he had discussed several times over the last couple years and were sure others had too. After years in the field, working with different creatures, they had eventually come to the same conclusion: there was something deeper and unknown happening when it came to communication. Especially in less cognizant brains. It was something many people had wondered about at one time or another. How animals knew so much instinctively, even things they had never been taught by a parent.
Communication was the means to knowledge. But Chris and Alison, as well as other researchers, even veterinarians, were sure there was something else happening at a deeper level. A level that humans could not yet understand or measure.
But maybe IMIS was doing just that.
4
Tiago Otero raised his head upon hearing a soft knock on the door. A moment later it was slowly pushed open and one of Otero’s assistants apologetically poked his head inside, interrupting the discussion.
Otero displayed a pained expression and apologized to the man across the small table. With dark eyes topped by a head of stark white hair, the other man appeared older than Otero. He was dressed in the familiar dark green and brown fatigues of the Brazilian Army. Silently, he watched as Otero rose from his leather chair and followed the assistant out.
They stood in the hallway, waiting for the door to click shut. When it did, Otero’s eyes became cold.
“What is it?”
“I’m very sorry to interrupt,” whispered the younger man. “But you wanted me to alert you if there was a problem.”
Otero looked at him expectantly.
“Lieutenant Russo has lost contact with his men.”
Otero’s expression barely changed. He stared intently, twisting his lips in a manner that made his assistant nervous. Otero’s unpredictability was well-known, and his wrath legendary. It was a look his assistant had seen many times and hoped would never be directed at him. He was emphatically hoping that now.
Otero had no friends. Only enemies and fearful acquaintances. Which is how he preferred it. Everyone nervous and afraid. Fear was the ultimate motivator. It stripped the strong of their confidence and made the meek obey. Otero scoffed at those who claimed power was about money. True power was about fear. Power through money was for the weak. Power through fear was for rulers.
“Why didn’t he tell me himself?”
“H-he’s still trying to reach them, sir.”
Otero stared at him, thinking. The men his assistant referred to were the men Russo had sent to Florianópolis. It was a simple job. Easy for men of their skill.
Miguel Blanco had given him the information he sought in São Paulo. Much more than he already knew. But Blanco had already talked to too many people. He had to be silenced.
More importantly Blanco had killed one of Otero’s partners. Alves was a competitor — a ruthless one — but he was still part of the group. The echelon. A fellow oligarch who shared in the control of Brazil and most of South America. A man with far more wealth than most would ever know, and with it, certain protections.
Otero had warned the man that Blanco, his head of security, could not be trusted. He wouldn’t listen. Instead, he trusted the young assistant he was sleeping with far too much. A common mistake of old, desperate men, clinging to the last remnants of their virility. It left him open, vulnerable. And Blanco pounced.
Alves was foolish. But Blanco was still a dead man the moment he killed his boss. Now Blanco and his entire family would be made an example of, just like so many before him. Alves was shrewd. But Otero was unforgiving.
And then there was Alves’ secret. He’d gotten close, within grasp of perhaps the greatest discovery of mankind. Too close, in fact. In the end, his eagerness had compromised his objectivity. No, not eagerness. The man was desperate. Desperate for it to be true. Desperate for it to be real. And when he found out it was everything he’d hoped for, the desperation had blinded him. It was a mistake Otero would not repeat.
Florianópolis was one of the most desirable places to live in all of Brazil. Located just over four hundred miles south of São Paulo, the large island of Florianópolis was the Brazilian capital city and held the title for having one of the highest living standards in the country. With its local population composed mostly of Brazilian and European descent, the lighter subtropical weather made it one of the most sought after cities in which to reside. Assuming one had the resources, or perhaps had acquired the necessary resources.
Steve Caesare examined the two bodies lying face down. Both were bound, but only one was still breathing. The other was dead. It wasn’t Caesare’s fault. The idiot wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t give up until Caesare had no choice.
He stepped back and leaned against the wall. If he thought his side hurt before, it was practically screaming after having to drag them both from the front room.
The large closet they were now in wouldn’t keep them from being found. It would only delay it. And of course, the one would survive and eventually make it back to Otero. He hoped by then Blanco’s family would have heeded his warning and fled the country. He had a feeling the man named Otero wasn’t going to take this well.
Miguel Blanco had been a bastard. A murderer with little conscience and even less remorse. Caesare knew that and wouldn’t lose sleep over him being dead. But in his experience, the families were usually innocent and largely unaware of their father’s or husband’s work when he was away from them. The family didn’t deserve it. And Blanco’s family didn’t deserve to be used as Otero’s calling card.
Fortunately, Caesare had the advantage. At least this time. The thugs had shown up expecting to find Blanco’s wife and children unsuspecting and defenseless. Instead they found Steve Caesare. The timing was lucky but he was sure Otero would eventually find out who he was. While Caesare caught his breath, his lips curled into a wry grin and he decided to leave the man a message.
He walked forward and pulled up the dead man’s pant leg, revealing a Fallkniven A1 survival knife strapped securely to his calf. Caesare unclipped the weapon and slid it out, momentarily admiring it. He then reached down and cut a shape into the back of the man’s brightly colored shirt. At least they had the sense to dress the part.
If Otero were stupid enough to pursue Caesare, he should at least know who he was dealing with.
He returned the knife and nodded approvingly. The shape was a trident, the symbol of the U.S. Navy’s Sea, Air, and Land teams — more commonly known as SEALs.
5
DeeAnn Draper’s office was small and conservatively decorated. Just a single framed picture on the beige wall and another on her desk were all she had ever bothered to put up. It was a reflection of both her minimalistic lifestyle as well as the limited amount of time she actually spent in her office. Chris joked that it eerily resembled an advertisement out of an office supply magazine. But she did really like it there. She felt as much at home with Alison’s team as she had working at the Gorilla Foundation. And what Alison and her team had achieved was simply amazing.
DeeAnn sat in her black chair and scanned the room, now wishing she’d made a little more of an effort to decorate. But then again, maybe this would make things easier.