Triple Threat - James Patterson Page 0,55

of reported incidents involving feral humans in recent days, especially in the countryside.”

“Have any been picked up yet by the Japanese press?” Freitas asks nervously. “Because if word gets out, we could be looking at a level of global pandemonium—”

“The prime minister, as we have, has been doing absolutely everything in his power to suppress any reporting on the feral humans. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned after all my years in Washington, you can’t keep a lid on bad news forever.”

She’s right. Especially of this magnitude. What was once just a silly rumor about bands of people “going native” in the game preserves of Africa has quickly proven to be a deadly reality all over, in places as diverse as Finland, South Korea, Egypt, and Japan. With most countries already teetering on the brink of anarchy, local governments have been trying desperately to sweep each incident under the rug. But it’s only a matter of time before a cellphone video goes viral showing feral humans mauling innocent ones, and panic is unleashed around the world.

“Godspeed to you all,” Hardinson says. “Oh, and Oz. My chief of staff informs me a security team in Paris has been making headway locating your wife and son?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply. “Thank you again for all your administration’s help.”

“I’m not doing it out of the kindness of my heart, Oz. As I’m sure you know. We’re only trying to save them because you’re trying to save humankind.”

I understand the president’s veiled threat loud and clear: succeed, or else.

Seven billion lives are hanging in the balance.

Including the two I cherish most.

Chapter 24

Our Mitsubishi H-60 transport helicopter thunders above the sprawling metropolis that is Tokyo. It’s a stunningly dense city that seems to stretch on forever.

But even from such a high altitude, it’s clear how badly the endless waves of animal attacks have ravaged Tokyo and its people.

It’s midday, but judging by the lack of movement, it seems like huge swaths of the city are without power. Pillars of smoke dot the skyline. I can see flocks of striped sparrowhawks, ready to swoop down on human prey. Herds of something—wild boar?—flow through the streets like living, snorting rivers.

We bank southwest. Gradually the urban density becomes more suburban, then finally lush and mountainous. This tells me we’re nearing our destination: semirural Yamanashi Prefecture, one of the most geographically secluded areas in the country.

Our chopper finally descends right in the middle of the main quad of Tsuru University, to the utter shock of the handful of students and faculty brave enough to be outside. Freitas slides open the cabin door and I see an elderly Japanese man hurrying toward us, shielding his face against the rotor wash. He has a bushy white goatee, thick black-rimmed glasses, and wears a tan suit and red bow tie.

My first thought is, the guy resembles a kooky mashup of Mr. Miyagi and Colonel Sanders. He must be Professor Junichi Tanaka, the highly regarded naturalist Freitas has been in contact with, who’ll be leading us into the highlands to trap a second feral human.

Great. At least our guides back in South Africa were strapping young men. If we’re attacked with Grandpa here at the helm? I’d say it’s pretty much every man for himself.

“Konnichiwa, Freitas-san,” Tanaka says, offering a smile and his hand to shake. But Freitas has already started bowing and doesn’t notice this. Tanaka returns the bow, just as Freitas rises up and extends his hand.

My boss is about to bow again when I grab his shoulder and stop him. Another time, another place, this little culture clash might be amusing. But not now.

“How about we ditch the formalities and get down to business?”

Freitas introduces the members of the skeleton team we’ve brought with us as Tanaka leads us all to an idling van. One of his graduate students, a twenty-something geeky-looking kid named Yusuke, is behind the wheel.

“First we will take you to the place where they killed all those Americans,” Tanaka says, directing us inside the vehicle. “Then we will track them down.”

“Uh…come again, mate?” asks Dr. Bret Clement, an immunologist from New Zealand, arching an eyebrow in concern.

This is rather alarming news to me, too.

“You told us there were only sightings of feral humans around here, Freitas,” I say. “What American dead is he talking about?”

Freitas sighs and looks away. I know immediately he has once again kept his team partially in the dark.

“Mormon missionaries. About five of them. They’d been living in a remote mountain village