Predator by Janice Gable Bashman Page B

the wound repair serum—that’s the idea I thought of right before we left Ireland—then we can significantly speed up the process. Then we wait and see what happens.”
    “That’s so cool,” Bree said. “We’re making lycanthrope mice?”
    Her dad chuckled. “Kind of. Before I would have written off lycanthropy as a myth, but now I believe it’s a genetic mutation.” He paced the floor in his office like it couldn’t contain him. “It’s all right there.” He stopped briefly and stabbed the papers on his desk with his index finger. “We were right, Bree. That hand was both lycanthrope and human. There’s no doubt about it. Do you know what this means?” Before she could answer, he continued. “We’ve got the secret to lycanthrope DNA right here, right in front of us.”
    She couldn’t talk to him when he was like this. He talked so fast and moved around so much, it was hard to follow what he said. “Slow down, Dad. I want to keep up.”
    “Right. Sorry.”
    He continued to pace, but now his steps weren’t so measured, more like a casual walk across the office. As if he’d lost his way. “Where was I?” He paused and then said, “Oh right. The hand and the rest of the body, wherever it is, resulted from a strange mutation in a gene, probably a transcription factor, which is a gene that controls other genes. That would make the most sense anyway, since there are so many effects involved.”
    “This will change everything,” Bree said with her eyes wide. “We can help the soldiers.”
    “Not so fast. Although I’m pretty sure I’m right about the lycanthrope gene, there’s a protocol we have to follow.”
    “Can’t we just use the gene to fix the wound repair serum?”
    “Testing the gene in mice is the first step. You wouldn’t want to unintentionally harm someone, would you?”
    Bree admired the way her dad could rein in his excitement to follow protocol. He always proceeded slowly and looked both ways before following the rules—she got that, she really did—but she wanted results and she wanted them now.

Chapter Thirty-One
     
    The Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia
     
    At exactly 1:30 p.m., General Maberry strode into a soundproof room deep inside the Pentagon. At once, four army officers rose from around a large oak conference table and stood at attention, eyes fixed forward. No one said a word, and their stone-cold expressions revealed nothing. General Maberry closed the three-inch-thick wooden door—a thunk resounded as it settled into the frame—and crossed to the head of the table. “At ease,” he said, cutting through the silence.
    The four men dropped their salutes. Moving clockwise around the room, General Maberry shook hands with each man, inquiring about his wife and kids. These men were more to him than soldiers; they were family. Men he had fought with, drank with, celebrated with…and grieved with.
    General Maberry returned to his spot at the head of the table and faced his most-trusted leaders. All tough. Watching him. Waiting for him to speak. It still felt a little odd; everyone looking at him for answers, as if he knew everything. He poured a glass of cold water from the sweating pitcher in front of him and downed half in one long swig. When he finished, he said, “Take a seat gentlemen.”
    Chair legs scraped against the floor. All went quiet except for the ticking of the wall clock.
    General Maberry felt the men’s eyes on him. As soon as the last of his officers were seated around the conference table, he said, “Dr. Sunderland’s on his way up.”
    The man directly to his left said, “Is it about the wound repair project, sir?” Hewitt was the youngest of the four officers and the most outspoken.
    General Maberry nodded. “Dr. Sunderland was studying bog bodies and thinks he may have found a way to fix the wound repair serum.” His words were level as always, but he fought to control his excitement.
    “That’s great news,” Hewitt said. “IEDs have