Where are you, Ethan Park?
—the other still strong. He rose, then leaned over to offer his good arm to Natalie. She took it and stood opposite him. Their faces were close.
Cooper leaned in and kissed her, and she kissed back, both of them hungry. After far too short a moment, he broke it, leaned back. “You’ll tell the kids I love them?”
Natalie bit her lip. He could see the realities hitting her, the consequences of her speech, and see that even so, she didn’t regret it, and he loved her for that. She nodded. “Where are you going?”
“To convince Erik Epstein to loan me a jet. But first”—he smiled—“I’m getting out of this goddamn dress.”
CHAPTER 36
The sound of a low-flying plane pulled her from the deep black.
Shannon blinked, rolled over. The hotel bed had half a dozen pillows on it, and she’d used them all. Her cocoon was warm and soft, and her body felt heavy in that good way. She yawned, then glanced at the clock.
10:12 a.m. Good lord. She’d slept for . . . eighteen hours?
Being awake for two days straight will do that to you.
After Nick had left last night—well, the night before, she supposed, but not to her—she’d waited in the Tesla airport for Lee and Lisa to arrive. Molded chairs, bad music, her body aching and her eyes grainy, she’d sat vigil as her goddaughter slept. Shannon had stroked the girl’s hair and watched people walk by and waited out the gray hours.
It had been almost dawn when she saw two figures running down the concourse. She hadn’t seen Alice’s parents in months, not since the night she and Cooper had stayed at their Chinatown apartment. A night that had ruined their lives, had landed them both in prison and their daughter in Davis Academy and Shannon in the emotional purgatory she’d been dealing with ever since. The two of them had aged years in those months, deep circles etched beneath Lisa’s eyes, a stoop to Lee’s shoulders she’d never seen before.
But when they caught sight of their daughter, it was like the moment a campfire caught, a sudden flare of warmth and light. Shannon had shaken the little girl in her lap, said, “Sweetheart?”
Alice opened her eyes, and the first thing she’d seen had been her parents racing toward her. She’d leapt up and hurled herself at them, and the three had collided in a group hug, arms entwining, words flowing, love and loss and joy. They had all been crying, and Shannon, standing there feeling useless, had clenched and unclenched her fists.
Finally Lee Chen had turned to her. Shannon had dreaded this moment, the first look from her old friend; she had been devastatingly careless, and he had paid the price. She deserved every hurtful thing he was about to say to her.
“Thank you.” His face was wet, his nose red. “Mei-mei. Thank you.”
And at that she’d lost it too, had joined the hug, all four of them crying and laughing.
Shannon yawned and stretched, then flipped the covers aside. Padded to the bathroom, peed for half an hour, splashed some water on her face. Her cheeks had pillow lines. No kidding, lazy girl, her dad said in her head. She smiled.
One of her favorite things about hotels was bathrobes, and the one hanging beside the shower was a beaut, thick, soft terrycloth. Even better, there was a coffeemaker in the room. She put two packets of coffee into the machine, stood waiting while it gurgled and hissed, remembering the warmth of Alice’s head in her lap, the feel of the girl’s hair between her fingers.
She’d splurged on the suite, and the décor showed it. The room was a study in minimalism, the walls white, the furniture low profile. One wall was solar glass, the surface mellowing the harsh winter glare. Shannon took her coffee out to the balcony, shivering and tightening the belt of the robe. Wyoming in November, no thank you. You need to find a revolution based out of San Diego.
Still, cold as it was, it felt good, bracing, and the contrast made the coffee taste even better. Tesla spread out below her in all its blocky, preplanned glory. The mirrored walls of the Epstein Industries complex reflected cold desert sky. There was a growling roar coming from somewhere, traffic probably. She wondered how Nick’s meeting with Erik had gone, whether the billionaire had admitted what his scientists had created. The thought of the serum still blew her mind, a feeling like the morning after she’d had sex for the first time, the way the whole world looked the same and yet different, and what was that roaring, because it sounded an awful lot like . . .
The sound was suddenly more than a sound, it was a presence all around her, full and huge, strong enough to lean against, growing fast and all-consuming, a blasting howling wail coming from not one or two but three fighter jets streaking overhead, a formation of predatory triangles flying low enough that she could make out missile clusters hanging beneath the wings.
What the hell?
Shannon gripped the balcony railing, watched the planes kite through the gray sky, the roar echoing and bouncing. She didn’t know much about military aircraft, couldn’t have said what make they were, but she had been a soldier her whole adult life and recognized a threat when she saw one.
She hurried back into the suite, leaving the door to the balcony half-open, a chill wind creeping in. The tri-d was sleek and stylish, more modern art than entertainment center, but all she cared about was finding the damn power button and the controls to jump the channels. The faded kitchen of a faded sitcom, the hyperkinetic animation of some kid’s show, a commercial for a personal injury attorney, and then, finally Fox News, the middle of a flashy graphics package. Bombastic music played in the background as three-dimensional letters tumbled in to spell AMERICA ON THE BRINK, then the letters exploded, replaced by a stylized map of Wyoming on fire behind the title SHOWDOWN IN THE DESERT. A fast serving of patriotism bouillabaisse: flag, stars, White House, eagle’s screech, fighter jets.
The package cut to an aerial shot, moving slowly, a news drone. A military encampment of prefab buildings buzzing with activity. Rows of tanks and trucks. An airfield packed with helicopter gunships. And thousands and thousands of soldiers.
The landscape was dusty brown and cold-looking, the sky the same color as the one out her window, and if it looked familiar it was only because she’d been through it half a hundred times: Gillette, the eastern gateway of the New Canaan Holdfast. Shannon gasped, not believing what she was seeing.
American troops occupying an American city.
The newscaster’s voice, saying, “Military forces continue to gather in Wyoming in what the government is describing as ‘antiterrorism exercises.’ There is no word on whether these exercises will involve entering New Canaan Holdfast land.”
The shot switched to a map of Wyoming, the gerrymandered blob of the NCH shaded a bloody red. There were only three routes into the Holdfast, massive highways flowing from Gillette, Shoshoni, and Rawlins. All three cities were marked with stars that looked rather like bullet holes.
“Army spokesmen confirm that a joint force of as many as seventy-five thousand troops are involved in these maneuvers.”
Cut to a shot of a runway somewhere, a military base, jets streaking away.
Cut to a line of tanks, huge metal monsters surrounded by soldiers loading ordnance.
Cut to a barricade across a freeway, Humvees angled to block it. Men leaned on heavy machine guns. A snarl of semis ran to the horizon.
“Access to the New Canaan Holdfast has been suspended, against the complaints of local government, who note that most basic necessities must be shipped in.”
Cut to a foppish man in a good suit and glasses, behind a podium. The crawl read HOLDEN ARCHER, WHITE HOUSE PRESS SECRETARY, as the man said, “All efforts are being made to ensure a swift and peaceful solution to this situation. Meanwhile, let’s remember that three American cities are still without power and food as the direct consequence of terrorist actions—terrorists we believe to be harbored by the NCH.”