She’d never met Soren, but she’d heard plenty. Samantha had loved him, probably still did, but in a way that set Shannon’s teeth on edge. A relationship like a short circuit, their mutual frailties feeding each other. Samantha needed to be needed, and no one could need her as intensely as a man for whom one minute seemed like eleven.
As for John, he’d told her that Soren was the closest thing he had to a twin, but darkly mirrored; where Smith lived entirely in the future, plans within plans that stretched out years, Soren dwelled in an endless present layered just as densely. When Smith had talked about his old friend, there had been warmth in his voice, but also a healthy respect, the mix of emotions a zookeeper might have for a rare and particularly lethal snake.
And if you were said snake, where would you be?
It had probably been less than a minute since she dropped the guy who was aiming at Nick, but that was an eternity in a fight, and longer to Soren. He might have been willing to hang back initially, let the tactical team do the work. But now that they were down, he’d be moving in himself.
Let him. Better he come after you and this lovely H&K 9mm than Nick in the shape he’s in.
Enough. If he was out there, she’d deal with it. Shannon stepped outside, pivoting back and forth. No motion. Behind her, the baby continued to cry, while the woman—Amy?—tried to shush and rock her.
So much for stealth. Let’s try speed.
“Come on,” she said, jerking her head toward the nearest hill. “Let’s go.”
She was afraid Amy would hesitate, do the typical civilian thing and freeze up, but the woman had stones. Tears streaming down her face, crying baby in her arms, husband staying back to sacrifice himself, and she still did what was needed, just started moving. They went at a jog, Shannon scanning, the submachine gun ready. The air was cold and smelled like winter and algae.
Entering the tree line made her feel better, more cover, more room to do her thing. Plus, if Dr. Park was right, Soren might even ignore them. At the top of the hill she paused for a moment, looked back.
Just in time to see a slim figure enter the cabin by the back door.
Shannon snapped the weapon to her shoulder, sighted along it, but it was hopeless, and she knew it.
Amy saw the movement at the cabin. “We have to go back.”
“Come on. Keep going.”
“We could help.”
Shannon grabbed the woman’s arm and tugged her down the other side of the rise. “Move.”
Half leading, half pulling Amy, she hurried toward the road. She could see her SUV parked on the shoulder. Almost there. Come on, come on.
A voice behind her said, “Shannon.”
Natalie stood in the center of Epstein’s cave and stared.
Most of the charts had vanished, replaced by video that hung in the air, live images from around the New Canaan Holdfast.
Each one a scene of unimaginable destruction. Fire and blood and smoke.
Her daughter clung to her, and Natalie knew she should tell her to look away, but couldn’t find her voice. She just stared.
Stared, as a helicopter fell flaming from the sky, bodies leaping out of the open doors.
Stared, as the heavy turret of a tank rotated, the barrel lining up on a troop transport fifty yards away. A soundless recoil and a blast of flame, and the transport vanished in a cloud of upswept dust.
Stared as streaks of light crashed into the ground amidst fleeing soldiers, men and women in combat gear running in all directions as rockets rained down from drones hovering invisibly above. Each strike shook the ground, flung people like broken dolls, their bodies bent and torn.
There were thousands of soldiers just miles away, and by the thousands, they were dying.
“What have you done?” she said. “My God. What have you done?”
“I didn’t want to. They made me,” Erik Epstein said, his voice quivering. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hands. “You heard. They made me.”
Shannon whirled. The man had stepped from behind a tree, his assault rifle held with easy certainty. A man she had just seen this morning, fifteen hundred miles away, guarding John Smith.
“VanMeter,” she said.
“What are you doing?”
He’s not pointing that rifle at you. Not yet.
“Same as you. John sent me after Ethan Park.” She tightened her grip on Amy’s arm. “This is his wife and kid.”
“John didn’t tell me.”
“He usually run his plans by you, make sure you approve?” Shannon shrugged. “Been a friend of his for ten years, one thing I’ve learned is that John always has surprises.”
“You bitch!” Amy tried to yank her arm away. “You said you were protecting us.”
Shannon let her go, then wound up and cracked the other woman across the face with a hard backhand. Amy gasped and staggered.
VanMeter’s eyes were bright blue and quite pretty, but not quite convinced. “Where’s the doc?”
“Soren is on him.” She gestured over her shoulder with her thumb. “In the house.”
Those pretty blue eyes flickered for just a second, and Shannon shifted. Slid sideways and dropped to one knee, knowing that VanMeter’s eyes would come back scanning sideways, the change in visual plane buying her the fraction of a second she needed, and even as he brought his gun up she could see that he knew too, and then she killed him.
Well, John, you told me I was going to have to choose.
She stood up, grabbed Amy, said, “Come on.”
The gunfire had the baby screaming again, and Amy’s nose was bleeding, but she looked at the dead body, and Shannon could see her put it together. She didn’t resist as they ran to the SUV. She beeped the locks and yanked open the driver’s side. The other woman headed around the front, and Shannon said, “No.”
“What?”
“This side.” She passed over the keys. “You have somewhere you can go?”
“My mother. She lives in Chicago.”
“There’s enough gas for that. Don’t stop for anything.” Shannon turned and sprinted back up the hill toward the house.
In the movies, the cabin would have had a gun rack with a glass front, and Cooper would have smashed it and geared up. Unfortunately, it appeared the Hendersons hadn’t read the script.
Cooper flipped open the revolver and dumped the empty brass. “You have more bullets?”
“We did. They were—”
“Stolen. Right.” He glanced sideways, saw the TV playing footage of Wyoming, made himself look away. No time to get distracted.
Ethan said, “What now?”
“I’m working on it.”
When it hit, it was so obvious he had the urge to slap his forehead. The two gunmen outside had both carried assault rifles.
He slid the revolver into his pocket and started for the door. Then froze. You have to think. You can’t count on your gift here.
Cooper dropped to an army crawl. The position took core strength, and the moment he engaged those muscles, searing pain went through his chest, and that strange skipped heartbeat feeling. He gasped, then forced himself forward, elbow, knee, elbow, knee. Shivering splinters of broken glass tore shallow cuts. When he reached the base of the window, he put his back to it, then sorted through the window shards, selecting a daggered piece six inches long. Slowly he inched it up, angling it to see out the window.
The reflection was gauzy and translucent, but it framed the pickup well enough. He panned it sideways, trying to remember exactly where the guys had fallen. Trees and darkening sky, a blur, and . . .