“Of course they wouldn’t.”
“I fear you don’t fully understand the gravity of the situation.”
Ethan spread out his arms and shrugged. “I have no basis in fact for what you’re suggesting, except for a couple of run-ins with your thugs.”
Wallace’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Tannor, these are the facts: one, there is a select group of Russian extremists who call themselves Synov’ya Stalin — The Sons of Stalin — and they are determined to do what is necessary to ensure their victory; and two, the battleground is America.”
Ethan didn’t know what sounded worse — that this man spoke his words with such conviction that there was no doubt he believed what he said, or the ease in which the Russian words glided from his lips.
“Imagine a day when you walk outside your New York apartment and tanks are rolling through the streets — scenes that look like Dresden after the Soviets came through. It’s enough to make Sep—” He cut himself off and gestured to the skyscrapers in the distance. “I want you to envision those buildings, the very landmarks you see before you tonight, toppled to the ground.”
Ethan gazed out the tinted windows. He tried to picture the storybook fiction Wallace was selling, visualizing in his mind as citizens scrambled for their lives before armored forces that funneled them between buildings and took no prisoners. Jets and bombers ruled the skies, and the heavens themselves were blanketed in thick black dust. Bright white lightning scorched the clouds leaving scar-like trails against the dark void overhead.
Ethan was a natural bullshitter, so he could smell someone else’s bullshit a mile away. Whoever Ben Wallace really was, Ethan knew one thing: he wasn’t bullshitting. Granted, it was possible the man was simply a sociopath skilled at making people believe in his own fantasy. But Ethan didn’t think that was the case here. This scared him more than anything Wallace had already said.
He looked at Wallace. “So this group, The Sons of Stalin, they’re here in New York? Now?”
A curl of smoke drifted out from Ben’s nostrils and he nodded, dousing his cigar in the ashtray on the desk as he spoke. “We refer to them as the Red Hand, but they are one and the same.”
The familiar weight of cluelessness enveloped Ethan like a heavy blanket on a hot night, but some fragments were starting to cluster together. The message he’d begun to decode in his motel room — ‘The Red Hand is victorious’ — came back to him. “How could this happen?” he said. “Shouldn’t we warn someone if this information you have is true?”
Wallace grimaced. “And there lies the rub. These are things that have not yet happened, but they’re unfolding as we speak. The only hitch is, we can’t stop it here — we must stop it before it begins.”
Something about the way Wallace phrased that last sentence triggered a red flag in Ethan’s mind. “Stop it before it begins? That sounds a little like —”
Wallace interrupted him with a raised finger. The gesture seemed oddly familiar to Ethan — like he’d seen it before, but in a different setting. “I’m speaking of things to come, Mr. Tannor, and a serious debate would not be heard by the United States, or any other country, for that matter. It would fall on deaf ears or there would be mass panic, but the result would be the same. We are doomed by the arrogance of a President who does not heed our warnings.”
“Ronald Reagan?”
“No. Abraham A. Bock. He couldn’t hold a candle to President Reagan. Abraham is a far leftist posing as a moderate. He pretended to care about the security of this nation’s citizens, but his policies stripped away their rights and bolstered the foundation for a second civil war.”
Wallace began to pace like a sentinel marching a slow cadenced step in front of The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. “Half the country reached the breaking point with government intrusion and unconstitutional behavior toward citizens. The other half — made up of the complacent and the dependent — viewed those who spoke out against Bock’s policies as the true enemy.
“It wasn’t North versus South, it became red states versus blue states — literally. Chaos broke out in the streets, talks of revolution, trade between feuding states was cut off, petitions were signed for permanent secession from the union, and guerilla warfare tactics were carried out by anarchists and statists alike.
“The Bill of Rights meant nothing. Our fair President was attempting to rewrite the Constitution and he viewed the country’s military as an enemy — a threat to national security precisely because of their oaths to protect this nation. Bases were shut down and disbanded. Only those deemed loyal to Bock’s worldview were allowed to remain.”
Wallace stopped to draw breath — or perhaps collect his thoughts. Ethan couldn’t guess which, but if what the man had said was true, maybe he was reflecting on actual memories. Ethan’s mind was reeling as it clambered to catch up with the flow of information. By the time it did, Wallace was speaking again.
“We know that a country divided cannot stand, and sadly, while our country was at war with itself, The Red Hand emerged from the shadows and took us by surprise. We were unable to regroup and unite as one to launch a counteroffensive.” Wallace lowered his head, as if in prayer.
Ethan stood mute, stunned to silence. He wanted to ask questions, but couldn’t process the words into a coherent order. He glanced at Jackman, who remained as he had been before — rigid and alert, yet quiet. Ethan tried to read the man’s face, but got nothing. He looked back to Wallace, saw the seriousness of his expression, and at last words came to him.
“How is it you know all of this? You’re speaking of things that haven’t happened yet in the past tense. And who is this President Bock you speak of? I may not be a history buff, but that name’s not striking a bell as one of ours. What kind of mind trip are you on?”
Wallace gave him a forbidding smile that seemed almost sad. He chuckled softly. “A mind trip. If only it was that simple.”
“Are you trying to tell me you’re from the future?” Ethan threw the option out there only because it was the most ridiculous thing he could think of. When Wallace didn’t dismiss or deny the accusation, Ethan blinked. “Are you fucking serious? Really? You think I’ll buy that shit? I’m outta here.”
He made to leave and wasn’t surprised to feel Jackman’s hand clamp down on his shoulder. Of course they wouldn’t let him just leave. Vise-grip fingers bit into his skin as he was turned back around to face Wallace. Ethan yanked his arm away. “Get your fucking hands off me,” he snapped.
Jackman’s answer was an impassive half-grin that made Ethan want to punch his face in, not once, but maybe a hundred times. He imagined destroying the bones in the man’s jaw, shattering his teeth as he laid into him over and over, perhaps breaking his own hand in the process but not caring enough to stop.
“Please, Mr. Tannor. There’s no need for such dramatics. Allow me to explain,” Wallace said.
Ethan pulled himself from the violent daydream. “Yes, explain — please explain; because from where I’m standing you look like an insane man with a lot of muscle and firepower.” Ethan motioned to Jackman and the door behind them to encompass the men in the outer room.
Wallace moved casually to his desk and picked up something from its surface. It appeared to be some type of portable screen — glossy, thin and flat, unlike the huge butt of the video monitors Ethan was familiar with. It seemed incredibly light as Wallace held it between two fingers and powered it on without the use of a cord. The screen lit up, casting a gentle glow on Wallace’s face.
“What is that thing?” Ethan asked, staring at him with suspicion.