"Where'd you get that?"
"Found it under one of the lockers. That was an MV operation, wasn't it."
"Fuck you."
"Might as well tell me. It's not going to change the outcome here. And confession is good for the soul."
"I repeat: Fuck you."
The guy shook his head. "How do you do that? How do you stand there and mow down fifty-odd innocent people?"
"You should know. Between yesterday and today, look how many yeniceri you took out."
"I had nothing to do with yesterday, but I take full credit for tonight."
For some reason, Miller believed him, but he wasn't about to admit that.
"So you say."
"I'll ask again: How do you stand there and mow down fifty-plus innocent people just to get to one man?"
He knows! How the fuck does he know?
"You figure it out."
"Okay. My guess is you got an Alarm from the Ally that showed you mowing down everyone at that particular baggage claim at that particular moment. Right? So you became Wrath of Allah."
Miller could only stare. He'd nailed it—except the Wrath of Allah part. He and Hursey had done the deed, yeah, but didn't make any calls to the media. Hadn't even thought of that. He'd been shocked when he heard some group calling itself Wrath of Allah was claiming credit for the attack.
He had to say something. "You don't second-guess the Ally. It sees the big picture, you don't."
"You'd have been a hit at Nuremberg."
"This isn't a game, goddammit. Human rules don't apply."
"Yeah, maybe. Who helped you—who was the other gunman? Jolliff or Hursey?"
"You can go to hell."
Suddenly he looked sad. "Do you know the name of the man you were supposed to kill?"
Miller shook his head. "No. Just that he'd be in the crowd."
"I knew him," the guy said. "I called him 'Dad.'"
Miller thought—no, was sure he'd misheard.
"What did you say?"
"My father. You killed my father that day."
Miller could only stare. If this guy was telling the truth, that meant that the yeniceri—him most of all—had pretty much clear-cut his life. If he was telling the truth. A big if, but the look of loss on his face said he was.
What the fuck? Why did the Ally have such a hard-on for this guy? What had he done to get a cosmic being so pissed at him?
He'd probably never know the answer to that, but he did know that if positions were reversed, he'd have been planting bombs too.
Other things he knew were that he could expect no mercy from this guy, and that he had only minutes left to live.
Strangely enough, that didn't bother him as much as he would have ex-pected. Not like he was leaving a wife and kids behind. As he'd been told half a million times, a spear has no branches.
And then the answer hit him: The Ally was pruning this guy's branches, making a spear out of him. Miller could see only one reason for that.
"You are the Heir after all."
He nodded glumly. "So I've been told. But enough about me: Where's your new 0?"
Miller shook his head and looked longingly at the NATO round, just out of reach. A foot closer and he'd have been able to grab it and use it to make a quick exit.
"Can't have you planting a bomb under her too."
"I just want to talk to her."
"Yeah, right."
"You're going to tell me."
Miller shook his head again. "Ain't gonna happen."
He waggled his Glock. "I could make your last hours seem very, very long. Eternal."
Torture… Miller's gut clenched at the prospect. Would he be able to hold out? He didn't know. Everyone had their limit. Where was his?
He hoped he never found out.
He hid his dread and said, "Do your damnedest. I ain't saying shit."
The guy sighed. "You know what? I believe you."
He picked up the NATO round as he rose and walked around to Miller's left side.
"Don't take this personally. It's simply to keep you out of trouble."
He lowered the stolen H-K until its muzzle was only two inches from Miller's left elbow and fired. Miller screamed—he couldn't help it—and rolled onto his back. At which point the guy shot him in his right elbow.
The guy used his foot to roll him over onto his belly, then went through his pockets.
"You won't find anything there," Miller gritted through the pain.
Soon enough the guy realized he was right.
"Don't go away," he said as he walked off.
6
Shit!
Jack wanted to kick something, but he drew the line at kicking a helpless man. Even if it was Miller.
He'd planned to leave one yeniceri alive—for questioning. Had to find out where they'd taken Diana, had to talk to her. She was Gia and Vicky's last hope. Maybe. An infinitely long shot, but a shot.
He hadn't wanted the survivor to be Miller. He'd been pretty sure he could get one of the others to crack, but sensed Miller would be too tough.
On the other hand, he'd wanted to go mano a mano with Miller, wanted—needed—to make it personal.
And he had.
Miller's pockets had been virtually empty; his wallet hadn't yielded a clue. Jack still had no idea where they were hiding their new 0.
Okay, try the others. A grisly task, and no more fruitful than Miller. The only thing of interest was a dark blue doodad hanging from a lanyard around Gold's neck. It was lozenge-shaped, a couple-three inches long, imprinted with PRE-TEC and 8GB.
Looked like a flash drive.
He hurried over to his laptop and plugged it into a USB port. But when he accessed the drive, all he found was gibberish. Maybe the explosion had scrambled its memory. Maybe Russ Tuit could unscramble it.
He pocketed the drive and the car keys Jolliff had been carrying. One place left to search.
Outside, he combed through the Suburban's interior, emptying the glove compartment, checking all the storage pockets. He hit pay dirt atop the driver's visor: a round-trip Steamship Authority ferry ticket for a car and three extra passengers from and to Nantucket.
Okay. That had to be it. The new safe house was on Nantucket. But where on Nantucket? All he knew about the place was that it was an island off the Massachusetts coast, somewhere near Martha's Vineyard. But he'd know more real soon.
7
The guy came back and squatted before him. He held out a slip of paper and waggled it. Through his fog of agony Miller saw a ferry pass.
Shit.
"So she's on Nantucket. Care to tell me where?"
"Fuck you." It came out like a groan.
"I'm not out to harm her—anything but. Unlike you, I don't target women and children. But I am going to find her. You can make it easier by telling me where."
"You gotta be kidding me. The fuck would I do that?"
"'Cause maybe it'll help undo what you've done."
Undo? Was this guy crazy?
"No way."
The guy raised the pistol in his other hand—Miller's own H-K—and said, "Then you're no good to me."
Miller had known this was coming. To his surprise, he felt no fear. Torture he feared. Dying clean and quick… not so bad. He'd sworn to die for his Oculus if necessary. Now it was necessary.
He looked the guy in the eyes and said, "Things'd be different if we'd had a fair fight."
The guy looked sad. "No such thing as fair. You of all people should know that."
He saw the barrel come level with his face.
Saw the cold eyes behind it.
Saw the muzzle flash.
Then saw nothing.
Ever again.
8
Jack wished he could have found more satisfaction in standing over Miller's fresh corpse. But he felt nothing—too dead inside to feel anything but grief and loss and rage.