Martial law had been declared, and in less than a day and a half, no one would be allowed on the streets except for emergency personnel and the military. The National Guard had been deployed; already, their Humvees and armored personnel carriers were taking up positions all across Los Angeles County. Police cars were driving up and down neighborhood streets broadcasting the same message, along with a countdown of how many more hours the citizens of Los Angeles had to prepare themselves for a week’s hibernation. Sirens wailed atop telephone poles as people rushed home to turn on their televisions and learn the latest developments; even the annoying emergency broadcast system had been activated. From sea to sea, the United States was shutting down for a week.
Well, not entirely. The military and police were excluded, as were all emergency service providers. Firemen, water and electric workers, hospital personnel, and other essential workers would be allowed limited access to the soon-to-be deserted streets. Some county workers, like the ones in charge of emergency management, would be given unfettered access as well.
Rider smiled. The Americans thought they were so clever. Clearly, they had stumbled across some information. Probably one of his fellow moles had been caught and been made to talk. Now the government was trying to protect its citizens by locking them inside their homes. Jeser had already anticipated this possibility, and Rider effortlessly switched to the contingency plan..
In a little over twenty-four hours, he would carefully apply a fine powder to several sheets of brittle yellow paper and then soak them in water for five minutes. The sheets would transform into what looked like ordinary notebook paper, and the deadly Hybrid virus would be safe inside tiny microscopic cocoons made of high-molecular-weight plastic, so long as they weren’t exposed to intense light. Rider would then simply distribute tiny bits of paper, each no bigger than a fingernail, to various places across the county, and the sun and wind would do the rest. It would take a day or two, and then the paper would begin to break down into extremely fine dust particles that were lighter than air. It was a much slower process, but in the end, it would find the hiding Americans.
He wondered how the others were doing. If everything had gone to plan, there would be one more Servant of God somewhere in northern California, and a third further up the Pacific coast. He only had a general idea where the others were supposed to be, and no idea how many more had made it this far. Three years was a long time to be perfect, and that was what was required of them. Still, there was enough redundancy built into the plan; they only needed eight for all the infected areas to converge and completely blanket the United States. He didn’t fear for himself. He was sure that a man in his position would hear the enemy long before they were close. Even if he was captured, the only thing he would regret would be his failure. The Americans could do nothing to him; he was already a dead man who long ago had made his peace with God.
Still, Rider would have preferred the original plan. He preferred the more personal touch. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that you had personally killed the man who had just rudely brushed past you — along with his family, friends, neighbors, and city. Rider wondered if his streak of cruelty offended Allah. Certainly, the Prophet in all his battles must have drawn some personal satisfaction from the destruction of the unrighteous. Comforted by that thought, he returned to his computer and the plans for shutting down Los Angeles.
Chapter 47
He was trapped by his own cleverness.
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Pushkin said as he floated through the wall that separated the kitchen from the living room.
Reisch watched his mentor drift a foot off the ground; a mist of silver sparkles trailed behind as he glided towards the big picture window. The late afternoon Colorado sun shone through Pushkin, and for a moment Reisch lost him in the bright light. “Are you real or just a product of my mind?” “If you knew the answer to that question, you would know the answer to a lot of other questions,” Pushkin said smugly.
“That’s true, but it would also tell me if all those people outside can see you through the window.” Now it was Reisch’s turn to be smug.
“They can’t,” the Russian said, unconcerned with the foot and automobile traffic in suburban Pueblo. He turned towards Klaus and began to condense into his usual form. “I think it’s a good thing that you’re now forced to rely on your skills and experience as opposed to your paranormal abilities. They’ve weakened you, and made you sloppy at the worst possible time.” Reisch didn’t want to argue, and there really was no point in denying the truth.
In the last two days, he had been shot three times, very nearly caught twice, and forced to flee before a foe at least as powerful as him. All three were firsts for him, and all three were a direct result of poor planning and execution. He had begun to put his infallibility before three decades of experience. But that was changing now; he was out of Colorado Springs, and already he could feel the mental fog begin to lift.
The theatrics in Fort Carson had thrown Amanda off his trail, but to stay below her radar he was forced to stay inside of himself. Twice he had squared off against her and the best he had achieved was a draw, but only after she had soundly thrashed him in their first encounter. Both meetings had been unexpected and on her turf; he was going to change that. They would met again, but not until everything was over.
“So when are we going?” a more solid-appearing Pushkin asked.
“Later; I can’t escape the military without alerting her, so I’ll have to wait until they thin out.” “It is interesting that she could have destroyed you both, but didn’t. Why is that do you think?” “If I was forced to guess I would say that it was nothing more than survival instinct.” “Strange that after all she has been through that she still clings to life.”
Chapter 48
Twenty-eight hours left, and they finally had Rachel Hill, aka Maria Belsky, and Alexander Stone, aka Kameel Neser, in the same building. Kyle Stanley watched as Neser was shackled to the metal table. Maria was in the next room sitting in front of a similar metal table. Stanley had decided not to have her shackled after she had positively identified Neser. The Russians confirmed Maria’s identity and story, but only after the president had called the Russian president and explained his extreme displeasure with their stonewalling.
“Are you sure you want to be involved with this?” one of the assistant directors asked Stanley.
“We are well past any need for plausible deniability, Jack. I will be quite happy to explain to a judge or the American public why I did what we’re about to do. Let’s get started.”
Stanley walked into the interview room just as the tech was finishing with the IV. “I’m Kyle Stanley, director of the FBI. You are Kameel Neser, are you not?”
Neser looked up and sneered. “Where’s my lawyer? And what the hell is this shit about?” He waved his restrained arm and the IV, still in his Alexander Stone persona.
“Let me explain the ground rules to you, Mr. Neser. As of fifteen minutes ago, you have no rights. As a matter of fact, you no longer exist. I have very little time, so you will either give me what I need now, or we will extract it from you.”
Neser smiled and stared at Stanley for a long minute. “It’s happening, isn’t it?” He started laughing. “And you think I have the answers. That’s beautiful. Go ahead; ask away, because I was never told a thing.” He leaned towards Stanley as far as the chains would allow and then smiled broadly.