Harry saw me looking and translated it. “By strength and valor.”
He looked like he wanted to throw up. I placed my hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear. “You’re here, kid. It took courage to come in here. A lot of it. You could have stayed back at the Pier. You didn’t. Hold on to that, it could be useful.”
He nodded and wiped wetness from the corners of his eyes.
Ghost went ahead to sniff for guards and immediately returned to me, looking over his shoulder three times. Three guards down a hall that led to the kitchen. I could smell a faint whiff of grilled cheese and coffee. The entrance to the basement was in the kitchen. No way to avoid it. In other circumstances I’d have tossed in a flash-bang and then let Ghost go to town. But that would be noisy and we weren’t ready for noise.
Not yet.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE
Toys stood in the doorway and watched Dr. Hu work. The scientist was bent over a modeling press, making another of the protective skullcaps. Toys wore one already and he hated it. Apart from the fact that it was too small and hurt his head, it looked bloody ridiculous. Junie wore one, as well, as did Christel Sparks, the head of security. The two women stood on either side of Hu. Junie was working the forming press, and Sparks was standing guard, her hand resting on the holstered Glock she wore on her belt.
“How many more?” asked Toys.
The doctor looked up from his work. “I don’t know. I might even be wasting my time. They haven’t been tested yet. I’ve refined the design from the ones I gave Ledger and Bolton’s son. Not sure if I made them better or worse.”
“Wait… we don’t even know if these sodding things will work?”
“No,” said Hu.
“Bloody hell.”
“Actually,” said Sparks, “they don’t work.”
Hu didn’t even glance at her. “And I suppose you’re an expert on such things?”
“As a matter of fact,” she said as she drew her sidearm, “I am.”
She shot Dr. Hu in the back.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWO
First Sergeant Bradley Sims sat alone at a table in the mess, a coffee cup standing filled and cold nearby, a plate of eggs and bacon untouched. The TV was on and CNN was using its endless news cycle to dredge up every gory detail about the slaughter at the gas dock.
Top had come into the Pier to clear out his locker. The two U.S. marshals were with him throughout, each of them stone-faced. However, Top had talked them into letting him come in here for a last lunch before he left. Montana Parker, Brian Botley, and Sam Imura were also in the building because Director Bolton had wanted to interview them to see where they stood in terms of loyalty to their country and involvement with the recent catastrophes. Federal marshals dogged each of them, too. The rest of the staff had been sent home. It was all over. All crashing down. Top sipped his coffee and felt his heart breaking into pieces.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his face with his palms. He was so damn tired but he did not dare go to sleep. They would be waiting for him. The ones he’d murdered. They would be standing around his bed and Top knew that they always would be. For the rest of his life. Faces empty of life and painted with blood. Dead eyes watching him, dead hands lifted to point fingers at him.
“Top—?” said a voice. Sam Imura.
“Go away,” he said without opening his eyes.
“Top, look at me,” said Sam. He sounded confused.
“Go the fuck away.”
“Top, what the hell are you doing?”
Anger overtook his remorse for a moment and Top dropped his hands and glared at Sam.
At Sam.
At…
Sam Imura lay on the floor, his face white with agony, his clothes torn. He sat there, legs spread wide, hands clamped over his stomach as red blood poured from between his fingers.
Top stared at him. “Wh-what—?”
This wasn’t the mess hall. He wasn’t even in that end of the facility. This was the hallway outside of the armory and the door was ajar. Sam lay on the floor beside it as if trying to block the exit with his body. Top felt something in his hand and he looked down to see a big serving fork clutched in his fist.
The fork, his hand, and his wrist were soaked with Sam’s blood.
“What?” he repeated.
“T-Top…,” wheezed Sam, then his eyes rolled up and he slid sideways onto the floor and lay in a boneless sprawl.
“First Sergeant Sims,” bellowed a voice, and Top turned to see Montana Parker behind him. A federal marshal lay unconscious at her feet. Another sat on the floor, his back against the wall, eyes closed as if sleeping.
But Montana…
She had her gun held in a two-hand grip, the barrel pointed at Top’s chest.
“Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head,” roared Montana. “Do it now.”
“What?” he asked her.
He heard a sound behind him, half turned, saw Botley behind him, saw the gun in his hand. Pointed at Top.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THREE
He sat on a low cushion, surrounded by the leaders of the groups who had come together because they now believed that he was a holy man. Or, if they did not believe that, they accepted him as a man of power.
Houston was still burying its dead.
The soldiers at Fort Rucker were preparing to bury theirs.
The staff at the Naval Auxiliary Landing Field on San Clemente Island were picking their dead out of the wreckage of the crashed helicopters.
Each time the Mullah said that he could reach out and switch off the power, he had done exactly that.
Now they gathered to watch the greatest stroke. The crippling blow. The streets of ten cities would be choked with the dead.
Burning with fires so hot that it would melt the hope and the hubris of the Americans.
The Mullah sat before them but he did not look at anyone. His eyes had gone totally dead and they each believed that he was in a spiritual trance. When he was like this, they knew, great things were about to happen.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOUR
I swapped out the magazine of the Snellig and, with Ghost behind me and Harry behind the dog, we drifted down the hallway to the kitchen. The hall connected to the kitchen at the corner, which meant that they couldn’t see me until I reached the doorway. I held up a fist to signal Ghost and Harry to stop. I took a breath, let it out halfway, then wheeled around the corner. I saw three men in white shirts and loosened ties, jackets hung over the backs of chairs, microwave pulse pistols tucked into shoulder holsters, coffee cups and plates and an open bag of Cheetos. They were all looking at the TV hung on the wall. They were watching the news. A panel of experts was arguing about the Mullah’s message, the threats, the predicted U.S. response, and the probable location of the ten target cities. One of the men was chewing a big mouthful of the grilled cheese sandwich he held. Another was standing by the stove making another sandwich. The third man was sitting there sipping his coffee.