More of that bullshit, Lana thought.
“… That is all we ask. That is a very simple way to have peace. But your leaders refuse to take even such a small step.
“So this is what we are going to do next. Without further announcement, we will shut you down for good. We won’t say when. It could be tomorrow or the next day, or next week, but it will happen soon. We promise.”
The troop transport truck stopped again. Lana braked. She glanced at Emma, whose eyes were pinned to the soldier lowering the tailgate again. Just as Lana was about to ask Emma if she was okay, her daughter glanced at her. Lana took her hand. Emma didn’t resist. It was the most intimate moment that they’d shared in months. Lana didn’t dare spoil it with words — but someone else did:
“Next time we will attack everything. We will include your banks and passenger jets, which we spared during the twenty-four-hour demonstration that we just completed. The three-plane collision on the runway in Chicago that cost the lives of more than six hundred passengers and crew was not planned by us. That was pilot panic. But next time your planes will drop from the skies. We promise.
“We also left your banks alone, even though we have easy access to your records. Only minutes ago, we drained all the assets from your president’s accounts. We did this to demonstrate how thoroughly we have taken over your country. His net worth is now nothing. That is how much his efforts to protect Americans are worth to you. Next time we will destroy all your banking records.
“Next time, millions of you will die…”
Incredibly, even vowing wholesale killing did not ruffle the man’s voice. But Lana did not want Emma to hear any more of this. She used the on/off switch on the steering wheel, knowing that she could catch the rest of the statement later.
“No!” Emma gasped. She grabbed the dial on the dash and turned the radio back on.
“At your weakest, when you are starving and desperately dependent on world aid organizations for the most basic foodstuffs, we will unleash a final surprise.
“Your leaders have left you entirely defenseless. They told you that you were strong. They told you that you were the most powerful nation on earth. They told you that you were safe. They told you lies.
“You are weak and defeated. For the price of one helicopter, we have brought you to your knees. We are like the Iraqis who used software that cost twenty-six dollars to spy on your Predator drones. Your big guns, nuclear bombs, and powerful armadas belong in museums. Your leaders, past and present, belong in prison for crimes against humanity.
“In purely functional terms, you are no longer a nation.
“Now we will slaughter you.”
The radio went silent, and the digital readout for the station disappeared.
When Lana lifted her eyes higher, she saw that the troop transport truck was fully loaded. The soldier closed the tailgate, and the vehicle pulled away. When it turned at the next corner to enter a broad boulevard, Lana drove straight ahead.
She looked at Emma. Her daughter’s jaw was set. The girl was crying. Lana took her hand once more.
“I’m a victim of terrorists,” Emma croaked. “I’m fourteen years old, and they did this to me.” She pointed to her throat.
Lana nodded. “And a lot worse to others.”
Emma returned her mother’s nod with one of her own, then glanced at the burning train cars. She gripped her mother’s hand hard. Lana felt the child’s fear and grief, and then her anger.
Emma was, after all, Lana Elkins’s daughter.
CHAPTER 5
Last night had been harrowing for Ruhi and Candace. It didn’t start off that way, at least after the Afghan War vet had cleared out the last of the mob that had tried to break down her door and shoot its way into her room. She’d also found a couple of drunken teenage boys lingering in the lobby. They ran off the instant she waved them out of the building with her gun.
Candace had accepted Ruhi’s offer of his apartment, packing up her belongings quickly; her greatly damaged door wouldn’t keep out anyone. But before he could even wonder whether his appeal extended beyond a convenient couch, she told him not to get any big ideas.
“I just don’t want to be traveling anywhere right now.”
He watched her secure his apartment by checking the closets and even under his bed, nodding approvingly when she saw that the first-floor windows were a good eight feet off the ground — a benefit of an old building. Then the two of them moved a heavy bureau from his bedroom to the front door, which they backed up with a gorgeous silk heirloom couch that had been shipped to him all the way from Riyadh. It pained Ruhi to think of it getting shot up. But better it than me, he said to himself quickly.
When he made a stab at gallantry by saying, “Of course, I’ll take the couch and you can have the privacy of my bedroom,” she shook her head.
“No. I’m the first line of defense. Unless you’re holding out on me and have extensive firearms training for close-quarters combat. Otherwise, I should be on the couch. Besides,” she added with a winning smile, “I’m a light sleeper. Remember that.”
Not that sleep was on the horizon anytime soon.
The neighborhood remained calm for about another hour. Then gunshots erupted down the street. The burst ended quickly, but shots continued to startle them sporadically well into the evening. Never right in front of the old townhome, but close enough to make them wary of errant bullets — and grateful for the brick exterior.
As twilight thickened, they used no emergency lights or candles, keeping the apartment dark and watching through the blinds. They observed crowds of mostly young men moving down the street, weaving in and around parked cars, smashing windows and stealing everything within reach.
By midnight, the heat in the apartment grew stifling. Without power, they had no air movement. Ruhi improvised fans from the lid of a cardboard box, but that was the best he could come up with. He suggested opening a window. “We’re right here. No one’s going to get in.” But “Homeland Security,” as he’d privately dubbed Candace, wouldn’t hear of it.
By twelve thirty, though, even she couldn’t take the steaming conditions. They opened the window in his dark living room and raised the shade, then dragged a plush love seat over to it. She rested her gun in her lap as soon as she sat down, pointing to an orange glow in the night sky. The fire looked about a mile or two away.
“At least it’s not the Capitol now,” she said. “That looks like it’s over by the Cultural Center.” Georgetown. Distant gunfire erupted a second later.
“I thought Americans were supposed to pull together at times like this,” Ruhi said as he walked back to the bathroom, returning moments later with two damp, cool washcloths. “Look at 9/11,” he added, handing one of them to her and claiming the other half of the love seat.
She thanked him and wiped her face. “We still had power on 9/11. People weren’t sitting around in the dark, or trying to take advantage of it. They weren’t directly affected.”
“Where were you back then?” he asked.
“Ninth grade in good old Bloomington, Indiana, already thinking about going to IU to be a social worker.”
“You’re kidding. Sorry, Candace, but you just don’t strike me as a caseworker, counselor type of woman.”
“I wasn’t for long, because 9/11 changed all that. I was so angry I started thinking right away about joining the military. I started ROTC a few years later at IU, and then it was off to basic training and ‘Hello, Afghanistan.’” She smiled. He loved the way it lit up her whole face, even in the dim light. “Where were you?”