“Protect what you can, out there, but Madison has to go. The rest of the Adero would be helpful. I want a silent night until we persuade some folks to see the light.”
Kafari’s chuckle was wicked enough to scare Satan. “One Prince of Darkness Special, comin’ at you. Give me time to get somebody in place.”
Minutes ticked past. Five. Seven. Twelve. Simon leaned forward and asked the driver, “Can you tune into Vittori’s broadcast?”
“You want me t’ lose my supper?” the driver muttered, but he switched on the comm-unit. Like the engine, the comm-unit was a top-of-the-line, military model that had either been purloined by raiders or distributed from one of the shipments Simon had sent to Kafari over the years. The datascreen blazed to life. Vittori was still behind the podium, face alight with an unholy passion. He clawed the air with wild, extravagant gestures, banged the podium with clenched fists, screamed his hatred, and shouted his gloating triumph into the microphones and cameras.
Come on, Kafari, he found himself uttering a silent prayer, we have to strike now… Simon was keenly aware that every single moment their fire teams remained in place, just waiting for the signal to strike, was another moment in which suspicious security guards and P-Squad patrols might investigate the men and women loitering on the street or hunkered down in parked groundcars within striking range of critical governmental offices. POPPA’s security guards cultivated suspicious minds as a way of life.
God alone knew how long it would take for Kafari’s people to carry out their mission. It’d been too long already and the clock was still ticking. The silence in the car was thick enough to cut with a hatchet. The urban guerillas, unfamiliar with Plan Alpha Three, page twelve, didn’t know what to expect. Simon was on the verge of explaining when the countdown clock stopped. POPPA’s bright and artificial world came to a sudden, screeching standstill.
The entire power grid went down.
Traffic lights, shopping arcades, and government office towers went black. Maria whooped aloud. Cars careened to a halt ahead of them. Their driver ripped off a string of curses and threw them into some truly creative skidding turns, rocketing past stalled vehicles. The only lights visible anywhere were car headlights, the hospital windows of Riverside Medical Center, and the high dome of the Presidential Palace, powered by independent, backup generators.
The dome floated on Madison’s darkened skyline like a jewel plucked out of a diamond necklace and dropped onto ink-dark velvet. It glittered in the darkness, dazzling white from the floodlights that were still burning brightly. Simon craned his neck to keep the dome in view as they rushed through the stunned and standing traffic, flicking past dark buildings that blotted out his view. He counted out the seconds under his breath again. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine…
They careened their way into a broad intersection, giving Simon a straight-line view across Lendan Park to Darconi Street and the Palace, which was only six blocks away. The driver dug the heel of his hand into the horn, scattering pedestrians who’d climbed out of their cars. They reached the middle of the intersection—
—and a massive explosion ripped the sky.
The flash backlit the trees, casting stark shadows. The high dome of Vittori’s Palace blew apart. Flame boiled and belched outward. The roar shook the trees as it thundered across Lendan Park. Maria’s daughter screamed. The datascreen’s view of Vittori’s studio flickered wildly for a split second, then went black. They tore through the intersection and another building blocked their view.
Simon twisted around just in time to see the concussion slash through the intersection. People standing on the street were knocked down. Bass thunder rattled and bounced off the buildings. The ricochet of sound echoed down the stunned streets and shook windows, many of which shattered.
They shot through another intersection and caught another glimpse. The dome was gone. It had collapsed into rubble, leaving a gaping, blackened hole in the center of Vittori’s extravagant, sprawling “People’s Palace.” The wings were intact, but the windows had blown out and the power had gone down in the entire south wing. The north wing’s lights flickered erratically. Flames were already licking their way into both wings. POPPA’s colossal, ruinously expensive monument to self-interest and greed was about to suffer the same fate as Gifre Zeloc’s had, four years ago.
Civil war was hard on the architecture.
Not to mention the occupants.
“Do you think we got him?” Maria asked breathlessly as they whipped past another building, closing in on the P-News headquarters.
“His broadcast studio is in the south wing. My best guess? He probably survived that blast.”
Maria’s son cursed, bitterly. “Then why the hell didn’t they blow up the goddamned south wing, instead of the friggin’ dome?”
“Because the south wing is built like a fortress. And the broadcast studio is underground. You’d have to set off an octocellulose bomb the size of the one you crippled Sonny with, to take out that studio.”
“That stinks t’ hell and back, don’t it?”
Nobody bothered to answer. Whether Vittori had died or survived, their night’s work had just begun. “Speed up,” Simon growled. “We’ve got to reach the rendezvous fast.” The driver put his foot down. People scattered like frightened ducks, jumping back into their cars, leaping for doorways, scrambling up onto car hoods. More explosions shook Madison. Smaller ones, widely scattered. P-Squad stations, going down in flames under a massive onslaught of burning hatred. Simon’s wrist-comm began to crackle with reports.
Their groundcar skidded around the final corner just in time to see the main doors of P-Net’s corporate headquarters blow out. Flame belched into the street. Smoke bellied up from the ruined, gaping doorway. Armed men and women were running through the smoke, entering the building. Screaming bystanders were stampeding in every direction, trying to get out of the sudden war zone. Chattering gunfire reached their ears as the driver slid them around in a spinning screech of tires against pavement. As they rocked to a halt in a boiling cloud of black smoke, Simon shouted into his wrist-comm.
“This is Black Dog. My staff car just skidded into the P-Net doorway. I want guns and riot gear, stat!”
Somebody came running toward their car. Simon jumped out, caught the armored vest hurled his way, and buckled it on. He snatched a battle rifle on the fly, catching it midair, and headed for the door.
“Here’s a command helmet, sir!” somebody shouted.
Simon jammed it onto his head. “This is Black Dog! Report!”
Estevao’s voice came back, cool and crisp. “We’ve taken the main studio and the rooftop broadcast towers. There’s a team combing the executive offices now. Fire teams have reported seventeen P-Squad stations blown sky high. Reports are going out that Vittori survived. Pol Jankovitch is on his belly in front of me, pissing in his pants and begging us not to shoot him.” Estevao’s voice dripped disgust.
“Honor his request. I have a use for that groveling little worm. What about the assemblymen?”
“Being assembled,” Estevao responded, drily.
“Bring ’em here. Alive. And undamaged, if you please.”
“Roger.”
Three minutes later, Simon strode into the most famous news studio on Jefferson. Stunned technicians cowered at their consoles, ashen and silent. Pol Jankovitch literally was on his belly in front of Estevao Soteris. And his pants were, in fact, soaking wet. Simon eyed him coldly through the battle helmet, then swept it off and met the newsman’s gaze, face to face.