But the thought of her, of what they had done, banished unconsciousness. How had he fallen asleep in the first place? He’d wanted to pass out while they hurt her, had wanted to die, but could do neither. So how could he have fallen asleep after watching what they’d done, right there in his cell, watching her blood arc slowly through the air—
There was no blood on the floor, no blood on the wall.
No straitjacket, no chain.
No bruises on his arms, no fingernail wounds in his palms.
And in that moment he realized the truth. He’d been tricked. They hadn’t harmed Samantha. It had all happened in his head, in a virtual hell Cooper had constructed. Relief flooded him like warm water. Samantha was okay. She hadn’t been destroyed, hadn’t suffered, hadn’t even really been here. It was just a computer program, a construct, just like the Roman choir. None of it had been real—
Except his betrayal of John.
Warmth calcified into the deepest cutting cold. His oldest friend. The man who had been the boy who had saved him at Hawkesdown Academy, who had brought him the only relief he had ever known, who had seen him when no one else could, who had helped him when no one else would, and Soren had failed him.
Not failed. Betrayed.
John spoke again, impossibly, in the cell. Saying, “Soren. Myfriend.”
Saying, “Getready. Getfree.”
Saying, “Thenlookformymessage.”
He had risen from the steel bunk he’d lain on. No sign of his friend. Of course. A speaker system, some sort of intercom. John must have taken control of it. One of his hackers. The movement had moles everywhere, even in Epstein’s organization.
Soren had stretched. Cracked his knuckles. A moment later, the door to his cell had swung open of its own accord.
The room beyond was an octagon, doors on each face, banks of terminals. And the torturer sitting in a chair. Rickard’s mouth fell open. He started to rise. Slowly. So slowly.
Soren had crossed the room like a god, one hand lashing out in a nerve chop that dropped the torturer back into his chair.
The man’s throat tasted of sweat as Soren closed his teeth on it and ripped it open.
Blood slashed his face, coppery on his lips as he reached inside to grip Rickard’s living flesh and yank it through the wound he had made.
It wasn’t enough.
Not the torturer. Not the guards outside. It would never be enough. Cracking the world would barely be a start.
Soren sat on a bench and trembled. Staring at his hands, the blood crusted on them.
“Are you all right?” A teenage girl with a rifle stood before him, a pack slung over her shoulders. Her face was twisted, lips screwed up in a grimace of concern. Soren rose, took her head in his hands, and snapped her neck. Her body went limp instantly. So fragile, life. It could be taken with little more than will.
And it was only then that he remembered John’s last sentence. Look for my message.
He took ten of his seconds to think. Then rolled the corpse over and looked in her bag. Water, a flashlight, a jacket, a hunting knife, a d-pad. Yes. He lifted the girl onto the bench, her warm body heavy and smelling of urine. Sat down alongside and let her head fall on his shoulder as he used her thumbprint to access the d-pad.
The message was in a private mail account established years ago and never used. A number of files, and a video.
John’s face filled the d-pad. “Myfriend. Forgivethecliché, butifyou’reseeingthis, I’mdead.”
A howl rose in Soren’s chest. He had a flash of John’s smile as a boy. His charm, his smile, were weapons he’d used against their enemies. But for his friends, John’s smile had been a true and precious gift that had made Soren proud to be the recipient.
In the video, his dead friend did not smile. He said, “I’msorrytoaskthisofyou.”
He said, “Youaremylastcontingency. Readthesefiles.”
He said, “Ineedyourhelp. Willyouhelpme?”
I betrayed you, John.
If you’re dead, it’s my fault.
There is nothing I will not do.
In the distance, a burning flare of light angled into the sky. Another followed, and another. Like fireworks. Like the soul of his friend, streaking brilliant and finally free.
And sitting on the bench beneath star-smeared skies, a dead girl leaning against him like a lover, Soren read the dying wish of the friend he had murdered.
CHAPTER 37
Natalie watched the flare carve a red scar in the night sky. Higher and higher it arced, burning as it went. Consuming itself.
She felt a sudden desperate urge to pee. What was she doing here? She was a lawyer, a mother, not a soldier. She hadn’t been in a fight since Molly McCormick had taken her Twinkie in the second grade and the two of them had ended up rolling around pulling each other’s hair.
In the distance, a white spark flared. A second or two later she heard the bang. It was a gun. Someone was shooting at them. Another spark flashed in the same place, but this time, before she heard the report, something shattered, like a champagne flute hurled at concrete. Out her window, the world grew suddenly darker.
They’re shooting the floodlights.
In the twilight, the New Sons of Liberty had moved closer to town. It was hard to gauge, but she guessed that muzzle flare had been maybe half a mile away. Which was scary for another reason; she’d been married to a soldier and had some idea of the kind of weaponry and skill required to shoot at that range.
Another flash, and another spotlight died. She set down the rifle and wiped her hands on her jeans, breathing fast and shallow. She should be used to fear by now. As a girl, she’d been effortlessly bold, but once she became a mom, worry had entered her life, a subsonic buzz that never went away. Worry that a cough was meningitis, that a tumble down the stairs could break a neck. Then, later, worry that Kate was gifted, and once that was confirmed, worry that she would be taken away, sent to an academy. Worry that Nick would get careless and one day she would find Bobby Quinn on her front porch with pain for eyes.
When Nick had gone undercover, worry became fear. For six months fear had marked her every moment, sometimes a nagging ache, sometimes an open wound. No, that was wrong; it hadn’t ended with his return. She and her children had been kidnapped at gunpoint. They had watched cities burn. Seen Todd attacked by a killer, suffered the endless hours of his surgery. Held Nick as he bled out on a restaurant floor.
She was no stranger to fear. But this. This was something different.
Why? Are you so frightened of dying?
She didn’t think so. She wasn’t eager or anything, but death was just leaving the party, and everybody did that eventually. No, it wasn’t for herself.
It was for them. For Todd and Kate. The fear had less to do with dying and more to do with failing them.
Realizing that made the difference. She forced a deep breath, and then another. Held her fingers out in front of her face and willed them to stop shaking. After a moment, they obeyed.
Then she picked up the rifle, flipped off the safety, and looked out the window.
One by one, the floodlights died. And with each, the darkness crept closer, until the only light came from the glowing globe and from the embers of buildings. Slowly her vision acclimated enough for her to make out shapes.
Some of them were moving.
Use the fear.
“Jolene.”
Twenty feet away, the woman sat at the base of a file cabinet, those cheekbones making her eyes seem even bigger than they were. Natalie pointed to the logo, then spun her finger in a circle to suggest the orbit of the purple light. For a moment, Jolene just stared, then she got it. Nodded, shouldered her own rifle, pointed it out the window.