by Mark Alpert
Tamara pulled the SUV up to the gate, which was manned by half a dozen New York cops. These officers looked a lot more intimidating than the ones at the Brooklyn Bridge. The biggest cop, a thick-necked, broad-shouldered bruiser, stepped toward the driver-side door as Tamara rolled down her window. He aimed his flashlight at her face.
“What are you doing here, Ms. Carter?” His voice was strained, unfriendly. “No one told us you were coming tonight.”
“Sorry, Frank. It’s a special meeting. Not on the mayor’s schedule.”
Instead of replying, the cop named Frank pointed his flashlight at Jenna. He kept the beam on her for several seconds, studying her face. She felt a strong urge to open her door and bolt out of the car, or at the very least turn away from the flashlight, but she resisted it. She kept her face blank.
Finally, he shifted the flashlight back to Tamara. “Who’s your friend? She’s not on the staff. I’ve never seen her before.”
“She requested a meeting with the mayor, and I approved it. Frank, is something wrong? Why are you giving me such a hard time?”
He let out an unhappy grunt. Then he lowered the flashlight. “Yeah, there’s something wrong. Didn’t you see all the fires? There’s a huge crowd of pissed-off people just ten blocks uptown. They’re torching everything that’s not too waterlogged to burn. And if they decide to come this way, there’s nothing we can do to stop them. We’d need at least a thousand officers to scare them off.”
Tamara scowled. “Then why are you making me wait here? Let me in so I can try to do something about it.”
Frank let out another grunt. But after a couple of seconds he stepped away from the Suburban and opened the gate.
Tamara raced the last ten yards, skidding the SUV to a halt outside the mansion. Then she and Jenna jumped out of the car and hurried up the steps to the front door.
* * *
Mayor Bob DeMarco was pacing across the mansion’s library. He shouted into an iPhone as he loped to and fro, taking enormous strides past all the antique furniture in the room, the nineteenth-century bookcases and armchairs and settees. He was so involved in his phone conversation that he didn’t even look up when Jenna and Tamara stepped through the doorway.
“Okay … let’s just … listen, I just want to ask you one … what exactly do we know for sure?”
Jenna was struck by how big and ungainly he was. DeMarco was almost six and a half feet tall, with exceptionally long arms and legs. His head was also long—it was about the size and shape of a loaf of white bread—and it was topped with thinning gray hair. He was in his early sixties and still in good shape, but his cheeks were sunken and his brow corrugated with fatigue. He looked frazzled and exhausted. There were sweat stains under the arms of his white button-down shirt.
He nodded while listening to the caller on his iPhone. After several seconds he noticed Tamara standing by one of the bookcases and mouthed the words “police commissoner” to her. Then he turned around and continued pacing. He didn’t acknowledge Jenna at all.
“So … so let me see if I understand. You have a probable homicide of Captain Adams, the precinct commander. And his driver too, Officer Garcia. And you’ve heard a rumor that … okay, okay, a report from a trusted source … that an FSU commander might’ve committed the … how did you say it happened? The guy punched the captain in the head?”
DeMarco grimaced and pulled the phone away from his ear. The police commissioner was yelling so loudly on the other end of the line that Jenna could hear him from across the room. The guy was cursing at the top of his lungs, saying something about a goddamn patrol car that had been dumped into the shit-stinking Gowanus Canal. The mayor kept nodding and trying to ask questions, but he couldn’t get a word in. After a while, he slapped his hand to his forehead and tugged his wispy hair. Clearly, he wasn’t enjoying his job right now.
The commissioner finally stopped yelling, and DeMarco jumped in. “Listen, Steve, I’ll do everything I can. I’ll call the District Attorney and make sure he puts his best prosecutors on the case. But in the meantime we have an emergency situation in East Harlem. I know your officers are furious about this rumor … I mean, this trusted report … but you need to convince them to help us out here … no, I can’t promise that the FSU won’t … no, I don’t have any control over their … listen, this is a direct order, okay? Send two hundred officers to East 96th Street. And make sure they’re equipped with riot gear. Right now, understand?”
The mayor ended the call. He pocketed his phone and wiped the sweat off his brow. Then he loped across the room at full speed, heading straight for Tamara. “I need your help with this, Carter. The police department is going nuts.” He stopped right in front of her and bent forward at the waist, looming over her like the tallest guy in a subway car. “You’re friendly with some of the precinct commanders, right? You think you can talk some sense into them?”
Tamara held up her hands. “Okay, slow down. What—”
“The cops are freaking out because one of their captains is missing, and there’s a rumor going around that the FSU killed him. The story is completely insane, but it’s spreading on the police department grapevine, and they all believe it.” DeMarco was getting agitated. He waved his long arms up and down and sprayed saliva as he talked. “Two thousand officers have already called in sick for the midnight-to-eight shift. They’re refusing to work in the areas where the FSU is operating. And that’s a big problem, because the Feds are all over the damn city now.”
“Bob, take a deep breath. I’ve got some more bad news for you.” She pointed at Jenna. “This is Dr. Jenna Khan. She’s a scientist, a geneticist. She used to work at a lab that did research for the FSU.”
DeMarco turned to Jenna and looked at her for the first time. He extended his hand, but his expression was wary. “I’ll be honest with you, Dr. Khan. I’ve already had enough bad news for one night.”
Jenna stepped forward. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mayor, but this is worse than everything else you’ve heard.” She shook his hand, which was twice the size of her own. “I was involved in a classified federal project called Palindrome. Have you heard of it?”
“No, but that’s not surprising. The Feds tell me nothing. We’re not on very good terms nowadays.”
“I was working on a new genetic-engineering technique. It was supposed to be used for treating diseases. But the FSU had different plans.”
The mayor let go of her hand. He seemed uncertain about whether he should take her seriously. “Genetic engineering?”
She nodded. “After I left the project, the other researchers applied the technique to altering human DNA, specifically the genes that control intelligence and reflexes and agility. They tested the treatment on Special Forces soldiers in Afghanistan, and now some of those soldiers are working for the FSU.”
DeMarco opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. It looked like someone had just gouged a hole in his loaf-like head. He gaped at Jenna, bewildered.
She decided to press on. “Over the past twenty-four hours I’ve observed two of the test subjects. Both have genetic enhancements that have radically improved their combat skills, but they’re also suffering from unforeseen side effects. One of the subjects is an FSU lieutenant whose brain has been damaged by the genetic alterations. Basically, the treatment has turned him into a psychopath. Last night, he fired a machine gun at a crowd on Bay Parkway and murdered at least a hundred people.”
Tamara edged closer and caught the mayor’s eye. “We have video evidence of the massacre. You know Allen Keating, the Times reporter? He shot the video with his phone before…” Her voice quavered, but she shook her head and brought it under control. “… before he died. That motherfucking FSU officer killed him. He beat Allen senseless.”
This piece of news snapped DeMarco out of his trance. “Oh God. Isn’t he the reporter you’ve been dating?” He stretched an arm toward Tamara and clasped her shoulder. “He’s dead?”
She shrugged his hand off. S
he was too angry to talk about it.
Jenna came to her aid. “The lieutenant’s name is Frazier. He almost killed me too. His mind is breaking down and his consciousness is destabilizing. But until his brain ceases to function, he’s going to keep on killing.”
“Wait a second.” The mayor swayed for a moment, unsteady on his feet. “You said Frazier?”
“Yes, Lieutenant Rick Frazier. Apparently, the police department’s intelligence division has been monitoring him for the past few months because of his abusive behavior.”
“Jesus.” The mayor turned away from her and lurched to the left, as if he’d suddenly lost his balance. He leaned against one of the bookcases and took a couple of deep breaths. Then he slowly stood up straight, resting a hand against the wall to steady himself. “That’s his name. Frazier. That’s who the cops are spreading rumors about.”
Jenna stepped toward him. “You mean the rumors you mentioned before? About the police captain?”
“The cops are saying a guy named Frazier killed Captain Adams. With a single punch to the head.”
“Well, he’s definitely capable of doing that. And the Feds are letting him run wild all over Brooklyn.”
“Jesus Christ. This is a fucking nightmare.” DeMarco lowered his head and stared at the carpet.
Tamara came forward and glared at the mayor. She twisted her purple lips in disgust. “Is that all you can say? ‘This is a nightmare?’ That’s your whole reaction?”
The mayor didn’t look at her. “No, of course not. But what can we do? How can we—”
“It’s time, Bob. You need to call the president and tell him to get his fucking Gestapo out of our city!”
DeMarco raised his head. His eyes were wide, and sweat dripped from his brow. It was strange to see such a large man get so frightened. “That won’t work. The president will just refuse. And he has the law on his side, the goddamn Federal Service Act. Congress passed it and the Supreme Court upheld it, so now the FSU has legal immunity. I can’t do a thing.”
“Ignore the law! Close the roads going to the FSU headquarters on Rikers Island. Cut off their power and water and gas.” Tamara confronted him, tilting her head back so she could look right into his face. “The FSU won’t be able to operate here if they have no food or water. They’ll have to send their officers back to Texas or Georgia or wherever the hell they came from.”
He frowned. “So you want me to use the NYPD to set up a blockade around Rikers?”
“After hearing those rumors, the New York cops would be happy to do it.”
“And what if the FSU tries to reopen the roads? What if the Feds start shooting at our cops?”
“Then we shoot back!”
DeMarco shook his head. “Do you realize what you’re saying? You’re talking about starting a civil war!” He shouted those last few words, which echoed against the walls of the library. The mayor’s face was flushed and frantic. He was terrified.
And in the silence that followed, Jenna heard a roar outside. It was a pounding, juddering mechanical noise that grew very loud very fast, so loud that it rattled the glass in the library’s windows. Then she heard the sound of rapid footsteps banging against the mansion’s old floors, and a moment later she saw the thick-necked police officer named Frank, the cop who’d stopped Tamara’s car at the security gate. He rushed into the room, wide-eyed and breathless.
“Mr. Mayor! Helicopters are landing on East End Avenue! The Feds are right outside!” Frank pointed out the window. “We’re under attack!”
NINETEEN
A dozen Special Forces helicopters thundered over the East River. Colonel Grant watched them from the FSU’s heliport, located on the roof of the tallest building on Rikers Island.
He peered through a pair of infrared binoculars that showed the glowing heat signatures of the helicopter engines against the night sky. Halfway up the river, near the northern tip of Roosevelt Island, the squadron split into two smaller groups that flew in opposite directions. Thanks to the phone call from Keller an hour ago, Grant knew where each group was headed. Six of the choppers dove toward the mayor’s residence in Manhattan. The other six zoomed toward Rikers.
Grant felt a stirring in his chest. It was like what he’d felt twenty years ago when he was a gung-ho army lieutenant on his first tour in Afghanistan. The same quickening of his pulse, the same fierce adrenaline rush in his veins. He hadn’t felt it in so long that he’d almost forgotten how intoxicating it was. God, I love this. The battle is starting right here, right now! We’re gonna clean up New York and then the rest of the country. And I’m gonna command all our forces, the warriors of the New America Initiative. That’s what Keller promised.
After a while Grant lowered his binoculars and took in a lungful of the brackish night air. Standing next to him on the rooftop was Lieutenant Frazier, who wore his black FSU uniform but wasn’t carrying his assault rifle. Keller had told Grant to bring “your best man” to the heliport, and Frazier was the obvious choice. He’d come to Rikers with Grant after they captured Derek Powell at Green-Wood Cemetery, and though Frazier had been acting a little weird since then—pestering the doctors at the Research Center, repeatedly asking them about Powell’s condition—the lieutenant’s loyalty was beyond question. If Grant ordered him to jump off the Empire State Building, Frazier would do it in a heartbeat.
Keller had also instructed Grant to make room in the jail complex for more detainees. The Special Forces team might not capture the mayor alive—DeMarco had NYPD bodyguards, and they would definitely resist his arrest—but if the soldiers managed to get him to Rikers in one piece, Grant planned to spend the rest of the night interrogating him. For seven years, the New York City government had obstructed the White House, fighting its efforts to deport illegals and potential terrorists. Now, though, Grant would remove those obstructions. He was going to persuade DeMarco, by any means necessary, to cough up the names of all the uncooperative city officials.
Then there was the huge task of placing New York under martial law. First, they needed to take control of the city’s infrastructure—the streets, sewers, water pipes, and power lines. Next, they had to appoint FSU officers to take over the fire department, the housing authority, the criminal court, and the board of education. They also had to review the loyalties of the New York police force to determine which officers could be transferred to the FSU and which needed to be fired. It would be an enormous undertaking, but Grant was looking forward to it. He enjoyed the challenge of a big job, as long as he was in charge.
But all those duties could wait until tomorrow. Right now, Grant needed to handle the vice president’s visit.
The colonel raised his binoculars again to look at the closer group of helicopters, which were less than a mile away. After several seconds, five of the choppers veered south toward LaGuardia Airport, where the Special Forces would take over the control tower and secure the airfield for military use. The sixth chopper proceeded alone to Rikers Island, heading straight for the heliport. Grant recognized its silhouette—it was a VH-60N, a Black Hawk specially modified for transporting the government’s highest officials. When it was carrying the vice president, it was designated with the call sign “Marine Two.”
Soon the helicopter touched down on the rooftop. The crew powered down the engines and lowered the boarding steps at the front of the chopper. Then Vance Keller came out of the aircraft and approached Grant. The K-Man pointed to the side, signaling that he wanted to speak in private for a moment, so Grant stepped a few yards away from Lieutenant Frazier.
Keller definitely wasn’t happy. His face looked ashen under the light of the full moon, his broad forehead shining above a pair of dark eye sockets. He leaned close to Grant to prevent anyone from overhearing them, and for a second Grant thought of vampires. The K-Man’s teeth were within biting distance of Grant’s neck.
“Is everything ready?” Keller’s voice was low and grim. “You carried out all my instructions?”
Grant nod
ded. “Everything’s good, sir.”
“The prisoners are in the interrogation rooms? And you’ve performed the vaccinations?”
“Absolutely. We’ve prepared a nice little tour for the veep. Entertaining and informative.”
“This has to go smoothly. We can’t afford any mistakes.” He beetled his brows. His eyes glinted within their dark sockets. “If we screw up now, the whole show is over. We’ll lose everything and go to prison, quite possibly the execution chamber. You understand?”
“We won’t screw up. This is too important.” Grant felt the stirring in his chest again. “We hold the future of America in our hands, sir.”
Keller attempted to smile, not very successfully. “Yes, we do. All right, here comes the vice president.” He stepped away from Grant and faced the helicopter.
First, half a dozen Secret Service agents in gray suits came down the boarding steps. They surveyed the heliport, turning their heads left and right and paying particularly close attention to Lieutenant Frazier. Then one of them muttered something into his headset, and a moment later the vice president emerged from the chopper.
The veep wore a navy-blue suit with an American flag pin on the lapel. He stared straight ahead, unsmiling, as he came down the steps and walked across the roof, flanked by his Secret Service men. His thin white hair flounced in the breeze.
Grant had met him a couple of times before at the White House, and the veep had struck him as one of the most boring human beings on the planet, but now he seemed different—wary, jumpy, all his nerves on high alert. He’d stumbled upon a very dangerous secret, and he wasn’t sure what to do next. He could’ve gone public with the news, revealing what he knew to Congress or the press, but that would’ve gone against the grain of his nature. So instead he’d demanded to see the Palindrome Project in person. He’d ordered Keller to arrange a VIP inspection of the Rikers Island headquarters, and the K-Man had complied. For the first time in seven years, the vice president had done something ballsy. He’d started to act like a man who might someday become president.