by Mark Alpert
It took five seconds for the blast wave to rush across the East River, and then Grant heard the explosion echo against the buildings on Rikers. At the same instant he felt a smaller explosion inside his chest, a burst of joy and triumph. He’d just obliterated his enemies—the New York police, the Khan bitch, that asshole Weinberg. They’d tried to fuck him over, but they’d failed. Now they were nothing but smoke.
After another second he shifted his binoculars to the south and focused on the squadron of Black Hawk helicopters racing toward the blast site. Because the target was so close to a critical highway junction and bridge, Grant had devised a strategy that would minimize the collateral damage. He’d ordered the army to launch just one cruise missile—a precision-guided Tomahawk—to destroy the police station and decapitate the NYPD leadership. Then the Black Hawks would mow down the New York officers at the bridge checkpoints, as well as any survivors from the cruise-missile strike. Right on schedule, the choppers dove toward the Triborough and fired their Gatling guns at the fleeing cops below.
Grant squinted behind the binocs, trying to get a better view. It was just past sunset and the sky was darkening. A bank of thick gray clouds had moved in from the southeast, and a strong wind whipped over the rooftop. Unbelievably, the meteorologists were predicting that another superstorm would hit New York by 10 p.m., less than forty-eight hours after the last one had blown through. By then, though, the battle against the NYPD would be long over. The army had also attacked the police strongholds at Floyd Bennett Field and Rodman’s Neck, targeting the cops’ arsenals and airfield. Very soon, the colonel would report the good news to Keller: Our enemies are dead, and nothing else stands in our way.
Then the war would spread. Grant would finally get the reward he deserved, the leadership of the New America Initiative, Keller’s plan to remake and revitalize the country. And Colonel Grant would lead his warriors to the next battlegrounds: Chicago, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, Washington …
But as he watched the Black Hawks, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He’d gotten so engrossed in the battle that he hadn’t heard anyone approaching. Alarmed, he lowered the binoculars and spun around.
It was Keller. He stood there like a scarecrow, the back of his suit jacket billowing in the wind, his pants flapping around his skeletal legs. His eyes reflected the dimming twilight, but the rest of his face was dark and cadaverous. “What are you doing up here, Colonel?”
There was a note of accusation in his voice, which confused the hell out of Grant. It should’ve been perfectly obvious what he was doing—the smoke was still rising from Randalls Island and the helicopters were still strafing the survivors. It was all plainly visible. “Uh, I’m observing the air strike, sir.” Grant pointed at the island, even though that hardly seemed necessary. “As far as I can see, everything’s going well. The Tomahawk scored a direct hit.”
“Please, this is unnecessary. Several Pentagon aides are already monitoring the battle for me. You’re not using your time wisely, Colonel.”
Grant frowned. He was pissed. He’d done everything the K-Man had asked—tracked down the fugitives, found the Khan bitch, cornered them all at Randalls, and convinced the generals to launch the air strike—and it still wasn’t enough. “I had a free moment, sir, so I thought I’d come up here. But if you have another assignment for me, I’d be happy to take it on.”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Keller reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a secure phone. Then he turned it on and held it in front of Grant’s nose. “This was reported by the Washington bureau of the Associated Press ten minutes ago.”
A news bulletin was displayed on the phone’s screen: CONGRESS CONFIRMS KELLER AS VICE PRESIDENT IN EMERGENCY SESSION.
Grant had expected this, but not quite so soon. “Well, that was fast.”
Keller nodded. “I did some arm-twisting over the phone. Made deals with several of the congressmen, offered a few favors. And I hinted that the president was ill, which added to the urgency.” He put the phone back in his pocket. “So now it’s time to take the next step.”
He gave the colonel an expectant look and waited for him to respond. But Grant kept his mouth shut. Now that their project had reached the final stage, he was starting to question whether he could go through with this step. He was a loyal soldier, but he had his limits.
The K-Man sighed. He looked disappointed. “We’ve discussed this subject before, Colonel. Do you recall what I said?”
“Look, sir, I—”
“You need to prove your loyalty. We’re about to start a new chapter in our country’s history, and I plan to make you my second-in-command. But first I have to know if you’re fully committed to the cause. Are you bold enough to do what’s necessary, Colonel?”
Without waiting for a reply, Keller reached into the pocket of his jacket again, and this time he pulled out a syringe. Its tip was capped with a protective cover, and the clear plastic tube was filled with a yellowish fluid.
The K-Man held the thing in his palm. “The president is alone in a recovery room on the fourth floor. A few minutes ago, the doctors administered the first round of CRISPR injections. They also put him under sedation so he could get some rest before the next round. All you need to do is give him one more shot while he’s sleeping.” He extended his hand and offered the syringe to Grant. “I obtained this from one of my contacts at the CIA. The poison is slow-acting—it won’t kill him until three or four hours after the injection. Better still, it’s untraceable. Everyone will assume that he died from the gene therapy treatment. And I’ll make sure the autopsy confirms it.”
Grant stared at the syringe but didn’t take it. He didn’t like this plan. “You don’t need me for this. You should get one of the doctors to give the injection, then eliminate the man afterward. That would be cleaner.”
Keller nodded again. “Yes, perhaps. But there would still be a loose end.” He raised his voice so Grant could hear it above the whistling of the wind. “Sometime in the future, Colonel, you might be tempted to turn against me. For whatever reason, you might choose to reveal the truth about the president’s death. And I have to make sure that never happens.” He stretched his arm a little farther and raised the syringe to eye level. “That’s why we’re going to do this together. I’m giving you the order, and you’re going to carry it out. This arrangement will ensure that you’ll never reveal our secret. It’s a logical solution, don’t you think?”
Grant stood there, frozen. The sounds of distant gunfire had stopped, meaning that the battle for Randalls Island was won, but he didn’t turn around to look. He kept his eyes on the syringe in Keller’s hand. The last rays of twilight had faded, and now the K-Man’s face was utterly dark.
“Don’t be a coward, Colonel. Be the man you were meant to be.”
Grant stiffened, furious. If he’d had a gun on him at that moment, he would’ve shot the cadaverous bastard. He would’ve blown Keller’s brains out, even if it meant going to the execution chamber for killing the new vice president.
But the colonel was unarmed, and after a couple of seconds he stopped glaring at Keller. His anger faded like the twilight, and in its wake he felt a cold certainty. The K-Man is setting me up. If anything goes wrong, he’s gonna pin the assassination on me. So I need to come up with a plan to protect myself. I have to make sure that someone else becomes the fall guy.
He grabbed the syringe from Keller and slipped it into his own pocket. Then he left the rooftop and headed downstairs to the Research Center.
* * *
Grant’s head started to ache as he hurried down the stairway. His stomach hurt too, and a hot acidic bubble formed inside his gullet and rose to his throat. After he left the stairs he got dizzy and stumbled in the fourth-floor corridor, but luckily no one was there to see it. Then the pain got worse and he doubled over.
It’s nerves, he thought. The pressure is getting to me. Which is fucking understandable, given the circumstances. Plus, he’d hardly slep
t or eaten over the past two days. It was enough to make anyone dizzy.
But there was something else that disturbed him. The pain in his guts had a familiar edge. It was the same agony he’d felt the night before when he’d walked past Room 17. Although Grant was on the other side of the building now, more than two hundred feet from that room, the feeling was just as intense as the first time, just as excruciating. It made him drop to his knees and press his forehead to the floor.
He clutched his belly and retched. The pain cut through him like a knife, but the fear was even worse. Jesus Christ! The freak is dead! How is this fucking possible?
He took a deep breath and tried to clear his head. Yes, he reassured himself, Raza Khan was deceased. Grant had seen the corpse and supervised the autopsy. The kid’s brain was in a jar now, and the rest of his body had been incinerated in the Rikers Island power plant. So, unless the freak was tormenting him from beyond the grave, something else was causing the pain in his stomach. Nervousness, sleeplessness, hunger, whatever.
Or maybe the freak had damaged him somehow. Maybe the injuries were permanent, and Grant was going to feel this torture for the rest of his life.
He shook his head. It won’t stop me. I’m stronger than this. Leaning against the wall for support, he got back on his feet. Then he slowly made his way down the corridor.
Grant walked another fifty feet or so, then turned left and went down another hallway. Then he stepped into the infirmary, where the Research Center’s doctors treated the medical complications caused by the experimental CRISPR treatments. As Grant had expected, Lieutenant Frazier was there, running on a treadmill while one of the doctors jotted notes on a clipboard. Frazier had broken a couple of ribs when he’d escaped from the fiasco at the 103rd Street footbridge, but it looked like he’d already recovered from his injuries. Thanks to his altered DNA, he healed very quickly, which was a useful trait for soldiers and FSU officers.
Frazier turned his head as Grant approached the treadmill. Grinning, he stepped off the machine and saluted. “Colonel! Have you heard the news? The air strikes crushed the NYPD! We kicked their asses!”
Grant swayed on his feet, still dizzy, but managed to stay upright. “Yeah, yeah, I saw.” He turned to the doctor, a dumpy bald guy with thick glasses. “Listen, could you go somewhere else for a while? I need to talk to the lieutenant.”
The doctor scuttled off. Frazier looked at Grant with concern. “Sir? Are you okay? You look kind of shaky.”
Grant scowled. To carry out his plan, he had to get tough on Frazier. He needed to apply some psychological pressure. “You’re worried about me, Lieutenant? You think I need some help?”
Frazier shook his head. “No, sir. I just noticed that you seem—”
“You’re the one who needs help, Frazier. You’re a fucking one-man disaster. What the hell happened at the footbridge today?”
The lieutenant stopped grinning. He took a step backward. “I explained everything in my report, sir. I don’t know how—”
“You ran right into an ambush. How many of our officers died because of your stupidity?”
“Sir, I—”
“And then you abandoned your men and jumped into the Harlem River. That’s the only thing you do well, you know that? You have a real talent for running away from a fight.”
Frazier looked stunned. He stood stock-still and said nothing, his face reddening at the accusations. Grant knew it was harsh, but he had to keep pounding away at the guy. It was part of the plan.
“You know what I ought to do, Lieutenant? I should court-martial your ass and replace you with Derek Powell. I should spring Powell from his detention cell and have him take over your command.” Grant pointed down the hall, in the direction of Powell’s cell. “And you know why? Because Powell did something useful today when he gave us that tip about the Latin Kings, and all you did was fuck it up!”
Frazier took another step backward. His cheek twitched. He was struggling to restrain himself. “Sir, I’ve tried … I’ve tried my best to carry out your orders.”
“Jesus Christ! You have one last chance, Frazier. I’m gonna give you a simple job, something a ten-year-old could do. You think you can handle it?”
Frazier saluted him again. “Yes, sir! I won’t let you down!”
Grant had succeeded. Now Frazier would agree to anything. The man was helplessly loyal to the colonel. That’s what made him so perfect for this particular assignment.
Grant pulled the syringe out of his pocket. “You’re gonna go to the room where the president is and give him this shot. That’s an order, Lieutenant.”
THIRTY-ONE
Jenna was in hell. It was the Muslim hell—Jahannam—the Fire Whose Fuel Is Men And Stones. The flames crashed into the basement of the police station and blasted through the ceiling of the interrogation room. Bricks and plaster and shrapnel hurtled downward and battered the steel table she cowered under.
Her father lay beside her and screamed. The air blazed and reddened and scorched their lungs. Jenna lowered her head until her lips touched the floor tiles, but even here the air was broiling. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. She silently pleaded to Allah for help, but there was no escape from Jahannam. The Fire would consume them all.
Then the room went dark, as sudden as a blackout. The air thickened with smoke and soot, which rushed under the table from all sides. Jenna reached for her father and grasped his arm, but she couldn’t see him. At the same time, someone grabbed her waist from behind and dragged her backward across the floor. She pulled Abbu along with her, gripping him tightly.
The person behind her started coughing. A wave of cooler air rushed over them, clearing some of the smoke, and the room went from black to hazy gray. Keeping her head low, Jenna took a sooty breath, and then she started coughing too. Her rescuer leaned forward until his lips touched her ear. “Chica? Are you hurt?”
It was Hector. Jenna turned around and saw his face through the smoke. She leaned toward him. “I’m okay. Help me carry my dad!”
They positioned themselves on either side of Abbu and draped his arms around their shoulders. Then they rose to their feet and staggered toward the source of hazy light, a wide, jagged hole in the ceiling. It was several feet above their heads, but so much debris had fallen into the room that they were able to climb the heap of rubble to it. They slipped and stumbled on the chunks of brick and plasterboard. Abbu slowed them down, his head lolling and his feet dragging, but in less than half a minute they managed to clamber up to the hole and wriggle through it.
The ground floor of the station had been pulverized. The walls had been knocked down and the ceiling was gone. Fires were still burning everywhere, but they could see enough through the smoke to find their way between the piles of burning debris. Jenna looked down, her eyes stinging, and saw charred limbs scattered across the floor and headless torsos still in their body armor. It was unspeakable.
They lurched forward, coughing and grunting, until they were past the fire and smoke and rubble. Then they collapsed in a shadowy underpass beneath one of the Triborough Bridge’s exit ramps. Jenna lowered her father to the ground and rested his head in her lap. He was wheezing and trembling in terror. He clutched Jenna’s hand and opened his mouth, but he couldn’t say a word. She stroked his forehead and wiped the soot from his eyes. “Shhh, Abbu. Don’t say anything. Just rest.”
Hector took a deep breath and got back on his feet. He bent over Jenna, but his eyes were on the ruined police station, which was almost completely masked by the billowing smoke. “I have to go back there. For Carlos.” He took a wobbly step toward the station. “If I don’t—”
But before he could finish the sentence, someone emerged from the pillar of smoke. The man was caked in ash from head to foot. It sprinkled from his hair and blackened his clothes and covered all of his face except for his eyes, which leaked tears that left muddy tracks on his cheeks. Jenna had no idea who he was until he spoke, and then she recognized his flat, tranc
elike voice.
“Carlos is dead.” David Weinberg raised his arm and stiffly pointed at the station. “So is Commissioner Hayes.”
Hector confronted him. “What? Are you sure?”
David nodded. “A falling piece of masonry crushed the commissioner’s head. A steel rod impaled Carlos.” He turned and pointed his arm in the opposite direction, toward the Harlem River. “We should leave this place immediately. We need to go five hundred yards to the west. Those were Raza’s instructions.”
His voice was so robotic, so empty of feeling. Hector clenched his hands and glowered, overwrought and infuriated, ready to express his grief and rage by beating the shit out of David. But then Jenna heard a loud, thumping noise that roared over Randalls Island. She looked up at the huge plume of smoke rising from the police station and saw a couple of black shapes emerge from the haze, sleek and predatory and moving very fast.
She shot up and yanked her father to his feet. “Shit, let’s go!”
The helicopters swooped down, and their gunners opened fire.
THIRTY-TWO
Frazier stood by the gurney in the recovery room, with the syringe in his hand. He was alone with the president, who lay faceup on the bed, in a blue hospital gown. POTUS was asleep, lightly sedated.
The nurse had left the room two minutes ago, called away to attend to an emergency that Colonel Grant had invented. Two FSU guards stood in the hallway, just outside the closed door, but Frazier had slipped past them by using a different entrance, a door that connected this room with the neighboring one. No one had seen him go in, and no one would see him go out. Everything was going smoothly.