The Regent

by Marcus Richardson

  As he stood there, letting the water wash the dirt and grime from the tunnels off his body and clothes, he stared through the pelting rain and soaked in the rich colors of the ancient buildings that lined the street.

  Taking a long, deep breath of cleansing air, Denny let his head fall back and encouraged the water to splash across his face, giving silent thanks to Mishe Moneto. He had been delivered from the tunnels. No longer lurking about in the dark, he was once more in the open. “Niyaawe,” he muttered. Thank you.

  Denny opened his eyes and looked up the hill toward the castle, perhaps 100 yards away. The buildings, packed together like sardines lining the street, created a canyon down the Royal Mile which abruptly ended about 50 yards from the castle. A vast flat expanse lined with bleachers partially blocked the view of the gatehouse.

  “That’s the parade grounds, senator,” the Scottish cop announced, pointing at the flat area. “First time we’ve had them set up properly since…” His voice trailed off. “We had to use it as a makeshift morgue during the early days of the Korean Flu.”

  “You still got your radio?” Braaten called over the sound of the rain drumming against the pavement. “What the hell is going on down there?”

  Denny turned and followed the cop’s gaze down the Royal Mile toward Holyrood Palace. The rain was far too dense for him to see more than halfway down the mile-long road, but through the gloom and mist that obscured his vision, Denny spotted flashing blue-and-white lights from several police vehicles in the street. Shadowy figures moved back and forth, most of them wearing Day-Glo yellow ponchos.

  “Aye, that’ll be the blockade…” the cop replied, digging in his coat. He pulled out a small handheld radio. “Bravo two to base, Bravo two to base,” he called.

  Denny was close enough to the cop’s radio to hear the static that crackled over the small speaker. A muffled voice tried to say something, was interrupted by a squeal of more static, and then faded into the background noise. Angus repeated his tries three more times. He opened his mouth to say something further when thunder crashed overhead, causing Eli to flinch.

  “It’s no use!” the cop complained. “Something’s wrong with the radio…”

  Braaten’s eyes narrowed as he looked beyond the cop toward the castle. “It’s not malfunctioning, Angus. Someone’s jamming your transmission.” He turned back to face the blinking lights in the distance. “Let’s head toward them; they might know what the hell’s going on.”

  As a group they trudged through the rain, walking at first down the middle of the street. Braaten paused and had them shuffle over to the sidewalk.

  Denny couldn’t help but agree with him. Something made him feel uneasy. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it—it wasn’t the same reassuring feeling that he remembered from the woods west of Salmon Falls when the Russians were hunting him. It was…unsettling, like the feeling one gets when stepping through a graveyard at night. Like he didn’t belong.

  Maybe this land is trying to tell me something…

  For the second time since arriving in Scotland, Denny felt a strong impression that his grandfather was near. Red Eagle had never left the reservation in his life, let alone the United States to travel overseas. Denny could think of no situation in which any of his people had ever reported the presence of ancestors following them to a foreign land.

  It’s got to be my imagination.

  Denny shrugged off the cold rain that trickled down the back of his sodden suit. “Where is everyone?” he called out, trying to take his mind off the unsettling feeling.

  “Keep it down,” Braaten said, leading from the front of the line. He held his arm out to stop everyone. “Something’s not right…”

  Behind him, Denny heard the cop repeatedly try over and over again to raise someone on his radio.

  “What’s going on?” worried Eli.

  “Just try to stay quiet,” Denny whispered, “the police will know what to do.” He wished he could be as reassured as his voice sounded.

  They were within 15 yards of the first police car when a figure dressed in a yellow poncho staggered around the corner of the building directly in front of Braaten. The former SEAL froze and raised his pistol, locking it on the man’s chest. The cop didn’t even so much look at him, but continued to stagger a few more steps before dropping to his knees. Coughing, the man seemed desperate to catch his breath. Just peeking around the corner, Denny saw the black shape of an automatic rifle on the ground, abandoned in the rain.

  Braaten saw it too. His head shifted back to focus his attention on the cop, coughing and hacking on the ground. Only now did the police officer turn and seemed to recognize he wasn’t alone. He reached out with one hand and tried to stagger to his feet.

  “Back up!” Braaten called out, shuffling back one step but keeping the pistol aimed at the man on the ground. He reached one hand behind him and waved the others out of his way. “Back up!”

  “Oh my God, is it the Korean flu? I heard they hadn’t wiped it out yet—” Eli began.

  “Shut up and get back!” Denny said, yanking hard on Eli’s arm and dragging him back. “That man’s bleeding from his eyes and mouth!”

  “Malloy?” the cop said, over Denny’s shoulder. He sidestepped the group and took two steps closer to the stricken officer struggling to breathe.

  “Angus, get back!” Braaten called out. “That guy’s got something nastier than the flu!”

  “Christ!” Angus said, stopping short of his brother officer. “Malloy, what the bloody hell is going on?”

  “Gas,” the officer on the ground wheezed, clawing at his throat. He toppled onto his side and lay in the rain, staring up at their group, his mouth moving but no sound coming out.

  “We can’t just leave him!” Angus said, pleading with Braaten.

  “We have to—look!” Braaten said, pointing across the road.

  Denny peered through the rain, squinting against the water splashing against his face. Then he saw them. Bodies in Day-Glo yellow slickers laying on the ground. One was slumped against the building across the street, another was just visible behind the front tire of the police car. Splashes of red cascaded down their chests to dilute in the rain. Two more were further down the street, laying next to each other in the middle of the road. The more he looked, the more he found. Some were moving, most weren’t.

  “It’s got to be Renolds,” Braaten announced. He looked up and down the street, searching for threats. “We’ve got to get the hell off this street!”

  “Malloy?” Angus called out. “Did you say gas?”

  Denny turned back to the officer who seemed close to death. Now the man was struggling to his feet. When he turned at the sound of Angus’ voice, his face, smeared with blood that leaked from his eyes and mouth, hardened into a mask of pure hatred. The man went from looking like a patient with hemorrhagic fever on his deathbed to a mean drunk looking for a fight.

  “The fuck are you looking at?” the man snarled.

  Braaten froze. “Whoa, what the fuck? Look, bub, nobody wants any trouble—we need to get you some help—”

  “Bloody Americans, always telling everyone what to do,” the officer wheezed, taking a step forward on unsteady legs. His hands clenched into fists, dripping with the blood that ran down his face in the rain.

  “Malloy!” called out Angus. “What the hell, mate?”

  “And you,” the bloodied cop snarled. “Running off to hide in the tunnels while the rest of us die from this gas…some brother you are,” he said, spitting a glob of bright red blood onto the wet pavement.

  “What?” Angus said, taking a step back and shaking his head. “I didn’t know…”

  Braaten put an arm out and pushed Angus behind him. “All right, that’s enough—stand down,” he said in a stern voice. He raised the pistol up to point at the man’s chest again. “Back off.”

  That was the wrong thing to do. The cop roared and lunged at Braaten with his bare hands.

  Braaten sidest
epped him and threw an elbow directly into the man’s face. Denny winced at the sound of crunching bone. The cop staggered back, screaming now in blind rage and pain as blood gushed down his face. He threw his head back and screamed into the storm, rivaling the thunder that rumbled overhead. Lightning flashed, illuminating the world in a bright strobe light.

  “What the fuck is happening?” shouted Braaten. He raised his pistol. “I’m warning you—back off!”

  “You can’t bloody shoot him!” yelled Angus, throwing both arms around Braaten’s, trying to pull the pistol off target.

  The gun went off with a loud crack and Denny heard glass shatter. The round hit a police car not far beyond the bloodied officer.

  The bloodied cop shook his head and in an instant, the anger had vanished. He blinked and looked at Angus. “Campbell? What the hell are you doing here? Oh, God!” he cried, doubling over, hands to his face. “What happened?” He looked at his bloody hands and terrified eyes found Denny’s. “What’s happened to me?”

  Angus and Braaten looked at each other. Braaten lowered his pistol and shrugged off the Scottish cop. Angus took a step forward and reached out a hand.

  “No! Don’t touch him! Some fuckery is definitely afoot here. We don’t know if he’s contagious.”

  “He said something about a gas…” Denny offered.

  “I’m not going to leave him,” Angus said, hunching his shoulders.

  Braaten sighed. “Suit yourself, but I’m taking the senator to the castle. My job isn’t to babysit you.”

  “There’s gratitude for you,” Angus muttered, throwing an arm around his stricken comrade. He pulled him upright. “Hang on, Malloy, we’ll get you patched up.”

  “Fuck you!” the cop roared. He drove a fist into Angus’ stomach, doubling over the inspector and dropped an elbow on the back of his neck, sending him to the ground in a heap.

  The cop looked at Braaten, rage plastered across his face again, and bared red teeth. Braaten took a step forward, raised the pistol and pointed it directly at the cop’s forehead, the end of the barrel only inches away from his skin.

  “You wanna dance? One more move, and I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains across the street.”

  Despite the angry snarl on the cop’s face, it seemed he was still capable of rational thought. He blinked, his eyes darting to Denny and then Eli. Spitting a glob of blood on the ground, he growled once more, turned, and shuffled off down the street before disappearing down an alley.

  Cooper helped Angus to his feet. “You okay?”

  Angus coughed and shook off the help. “Bloody great, never been better…”

  Denny looked down the street and his eyes widened. “I think we need to get to the castle.”

  “That’s probably a good idea…” Cooper said, still helping Angus steady himself.

  Denny shook his head. “Now.”

  Braaten and the cop looked at him at the same time. “What is it?”

  Denny pointed. Everyone turned and looked. Down the hill, three more cops in bloodstained, yellow ponchos rose from the ground. Two of them yelled and immediately began fighting. The third looked over the hood of the cop car and spotted them. He yelled something, then vaulted the hood like one of the Duke boys and broke into a run, heading straight for them.

  Denny had never seen such a wild, angry look on someone’s face before. He had no doubt the man would tear someone’s throat out with his teeth if given half the chance.

  He didn’t get that chance. Braaten leveled his pistol and fired one shot. A red dot appeared in the middle of the cop’s forehead and he collapsed to the ground, skidding to a stop just feet away from them. A blossom of bright red blood, diluted with the torrent of rain, spread out around him and ran down the street.

  The sound of Cooper’s gunshot stopped the fight on the other side of the cop car. Both of them turned to look. They shouted something and made a beeline straight for Cooper. Behind them, two more cops emerged from around the corner, both wearing the ubiquitous yellow ponchos. They carried rifles.

  “Run!” Braaten screamed, pointing for the castle.

  27

  Target of Opportunity

  The president stared at the world map displayed on the screen in the newly christened war room. Wires hung from the ceiling and the conference table in the middle of the room was covered in shipping boxes and Styrofoam packing material. The room was crowded, crawling with technicians and personnel still installing computers, monitoring screens, and equipment, but the president insisted on visiting. If nothing else, it was a show of support and solidarity for those breaking their backs working double shifts to get the government back up and running in Denver. It’d been six months since he’d officially transferred daily operations to the Underground, but in many ways, it felt like Day One.

  “What’s the situation, Sam?” he asked the Secretary of Defense.

  “Sir, last report from Downing Street claims it was some sort of gas attack…but we’re not exactly—”

  “First, this bitch sets off a car bomb right next to where they’re planning on having this damn summit,” the president said, turning around to face the handful of his cabinet members who came with him to the war room. Secretary of Defense Thaler, Admiral Bennett, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and Chief of Staff Revellue stood before him in a semicircle. “Second, there’s this gas attack—on the same damn street—and you’re telling me we’re not sure what’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, we’re just finding out about it now. I have my people working on it, but at the moment, we don’t know much,” apologized Thaler.

  “Seems to be a recurring theme around here,” the president grumbled. He held up a hand. “I’m sorry, Sam—I don’t direct that at you or your people. It’s just after six months, things are starting to get frustrating.”

  “Understood, sir, no need to apologize,” Thaler said with an understanding smile.

  “Niceties aside, the situation is deteriorating rapidly,” Admiral Bennett put in. “We completely lost contact with Senator Tecumseh, and frankly at this point, I think we need to prepare for a worst-case eventuality.”

  “Worst-case? You’re talking assassination?” asked the president.

  The admiral frowned. “Negative sir—worst-case scenario is that he is now in the custody of a hostile organization. God help us if it’s the remnants of the Council.”

  The president put his hands in his pockets. “What are the options, gentleman?”

  Bennett turned and glanced at the personnel working on setting up the war room.

  The president nodded. “Everyone? Excuse me.”

  Work ceased at the sound of the president’s voice. All eyes in the room turned toward him. “I’m sorry to interrupt your work, but I need to ask you all to leave for a moment. We need to discuss some sensitive information.” He caught the eye of one of Revellue’s assistants. “Abby, can you put out the word to get the rest of the cabinet down here, pronto?”

  “Of course, sir,” she said. She ducked out of the room, shooing those in front of her to clear the way.

  When the room had been cleared, and the door shut, Bennett turned back to face the president. “Sir, we dispatched the Rangers as you asked, but I don’t think they’re going to get there in time. They’re still hours from feet dry. Another hour after that, they might make it to Edinburgh.” He shook his head. “It’s going to be too little, too late.”

  “Dammit,” the president said, turning back to face the screen depicting the world map. “What about the embassy security staff?”

  The Secretary of Defense cleared his throat. “They’ve already been alerted and are en route, but with a heightened threat level, we can only dispatch half of the London embassy’s complement of Marines. They’ve got State’s up-armored vehicles, but judging by the chaos that we’re seeing on the streets in Edinburgh, I don’t know if that’s going to be enough.” He glanced at the tablet in his hand and tapped the screen. He raised his eyebrows and nodded
toward the screen behind the president. “Stylau managed to get us this.”

  On the brand new floor-to-ceiling screen, the image of the world map disappeared, replaced by an overhead satellite view of Old Town Edinburgh. On the right-hand side, atop its oddly three-dimensional crag, sat the castle. The Royal Mile angled east-northeast of the castle, terminating at Holyrood Palace. Directly across the street from that was the Scottish National Parliament Building. Secretary Thaler tapped his tablet three more times, and each of the three main buildings were highlighted on the map.

  “When was this picture taken?” asked the president.

  “Yesterday,” said Thaler. One more tap on his tablet brought up another image, grainy and completely monotone. “This is from ten minutes ago. There’s a nasty thunderstorm over the area, so we had to enhance some of the structures that were blocked by the storm.”

  The president frowned at the new image. “This doesn’t show us much.”

  “Here’s the infrared, sir,” Thaler said. A third image overlaid on top of the other two appeared. Directly across from and in front of Holyrood Palace, a dark circle with a glowing center indicated the crater left by the car bomb. Several cars were illuminated white at strategic points up and down the Royal Mile. Warm bodies—at least twenty or thirty of them—lay interspersed up and down the street in between buildings and in front of the cars.

  “What do we have here?” asked the president.

  Chief of Staff Revellue stepped forward and pointed. “Holyrood Palace, Scottish National Parliament. There’s the crater from the car bomb,” he said, pointing at the screen.

  “And those are cop cars?” asked Admiral Bennett, pointing at the vehicles blocking the road.

  “It appears so, and these are cops—as near as we can tell,” Secretary Thaler said, pointing at several of the figures near the cars.