She found Haley standing over the waist-deep pit, training the camera on the object Jason held up. “What have you got?”
Jason turned slightly to reveal his prize, and even from a distance Ellen could see that it was a bone—a femur, judging by the round protuberance at one end. She reached out and took it from him, but her excitement began to ebb when she realized that the bone could not possibly be human. The ball joint at the top was much too large, and even though the rest of the bone had broken off at some point, it was far too long to belong to a human.
After she explained this to the camera, she added, “This could be a hopeful sign, though. If we find other animal remains nearby, it could mean that we’ve found a trash midden, and that could shed a lot of new light on the lives of the colonists.” Or, she didn’t add, this could just be where a deer dropped dead five hundred years ago.
“Should we bag it?” Jason asked.
Ellen considered the question for a moment. “Not yet. If we find anything else, then we’ll break out the baggies.”
Jason laid the bone on the edge of the excavation and resumed digging, and Ellen went back to her own hole and dropped back in. She had just picked up her own shovel when Haley cried out in alarm.
For a fleeting instant, Ellen hoped the cry meant that they had found something real, a human skull, perhaps. That would certainly elicit the kind of horrified shriek Haley had just uttered. However, the moment that she reached the edge of Jason’s pit, she knew that the scream had nothing to do with a discovery.
Jason was bent over, on hands and knees, shivering and retching. For several seconds, she could only stand there dumbfounded, her brain reeling off messages of denial. He’ll be okay. He just needs to take a break. But when the fit seemed to get worse, she broke free of her paralysis and slid down into the hole with him.
She gripped his arm, intending to offer comfort and reassurance, but immediately drew back her hand in astonishment. “He’s burning up.” She looked up and found Haley, still recording every moment. “Put that damn thing away, and call 911. Hurry!”
As if to underscore the urgency of the plea, Jason threw back his head and let out a feral howl of agony.
The camera dropped from Haley’s hands, completely forgotten, as her eyes fixed on the horror of his face. Ellen saw it a moment later, and clapped her hands over her ears to shut out the screams—Jason’s, Haley’s and her own.
9
Washington, D.C.
Senator Lance Marrs sighed as he listened to his chief of staff, Rob Sorrel, run down the items on the day’s schedule. Between his duties as a US legislator and the much more arduous job of launching his campaign for the highest office in the land, there was simply too much information for Marrs to track. It was the chief of staff’s job to keep him organized, to make sure he got where he needed to be and said what he needed to say. The details didn’t matter that much, so instead he listened for specific words and phrases that he knew might require him to actually pay attention.
“There’s a procedural vote scheduled for the Jobs Bill at two-thirty.”
‘Vote’ was one of the keywords. Marrs straightened in his chair. “Where do we stand on that?”
“Against.”
Marrs frowned. A jobs bill sounded like a good thing for the American people, and voting against it would be just the kind of thing a political opponent might use against him. On the other hand, if the bill was signed into law and the president could claim an economic victory, it would weigh against him in the general election. “Continue.”
“You are speaking at a Chamber meeting this evening.”
Speaking engagements didn’t interest him that much. He would show up, read the talking points and press the flesh. The Chamber of Commerce could be counted on for decent food and a well-stocked bar, at least. “Is that it then? Sounds like a light day. Let’s try to work in nine holes.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Sorrel took out his cell phone and called the country club to arrange a tee time, Marrs turned his chair around and gazed out the window like a despot surveying his realm. He had a good view of the Capitol dome and several other Washington landmarks, but the thing he desired most, despite being only a few blocks away, was hidden from his eyes.
Soon, he told himself. Soon it will be mine.
Based on current polling, it was not merely wishful thinking. Although there was a crowded field of primary contenders, many of whom were striking a much more populist note, playing up their ‘political outsider’ credentials—a back-handed way of accusing Marrs of being an establishment candidate—most would run out of money long before the primaries were in full swing. He would need only a few early victories to guarantee his anointment as the party’s choice, and from there, it would be a steamroller ride to the Oval Office. His role in bringing down the Duncan administration would be his strength, and his opponent’s weakness. The opposition party would be toxic for years to come because of the disgraced former president; Marrs would make sure of that, both with sanctioned advertisements and a coordinated ‘dark money’ campaign that would pile on the innuendo, until anyone who had ever shaken Tom Duncan’s hand was buried up to their neck in it.
“Sir, I just got an e-mail from a donor who wants to discuss…um, some concerns. May I suggest inviting him to join you on the course?”
“Donor?” That was another word that commanded his attention. “Who?”
“A Mr. Bell, from Mid-Atlantic Diversified Holdings, LLC. He’s maxed on personal donations, and has contributed a million to your SuperPAC.”
The name meant nothing to Marrs, but the amount was all he needed to get his blood pumping. He rose from his chair and grabbed his coat. “A million? Hell, yeah. Tell him I’ll meet him at the club. I may even let him win.”
Sorrel tapped in the message, and then just thirty seconds later reported. “They’re sending a limo to pick you up.”
“Even better. You say that vote is at two-thirty? What’s the spread?”
“Unlikely to move forward.”
“So no one will miss me if I decide to spend the rest of the day with my new best friend.”
Sorrel grinned. “No, sir.”
Marrs grabbed his jacket and headed out the door, contemplating how to wheedle another million from the beneficent Mr. Bell. Mid-Atlantic Diversified sounded like the kind of company that had lots of money to burn.
The promised limousine was waiting for him. It was at the far end of a gauntlet of journalists who turned his way like a school of fish when he exited the main lobby of the Russell Senate Office Building. He made eye contact with the few that he could count on to give him good press and tossed out a few quick sound bites—mostly barbs directed at the president. Then he strode quickly to the car, sliding into the darkened interior. The chauffeur closed the door, silencing the more pointed questions of the less friendly muckrakers. Marrs settled into the plush seat with a sigh of relief.
Seated across from him was a stern-looking man in a better suit than the one Marrs was wearing. “You must be Mr. Bell,” Marrs said, extending a hand.
The man ignored the offer of a handshake. “No. Mr. Bell is not in the country.”
“But then…?”
The man opened a portable computer and placed it on his lap so the screen faced Marrs. The display showed a live web-cam feed of a middle-aged man with strong features, black hair and an olive-complexion. He wore a white dress shirt that was open at the throat, revealing a thick gold chain and a hint of hidden tattoos.
Marrs bit back a complaint and put on his best smile. “Mr. Bell. A pity that you are only able to join us by telepresence. I had so looked forward to shaking the hand of my biggest supporter.” It was not strictly true, since Marrs received considerably more support from the petroleum industry, but diversification was just good business practice, as was some harmless ass-kissing.
The man on the screen returned a predatory smile. “That’s right, Senator. I am your biggest supporter. Y
ou need to remember that.”
Hispanic, Marrs thought, noting the strong accent. Well, as long as his money is green, I don’t care if his skin is brown, black, yellow or purple. And if he’s not American, I don’t want to know.
“Rest assured, Mr. Bell, when I get into the White House, I will personally lead the fight to solidify the United States’ position as a bastion of free-enterprise.”
“Save it,” the man snapped. “Whether you become the president or not will depend on what you can do for me right now.”
“Well, of course, I will continue to use my authority as a United States—”
“You really don’t know who I am, do you?”
Marrs swallowed nervously. In fact, he didn’t know who Bell was, but he was starting to get an idea. “What I know is that we share a vision—”
“Last night, some pendejos attacked one of my facilities in Mexico. They took my brother. Killed several of my loyal associates.”
Marrs let his breath out with a sigh. Shit. The guy is some Mexican mob boss.
He had let visions of dollar signs blind him, and he hadn’t taken the time to ask the right questions. Dammit, Sorrel is supposed to make sure things like this don’t happen. I guess I can kiss that million good-bye.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Marrs said, speaking to the man holding the laptop. “If you’d just let me out.”
“Oh, there’s been a big misunderstanding,” the man on the computer continued. “And you’re going to take care of it for me. You’re going to make people understand.”
“I’m afraid I have very little influence with the Mexican authorities. Now, if you’ll just let me out—”
“You think I care about federales? The men who did this were American soldiers.”
Marrs was about to repeat his request a third time, but the declaration stopped him. “American soldiers? You can prove that?”
“Prove it? They came in an invisible plane. You think the federales have that? You think anyone has that but your Army?”
“An invisible plane?” Marrs could almost hear the jackpot bells ringing. This was better than a million dollars. “Some kind of stealth aircraft?”
“That’s what I said,” the man snapped.
“Mr. Bell, or whatever your name is, what exactly is it that you want me to do? I don’t have the influence to free your brother.”
The man on the screen made a savage cutting gesture. “I will take care of my brother.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
“These pendejos who attacked me. I want them. I want to tear their hearts out and eat them while they watch. You hear me?”
Marrs had a sick feeling that the other man was not speaking figuratively, but in his own way—his own much less literal way—he wanted the same thing. If someone in the administration had authorized an incursion into Mexico, particularly without the permission of the Mexican government, then Marrs had just struck a political mother lode. He had already taken down one president; if he could prove that Tom Duncan’s successor was fighting an illegal drug war in a sovereign nation, without the approval of congress, Marrs’s ascension to the presidency would be assured.
Hell, they’d probably skip the election and just swear me in.
“Mr. Bell, I need you to stop talking for a moment and listen to me. I am going to help you, but first I need you to do something for me.” He could see a building volcanic eruption of ire in the man’s eyes. “If you want this… If you really want this, then we’re going to do this my way.”
“And you will give me these pendejos?”
Marrs smiled conspiratorially. “I’ll serve them to you on a platter.”
10
Endgame, New Hampshire
Knight peered through the Schmidt and Bender PM II/LP 3-12x50mm scope and watched for the target to appear. The high powered optics shrank the intervening eight hundred yards, bringing the objective into sharp relief, making it appear close enough to reach out and touch. But there was a trade-off; he could see only a few feet to either side of the crosshairs, which made acquiring the target in the first place, tracking it and leading it, to compensate for the bullet’s travel time, a real challenge.
That challenge was exactly what he was looking for.
Contrary to the myth of the lone wolf, snipers usually worked in teams of two or three—a shooter and at least one spotter. The exceptional technology of the VR glasses and quantum computing had eliminated the need for a spotter, and for that matter, had rendered the scope itself obsolete. Once a target was tagged, the glasses could track it and the computer could perform all the necessary calculations to ensure that the round would unerringly hit exactly where he wanted it to.
Therein lay the problem.
Knight was no Luddite, nor was he inclined to sacrifice results in the interest of professional pride or slavish devotion to tradition. In the field, where those results could mean the difference between the success and failure of the mission, and more importantly, life or death for his teammates, he willingly embraced anything that gave him an edge. But reliance on technology, like the extreme magnification of the scope, came with a trade-off. Technology had given him back his eye, after a fashion, but the trade-off was simply one that he couldn’t endure any longer.
The target appeared at the edge of the scope, moving at a walking pace, which, magnified by the lenses, seemed astonishingly fast. He pivoted the rifle on its bipod, keeping the crosshairs just ahead of the target. Then he took a breath, let it out and squeezed the trigger. The suppressor muffled the report, but the rifle bucked just enough to remove the target from view momentarily. He brought it back quickly to where it had been, just in time to see the automated target drop.
“Good shooting.”
Knight started at the sound of the voice, which had come from his blind side. He rolled away from the gun and scrambled to his feet as if meeting a threat. In the brief moment it took for his body to do that, his brain processed what he had heard. The voice, the thick Slavic accent—it was Asya…Bishop.
He took a calming breath to steady his nerves. “Congratulations. Not very many people can sneak up on me.”
“I am stealthy, no?” she replied with a mischievous smile. “But you were very focused, so it was not that hard to do, I think.”
“Maybe.” Or maybe it’s just a lot easier to sneak up on a one-eyed man, he thought. As if I needed one more reason to quit. He turned back to his rifle and started breaking it down. “I’m done here if you want to use the range.”
“Actually, I thought you might want an extra set of eyes.” She stopped suddenly, embarrassment reddening her cheeks as she realized what she had said, then she waved the binoculars in her right hand. “I mean as a spotter.”
He tried to hide his own dismay. “It’s okay.”
She gestured out across the range. “I guess you do not need a spotter. That was an ace shot.”
“Automated targets are predictable. I’ve shot this range so many times, I could probably do it without the other eye.”
“You are not using the glasses.” It was phrased as a statement, but Knight heard the implicit question.
“No. I like to keep my shooting skills sharp. Doing things the old-fashioned way is more of a challenge.” It was partly true, but there were a lot of reasons why he had decided to keep his implant covered up. Aside from the pain, which he could tolerate for short intervals, another of the trade-offs that came with the implant was its constant connection to the virtual network.
“Old-fashioned is good,” Bishop said. “In the Great Patriotic War, Vasily Grigoryevich Zaytsev killed four hundred Germans using a standard-issue Vintovka Mosina rifle.”
“I didn’t realize you were such a history buff.”
“It’s a Russian thing.”
“Ah. That must be where King gets it.”
She laughed. “I think my brother’s interest in history is…different.”
Knight felt some of hi
s initial irritation letting go, replaced by curiosity. He settled back down behind his gun and then craned his head around to watch her get into position. He was mildly disappointed to see her take her glasses from a pocket. “I thought you wanted to go old school.”
She regarded the glasses for a moment then put them away. “Good point.”
He put his eye to the scope and began scanning down range. The next target would be a thousand yards out, and he trained the rifle on the point where he knew he would have the best chance of scoring a hit. “So why are you really out here?”
There was a conspicuous pause. “I…thought you might…”
Her dissembling served only to confirm what he already suspected. “You’re worried about fitting in, right? Wondering if you can really cut it?”
Another pause. “Target is up. One thousand yards.”
He saw it, right where he expected it to be. “How do you think you did?”
As soon as the question was out, he pulled the trigger.
“Target down,” she said, matter-of-factly. Then with far less certainty, she added, “I…I’m not Bishop. I’m not him.”
“That’s not what I asked.” When she did not respond, he went on. “Look, I know I’m not the first to tell you this, but no one expects you to be what Erik was. You have your own unique skill set. Blue and King both see your potential, and that’s what they expect you to bring to the team. Focus on doing that, not on trying to be someone else.”
“I know what you are saying is true,” she said finally. “It is just… You have all worked together for so long, and I am like a child with short legs trying to keep up.”
“You’re going to do just fine,” he said, but the platitude rang hollow in his own ears. Asya could no more stop competing with the ghost of Erik Somers, than he could with the man he had been. The only difference was that he knew it.
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