“You mind standing up to eat?” I asked.
Gabe beamed at me and bounced on his toes, hands on the tabletop. “I like standing up.”
“Perfect.”
I set out plates, silverware, napkins, cups, and the French press. Then I ladled eggs onto the plates, doled out the bacon and toast, and poured myself a cup of coffee. Real coffee, not the instant stuff I paid an arm and a leg for back home.
By the time she was out of the bathroom I was on my second cup of coffee. Little Gabe had gobbled his bacon and was trying to poach mine from my plate. I pushed his hand away and advised him to eat his eggs.
“But I like bacon,” he said with an expression like a beaten puppy.
“No more until you eat your eggs.”
From the look on his face, one would think I had threatened torture. A few months ago, it probably would have worked. But I was getting wise to his tricks. I hardened my expression and pointed at his plate.
“Eat.”
He slumped his shoulders, picked up a handful of eggs, and crammed them into his mouth. A second later, his expression brightened.
“This is good eggs.”
“These are good eggs,” Allison corrected.
“These are good eggs,” Gabe said dutifully, a spray of yellow chunks coming out of his mouth.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, sweetie.”
“Sorry.” Another dash of half-chewed egg.
Allison sighed and looked at me. “He gets that from you.”
A slow nod. “Of course he does.”
She watched me while I ate my breakfast. Little Gabe was right. The eggs were good.
“So, are you going to tell me about it?” she asked.
Thankfully, my plate was clean, and I was no longer hungry. I pushed it away, drank the last of my coffee, and sat back in my chair.
“Do I have to?”
“I’m going to find out sooner or later.”
I looked at her. Yellow light from the window framed her face and shone through her amber eyes like illuminated glass. She put her chin on her hand and tilted her head. I loved it when she did that. It pressed her full lips together and made them pout like she wanted to be kissed.
“It was bad, Allison. Really bad.”
“Tell me.”
“Give me a minute.”
I took a laptop from Allison’s suitcase and a DVD of Gabe’s favorite cartoons. Gabe saw what I was doing and leapt down from his chair.
“Can I watch Spongebob?” he asked, his face bright with excitement. Electricity was a precious commodity at our home in Tennessee, so for Gabe, watching cartoons was a rare treat.
“You sure can, buddy. Give me a minute to set you up.”
When I left the bedroom, Gabriel was sitting on the mattress, legs folded beneath him, eyes transfixed on the screen. He would be fine for at least two episodes, maybe three. I went back to the kitchen and sat down.
“What happened yesterday?” Allison asked. “Why were you gone so long?”
I told her.
I told her about the big Grays, and the panic, and the death, and the destruction. I told her how Thompson had saved my life twice and how much shit I gave him for it. I told her about the triage tents and listening to gunshots and the screaming and crying and soldiers peeling family members away from infected loved ones. I told her how I had spent most of the previous day helping with relief efforts and putting out fires and cooking dinner for the first responders and catching a twenty-minute nap before one of Colonel Bryant’s men asked if I could help load dead bodies into a convoy of trucks. Then I told her how I rode along with that convoy and helped arrange bodies on a flat stretch of cold concrete so someone could come along and identify them. I told her how most of those bodies were not infected but had been killed by bullets or knives or bludgeons or had been crushed by trampling feet. I told her how at least a third of the bodies were children young enough to have been born post-Outbreak. Then I told her how I rode back and waited another two sleepless hours until the helicopters and Humvees were finished carrying the injured, sick, and wounded from the Refugee District to disaster relief shelters and I could finally come back to headquarters.
When I was done, Allison looked stricken. She clasped her hands in front of her on the table and stared at nothing for a long while. I did the same. Neither of us spoke. The incongruous sound of Little Gabe’s cartoons floated out of the bedroom, bringing no cheer to either of us.
“What happens now,” Allison said finally. Her eyes were red around the edges.
“Now I get dressed and meet Gabe and the others in the conference room in twenty minutes.”
Allison nodded. “I think I’ll stay in with Little Gabe today. Maybe watch a movie or something.”
I put my hand over hers. “That’s a good idea.”
“You’ll let me know what you find out?”
“Of course.”
Allison got up, kissed me on the cheek, and walked stiffly into the bedroom. I stayed where I was for a couple of minutes and stared at the table. Empty plates and dishes and silverware and the French press stared back.
The silence was a comfort.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Eric,
BSC Headquarters
At ten o’clock, running on caffeine and willpower, I opened the door to the conference room and walked inside. Gabe was there, as were Hadrian Flint, Tyrel Jennings, Thompson, Holland, Great Hawk, Cole, and a face I had not seen in quite some time.
“Caleb Hicks,” I said, grinning as I crossed the room. “As I live and breathe.”
He was standing in a circle with Cole, Holland, and Thompson, his former brothers in arms from the First Reconnaissance Expeditionary, his original Army unit. The four men were smiling and cracking jokes like a bunch of veterans greeting old friends they had not seen in a long time. Which was exactly what they were.
I moved closer to take a better look at Hicks. He was different than when I had last seen him. The shy, slouching, downcast aspect he had always worn like a cloak was gone. He stood tall, shoulders squared, eyes direct, possessed of forceful intelligence. He had put on some weight, all of it muscle from what I could see, making him almost as big as Great Hawk. There was a light brown beard over the scars on his face, and he had let his once-stubbly blonde hair grow long enough to arrange stylishly. It made him look several years older than I knew he was, but he wore it well. I also noticed his skin was darkly tanned, like a man who had spent a great deal of time in a hot, sunny place. And recently.
“Damn, kid,” I said, shaking his hand. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Where’d you get that tan?”
He smiled back. “Arizona. It’s nice this time of year.”
I blinked at him. “What part of Arizona?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Heard rumors. Some kind of big operation going on around Phoenix.”
He shook his head ruefully. “Figures you’d know about it. Doubt there’s anywhere in the Union you don’t have eyes and ears.”
“You are correct. So spill. What have you been up to?”
“Reclamation and salvage ops, working with a volunteer militia. Call themselves the Hellbreakers.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Hellbreakers? Isn’t that a little dramatic?”
A shrug. “You know how people are. Symbolism is important.”
“So I’ve heard. How long have you been working with them?”
“Off and on about a year now.”
“Well, that explains the tan. How’s the wife?”
“Good. Teaching kindergarten at the new elementary school in Southtown.”
I thought about sweet, gentle Miranda surrounded by a swarm of five-year-olds and smiled. “I bet those kids love her.”
“Can’t say for sure, but I know she loves them.”
“Speaking of kids, you and Miranda had any luck? I got a letter from her about five months ago, said you two were trying.”
“No luck yet, but
I am a diligent man.”
“Well, keep at it. Miranda also told me you’re a civilian now.”
He nodded. “Resigned my commission last year.”
“How’s civilian life treating you?”
“Getting used to it. Staying busy.”
“Working for anybody?”
He shook his head. “Independent contractor. DOD signs my paychecks, but I answer to General Jacobs.”
I frowned. “Jacobs. How is that old bastard?”
“Still a bastard, but a sadly diminished one.”
“What do you mean?”
“His health is bad. ALS.”
I was silent a moment. Jacobs and I had our differences, but I would not have wished that on him. “How long does he have?”
“A year. Maybe less.”
“He named a replacement yet?”
“Colonel Bryant. You know him?”
“We’ve met.”
“Well, don’t underestimate him. He’s got an honest face, but he’s smart and ruthless. Don’t cross him.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Come on, let’s have a seat.”
We took two chairs near the end of the conference table. When we were seated, I leaned over and spoke in a low voice.
“Anybody offer you a job yet?”
Caleb kept his face carefully blank. “A few people.”
“Any interest?”
“Not at present, but I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”
I leaned closer. “Whatever Tyrel has offered you, I’ll beat it. I know you two have history, but business is business. I could use a man like you, and I pay my people well.”
“Duly noted.”
I wanted to press the issue but knew it would be a mistake. Caleb is a very private person and a man of few words. The length of our conversation was due only to the fact we had not spoken in over two years. Better to plant the seed of curiosity and wait rather than push my luck.
Caleb started to ask me something, but a knock at the door stopped all conversation in the room. Gabe walked over and opened it. A tired and rumpled man in a cheap suit stood on the other side.
“Come on in,” Gabe said.
The man entered. He was in his forties, dark hair turning gray, eyes red-rimmed with bags under them, deep lines in his forehead and around his mouth, and a spattering of dirt on his pants and shoes. Despite the disheveled appearance, his bearing was that of a man accustomed to authority. He took off his heavy coat and draped it around a chair, revealing a Glock service pistol in a paddle holster on one hip.
“Everyone,” Gabe said, “this is Special Agent Stan Kaminsky with the FBI, head of the Organized Crime Task Force.”
The agent swept a weary glance around the room. “Good morning. It’s nice to meet you all, although I wish it was under better circumstances. Why don’t we have a seat? We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
Kaminsky sat down, undid the neck button on his shirt, and loosened his tie. Tyrel took a seat at the head of the table, flanked by Hadrian and Gabriel. Everyone else sat down as well.
The agent let out a long breath and sat forward in his chair. “It goes without saying we’ve all had a tough couple of days. A lot has happened, and we’re all still trying to process it. Nevertheless, the situation is what it is. More than two hundred people are dead, with hundreds more injured. People all over the city are frightened and worried, and many of those people wield a great deal of influence. Consequently, the president and the attorney general want answers. It’s my job to find them.”
“What can we do to help?” Tyrel said.
Kaminsky rubbed his eyes. “Ordinarily I would come in here with a troop of agents and wave the warrant in my pocket around and force everyone to make statements separately. My agents would sweat everyone here and quote national security statutes and make threats and tell you not to speak to any living soul about what you saw in the Refugee District. It’s an unfortunate state of affairs, but that’s how it would normally go. However, I’m not going to do that today. I don’t think it’s necessary, nor would it be a just thing to do. You all saved a lot of lives at great risk to your own, and I think you deserve better than to be treated like criminals. I also think the people in this room represent a unique cross-section of society that understands the importance of secrecy without me having to paint anyone a picture. You’ve all been around the block. You know very well the panic we’ll see if the truth comes out before somebody over at Cheyenne Mountain puts the right spin on it. Furthermore, I don’t believe anyone here wants to make things worse than they already are. Can we all agree on that?”
No one spoke, but everyone nodded, me included.
“I’m going to go around the room,” Kaminsky said. “Starting with Mr. Garrett as he was the on-scene commander. I’m going to take a statement from each of you. I need to know what you saw, what you heard, what you did, every detail you can remember. I’m going to take a lot of notes. We’re probably going to be here all day. At the end of it, I sincerely hope I’ll have something I can send to the attorney general that reflects the bravery and heroism you all demonstrated yesterday. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
I could not speak for everyone in the room, but I sure as hell understood. Agent Kaminsky was throwing us a bone. He was giving us a chance to get our story straight. And most importantly, he was making sure no self-interested, ambitious bureaucrats used any of us as a stepping-stone to their own personal advancement. Situations of national crisis have a way of bringing out the worst in people, and one of the oldest political plays in the book for quelling panic is to give the public a scapegoat, someone they can point a finger at and say, ‘That’s the bad guy. It’s their fault’. Doesn’t matter much who it is, as long as it is not the people who hold the reins of power. And if someone from that hierarchy pointed an accusing finger at the burgeoning private security industry, an industry that struggled daily to maintain public and political trust, then that person might very well stand to make a great heap of political hay. Kaminsky was telling us he did not want that to happen.
“We’ll help in any way we can, Agent Kaminsky,” Tyrel said.
“My people as well,” I said, casting a glance at my employees.
Kaminsky nodded, took out a notebook and pen, and pointed at Gabe.
“You first.”
*****
As Agent Kaminsky predicted, it took most of the day. Gabe’s statement took the longest, which was not surprising, considering his eidetic memory enabled him to recall every moment of the tragedy as though it had just happened. Kaminsky scribbled feverishly in some sort of shorthand I could not read and asked a lot of questions. When Gabe was finished, Kaminsky turned to Tyrel.
And so it went until about noon. At that point Gabe sent out two of his people for lunch and retired to his office to make coffee for everyone. Kaminsky requisitioned an empty office so he could transcribe his notes to a laptop and make phone calls. At one o’clock we reconvened, and Kaminsky collected the remaining statements. Caleb’s was the shortest, as he had spent the previous day at Peterson Army Air Base.
As the testimony droned on, I got bored and tuned out. Time went by and I felt myself growing impatient, my mind wandering. It was a relief when Kaminsky finally put away his pen and closed his notebook.
“Mr. Garrett, I’ll need you to send me every photo you have of the incident,” he said.
Gabe nodded. “Already had my assistant take care of it.”
“Good.” Kaminsky began standing up.
“Stan, before you go, could we have a word in private?” Gabe asked.
Kaminsky hesitated a moment. “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing. Your office okay?”
“Sure.”
Everyone stood up to leave. Gabe caught my eye on his way out the door and tilted his head toward his office. I got up without a word and followed.
When the three of us were alone, Gabe shut the door and turned to Kaminsky. “What have you fo
und out?”
The agent looked pointedly in my direction. “Gabe, you know the position you’re putting me in here, right?”
“I do. And I’m sorry. But these fuckers tried to kidnap my wife and daughter, and the Bureau has had over twenty-four hours to search the Refugee District. You said you’d tell me when you had something.”
“What makes you think I do? And what makes you think the two things are related?”
“I saw look on your face when I showed you those pictures, Stan. SRT was behind the attack, and you know it. Maybe it was related to the attempt on my family, and maybe it wasn’t. Frankly, I don’t give a shit. The same people are responsible for both crimes, and if you found something in the district that can help me track them down, I want to know about it.”
Kaminsky glared a few seconds, then walked over to a plush leather chair and sat down. I had never seen a man look so exhausted. He rubbed a hand over his face and stared at the floor.
“I can’t prove anything I’m about to tell you, and you can’t repeat it to anyone outside this room,” he said.
“Understood.”
Kaminsky glanced at me sideways, his mouth pressed into a hard line. “Mr. Riordan, I have to ask. Why are you here? What’s your involvement in this?”
I looked at Gabe, and then back at the agent. “Honestly, I’m not sure. Gabe asked me to be here, but he hasn’t enlightened me as to why.”
“He’s a close friend,” Gabe said. “I trust him, and I think you should read him in on the SRT case. Eric has contacts all over the city. He can help us.”
Kaminsky stared at me appraisingly. “I’ve heard of you. Chairman and CEO of Centurion National, right? Got your fingers in a lot of pies. I’ve even heard rumors you run your own little intelligence agency. Eyes and ears everywhere. Any truth to that?”
I shrugged. “I’m one of the wealthiest men in the country, Agent Kaminsky. Doing business these days can be downright dangerous. In my world, information is power.”
He didn’t smile, but I could tell he wanted to. “It certainly is, and not just in your world. What exactly do you do with the information you buy?”
Surviving The Dead | Book 9 | War Without End Page 17