by H. A. Raynes
Blood rushes to his face. Hannah? “Tell me again.”
Charles closes his eyes. He envisions the moving parts, the way things are supposed to fit together in his plan. Hannah is—was—a part of that. Breathing deeply, he fights the urge to shout or physically attack something. This must be kept secret. Jonathan cannot learn that his stepfather has been freed. Without a word, Charles stands and strides out into the empty corridor, shutting the door behind him.
“How did this happen?” he seethes into the phone.
But all he hears are vowels and consonants, nothing that makes any sense. He interrupts the guard’s excuses. “You’re on God’s time tonight. The most important moment in our history, and certainly in your life, and you were what? Having a snack?”
The man starts to speak again, but Charles won’t hear it. “And Hannah? They must have forced her. Did they hurt her?”
“No, sir. She let them in. Used our keys to free Hudson, accessed the security codes. She shot at our men and stole the remote for the gate.”
Impossible. He leans his back against the wall for support. He’s devoted years to her, been her only family, given her everything. It’s unimaginable she would turn on him. Maybe she was blackmailed. Perhaps someone promised to reunite her with her sister and brother. It’s the only answer.
“Who’s following them?” he asks.
“They were too fast, sir. Hannah shut the gate before we could get into a vehicle.”
“Unacceptable. Gather a team and find them. Now!” He hangs up and straightens, sniffs. He works to relax the muscles in his face. He will exude calm and confidence.
Back in the control room, he finds Jonathan adjusting something on the board. Hannah, sweet Hannah. Was Jonathan part of this rescue mission? Many times she brought him dinner in his cell. Before that, Charles allowed her to visit Jonathan’s home. He shakes his head at the thought. This pierced, gangly kid may be technically savvy but his charms end there. Charles pushes an image of Hannah from his mind and reminds himself that God’s mission is all that matters now. By this time tomorrow they will have seized power. And unless the Lord Himself appears in the morning, it’s his duty to take back this country in God’s name.
“Where are we?” He reclaims his seat.
“The codes are set.” Jonathan points to glowing red dots in each of the states. “That means the systems have been hacked. In two hours they’ll turn green, indicating a blackout within those grids. Government and utility generators, too. It’ll last twelve hours. Then things will return to normal.”
“Normal.” Repeating the word, he lingers on the sound of it, feeling its vibration on his tongue. “Thanks to our Lord, Jesus Christ, normal is about to be redefined.”
Chapter 75
AT LOGAN AIRPORT in the massive parking structure, Lily eases the car into a space near the International Departures Terminal. Cole just texted; he should be here any minute. Talia is asleep in her car seat. Quiet all night, Ian stares out the passenger-side window. Lily reaches over and tousles his hair.
Nearby, wheels screech on concrete. She checks the time, chews on a fingernail. Three hours until their flight departs. Finally, Cole’s Land Rover pulls into the spot next to them. Lily and Ian jump out. Countless fingertip-sized indentations mar the car’s body and the back window is a web of cracks.
“What happened?” On shaky legs, she gapes at the SUV.
Cole rushes to them and they embrace, cheeks and hair and coats mashing against one another. Relief washes over her and the fear drains. Everyone is here in one piece. Pulling away from her, Cole turns back to the others.
Steven rolls down his window as Karen gets out and opens the rear passenger door on her side. She takes vitals on a pretty young woman sitting next to Steven. Eyes closed, the girl’s head rests on the seat back and a dark cherry-red stain on her arm makes Lily cringe. A makeshift tourniquet has stanched the bleeding. My God, it looks like they were almost killed.
“Where were you?” she asks Cole.
“I’ll tell you everything, I promise.” He gestures to her pristine car, barely driven. “Karen, you take Lily’s car. It’ll raise less suspicion.”
Without questions, Lily removes Talia in her car seat, setting her out of the way.
“Hannah’s stable for now,” Karen says.
Together Cole and Karen unstrap the wounded girl from the backseat and place her into
the Land Rover, securing the seat belt around her.
Lily goes to Steven’s window. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll live.” He grins while Cole and Karen help transport him into the front passenger seat of Lily’s car.
“What will you do?” she asks.
“Wish I knew,” Steven says. “Once we have Jonathan, we can make some decisions.”
“Who is she?” Lily nods to the girl who’s been shot.
“We aren’t sure,” Cole says. “But she risked everything to help us. Karen’s going to take care of them.”
“I will.” Karen sets a hand on Cole’s shoulder. “You should go. Be safe.”
“See you,” Steven says, shaking Cole’s hand through the window. “I owe you.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t find Jonathan.”
“Look at our hardy group!” Steven gestures to what remains of their team. His face becomes serious. “We’ll get him out.”
“I know you will,” Cole says.
Everything’s happening so fast. With a final round of waves, Karen hops in the driver’s seat. They watch as the Land Rover drives away. The sudden quiet makes Lily aware of her shortened breath, which appears in a fog before her.
“Let’s go, Fitzgeralds,” Cole says.
Lily picks up the car seat with her sleeping baby girl, as Ian and Cole manage the bags.
Briskly, yet as if it’s any other trip, the family heads toward the terminal.
Chapter 76
ON THE LIMOUSINE’S soft leather seats, Taylor sits next to her father on their way to the convention center. Across from them, Sienna lies stretched out in a deep slumber. Taylor wishes she could feel as peaceful as her daughter looks. Will’s warning has her stomach in knots, but it’s impossible to avoid the party. Her attendance is buying their freedom, their future.
“Please stay,” her father says suddenly. “You and Sienna move into the White House with me.”
“So we can be a constant target? No, thank you.”
“No one is more protected than the President of the United States.”
“That’s naive.” Out the window, the blur of streetlights draws her eye.
“Do you and Sienna have your skins on?”
“Of course. But what’s to stop them from aiming at our heads?”
“Enough!” The muscles in his neck tense. “This is my night. Our country’s night. Don’t ruin it.”
His tone snuffs out her idea to share Will’s warning. Never mind. She’ll do whatever it takes to keep Sienna safe.
Chapter 77
FROM THE WALKWAY grid, Sebastian watches the action on the convention center floor. Under the lights, the crowd shimmers in elegant evening wear, waiting for the future President to take the stage. The man he’s been assigned to kill.
On the side stage, a band plays standard party tunes. The festivities are in full swing. His phone vibrates with a text. An anonymous number displays the code signifying that Cole’s attempt to free Steven was successful. Thank God. Under that, an alert from CNN declares Richard Hensley the clear winner in the election. He shoves the phone back into his pocket.
Through his earpiece comes the voice of the lead security officer for the event. “Stations everyone. T minus five minutes.”
Throughout the floor, convention center security guards scatter to their assigned positions. But the one who catches Sebastian’s eye is a man moving just as quickly
and purposefully, although he’s dressed as a party guest. He’s smoothed his hair into a more refined look, but his buzzed military cut is still obvious. So far, Sebastian has identified and dealt with two from his BASIA team. Below, the man with the buzz cut disappears into the stairwell.
Holding his XM3 rifle behind his leg, Sebastian waits. The metal of his handgun, strapped to his ankle, presses into the ballistics skin that stretches down his legs. The weapons are a solid, weighty comfort. In seconds the grid walkway door opens. Buzz Cut steps onto the passageway and strides past the camera crew busy setting up their shot.
“T minus sixty seconds,” comes over the line.
Buzz Cut stops about ten feet away. Smirking, he nods to Sebastian. “Great view from here.”
“The best.” Sebastian glimpses the stage. Sweat dampens his skins.
“Showtime, people,” the voice on the line announces.
“In the name of the Father.” The man makes the sign of the cross from his forehead, over his chest. “The Son and the Holy Spirit.”
Sebastian stares at his fellow assassin and joins in. “Put on the full armor of God, so that you will be able to stand firm against the schemes of the devil.”
In unison, their voices rise over the cheers of the crowd below. “For our struggle is against the rulers, against the powers and against the forces of darkness in the world.”
“Amen, brother,” Buzz Cut says.
A sudden silence draws their attention below. At the podium, the Liberty Party chairman is beaming, his arms spread wide as he addresses the crowd. “This is a proud moment. A moment not just for the President-elect, but for the people. A moment that solidifies our country and our purpose. A moment that underlines our priorities and concerns, and most important, a moment that will define our collective future.”
The revelers cheer, raising hands that hold flags, signs, and drinks.
“Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, it’s my honor and privilege to present your next President of the United States, Richard Hensley!”
The band strikes up a victory song as a blizzard of red, white, and blue confetti obscures Sebastian’s view of the stage. Next to him, Buzz Cut reaches into his suit and pulls out three pieces of a rifle that he expertly assembles in seconds. There’s no doubt he’s there both to take out a target and to back up Sebastian, if his mission is unsuccessful.
A parade of people make their way on stage as Sebastian readies his XM3. Positively effusive, a smiling Richard Hensley waves both arms while he crosses to the podium. Behind him trail the vice president–elect, and a bit farther behind, both men’s families. Goddammit, Taylor. Upon seeing her, Sebastian’s heart pounds faster. Through his scope, he watches her carrying Sienna in one arm and waving to the crowd with the other. He shoots a glance at Buzz Cut, who is either gunning for the vice president–elect or Taylor. Perhaps both. The whole room is a sensory explosion, but the soldier beside him has unwavering concentration.
“Hey,” Sebastian shouts. “Private.”
Buzz Cut’s eyebrows furrow, his annoyance clear. “It’s sergeant.”
“Forgive me. She brought the child.”
“It’s not a concern.”
“No one likes dead children.”
“Thanks for the tip. But my aim is tight.”
“So is mine.” Sebastian pivots, points the XM3 at Buzz Cut and shoots. The bullet hits the man’s neck, and as he crumples, his gun clangs on the metal walkway. Swiftly, Sebastian drags him into the shadows a few feet away. His phone buzzes, announcing that it’s thirty seconds until midnight. He pulls on his night-vision glasses.
A triumphant Richard Hensley gestures to quiet the crowd. The band plays the final notes as the shower of confetti tapers off. Then the lights go out.
Silence. Then panicked screams.
It’s child’s play to pick off the BASIA soldiers once the lights are out. From above, Sebastian finds the others outfitted with the same night-vision eyewear, calmly aiming guns instead of running with the crowd. In seconds his bullets land solidly in three of them. They disappear on the floor, swallowed by thousands of feet. Three left.
BEHIND JONATHAN, REVEREND MITCHELL paces back and forth in the control room. Except for his footfalls, the only other sound is the light tap of fingers on keyboards. Right to left across the map, the illuminated red dots in each state turn to green until finally they are all uniform in color. Abruptly, the pacing stops and hands rest firmly on his shoulders.
“You’ve done it,” the Reverend whispers.
Holy shit. Single-handedly he’s turned off electricity across the country and shut down communications. Huan Chao’s team has enabled the Reverend’s assassins to murder every elected official, starting with the President. And to ensure BASIA’s domination, most of the elected officials’ predecessors are also being killed. It’s all happening right now, this minute. A lump forms in his throat.
He pulls away from the Reverend’s grasp and glances at a portion of the screen that displays the BASIA social network feed, shielded by an encrypted code Huan devised for BASIA communications. An influx of messaging has begun, soldiers confirming that their targets are down. Jonathan imagines the unified scream of the country. What has he done?
Without warning, he bends with the pain in his gut, leans over the side of his chair and vomits. On Reverend Mitchell’s shoes.
“Get ahold of yourself, kid.” The Reverend laughs.
The joyous sound in this moment makes him gag again but he swallows it back. He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
“A little vomit won’t ruin my moment.” The Reverend kicks off his shoes and dispatches a guard to clean them.
But then, one by one, the green lights on the board turn red, starting in the east and moving west. Mitchell leans over, hands on the console desk, gaping. Jonathan watches him. He’s speechless, if only for a second. It’s priceless.
“What’s happening?”
Feigning innocence, Jonathan shakes his head. He stares at the screen and punches a few keys. “It looks like backup generators are kicking in. I’m not sure why—”
“You said you took care of those! You tested the systems and there were no glitches!”
“It’ll just take a minute.”
“Minutes are all we have. A minute is everything!”
Yes, sir. He is well aware.
Chapter 78
“GO, GO, GO!” In complete darkness, Richard is swept away from the podium. Bodies envelop and move him in a swift, insistent current. He can’t catch his breath.
“Move! This way!” It’s the voice of his lead Secret Service detail.
Richard opens his eyes wide as though it will help, but it’s futile. This is no fluke. President Clark was right about an attack. Gunshots ring out above the thunderous noise of the crowd. Where are Taylor and Sienna?
Hands still tightly guiding him, Richard stumbles down a short flight of stairs. He recognizes the path, knows they’re heading behind the stage. A fiery nugget of anger lodges in his throat—they’ve stolen this glorious moment from him.
Beside him, one of the men in his detail grunts and stumbles. As the man falls, he clings to Richard’s suit jacket, nearly pulling him to the floor.
“Keep moving!”
Richard doesn’t recognize the voice but he isn’t in a position to argue. Screams echo off the high ceiling. He trips over something—was that a body? The force of hands pushing on his back disappears even as the urgent tug on his arms pulls him along faster.
The hum of a generator cuts through the noise, and with it, a flicker of lights, dim at first and then pure, bright light. His men don’t stop moving. Richard cranes his neck to glimpse the path they’ve taken. There, in their wake, the bodies of two of his Secret Service team, bloody and motionless. Turning back around, he spots the vice pr
esident also being rushed out. They exchange looks. In that moment, from somewhere behind them, a bullet rips into the vice president–elect’s head. Oh my God. Richard’s legs falter. His men adjust, wrapping his arms around their shoulders as they storm ahead. Ahead of them the exit sign glows red.
SEBASTIAN WHIPS OFF his goggles and squints to see. He wonders if Jonathan had anything to do with this glitch in Mitchell’s plan. No time to dwell, though, with three BASIA soldiers remaining. And he no longer has darkness as a shield.
Shrieks and cries echo in the vast space. The crowd knows now, they see the bodies, slip on the bloodied floor. He clips one end of a rappelling line to his belt and the other to the railing. Leaving his sniper rifle behind, he swings his leg over the metal rail and lowers himself into the chaos. No one seems to notice or care. Handgun poised, he sprints across the room and behind the stage to find Richard Hensley and Taylor.
People stream out any door they can find. Up ahead, Sebastian sees two downed Secret Service agents. He scans the crowd but no one stands out as militia. Rushing forward, he passes a crowd of men and women huddled on the ground around the vice president–elect as someone does chest compressions. Mitchell’s soldiers must be close.
At the door, the river of escaping crowd is thick and slow. He shoulders his way through. For the first time in months he uses his credentials, shouting, “FBI!”
Finally, the fresh night air hits him. He’s on the back side of the building, yards from the main parking lot. Droves of people sprint away, around the convention center to their cars.
A muted explosion turns him toward a line of identical black SUVs, headlights and engines on. The VIP parking lot. He holds a hand above his eyes against the glare of the high beams. Shots pierce the air and a woman screams. Taylor? He runs toward the voice.
Reaching the nearest SUV, he crouches behind it, peers into the windows. It’s impossible to see inside through the tinted glass, but next to him there’s a large hole in the metal where the door handle was blown off. Gun ready, he slides his free hand into the hole and pulls the door open. A bloodied congressman lies unmoving on the seat. In the front, the driver is unconscious, maybe dead. More shots ring and ricochet.