“Good idea,” Seamus responded, placing the sample vial in his vest pocket and focused on the piece of paper with the clue. He came to Xander’s side and read the lines of the clue aloud.
“Concluding To Find What This Game’s About, Now You Must Hurry Before Time Runs Out, Four Clues Four Targets Add Points to the Plot, Truth is Inside, X Marks the Spot…”
“Four Clues, Four Targets Add Points to the Plot…” Xander honed in on the third line.
And then, without warning, it came again.
Xander’s head rang even harder this time. A battering ram knocked on his head’s door. He fell to his knees, wincing in agony.
And again, Xander blacked out.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Xander was back in the rear cabin of his mother and father’s station wagon. The grey upholstery wove in a common grain. His mother’s hair dangled in front of him. His conscience remained independent of the memory, for his internal commentary rolled apart from the scene.
“Isn’t that right, Xander?” Again, in mid conversation, he joined the discussion.
Last time this memory played on autopilot despite my interaction. I need to figure out what is going on.
“Why are you saying the same thing every time?” His mom rotated up to her knees again. She had glacier blue eyes, similar to his wife’s.
“And we love you, Xander. You are so sweet.” She blushed as usual.
This isn’t a dream… dreams require imagination and thus a flexible environment. This is more like an aggressive memory.
“You two are about to die in a car crash and leave me here all alone… to myself.” Xander’s mother reached back and wiped his tears away as usual.
I have tears? I’m not sad at all.
“We’re right here, Xander,” she said in her usual consoling softness.
Again, the same answer as always…And here comes dad…Enter stage left…
“Yeah, son we’re not going anywh—” After a beat, the same eighteen-wheeler plowed the side of the car. Slow motion unfolded in the wreck.
And here goes the window.
The windshield shattered, and the debris floated by again. Xander watched as his dad’s neck snapped, and his mother flew out of the passenger window. She impacted the asphalt next to the car and a thud sounded as the car spun over her.
And here comes my head injury, the moment that turned me into a genius.
Xander’s head impacted, as if crashing the drum cymbal at the end of the song.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Marty Jacobs shook in his restraints, alone in the dark. He could only hear muffled commotion out in the PEOC, he knew he was on the outs and knew that he was in a tight spot. He hadn’t done anything wrong, as usual he was misunderstood. But he searched feverishly for any idea of who could have been the terrorist’s man on the inside. The thought snapped as the door swung open. Hardy had taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. He cracked his knuckles as the door closed behind him. He ran a hand through his graying hair and popped his neck to the side, getting loose for the interrogation to come. Hardy towered over him for a long moment, staring down at him. Jacobs had already begun to squirm.
“Please… Jack… I didn’t do anything,” he groveled through a forced smile.
“I am going to ask you very specific questions and I want to hear very specific answers. Do you understand me?” Jacobs nodded like a bobblehead. Hardy grabbed an office chair and sat forward in it. His broad shoulders arched over toward Jacobs. Jacobs knew that this was not the man that he worked with a moment ago in the bunker. This was not the government contractor who was on the short list for Secretary of Homeland Security anymore. This was a Spartan. Hardy lowered the volume of his voice to a hissing whisper but kept the intensity aflame.
“Question number 1: Have you ever spoken with Ezra Gonet, Harak Khan or Mohammad Azir?”
“No, I have not.” His answer was firm and pointed.
“Why did you actively seek to interfere with the Xander’s progress today?” The interrogator’s voice punched through breathy whispers.
“He went rogue. On a day like this, that is not a good move. And I wouldn’t let Fiona torture our only source of Intel because it is both ethically wrong and stupid. Just because I disagree with your methods does not mean I am intentionally trying to sabotage your mission,” Jacobs again answered with candor. He knew the best chance to remain consistent was to tell the truth.
“Why do you oppose the mission of Project Sparta?” Hardy’s voice – still low and direct.
“Because the Project is designed to disregard oversight. Oversight is my job. I think it was immoral from its inception. You took teenagers from their lives and imprisoned them in a training facility. You brainwashed them to fight for America’s freedom, all the while taking their freedom away from them…” Jacobs’s response crescendoed into a defiant speech. Hardy could hear the grit in his reply.
“Catherine Mueller… Why did you put her in custody?”
“I did not put her in custody. I quarantined her in case she was infected, and I sent multiple units of US Marshalls to guard her room, in case any of the terrorists felt like finishing her off. Your men broke her out, but all they had to do was ask. But that would make you subject to bureaucratic control though, wouldn’t it? You would never do that. Spartans take what they want, by any means necessary,” Jacobs continued the tirade. For a second, he fooled himself into thinking that he was in control. But a wry smile cracked over Hardy’s face that reminded him that he was in fact anything but in control.
“You are right… we do get what we want, by any means necessary…” he admitted. Jacobs’s eyes followed Hardy in horror as he ascended from his chair and unbuckled his belt.
After pulling it from his pants loop, Hardy sat back down with the belt in his lap. His fingers grazed over the belt loop prong. The sterling silver buckle glimmered in the light as Hardy turned it in his hands.
“Where is the cure?” Hardy’s voice lowered to a calmed composure.
“I don’t know, Jack… I have no idea what you’re—” Hardy then pulled on a roll of duct tape, biting off a strip with his teeth. He then placed the wide strand of duct tape over Jacobs’s mouth. Jacobs could taste the adhesive immediately and then tried to calm his breaths through his nose.
“People are trying to conduct business out there, so we are going to have to keep you quiet.” Hardy then circled behind Jacobs’s chair. He brought the belt’s buckle prong up to Jacobs’s tied up hands. His delicate fingers dangled in their constraints, unable to move. Hardy positioned the prong underneath Jacobs’s thumbnail. Jacob’s began screaming in pain through the duct tape, as the prong dug its way to a firm position behind the nail.
“You are going to tell me everything you know…” Hardy whispered in his ear.
Then, he yanked the prong.
Chapter 51
The Dupont Underground
9:10PM
Xander gathered his reality on the cold, dusty floor of the laboratory. Seamus McIlroy’s bleak face came into focus, hovering overhead.
“There we are… wakey wakey...” Seamus slapped his face lightly over and over again.
“I’m okay…” Xander tried to get up, but Seamus slammed him back down on his shoulders.
“No! Now, I usually like to have fun and games but something is wrong with you and you are going to tell me exactly what is happening. None of this internal hero shit, you got it?!” There was a rare seriousness in Seamus’s eyes. Xander nodded, off guard – still shaking the haze off.
Seamus helped him to his feet, but maintained the gravity of the inquiry. He did not repeat his question but folded his arms and simply awaited the confession.
“It’s hard to explain…” Xander began. “My earliest memory has always been the car crash when I was eight years old in which I lost my parents. In fact, the memory would often resurface in the form of dreams… It happens the same way every time. I enter in mid-conversation and I say, ‘
I love you’. My mom awes at me. Then dad turns around to speak to me and an eighteen-wheeler crashes into us at full speed. Dad breaks his neck, mom flies through the windshield. I hit my head during the crash.”
Seamus knew Xander was an orphan but had never been told the tragic story of the crash itself.
“When I woke up in the hospital, my mind… functioned better. I could see things, I could analyze things, I always seemed to know what was going to happen next. Whether it is learning how to shoot a gun in the Compound or anticipating the next move of a terrorist – everything just started coming naturally to me.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re a prodigy, I get it, you don’t have to rub it in. Get on with it.” Seamus grinned as a friend present with cordial support.
“Today has been different… I will get sharp pains in my head, breaking my concentration and focus, even knocking me off my feet… When I blackout, I go back to the crash. Everything is the exact same every time.”
Seamus’s eyes furled as he tried to understand where the confession was going.
“I try to even change it, but I can’t. I depart from the script, but it doesn’t matter. My parents go through the same motions every time,” he explained.
“So, what?”
“I told you it would be difficult to understand. I am used to having complete control over my brain. But when I interact with this memory, my imagination is not receptive, and I can’t change anything. I should be able to induce variety to the scene. But I can’t…” Xander almost looked defeated.
“Maybe you can’t change it, because that is the only thing you remember of your parents. Maybe your imagination can’t pull from any other memories to create any change. Your brain is a map of different networks; maybe one of the circuits is closed off, an unlocked part of your mind, the part that holds the memory of what happened before the crash…” Seamus offered. Xander considered the theory and entertained the points. And then a thought gripped him and wouldn’t let go.
“Your brain is a map… Points to the plot,” Xander reflected distantly as clarity came to him once again.
Seamus sighed, sensing another mental exercise was underway that was far beyond his intellectual capacity.
Xander rushed back to the clue’s text immediately, slamming his hands down on either side of the paper. He stared it down as if interrogating it for its meaning. The theory unfolded before him as he shuffled around the underground lab in search of something.
And then his eye found it – a map of the DC metro area.
He ripped it off the wall and slammed it down on the lab table before them. Seamus remained quiet, allowing Xander to develop his hypothesis.
“It’s genius…” Xander had to admire Ezra’s scheme as it came into view.
“What?”
“Four Clues Four Targets Add Points to the Plot… What were the targets?” Xander asked.
“The first one was the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.” Xander nodded, as he grabbed a loose Sharpie from the table. He marked the location at Arlington Cemetery with a bold dot. “The second one was the White House, of course,” Seamus continued, Xander agreed by marking the second spot.
Then it became clear to Seamus what was happening. “Add Points to the Plot. It’s not a story’s plot or a terrorist plot. It’s a map, a graph. We have to plot the points on the map!” Seamus marveled, as they huddled over the map. “X marks the spot… It’s a command, he’s telling you to mark the spots.”
“It’s even better than that…” Xander explained.
“The third target was Van Ness Metro Station and the fourth target was American University, specifically Hurst Hall. Approximately there.” Xander’s sharpie found the last target, where Seamus had placed his finger.
“Four clues, four targets add points to the plot. The truth is inside.” Xander slowed the last line – drawing two intersecting lines from point to point. “X marks the spot.”
Xander smiled as it became clear.
Seamus stood paralyzed in shock as he stared down at the map.
“X marks the spot!” Seamus proclaimed. Xander and Seamus brought their heads forward to the point of intersection on the map. “What is the X marking?” Seamus pondered aloud.
Xander’s finger traced the lines across the city of Washington, DC, until it stopped at a circular area at the X’s center. His eyes peered down closer until he made out the words on the map.
“Number One Observatory Circle…” he read. Seamus could not believe his ears. He leaned back off the map and brought his hand to his head, flashing Xander his disbelief. Xander adjusted himself and recalled a puzzle piece from the day.
Our man in the White House has been contacted. All is going according to plan.
The puzzle pieces snapped together.
Then Xander concluded his theory with complete certainty.
“The cure is in the Vice President’s residence. He is their man on the inside.”
Chapter 52
The PEOC
9:20PM
The side office door opened, and the First Lady came out in her Hazmat suit. The joint task force froze and turned to her with deep concern, trying to glean any meaning from her facial expression. After disrobing in the makeshift isolation unit and then scrubbing in another, she finally emerged from the cases of plastic and searched the room for Marty Jacobs but to no avail. She finally asked Colonel Hardy.
“Who is in charge here?” Her voice was small and weak. Hardy nodded toward the National Security Advisor at the head of the table. The First Lady approached the silent conference table and met Janet Powers. She was lost in shock, her eyes distant and empty. Her lips quivered, as she bowed her head, trying to find the words.
“My husband has died.” The room released a harrowing gasp. Janet descended from her position of power and embraced her friend, Jeanne, who collapsed in her arms. She began weeping. She was no longer the First Lady or the hostess of her house – she was merely a human, breaking. She slowly gathered herself in a feeble attempt to maintain her dignity. She raised her head from Janet Powers embrace and sniffled back her pride.
“Continuity of government is in effect. Swear in the Vice President.” Jeanne nodded and helped her down the platform to the Secret Service agents. The First Lady began walking out of the PEOC with assistance from the Secret Service. She turned back and spoke up over the chaos. “You find the bastards who did this, do you hear me?!”
Powers nodded feeling the call of duty replace the sadness of hearing her President had died. Everyone had reacted to the news differently. Fernandez had started crying, the heads of intelligence agencies bowed their heads in respect as if they had just lost a comrade in battle. But one person boiled in anger. Powers eyes met Hardy as he tightened his fist. She could see his pulse pounding through the veins in his neck. He marched to the nearest computer terminal and yanked the Ethernet cable out of the back of its modem. Powers wondered what he wanted with the cable and then she watched him march to the side office that held Marty Jacobs for interrogation.
“Jackson! No!” Powers called after him – but he did not stop. Rather, he entered the office, dragging the cable behind him.
“Stop him! He’s gonna kill him!” Powers ordered. The Secret Service agents rushed to the door, but Hardy had already spun the second chair in the room around and propped it under the office door knob. The agents pounded on the door, demanding for it to be opened.
“He’s barricaded the door!” Powers walked up to the door and peered through the small window. There was Marty Jacobs, blood dripping from his thumbs, pooling below the chair in which he was restrained. Jacobs’s had a cut over his eye and a swollen face from a right hook that left his face busted.
Hardy turned back to the window of the door.
“We have to find the cure! Or we are all going to die!”
Hardy turned back to Jacobs, wrapped the blue cable around his neck and gripped it in front of Jacobs, staring straight into his eyes.
&nb
sp; “You are going to tell me where the cure is – right now – or I’m going to kill you.” Hardy yanked on the cable, cutting off the flow of oxygen to his brain as it dug into Jacobs’s neck. They continued to shout through the door window but to no avail.
From over Hardy’s shoulder, Powers could see the terror in Jacobs’s eyes as they bulged and faced their end. After thirty seconds, Hardy loosened his grip a little bit. Jacobs’s face turned a deep purple almost to the point of graying. He reached for a breath but could not find any. The veins in his neck pounded as his pulse quickened.
“Where is it!” Hardy yelled as loud as he could. He released the cord’s grip, giving him a second of alleviation. Jacobs gasped for breath in a deep, huffing inhale. The color in his face reddened slightly as the blood flow returned.
“I… I… Don’t… Know!... I… I’m... not a terrorist!” Jacobs rushed out. Hardy yanked the cord again, cutting off his circulation again.
“Marty, the President is dead, and more are going to die unless you tell me where the cure is!” Hardy yelled. Then as he reached for breath, he brought his head down and his eyes no longer showed terror for his own life, rather welled with tears as he digested what Hardy had said.
Hardy froze, as if noticing something. His shoulders fell, his posture shrunk and he released his grip. He back up and leaned against the wall of the office. Jacobs gasped for breath again.
“The… The… President… is dead? No!.... George… No!” Jacobs’s head dropped shaking his head, mourning through his rushed breaths.
Powers realized what she was seeing. Jacobs had finally broken, but not in the way Hardy had imagined he would. He must have noticed true sadness in his face once told about the President’s death. Jacobs was broken by the news – it was not the reaction of a terrorist but of a friend.
Hardy grabbed the edge of the chair wedged between the door and the ground and yanked it clear of its locked position. He opened it and walked through the crowd gathered outside of the office, horrified by the sight behind the door. Hardy formed one difficult sentence as he walked by them.
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