Gambit laughed. “So your wife doesn’t want to move, and you think that just because she doesn’t ask for bodyguards so she can move and looks skittish and has been busy—” Roddy caught the inflection on “busy” and the meaning behind it “—that it means she’s helping Daddy prepare for an Eastern invasion. That about it?”
“You’re forgetting the troop movements.”
“Roddy, you’re an idiot. They aren’t massing near their naval shipyards.”
“So?”
“If they intended to invade, wouldn’t they need to get soldiers into their naval craft to make the journey here?”
Roddy bit his lip. Hard. He tasted blood. “It doesn’t mean an invasion’s imminent, Gambit.”
“You’re getting slow, Matches. How could you miss that trivial little detail? Think they’re going to swim across the ocean? They need boats to get here. Face it, Matches. We’re heading over there.”
“What?”
Gambit laughed. “I guess you didn’t hear that little bit of intel. Our fleet has been coming in for what the upper-level brass have called ‘staggered repairs’ over the past year, and that activity has been ramping up over the past few months. I have it on good authority that our ships aren’t in port to fix leaks. They’re in port for newly outfitted weaponry.”
Roddy was silent.
“If it makes you feel any better about your crazy scheme, brother, that activity would coincide with accelerated activity at Daddy-in-law’s little empire of factories around the Alliance. Seems like something your pretty little wife might be involved with as well, eh? And… it’s something you could check out on your own, right?”
Roddy cleared his throat. “She also said that what’s outside the city is a greater threat than what’s inside the city, Gambit. What could be worse than massive social unrest? An invading army from the East.”
“Or there’s only the usual nastiness roaming the Hinterlands and nothing to discourage her from heading beyond the walls. If you catch my meaning.”
“Go to Hell, Gambit.”
“Already there, brother. Haven’t made it out yet to my eternal reward of a hot wife and a cushy, high-paying job, even if she is getting a little action on the side—”
Roddy disconnected the call.
He didn’t like the fact that he’d bugged his bedroom. He didn’t like the fact that Gambit had so easily countered each point, turning each argument for an impending invasion by the East into an invasion of the East… or evidence that his suspicions of infidelity were correct.
He’d told Gambit of Deirdre’s comment earlier, that her stressful and time-consuming project would end “very soon.” He’d taken “very soon” to mean in the next few days, perhaps a week at most.
He felt a chill running down his spine.
Deirdre’s long hours might mean she’d been unfaithful. But the evidence now strongly suggested she’d hidden a far more dangerous secret, one that threatened the lives of the millions of people on the planet.
The invasion would begin soon. He didn’t know which way the ships would sail.
Or if they’d already left.
—————
SHEILA CLARKE
—————
…military possessed no visible property… widely believed to occupy standard office and factory space, with personnel dressed and acting as employees of traditional businesses rather than in obvious combat uniforms…
The History of the Western Alliance, page 51
SHEILA CLARKE LOCATED A SMALL furniture cart in one of the supply closets on the fifth floor. She didn’t know why an accounting firm might have need of such a tool—perhaps hauling cartons of printed materials to client offices—but elected to leave that mystery for another day. They locked the wheels to hold the cart in place and moved to the crate.
She hesitated. “Should we open it?”
General Jamison considered the question before shaking his head. “The box itself is slick and would likely slide off the cart. We’re better off leaving it inside the wooden crate.” His mouth twitched. Perhaps he, too, wanted the mysterious contents of the box contained within as many layers as possible.
She nodded, and glanced at the crate. “Shall we?”
After locking the wheels, they muscled the crate atop the cart. She wiped her sleeve across her forehead, quietly horrified at the sweat stain left behind. The general looked as if he’d just woken from a deep sleep. Perhaps she needed to work out more often.
With the crate in place, she raised a question weighing on her. Not the question; he’d made clear he wouldn’t share more about the nature of the weapon they’d store in a secure manner. “You’re saying there’s a secret bunker inside the secret bunker?”
He nodded once. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about it before now?” She felt the perspiration continue its descent. She grabbed several tissues from his desk and used them to mop her skin dry. She glanced up at his bemused face. “Sorry.”
“Knowledge of and access to that space is on an as-needed basis only, Sheila.” The words hit her hard. He’d rarely pulled out the “you don’t need to know that” comment during their working relationship. His use of it now flustered her.
“But—sir, this withholding of knowledge from me… what if that clouded the judgment you’ve asked me to supply?” It sounded childish, and she knew it. But she thought it a fair question in general, if not in this specific case.
He frowned before speaking in a quiet tone. “Your life was better before you knew, Sheila.”
She turned away.
The relationship they’d developed was complicated. There was nothing romantic about it, no chemistry between them. He’d not liked it when the upper brass had insisted its top leaders retain civilian advisers to help better make and communicate decisions to their ultimate employers. Over time, though, they’d become close, perhaps like siblings. She knew that at this point he’d only hide something from her for her own protection.
That could only mean the weapon was something truly horrific. It added to her determination to get it to a safe storage area, somewhere inside the Bunker.
She changed the subject. “Should we check the office to see if anyone’s still here?”
He shook his head and smiled. “At this hour?”
She laughed. He’d long encouraged the true civilian employees to maintain strict and moderate working hours to enable the underground workers time to come and go without risk of detection. At an hour such as this, they’d have scant odds of finding a living human being in the office.
They rolled the crate over the thick carpeting, crushing the piling beneath the weight with a faint crunching sound. Once they’d rolled over the threshold of his office door, she moved ahead to summon the elevator before helping the general slide the box inside the car. She watched him, trying to understand what he knew about this weapon, and why he was trying to protect her. Was it knowledge of the weapon?
Or knowledge about him?
The chime sounded, and they rolled the crate from the elevator. In the empty space, the slamming of the wheels upon the tiled marble floor echoed like a gunshot. She jumped. They pushed the cart for the parking garage elevator on the opposite side of the atrium. The wheels squeaked. Jamison glanced around, wondering if the sounds carried far enough for someone—
“What are you doing?”
They whirled.
Jocelyn Whitfield stood before them, purse on one shoulder and a large bag strapped across the other. Her eyes turned cold as she recognized Sheila… but warmed notably as they spotted Jamison.
She gritted her teeth. The woman had flirted with him since joining Jamison & Associates, making clear her interest and willingness to engage in any manner of non-work activities, even when others were present. He’d told Sheila that he’d caught Jocelyn staying well past her shift before, hoping to get his attention as he departed.
And now she’d caught them here, well past nightfall.
Sheila nodded at the woman. “Mr. Jamison has decided that the artwork belongs in his home. We’re taking it there now. Please excuse us.”
Jocelyn’s eyes tightened in understanding. She knew exactly what those words meant, knew that the pair weren’t simply transporting a large box. She’d been defeated for Jamison’s attention and favor by the man’s personal assistant. But she’d not give up. “Mr. Jamison, I can help. I have training in displaying artwork—” her eyes flicked in a sneering manner toward the untrained Sheila Clarke “—and can assist with proper lighting techniques. What type of work is inside the box? Paintings? Sculptures?”
Jamison sighed. “Jocelyn, I appreciate the offer, but there’s no need. Mrs. Clarke and I have to discuss a tricky point related to the financial records for the Stevens account, and this works well.”
“Let me get the elevator for you, then, before I… go home.” Jocelyn’s eager tone conveyed far too much meaning, an interest in wriggling her way into that car. Preferably, in Sheila’s place. But they couldn’t risk her seeing where they’d go next. Jocelyn didn’t know the accounting firm employing her services was nothing more than a front for the real work she and Jamison did each day.
“Go on ahead, Jocelyn. We’ve got this. In fact… Sheila, I think we left the folder back on my desk.”
She nodded, understanding. She’d leave, he’d wait, and Jocelyn would have no choice but to leave before them. “I’ll go get it, sir.” She turned around and marched back toward the office elevator they’d just left.
“I’ll wait here then,” he replied, as Sheila’s shoes slapped against the marble tile. With Jocelyn there, the impact didn’t seem as loud. They’d already been discovered.
Sheila rounded the bend into the elevator hallway before grabbing her phone and running the audio enhancement app. The conversation would let her know when it was safe to return. She absentmindedly hit the elevator call button. The doors opened immediately.
“—work, sir.” Jocelyn’s voice was a sultry whisper. “You finally got rid of her. Let’s get this down to your car, and—”
Jamison’s voice, stern, bordering on anger. “Jocelyn, go home. I have no idea why you refuse to do as I ask, but let me make it clear. If you do not vacate the premises in the next thirty seconds, you will not have a job here in the morning.”
Sheila pumped her fist as the elevator doors closed behind her.
Jocelyn’s voice, now… excited? “I think she heard you. Let’s go. We can display that art or… something else.”
Sheila nearly vomited. The woman had no clue, could not grasp that Jamison had no interest in her. Or Sheila. And now she threatened their efforts, possibly putting lives at risk. She thought quickly, then reached in her boot, where she kept the small tranquilizer gun. She wasn’t permitted to carry a personal gun, but she had no interest in walking the streets of the cityplex without some form of protection.
She emerged from the elevator hallway, sighted the back of Jocelyn’s neck, and pulled the trigger.
The woman collapsed to the ground.
Sheila moved forward, eyes full of fury, holding the tranquilizer gun before her. “That was getting awkward, sir.”
Jamison stared at her. “Nice shot, Clarke.” He glanced down at Jocelyn. “Perhaps a bit excessive, though?” He frowned. “She’s going to remember this, Sheila.”
She stared down at the woman passed out on the floor, and an idea sprang to mind. “I don’t think it will matter, sir. She got hit with a serum designed to provide a full eight hours of sleep. When she wakes up… nobody will believe a word she says.”
Twenty minutes later, Jocelyn Whitfield sat behind the wheel of her car, held in place by her safety belt. A half dozen empty, smashed beer cans rested on the seat of the car next to her. Her breath smelled heavily of alcohol. The car remained in its original space on the second floor of the parking garage.
Sheila looked upon her handiwork and turned to Jamison, trying to keep her voice and expression grave. “Sir, I’d suggest that Ms. Whitfield may need some time off to deal with her drinking problem. If she can’t distinguish between her home and the parking garage at her place of employment, she needs help.”
Jamison gazed at her. “Remind me to never let you get angry at me, Clarke.”
They rolled the crate to its resting place without further interruption, pausing only to pick up a specific access key card Jamison kept hidden in a false bottom to his desk drawer. The card provided access to a portion of their true office that Sheila hadn’t seen before, hadn’t known existed, until that evening. They returned to his office without the crate, and Jamison replaced the card in precisely the same location.
She felt the fear that had built throughout the day at long last in the form of a shiver. He’d spent the day making clear that whatever had cleared that building from existence resided now in a slick metal box hidden within her primary work facility. She’d trusted his judgment on the wisdom of the move without question.
Until now.
“Sir, are you absolutely certain it’s safe for that box to remain open in there?”
He nodded. “I’m absolutely certain it’s safe in there.”
She wasn’t sure what bothered her more. The fact that they’d opened something he’d identified as so deadly and dangerous inside their office. Or the fact that he was so certain that whatever that weapon might be, the place they’d stored it was unquestionably safe.
How would he know?
She made her way back to the parking garage and her own ground car and began the drive home, wondering what additional secrets her boss kept hidden… and how many of those secrets were buried just a few feet from her office desk.
—————
DEIRDRE SILVER-LIGHT
—————
…that while general prosperity grew, so did the gap between rich and poor, leading to inevitable increases in theft and violent crime… being outside alone or after dark became inadvisable at best…
The History of the Western Alliance, page 911
HER EYES SNAPPED OPEN, TAKING in the faint light of the stars and the crescent moon shining in through their oversized bedroom window. She took a gentle, deep breath, and then remained silent.
She heard the sound of Roddy’s steady breathing beside her, and resisted the urge to exhale in a sigh of relief.
He’d taught her the technique, the way to set a mental alarm to awake at a desired time without the need of a clock. Like many of his routines, it had been part of the intense training he’d suffered through as part of the Special Forces, the elite unit of the Western Alliance military. He’d told her little about his time in the military, but she’d been awakened on many occasions as he’d cried out in his restless sleep at some horrific memory.
She wondered what dreams he’d experience in the future. The hell she’d helped spawn was days—no, hours—away from bursting forth upon an unsuspecting planet.
She wondered if he would ever forgive her.
She slid from the covers while he slept, repeating something he did every morning. She paused by the window and looked down to the darkness below. The undercurrent was there, and Roddy noticed. He noticed everything about everyone. His fears of imminent violence on the street were justified, an outbreak likely in mere months.
All part of the master plan.
She slid into her closet, taking care to place her feet gently upon the thick carpeting, masking any sound of her movement. She donned her jogging outfit, laced up her shoes, and snagged a hair band, which she snaked through her hair to form a ponytail. With the lights still out, she exited the bathroom and closet space before gliding silently across the thick carpeting into the hallway. Without the light of the moon and stars, she was presented a space without light. She knew the space well, but let her fingertips graze the smooth surface of the wall to prevent any collisions or stumbling. Roddy’s senses remained heightened after years in which he’d periodically find himself in war zones, wakened from a d
ead sleep by sudden attacks. A stumble, a mild oath, a collision with a wall… any of those could rouse her husband to full alertness.
She snagged a water bottle she’d left in the refrigerator before going to bed, then crept toward the apartment door. She turned the handle slowly, listening to the gentle grinding noise, and then pulled the door open. She stepped out of the apartment into the hallway and turned the handle once more, pulling the door softly closed before turning the handle to the closed position. She waited thirty seconds, taking deep breaths, waiting, expecting Roddy to open the door and burst from the apartment at any second. Surely she’d made too much noise and woken him.
But he didn’t appear.
She turned before her courage disintegrated, moving to the elevator and pressing the call button. She had a job to do, and she’d do it. Oswald had been right about one thing. She couldn’t stop everything. Her stubborn refusal to perform this final step in her part of the plan wouldn’t stop the horror yet to come. For that reason, she’d resist the idea of a pointless stand. What her thinking had uncovered was the chance to alter the decision about who they’d save just a small bit. And if she could save him, she’d do just that.
She rode the elevator to the lobby in a mental fog, barely noticing the indoor fountain with the dancing water, swaying and pulsing to a quiet musical number. She approached the door to the outside, to the darkness that awaited, a darkness largely of her own creation. In many ways, justice would see her struck down by those experiencing feelings of hopelessness.
The doorman, an elderly man whose name she couldn’t recall, beamed as he approached. He’d flirted with her without shame since he’d started the job, and his pupils widened as he took in her figure, one he’d openly imagined as she moved through the lobby to the outer door or the inner elevator leading to the parking garage. She normally wore conservative business attire; her tight jogging shorts and low-cut, midriff-baring top would distract him from showing too much open concern for her safety as she departed the building in the middle of the night.
The Ravagers Box Set: Episodes 1-3 Page 5