“I don’t care who you are. You were sure in a hurry to get out of here, right when the blast happened.”
“Fine. I’ll just sit right here.” I sink down to the floor across from the wide entry to the restaurant and scene of the crime, clanging my cuff against the stupid giraffe.
First responders start to flood into the space. It’s about time. I’m whacked in the head and arm by their equipment as they rush by, given I’m unable to move out of the way. Don’t mind me. Or feel bad about causing injuries when you’re supposed to be fixing them.
I watch. And wait. And wait. And wait some more.
This is ridiculous.
The government must be running the rescue effort because I’ve never seen anything so slow, painful, or full of red tape in my life.
“It’s not safe to enter.” That’s what the man in charge keeps saying. “No one can go into the restaurant until we’ve made sure it is structurally sound and have neutralized whatever caused the chemical burns.”
The people who got out are in the best shape—and those are the ones being helped.
The ones that need the most help are still inside.
I can hear the whir of helicopters overhead, the stomping of feet up the stairwell as more of the rescue crew arrives, and screams of those in pain and agony. Sharp chemicals burn my nostrils.
It gets to be too much. I lean over and vomit on the Secret Service guy to the left of me. The one that shackled me to this iron giraffe.
A fist connects with my jaw in return. Okay, maybe I did deserve that. I did aim for him.
Spots fill my vision, and I can feel the trickle of blood down my chin. I press my shirt up to my jaw with my free hand and close my eyes.
Minutes tick by. The restaurant area gets sprayed with something that counteracts what they determined to be acid. Then the structural engineers, bomb squad, and some other experts do a sweep, marking hazardous areas. Once they decide it is “relatively safe” to enter, the EMTs are allowed in to attend to the injured but not before being given clear instructions to avoid tampering with evidence and leaving the corpses where they lie.
I watch as victims are pulled from the rubble and brought out of the restaurant.
A stretcher with a familiar face comes out and I quickly stand. With my free hand, I grab the edge and halt them.
Ethan.
“Is he…okay?” I put my hand atop his and it twitches in response. Thank the Gads. “Ethan…” My eyes scan his body, looking for injuries. It appears that he avoided the acid, but he’s definitely hurting.
He looks up at me and whispers. “Have you seen Kira or Jax? Alexa? Joshua? My parents?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t and I’ve been looking, trust me. I’m pretty sure Kira and Jax took off right before it happened. Brad and Vi…I mean our mother…were both in the restaurant when I left. I’ll keep looking. You just get yourself better. I’ll be there as soon I can.”
“You got any clue who did this?” he asks, his voice hoarse and weak.
“That is the million dollar question, isn’t it? I already have about a dozen people I suspect. How about you? You see anything?”
Before Ethan can answer, the idiot Secret Service guy who cuffed me, still covered in my puke, interrupts. “Move him along.” He directs the EMTs to get Ethan out of there. To me, “As for you…since you seem to have so many theories, I’m going to go get you moved up on the list of people to talk to.”
“Super. I’m looking forward to it.” I respond sarcastically. I do want to clear my name, but I’m more concerned about finding out the status of my missing friends and family. If I get locked up for hours in an interrogation room, then I won’t be able to look for them.
I’m also not sure how much is safe to share. Will the person that questions me be a member of the SCI or not? Unless this was an assassination attempt on the future president’s life—and I’m sure Henry’s made some political enemies—then it must be SCI-related. And I’m going with the latter theory. A single bullet could’ve taken out Henry. There would be no need for both a bomb and acid to rain down on a party full of people.
Brad would be the number one suspect on my list. He has shown that he can pull off a series of elaborate attacks on the American public using a variety of methods including the two used here tonight. And he has no problem killing innocent people. I’m sure Brad will try to blame the Arbiters, but this isn’t their home terrain or a likely method they’d use.
It could also be the Ten trying to take out Brad, or Violet and Victor doing some sort of power play. Joshua once told me that “all roads lead to his parents” here in LA. Henry also seems suspect. The last words he spoke haunt me: May our impact be swift and powerful. Like a shot heard round the world.” Would he do that? Risk his own life and the lives of countless colleagues? That seems like a pretty extreme PR stunt. Of course, it could be none of the above. Those responsible might know about the SCI and have wanted to kill as many of them as possible.
That last possibility makes me nervous. If the SCI thinks that someone is trying to take them down, I’ll be high on that suspect list. Whoever is responsible could want me to be their fall guy. Brad did send me out of the room at a very suspicious time.
In addition to the black suits, it seems like everyone from the LAPD has arrived. Police officers have set up a command center in the private dining room across the foyer and adjacent to the elevators.
That’s where I’m taken and processed—fingerprinted, photographed, and checked for explosive residue.
Then the interrogation begins. Things get awkward fast, particularly since I’m about 99% sure my interrogator isn’t SCI. When your primary residence is on a different planet, it makes it kind of difficult to answer some basic questions.
What is your address? “I’m staying at my brother, Ethan Darcton’s apartment.” I surely hope he’ll back me up. Unfortunately, my answer annoys my interrogator because it doesn’t match what is on my driver’s license.
Where do you work? This one’s tricky. There will be no record of me working when they look up my social security number. If I tell them I don’t work, that’ll look suspicious too. Crap. “I’ve been considering taking on a personal assistant job.”
Who for? Boxed myself in again. Does Brad have an established identity here? Is it under his real name or Darryl Bradford or something else? I can’t risk getting it wrong. “My brother has been helping me out and trying to hook me up with something.”
Why were you at the event this evening? Can’t tell them I was there spying for Brad. “I was there to support my Uncle Henry—Henry King, you know, the guy who just won the election. My mother, brother, aunt, and uncle were also in attendance.”
Why were you “hurrying out of the room” right before the explosion? Can’t go with the truth here, either, so I decide to go with a variation of it. “My ex-girlfriend was leaving with her…new boyfriend. I wanted to talk to her. We’ve got a kid together, so…yeah. Anyway, I was just signing out when the explosion happened.”
The questions continue and I tell more half-truths and lies. Then they ask me a loaded question. This isn’t the first time you’ve been at the scene of an explosion and miraculously lived to tell about it, is it? Really? They’re going to try to pin the explosion at the Goodington’s house on me, too? The SCI was 100% behind that one—they wanted to kill off Kira’s boyfriend and friends, so that she’d have nothing stopping her from becoming an SCI Recruit. I just happened to drive up in time to see the house explode and save Kira’s life. But will the LAPD see it that way?
Maybe it’s time to lawyer up.
Three and a half months prior: Los Angeles, CA
Light seeped in through the windows of my seedy hotel room, but I didn’t stir, didn’t care if I ever got up again. I failed at keeping Kira alive and safe, and now I was failing miserably at finding her stolen baby and his kidnapper. My gut told me they were here in Los Angeles, but every lead I followed ran smack dab into
a brick wall.
“Get up.” An intruder was in my room. I fought my survival instincts to eliminate the threat. Instead, I groaned and buried myself under the covers.
“Take whatever you want. I don’t care.”
Cold air slapped me across the face as my covers were yanked from my pajama bottoms-only clad body. I guess I’ll have to fight this guy off after all. In an instant, I was up and holding a knife against the guy’s throat. That is, until I was zapped with the equivalent of a Taser. I dropped the knife and sank to the floor, my body twitching from the electrical impulses.
“Blake, you idiot.” I looked up to see that my assailant was none other than Jax Christo, who was uncharacteristically dressed in jeans and a blue t-shirt. How the hell did he get in my room? “You, clearly, are not making good progress getting the child back. So, I’ve brought you help, which should arrive in five…four…three…two…one second.”
A sharp knock rattled the door. Jax opened it and ushered a guy inside that I’d never seen before. He was a couple inches taller than me, dark brown curls peeking out from a baseball cap, and weird blue eyes that looked almost clear. The intense warrior-like stare he gave me didn’t at all match the preppy white Henley and designer jeans he wore.
“Blake, meet Joshua Black. Joshua, meet Blake Sundry. You guys are cousins. Joshua’s mom, Violet is Vienna’s sister. Joshua’s parents run the SCI’s Clean Slate Complex here in LA.”
I held out my hand, and he gave me a firm handshake. “Welcome to the crazy family, cousin,” he said with a smirk. “We could have a contest about whose parents are more insane, but I figure we’d both win equally in that department.” I knew I was going to like him.
Jax clapped his hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got to run. Joshua can help you track down the kidnapper. He’s probably the one person on this planet who hates the SCI as much as you do. And even better…he has plans to do something about it.” Yeah, I was definitely going to like this guy.
We both watched as Jax walked out the door, closing it behind him. Joshua strode over to the spindly table where I had all my “clues” laid out. “Show me what you’ve got.”
I gave him the low-down on everything that had happened, leads I’d followed, and dead ends I’d hit. He drummed his fingers on his leg as I talked, and hummed a tune about “crimes and consequences.”
“If this is the SCI’s doing, and you are here in LA, all roads lead to my parents and the Clean Slate Complex. Saying my parents are territorial would be a bit of an understatement. No one could as much as sneeze SCI business in a hundred-mile radius without them knowing about it. So assume the kidnapper and my parents are connected.”
If what he said was true, he’d just given me the missing piece of the puzzle. “What’s the next step?”
“We’re gonna go find and nail the bastard and anyone else stupid enough to be involved.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Present
Death forgot to claim Brad Darcton. Why am I not surprised? Despite having his hands and neck bandaged, Brad strides into the Command Center like he’s in charge. He is with an equally powerful looking gentleman in a black suit—and not the Secret Service variety.
Brad’s eyes meet mine. His stoic face flashes a hint of disappointment. “Blake, what are you doing here?”
I throw my sarcasm at him like mud to a wall. “Well, Brad. I was leaving the party to go after Kira and Jax when the blast occurred. These fine gentlemen thought my timing was a little too convenient and decided to detain me.”
Brad looks to the guy he walked in with. In a low voice he tells him, “Blake was not involved. Fix this. I need his help.” I don’t hear the rest because the detective who has been hounding me for the last couple hours interjects.
“I wasn’t finished with my interrogation.”
“This is not your guy. He’s just a kid—and a relative of Henry King to boot. I’m James Gotsch. My team at the FBI is taking over the investigation. Speak to your supervisor. Now uncuff this boy so that he can get back to his family.” James hands the detective his card and shows him his badge to confirm he’s legit. Great, so this guy is FBI and in Brad’s pocket. That does not bode well for an unbiased, clean investigation.
The detective begrudgingly complies. Once free of my restraints, I rub my sore wrists and look around, trying to figure out what to do next. Can I just saunter out of the room? Is Brad expecting me to still go track down Jax? Should I figure out which hospital Ethan was sent to and go see him?
“Blake,” Brad snaps, getting my attention. He hands me a list that includes pictures, bios, and the check-in/out status of everyone from the party. Each person has a mark by them—S, I, D, or M. “I need you to work with James’ team to track down the M’s—those folks are missing, which means they’re either dead or our prime suspects. There are bodies which…have not been able to be identified due to the level of damage.”
“What do the other marks mean?” My hand is shaking as I scan through the list.
Brad rubs his temples and his expression is grim. “S means safe. I is for injured. And D indicates—” His voice hitches and he has to clear his throat. “—D stands for Deceased.”
I have to sit down for a moment to steady myself as I re-scan the list to confirm that I saw what I think I saw. When I reach her picture, I close my eyes. “My mother is dead?”
He looks visibly distressed, his eyes closed and brows furrowed. It’s not like Vienna and I were particularly close, but she did look out for me while I was in Exile. It doesn’t seem possible that she’s gone. “I’m so sorry,” I tell Brad. Would he kill his own wife? I know Brad is a heartless bastard, but I’m not convinced he could kill her. Conveniently though, it does make him appear beyond reproach.
What am I thinking? My mother is dead. I can’t wrap my head around it. I scan the rest of the list.
“Henry?” I ask Brad.
“That’s classified,” James responds. He further explains, “We don’t know who did this or why. Until we do, we don’t want to give those who are potential threats any information to work with. So what you have there—that stays completely confidential.” I nod my head. That makes sense.
I continue to look through the papers. Henry’s planned administration has been fairly well decimated. His leading candidates for the Secretaries of Homeland Security, Health and Human Services, and Education were killed. Other potential cabinet members are injured.
My job’s to help track down the missing. These folks didn’t sign out of the party. Are they dead or missing? And if they are missing, innocent or mass murderers?
Victor and Violet are top of the missing list. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if they were involved. Once mass murderers, always mass murderers. What would be their motive though?
There are some names on the list that I pray are alive and as innocent as a doe-eyed virgin. Namely Jax, Kira, Joshua, and Alexa.
Gads, let them be okay.
The room’s completely devoid of furniture—not even chairs—so that no incendiary devices can be hidden. The sprinkler system has been deactivated. A single video screen adorns the back wall. We were given less than an hour’s notice to be here. Upon our arrival, they forced us to strip down to our underwear, be searched, and change into t-shirts and shorts. Shoes were forbidden.
Somber. That’s how I describe the mood in this “meeting of the minds.” An attack has hit the very heart of the SCI, and they want answers. They want someone to blame, someone to punish.
Ethan, who has been released from the hospital “against doctor’s orders,” motions for me to join him. I had planned to pick him up from the hospital, but Brad told me he’d be doing it. They needed to grieve Vienna’s loss together.
“You doing okay?” I ask him. He just lost his mother, has a couple broken ribs, and his shoulder was dislocated. I was there when they re-set it, and it wasn’t pretty. All things considered, he was incredibly lucky. He was far enough away from the center of
the blast to avoid a direct hit even though the shockwave hurled him into a heavy piece of furniture. Then the ceiling fell in on him, but that same piece of furniture took the brunt of the hit. Because he was covered, he managed to avoid the acid rain altogether.
“Mentally, not so great. Physically, it hurts like hell, but that’s what painkillers are for, right? You find them?” My search for the missing brought me to the hospital to see if any of them were amongst the injured.
I shake my head and stare at the floor. “Sorry, man. There’s no trace of any of them. I’m pretty positive Kira and Jax left right before me. Brad has someone going to check your apartment in Military City. But Alexa and Joshua? They’ve just vanished. Their apartment at the CSC was just how they left it, according to Joshua’s sister. I’ve checked all the injured at every area hospital. A crime scene expert is supposedly going through the scene again and looking for clues.”
“What about Victor and Violet?” he asks.
“Same deal. No one has seen them at the CSC or anywhere else.”
He sighs, and I can see worry lines etched across his face, making him look a whole lot older than he is.
We watch the video screen flicker to life showing a close-up view of Henry King’s face. Dark circles shadow his glassy eyes.
He’s choked up as he begins to speak, unable to hold back his tears. “My fellow Daynighters… What happened yesterday was unconscionable. We suffered terrible losses. I suffered terrible losses. This couldn’t have been more personal. My daughters, Anne and Mary, both lost their lives. My wife, Elizabeth, is fighting for hers. The explosion…took her legs. My sister Vienna perished. My other sister, Violet—and her husband, Victor, are missing, as is their son, Joshua. Countless colleagues and friends died or were injured.
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