If the sunrise came and the red rain persisted, soon it would bring widespread violence with it. So she traveled, selecting this urban location not only for the meet, but also to get a firsthand feel for the current mood on the street, figuring Brooklyn was the perfect sample set.
New York was the virtual center of the universe—a diverse melting pot of all that makes this country great—the one place where the lines between culture, business, and religion blurred like nowhere else. Whatever was about to happen would happen here first. New Yorkers had a twitchy trigger finger, as did people in Texas, California, and Arizona—granted, each with a different type of trigger, but triggers nonetheless.
Contrary to popular belief, she was not an office-bound numbers freak. She had no idea how she’d gotten that reputation. Sad thing was, if anyone cared to look at her resume, they’d know she’d come up through Ops and moved to analysis at age forty-four, after close to twenty years in the field. Now she was going to need to rely on her extensive experience for what came next, knowing the fate of America might very well hang in the balance.
If events continued to unfold without the President’s control, the next day or two might define history for decades to come.
Earlier in the President’s briefing, it became clear to her that Cooper was worried and would soon transform into a desperate man. That’s what worried her the most: desperate leaders make desperately bad decisions, even with the best of intentions at heart. She’d seen it dozens of times before, and that was when facing typical geo-political threats like war and socio-economic disasters. The red rain was an entirely new threat, one that required an entirely new thought process, and that would never come from anyone in Washington.
She knew they needed help. Outside help. Help from the one man who’d always stepped up and helped her quietly whenever she’d reached out to him. A man with access to the type of resources and information she and her staff couldn’t lay their hands on—not legally.
The greatest moments in history are filled with examples where patriots were forced to break rules for the greater good, especially when countless lives and the future of a nation are at risk. And this was one of those times—she was sure of it.
The current task was simple: find the pyramid-shaped marker and ask Indigo to help track down Hansen. The indigo-colored symbol was supposed to be hidden somewhere in the cut-through behind Franklin’s Electronics. But tonight, with the endless rain and mounting anxiety coursing through her spine, she might have already passed it. She doubled back, checking the area again.
She’d met with Vito six times before, each time in a different city. The same protocol was always used to mark the entrance for their digital meet, making her comfortable with the recluse’s requirements. She just needed to find it before someone noticed her and her team lurking in the alley under the cover of rain and darkness.
Her cellphone buzzed in her pocket. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, but when she saw who was calling, she answered immediately.
“General Rawlings, what can I do for you?”
“Director Wiggins, I’ve got something. I wasn’t sure whether or not to bring you in on this or not, but the fact is, dealing with civilians is better in your capable hands, not mine.
“I understand, General. What do you have for me?”
“I know who can locate Jeffrey Hansen for us.”
“And who might that be, General?” she asked, worried that Indigo’s name was about to surface on its own and possibly expose her unauthorized activities.
“He’s one of your own. Well, he used to be.”
“Quit beating around the bush, General.”
“Simon Redfall.”
Nancy stopped walking. General Rawlings was right. She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of Redfall before, especially since the deplorable execution at the NEC had been flooding the headlines for weeks.
Was she getting soft? Or just lazy, relying on Indigo’s assistance whenever situations escalated beyond the purview of her office. Had she forgotten how to sift through the data on her own and find a solution by opening her mind to other possibilities? She didn’t know the answers and wasn’t sure there was time to sort them out, either. The red rain, she reminded herself. And Jeffrey Hansen. Focus on both of them now. The rest would resolve itself later, assuming there was a later.
Then she remembered: Redfall had fallen off the grid, and according to the latest reports, he was somewhere in Oregon, building houses for Laotian immigrants or something along those lines.
“Director, are you there?” Rawlings asked with heat in his words.
“I’m here. Just thinking.”
“He’s one of yours, am I right?”
“Was one of mine. And one of yours before that.”
“True. One of my best. He was one of your best, too, if memory serves.”
“I hear he’s lost his taste for the work, though. Somewhere out West, at last report.”
“Not anymore. He was spotted in DC for his wife’s execution. We have video of him getting into a vehicle near the NEC.”
“And?”
“Video surveillance was spotty in the area. We lost him on I-95 heading north.”
“Does he have family or friends in the area? Someone he can turn to?”
“Other than his wife, no. That’s why I’m contacting you. A couple of NSA techs were just in my office and together we devised a plan to track him down through a reverse hack of the TravelNet System.”
“Did you clear it with the NSA Director?”
“Who do you think sent them to my office?”
“Then what can I do for you, General? I do have my hands full at the moment.”
“I was wondering if you could take the lead and nudge Director Haskins along a little faster. This trace should take priority over anything else on their plate at the moment.”
She was aware of the long-standing friction between Rawlings and Haskins—two alpha-males locked in an ideological tug of war. She needed to know if the general’s request was genuine, or some petty work-around to a personal problem. She didn’t care much for the NSA Director, either, but since she was Haskin’s boss, she had a duty to perform.
“What makes you think Redfall can help?” she asked.
“Don’t play ignorant bitch with me, Wiggins. You know my history with Haskins, and you know what’s at stake here. Hands down, Simon is the right man for a job like this, and finding him needs to be our singular focus. Once Redfall hears who’s behind this, he’ll come in from the cold. We both have our claws buried deep into that man. It’s time to tap into that history and bring about some swift results. Cooper is all over my ass and I’m guessing he’s all up in yours, too.”
Wiggins didn’t want to admit it, but Rawlings was right on all counts. Then another memory sprang into her mind with full force—Istanbul. Redfall hated Hansen. With a passion. How could she have been so dense?
“Yes, I’m fully aware of what’s at stake and agree, General. It’s an option worth exploring. Let me take it from here,” she told him, planning to ask Indigo to help track down Redfall as well as Hansen. A search on multiple fronts was needed, just in case one of them came up empty, or if Director Haskins decided to drag his saggy rear end with respect to the TravelNet hack.
“One last thing, Wiggins.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“When you find Simon, tell him the Big Nasty sent you.”
“Big Nasty?”
“Trust me, he’ll know what it means. It may help to smooth tensions when you first approach him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The next morning, Simon woke to the soothing clatter of rain against the double-paned window in the second floor bedroom of the farmhouse. He was floating in a half-conscious state, drifting in and out of a dream state filled with blissful memories of his wife. They were visions of events from a time long ago, long before the nightmare of automatic gunfire and blood stained streets.
T
he silky cotton sheets soothed his skin, and the press from a thick, old fashioned duvet kept his naked body warm against a squeaky mattress. He turned over, swapping cheeks on a velvety plush feather pillow that he’d cradled around his neck to help relieve pressure and minimize the pain. His body was still recovering and sore in more places than he could count, thanks to a chaotic trip to Washington, DC.
The swirl of pleasure-filled dreams began to fade in his mind, giving way to a burst of conscious thought. His mental slide back to reality had only just begun, but already the new day was giving chase with a heavy dose of painful truth from the day before: Tessa’s brutal execution, a chase down an alley near the NEC, a mob beating, red storm clouds unleashing rain from above, and then the fortunate arrival of a cargo van and a strange pair of teenagers asking for his help.
He opened his eyes and scanned the room, trying to determine the time of day. Morning or afternoon? He looked at the bedroom window, but couldn’t determine the sun’s angle due to the weather outside. He felt as though he’d slept for days. His eyes focused on the drips of red covering the glass—another cruel reminder of the final seconds of Tessa’s bloody execution. The vision sent a stab deep into his heart, taking focus away from the hazy pink light beaming in through the window. It took a few seconds to regain mental control, but he did.
“Rain still falling,” he mumbled, running a thumb and two fingers through his unruly beard. The tangles were thick, reminding him his appearance needed a serious makeover. So did his life. And his future, for that matter.
An art-deco style chest of drawers stood against the wall across the room, and an antique roll-top desk and straight back chair sat next to the bedroom door—a closed door he chose not to secure the night before. His decision to leave it unlocked broke the first rule of security. What he should’ve done was change the location of the bed to a more defensible position, then lock the door from the inside and jam the chair back under the doorknob. A wedged chair wouldn’t have stopped someone truly determined to get in, but the force needed to dislodge it would have sent the wooden legs scraping across the floor, giving him additional warning and time to react.
A vigilant operative would have followed protocol to the letter by implementing sweeping security measures before calling it a night, especially with a house full of complete strangers. Teenage strangers, no less. ‘Strange’ being the operative word.
But he chose not to implement his tradecraft and couldn’t fully explain why. There was something about Tally Wickie that made him trust her, and by extension, trust her crew. He had a hard time trusting anyone or anything since Tessa had gone on her killing spree, but his heart had convinced him to stand down and show a little faith. Then again, maybe it wasn’t a sense of trust he felt for the residents of Pandora. It could’ve been simply the overwhelming need to make amends to everyone—across the entire planet—and he couldn’t do that if he was paranoid about a bunch of kids.
Whatever the reason, he felt compelled to help Wicks. Not only for his own personal redemption, but because it was the right thing to do. She seemed genuine and cared about others, plus she’d told him an intriguing story about a possible conspiracy involving missing scientists and other interesting facts. But most importantly, her surprise statement about Tessa not being responsible for the shootings had piqued his interest, obviously. He needed to find out more and the only way to accomplish that, was from the inside.
He decided it was time to get out of bed and start a new life.
A second later, the nestled duvet was free from his body and his legs were hanging over the edge of the bed. He dropped to the floor and whipped out a hundred full-extension pushups to get the blood flowing, ignoring the discomfort squeezing his ribs and lower back. He dressed in a pair of jeans and a red and white flannel shirt from the closet.
Tally had told him the clothes belonged to her deceased grandfather—old timer clothes. He took a moment to smell the garment on his chest, and then take whiff of the skin of his arm. Yep, both smelled like an old man. A perfect match.
He stepped into the hallway and walked to the top of the stairs where he stood motionless, listening to a voice he didn’t recognize coming from the ground floor.
“I still can’t believe you brought him here!”
“Well, believe it. It’s a done deal.”
He recognized the second voice—Tally, and she sounded frustrated.
Simon made it down the stairs quietly and sat on the bottom step, facing a small alcove with a statute of Jesus near the front entrance to the house.
The voices were coming from the right, down a hallway he assumed led to the rear of the house. To the kitchen, maybe? He was curious. He wanted to hear how their conversation played out before he met with Tally’s people. If they were hostile, he needed to know why and prepare a response. His spin control skills were rusty, and he figured a little planning was wise.
“Wicks! He’s an adult. You know we can’t trust adults,” a cracking male voice said. His tone sounded young, like he was just reaching puberty.
“I’m in charge here, Diesel,” Tally said, “and I’ve made my decision.”
“But this is our home, too, and we’re all here for the same reason—to get away from adults and stay safe from all their lies. Having him here goes against everything we stand for.”
“I agree with Diesel,” another person added in a sweet female voice—almost angelic in tone. “This is not what we signed on for, Wicks. He’s right. Adults always let you down and ruin everything.”
“Well, Dixie, this adult is not going to ruin anything. And besides, the situation has changed. Just look around outside. That rain isn’t normal and we never planned for anything remotely close to it.”
“Even more reason to keep to ourselves, Wicks,” a third voice chimed in, this one a deep male voice.
“Wrong, Slayer,” Tally said, her voice firm. “We need Red and his expertise. Especially after what happened last night with my brother. I convinced Wyatt to leave us alone, for now. But knowing him, he’ll be back. We can’t do this by ourselves. Not anymore. There’s too much at stake and I cannot allow our personal beliefs to jeopardize everything my grandparents built. The world is changing all around us, and Pandora needs to change with it.”
“You’re sure about this, Wicks?” the deep-toned voice of Slayer asked.
“I’m sure. And anyway, this isn’t a democracy. I’ve made my decision. Red has the experience and we don’t.”
“All things practical and tactical,” the sweet girl’s voice added, emphasizing the words that rhymed.
“Exactly, Dixie. Red has the contacts and resources we’re going to need. We need to adjust; otherwise, all of this will be for nothing.”
“Still, Wicks, bringing in an outsider is not cool,” Slayer said. “I’m more than capable of defending this place.”
“So am I,” the other male said, though his voice cracked, alternating between lower and higher registers.
“Look, he’s in. End of discussion. I don’t want to hear another word about it. Am I making myself clear?”
There was silence until Tally spoke again.
“Look, I expect everyone to treat him as an honored guest. If you don’t like it, there’s the door. Nobody is forcing you to stay here. You can go back to your lives on the street, scrounging for food and a place to sleep. It’s your choice. So what’s it gonna be?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
RaineTech CEO Jeffrey Hansen woke with a searing ache across his shoulder and leg, and disorientation consuming his thoughts. The air around him was thick with moisture and smelled of decaying wood and aging feces. He peeled his eyes open to look around, but was unable to see much in the darkness other than a few streaks of light beaming in from above.
A series of stiff slats or bars was pressing against his back. It was interspersed with open areas, allowing his shoulder blades, elbows, thighs, calves, and buttocks to sag in spots. He tried to sit up but couldn’t—some
thing was holding his wrists and ankles in place—restraints. They weren’t rigid like metal, or sticky like tape, making him think they were made of cloth. Not that it mattered; he was being held against his will—tied down like an animal.
His first instinct was to panic, but his logic took control, screaming at him to take a minute and gather in all he could from the surroundings. He did, letting his memory catch up to his runaway heart rate.
A flood of imagery rushed into his thoughts all at once: the sub, the drone attack, the swim to the beach, the spray of gunfire, and the attempted escape with two rounds of gunfire hitting their mark. All of it aimed squarely at him—all of it leading to a second swim in the ocean surf before his vision faded and the shadows consumed him.
He realized he should have been dead, either from the pair of gunshot wounds or from the salt water float. An unconscious, bleeding man should never survive in shark-infested water; however, somehow he had.
But where was he, and why was he tied to a bed?
The wobbly, creaky nature of the bed made him think it had been constructed using lashed-together materials, assuming he’d been hauled out of the water by one of the Caribbean natives. It was also possible he may have been retrieved by the hired hands protecting Carlos Santiago, AKA Jigsaw, the infamous drug lord who owned St. Bluffs Island and the mansion standing atop its southern peak.
He moved his wounded shoulder and leg around, trying to gather more clues. Both felt like they’d been bandaged based on the skin pull and tightness around his wounds. Before he could run anymore tests, a voice called out to him in a breath-filled whisper.
“Hey? You awake over there?”
It was a man’s voice—deep and cautious—coming from his left.
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