by Nick Thacker
“I love you, Jen.” Tears formed in his eyes, as Jen just stood still. “I do, I really do. I never stopped loving you, but I couldn’t talk about it.”
Austin walked toward them. “Jen, I can’t help but pity you right now. I hope you can understand that I am a rational man, and I want you to know that your husband is telling the truth.”
45
Ken Dawson was exhausted.
He was driving back to his house after the third late night in a row at his mentor’s apartment. His wife and son were still out of town, visiting her parents in Virginia. They were due back this weekend, so he’d been living the life of a bachelor once again.
The house was a mess, he’d ordered takeout every night for the past three days, and the laundry was overflowing.
Further, his yard was in desperate need of a trim, the cars needed washing, and there were a few small projects he needed to do around the house.
But he had a good excuse.
This case he and his mentor, Craig Larson, were currently on was easily going to be the biggest of the year for him. He’d started at the agency five years ago, getting paired with Larson during his last two years before retirement.
Dawson had previously been a police officer, moving to the private investigation firm after ten years, and he loved the freedom of the new job. Larson was a veteran attorney, a great teacher, and an amazing detective, and his network in and around the political scene was staggering.
Since he’d begun the new job, Dawson had been trying to prove himself as a detective, and he’d put in his fair share of late hours. The rigor of the job required that he chase a lead before it went cold, regardless of how long it took. In this case, it meant tracking down every known bit of research on the pseudo-secret organization called Nouvelle Terre. He started in the usual places—libraries, web searches, old newspaper clippings—but found nothing.
After that he started to call in some favors from friends and acquaintances. The Library of Congress, the CIA Headquarters, and even a brief chat with a Smithsonian historian. Again, nothing. Larson would have balked at the brashness of Dawson’s calls and requests. He’d always been a man to move through information more slowly, letting it “come to him,” as he liked to put it. But Dawson needed to move quickly or they’d be out of luck. It had happened before, and he didn’t want it to happen again.
He pulled up the drive in front of his suburban home. Two stories, with a furnished basement, it was well more than they needed, just the three of them, but they’d filled it with three dogs, a cat, and enough junk to last a lifetime.
As his headlights illuminated the garage door, he reached up and pressed the button on the dome of the truck. The garage door jolted, then slowly rose. He checked his phone while waiting for it, and when he looked up again, he noticed the door to the house was open.
He frowned, but grabbed his briefcase and got out of the truck. He walked into the garage and entered the house.
“Hello?” he said loudly.
Hearing nothing, he stepped through the laundry room and into the kitchen.
“Amanda?”
No response.
Did I leave the door open?
He knew he didn’t. He remembered leaving out the front door three days ago when he went to Larson’s apartment.
Maybe Amanda and Zach left it open when they left.
Still, can’t hurt to check.
He walked through the downstairs floor first, checking the spare bedroom, restroom, and living areas. He moved upstairs, calling into each room. The upstairs was empty as well, so he went down to the basement.
He walked through the finished living room and den and entered the guest bedroom at the end of the hall.
He heard a clicking sound.
Whipping around, he instinctively reached for his side.
Shit, he thought. I haven’t carried a gun since I was on the force.
“Who’s there?” he said into the dark open room. He flicked a switch on the hallway wall and blinked a few times.
Still nothing.
He heard another click, and he tried to place its location. It sounded like it was coming from this room, but he backed into the guest room first. He turned the light on and reached the closet. Dawson opened the door and pulled out a seven iron from his set of golf clubs, then stepped back into the basement hallway.
Dawson had never been much of a fighter. He was smart, and his career’s trajectory had generally reflected that. However, he was in good shape, and was trained in hand-to-hand combat at the academy.
He called out again and stepped into the living room. Still nothing, but a few more steps forward and he heard a two more clicks.
Then another.
What the hell is that? he thought.
His eyes focused on the decorative chest in the corner of the room. It was large—Dawson liked to tease Amanda about that as often as they were down here—and could easily hide a grown man.
He walked toward it, raising the club over his shoulder with one hand while reaching out to grab the clasp of the chest with the other. The handle, a vanity antique to go with the fake vintage chest, wasn’t lockable, and he swung it open. There was nothing inside but a few blankets.
Something stirred next to the chest, and when he closed the lid he saw a squirrel running along the wall.
His heart skipped a beat, then he grinned. You’ve got to be kidding me.
The squirrel stopped in the corner, then looked at him.
Click.
It was the exact same clicking sound he’d heard before.
He shook his head, laughing inwardly to himself, then walked upstairs to get something to catch the squirrel with.
When he entered the kitchen, he reached for the light switch. He turned it on, and the room exploded. He was thrown backward into the family room, landing on the hardwood floor in front of the flatscreen TV.
A ball of fire had lit the ceiling on fire, and flames now spread wildly through the kitchen.
He groaned, then tried to stand. His right arm ignited in pain, and he fell back to the floor.
Flames now engulfed the wall behind the couch, creeping toward him. He tried to pull himself farther away from it, but he was too slow. He rolled into a crouch, then slowly stood.
Smoke was filling the room, so he started toward the office in the front of the house.
This wasn’t an accident, he thought. Lights don’t explode. He had to get to the front door.
The smoke was thickening, and he had almost reached the front door when the next explosion rocked him sideways.
Upstairs?
The bomb had been triggered remotely, he now realized, and it had detonated directly above the kitchen. In my own bedroom.
He stumbled sideways and landed facedown on the carpet in the office. He breathed hard, trying to get as much air as possible. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and he no longer felt the searing pain shooting up his arm.
He knew immediately what was going on. He’d been targeted, no doubt for his involvement in the case. What is this about?
He needed to get out of the house and get to his truck. He had to tell Larson.
But his arm was useless, and the left side of his house had now collapsed in on itself, blocking his way to the front door.
He lay on the floor, looking at the flames engulfing the family area and front entry. Reaching for his pocket, he took out his phone and dialed a number.
Come on, he thought, as he tried again to stand. Coughing, he checked the connection.
It was still dialing.
Pick up, he willed.
He stumbled through the smoke, dodging a few pieces of furniture that had already been consumed by fire.
He hacked and coughed uncontrollably now, and sucked deep breaths of air as he crossed the living room to the back door. He tripped over the armchair and stumbled to the back wall. It was almost entirely covered in flames, but he knew he could easily kick through the single-bolt particl
e board back door.
Then he realized something. They’ve targeted me and possibly Larson as well. And they’ve done it by planting explosives in my house.
On each floor of my house.
Only two of the bombs had gone off. His eyes widened as a new fury overcame him. He rushed toward the back door, but it was too late.
The bomb planted in his basement detonated at the moment he reached the back door. He was in mid-kick, trying to break down the door and escape, when the floor gave out beneath him.
He fell, right into an overwhelming burst of flames. The hole opened in his basement ceiling directly below him, and he dropped through, landing on the floor of the room he was just in.
He could see the chest he’d opened not five feet away, standing against the wall. He looked up at the open hole above him as excruciating pain roared through his lower body. Something had landed across his legs, but he couldn’t even summon the strength to lift his head to see what it was. He closed his eyes, waiting for end.
Thankfully, it came within thirty seconds.
The roof two floors above him collapsed, bringing structural beams, attic boxes, and everything situated at the back of their house crashing down on him.
He prayed silently, but knew there was nothing God—or anyone else—could do.
The orange of the flames filled the space behind his eyelids, and soon it was blackness.
46
“We needed Mark to help with the project, and we needed a scapegoat; someone to pull the trigger on all of this. Mark, would you mind explaining to your family what it is you do, exactly, at your company?”
Mark just shrugged. “You know, already. Computers, mainframe stuff.”
“Mark,” Austin said, clearly agitated.
Mark continued. “I’m a hacker. A good one. You know I run a team of computer specialists, but together we’ve been trained to design, build, implement, and infiltrate computer security systems.”
Jen nodded. She knew this already.
“But my work isn’t always possible to do remotely. They train us to get up close, to get in where the systems are actually being used. They make sure I’m—we’re—able to be as efficient as possible in achieving our main objective, regardless of who’s in the way.
“I can fight, shoot, or maneuver my way out of just about anything, Jen. It’s not something I’m exactly proud of, but I want you to know I’ve been forced to hide all of this.”
Austin jumped in. “Mr. Adams has been very efficient, actually. The small team that reports to him singlehandedly built our security control system for the very machine we’re standing on top of, and everything he accomplished for us will be recognized as his own work. He alone, therefore, has acted as the sole perpetrator in what we’re about to release. You’re standing on ground zero, and I’m excited to get this show going.
“Now, let’s cut to the chase. Mark, say goodbye to your family, and let’s get ready to start the final phase of the project.”
Mark eyed Austin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Austin. I had nothing to do with this.”
“Oh? You built the security—”
“I built what I was told to build, and you and I both know that it is completely harmless!”
“…And when you finished the security control system, your company continued to do their research on mine. They discovered secrets that they shouldn’t have been privy to. Secrets we’ve worked hard to cover. Environmental disasters like the BP oil spill and Three Mile Island. We were even involved in Chernobyl.
“But your company couldn’t keep their nose out of it, so we had to take the situation into our own hands. We needed you, someone with a deep knowledge of the program, to come here and activate it. When word gets out that you were involved, your superiors won’t be able to talk about it, because they’ll be instigators as well.”
Mark was appalled. “Austin, you’re mad. I didn’t do anything here. Sure, I broke into your office, but I didn’t do anything there except try to figure out what’s going on. And I’m sure as hell not starting some program while I’m here.”
“Yes, well, you’re half correct. You have already achieved the first of two final steps. By logging into my computer as an administrator and attempting a connection via the encrypted data line, you successfully hacked into a security system that you, or your company, built. We couldn’t manually start the drilling process until you gave us this head start. Before, we had to wait for the station to complete its final turns on its own schedule. Thanks to you, we do not. It’s all for naught, however, since we’re basically just waiting for the final rotations anyway.
Jen thought back to the wild shaking of the gigantic machine in the lower levels. The drill.
“There are two rotations left; the next should be upon us any minute now. When the final rotation is complete, we will have, for the first time, drilled down far enough into the Earth’s crust to cause a major rift. A schism, if you will. One that will tap into the mantle and release much of the pressure being held at the bottom of this trench.”
Erik’s eyes widened as he realized the implications. “It will cause a major tectonic shift,” he said, his voice shaky. “That is a cataclysmic size for a rift, even if it is contained within the geographical area.”
“It will cause multiple tectonic shifts,” Austin replied. “And large ones, at that. We’re standing on a veritable hotbed of geological activity. This type of event will spread in exponential waves around the globe, consuming the sturdy bedrock and decimating the weak areas. It’s beautiful, really—one small spot to dig, and then…”
Erik whispered. “It’s a planetary reaction.”
Austin just stared past them. A soldier ran to Austin and whispered something in his ear.
“It appears as though our final support team has arrived,” he said quietly. “Sylvia, would you mind helping our new guests find their way?”
The blond woman left, a small cadre of soldiers following closely behind.
47
This wasn’t an accident.
As Detective Larson pulled up to the curb next to the smoldering lot where his friend’s house previously stood, the thought nagged at the back of his mind. As a career detective, he was trained to push these sorts of ideas back until the hard evidence presented itself.
But he’d also learned in his long career to trust his gut.
And now his gut was screaming at him.
This was no accident.
Ken Dawson was dead, and it was being reported currently as an accidental house fire. He knew that was certainly a possibility, but he’d long stopped taking coincidences at face value. More often than not there was something going on below the surface, and he was good—very good—at figuring out what it was.
Most of the time, Detective Larson would start with a motive. Who wanted Dawson dead, and why? Why not focus on Larson himself? Dawson was a good detective, but he was less careful and methodical than Larson would have liked. Maybe he sniffed around too much, and somebody noticed.
These thoughts pushed through the wall in his mind as he walked up the sidewalk to the smoke-blackened foundation of the house. He stopped before stepping onto the concrete porch; both to take a mental picture of the scene and for sentimental reasons. He’d been here many times before, even sharing Thanksgiving with their family.
He sighed.
He felt the nagging sensation again and realized that this was somehow different. Before, when he’d get this feeling, it was out of compassion for humanity. Now, however, there was something more.
He wanted this to be more than an accident. He wanted someone to be responsible for it because then he could blame someone. Someone could be at fault for it, and he could forever know that simple fate wasn’t the cause of his friend’s death.
So he stepped over the threshold and entered the smoking remains of the house. The local police had gotten him clearance onto the scene, and as long as he didn’t interfere with any evidence,
he could take a look around. He greeted some of the investigators on the scene, nodding once as he passed.
There were a few officers and medical personnel around one area of the basement, so he wandered toward the ladder that had been lowered from the main floor. Descending, he noticed that the basement floor was covered by the fallen remains of the rest of the house. The ladder’s base was set on some boards that were only about four feet below the main level. Another row of boards stretched from base of the ladder and curved to the left, following a short hallway. The boards were fresh lumber, so Larson assumed the gathered officials had laid out some sort of walkway or platform over the rest of the debris.
“Is there a body?”
Larson’s ears turned toward the sound of the voice. Without looking, he listened to the exchange.
“Yes, the coroner has it now,” a second voice responded.
Larson stole a glance and noticed a young police officer had answered the question. Both men stood near a wall in the basement, apart from the other group that had gathered farther down the small hallway. The man who’d asked the question was tall, lanky, and in his mid-forties. He wore a police uniform, complete with a bulletproof vest over the blue top. The pants, traditional officer attire, were starched and freshly pressed, and ended just above black leather oxfords. They were buffed and polished, and gave off a slight gleam from the overhead lights that had been staged in the basement.
“Ok, I’ll need the name of the office, please,” the first officer said. He reached to the younger man and patted his shoulder. “Thanks.” The man turned and began walking toward the rest of the group, his heels clicking on the wooden platform.
Detective Larson listened as he continued to stare at the shoes. He had a pair that looked just like it, although they were hadn’t been worn in years.