Callum lowered the binoculars and ran a hand through his hair as he exhaled slowly. He’d watched the same thing dozens of times over the past few months, and knew there’d been about one per day. Mariposa Esposito had been the first, shot by Hill against protocol. Hill had claimed she’d resisted on the way to the motorpool. Since then orders had come in for more. The only thing that prevented the prisoners from rioting was secrecy. They were told they’d been transferred.
Callum had refused to participate, citing Bainbridge’s psychological report as sufficient reason why. When a guard officer had called Bainbridge to take issue, the psychologist had given the officer an earful. Though Callum had been spared the need to take part in the executions, he’d still had to stand and watch as more and more detainees were led to their death. He didn’t know if the same situation was taking place in other camps, but figured it must have.
But today the order had come in that he’d feared. It was the first time that there’d been two executions ordered on the one day and his name had been put down to transport one of them. Apparently not even Bainbridge had the pull to get Callum out of the duty, or else he’d changed his mind. Callum wasn’t sure. But whatever had happened, the order was clear and he had a job to do. He was posted in the guard tower until the time came to drive the young woman to her death.
As if on cue, the camp’s PA system gave a loud squeal and then Callum heard the words he dreaded. “Detainee Celeste Adams, please report to the B wing courtyard immediately.”
He sighed loudly, gripped the shotgun and patted his holster to make sure his pistol was in place. As ready as he could ever be, he descended the stairs from the guard tower. It was a short walk through the compound to where the motor pool was located. As he walked, he tried to deal with the conflicting thoughts racing around his head.
“Reporting as ordered, sir.” Celeste Adams was already waiting for him.
Callum jerked a thumb towards the nearby van. “I need to head into Effingham and I’m hung over. You’re going to drive.”
Her lips pursed and he thought she might mouth off, but after a moment she nodded and walked toward the van. He watched as she opened the door and climbed in. This all seemed so pointless, orders be damned. He’d read her file. She was the detainee he’d helped in the intake line. Her knee had only just recovered from being shattered by Hill’s baton months ago in the shower block. She’d certainly had an eventful stay. He climbed into the van.
She started the engine, keeping her eyes ahead. “There’s no need for this charade. If you’re going to do it, just do it.”
“Just drive the vehicle, detainee.”
She kept quiet as he entered the address of the town into the GPS and hit start. He cradled the shotgun between his legs and eased back into the chair. The van picked up pace, until they reached the guardhouse to the only gate out of the camp. Adams pulled the vehicle up next to it and wound the window down when prompted by a guard, who strolled out of the guardhouse and over to their vehicle with a clipboard in hand.
“Hey, Callum.” The gate guard leaned his head inside the van with a smile. “Where y’all heading?”
“Hi Andy. Just have to head to Effingham. Too hung over to drive, so thought I’d take fuck up over here.”
“Not a bad fuck up, if you’re going to take one, if you catch my drift.” Andy Ward gave a long laugh, as if Adams wasn’t even there. “Okay. Enjoy your drive.”
Callum forced a laugh as Adams wound up the window and they started to move again. They drove in silence for nearly an hour. He’d usually listen to the radio, but he needed time to think and process what he was about to do: drop a woman off for execution. It violated every inch of his moral code. He gripped the shotgun tighter and wished there was some other way. As they drove further, the sun disappeared behind a large, dark cloud. It seemed like fitting symbolism.
He looked over at her. “Pull over.”
She glanced at him, indicated and pulled over to the side of the road. He sat in silence as he thought hard. She wasn’t stupid. He could sense her looking at the shotgun in between his legs, probably weighing up whether she could grab for it, escape or do something else before the hammer came down. He let out a breath, lifted the gun and opened the door. He climbed out of the van.
She looked at him quizzically. “What are you doing?”
“Go.” He slammed the door shut and held the shotgun casually at his side.
The electric window on his side wound down and when he looked inside she was staring at him. “What the fuck?”
He took a step back from the vehicle. When she made no move to depart, he raised an eyebrow. “Go. That’s an order.”
“Um, no?” She took her hands off the wheel and crossed her arm. “You’re suggesting a sure-fire way to end up dead or in a real prison.”
Callum glared. “You may end up in prison, yes. But I’ve been ordered to drop you off to be executed. Even if you eventually end up dead, you break even. This is your chance. Go!”
She looked at him for a moment or two and then nodded. She started the van, wound up the window and glanced at him again. It was as if she expected him to change his mind, but he’d never been surer about anything in his whole life. She placed her hands on the wheel and inched the van forward. He laughed when she thought to indicate as she pulled away, kicking up a small plume of dust.
He hadn’t known which way his mind would take him, which choice he’d make. It was against every fiber of his being to help execute a civilian, despite whatever puffed-up crime they’d been accused of. On the other hand, carrying out those orders would have been easier than what faced him now his decision was made. He waited until the van was a speck in the distance. Whatever. He’d done the right thing. Damn Hill, Bainbridge or anyone else who tried to bust him for it.
He stretched his neck, rotating it left and right, and then sighed as he unsafed the shotgun. He raised it to his shoulder, pointed it in the air and squeezed the trigger. The gun roared and kicked into his shoulder. He lowered it, pumped it and then repeated the action. Done, he safed the weapon and threw it onto the ground. Now there were a couple of spent shells to prove he’d tried to stop her. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, dialed and waited for an answer.
“This is Major Bainbridge.”
“Major? It’s Sergeant Callum Watkins. There’s been an incident. I need some help.”
***
Jack glanced up at the four-story heritage building with some pride. In the heart of Chicago’s Old Town, it was far enough from downtown to avoid FEMA saturation, but in a convenient enough location to suit his needs. It was discreet and low key – absolutely perfect. He’d been surprised when Elena had revealed that she’d arranged for the resistance to use the building as its headquarters.
It had been a busy couple of months. Since he’d met with the initial members of the resistance in New York, the movement had grown at great pace. They hadn’t commenced operations, but had been busy gathering information and readying themselves to agitate and resist when the time came. After his meetings with Morris and Hall, Jack had wanted to make sure they were ready before acting. The time was now.
He’d traveled to Chicago with Peter Weston the previous day. It was risky to move so far across the country, but Jack had seen no alternative. New York was too close to Washington, and there was a strong cell established there now. He had to trust others to maintain the operations there while he prepared to kick off their activity. Though he’d half expected to be detained a dozen times on the road, he’d made it.
“Just the trick, I’d say.” Peter patted him on the shoulder and looked up at the building. “Looks good, doesn’t it?”
“Sure does. Elena has done a great job.” Jack smiled and jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s go in and check it out?”
They rode the elevator to the top floor. It opened with a chime and a pair of burly-looking men met them at the door. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Elena had organ
ized some security to protect the inner sanctum of the resistance from prying eyes. She’d apparently thought of everything. One of the guards stepped forward, a clipboard in hand, while the other maintained a watchful distance.
Jack smiled. He was certain they’d know who he was, given he was the nominal leader of the resistance. “Good to see you, fellas.”
“Need to get your names, gentlemen.” There was no warmth from clipboard man. “Please also keep your movements slow and your hands where we can see them.”
“Not a problem.” Jack sighed and tapped his leg. “I’m Jack Emery and this is Peter Weston. Elena Winston is expecting both of us. Can we make this quick?”
“It’ll take as long as it takes, sir.” Clipboard man looked down at his list.
Jack crossed his arms and turned to Peter. He kept his voice low. “Can you believe this?”
Peter gave a pained look. “Bunch of little dictators, aren’t they?”
Clipboard man looked up at them. “Okay, you’re alright to head on through.”
Jack didn’t give them another second of his time. He walked down the corridor, which opened up into a large, open-plan space with some desks and meeting spaces, but only a single office at the back of the room. There was a handful of people scattered about, but for the most part the room was empty. Jack didn’t know any of them except for one – Elena. She was leaning against a doorframe, a broad smile on her face.
Jack smiled and crossed the distance quickly, as the others in the cubicle farm stared at him strangely. He didn’t care. Elena was one of the few people who understood what was happening, what he was going through and what he was trying to do. When he reached her, they hugged tightly. The friendship they shared still surprised him a little, but they’d become allies under fire.
“I’m glad you’re okay, Jack.” Her voice wavered slightly. “I was worried you wouldn’t make it. It’s really good to see you.”
He backed away from her. “I’ve kept my streak going. I think FEMA likes having me around.”
“Is that so?” She smirked. “Meeting the President, golf with Hall, months underground – shame you couldn’t get them to change their mind, with all that popularity.”
“It would make all this unnecessary.” Peter gestured around the office.
Elena jerked a thumb behind her. “Come inside.”
Jack nodded and the three of them stepped inside the office. He used the spare moment to gather his thoughts. Something felt wrong. It was odd that Elena had mentioned the meetings with Morris and Hall from months ago. They’d been the final straw for Jack, proof that the balance of power in America had shifted massively. It had been his last attempt to use reason and argument to free the country from FEMA’s web.
In the preceding months, a network of influential Americans had sprung up using the technology Hickens had provided to block electronic eavesdropping. Jack had been in hiding, along with most of the leadership, waiting patiently as their power grew. Though there had been setbacks, for the first time there were people in place across nearly the whole country. The resistance was ready to move.
“This is perfect, Elena.” Jack smiled as he closed the door, then walked over to sit on one of the chairs. “Your office, I presume?”
“No, nothing of the sort.” She shook her head. “It hasn’t been assigned yet. I want to know what comes next, Jack. The network is ready.”
“Guerrilla Radio was all about information.” Jack patted her shoulder. “Now we’ve spent months building something a little bit more potent than that.”
“And what’re we doing?” Elena stared at him, a strange look in her eyes. “I want to know, Jack. I’ve earned that.”
“We’re taking the country back. They have control of civilian government and a paramilitary force to back them up. We’ve gathered a bunch of influential people around us to speak out, act out, advocate, resist, provide finance and sustenance. Thousands. All we need to do is tip the scales and the people will follow. They have to.”
“But—”
Peter stepped forward. “I know you’re worried, but we’ve evolved, Elena. They think they’ve shut us down, Hall included, but there’ll be eyes on us waiting for us to do something wrong. We just have to be careful and hope Hickens’ technology keeps us off their radar for long enough to do what needs doing.”
“Don’t worry just yet, Elena.” Jack walked over to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “You’ve got a role to play, just like everybody else.”
She sighed and squirmed away from his touch. “Jack, I really need to speak with you in private about something.”
He shook his head and smiled. “Can it wait? I’ve got to call Bill McGhinnist. He only has a small window. Catch you later?”
“No.” She was jittery. “It’s important. It really can’t—”
He was surprised by how on edge she seemed. He’d never seen her act like this before, not even at their most desperate, in Indianapolis. Perhaps she was just nervous that things were close to kicking off, given how poorly that had gone with Guerrilla Radio. But he couldn’t indulge her now. He thought about how much work he had to do – a dozen calls to make and so much to organize.
“Please, Elena. Peter. I just need a few minutes.” He didn’t wait for them to leave the room, but turned away and started to dial. He lifted the phone to his ear.
He had to speak to McGhinnist and check in on efforts on the east coast. After that, he had to check in on the other cells. One of the problems of a tight cell structure and a small leadership was the amount of work each member had to do. It was critical to limit information to those in the inner sanctum, to reduce the risk of exposure and protect those close to him, but it took a heavy toll.
He turned around as McGhinnist picked up, just as the door closed behind Peter and Elena. He let out a deep breath. It was time to unleash the beast.
***
The bird is in the nest.
Richard smiled like a hyena as he read the text message, taking a moment to enjoy the words. He looked up from his phone. His was the only occupied table at the 1789 Restaurant, which had been cleared by his security detail prior. He picked up his glass and drained the last of the pinot. He sloshed the wine around in his mouth, savoring the taste, before swallowing. Along with pleasure came relief. It had been months since Jack Emery had been spotted, but since their meeting at the golf course Richard had kept an eye on him. He’d received intelligence that Emery had been central to the revitalization of the resistance. He’d miscalculated often when dealing with these individuals, but he was determined to get it right this time. He was glad he’d have the chance.
He’d first tried to smash the resistance by making an example out of the agitators in Indianapolis. But in hindsight he’d been too heavy handed. In trying to dampen down one crisis, all he’d done was make martyrs out of the dead and imprisoned. It had vindicated the resistance against FEMA control in the eyes of the neutral observer and emboldened the fanatics. His next miscalculation had been detention of loved ones and surgical strikes. Those hadn’t worked either. Neither the journalists or other members of the resistance had been dissuaded, instead all he’d been left with was thousands of people to detain at enormous cost to the taxpayer. It hadn’t gone down well with Morris. Finally, he’d hoped an appeal to the resistance’s nominal leader, Jack Emery, would work. It hadn’t.
At every step he’d miscalculated. He’d secured the country, but failed to eradicate the termites nibbling away at the base of that control. They’d gorged themselves, grown stronger and smarter, and now posed a greater threat to his agenda. But against all temptation to strike again, Richard had waited. He’d learned that not everything could be planned on a corkboard. He’d backed his gut, halted all offensive operations against the resistance and waited for Emery to emerge from hiding. As he did, he’d gradually begun to relinquish some minor elements of control, to show the public that with cooperation came increased freedoms.
Letting
the resistance grow had been a huge risk, but he knew that if he couldn’t get Emery, he couldn’t truly end the resistance. If he’d waited much longer, the resistance would have been in a position to pose a serious threat. But the gamble had paid off. Richard now knew where Jack Emery was. On the eve of the commencement of resistance operations, he was in a position to smash them once and for all. Not only Emery, but a large number of prominent and affluent Americans. It would be a coup de graĉe in every possible sense.
He let out a long sigh of relief and stood to stretch his muscles, then picked up his briefcase and walked to the entrance of the restaurant, all thoughts of dinner forgotten. A few of the staff looked at him with confusion, but didn’t speak. They were probably appalled that Washington DC’s most well regarded restaurant had been cleared out for the evening so he could eat there, and he hadn’t even stayed for his second course. He didn’t care. He had work to do and his people would fix up the bill. He left the restaurant and climbed into the car that was waiting.
He leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Take me to FEMA headquarters, please.”
“Yes, Administrator.” The driver fired the engine. “Everything okay with dinner, sir?”
“Lost my appetite.” Richard sat back, making it clear he didn’t want any more small talk.
As the car inched forward and the lights of the police escort started to flash, he picked up the phone and looked back at the original message. He keyed a response and let his finger hover over the phone for a moment, as his mind processed the situation one more time, looking for any holes in his plan. With a smile and a shake of his head, he hit send. Once she read it, the woman he’d come to rely on would terminate the threat of Jack Emery, bringing a giant hammer down on his resistance. The endgame had arrived. He dialed Rebecca Bianco.
State of Emergency: Jack Emery 2 Page 19