V-Day

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  So why had Cristián spoken her name aloud now? If nothing was ever an accident, then for a reason he had yet to fathom, he wanted to use her Group nickname, to speak it where someone else would hear.

  Or was it simply old habits asserting themselves? That couldn’t be, though—he wasn’t at his keyboard, this wasn’t on-line. This was the real world.

  And she is here, right in front of you. Babylon herself.

  Cristián shook off the distracting memories with an impatient mental growl, for Parris Graves wore a little frown as she studied him. He understood that frown. He’d said something or done something which did not sound normal. He’d roused curiosity.

  Chloe, though, merely raised a brow. In warning?

  Cristián shook his head, physically thrusting all the concerns and memories and worry about looking normal aside. This was too important. “You can’t bomb the Palace,” he told Parris, repeating himself for emphasis.

  Parris pursed her lips. “I have my orders—”

  “Your orders are wrong,” Cristián interrupted.

  Her brows lifted.

  “I know where the drone control room is,” Cristián said. “And it isn’t in the city.”

  6.

  THE BIG LAUNCH WAS ONE of at least four boats Adán could see dotting the blue water between the end of the long jetty and the horizon. He didn’t pay it much notice, for most of his attention was on the conversation in the room behind him.

  Minnie and Téra and Rubén Rey were discussing security. Rey wasn’t happy about the current arrangements. Minnie, who had been thrust into the role of running Vistaria’s terra cognita here on the Mexico coast, was insecure enough in her decisions to defend them strenuously.

  The launch, instead of following the general direction into the harbor at Acapulco, veered off in a sharp line which would bring it directly to the end of the jetty. It picked up speed, a white bow wave forming beneath the prow. Around it, early morning sunlight sparkled on the pristine blue water. The sunlight also bounced off the front windows of the cruiser, glinting and hiding anything behind them.

  Adán stiffened, gripping his cane. The guards on the jetty also snapped to attention, their heads turning.

  “Someone’s coming,” Adán said. “I don’t recognize the boat.”

  The conversation halted.

  “Let me see,” Minnie said. He heard her chair squeak as she turned it.

  “What’s the model and color?” Rey demanded, although he didn’t shift from his position in the reclining rocker. Hauling an extra forty pounds of plaster and steel splinting everywhere one went would make any man reluctant to move if he could avoid it.

  Minnie stepped up beside Adán and raised the wooden blinds for a better view. “Where…oh, I see it,” she murmured. Then, “It’s not one I recognize, either.”

  “It’s a Bertram 61-foot cabin cruiser,” Adán said. “Dark green trim. Newer model.”

  “Not one of ours,” Rey said, his voice sharp.

  The sentries on the jetty, who were at a better angle to see the open deck at the back of the cabin, were moving down the jetty to where the launch was aiming. They were bringing their rifles off their shoulders. They didn’t recognize the boat, either.

  “Coming in fast,” Minnie observed.

  “Too fast,” Adán said. He turned as quickly as his leg would let him to glance at Rey. “How is the alarm raised? What’s the disaster signal?”

  Rey struggled to get out of the recliner. “The fire alarm. It’s not wired into the city grid anymore. It will be heard all over the house.”

  “Téra, go,” Adán urged the woman sitting on the upright chair beside Rey. She lurched to her feet and ran from the room.

  Rey swore as the chair remained stubbornly reclined, the footrest up, which wouldn’t let him get out.

  Adán swung his cane, jammed the rubber-capped end onto the footrest and shoved it. It folded back into place, bringing the chair upright.

  He turned to Minnie. “Evacuate. As many as you can, as fast as you can. Don’t argue with me, Minnie. Go now.”

  Far below, in the bay, came the sound of automatic rifle fire. It was the heavy coughing sounds combat weapons made, when heard from a distance.

  Minnie’s face paled. She nodded and hurried away, not quite running.

  As the door closed behind her, the shrill clatter of an old-fashioned bell fire alarm sounded, echoing through the old house.

  Adán helped Rey up. “What’s the strategy?” He spoke loudly over the shrill alarm.

  Rey glanced at him as he got his crutches beneath him. “You’re not—”

  “Let’s not have this argument again. You can’t even walk, Rubén. Where are the spare weapons? What’s the plan?”

  Rey licked his lips.

  Sound of panic and movement came to Adán. The house was stirring. Not nearly fast enough, though. Even he, with his civilian sensibilities, recognized that. He whirled back to the window and looked out.

  The launch was almost at the jetty now. Gray uniformed Insurrectos stood on the deck, armed and firing, as the launch turned broadside to the jetty. The sentries on the jetty were lying down—either brought down by rifle fire or prone to make themselves less of a target as they fired back.

  There were only three of them firing as far as Adán could see. “They won’t last long down there,” he said, his gut tightening.

  “They only have to slow them down,” Rey said. “To the back deck, high position, we guard the stairs. The Insurrectos can only take them two at a time. A good shot can pick them off as they climb and hold the high ground until the house is clear.”

  Adán didn’t bother asking if Rey was a good shot. It was likely he was—Rey was the type of man who would ensure he was competent in all critical areas of his profession. “Come on, then.” He held the door open for Rey. “We have to be in position before they reach the stairs.”

  “Hurrying,” Rey assured him, as he clumped through the door.

  They moved along the passage at the best pace either of them could manage, which was little more than a fast walk. There were people hurrying along it, squeezing past them.

  The sound of rifles and smaller arms firing came clearly through the clanging of the fire alarm.

  When Adán passed the red and white alarm panel, he pushed the handle back into the closed position. The alarm shut off and the sounds of hysteria jumped. Everyone would have heard the alarm by now.

  Three steps down into the sunroom with its wooden slat blinds. It was empty. Everyone was heading for the front of the house and the doors there, to the open land beyond the circular drive.

  “Under the window seat,” Rey said, breathing hard.

  Adán limped over to the bench and tossed the cushions aside and raised the lid. AK-47s and other automatic and semi-automatic rifles rested on the foam beneath. He grabbed the AK-47 because he was familiar with the gun from his Smokey Silva role. He picked up the most lethal looking rifle, a heavy thing with matte black paint and air holes in the barrel. Rey could have it.

  Rey had left Adán to grab the weapons. He was already at the glass doors, thrusting one aside to step onto the deck.

  Adán hurried after him. The deck was also empty of people. For the first time he noticed that in the last few weeks, someone had replaced the deck’s front railing with a mortared brick wall. It was waist height, which was enough. Bricks were bullet-proof.

  “Grab the box there,” Rey said, swinging himself over to the wall. “Haul it over so I can sit on it and still see over the wall.”

  Adán leaned the rifles and his cane against the wall, then limped back to the empty beer crate sitting end-on by the steps up to the path which led to the front of the house.

  He carried the crate over and dropped it so the open side was face down, then helped Rey lower himself so he was sitting with his plastered leg thrust parallel with the wall.

  Rey straightened his back. He could see over the wall—just. It was the perfect heigh
t.

  Adán eased up to the wall, staying low. He handed Rey the black assault rifle. He checked the load on the AK-47 and cocked it, then settled carefully on his knees and rested the rifle on the smooth line of bricks which capped the wall.

  There were Insurrectos streaming along the jetty, running hard. They hadn’t reached the stairs.

  “A dozen, at least,” Rey murmured and cocked the rifle. He looked at Adán. “Belly shots. Messy and disabling. It’ll keep them down. Single shots to conserve ammunition. Okay?”

  Adán nodded.

  Rey lifted the rifle, straightened up, aimed and fired in one smooth motion. A cry sounded. The soft thud of army boots on the planking of the jetty halted.

  Adán lifted himself up, took aim at the first gray uniform he spotted and fired, then ducked back.

  A bullet thudded against the brick wall and whined away with a sour note.

  Sweat prickled under his arms and down his back.

  “Don’t think about anything,” Rey told him and fired. “Focus on aiming better with every shot.”

  Adán’s throat was too tight to speak. He lifted himself up once more and this time, lingered long enough to aim better and fired. He saw the man drop before he ducked back down again.

  The snarling roar of big car engines and the slush of tires on the gravel at the front of the house echoed down the side.

  Women screamed.

  Adán whirled to peer down the path which ran up the side of the house, alarm crashing through him.

  “Go!” Rey shouted. “I’ve got this!”

  Adán lurched to his feet and away from the wall, hugging the side of the house so he would be out of sight of the soldiers on the deck below. He left the cane leaning against the wall. He couldn’t use the gun and the cane at the same time. The AK-47 was a two-handed weapon.

  Staggering in a way which made him appear drunk, Adán limped down the flagstone path toward the front of the house. The screaming was growing louder now. Shots sounded. Shouting.

  As he got closer to the corner, the panic grew louder.

  He raised the rifle as he reached the corner, intending to ease himself around it and see what was happening, yet be ready to fire, just in case.

  As he turned the corner, an Insurrecto who had been lingering on the other side brought the butt of his rifle down on Adán’s head.

  He dropped like a tree, his brain buzzing, pain shrieking along every nerve in his body. He was face down and by sheer good fortune had landed with his head turned. He could see everything, through a long lens which telescoped it and made it all seem far away. Four black Escalades, their Hertz rental stickers bright in the morning light, all their doors open. Gray-clad soldiers all over the gravel drive, rounding up the civilians, driving them back into the house, shooting the walking wounded Loyalist soldiers trying to defend them.

  Bodies on the ground.

  Just like me. I’m on the ground. It was the first coherent thought and the last, for another bright spark flared, stealing his vision and his consciousness.

  *

  OLIVIA PUT DOWN THE PHONE, her hand shaking. She rolled over to shake Daniel. He was already awake.

  “What’s happened?” he asked, sitting up.

  “I don’t know. Betty just said you must go at once.”

  “To the White House?”

  “Yes. Through the West Wing.” She bit her lip. “Do you know where to go?”

  “No. You’ll have to come with me.” He stalked to the bathroom.

  Unease touched her. She had not been included in the directive.

  Daniel paused with his hand on the bathroom doorframe and looked back at her. “I’m not leaving you here alone,” he said. “It sounds as though things are moving, ‘livvy. This might even be the start of the end game. I want you where I can cover you, if it comes to it.”

  She shuddered and pushed the covers aside.

  *

  PARRIS GRAVES HAD A GREAT poker face, Chloe decided, although even she looked startled by Cristián’s announcement that he knew the location of the drone’s control room.

  Cristián shook his head. “I mean, I know where it most likely is. The Palace isn’t it. The Palace and the admin building are the center of military bureaucracy. The administrative arm. The headquarters for the executive arms has always been Pascuallita base. Serrano has been in the army since he left high school. He won’t think to change it. The drone is being controlled from somewhere inside the base, I guarantee it.”

  “You can’t guarantee that,” Chloe shot back. “You’re guessing.”

  “Extrapolating,” Cristián replied. He looked at Parris. “Some of the Insurrectos using the town wore flight regiment badges.”

  “Pilots,” Parris interpreted, her tone heavy. She gazed at her watch and Chloe got the sensation she wasn’t reading the time but thinking fast.

  Parris dropped her arm. “I have a call to make.” She glared at Cristián. “Don’t go anywhere.” She moved away, walking fast, weaving among the campers with light, quick steps and disappeared.

  “The Situation Room?” Chloe guessed.

  “Most likely,” Cristián murmured, his eyes narrowed as he watched where Parris had disappeared.

  Chloe waited for him to glance at her once more. After thirty long seconds, he seemed to realize she was there. His gaze settled on her face, then moved away.

  “Cristián, look at me,” she said.

  He sighed and looked at her. His gaze was clear and hard.

  “Is it because I’m American? Black? A woman? Tell me.”

  His mouth parted and his eyes widened. Then everything closed over. He shut down on her. She could see him doing it. “We don’t have time for this—”

  “Coward!” she hissed. “We’re standing here twiddling our thumbs while she talks to the President.”

  He jerked, as if she had slapped him and whirled to face her. She saw anger in his eyes. His jaw worked. “You think I give a damn about your skin or your nationality? I didn’t even know if you were a woman! I guessed! You really think any of it would stop me lo—”

  His jaw snapped shut. He turned his head away.

  Chloe’s heart lurched. With no thought or decision, she pressed herself against his tense figure, turned his chin so she could reach his lips. She kissed him.

  Touching him this way was everything she expected it to be. He was strong, solid, heated. He was, in person, the same pillar of rock who had held her life together for years now, with his calm counsel and wisdom. He had been there for her, above and beyond any help the rest of the Group had given her.

  The very first time he had reached out to her via a private back channel in the Group, he had been this way. He had advised her to seriously consider converting her lucrative, underground hacking venture into a legitimate business which would withstand world scrutiny.

  Everyone in the Group had said something similar, after she had reported on the near-miss raid on her apartment by a local gang, who objected to her not cutting them in on her profits.

  Only, when Shadow had urged her to consider it, she had. He had been right, too. It had taken her nearly a year to set herself up as a legitimate person with a real business and an actual permanent address—even though it had been a post office box. Terrified at exposing herself that way, Chloe had clung to the Group, finding comfort and courage in their presence but most especially in Shadow’s.

  Her world had steadied from its elliptical, erratic wobbling, to spin smoothly, thanks to him.

  When the Vistarian war broke out and at the same time, Shadow went off the air, Chloe already knew who he was and that the timing was not coincidental. She had taken steps to learn his real name and location not long after their first direct conversation, although she had never pushed deeper than that.

  For two days she worried. Then she took an unprecedented step, one which would scare the rest of the Group, if they knew.

  She contacted Cristián directly, via normal channels, as her
self. No masks, no handles, no nicknames. No Group safety net.

  Knowing he might be in a precarious position and unable to answer, she sent a single unsigned email. She masked her IP address and bounced the email through thirty-two servers before guiding it to his.

  Babylon is worried. Any sign will do.

  Silence. Nothing for another week, while Chloe lost all interest in her work, clients and deadlines. Even the rising balance in her perfectly normal cheque account no longer thrilled her.

  A single message came from the void, as armor coated as hers had been.

  Need breathing room. Talking to me might bring them to you. Shadow.

  He didn’t need to explain further. Chloe had been following the news from Vistaria through a dozen different feeds and sites and knew as much as anyone about the minutiae of the war. Cristián’s family were tied to the Loyalists. They were vulnerable, sitting in Pascuallita, a stone’s throw from the base the Insurrectos had taken.

  He was afraid talking to her would bring the Insurrectos down upon her. Reaching out to anyone might send out an electronic signal the Insurrectos would spot and investigate and lead them back to Cristián and the family he was protecting.

  He was trying to stay normal and unnoticeable in a world at war, which was far more challenging than the average world the rest of the Group faced.

  Chloe chafed for another three days, fuming about her inability to help, worrying about him. Shadow would chide her for using up mental juice on a situation which was unchangeable.

  What if it was changeable, though? She was smart. She knew computers. What could she change which would make it okay to reach out to him?

  Chloe developed the principals which were the foundation of Harry’s Cloak, her masking app, over the next few days. They were ugly and raw and would take weeks of refining, yet they were enough for her to reach out to Cristián.

  She had trembled as she hit send on her first message.

  I’m safe to talk to now.

  Chloe.

  Cristián’s response took five minutes to return. Three of those would have been taken up by her clunky app installing itself on his network.