by Jon Land
The Althena ProStreet boasted six right-mounted gears and he used all of them in tearing away, kicking up more dirt and grass with the chopper’s front wheel lifting briefly off the ground before the bike lurched into what felt like light speed. Accelerating so fast that Blaine’s breath was gone even before the dual blast from the Predators hit with nary a gap.
Impact was dizzying. He tensed for it, thought he was ready, but then he was flying through a night momentarily stripped of air. McCracken had stolen a space shuttle once, had done all his training in the ship’s initial launch, learning the nature of g-forces the hard way.
That’s what this felt like. He churned through the air in what seemed to be slow motion, barely aware of the huge flame burst that had blown a hole in the National Mall and eviscerated everything that lay beneath it.
Including the White Death and the pipes carrying it, lost in a black smoke cloud that blew outward before it seemed to be sucked back into the chasm.
Impact felt cushiony, even when his shoulder crunched and crackled as he rolled across the hard earth, beneath the flight of the bike that continued to soar on. He came to a rest in direct line with the emergency road flare he’d used to mark the target, which flamed out at the same time he felt his hold on consciousness ebbing.
“Thank you, God bless you, and God bless the United States of America.”
McCracken heard those words intermixed with applause and his name being yelled by H. J. Belgrade as the cold and darkness finally found him in their grasps.
EPILOGUE:
FOUND
Washington, DC: one week later
McCracken sat alongside H. J. Belgrade on the park bench on the grounds of the city’s Armed Forces Retirement Home, tossing bread crumbs to the flock of pigeons that had magically appeared. He used his left hand since his right was still held in a sling.
“Not sure they’re gonna let me stay here much longer, son,” Belgrade said suddenly, tossing a handful of his own.
“You cause too much a ruckus?”
“Nah. They say I’m a nuisance to the environment.” Belgrade tossed another handful of feed, as more pigeons fluttered to the ground. “They said they never had a bird problem ’til I came along.”
“Bird problem?”
“That’s what they call it.”
“Meaning they have no idea what you pulled off from within their walls.”
“Nobody does, except the people who need to. Thanks to them, you’re not a wanted man anymore, son. And all that video footage featuring you won’t be showing up on any network that doesn’t want its air to go dead. It’s also mysteriously vanished off the Internet.”
“They’re welcome to use it after I’m dead, H. J.”
“Which I don’t reckon is coming anytime soon.”
“What’s the cover story they’re going with?”
“Oh, you’re gonna love this. An exploding pipe.”
“You mean they’re telling the truth for once.”
Belgrade looked over at him, seeming to forget the bag of bread crumbs on his lap or the clutter of pigeons now brushing up against both their legs. “Know what’s good about this mess, son? There’s nothing to clean up like there usually is. Rule’s dead, the bikers are dead, and the conspiracy’s low-life planners have mysteriously vanished.”
“This mess, yes,” McCracken acknowledged, “but what about the next one? Looks like we got a whole new generation of enemies who grew up pulling toy prizes out of cereal boxes and have now figured out all the corners and potholes along the information superhighway. Gives us both all the more reason to stick around until the younger guys figure all this shit out. We stopped the tenth circle, sure, but what about the eleventh, twelfth—you do the math, H. J.”
“Just when I was hoping to retire.”
“Me too.”
The two men looked at each other, breaking out into smiles, then laughter, at the same time.
Belgrade gazed about him, taking a big breath of chilled early February air. “Know what else? I believe I could do without this place.”
“You do have some bad moments, old friend,” McCracken reminded.
“Don’t we all?”
McCracken was waiting when Zarrin emerged from Georgetown University Hospital, her eyes widening in surprise at his presence.
“What’d the doctors say?”
“I’ll be lucky to able to hold a water pistol from now on.”
“And the piano?”
She shrugged. “There’ll be good days and not so good ones.”
“What’s Colonel al-Asi have to say about that?”
“He offered me a job.”
“What kind of job?”
“He didn’t say, which says everything.” Zarrin saw McCracken’s gaze turn evasive and thrust a finger at him. “You spoke to him yourself, didn’t you?”
“He asked for a reference.”
“I’m guessing it was something else.”
“He offered me a job too.”
“What kind of job?”
“He didn’t say.” McCracken hesitated, trying to keep his expression flat. “Without those men he sent us, this country would still be picking up the pieces.”
“And don’t think he doesn’t know that.”
McCracken smiled slightly until his gaze darted to her hands. “I’d like to see you play again, Zarrin.”
“I’ll make sure to let you know, so you can enjoy the show.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” McCracken told her.
“After all,” she said, coming up short of a smile, “what else do we have?”
“I was just thinking,” Blaine was saying, having finally reached Andrew Ericson’s father, Matthew, with the news that Andrew was fine and safe now as well.
“About what?”
“The first time I saw you. At rugby practice at the Reading School.”
“What do you remember most?”
“All that hair bouncing around.”
Matthew laughed. “Just a memory now.”
“Andrew looks just like you.”
“Poor kid.”
“I can make all the arrangements for his trip home from my end,” Blaine told him.
“Believe I’ll make the trip over to retrieve him personally. That should give us some time to get together, catch up.”
“I’d like that. How was Afghanistan?”
“Is that where I was? All the countries seem the same after a while.” He paused, the silence exaggerated by the suddenly static-filled line. “I don’t know how to thank you, Blaine.”
“Not necessary.”
“Because it’s family.”
“As close as I’ve got, anyway.”
“We need to make sure that’s close enough. But we never learn, do we?”
“I think I did this time.”
“What’s the next holiday?”
“Easter, Passover, something like that.”
“You available to join the kid and me?”
“I just might be,” said McCracken.
It was two weeks later, his sling finally shed and his beard nearly regrown, when Blaine joined Johnny Wareagle in the Black Hills of South Dakota where Wareagle had resumed work on the granite carving of Chief Crazy Horse in the mountain face. This time, McCracken had his own tools ready, but he still worked with a safety harness while Johnny, the stitches still in place where Boyd Fowler had taken a bite out of his cheek, stood out on the ledge tempting the wind and elements.
“Know my problem with all this, Indian?”
“What?”
“Can’t change the past. It’s already chiseled in stone without adding our efforts to the mix,” Blaine said, gazing up at the scope of the carving before starting in with his tools.
“Maybe we�
��re no better at changing the present,” Wareagle told him.
“Because no matter how many times we get the call, the phone keeps ringing.”
Johnny regarded Crazy Horse as best he could from this angle. “From where we stand, you wouldn’t even know this was a face.”
“You mentioned that before.”
“But with every bit of chiseling we do,” Wareagle continued, his heels teetering precariously on the edge, “no matter how small, it takes on more shape. Incrementally.”
“Small victories, sure. You’re saying it’s the same thing with the present.”
“Am I? Because it’s the future we’re really fighting for.” Wareagle looked up, focusing on Crazy Horse as if McCracken wasn’t there at all. “But no matter where we stand, we can’t really see that future because it’s unfinished. It’s up to us to shape the contours and create clarity, just like we’re doing here.”
“Only with an assault rifle instead of a chisel.”
“Whatever it takes, Blainey.”
McCracken raised his hammer into position, imitating Johnny’s motion on the sheer rock face before them waiting to join the rest of the sculpture. “Guess that’ll do for now, Indian …”
Tap, tap, tap …
“… and we’ll see if tomorrow brings anything different.”
The area around the actual location of the Roanoke Colony was evacuated out to a two-mile radius. The explosive charges set around the site of the encampment were of the shaped variety to assure a total collapse of not only the well that had contained the contaminated water, but also the surrounding ground structure. That was the only way to assure that all traces of the carbonic acid spawned from ancient volcanic activity would be safely entombed. The explosions were set off by remote detonation, the blast wave creating an earthquake-like rumble that was felt for miles beyond the quarantined area.
Hours later, all residents were allowed to return to their homes after ground tests picked up no trace whatsoever of what had wiped out the colonists in 1590, and had very nearly claimed far more victims than that just a few weeks earlier.
The White Death was no more.
About the Author
Jon Land has written twenty-nine novels. His first series titles were the Blaine McCracken novels, and he is also the author of the Ben and Danielle series and the Jared Kimberlain series. The first three books in his Caitlin Strong series—Strong Enough to Die (2009), Strong Justice (2010), and Strong at the Break (2011)—have all garnered critical praise with Strong Justice being named a Top Thriller of the Year by Library Journal and runner-up for Best Novel of the Year by the New England Book Festival. Land lives in Providence.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Jon Land
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN 978-1-4804-1479-2
Published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
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