by Jon McGoran
Wall was on foot, and the only thing within walking distance was a tiny scrap of a town half a mile away. It was little more than an intersection, and even at that, most of the buildings were dilapidated and dark. The only signs of life were a bank, a gas station, and a luncheonette.
Dembe swung the car into the strip of parking spots in front of the luncheonette. He and Red got out.
Wall was one of five people inside the place. He was the one covered in sweat, with a laptop computer open in front of him. The one everyone else was staring at— until Red and Dembe walked in.
Red smiled at the waitress behind the counter. “Two coffees, please.”
Wall didn’t look up as they approached, he just said, “The coffee sucks in this place.”
The other customers looked down at their cups.
“And the cell reception sucks, too,” he said, tapping at his computer. “I guess Wi-Fi would be out of the question.”
He took a sip of his bad coffee as they sat down, then winced and glared at it.
The waitress brought two more cups.
Red said, “Thank you.”
Wall looked at the two cups, then up at them, then shook his head and looked back at his screen. “Nobody said anything about the CI-goddamned-A.”
“The task force is still running the show,” Red told him quietly. “But in exchange, they have agreed to send a second program, supplied by the CIA. They insist it won’t interfere in any way. Aram seems to believe them.”
Wall looked dubious.
“We’ve learned the identity of the Ringleader,” Red told him.
Wall looked up. “Who is it?”
“Michael Hoagland.”
“He’s dead.”
“Apparently not.”
Wall let out a strange, exasperated sound between a sigh and a snort. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better? Look, if the CIA is involved, they’re going to offer the Ringleader freedom in exchange for his cooperation, because whoever it is, he’s going to have a lot of information. And if he’s free, he’s free to come after me. Now you’re telling me the Ringleader is the ghost of the same psycho maniac boss that made my life miserable for three years?” He shook his head. “Nope. I’m done. I broke the encryption for you, and now I’m out of here.”
“What I said before still holds true,” Red told him. “If I was able to find you, the Ringleader can, too. That’s even more true if it’s Hoagland—someone who knows you. If you don’t help us put him away, he’s going to remain out there, free.”
Wall’s eyes were strained but clear. “So what do you think is going to happen? You think the FBI is going to arrest this guy and put him in jail? You think there will be a trial, and a jury of his peers will convict him and lock him up? That’s not the way it works. You of all people should know that. These people have too much money for that. They buy lawyers and judges and powerful friends. They buy their way out of trouble.”
“So you think you’ll be more effective working with your friends at H3?”
“You’d be surprised what we’ve been able to accomplish on a shoestring.”
Red paused, thinking for a moment. “Say you’re right, and the CIA mucks everything up and the Ringleader and all the subscribers, whoever they are, all go free. Wouldn’t you feel better knowing that you and your friends at H3 had hundreds of millions of dollars at your disposal instead of the people you’re working to stop?”
Wall looked suspicious. “What are you getting at?”
“What if by helping us stop these killers, you could deal the Ringleader and his accomplices a devastating blow, use their own resources against them, and make sure H3 could continue operations for the next twenty years?”
“Go on.”
“Percival gave Aram a thumb drive with software that he’s supposed to insert into the satellite feed along with Aram’s program. They have insisted that Aram destroy any trace of it once he has sent it.”
“What is it?”
“I have no idea,” Red replied. “Not really my bailiwick. Aram said it’s a Trojan horse encrypted using RIX. He couldn’t open it, but he said he thought you might be able to.”
“RIX?” Wall snorted. “In like five seconds.”
“Do you mean literally five seconds, or are you exaggerating?”
Wall shrugged. “Okay, ten seconds. Why?”
“I don’t know about these things, but if we’re inserting two of these programs into the signal, and into the computers of everyone watching this wretched game, how much more difficult would it be to insert three?”
“Not difficult at all, you just have to… Wait, are you suggesting we add a third Trojan horse?”
“Again, not my specialty, here. But the thumb drive with the CIA’s program is sitting on Aram’s desk. It is a metallic blue. I can get you at least fifteen seconds alone with it.”
Wall blew air through his lips. “And since Aram has to destroy the encrypted file that he himself has never accessed, there won’t be any evidence.” He looked at Red. “And you’re saying this is not your specialty?” He laughed, but then the second thoughts showed up, etched across his face. “Technically, I could do it no problem. But legally…”
Red held up his hands. “Totally up to you. If you’d rather not, I understand.” Then he turned deadly serious. “But you said the only way to take down these people in a meaningful way is to take their money. Seems to me, this could be your only chance to do just that.”
Chapter 61
Reddington and Dembe returned with Wall less than an hour after they left. Aram tried to catch Wall’s eye, see how he was doing, but he went to his desk without a word, head down, and almost reticent.
Dembe stood next to Wall, almost protectively.
Director Cooper came out of his office and saw Wall back at his desk. Before he could say anything, Reddington held up a finger to him and said, “Aram, a word,” holding out his arm toward Director Cooper’s office.
Aram nodded and got up, then followed Reddington into the office.
“He’s scared,” Reddington said, as soon as Cooper closed the door behind them. “Because of the CIA.”
“Where was he?” Cooper asked.
“At the luncheonette in town. He wasn’t going anywhere.” Reddington turned to Aram. “Did he seem nervous or uneasy before Percival showed up?”
Aram thought about it for a moment. “A little. I think he was a little shocked to be here.”
“What about afterward?” Cooper asked.
“Absolutely, oh yeah. He was freaking out.”
“We’re going to have to keep a closer eye on him,” Cooper said.
“Just be discreet about it,” Reddington said. “The last thing you want is to upset him again.”
Cooper opened the door. “I need to speak with him. Alone.”
Aram and Reddington left, and Cooper called Wall into his office. As Reddington and Wall passed each other, Aram thought he noticed them exchange a glance.
Reddington and Dembe headed for the door. Aram thought the room suddenly felt very empty. Percival and his people were in their room, working. Ressler and Navabi were in the sleeping quarters. Aram noticed the thumb drive Percival had given him sitting on the corner of his desk. He stared at it for a moment, trying to remember if that was where he had left it.
Then a message from Cooper popped up on his computer screen. A link.
Cooper strode out of his office and said, “Aram, can you put that up on the big screen?”
Within seconds, the room was full again.
Wall stepped out from behind Cooper, looking chastened but relieved, and went to his desk.
Reddington stopped halfway out the door and he and Dembe came back.
Ressler and Navabi entered from one direction and Percival, Thomas and Beckoff appeared from the other.
As Wall sat at his desk, Aram opened the link, a video file, and sent it to the screen.
Cooper announced loudly, “We just got crime s
cene footage from that fire this morning. Rather than investigating the scene with our people, I’ve been working through an intermediary with the Texas Rangers, to avoid revealing our involvement.”
Ressler came in from the sleeping quarters and everyone gathered around to watch. Brief but devastating, the handheld video was narrated by one of the Rangers.
“This was a brutal attack, apparently by a rival gang,” the Ranger said, panning across the smoldering remains of the trailers. Bodies littered the ground, all of them wearing motorcycle leathers with gang patches. Some had been shot, some had their throats slit. “We found twelve dead, all members of the Cossacks motorcycle gang, plus evidence of as many as ten others, although it appears that those bodies were removed by the attackers. Whoever it was, they were merciless, deadly, and overwhelmingly brutal.”
Chapter 62
Keen was up well before dawn, wakened by the pain from her bruised side and half a dozen lesser injuries. She forced herself out of bed, drank two cups of coffee, ate three protein bars, and stretched, then put the key from yesterday’s round in her pocket and went for a short run around the campground to loosen up her stiff muscles. Part of her was afraid she would run into Boden or Dudayev or some other violent psychopath. Part of her was hoping she would. But mostly she suspected no one else would be up, and she was right. The only souls she saw were the PMCs guarding Corson and Yancy as they slept. She ran once around the campground, barely half a mile. It felt strangely normal, almost liberating to be outside with no one else around, not having to pretend to be someone else. Just herself and her body and the cool predawn air.
She didn’t know what her plan was. Hopefully, Yancy would finally change that disgusting shirt and she could somehow sneak into his cabin and get it. Otherwise, her only option was to try once more to come close enough to get the transmitter from him. She knew it was virtually hopeless, but she also felt strangely optimistic.
The night before, she had been crushed by sorrow at the senseless death she had witnessed, horrified by the carnage, and devastated that humans were capable of such depravity. Today, Keen felt more focused on the fact that she had survived. So many people had died the day before, but one way or another, she had managed to not be one of them. The task at hand seemed all but impossible, but somehow she felt buoyed by an optimistic sense that she was up to the challenge.
The previous morning, Corson and Yancy had been waiting at the square when everyone else got there. Keen hoped that by arriving early, she might have a chance to get to Yancy before everyone else joined them.
But the bugle blared over the loudspeaker before there was any sign of him. For another moment, she was alone under the dull pink-gray sky. Then the other ringers started to appear, walking toward her. Corson and Yancy were among them, flanked by their entourage of contractors.
Yancy still hadn’t changed his clothes, or apparently even bathed, as if his filth was supposed to be some kind of statement. From thirty feet away, Keen could see the transmitter still in his shirt pocket. She questioned herself, wondering if that could be possible, or if somehow her mind was drawing a picture of it there, transforming a piece of lint or a matchbook or fold of fabric. But she couldn’t un-see it, couldn’t convince herself that it wasn’t the transmitter.
A shudder of trepidation passed through her body, but she shook it off, assumed the stone-cold demeanor of her Le Chat alter ego, and waited for the others to arrive. She maintained it flawlessly for all of five minutes, until she realized everyone else was there except for Okoye.
Then he appeared, shuffling toward the square. He stumbled as she watched. Boden and Dudayev pointed at him and laughed.
She tried not to betray any emotion as she stifled the urge to go help him.
“Line up,” Yancy rasped, watching as Okoye regained his footing and quickened his pace. “If we have to leave without you, you’re a dead man,” he said, adding, “Probably a dead man anyway.”
Okoye stood at the end of one of the lines and Corson nodded. Yancy did a quick count and announced, “Eighteen.”
Corson nodded again.
Yancy said, “Everybody got their keys?”
A couple of them patted their pockets, but no one had forgotten their key.
They got on the buses, same as yesterday. Keen again tried to maneuver herself onto Yancy’s bus, but somehow he again ended up on the other one.
This time the buses headed north from the campground. The sun was well up an hour later when a semi-demolished, multi-story factory building rose in the distance in the middle of nowhere.
Corson explained the terms of the game.
“This building is where the next round will take place. On the top floor there is a row of ten lockers. The keys you acquired in the previous round will open them, any of them. Inside each of them is a knife. By now you may have noticed that one strategy of surviving the Dead Ring is to make sure your competitors do not. That is okay. To survive this round, you must simply bring one of those knives back to the meeting point.” He held up three fingers. “Three things to keep in mind, though. One, just because there are ten lockers and ten knives, doesn’t mean there will be ten survivors. Two, the building is booby trapped, so it’s not as easy as it looks. And three, it’s also wired to implode five minutes after the first locker is opened. You need to get in, get your knife, and get out, before the whole thing comes down on top of you.”
Chapter 63
At five A.M., Aram woke up and started working. By ten after, the lights were on and everyone else was working as well. Wall had put in hours the night before, and had decrypted half the video. They had watched the horrific footage of ruthless slaughter: contestants killing bikers, bikers killing contestants, contestants killing other contestants. The most violent of them seemed to be enjoying it, reveling in it even. As if maybe winning the thing wasn’t the most important part of the Dead Ring. Some of them seemed to be enjoying the journey.
At six-fifteen, Keen’s tracker dot started moving, slowly, as if she was on foot. Aram’s alert dinged to let him know, but he was already watching as it moved toward the main square at the center of the campground. He announced it to the room and texted Reddington, who had asked to be notified.
The CIRRUS showed the tiny contestants moving toward the main square.
Cooper called Nichols to put the tac team on standby.
The CIA contingent assembled at the back of the room, careful to stay out of the way as they observed what was going on.
Ressler and Navabi began suiting up, keeping one eye on the screens as they did. This would not be a drill.
Chapter 64
When Aram’s text came in, Dembe handed the phone to Red, sitting in the back seat of the car. They were in a suburb of Dallas, parked on a circular, cobblestoned driveway behind a sixteen million dollar house that was on the market for nineteen-five. Red was grateful for the seller’s irrational optimism, because it afforded them the perfect place from which to surveil Dwight Tindley’s home, located on a slightly more humble street the next block over.
Tindley’s wife Annabelle was already up. Red had watched her make coffee and let the dogs out into the spacious backyard.
Red didn’t like being so far away from where Lizzie was, in case she needed his help more directly. But he had a gnawing sense that she already needed his help, and that’s why he was there.
It was clear that the next round of the Dead Ring was to take place that day, and it was equally clear that, for whatever reason, there was a good chance Lizzie might find herself once more unable to activate the transmitter. Wall had said that any subscribers’ login info would be a suitable substitute, and that’s what Red was prepared to get.
If the next round started and, after five minutes, Lizzie still hadn’t activated the transmitter, Red and Dembe would pay a visit to Mrs. Tindley, and do whatever it took to convince her husband to share his login.
Chapter 65
As the buses pulled up in front of the buildi
ng, Keen could see that it was little more than a skeleton, four open floors, with a stairway in the front and one in the back. She couldn’t tell for sure if it was partially demolished or if it had never been finished. Or both. The outer walls were missing from the front and back, exposing the inside of the building. She wondered if that was for the benefit of the camera drones.
It was surrounded by a rusted chain link fence, although they were so far from anything else, she couldn’t imagine who it was intended to keep out. Maybe coyotes. On the ground between the building and the fence, there were piles of debris every thirty or forty feet.
Okoye stumbled getting off the bus, but managed to stay on his feet.
They assembled at the gate for a few last words from Corson about how only ten of them would survive, at most, and how anyone who tried to escape would be shot.
As if to underscore his words, one of the buses turned around and drove off. They would only need one for the journey back.
Looking behind her, Keen saw the RV and the transport truck parked a quarter of a mile away, as before. As Corson talked, the PMCs dragged out two boxes and released two camera drones. Turning back, she scanned the building in front of them, and immediately spotted two cameras on tripods and two more mounted on the building itself.
Corson said yet again that he would see them in hell, then, looking directly at Keen, he said, “Gentlemen, you may begin.”
The pack moved forward as one, like the beginning of a foot race, but instead of clustering together, they moved apart. Even as they headed for the same place, almost everyone tried to keep a minimum distance from everyone else. There were a few exceptions, Boden and Dudayev among them, who were edging closer to the other ringers, reaching out to push them or slow them down. Dudayev intentionally slowed and tripped Okoye, sending him sprawling across a pile of rubble and rebar.