The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich

by Lars Emmerich

Sabot hadn’t ever imagined himself as a Seattle resident. He was New York like baseball and fuck-you. But he was a supervised ex-convict employee of the Federal Bureau of Investigations’ West Coast Cyber Task Force. Pretty sweet deal, all told.

  There was just one problem. The Bureau had taken away all of his computers. He wasn’t even allowed to own a smart phone. His handlers printed out reams of server logs and chat room conversations for him to pore over, using his exquisite knowledge of computer code and the seedy side of the internet to search for evidence of cybercrime, but he wasn’t allowed to do his own research, or even sit in front of a computer monitor.

  Managing temptation, the boss said. You could take the kid out of the projects, but you really couldn’t take the projects out of the kid. At least that’s what the Bureau suits thought.

  They probably weren’t wrong. Sabot had met a few bastards since his release whose lives he’d have loved to jack up. It had been very tempting, and it was remarkably easy to do. In less time than it took to watch a single Seinfeld rerun, Sabot could steal an unlucky mark’s bank account, credit card, email, and Facebook passwords. Most people didn’t know how truly screwed they’d be if someone locked them out of their own accounts, but Sabot knew. He’d done it to dozens of posers, pricks, and fellow perpetrators, back in the day.

  But those days were over. It wasn’t like the jail sentence ever went away. It was just suspended. They let him out early so The Man could benefit from his unique talents. If they ever decided he wasn’t playing ball, or if he got caught indulging his darker side, Sabot would find himself right back in the big house, fighting to avoid more prison sex.

  He stepped from his apartment stoop out into the Seattle drizzle. Always with the damned rain. And what was with all the coffee shops in this town? Maybe the caffeine kept people’s spirits artificially elevated, preventing them from going bat shit crazy on account of the relentless drear. Maybe I should drink more coffee. He sometimes worried that he might be losing his marbles.

  Wasn’t much he could do about it. He wasn’t in a cage, but he wasn’t exactly free, either. The Bureau had him by the balls. Permanently.

  He opened his umbrella and rounded the corner, nearly running smack into the back of a long queue of people standing on the sidewalk.

  Strange.

  He stood on his toes to compensate for his diminutive stature, and peered toward the front of the gaggle. The line was apparently for the coffee shop. It was always busy, but Sabot had never seen it that busy.

  He sidestepped the line and walked past the coffee shop to catch his bus. Half a block later, he looked up from the pavement in front of his feet to see a similar situation outside the local breakfast cafe. People were stacked like cordwood, waiting for their morning muffin and pumpkin spice latte, or whatever the neo-yuppies ate for breakfast.

  “What’s going on?” he asked a put-upon lady in a black dress and oversized white sneakers.

  “Someone said something about the cash register being down,” she said.

  He grunted and moved on. Didn’t want to miss his bus.

  He needn’t have worried. He arrived at his stop in plenty of time, but was chagrined to discover another flock of angry commuters. On a normal day, there were rarely more than a dozen people waiting at his stop. But today, there were upwards of fifty. They were loud, agitated, annoyed, and annoying.

  Sabot sidled up to the fringe of the gaggle and asked a guy in a business suit why the bus stop was so crowded.

  The man’s reply was puzzling. Not only was Sabot’s bus late, but the three preceding buses had also failed to show up.

  Sabot wondered why.

  “Haven’t you heard, buddy?” the man replied with an aggravated look. “The whole goddamned world is melting down.”

  2

  Lost Man Lake Ranch, Colorado

  The sun barged into the window, warming Protégé’s face. He awoke. The clock said eight thirty.

  Naked, stunning, and amazing, Allison snored softly next to him in bed, the covers barely covering her hips, her breasts beckoning for more indulgence. Despite the tingle in his loins, he decided to let her sleep. After their midnight flight to Aspen in the old man’s private Gulfstream jet, they’d stumbled into bed a little more than three hours ago.

  He slipped out of bed, still exhausted but too curious to sleep. He tightened the curtains to seal out the sunlight, hoping to guarantee Allison a few more hours of uninterrupted rest, then padded quietly into the next room.

  He smelled coffee. A fresh pot had brewed itself, and Protégé helped himself to a cup.

  He hadn’t brought any clothes, but he figured it probably wouldn’t be a problem. The old man tended to think of everything.

  Protégé opened the closet door in the suite’s anteroom. It was full of clothes. His size. He put on a pair of cargo pants and a flannel shirt. Not really his style. He swore by Armani and power ties. Up until yesterday, anyway.

  But things were a bit different now.

  He used to be a buttoned-down CEO, promoted well ahead of his peers to the top of a large division of one of the world’s most powerful companies. It was a single day ago – really, just a few hours – but it may as well have been a lifetime. Already, Protégé found himself thinking of his job as being part of the past, part of a world that probably no longer existed.

  He poured a cup of coffee, opened the sliding glass door to the balcony, and stepped out into the crisp mountain air, taken aback once again by the spellbinding enormity of the peak that loomed large across the stark valley. The air was thin, cold, and invigorating. It felt like possibility, with a dash of danger.

  He’d had his fill of the latter. Life behind a big oak desk, with legions of kowtowing underlings at one’s beck and call, wasn’t entirely disagreeable, and Protégé’s recent foray into a far more physical, visceral, and unforgiving world had left him wondering about the wisdom of his decision to come along on Archive’s ride.

  Crazy old bastard. Protégé had half expected the plan to fail, and Archive himself freely admitted their odds were just a smidge better than even.

  He’d played his part, preserving his status with the wizened old tycoon, a billionaire multiple times over in various disparate industries, but a large part of Protégé had hoped the plan would fail. That way, they’d have avoided what was bound to be a very painful aftermath.

  Speaking of which.

  Protégé freshened his coffee, buttoned his shirt, slipped quietly from the room, and made his way to the vast sitting room on the lodge’s first floor.

  It was time to see just how successful they’d been, and to discover just how painful the aftermath might be.

  “My friend, it appears that we’ve summoned the kraken.” Though he hadn’t slept, not a hair on Archive’s ghost-white mane was out of place, and his signature goatee narrowed to a razor sharp point at its tip. He wore a perfectly tailored suit, also a signature item, and twirled his silver-topped walking cane absently as he sat in a plush leather armchair before a giant wall of televisions, each tuned to a different news station.

  Protégé felt dazzled and overwhelmed by all of the information in front of him, unintelligible text scrolling by like a giant ant army, and wondered how the old man didn’t have a seizure from all of the photonic stimulation.

  Protégé took a breath and settled his eyes on a single TV screen, slowly digesting the news loop’s import. “Oh, shit,” he said. “I guess we’ve made a bit of a mess. Chernobyl meets Wall Street.”

  “Precisely as we predicted,” Archive said with a small, satisfied smile. “Don’t tell anyone I’m pleased, though. I’ve ostensibly lost billions, and millions more by the second.”

  “Something tells me you’ll squeak by.”

  The old man chuckled. “Quite so.” He pushed a button on a remote control, and all of the screens coalesced to a single news station, the giant, panicked talking head cast larger than life on the ostentatious liquid crystal monolith hung on the wall.


  “Devastation,” the on-scene reporter said, the stately New York Stock Exchange building in view behind him. “Absolute devastation. For the first time since the terror attacks on 9/11, every American exchange is closed. Tokyo’s in free fall. The FTSE’s been nuked. I don’t even want to look at the dollar–”

  “Freefall is a great way to describe the dollar, too,” the anchor interjected. “I’m stunned. This is just… unbelievable.”

  “Unbelievable is right, Maria. Do we even have the mechanism to calculate the losses the US economy is experiencing right now? We might be a Third World country by noon.”

  Motion stirred behind the reporter, and the cameraman zoomed in on the main entrance to the exchange, where traders suddenly billowed out like well-tailored smoke from the doorway, in a mad dash to be somewhere else.

  “It looks like something’s happening behind you, Jim,” the anchor said.

  “I’m getting word here, Maria… I’m getting word that… Can this be correct? Can we confirm this before I announce it on national television, people?” The reporter’s eyes fixed on someone off-camera, and he put his finger to his earpiece.

  “It’s confirmed?” he said a second later. “Oh, my. Oh, my God.”

  Traders continued to charge out of the exchange, hailing cabs and running quickly to nearby subway stations.

  The reporter’s face turned ashen, and he took several breaths before continuing. “Maria, I think I’m getting an idea of where those traders are going. I’m getting word here that the Federal Reserve Bank is, uh… well, I’m told that the Fed, all twelve banks, is completely closed!”

  The news anchor was agape, speechless. “I can’t begin to fathom what that might mean,” she finally said. “The Federal Reserve Bank system lends cash to the member banks for daily operation. Without that short term cash…”

  “It’s unbelievable. I can’t believe this is happening,” the field reporter said.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the anchor said, “this is truly a grave development. I just urge you to remain calm…” More panicked stock brokers dashed from the exchange, spilling out into the streets, charging headlong into traffic. “…and I’m sure we’ll get a better idea of what’s going on before too long…”

  Archive pushed the power button, and the giant screen died. “It begins.”

  “Still pleased as punch?”

  Archive mulled. He sighed. “A tad concerned now, to be terribly honest.”

  Protégé nodded. “It does seem to have a bit of an apocalyptic vibe about it.”

  3

  Veteran’s Hospital, Washington, DC

  Special Agent Sam Jameson laid her head on Air Force Colonel Brock James’ chest, letting her blazing red hair fall over his body, hearing his heartbeat through the hospital linens, inhaling his scent, feeling the familiar warmth and contentment his being brought to hers. “I thought I’d lost you,” she said.

  “You damn near did,” he said, repositioning the intravenous line taped to his arm. “I thought that guy with those crazy wolf eyes was going to snap me in half, or put a bullet between my eyes.”

  “I’m glad he didn’t.”

  “I’m glad you saved the day,” he said.

  “Aw, shucks.” She nibbled his earlobe, heard his sigh, felt him nudge closer to her.

  The nurse walked in. “I’m supposed to check your vitals and kick you out,” she said.

  “Was it something we said?” Brock asked, stopping his hand’s southerly migration on Sam’s midriff.

  “Hardly. We did such a good job putting you back together that you no longer need us.”

  The nurse looked at the monitor. “Heart rate’s a little high,” she said, the beginnings of a knowing smile on her face.

  “Guilty,” Sam said.

  Brock laughed. “A little twitterpation is good for the soul.”

  The nurse smiled. “Looks like you’re healthy enough to contemplate reproductive activities. But can you walk?”

  “Slowly,” Brock said. “And I whine a lot.”

  The nurse laughed. “It’ll hurt for a while. But I think you’re in good shape and ready to go back out into the wild.” She scribbled something, tore off the sheet of paper, and handed it to Sam. “My number,” she said. “In case you guys ever need… anything.” She blushed again, and left the room.

  Sam and Brock dressed. The news channel prattled on in the background at low volume, reporters muttering apocalyptic words and phrases in stunned awe.

  Brock walked gingerly toward the hospital lobby, Sam in tow, carrying a bag of bloody clothes and bandages, remnants of the previous weekend’s nightmarish encounter with a brood of very disagreeable bastards.

  They rounded the corner and groaned. A crowd of patients queued at the front desk. “I hate lines,” Sam said, pulling out her Homeland badge and holding it up in the air. She walked to the front of the gaggle and addressed the admissions nurse. “Did your help call in sick?”

  The nurse laughed. “I wish. This crazy computer’s acting up. Something’s wrong with the billing system, so I can’t check anybody out. I’m having to write everything down on a piece of paper.”

  Sam grimaced. “Related to that news story?”

  “There’s a news story?”

  “Never mind. Can I fill out a form to save some time?”

  The nurse handed her a ream of paperwork. “Don’t know if it’s going to save any time, but here you go.”

  “Thanks,” Sam said. Then, under her breath, “I’ll mail it in when I’m finished.” She returned to Brock, grabbed his hand, and walked out the front door.

  It took a full ten minutes to reach the car, and Brock struggled to fit his battered frame and wounded leg into Sam’s Porsche. He groaned as she wound her way around the parking garage exit ramp. “Sorry, love,” she said.

  “You won’t hear me complain. Your driving skills saved my ass last night.”

  Indeed they had. Sam had chased down one of the world’s biggest thugs, commandeered his vehicle, and blasted away a kneecap with her .45. That had served as sufficient motivation for the goon to make the call to let Brock go, ending a three-day kidnapping adventure that would undoubtedly revisit them in their nightmares for years to come.

  Not a second too soon, either, Sam thought. The doctors had said they were lucky. Brock had gone into shock, and there wasn’t much time to spare.

  Brock flipped on the radio. None of the satellite stations were working. “Strange.”

  He twisted the knob until a terrestrial news station came on. More financial gloom and doom.

  “This sounds like a big deal,” Sam said, pointing at the radio.

  Brock nodded. “And I thought you were crazy for not owning stock,” he said. “I’m glad you talked some sense into me. I’d be penniless right about now otherwise.”

  “Brokers are going to start leaping from tall buildings.”

  “Probably already have.”

  “In a related story,” a grave-sounding newscaster said, “all of the trains are empty today in the nation’s capital. That’s because a glitch in the payment system has prevented commuters from purchasing tickets at automated kiosks, and there aren’t enough human attendants to meet the demand. Passenger lines at some of the busiest subway stations are said to extend all the way up the stairs and out onto the sidewalks. There’s speculation that this payment malfunction is related to the banking anomaly that’s been reported on the financial networks, but the Federal Reserve has so far not issued a statement.”

  “Holy shit,” Brock said. “This is turning into quite a party.”

  Sam’s phone buzzed. She looked at it, groaned, and answered. “Boss, I already filled out all the paperwork from last night,” she said.

  Mason McClane chuckled on the other end of the line. “I know, Sam. This isn’t about that.” He was a good boss, mostly because he stayed out of her way. A bit aloof, but that wasn’t a bad thing in a stifling bureaucracy like the Department of Homeland
Security.

  Sam figured that his standoffishness might be attributable to the fact that his two predecessors had died violent deaths while on the job. It had taken a while for Homeland to fill the vacancy after the second guy met an untimely demise.

  “Unfortunately, I need you to come in as soon as you can,” McClane said. “There’s a situation.”

  “Seriously? You couldn’t ruin someone else’s day?”

  “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. See you soon?”

  “Not if I see you first.”

  4

  Somewhere on the East Coast of the United States

  It was often said that the Presidency of the United States was the most powerful office on the planet. There may have been a time when that was true, but it had to have been a long, long time ago.

  Nearly a century, by the Facilitator’s reckoning. Maybe even longer. It was impossible to know for certain. There was no archive of previous Facilitators and their deeds, for obvious reasons, so he couldn’t be precisely sure about the time when the Presidency became a pro forma office in service of the Consultancy’s interests.

  Often, that knowledge – that he was the most powerful living human – pleased the Facilitator, a god among men. At his bidding, kings and titans rose and fell.

  Quietly, of course. True power moved in whispers and shadows. If clamor was unavoidable, it was carefully arranged so that it never led back to the Consultancy. And it never, ever pointed to the Facilitator himself. The spotlight was for amateurs and bit players. Prime movers were more than content to pull the levers, then watch from a distance as the world conformed to their inexorable will.

  Heady stuff. Oil, gold, diamonds, rare earth metals, government agencies, heavy industry, financial services of all ilk – they made the world go around, and they all orbited the Facilitator, captive to his massive gravity, a social and financial singularity as powerful as any black hole.