The Monarch

by Jack Soren

  Lew hesitated for a second, then said, “Aw, fuck!” and ran over to help Emily.

  Jonathan turned and pushed his way through the crowd out of the building and into the concourse. He had to get out of there and as far away from Lew as he could.

  He dodged through the ­people in the plaza, fighting off the odd person who made the connection between the images on the big screens mounted overhead and this lunatic running by. It wasn’t hard, but if the crowd got too thick he wouldn’t have room to maneuver. It would be pile-­on-­the-­serial-­killer, and he knew there wouldn’t be enough left of him to pour into a jar for a court date. But even if he got through them and to the street, he’d still be up shit’s creek.

  I need a diversion.

  Just then the front windows of the federal building exploded in a mass of noise, smoke, and glass, the blast wave hitting Jonathan in the back and knocking him to the ground. His senses dulled by the concussion, he distantly heard screams of pain and panic, bodies both slamming and flopping to the ground around him like someone had opened a window high overhead and alternately pushed and thrown them out.

  By the time he raised his face off the pavement again, his ears were ringing just slightly louder than the sound of all the car alarms around him going off.

  He got up, shaking the dust and glass off himself. He had been far enough away from the blast seat that the crowd had blocked the worst of the projectiles from him. Then he saw the carnage. It was horrific. Half the ­people who had been standing in the plaza—­the ­people he’d just run through—­were all on the ground, either deathly still or writhing in moist pain. Blood was everywhere. The glass had cut them to shreds. He knew the ­people inside the concourse were probably worse off, but smoke still filled the enclosed area and he couldn’t see anything.

  “Lew!” Jonathan called, jumping up on one of the serpentine benches, trying to see inside. “Lew!” He waited, fearing the worst. After what seemed like forever, a dusty and bloody figure stumbled out over the bodies wearing a duster. Thank God.

  “There he is!” Two men over to the side started toward Jonathan. Their appearance and unwounded state said they hadn’t been here for the explosion. It still wasn’t safe to be around him. Knowing Lew was alive, Jonathan turned and ran.

  When he got to the street, a limo came screeching to a halt in front of him. The back door flew open and a man with a gun inside said, “Get in or you’re dead.”

  Jonathan kicked the door closed, turned, and ran up the sidewalk.

  LEW TRIED TO run but he was still too fuzzy and just ended up falling onto someone on the ground. He pushed himself up and looked into a woman’s panicked eyes. Glass from the explosion had sliced into her face and neck. Blood gurgled out of her wounds as she fought for breath.

  “Help . . . hel . . .” And then she was gone. The dead and dying littered the plaza. He shook his head and got back up to his feet.

  When the windows exploded he’d been standing behind the company directory. The initial fireball had eaten all the oxygen in the area and sucked in more hungrily, slamming him headfirst into the structure. He reached up and touched the pain in his head and his fingers came away warm and wet. It wasn’t the first time he’d cracked his skull, but it always hurt like a mother.

  Through the smoke he saw Jonathan kick a car door closed and take off up the sidewalk. Then the car peeled out, jumped the curb, and drove after him. Lew was running before he realized it, cutting across the plaza, stepping around the human obstacles scattered before him. He had no idea where the Burrows woman had been during the explosion, but he didn’t care anymore. Whoever had done this was after the closest thing to a brother he had.

  But he only had one emotion right now, and it was pure rage. He didn’t know who all was involved in this despicable event, but he knew some of them were in that car.

  He left the plaza and sprinted across the road, his lungs screaming. He hadn’t run full-­out in a long time. He’d let the only thing he’d ever really been able to count on atrophy over the past few years, but he still had the skills to put the pain into a corner of his mind and lock it away. His heart would have to explode before he’d stop running.

  He rounded the corner and saw Jonathan turn around just as the car caught up to him. He thought it was going to run him down, but at the last moment it swerved and a door on the car opened, slamming Jonathan to the pavement like a ragdoll. Lew kept running.

  Someone got out and scooped Jonathan up, carried him over to the car, and tossed him in. The man looked up and saw Lew coming like a locomotive. He pulled a gun and fired a few wild shots as he backed into the car after Jonathan. And still, Lew kept running.

  The door closed and the car pulled off of the sidewalk, but had to stop as traffic cut it off. Horns blared and ­people shouted. The limo slammed into the car blocking its exit, then backed up so it could take off using the space it had created. Lew reached the car just as it was backing up and before it could take off, he leaped onto the roof.

  The car sped away through the gap it had created with Lew on top. He gripped the sides and hung on, wishing he had any weapon besides his hard head. He’d be shaken off if the car ever got out of the lunch hour traffic, so he balled up his fist, wound up, and slammed it into the driver’s door window. The window exploded into the car and Lew felt the bones in two fingers break. He put that pain away too.

  Someone shouted and then two bullets fired up through the roof from inside the limo. They missed him and went through his duster. He rolled to the side as two more shots blasted through the roof where he had just been a moment ago. Then he heard a shot inside the car and the shooting stopped. Lew was even more frantic, but his busted hand was making it hard to hang on. As if they’d heard his thoughts, the limo start careening from one side of the street to the other, bouncing off the parked cars as it went.

  On the third bounce, Lew lost his grip and found himself airborne. He slammed into the side of a parked truck and felt consciousness slip from him before he landed on the pavement.

  JONATHAN, WEDGED DOWN on the floor of the backseat of the limo, plastic ties around his ankles and wrists, watched Lew fly off the roof of the car. Beside Jonathan lay the man who had grabbed him and tied him up—­dead with a bullet through his forehead.

  While he’d been shooting at Lew on the roof, Jonathan pulled his knees tight to his chest and kicked out. The shooter turned, rage in his eyes, and pointed his gun at Jonathan. A second later, without even turning his head, the driver had swung a gun around and killed his accomplice.

  “That’s a hell of a guard dog you’ve got there, mate,” the driver said now. He had an Australian accent, but not a thick one, like he’d been away from home for a long time.

  “You have no idea,” Jonathan said.

  “Just sit back, be quiet, and we’ll have no problems,” the driver said.

  “No more problems, you mean,” Jonathan said. The driver didn’t physically react, but his silence told Jonathan he was right. This little operation might have netted him, but it hadn’t played out as planned. “Relax, I know how missions can go sometimes. You can’t foresee everything. I’m sure your boss will understand.”

  “I’m not going to tell you again, mate. Shut it.” Jonathan was getting to him. He was taking a bigger risk than he normally would, but after seeing the driver kill his partner for threatening him, he’d lay odds he was wanted alive and well. Then he remembered, just before all hell had broken loose, a ­couple of thugs going after Emily Burrows.

  “No problem,” Jonathan said, and then after a beat, “Miss Burrows probably wasn’t that important to him, anyways.”

  “You were warned,” the driver said, swinging his arm back with the gun gripped in his fist.

  “Wait—­” Jonathan had forgotten alive and well didn’t necessarily mean conscious. The gun slammed into the side of his head and a bright explosion in
his mind radiated out until his brain overloaded and everything went dark.

  30

  New York Downtown Hospital

  New York City

  9:00 P.M. Local Time

  ALMOST NINE HOURS after the massacre, Emily waited until Wagner’s family left, crying and supporting each other as they shuffled down the hospital corridor, before she tentatively made her way into his room. The scratches on her face beneath the few small bandages still stung, but they weren’t the reason tears filled her eyes. She blamed herself. For all of it.

  The banks of machinery beside the bed were dark and silent, making her breathing sound even louder. She walked around the far side of the bed so she could watch the door, paranoia still strong in her after today. Part of his hand was visible outside the sheet. She delicately uncovered it and took it in both of her shaking hands. He was still warm. The touch, the human contact, was the final brick. Her sobs took her, tears rolling down her face as she silently fought for breath.

  “I-­I-­I . . .” She tried to say she was sorry, but speech failed her. She crumpled to her knees in slow motion and pressed her forehead to his hand. She had known very few good men in her life. Truly goodhearted souls interested only in right and wrong, not how the decisions would paint them. She knew in her heart that Wagner was one of those. His entire team had seemed like protectors rather than law enforcers. And now they were gone.

  As the sobs eased she sniffled and took a tissue from the bedside table and wiped her face. She got up and pulled a chair over, sitting beside him. She didn’t know why she was here or what she hoped to accomplish with her vigil. She knew his family could come back, which would make for some very awkward explanations. She also knew that someone would soon come to move him down to the hospital’s morgue, though it was no doubt filled to capacity today, and they might just leave him where he was.

  There were no final tallies yet, but the last news report she saw put the dead at forty-­nine, with dozens injured, their fates unknown. Strangely, there had been no further mention of The Monarch’s true identity.

  The blast had not only blown out the windows, but destroyed much of the concrete around the windows, causing part of the building front to collapse. An on-­site FEMA engineer had assured the public the damage was superficial and the building wasn’t in any danger of falling. Even so, they had evacuated the area. Since she’d been knocked unconscious almost instantly by the blast, all of this was secondhand knowledge for Emily. The last thing she remembered was pulling away from the man who had attacked Wagner. She’d spun and ran right into Wagner’s arms as he got up. Then there had been a loud whump before Wagner pushed her down and threw himself on top of her. The next thing she knew, she’d woken up in the ER, surrounded by chaos and screaming.

  “I just want you to know, I’m going to do what I can to make this right,” Emily said to Wagner’s body. “I don’t know if it will do any good, but I’m going to tell the story—­the real story—­to anyone who will listen. And if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to find Nathan. Find him and make him pay.”

  “Do you mean that?” a voice said from the door. Emily sat up with a start, and looked at the stranger. He was big, dressed in some kind of long canvas coat that made him look like a cowboy. His left hand had two finger splints on it under white hospital tape, and bandages were wound around his head. She assumed he’d been hurt in the blast.

  “I . . . I’m sorry. Did you know Agent Wagner?” Emily said, standing up and working her way toward the door with the intent of leaving.

  “Only from the newscasts,” the man said. Emily nodded, then shook her head.

  “Then why—­”

  “I’m here to see you, Miss Burrows.”

  “See me? Why?” Her paranoia ramped up.

  “My name’s Lew. Lew Katchbrow,” he said, holding out his hand. By reflex, Emily shook it. It was strong, but gentle. “The Monarch sent me.”

  She felt her knees buckle slightly, but Lew’s damaged hand slipped around her back and held her up.

  “He sent you? For me?” This had to be a mistake. Or a trick.

  “We have a lot to talk about, but I don’t think this is the best place. Have you eaten?” She literally couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten.

  “How do I know—­”

  Lew cut her off, apparently anticipating her question. “He said to tell you that leaving The Just Judges out of your book was a good idea. Especially since the Belgians sold it to someone two days after he gave it back to them.”

  “My God,” she said, taking a quick breath. “You do know The Monarch.”

  “You have no idea, lady. But we really need to go,” Lew said.

  She let herself be led away from Wagner’s room by Lew, but hesitated in the hallway. She looked back at the nurses’ station at the end of the hall, and her common sense said to run toward it.

  “You can trust me,” Lew said, apparently sensing her worry. “Any public place you want to go is fine. Lots of ­people and no tricks. Promise.”

  After a long moment she said, “Lead the way.” She stayed five steps behind him all the way so she could make a run for it if he tried anything, but something about his eyes and the way he talked about The Monarch made her want to trust him. Still, her common sense hadn’t exactly been brilliant lately.

  31

  Tartaruga Island

  4:15 A.M. Local Time

  “WELCOME BACK,” LARA said when Nathan opened his eyes. He looked around and saw he was in his bedroom. The last thing he remembered was trying to get out of the hangar before anyone saw him collapse.

  “What—­how long?” he rasped, surprised for a moment that he could talk at all without the healing power of the serum running through his veins. But of course he wasn’t just missing the serum, but the neuro-­blocker as well.

  “About nine hours. You collapsed in the hall. Randy and I found you and brought you here,” Lara said, pouring him some water from the carafe by his bed. “I described your condition to Sophia. With a little convincing she said it sounded like you might have had a transient ischemic attack—­a mini-­stroke.” Lara held the glass to his lips. Nathan drank hungrily despite the heavy feeling that something was caught in his throat. He’d grown used to that symptom years ago.

  “She also admitted giving you a half-­strength serum dose. Not only didn’t it last long, it didn’t fully deactivate the neuro-­blocker in your system. She said it was like running a car with your foot on the floor and the emergency brake still set. If it matters, she seemed upset at the result of her subterfuge.”

  “Described my condition? She didn’t examine me?” was all Nathan said.

  “I’ve had her restricted to her lab. I didn’t know what you wanted to do but assumed you didn’t want her sneaking off to the chopper while you were . . . recovering.”

  Nathan didn’t like the idea of Sophia being a prisoner and he didn’t want to know how Lara had convinced her. Of the two of his girls, he’d always thought Lara was the one most like him, but now he was thinking Sophia was showing hidden promise. For now he let it go.

  “Give me an update. What did I miss?” Nathan said, awkwardly pushing himself up in the bed. He was having trouble holding still. Lara filled him in on Jonathan Hall’s past profession and the attempted cyber attack they had thwarted.

  “We’ve located current information on his residence and occupation from the DMV. We’ll be in position within the hour.”

  “I got him?” Nathan asked, both excited and a little melancholy the chase was over.

  “You got him. A ninety-­eight percent match. Definitely The Monarch,” Lara said. Nathan took a cleansing, relieving breath. His calm lasted about two seconds before he noticed the look in Lara’s eyes.

  “Hall and Burrows en route, yes?” Nathan said. His suspicions were confirmed when instead of answering, Lara got him som
e more water. He clumsily turned his head away from the glass. “What’s wrong?”

  Lara explained about the explosive miscalculation and losing their own men.

  “The news reports have the dead set at forty-­nine,” Lara said. “I’m afraid Miss Burrows was—­” A tweedle from her cell phone stopped Lara in mid-­sentence while she read a text message. For a moment, he thought she was going to pitch the device across the room.

  “What is it?”

  “Uh, nothing,” she said, putting the phone away. “As I was saying, Miss Burrows wasn’t acquired. She got away.”

  Nathan’s chest heaved. At first he thought he was having a coughing fit, but then he realized he was laughing. Hard. A side effect of the disease. If he didn’t get a neuro-­blocker shot, he’d be laughing inappropriately all the time, now. Tears ran down his face. Lara knew about the condition, but even so she looked uncomfortable in the face of it. When he found it hard to breathe, the laughter finally subsided.

  “Where’s Thomas?” Nathan said between pants.

  “He’s still in New York awaiting further instructions.”

  “Tell him to get Burrows back here ASAP. At all costs. Do you understand? She’s integral to this. Without her—­”

  “I understand, Father. Consider it done.” He could tell by the look on her face that she didn’t understand at all. She didn’t need to.

  He sent Lara away to convince Sophia to give him the neuro-­blocker. A little later, while trying to get himself some water, Nathan caught his reflection in the cabinet of rare books against one wall. He watched himself shake and twitch.

  If this didn’t work, he’d take a final dose of the serum, light a final cigar, and hobble into the natural gas holding tanks beneath the complex. One throw of a switch and it would all be over.

  Mercifully over.

  32

  New York City

  9:30 P.M. Local Time