Day of Doom

by David Baldacci

  They lack the killer instinct, his father said. You want to turn out like that?

  He whacked the tennis ball hard, sending it back over the net. The coach had bent down to retrieve his bag, and the ball slammed into his back. Ow. That must have hurt. The boy knew it well from experience.

  “Never turn your back on a competitor!” the boy jeered.

  That’s what his father tells him.

  Killer instinct.

  Far out to sea, a man was swimming, moving as precisely and tirelessly as a machine. Even though he had three pools, he preferred swimming in the open sea. This year the seals had been swimming closer and closer to shore. This meant, he knew, that the great white sharks were lurking close, moving constantly in order to feed.

  It added a certain . . . spice to the swim.

  The man reached the dock with several powerful strokes. He hauled himself up and strode toward the house. A short but powerfully muscled man in a black T-shirt tossed him a towel, and he wiped his face and threw it on the ground. He did not worry about towels. They were picked up, laundered, and stacked again. He didn’t have to see it or think about it. He was always thinking great thoughts now. Thoughts large and complex enough to take in the world.

  He entered through the French doors into the den. He almost recoiled from the sight of hundreds of glassy eyes staring at him. His wife was arranging and rearranging her collection. Again. He hurried past before she had a chance to talk to him.

  His office was cool and quiet. He pulled on a terry-cloth robe and activated the many transparent screens. Data flashed by, and he absorbed it all quickly and completely. Things were so different now. His strategic thinking was almost as fast as the computer data streaking across his screens.

  Almost there. So close he could taste it.

  There are only two people alive on the planet who can stop it.

  It’s time to eliminate them.

  Somewhere near Mt. Washington, New Hampshire

  In the small town where the men occasionally went for supplies, their story was that they were on a corporate retreat, testing their skills in the wilderness. The men — they were all men — looked remarkably alike. They were all fit and muscular with close-cropped hair. They usually wore track pants and T-shirts, or hiking gear. They were friendly, but not forthcoming. After they left, the shopkeeper or gas station attendant would realize that they were hard to tell apart. They had names that were hard to distinguish: Joe, Frank, John, Mike.

  Over a hundred men had been shifted into and out of the camp, but for the past four weeks the group had been whittled down to six. Six of the best, six of the brightest, six of the most trustworthy.

  They had always been in shape; that was their job. But this last month they’d doubled their strength and then doubled it again. They had climbed the mountain fourteen times. They attended classes in combat driving, surveillance, and martial arts. They had been fitted for Italian suits, handmade shoes with rubber soles, and jackets with pockets that will hold their weaponry close and without detection.

  They were ready. They just didn’t know for what.

  All they knew was that they had never felt so powerful. So at the top of their game.

  As they sat on hard chairs watching their screens flash with a simulated escape from a metropolitan area, the leader of the men heard the chime of a text. He was the tallest, and the tannest. His teeth were very white and even; his real teeth had been knocked out in a bar fight years ago in Corsica. His face registered no emotion as he told the rest that it was time to mobilize. They had received their targets.

  He connected his phone to the computer. On a large transparent screen floated two photographs.

  “Target One, Target Two,” he said in a flat tone.

  The men showed no emotion. Even though their targets were kids.

  Attleboro, Massachusetts

  It was a sunny, beautiful day. A day you felt glad to be alive.

  Too bad Amy Cahill was surrounded by the dead.

  Amy bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut. She was only sixteen, but she’d attended too many funerals. She’d said too many good-byes.

  Six months ago she’d buried her cousin and her uncle, and today, a marker would be placed for William James McIntyre, family attorney and deeply loved friend.

  Her cell phone chimed in her pocket. She slipped it out and read the text. It was from her boyfriend, Jake Rosenbloom. It was six hours later in Rome, where he lived. It would be close to dusk there, and he’d be putting away his books and starting to think about dinner.

  I know the service is this morning. I wish I could be there with you. You ok?

  Amy’s finger was poised over the keyboard. Her gaze drifted down the grassy hill to where a polished gray marker stood gleaming next to weathered, tilting gravestones, the many generations of the Tolliver family who had lived in Attleboro since before the Revolutionary War. Too far away to read the name, but she didn’t have to.

  EVAN JOSEPH TOLLIVER

  She slipped her phone back in her pocket. Tears stung her eyes. She’d put on a black dress and gone to Evan’s wake six months earlier. His mother had shut the door in her face. Amy had understood. After all, she blamed herself for Evan’s death just as much as his mother did. If it weren’t for Amy, Evan would still be alive. He would still be volunteering at the local shelter, still be president of the computer club, still be teasing his little sister, still be in line for hazelnut coffee with whipped cream. He would be alive on the earth, feeling the wind, appreciating the sky, every sense alert to this early spring day. Instead, he was in the ground. He had been her boyfriend and he had died for her. And he’d never known she was going to dump him for Jake.

  She’d never even had a date before crushing on Evan. She’d just been plain Amy Cahill, the straight-A student in jeans and sneakers. Unremarkable and overlooked. She wasn’t the kind of girl boys noticed. Then she’d looked at Evan, and he’d looked back.

  She’d thought she was in love. Until she met intense, charismatic Jake Rosenbloom, and realized that she hadn’t had a clue what falling in love was really about.

  If only she could remember the exhilaration she’d felt when she’d first realized that Jake loved her back. Now there was so much sorrow and guilt in her heart that she felt as though she was surrounded by fog.

  She got up in the morning, brushed her teeth, and did her lesson plans. She and her brother, Dan, now were homeschooled by their former guardian, Nellie Gomez, and several tutors. It had been a rainy fall and a cold winter. The days had dissolved into grays. The books that had once given her comfort had blurred in front of her eyes. Italian lessons, history lessons, math problems, essays, projects.

  For the past six months, she’d barely left the house except to run long, hard, cross-country miles. At night she wandered the house, second-guessing every decision she’d made during the battle with the criminal organization the Vespers. When had she gone wrong? Should she have refused to let Evan help them? Should she have ordered Mr. McIntyre back to the US? So many people she had loved had died. She had the clout to force them out of harm’s way, but she hadn’t.

  Why hadn’t she used that power?

  At sixteen years old, Amy was head of the Cahills, the most powerful family in the world. Their arrestor, Gideon Cahill, had formulated an extraordinary serum at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Since that time the five branches of the family had battled, spied, lied, stolen, betrayed — all for one purpose only. Each of the branches had one part of the serum. If the complete serum was assembled, it would make anyone who took it the most powerful person in the world.

  After all those hundreds of years, Amy and Dan had been the first to put together the formula for the serum. But they and the other young members of the Cahill family had realized at last that the serum was too incredibly dangerous to even think about producing. Now the formula, a list of thirty-nine ingredients, their complicated calibration and precise amounts, was safely locked away.
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  In the steel-trap brain of her thirteen-year-old brother.

  Amy’s gaze drifted to her sandy-haired brother. Hard to believe that this skinny person now secretly slipping a worm into Aunt Beatrice’s purse could be the most powerful kid in the world.

  Protecting him — protecting all of the Cahills — was her job as head of the family.

  Guess I didn’t do so well with you, Mac, Amy said to the marble urn, her eyes filling with tears. Murdered in a hotel room in Rome.

  She wiped her eyes. She had waited six months to bury the ashes of Mr. McIntyre. He was her last tie to security.

  Mr. McIntyre had been more than her attorney; he’d been her best and most trusted adviser, and maybe her best friend.

  Now here they stood, the only mourners except for Aunt Beatrice, who had started off the morning complaining that her hay fever was acting up and the funeral director had better “get this show on the road.”

  The elegant marble box sat on a small table. It contained what was left of Mr. McIntyre. Just ashes. His kindness, his shrewdness, his intelligence — it was all gone from the world. Now there was just a box.

  The funeral director, who Dan kept referring to behind his back as “Mr. Death,” had shown up late. He nervously wiped at the sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief. When he’d placed the marble box on the table, he’d almost dropped it.

  “Is this his first funeral?” Dan whispered.

  The tall, muscular clergyman looked more like a football coach. He’d brought a bouquet of wilted red roses. Not Mr. McIntyre’s style at all. Amy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. This whole thing just felt surreal. She almost expected Mr. McIntyre to drive up and get out of a long black limousine and say “April Fool.”

  “This is a disgrace,” Aunt Beatrice muttered. “Only three people at the service!”

  “Henry Smood is in the hospital with appendicitis,” Amy said, referring to Mr. McIntyre’s law partner and their new attorney. “He was really upset that he couldn’t make it. And the hospital wouldn’t release Fiske.”

  Aunt Beatrice sniffed. “I was talking about family,” she said. “It used to be when a faithful retainer was buried, the Cahills showed up. Even if we despise each other, we used to know how important appearances are.”

  “Aunt Beatrice buried her retainer?” Dan whispered to Amy. “I just flushed mine down the toilet.”

  Amy stepped on his foot. Her brother made jokes when he was nervous, or scared. She was used to it, but Aunt Beatrice was not.

  “Mr. McIntyre was family,” Amy said.

  “Dear,” Aunt Beatrice replied, “only family is family.”

  Amy jerked her head away. Aunt Beatrice was tipping the ceremony from difficult to unbearable.

  “The Templeton Cahills always used McIntyre and Smood,” Aunt Beatrice went on. “And the Durham Cahills. And surely the Starlings could have showed up! Denise Starling used McIntyre for years until she decided he was too close to Grace and sent him that poison pen letter. Even if it was real poison, she should have let bygones be bygones. And Debra used him for her prenup with that nasty man with the strange name. Never should have married him in the first place . . .”

  Aunt Beatrice droned on, naming Cahills Amy and Dan had never heard of. “They didn’t come because I didn’t invite them, Aunt Beatrice,” Amy interrupted.

  “But Mr. McIntyre was the family lawyer!” Aunt Beatrice sputtered. She narrowed her beady eyes at Amy. “Did you even tell anyone what you were doing?”

  “No,” Amy said. “I’m not interested in their opinions. I made the decision.”

  Aunt Beatrice opened her mouth, but Amy held up her hand. “And that’s final.”

  Aunt Beatrice’s mouth closed and opened like a fish feeding.

  “Way to go,” Dan muttered.

  Amy gave a small smile. Sometimes it was difficult to be the head of the family, but when it came to Aunt Beatrice, she didn’t have a problem.

  “Are we ready to begin?” the funeral director whispered. Amy saw him sneak a glance at his watch before gazing down respectfully. She could almost picture him saying, “Dudes, let’s get this show on the road.”

  The clergyman read a Bible verse in a wooden voice. Then he closed the book and nodded at Amy.

  “Good-bye, Mr. McIntyre,” Amy said. “You were our protector and our friend. The best of the best. Rest in peace.”

  “Good-bye, Mac,” Dan said. “Sorry about the time I put a frog down your pants. Thanks for taking care of us.”

  Aunt Beatrice sneezed.

  The clergyman gestured at the pile of dirt by the open grave. “Would you like to throw a handful of dirt into the grave?” he asked.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I have gardeners for that sort of thing,” Aunt Beatrice said. “I have an allergist appointment.”

  Amy bent down and threw dirt into the grave. Dan did the same. The clergyman handed her the roses and she dropped those in, too. Sorry, Mac, she told him silently. I know you’d prefer tulips. A sudden memory came to her, of Mr. McIntyre in Grace’s garden in his shirtsleeves on a fine May day, regarding a bed of yellow tulips, saying Now there’s a cheerful flower!

  Tears filled her eyes and she almost asked Aunt Beatrice for a tissue, but her aunt had already stalked off. Her driver was hurrying to open the car door.

  Mr. Death had left, too — he was almost running as he made his way through the gravestones to his car.

  That’s odd, Amy thought. Why did the funeral director leave so quickly? He didn’t even say good-bye.

  The clergyman leaned over to pick up the shovel. Amy didn’t think she could bear seeing the grave filled up.

  As she turned away, something hard hit the back of her head. Pain blinded her, and she felt herself shoved into the open grave.

  Amy hit the ground on her hands and knees, feeling the shock shudder through her bones. She looked up. The light was blocked out as a heavy object came flying down at her. She moved by instinct rather than thought, rolling herself into a ball against the wall of the grave.

  Dan landed with a cry. She heard his breath leave his body in a soft uh.

  “HELP!” Amy shouted.

  In answer, a shovelful of dirt rained down on her upturned face. She spat it out.

  “Are you okay?” she asked her brother.

  He nodded, his face white with pain and fear. His breath was short, and he dug into his pocket for his inhaler. Dan had asthma, and Amy could see the clouds of fine dirt hanging in the air, settling down to choke his airway.

  She shouted for help again, but all she saw was the glint of the shovel as more dirt rained down.

  “He pushed me in,” Dan said, choking and wheezing. “Deliberately . . .”

  This can’t be happening!

  Panic shuddered through her. Her mind whirled. They had no enemies anymore. They had united the family, they had decimated a global criminal organization. They had gone back to being two kids living in a mansion that was too big for them, haunted by all the things they had done and seen. Their only enemies were memories.

  So why was this happening again? The horror of it spooled out, making her brain operate on white noise. She couldn’t seem to think, or breathe.

  Amy was hit by another barrage of soil. Whoever was trying to bury them was working fast and methodically, not even bothering to peek over the edge.

  It doesn’t matter who’s doing it. You have to get out of here.

  Amy could feel the dirt in her hair and down her collar and in her ears. She remembered the pile by the open grave. How long would it take before they were covered? How long would it take to suffocate, until the dirt filled her mouth and her ears and her eyes . . .

  It’s fifth-grade math all over again, she thought crazily. If the man can scoop a shovelful every ten seconds, and the grave is six feet deep . . .

  “Amy!” Dan’s pale face was suddenly sharp as the buzz of panic cleared. He placed an urgent hand on her sleeve. “We’ve got to get out of h
ere!”

  Her brain kicked in at last. Instinct clicked with experience; everything speeded up and she felt very clear. She looked around, assessing, planning. She measured the grave with a quick glance. Probably three feet square. The sides were steep. Amy tried to climb, but the dirt crumbled in her hands. She tried to jam in a toe, but she couldn’t get up. Okay, next plan.

  “Watch out!” Dan slammed into her, knocking her sideways as the marble box was tossed into the grave as well. It missed Amy’s skull by a fraction of an inch and landed on Dan’s foot. He let out a grunt of pain and bent over.

  Now it was just the two of them and Mr. McIntyre’s ashes.

  Amy eyed the box. It wasn’t just a box. It was a step. It was about a foot high, just what she needed. It was a chance. She’d only get one.

  “Dan,” Amy whispered. “Get on the urn. Hurry!”

  Dan knew what she wanted him to do without her even asking. He balanced on the box. He bent down slightly, making a cradle of his fingers.

  Amy looked up, timing her move. One, two, three and she was up, hands on his shoulders, then, using the side of the grave to keep her steady, she balanced, crouching on his shoulders. She felt Dan’s body shaking with her weight. He had to hold on, just hold on for three more seconds. She was counting on the machinelike efficiency of their attacker, the precision of his timing as he used the shovel. Two, one . . .

  She straightened and jumped just as the glint of the shovel went over the lip of the grave. The metal edge glanced against her head — more pain, thank you very much — but she grabbed at it and yanked hard, then fell backward into the grave as Dan flattened himself against the side.

  She crashed to her knees, stunned and bleeding — but she had the shovel.

  A face appeared against the rectangle of blue sky. The man had ripped off the clergyman collar. He flashed a smile, his teeth white and even.

  “Nice work, missy. You got your little toy. Going to dig yourself even deeper?”

  The face disappeared. They heard the sound of retreating footsteps. He would be back.