“A memory,” I say. “A hard one.” I’m glad I don’t yet remember what happened next. My stomach clenches with the knowledge that it, too, will soon be unleashed. The memories I’ve regained are already enough to spur me into action. I remember my son. The depth of my love for him and the pain of his loss. I know what the Dread took from me. From my family. And, like Allenby hoped, it is enough to make me face my newfound fears.
No, I think, I don’t want to face them. I want to obliterate them.
The unanswered question is, Why did I run from them in the past?
Knowing that the answer will eventually be freed by changing scar tissue, I decide to waste no time or energy trying to uncover it. Given the look in Allenby’s eyes, I think time is something I don’t have.
Allenby gets her hands under my arms and lifts. I stand with her. “We need to go.”
I understand her urgency. Maya’s kidnapping now weighs heavily on me. The idea of losing her, for good, and in such a horrible way, after betraying her trust all those years ago, is unacceptable. But where there was urgency before, there now seems to be a ticking clock. “What’s changed?”
Allenby heads for the door. I follow, shakily at first, but then steadied by Winters’s hand on my back.
“They’re on their way here,” Allenby says, looking over her shoulder.
“Who is?”
“Dread Squad.”
I’m about to say that’s a good thing when I realize the implications of her fear. They’re not on their way to help; they’re coming to stop us.
“I spoke to Lyons,” Allenby says. “He sounded … different. Angry.”
“He thinks they killed Maya?” I ask.
She nods. “But I think it’s more than that. He seemed more upset about the attack. Compared it to Pearl Harbor. Said the Dread had awakened a sleeping giant.”
“He’s been comparing the Dread to World War Two Japan,” I say. “Sees this as the first wave of an invasion.”
“His war has finally begun,” Winters says. “I knew he was preparing for the worst, but I didn’t know he was actually ready to strike. While I’m sure he has support from people above my pay grade, this is war, and I doubt he has the president’s stamp of approval. This was all supposed to be a process. Build evidence. A game plan. Present it all to the president and let him decide.”
“I think that this was the plan all along,” I say. “Something started two weeks ago. It’s why he brought me back. I was going to be his Enola Gay.” My eyes widen. “I was going to deliver a bomb.”
“What bomb?” Winters asks.
I shrug. “I have no idea, but I was his delivery system.” I turn to Allenby. “He’s found someone else to do it.”
This is something he’s been working on for a long time at that second location, and if the World War Two analogy is accurate, I don’t think Maya will survive it … if she’s alive. Whether or not Lyons’s actions are impulsive, misguided, or on target and justified, Maya’s life is at risk. “What’s the plan?” I ask, strengthened by my increasing resolve.
“Maya’s embedded tracker is transmitting. You’re going after her,” she says. “You’re the only one who can. I’m going to let the Dread Squad take me in so I can have a chat with your father-in-law. See if I can’t talk him back from the brink. There has to be another way to do this, or at least do it with the full support of the U.S. military.”
I nearly point out that the U.S. military might be compromised already, that under Dread influence they might be more likely to shoot each other or us. This is probably the same conclusion Lyons has come to. If so, he can tell Allenby himself. Let them debate strategy and protocol. I’m going after Maya.
I notice a slight tremor in Allenby’s hands. It started when she mentioned Dread Squad. “You seem a little nervous. You don’t think Katzman will—”
“I don’t think it will be Katzman,” she says, “or anyone else we might know. Dread Squad isn’t just the handful of men you saw here.” She stops in front of an armory door. “There are hundreds of them.”
“Three hundred thirty-three,” Winters says. “I helped vet them. They were supposed to be a defensive force, like the Secret Service, protecting VIPs from Dread influence, but I think they’ve been trained for something else.”
“They’re not your problem.” Allenby enters the armory.
The armory has been picked over, but an array of familiar clothing and weapons has been laid out for me. I pick up the machete and whisper, “Faithful.”
Winters looks at me like I just passed gas. “Excuse me?”
“The best weapons have names,” I say, speaking as old Josef, who I now recall had a habit of naming prized weaponry, and apparently still does. I hold the machete up. “This is Faithful.” Which makes it better than me, I think, but keep to myself. I turn to Allenby. “You said Maya’s tracker signal popped back up. Is she nearby?”
Allenby frowns. “Louisiana. New Orleans. Hope you’re not afraid of flying now. Lyons sent a team in that direction an hour ago, so they’ve got a head start.”
“You said Lyons didn’t think Maya was alive,” I point out.
“It’s not a rescue mission. It’s an assault.”
“If they’re already in the air, how are we going to catch up?”
“I’ve made arrangements,” Winters says. “Lyons might have vast resources, including planes, but Neuro is just a small cog in the larger machine that I have access to. We’ll get there first, if we leave now.”
“This might be a stupid question,” I say, “but why don’t we have a couple of F-22s force them to land?”
“Lyons has a lot of friends,” Winters says. “In Washington and the military. He’s probably got F-22s escorting him. Our best play is to beat him there, get Maya to safety, and see if her survival takes the wind out of his sails.”
I appreciate that Winters and Allenby think there is an alternative to the coming violence, but I’m not convinced. Not by a long shot. Conflicts like this are ended by violence, an opinion that is, thus far, supported by my returning memory. If I’m able to get Maya clear, I might even give Lyons my blessing. I have no love for the Dread, and he’s the only one capable of responding to the threat. Allenby seems to think I’ve been cut out of the loop because a fearful Crazy wouldn’t approve of war—of fighting the Dread. But the opposite is true. By taking Maya, they’ve rekindled my hatred for them. I appreciate Allenby’s position, but Maya is my only concern. Not only did she love me, unconditionally, but she also made me feel more … human. I lived in darkness so vast that I was able to see the Dread, not with my eyes, but with my heart. I recognized the effect they had on people because it was the same effect my presence so often elicited. Maya freed me from that, and now I’m going to free her from it.
Voices, firm and professional, slide into the room from the hallway beyond. Commands and confirmations. Dread Squad. They’re already here.
Allenby picks up and shoves the oscillium armor at me. “We can’t let them take you. It’s time to be Crazy.”
45.
The plan is simple. Allenby, a trusted higher-up at Neuro, will claim I’ve left, and she’ll request an audience, via phone or video, with Lyons. Winters, whose oversight of Neuro gives her authority separate from Lyons, will vouch for her. If granted, she can try to talk him out of whatever endgame he’s working toward, or at least glean some intel, which could help my rescue effort. If we can’t do that, Allenby thinks Lyons might have the sleeping-giant comparison backward, that he might instigate the end of humanity at the hands of the Dread. I’m not convinced, and until Maya is safe, I’m not taking sides.
Some of what I remember about Lyons isn’t encouraging. On the surface, he’s a good grandfather and devoted father. He’s also a tortured soul, deeply feeling the frightening events of his youth, when the Dread visited him at night, nightmares made real. He didn’t talk about those dark times often, not that I can remember yet, anyway, but when he did … The emotional scars are deep. Bu
t there is another side to the man, kept from plain sight, that is emerging in my memory. After his time with the Dread, before the CIA, he saw war as a young man. In Korea. I now remember a conversation with him, during which he reminisced about the firefights, the confusion and sound and adrenaline of battle. He waxed about battle the way an ex–football star fondly remembers game-winning plays. While he’s been content to research his lifelong enemy, collect war trophies from around the world, and oversee his own private army, perhaps the events of the past two weeks have freed him to relive his glory days, if only vicariously through Dread Squad? Has Maya’s abduction pushed him over the edge and thrust him to wage war he can’t win?
He might even view himself as some kind of noble hero, a modern-day George Washington, crossing the rift between worlds to free humanity from the Dread tyranny. It’s not even that much of a stretch if he could pull it off. But Allenby thinks he’s more likely to doom us all. She might be right, but if the Dread could wipe us out, why haven’t they done it already? That alone says a conventional victory might be possible.
My part of the current plan is simple. Hide and wait. Cobb and Blair have transportation ready and waiting. Once Allenby is away, I’ll be off to New Orleans with Winters and whatever help she’s summoned. Like I said, simple.
“Don’t move,” a man shouts. I can’t see him from my hiding place behind a weapons counter, but I can see Winters and Allenby. And I don’t like what I’m seeing. The looks on their faces, along with their suddenly raised hands, tells me two things. They don’t know these men, and they’ve got guns pointed at them.
My heart starts pumping hard. I can hear the rushing blood behind my ears. My vision narrows. Muscles tense. Even if nothing happens, I’m going to need a little time to recover from the adrenaline dump.
“I’m Dr. Allenby, and I would like to—”
“Don’t care who you say you are, so shut it.” The gruff man’s voice carries an unsaid threat. His next words are spoken into the hallway beyond him. “Are they on the list?”
“Both of you know me,” Winters says, glaring at them. “Lower your weapons, now, or—”
“Yeah, they’re on the list,” someone else replies. A hand slips into view, holding a small tablet. I can barely make out a photo of Allenby on the screen. The man holding the tablet swipes his thumb a few times. I see Cobb’s photo, and mine, and then Winters’s.
Winters clenches her fists. “Listen, you two—”
“ID confirmed,” the man says, pulling back the tablet. Winters takes a step forward, violent intent barely contained. She’s stopped by the muzzle of a gun, leveled at my aunt’s chest. “Stay where you are.”
“Why are you here?” Allenby asks, still defiant.
In reply, the man taps his finger on the touch screen and turns the device around. It’s a video of Lyons. He’s in a hangar. Men rush back and forth behind him. He leans in close, face slick with sweat, eyes unfocused, but angry. He doesn’t look well. “Josef, Kelly, and anyone who happens to be aiding your unsanctioned endeavor, I am aware of your efforts to restore Josef’s memory, and I’m afraid I cannot allow you to continue. Your actions and plans are tantamount to treason. And in times of war, such as this, the only acceptable response to this crime is of the harsh sort.”
What? My mind reels. This man is my father-in-law. We worked together. What he’s saying doesn’t fit with what I know of the man. But that’s still an incomplete picture. What are we missing?
“Dr. Winters,” Lyons continues, “if you are present, you have been a trusted colleague until now. Please decide which side of this you want to fall on. Josef. Kelly. I tried to avoid this, I really did.” He sighs. “Family has always been my core … but now, what we’re doing is for all the other families on this planet. I’m afraid our broken house has become a liability. Kelly, you oppose my plans. Always have. Josef … I’m sorry, son, but even the best soldiers become expendable eventually, and I can’t let either of you stand in my way. Good-bye.”
Before I can fully register the threat, a sharp report of a gunshot contained in a small space stabs my ears, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the sight of my aunt, whom I’ve only just begun to remember, but who I know I adore, falling back through the puff of pink that has exploded from her back.
I’m rooted in shock, processing surprise slower than I used to, but Winters acts before Allenby hits the floor. She brings her foot up hard, kicking the unseen soldier’s wrist. The gun falls free, clattering to the floor, just a few feet away from me.
“Crazy!” Winters shouts without looking at me. Her voice snaps me into action. I pick up the dropped gun and aim it at the backside of the door, looking to fire thirteen rounds into whoever is on the other side. The problem is that Winters is also on the other side. I know my old self would just aim to the right and fire, but I can’t risk hitting her. She follows the kick with a punch. I hear it connect. The struck soldier falls, but he’s not alone. Whoever is behind him is now free to act.
And he does.
A perfect three-round burst punches a triangle of holes into Winters’s chest. She stands frozen, looking down at the red plumes of color growing on her blouse. She starts turning her startled eyes in my direction but never gets the chance to make eye contact. She deserved so much better than this.
“Bitch,” the soldier says.
A single shot snaps Winters’s head back. She crumples in on herself.
My old self—Crazy—would have handled this differently. Sure, he might have shot Winters, too, but maybe not fatally. At least with that version of myself, she’d have a chance of survival. As rage overcomes any traces of fear, I dive forward and slide into view in the last place they’d expect it, underfoot. I fire a single round. The bullet slips neatly through the man’s soft throat and explodes out through the back of his head.
The mix of blood and brains spray on the second man’s face, causing him to flinch. I put a hole in his forehead before he can recover.
A third soldier slides into view, firing an assault rifle from the hip. He sprays bullets into the armory, hitting everything at waist height, which is nothing. Wisely, he hasn’t fully entered the doorway. But that can be corrected. I shoot his leg, punching a hole through his shin. He topples to the side, shouting in pain. But his voice, and life, are silenced by a bullet before he lands atop his deceased comrades.
I lay there, breathing for a moment, waiting for more soldiers to enter the room. But no one comes.
I don’t even need to look at Winters to know she’s dead. And I’m not sure I could handle seeing her like that, not after remembering what she meant to me. But Allenby … I drop to my knees, put a hand behind her head, and check her pulse. It’s faint, but there. I glance down at the wound. The Dread Squad soldier aimed for her heart, but missed, punching a hole through her shoulder instead.
Her eyes flutter open.
Our eyes meet for a moment and she smiles. “Are you all right?”
That she’s worried about me when she has a bullet hole staggers me. “I am.”
She sees me glance at Winters and follows my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know you cared for her.”
Part of me wants to linger, to mourn for Winters’s death. She did mean a lot to me. But there is still a chance that I can save Maya, and when all of this is done, kick Lyons’s teeth in. His war might be justified, but this kind of violent paranoia is uncalled for. There will be a reckoning for Winters’s death. “Do you know her CIA contact?”
My aunt nods. “He’s a good man. She’s already been in touch with him. Understands the situation and our part in stopping it. Help me up.” I lift her by her good arm. Ignoring the still-bleeding wound in her shoulder, she digs into her pocket and takes out her phone. She snaps a photo of Winters and the men who killed her. I nearly ask why, but then realize Winters’s contact is going to want confirmation that she’s dead.
When she looks up at me, I must look a little shell-
shocked. She pockets the phone and puts her hand on my face. “There is more strength in you than you know, Josef. You just need to remember.”
Her eyes drift downward. She reaches out and takes hold of the chain beneath my shirt. She tugs it, and the strange melted pendant that is my security blanket falls out. She lifts the rough, circular, color-swirled mystery up so I can see it. “Remember.”
I’m about to tell her that’s not how it works, that the memories come back randomly, but then, with quick breath, I realize that I already remember this. It came in a cluster of information, hidden until now, freed and brought to the forefront of my thoughts.
* * *
Something’s burning, I think, and stand from my home-office chair. The chemical scent in the air is subtle, but so out of place in my home that I react immediately. There are several things in this world that produce similar odors, none of them good, and I wonder for a moment if one of the CIA’s enemies has figured out who I am. Recovering and unlocking the handgun hidden in my desk drawer, I hurry through the house, following the scent toward the kitchen.
I pause at the open doorway, no danger in sight, but with Simon home I’m not going to take any chances. Right now it’s just the two of us. Maya is out shopping. Moving slowly, I lean into the room and quickly spot my target—a panicking six-year-old boy who has melted two action figures on the stove top. A cookie sheet covered with chicken nuggets and french fries lays next to the mess.
I tuck the gun behind my back and hurry into the room. Simon turns toward me, eyes wide and overflowing with tears. He’s waving his hands at the rising toxic smoke. “I was trying to make lunch for us! I turned on the wrong one!”
The action figures are now a puddle of colorful swirling plastic sitting atop the smooth-topped stove.
“I’m sorry,” he says, now blubbering and snotty. His abject despair breaks my heart.
I quickly turn off the burner. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.” It’s really not okay, but I’m pretty sure he’s learned that on his own.
“I melted my guys,” he says, revealing the true source of his sadness.
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