by Marcus Sakey
“Fire crews?”
“They’re spread thin, sir, and they’re tired. They’ve had multiple fires every day for the last two weeks. This is the first to get out of control. They’re focusing on containment, with every station sending men, but the mob is—”
“Making it slow going.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get the mayor on the phone.”
“We’ve been trying.” Leahy left the rest unsaid.
“The Children of Darwyn are behind this?”
“The COD are certainly involved. But there are too many people for it to be just them, and as you can see, the crowd is fighting itself.” Leahy pressed another button, and the angle shifted, zooming in.
A camera drone, Cooper figured, unmanned and circling a mile above the scene. The video showed the front line of a pitched battle, men and women screaming at each other, whirling, spinning. A man in a leather jacket swung a baseball bat. A teenage girl, her face a bloody mess, leaned between two people pushing to get out of the fray. A white guy stood over a black man, kicking him savagely. A group rocked a car, bouncing and shoving and bouncing until it tilted up on one side, held for a moment, and toppled.
“The whole city is rioting?”
“A lot of people are out protecting their property, others are just watching. But everything within half a mile of Public Square is a mess. Intelligence estimates say as many as ten thousand rioters in the downtown area. And the power is still out. It will get worse when night falls.”
“Why didn’t the mayor call in more police right away?”
“We don’t know, sir. But at this point, even if riot squads make it to city hall, they won’t be able to do much more than secure the building. The mob is just too big.”
“The democrats are going to have a field day with this,” Marla Keevers said. The chief of staff had a way of turning the word ‘democrats’ into an obscenity. “You’re going to take a huge—”
“I don’t care about politics right now, Marla. One of my cities is on fire. Four hundred thousand people live in Cleveland. Is this part of a larger attack?”
“We don’t know, sir.”
“Why not?”
“It’s chaos down there, Mr. President. I’m coordinating with the FBI and the DAR; we’re hoping to have a better picture in an hour—”
“An hour?”
Keevers and Leahy exchanged a glance. The secretary of defense said, “Sir, it’s time to take aggressive action. We should assume that this is the first step in an attack, maybe a national one.”
The president said nothing.
“Sir, we need to act.”
Clay stared at the screen.
“Mr. President?”
And as Nick Cooper stood beside a glowing Christmas tree in the Oval Office of the White House, watching the world begin to fall apart, he found himself thinking of something his mentor had said to him three months ago—just before Cooper threw him off a twelve-story building.
“Sir? What do you want us to do?”
His one time mentor had said, If you do this, the world will burn.
“Mr. President?”
The monitor had shifted back to a wide aerial view. The fire had spread, and thick smoke blotted out half the city.
“Sir?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There’s an abiding myth that books are written solo, an ink-fingered dreamer stuck in a basement making it all up. The dreamer and the basement are both accurate, but I certainly didn’t do it alone. My deepest thanks to:
Scott Miller, agent, buddy, and brother-in-arms, who not only didn’t panic at my crazy left turn, but told me to write it, stat. Thanks also to the stellar team at Creative Artists, especially Jon Cassir, Matthew Snyder, and Rosi Bilow, who put the lie to all the jokes about Hollywood.
Reema Al-Zaben, Andy Bartlett, Jacque Ben-Zekry, Grace Doyle, Daphne Durham, Justin Golenbock, Danielle Marshall, and the rest of the Thomas & Mercer crew, who are passionate booklovers building a brave new world.
I’m fortunate to have two creative partners. The first is Sean Chercover, collaborator and heterosexual life mate, whose fingerprints are all over this book. Anything you didn’t like was probably his fault. The second is Blake Crouch, who, at the summit of a fourteen-thousand-foot peak, helped me turn the slenderest fragment of a notion into a full-blown story…and then gave me the title. Drinks are on me, boys.
All the folks who read the book early and pointed out where it sucked, especially Michael Cook, Alison Dasho, and Darwyn Jones.
Jeroen ten Berge, the visionary behind the cover design.
Megan Beatie and Dana Kaye, gifted publicists and all-around get-er-done-rs.
Dale Rosenthal of the University of Illinois at Chicago, who, over Guinness, disassembled the global financial marketplace and then redesigned it abnorm-proof.
Kevin Anthony, who built the beautiful desk I’ll be writing on for the rest of my life.
The crime-fiction community: booksellers and librarians, bloggers and reviewers, writers and publicists, but most especially the readers.
My brother, Matt, who devoured the book, carefully propped up my ego, then tore apart everything that didn’t work. You’re the man.
Sally and Anthony Sakey, better known as Mom and Dad, who gave me everything.
And finally, the two loves of my life: my wife, g.g., and our daughter, Jocelyn. Nothing would mean anything without you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PHOTOGRAPH BY JAY FRANCO
Marcus Sakey is the best-selling author of six novels, several of which are in development as films. His fiction has been nominated for or won an Anthony, Barry, Macavity, Strand Critic’s Circle, Readers’ Choice, Crimespree, Dilys, Crime Shot, Indie Lit, Romantic Times, and ITW Thriller Award. He lives in Chicago with his wife and daughter. Visit his website at MarcusSakey.com, or follow him on Facebook and Twitter, where he posts under the clever handle @MarcusSakey.