No e-mail had been sent, received, or deleted from the clandestine account.
Ryan guided the cursor to the draft folder.
A second file had been saved, and a rush of dread surged through him.
Bracing himself for a bombshell, he opened the new draft, and despite his best effort, an audible gasp escaped him.
It was a picture of Franny, nose bloodied, surrounded by four gunmen, their faces deliberately outside the frame to conceal their identities.
Ryan’s head shook vehemently. Anger and fear exploded inside him; and his breathing became ragged.
I sent her to District Six. I put her in harm’s way. And now that barbaric animal has her.
“Are you still there, Major ...? Of course, you are. I understand this must be difficult for a man like you, who has access to drones and weapons; who commands highly trained warriors and world-class Snipers. Yet you are impotent, helplessly unable to save your own wife. Yes?”
Ryan’s eyes blurred; the sound of pumping blood whooshed in his ears; and his entire body began to shake with rage. “If you hurt her, I will find you. And I will kill you.”
“Listen closely, Major. You will find instructions beneath the photograph of your lovely bride. And if that hard drive is not in my possession by sunrise, my men will use your beloved for their sexual gratification then dispatch her in the most inhumane manner possible.”
53
District Six, Texas
“UNCLE KYLE, HOW come all the bad people came here?” six-year-old Nikki asked.
His adopted daughter had blonde hair, intelligent blue eyes, and a strong sense of curiosity.
How can I explain it to her in a way that makes sense? he asked himself.
“I wanna bedtime story,” Billy mumbled, midyawn. He was three years old, too young to ask questions about what was happening. “How about Hansel and Gretel?”
“We heard that one last night,” Nikki protested.
Kyle draped an arm around her and lifted Billy onto his lap. “Okay ... I’ve got a new fairy tale,” Kyle told them. “Once upon a time, there were three greedy pigs. Their job was to protect everyone from the big bad wolf, but all they cared about was getting more money and more power—”
“Electric power?” Nikki asked.
“No ... Like the kind of power that bullies use. The first greedy pig didn’t care at all about the electric grid. He let his friends build it the cheapest, fastest way possible.”
“Like the house of straw!” Nikki added, dramatically propping her little hands against her cheeks.
“You got it! Now, those same friends gave the second greedy pig lots of money so they didn’t have to protect it. And then the big bad wolf huffed and puffed and blew the power grid down!”
“Then what?”
“Without electricity, nobody had food or water. Fights started, and the second greedy pig panicked. He was afraid that everybody would be mad at him and take away his power, so he brought in a bunch of sheepdogs to help make peace.”
“And the sheepdogs were really bad, weren’t they?” Nikki asked.
“Exactly. And that’s how come all the bad people came here.”
“Will they go away?”
“Eventually ... and everyone will live happily ever after.”
Nikki’s lips curled downward; her little arms crossed in front of her. “But what about the third greedy pig?”
Kyle smiled, impressed by her attention to detail. “Oh, he’s still out there. And he’ll try to come back again. So, it’s up to you NOT to vote for him ... Now get to sleep.” He kissed her forehead then carried the slumbering toddler across the hall to his bedroom.
Tucking Billy beneath the covers, his thoughts wandered back to Abby. Malicious rumors were swirling throughout the district, allegations of war crimes that could bring the death penalty.
The thought was terrifying. Although Kyle knew his daughter was incapable of committing such atrocities, he also knew that the United World Assembly was motivated by ideology, not justice.
We were the ones attacked, he thought. Why are we being demonized for fighting back?
He halted outside the master bedroom, trying to repress his troublesome emotions. Jessie was already worried enough; and he had to be the strong one, espousing a confidence he didn’t feel.
As he gripped the doorknob, his phone chirped.
What now? he thought, debating whether to ignore it. Then a pang of fear pealed through him. Did something happen to Abby? Was she being handed over to the UW tribunal?
He jogged down the stairs and snatched the satellite phone from the coffee table in the solarium. “Hello?”
“Kyle, I need your help.” Ryan Andrews’ voice sounded hard, granitelike with a hollow undertone. “Franny’s been kidnapped by someone within your district.”
Alex Ivans came to mind. “I’ll round up the deputies and head over to the ‘sanctuary zone.’ ”
“No, Kyle! I appreciate your intent, but that’ll just get a bunch of your people killed. I’m sending Teams 6A and 6B your way, but I don’t have any actionable intel about where they’re holding Franny.” Ryan’s voice wavered and he cleared his throat, a partially successful effort to drive the fear from his voice. “And time is of the essence. Daybreak will be too late.”
“We’ll canvass the entire district. Somebody must’ve seen or heard something.”
“Thanks, Kyle ... And be careful. These people are far more dangerous than peacekeepers.”
54
District Six, Texas
PETER FRANCISCO HAD spent the past few hours patrolling District Six, scouting for threats. The governor had instituted a curfew for those under age sixteen to combat a recent binge of vandalism, and Peter shared his concern that the anti-TEradS graffiti on garage doors could escalate into real property damage and even violence.
Tonight, however, the streets were quiet; the houses, dark—except for the glow of porch lights; and Peter enlarged his final lap to include the “sanctuary zone” outside the district. He slowed, coasting past a pale-pink rancher whose front windows glimmered with the soft light of candles. Last week he’d spotted Alex Ivans entering that house and Peter had been monitoring it ever since. Twice, he’d glimpsed the inhabitants, muscular non-Asian men who toted rifles and carried themselves like soldiers.
“They’re up to something,” he muttered, continuing on toward the “sanctuary zone.” The TEradS had cleared the outpost days earlier, so he was surprised to find that it was already repopulated.
He pulled the ATV beneath a tree, cut the engine, and doused the headlight; then he advanced on foot for a better look. A campfire was blazing in the backyard of a brick house, and an odd collection of people were gathered around it: six adults and seven teenagers—none of them Asian.
He recognized two of the boys; a fourteen-year-old he’d caught climbing the district water tower with a half-empty can of spray paint; and a twelve-year-old who had freed a herd of hogs from their corral.
The protestors, Peter thought. They’re egging on the teens, provoking them into doing stupid stuff.
Aware that he couldn’t take all seven curfew violators into custody by himself, he returned to his ATV and started back to the sheriff’s station to rally reinforcements. Just after reentering the district limits, he saw a young girl meandering down the center of the street. Spotlighted by the beam of his headlight, she pivoted toward him, a hand raised to shield her eyes. It was Lydia Dorset, dressed in cutoffs and a blouse that exposed her midriff and showcased her cleavage.
“What are you doing out so late?” he asked, his tone playful yet authoritative.
“Peter, is that you ...? Turn off that damn light.”
He complied even though her sexy curves faded.
Eyes glistening in the moonlight, a seductive smile tweaked her lips, then she stepped onto the ATV’s foot rail, swung one of those shapely legs above the handle bars, and straddled his lap. “Wanna take me for a ride?”
“Have you been drinking?”
“Nope.”
“Do you realize you’re violating curfew?”
Her lips pressed against his in a possessive kiss.
Energy zipped through his nervous system, generating a path of searing heat from his mouth down to his groin. Peter’s hands glided over her lower back, and Lydia’s hips rocked forward, pressing against him, arousing him.
He tugged at the thin fabric of her blouse, edging it downward, then his hands roamed over bare skin, cupping and caressing, praying that she wouldn’t stop him.
“Promise you won’t report my curfew violation?” she whispered against his lips.
He would have promised her anything at that moment, his ATV, his rifle, his firstborn, his soul. “Promise,” he grunted, mouth trailing lower along her neck, yearning to explore every square inch of silky skin.
Is this really happening? Or am I dreaming?
A bright flash of light momentarily blinded him. Lydia squealed, and Peter grabbed the top of her head, forcing her down. He unshouldered his Type 56 rifle and took aim at the approaching pickup truck.
Lydia fidgeted, adjusting her blouse, then scrambled around behind him.
“Peter, it’s me!” a familiar voice called out.
“Shoot him!” Lydia hissed. “That bastard killed my father!”
Immediately, he lowered his rifle. “What are you doing here, Governor?”
Lydia smacked Peter across the face. “You aren’t a man, after all!” She marched past Murphy, and a glob of spit struck his right shoulder, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Sorry to ... uh ... interrupt your evening, Peter,” the governor said. “But I’ve got a huge problem and I need your help.”
Chapter 11
><>< DAY 467 ><><
Friday, May 27th
55
District Six, Texas
FRANNY ANDREWS had rushed into the house expecting a medical emergency. Instead, she’d been greeted by five long guns, AK-74s brandished by men clothed in black.
Who the fuck are these guys? she’d thought.
Clearly, they were not Asian. That much she could tell from their balaclava-cloaked faces.
Are they just protestors, incited by an irrational hatred of the TEradS?
Or are they affiliated with the broader threat that Ryan alluded to?
The gunmen had black-hooded Franny and forced her into a vehicle. The driver’s harsh acceleration, the last-minute braking, and the dizzying pattern of left and right turns had created a discord within her senses. Her inner ear registered the motion; her eyes denied it; and her brain—subconsciously concluding this was the result of poison—settled the discrepancy with an epic case of car sickness.
She vomited into the hood, bringing the wild ride to an abrupt end.
Franny was led through a maze of rooms that had a residential feel, a hypothesis confirmed when the hood was removed. A masked gunman had wiped the sour liquid from her chin and neck, then struck her with a backhand slap.
Her head jerked to the left.
Her cheek burned like fire.
Blood trickled from her nose.
Another man had shoved Franny toward a nondescript wall and forced her onto her knees; then four of her captors posed behind her with rifle barrels trained on her head. It was a provocative photograph, composed to unnerve her husband.
They’re using me for leverage or to bait a trap for Ryan, she decided and a stark, vivid fear shivered through her, exacerbating the nausea.
Following the photo shoot, they had deposited her into this stopgap jail cell, a walk-in closet the size of a compact car with a horizontal band of light squeezing beneath the door. The clothing of an elderly couple dangled from ancient metal hangers, mostly floral moo moo dresses and polyester golf pants. The floor was cluttered with footwear—cowboy boots, loafers, slippers, sandals, and an assortment of orthopedic sneakers with Velcro straps—and the bitter scent of leather and sweaty feet still lingered in the claustrophobic space.
Franny’s hands and feet were not bound, an indication that her captors knew little about her background; and thus far, they hadn’t tried to interrogate her. In fact, she had yet to hear them speak. Even her bout of motion sickness had only produced a medley of laughter and groans.
A military-style MRE sat in front of her, untouched. The aroma emanating from the laminated foil pouch was more offensive than the shoes, and she felt an ominous stirring in her gut. Franny’s mouth filled with saliva.
“Don’t throw up again,” she whispered, dumping the gruel into one of the cowboy boots; and after plugging it with a gaudy plaid polo shirt, she slumped against the rear wall and closed her eyes.
I’ve never felt this exhausted, she thought, not even when Sierra was murdered. What happened to all my vengeance-fueled rage?
Footsteps vibrated through the floor, signaling that someone was approaching.
Franny rolled into a fetal position and feigned sleep, then a masculine voice began speaking Russian.
“Ona prinimala sedativnoye sredstvo ...”
56
Jilin Province, China
QUAN HAD GROWN UP IN the shadow of Mount Changbai, home to the Baitoushan Volcano—the ever-white mountain. Geologists had been warning villagers of the increasing danger for almost two decades: the summit was uplifting; surface temperatures were rising; seismic activity and gas emissions were intensifying.
The volcano’s last major eruption, around the year 969, had ejected thirty cubic kilometers of magma, nearly half of the legendary Tambora eruption, which had cooled the planet so drastically that 1816 had become known as “the year without a summer.” Frigid temperatures and unseasonable snowfall in tropical areas had devastated rice crops and resulted in a widespread famine.
Quan had heard all the tales and dire predictions regarding Baitoushan. He’d been taught that two billion tons of water in Lake Tianchi would be unleashed, engulfing everything for thirty kilometers in a flood of ashen slurry. He’d been warned that the volcano produced major eruptions every thousand years; but he still never believed it would happen in his lifetime.
Quan scooped a mouthful of water from a spring-fed stream and gazed up at the column of hot ash rising from the peak of the mountain. He had to get home to his family. His wife, mother, and young son had all taken ill; and he felt a pang of guilt for having left them.
At least I tried, he told himself, angry that his quest for an effective medication had failed.
Rumors were percolating through surrounding towns and villages, accusing the Americans of releasing a plague of insects to spread a nasty strain of tuberculosis that was antibiotic resistant. Nearly a third of the world population was already infected with TB, a bacteria that could lie dormant for years and suddenly resurge due to improper nutrition or poor sanitation.
The outbreak of disease will magnify the volcano’s devastation, he thought, because many are too ill to evacuate. What will I do if my wife and mother are both too weak to walk?
He grimaced, knowing that someone he loved might have to be left behind.
As Quan trekked through the wooded hillside, the ground began to shake violently. He gripped the trunk of a pine to steady himself, and a great crack opened beneath him, sending him plummeting into a crevasse. He landed hard on his back, then the trunk crashed onto his thighs, snapping them like twigs.
A menacing blackness was devouring the blue sky above him and pinkish pumice stones began to fall like hail. Great streaks of lightning crackled through the roiling cloud above Mount Changbai, static charges generated by colliding particles of ash and volcanic glass.
The ground resumed its terrifying rumble, sending patches of dirt and rock cascading down onto him, and Quan expected the earth to close like a giant mouth, consuming his body. He made no effort to free himself from beneath the trunk. With two broken legs, he could never scale the steep walls of the chasm.
Quan squinted in disbelief at the lumpy gray river g
ushing toward him. A waterfall of cement spilled into the ravine like a voracious liquid dragon.
This will be my grave.
He felt the ash-laden flow slam into his body, crushing him against the pine trunk, extracting the breath from his lungs. His last thought was a bitter regret, an awareness that his loved ones were doomed to share his fate.
57
District Six, Texas
PETER FRANCISCO WAS supposed to be interviewing residents in the southern precinct, but he had defied that order and yielded to a nagging hunch, one that he was beginning to second-guess.
Squatting inside the canvas-topped tower of a wooden swing set, he peered through the narrow gap between vertical pine planks. The elevation allowed him to see over a six-foot fence that enclosed the backyard of the infamous pink rancher.
For two hours, he had observed the inhabitants, peeking from behind curtains as though anticipating an ambush. Their behavior was suspicious, especially taken in conjunction with the armed man who had driven off an hour ago in a pickup truck with a do-it-yourself camouflage paint job and a metal cap.
Where did he go at two in the morning? Peter wondered. It’s not like there are any bars or all-night convenience stores.
Maybe this stakeout was a mistake.
A repressed wad of frustration began bulging inside him, provoking memories of his interrupted encounter with Lydia. The feel of her silky skin, the faint chocolaty taste of her kiss, the strange energy zinging through his body—he had traded it all for this, hours sitting crouched atop a swing set.
I just squandered my best chance at getting laid, he thought.
Peter assured himself that Lydia’s anger would fade, that she didn’t really expect him to murder the governor, that she was venting her grief, a process that would eventually end. Thereby extinguishing her hatred for Kyle Murphy.
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