Why are they speaking English? To protect their identities?
The memories came flooding back—the summons to meet with General Ross, the imposter waiting in his office, the injection that had made her drowsy.
Did I really regain consciousness and jump from a speeding fuel tanker?
Or was that just a drug-induced dream?
Noting that her wrists were bound with flex-cuffs, Grace bowed her head. Her skirt had been cut away to accommodate a splint. A bloodstained bandage marked the location where her femur had pierced flesh, just below her hip; and a bag of fluids was dripping into an IV tube.
Did Volkov discover that I reprogrammed his mosquitoes?
Or is this about the phantom partition on that hard drive?
Ultimately, she deemed the trigger irrelevant. Only one fact mattered: medical care was not a humanitarian gesture; it was a means to extract information.
After serving her nation for forty-five years, Grace had acquired sensitive knowledge that few possessed. She knew her captors would attempt to torture that intelligence from her.
I’m a human hard drive, she thought, and at my age, with arthritis in both hands and a broken leg, escape is implausible. And the storm is sure to thwart any rescue effort.
Hands trembling, she poked her fingers beneath the gauze bandage encircling her thigh. Through tactile exploration, she counted five zigzag stitches, and Grace guided a fingernail beneath the thread. She drew in a breath, held it, and yanked the stitch, tearing through flesh. A blistering ache ripped through her nervous system. Sweat blossomed, light-headedness descended, and she panted until the pain subsided to a tolerable level.
The wound torn open, she shoved a finger inside, probing for her femoral artery.
Tears welling, she whispered, “Lord, forgive me. I don’t have any other options.”
With the edge of her fingernail, Grace sliced the sutured artery. A gush of blood soaked her hand and saturated the bandage.
Eyes closed, she listened to the din of her pulse, knowing that each heartbeat was bringing her closer to death.
I’ve had a wonderful life, she assured herself. I’ve served my nation faithfully for decades; and I refuse to erase that with an act of betrayal.
Grace was making the ultimate sacrifice for her country—as surely as any Soldier who died on the battlefield. A peaceful smile touched her lips, then she chuckled, amused by the irony: her final mission involved wiping a hard drive clean—a human hard drive.
120
District Six, Texas
DESPITE EVADING LAW enforcement and the carload of vigilantes, Alarick Iversen, also known as Alex Ivans, had no time to celebrate his escape. Did the teenagers succeed in killing the governor as instructed? Or did the elusive schmoe evade yet another assassination attempt?
In either event, Iversen was expecting the wrath of the sheriff’s department to pounce on this “sanctuary zone.” The murder of American children would surely rile public sentiment. Some citizens would be demanding retribution, others—hopefully a majority—would be criticizing law enforcement’s heavy-handed response to the “youthful protestors.”
For years prior to the EMP, Iversen had been a student of American culture. He understood that Monday-morning quarterbacking had become a national pastime, where people with insufficient knowledge—and no experience making split-second decisions under fire—would judge those who’d put their lives on the line. And Iversen was counting on that idiocy to incite anger and fracture the community.
“Let’s go!” he shouted at his comrades. “The raid could begin at any second.” He peered through an open front window, keeping watch, clutching an AK-74 equipped with an underbarrel grenade launcher. At his feet, sat a crate of VOG-25P grenades that resembled giant spark plugs. The effective range of the weapon exceeded his needs, but its unique design would be ideal. Upon impact with the ground, an initial charge within the nose bounced the grenade to waist height before exploding, thereby maximizing the human carnage.
By nightfall, there would be no law enforcement in District Six, allowing Iversen to systematically eliminate anyone deemed a threat to the revolution.
Not an easy task, he thought, given that virtually every household harbored firearms. Too bad the Chinese failed to eradicate the gun-owning population here, as they had in other districts. That would have made my job much easier.
A woman was approaching from the east, and he smirked, immediately recognizing the sexy sway of Alina’s hips. Iversen had tasked the sultry propagandist with surveilling the governor’s residence; and eager for her report, he opened the front door and stepped onto the porch.
“Murphy is still alive,” she told him, a devilish smile curling her lips. “But there are two dozen irate protestors gathered with signs, branding the governor a child killer and demanding his arrest. And we’re not dealing with teenagers—this mob ranges from forty to seventy years old and they’re well armed.”
Iversen reentered the house and gestured his men into a huddle. “Comrades, there is a budding fire in need of an accelerant.”
121
North of Scoville Air Force Base
District Five, Illinois
OPTIONS RATTLED THROUGH Bradley Webber’s mind as Volkov scouted the operations center with his omniscient scope.
Should I pull my gun, kill the bastard, and die in a hail of bullets?
Trust a pair of magic pajamas built by the lowest bidder?
Attempt to hide?
A dull pain was pulsating inside his skull. Fatigue and queasiness were impeding his ability to think, hampering his reaction time, and the rifle barrel was drifting closer.
If I die here, I have to take Volkov with me, he decided. Because Abby will never be safe as long as that barbarian is breathing.
Bradley’s gloved hand swooped toward the cargo pocket of the invisibility cloak.
The general’s meticulous sweep of the AK-74 quickened.
Staring down the barrel, Bradley’s heart rate doubled. The scope loitered over his chest, long enough for him to contemplate whether he would see a muzzle flash before the bullet ended his life, then the weapon resumed its roving reconnaissance.
Score one for the American-made onesie, he thought. Even if it does induce heatstroke.
Bradley skulked toward the pyramid of crates and passed through the open doorway. Volkov’s office boasted a pressed-fiberboard desk and a faux leather throne, which dwarfed the commonplace metal folding chair across from it. A six-by-ten window, missing its glass, was shuttered by an outer layer of plywood; and its brick windowsill served as a de facto bookshelf, accommodating a slipshod arrangement of binders.
Via a wall-mounted monitor, Bradley studied Volkov’s security feed. Soldiers had begun dismantling computer systems.
Are they evacuating?
Because of my breach?
The general was raking the second floor with his so-called omniscient scope.
How am I going to kill that asshole?
How the hell am I going to exfiltrate this base with soldiers stationed at every point of egress?
Bradley slumped against the brick outer wall to combat a wave of dizziness.
And how much longer can I stand being inside this suit?
Within minutes, a freight train of armed soldiers edged into the office. The Locomotive was swinging a baton in front of him like a blind man navigating an unfamiliar room. The Caboose halted in the doorway, snuffing out any chance of escape.
Fuck!
Bradley sidestepped toward the corner to maximize the distance between him and the soldiers.
The Locomotive thoroughly probed the desk area, behind it, beneath it, on top of it. Then the other six Boxcars aligned in front of the desk, shoulder-to-shoulder, stretching across the office.
Recon by fire! Bradley thought.
He sank to his knees, eased himself into a prone position, and wormed toward the folding chair.
Reconnaissance by fire was a military tactic
in which soldiers discharged rounds in order to confirm or deny the presence of the enemy—a foolproof tactic inside this twelve-by-twelve office.
Between the picket fence of soldiers’ legs, Bradley saw Volkov enter the room with a metal suitcase and a bright orange bucket.
“Master Sergeant Webber, I know you are here.” The crazy general dropped both onto the desk and flopped into the faux-leather chair. “And I know your mission is to dispatch me. Tell me, did you bother to contemplate why all points of egress were manned but my office door remained unguarded?”
Son of a bitch! I walked right into his trap.
122
District Three, Washington, D.C
I CAN’T BELIEVE I MISSED the freaking shot! Abby Webber thought, watching General Sun and five bodyguards pile into the bed of the pickup truck. Two additional peacekeepers occupied the cab, a driver and a passenger riding shotgun. They seemed to be aware that a shot had been fired, but unable to identify its origin.
She zeroed in on the driver, knowing that the vehicle’s acceleration would complicate each subsequent shot and afford Sun the best chance of escape.
Leading ahead of the—as yet—stationary truck, she fired a second time, striking the asphalt a yard shy of the tailgate.
Freakin’ wind pushed the bullet five yards east, she thought, and the rain grounded it.
She readjusted, “doping” further into the wind.
The third round plowed into the rear fender.
The engine raced, then the pickup lurched forward.
A torrent of lead poured down from the brick Forestry Building, joining a battery emanating from the truck bed—none of it accurate.
Confident that she would adapt faster than the Chinese shooters, Abby held her ground, and her fourth attempt sailed through the missing rear window into the driver’s back.
The vehicle coasted to a stop on Independence Avenue between the Washington Monument and the Tidal Basin. She bolted toward a ranger station, a white stone building with a disproportionately tall chimney and a spear-helmeted cupola.
The wind was nudging her sideways, compelling her to shuffle her feet to maintain balance. Raindrops were pounding against her hunched-over body like thousands of tiny hammers bent on driving her into the ground.
Braced against the corner of the ranger station, Abby knelt and put a mass of bullets within an imaginary square—a ballistic Hail Mary. Two bleeding peacekeepers tumbled from the truck bed; a third man, attempting to claim the driver’s seat, sank onto the asphalt.
The soldier riding shotgun had leapt from the vehicle and was charging along a cement walkway to her right.
As Abby took aim, his arm reared back.
His entire body lunged forward like a big league pitcher.
A dark shadow, the shape of a wooden potato masher, hurtled through the soupy gray downpour. Its course bent sharply to the south, and the grenade detonated in close proximity to the truck. Rather than spewing metal fragments, it produced a concussion effect, a shock wave lethal to anyone within two yards.
What an idiot! she thought. He totally underestimated the force of the wind.
Through her scope, Abby watched the truth register on his face before ending his misery with a three-round burst. Then she ran toward the vehicle, again drawing fire from the dozen or so remaining peacekeepers holed up inside the Forestry Building.
Sun was buried beneath two stunned soldiers, men who had attempted to shield him from the blast, and Abby summarily dispatched them. The general’s eyes lifted upward then immediately closed.
In prayer? she wondered. Or to deny reality?
A .308 caliber round punched through the coward’s skull.
Hearing a frenetic battle cry, she glanced toward the brick building. A squad of peacekeepers was rushing the truck.
Abby commandeered a sling with four stick grenades. Hurriedly, she removed the plug from the handle to access the ring and pull cord, and threw it toward her attackers. Propelled by the wind, the detonation felled four peacekeepers; and she darted back to the ranger station, aware that hunks of lead were slamming into the ground behind her.
The cluster of Chinese soldiers forked into two teams to flank the building and ultimately surround her.
Abby sprinted northwest, in hopes of losing her pursuers in the urban forest of buildings.
Then she skidded to a stop.
Shit!
Four peacekeepers were streaming from the National World War II Memorial, dead ahead.
She turned to the north, only to discover that another group was barreling across The Ellipse, an open park that had served as a corral for horses and cattle during the Civil War.
Then enemy slugs began zipping past, close enough for her to hear the spluttering whoosh as they lanced blowing sheets of rain.
What the hell do I do now?
123
North of Scoville Air Force Base
District Five, Illinois
“FEAR NOT, MASTER SERGEANT Webber,” Volkov said, his tone as slippery as a buttered snake. “If I wanted you dead, I would’ve ordered grenades into the room, not soldiers.”
He wants me alive so he can torture me.
Bradley’s hand inched toward the pocket containing the Beretta.
I won’t let that happen. I won’t betray my country.
The crazy general barked an order in Russian, and one of the soldiers hurled the orange bucket into the air.
Bradley’s gloved hand closed around the gun. His eyes widened.
A cloud of white powder was sailing through the room, arcing in slow motion, twisting and swirling; low-tech particles that would render him visible.
Bradley’s index finger plunged into the trigger guard. The Beretta cleared the cloak’s pocket, his arm swung outward, and as the barrel glided toward his temple, a boot stomped onto his forearm.
Knees dug into his back, driving air from his lungs.
Hands wrenched the Beretta from his grasp.
Game over.
Emotion exploded inside him.
Anger that his mission had failed.
Fear for the future of his country.
Regret that he couldn’t protect Abby from this madman.
The soldiers yanked the hood of the invisibility suit from his head. They stripped off his mask and olive-green headgear. The rush of cool air against his sweat-soaked face felt so invigorating, the words thank you nearly croaked from his parched mouth. Then his captors hoisted him onto the folding chair, and made a hasty exit, closing the office door behind them.
“No restraints?” Bradley asked, tugging off his gloves. “You insult me.”
Offering a cold grin, Volkov placed a .45 caliber Springfield on his desk, and continued pecking at his laptop keyboard.
I need to grab that handgun and shoot him. Every minute I spend in this suit is dehydrating my body, degrading my reflexes, and depleting my strength.
Attention still fused to the laptop, Volkov said, “Masking your heat signature has taken a toll. Feel free to ditch the billion-dollar pajamas. Make yourself comfortable.”
Bradley retrieved the recording device plastered to his chest and slipped it into the cloak’s pocket. Then, rationalizing that a cooler core body temperature would aid his last-ditch attack, he wriggled his arms from the sleeves and peeled both garments down to his waist. The physical exertion made him feel even more tired.
Bradley’s gaze gravitated back to the Springfield. His eyes felt heavy; his muscles, fatigued. Energy seemed to be hemorrhaging from his body.
Suck it up! he told himself. Muster enough energy to shoot him ... Complete the mission ... Protect Abby.
His weary eyes returned to Volkov.
Why is he so cavalier? He’s practically daring me to go for the gun.
Is this another clever trap?
“Master Sergeant, I have forgiven you for dispatching my son—”
“Fuck your forgiveness!”
Volkov chuckled. “You remind me of Dmit
ry. Both of you, skilled warriors. Dedicated. Headstrong with a salty vocabulary. Which is why I’ve decided to take you under my wing.”
“And if I refuse to be under your wing?”
Volkov rocked back against his chair, brow clenching in contemplation, and folded his arms across his chest. “Working with me is the only way you can protect your wife.”
The veiled threat fomented panic. The only way to protect Abby is to kill you!
Bradley lunged for the handgun, and the room began to spin violently.
His right hand gripped the steel barrel of the Springfield, his left clamped onto his abdomen to mitigate a vicious cramp.
I must be dangerously dehydrated.
Bradley wrenched the gun free, backpedaled, and tripped over the folding chair. Plummeting toward the concrete floor, he struggled to take aim. His vision was blurry, his target was orbiting like a supersonic satellite, and squinting only made his eyelids feel heavier.
God help me, he thought, squeezing the trigger.
124
District Six, Texas
KYLE MURPHY STOOD in his living room, peering through a set of vertical blinds at the unruly gaggle of protestors gathered outside his home. The security forces were surprisingly adept at feigning outrage. The vitriol in their chants and rancor in their body language were convincing enough to roil Kyle’s frazzled nerves. He had to remind himself—repeatedly—that they were merely playacting; that he wasn’t reliving the teenaged insurrection that had claimed so many innocent lives.
I should’ve been among the dead, he thought; then Kyle forced the notion from his mind. He couldn’t undo the past, but he could sculpt the future for better or worse. Would this ruse ultimately curtail the bloodshed? Or escalate it?
Within minutes, the merry band of propagandists arrived. Kyle watched them disperse, stoking the crowd, their belligerent voices demanding his arrest.
Alex Ivans was making a psychological power play—instigating a populist revolt, transforming American civilians into a de facto army and inciting them to turn against their neighbors in a cultural suicide.
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