XGeneration 7: Dead Hand (XGeneration Series)

by Brad Magnarella

  “Please,” he said, his tongue thick in his mouth. “I need to get back to my office.”

  Margaret clucked her own tongue, but instead of wheeling him in a circle to his bed, she began pushing him into the corridor. “You already overexerted yourself once today,” she scolded.

  “Yes, yes, well the job of running the world isn’t for the faint of heart, is it?”

  He affected his most cheerful voice. He had yet to let on to her, or any of his high command, that his plan had hit a major snag. If he hurried, though, he might change that. He had created the conditions for global nuclear war once, hadn’t he? The major levers remained in his grasp. He had exhausted the lion’s share of his paper wealth, of course—in a post-apocalyptic world fiat currency would be useless. But he had maintained a contingency fund of a few billion spread over a network of banks, hidden in plain sight, for just in case.

  It was now a matter of putting that wealth into action.

  “In front of the computer, please,” he said, as Margaret wheeled him into his office.

  His staff had cleaned up the wine and broken glass. The office was immaculate once more, as though to suggest his dream lived. As he was rolled through shafts of late oceanic sunlight, a new optimism infused him. Yes, the game was still on. He still controlled the important pieces.

  He lifted his polarized sunglasses from the desk and put them on.

  The first order of business was to make sure no one came after him. A few donations would take care of that. His fingers tapped over the keyboard, accessing one of his larger accounts. When he leaned in to read the balance, his heart froze for a full beat. When it resumed, so did the smoldering chest pain.

  “What’s this?”

  Margaret peered over his shoulder. “What’s what?”

  In rapid bursts of typing, he flew from account to account. All showed the same dollar balances: $0.00. On several he even owed an insufficient-funds fee. He had been cleaned out.

  But how?

  His thoughts jagged to his recent talk with Margaret, in the rooftop garden. She had listened as he went on about his island, his planned projects, his plans for them. It had been such a pleasant night, one in which everything seemed possible. But had he also shared some things he shouldn’t have? His contingency plan, for example?

  He fought to remember, but all he recalled were Margaret’s eyes hovering moth-like in the darkness.

  He wheeled in a slow circle. “You?”

  He removed his sunglasses to study her questioning face, wary of the least trick. She had proven her loyalty many times—to the extent, even, of endangering her teammates, getting one of them killed. But had those been demonstrations of loyalty or calculated sacrifices to engender his trust? She had been on a business-school track, he recalled. Had she performed her own cost-benefit analysis, deciding the danger to her teammates was worth the safety of the world?

  The colors of her irises shifted. “I had nothing to do with this.”

  Those were exactly the eyes he had seen that night. Fury detonated white-hot in his head.

  “You!” Khoggi sprang from his chair.

  The blast that nailed his chest forced out a hoarse grunt and knocked him the length of the office. A glass wall fractured against his back. The floor knocked the rest of the wind from him.

  “I don’t know what kind of Mickey Mouse country you’re running here,” someone said, “but it’s poor policy to attack a woman. Especially one of ours.”

  Khoggi lifted his head to find Scott Spruel standing before the office doorway, his visor pulsing red. Jesse Hoag lumbered in behind him, followed by the shapeshifter, Reginald Perry. How in the hell had the Champions landed on his island much less made it to his inner sanctum?

  “Guards!” Khoggi wheezed.

  “Forget it,” Margaret said. “I’ve been meeting with the top brass this week, remember? They eat from my hand now. The game’s over, you pathetic little excuse for a man.”

  What Khoggi said next was reflexive, a line he had fallen back on so many times in his life.

  “I have money.”

  “Correction,” Scott said. “The U.S. Department of Justice has your money.”

  “And a two-dozen-page list of international crimes with your name on it,” Reginald added, “including all of the assassinations you ordered.”

  The words were still thudding like stones against Khoggi’s chest when the room trembled and Jesse’s enormous shadow swallowed him. Khoggi screamed and threw his arms up.

  “Relax,” Jesse grumbled, hoisting him by the back of his pajama top. “Just trying to save the agents from getting their hands dirty.”

  It was only then Khoggi noticed the black-clad U.S. agents, a dozen of them. They swarmed around his desk, converging where Jesse had planted him on his bare feet, his hand-crafted slippers having blown off somewhere.

  From a nauseating distance, Khoggi felt hands seizing his arms, wrenching them behind his back, snapping cuffs around his wrists. The Champions stood to one side as he was dragged past, the years his wealth and triumph-fueled cheer had staved off seeming to collapse into his body at once.

  “I … I helped make you,” he mumbled, a bankrupt, decrepit man.

  “And we appreciate it,” Scott replied.

  54

  While Reginald went over to speak with the agents packing up Khoggi’s computer, Scott turned to face Margaret.

  “I know,” she said, holding her hands up. “I have a lot to explain.”

  “So you went double-double agent?” He had been trying to work it out in his head ever since receiving her message in the jet: the coordinates for Khoggi’s island and the accounts where he’d stashed his remaining money. Margaret had not only led them to the kingpin, but to his demise.

  “Prince Khoggi first approached me in Saudi Arabia,” she said. “He mistook my business ambitions for money hunger. He offered me generous compensations for each time I shared anything actionable relating to upcoming Champions campaigns. I agreed and passed that information onto Shadow, mostly by way of books left in the university library.”

  “But you helped them so much. The plan to hack the Witch’s clairvoyance, the plan to access Khoggi’s account through Viper, the plot to nab Khoggi himself. I mean, the list goes on and on. And Creed, he paid the ultimate price. Not to mention several agents.” Anger had begun to tremble in Scott’s voice. “Why?”

  “Prince Khoggi might have misinterpreted my ambitions, but I saw his clearly.” She gestured around the three glass walls that looked over the city. “He really meant this to be the capital of a post-nuclear-war world that he would rule over. Even scarier, he had the money and means to bring that world about. Do you know how many lives we’re talking? Billions, Scott. In any case, I had gotten that much from him. But I needed to obtain more, and that meant earning his absolute trust. To do so, I had to provide him accurate information, one, and never appear to be helping the Champions, two. That’s why I kept everyone in the dark.”

  “But we could have stopped him earlier,” Scott argued. “At the Viper building, we—we had him!”

  Margaret shook her head as though trying to explain a concept to a five-year-old. “That’s what you and the others didn’t fully get. He was in everyone’s pocket. Remember when Kilmer tried to access that Swiss account? The powers that be wouldn’t let him. It was going to take this—catching him in the act—to bring him down. Otherwise, he would have greased his way out, made himself even more untouchable, more dangerous. And assassination wasn’t an option, either. Khoggi’s death would have shut off funding to the Champions Program while the nuclear threat remained. Until today, I couldn’t be sure whether he was working alone or as part of a larger conspiracy. Thank God it was the first.”

  “More dangerous?” Scott cried. “Do you have any idea how close we just came to the unthinkable?”

  “You mean the missiles?” Margaret shrugged. “I knew you guys would stop them.”

  Scott had to stare f
or a moment before realizing she was serious. He sighed. Janis had said it herself. For someone so intelligent, her sister didn’t always seem to grasp the bigger picture.

  “What?” Margaret said.

  Scott shook his head. “Never mind.” And then, despite everything, he pulled her into a hug. After all, she could well be his future sister-in-law. “I’m just glad you’re safe. And still one of the good guys.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet.” She squeezed him back. “Any news on my little sister?”

  “There is.”

  Scott and Margaret separated and turned toward Reginald’s voice. He was standing with his hands clasped at his belt line, lips pressed together, chin slightly dipped. It was the way Scott imagined he himself would look when he carried out the unfortunate task of talking to Minion.

  “Good news?” he asked carefully.

  “No, Scott. I’m afraid not.”

  55

  Spruel household

  Two months later - Saturday, August 16

  10:41 a.m.

  Scott was dreaming of Janis, the two of them together again, when a staccato of knocking disturbed his sleep. When no one answered the door, he pushed his glasses onto his face and edged between his bed and boxed-up computer.

  Probably someone from the moving company.

  He shuffled down the hallway as the knocking sounded a second time, his toy poodle, J.R., yipping circles around his feet. Their move was scheduled for Friday, and half of the house was already packed. Thanks to his father’s penchant for hoarding, it was going to take two vans to make the cross-country trip.

  Scott dragged a hand through his bed-stiff hair and pulled the front door open. But instead of finding another burly man in tan coveralls with a clipboard, he was looking at an aging man in a black business suit, tapping what looked like a case for oversized glasses in his opposite palm.

  “Director Kilmer?”

  Scott hadn’t seen him since their final Champions meeting, months earlier. He looked grayer. Scott squinted past him to where a black Crown Victoria was idling in the driveway.

  “Morning, Scott.” Kilmer clapped his upper arm. “Mind if I come in?”

  “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

  He backed away, inhaling the sleep from his sinuses. As Kilmer stepped inside, J.R. sniffed around his glossy black shoes, making Scott self-conscious of his own worn socks and crumpled shorts.

  “Sorry I’m not dressed. I didn’t know…”

  “It’s fine, Scott. I didn’t exactly announce my visit.”

  Scott led him to the kitchen table, where Kilmer tugged his pants up at the knees and took a seat.

  “Where are your parents?” he asked.

  Scott had to think for a moment. “Oh, probably taking a load of junk to the landfill. My mom finally got Dad to clean out the garage.”

  “Ah.”

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Scott opened the fridge and pushed around an assortment of plastic jugs and cartons.

  “Orange juice, if you have it.”

  Scott poured them two glasses of Minute Maid and sat opposite Kilmer. It was discombobulating seeing his former director in this context: in his own house, much of it in cardboard boxes, no more team, no more Champions. He watched Kilmer take a sip and set the glass down.

  “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” Scott began, but what he was really asking was, What’s up? What are you doing back here? There was a hint of challenge in those questions, making Scott wonder if a part of him blamed his former director for what had happened to Janis.

  Kilmer smiled wearily. “Nor I you, Scott.” He looked around the kitchen. “To tell you the truth, I never thought I’d be let within a hundred miles of here. But the president made an exception for one final mission.”

  Scott’s heart sped up. “Mission?”

  “My own, this time,” Kilmer quickly amended. “He wanted me to give you this.” He pushed forward what had looked like a case for glasses.

  Scott felt his brows press together as he turned the case around and cracked it open. Resting in a plush bed was a striking red and blue medallion, a large white star in its center. The edges of the medallion were gold eagles, wings spread. Scott lifted the medallion out by a folded-over blue ribbon, surprised by its weight.

  “That’s the Presidential Medal of Freedom, Scott. The highest honor that can be bestowed upon a U.S. citizen. It’s been awarded to you and your teammates for averting a nuclear crisis and bringing about the current thaw between the U.S. and what remains of the Soviet Union. The president would have liked to have awarded you the medal himself, and in a public ceremony, but…” Kilmer tilted his head: you understand.

  Scott did. The public didn’t know the Champions had existed. They were even less aware of how close they had come to total annihilation. Instead, the collective memory of their summer would consist of Hands Across America, Greg LeMond winning the Tour de France, new hits by Billy Ocean, Madonna, and Janet Jackson, and filled-to-capacity showings of the Karate Kid II and Big Trouble in Little China.

  “Congratulations,” Kilmer finished.

  “Thanks,” Scott said, palming the medallion now. As beautiful as it was, as honored as he felt, Scott would have traded the medal and ninety-nine just like it for one more day with Janis.

  “So,” he said, inhaling against the threat of tears, “you’re giving these to everyone?”

  “That’s right. My trip began a few days ago in New York. Tyler and his mother are up there now, settling in. Tyler will be starting his writing program soon.” He checked his watch. “This week, in fact. They’re doing well. From there, I jetted over to Kansas to give Erin hers.”

  “How are they handling it?” Scott asked. “I mean, being apart.”

  “Oh, you know them. They’re acting like it’s no big deal, too cool for school, which tells me how much they miss each other.”

  Scott nodded. He knew the feeling.

  “From Kansas, it was over to Little Rock, where I spent some time with Theresa and her parents.”

  Scott remembered taking Minion aside, explaining what had happened to Shockwave in those final moments underground. His heroism—blasting Scott from certain death—had offered little consolation. She had cried against his chest, great goring sobs. That had pummeled Scott.

  “How is she?”

  “Adjusting.” Kilmer’s gaze fell from his. “She needs more time, of course, but I think the change of scenery has helped.”

  Scott felt himself steeling against the suggestion that his own upcoming move would prove therapeutic. At least here he could still look on her house, remember their two years together. And if he was lucky, sometimes—

  “My last stops are here,” Kilmer said, interrupting the thought, “Gainesville, Florida. I was over at the Hoags’ last night.”

  Scott caught the meaning in Kilmer’s tired chuckle. Mr. Hoag had put up such a shit fit about moving, the powers that be had relented, allowing him and his wife to keep the house in Oakwood. The bigger surprise was Jesse’s decision to stay in town. He ended up getting his own place, one with the necessary modifications to accommodate his enormous frame. But he was actually putting in a few hours at his father’s garage. They were on better terms, apparently. Nights, he bounced at his favorite pool hall. According to Tyler, he had a thing for one of the bartenders—a married number who wouldn’t give him the time of day.

  Scott had to smile at the idea of Jesse in puppy love.

  “He seems happy,” Kilmer said, as though to complete Scott’s thought.

  “Good to hear.” Scott set the medallion back in its case and massaged his right wrist. His cast had come off the month before, and damned if the second break hadn’t straightened his arm. No more angled lump.

  Kilmer snapped the lid closed on the award and drew the case back to his side of the table. “Unfortunately, you won’t be able to keep this.”

  “Plausible deniability?”

  Kilmer gave a wry smile. “You k
now the game.”

  Scott’s eyes fell back to the closed case. “And Janis’s?” The girl who saved the world. The girl he’d planned to marry.

  “My next stop. I’ll be showing hers to her parents.”

  Following an uncomfortable silence, they stood at the same time.

  “Scott,” Kilmer said, taking his hand, “it’s been an honor and a privilege. I’ve never been prouder of a group than yours. To think of what you accomplished is … well, it’s incomprehensible.”

  Scott pulled him into a one-armed hug. “Thanks for giving us the opportunity, sir.”

  They wound their way past stacks of boxes in the living room. At the front door, Kilmer crossed the threshold and turned back to Scott. “Listen, I know it doesn’t seem so now, but there’s an incredible world waiting for you out there, full of opportunities. You’re a brilliant young man. Plenty handsome, too.”

  Scott gave a single nod, more so in farewell than agreement.

  “Take care,” Kilmer said.

  “You do the same.”

  Scott watched Kilmer walk to the driveway, surprised when he rounded the idling car to the passenger side. Scott peered at the tinted window until a vague outline took shape behind the wheel. The window slid down to reveal a dark, weather-worn face, eyes the color of turned-up soil, and two bright rows of teeth.

  The man raised a pair of fingers between which a silver coin was swimming. He caught the coin between his thick thumb and middle finger, then snapped it into seeming nonexistence.

  “Though the coin may jump,” he said, then snapped his fingers again, “she always jump back.”

  Before Scott could process what he was saying, the coin was glinting through the air. Scott slapped it between his palms and opened his top hand. The heads side of a shining half dollar stared up at him.

  “You remember that,” Reginald-as-Mr. Shine called as he backed the car down the driveway.

  56

  Scott fiddled with the half dollar in his pocket as he walked down the short street that ran perpendicular to his own. Save for a moving van and Margaret’s blue Honda Prelude, the cul-de-sac was empty. Sometime in the last hour, while Scott had eaten, showered, and dressed, Kilmer had finished his business at the Graystones’. The black sedan was nowhere in sight.