by Tim Washburn
“Point made,” Allison says. “Don’t linger too far back.”
“I won’t,” Jordan says.
Eric takes up the wagon again as they begin their journey back home. What the future holds is unknown. All they can do is survive.
CHAPTER 90
Buffalo
With the power still out in Buffalo, Dr. Scott Butler hasn’t had to worry about patients. Taking a break from drilling teeth day after day is a relief yet he remains busy despite the closing of his office. He and his troops continue to patrol the few city streets that are passable, although most everything that’s worth having was looted days ago. The mindless, endless driving allows Butler’s mind to drift and that’s not a good thing, especially with the images from inside Attica still freshly imprinted on his brain. Three times this week he has awakened in the middle of the night because of recurring nightmares. His wife, Linda, keeps asking if he’s okay and that only pisses him off. No, he’s not okay and may not be for a long time. But he can’t describe what they encountered at the prison to his wife, who has no concept of what one human can do to another.
“Cap, I see somebody walking in a store up the street,” Lieutenant Fred Parker says from behind the wheel.
“What store?” Butler asks.
“I think it’s a shoe store.”
“Maybe they need a new pair of shoes,” Butler says.
“Want me to stop?”
“Hell no.”
“If we’re not stopping at the shoe store to check for looting, what are we doing out here?” Parker asks.
“We’re quelling the violence.”
“I don’t see much violence, Cap.”
Butler shrugs. “We’re out here because we’ve been ordered out here. And if General Moore has anything to say about it, we’ll probably be driving these same streets at the same time next year.”
“What did you do to piss him off?”
“I disobeyed a direct order.”
“Why in the hell did you do that?”
“Because I didn’t agree with it, that’s why.”
“What was the order?”
“It doesn’t matter now.” Butler stares out the side window for the next two blocks. He and Parker are alone in the truck. Other trucks from their unit are out and about, but Butler decided two people per truck is all this mission requires, allowing him the ability to rotate troops through while also allowing them time at home. He turns to look at Parker. “Are you having trouble sleeping, Freddy?”
Parker nods. “Some. I keep waking up in the middle of a nightmare.”
“The same one?”
“No. Different nightmares, but same subject.”
“Attica?”
“Ding, ding, ding, give that man a prize,” Parker says in his best game show host voice. “Are you having trouble sleeping?”
“Some. I have the same issue you do.”
“Is the Guard going to spring for some counseling?”
“Yeah, but with the power off no one’s working.”
“The general approved it?” Parker asks, surprise in his voice.
“Nope. I went over his head to the governor. That’s just one more reason he’s pissed at me.”
“Yeah, well, fuck him. He’s probably sitting on his fat ass up at headquarters.”
“I imagine you’re right.” Butler checks the side mirror to see if anyone is coming up behind them. There isn’t and that’s not surprising. The first part of the week the unit cleared a few of the main roads, pushing vehicles out of the way with their large trucks. But not many drivers are out on the road because there’s not really anywhere to go. Hospital staff come and go, but the rumor is their fuel supply is almost gone. Butler wonders what’ll happen to the patients when that happens.
Thinking about the hospital makes him thirsty for a cup of coffee. “Freddy, swing by Buffalo General so we can check on Clark and Perez.” Lieutenant Gary Clark is still hanging on and Perez ended up with broken ribs and a ruptured spleen the doctors had to remove.
“We checked in with them this morning and both are doing fine. You just want another cup of coffee.”
“Guilty,” Butler says. They ride in silence for a while, looking out at the looted stores. Their first day on patrol was hectic as they chased down looters and put them in jail, despite the shoot-to-kill order. But the jail filled up quickly and, by day three, they pretty much gave up on arresting anyone else. It’s hard to take a person to jail—or, God forbid, kill someone—when they’re starving and scavenging for food. Butler’s food situation is okay for the moment after divvying up all the MREs and other food supplies at Guard headquarters. They won’t be flush with food forever and, according to word passed down through the ranks, it could be a while before the power is back on. Butler knows he’ll be scrounging for food somewhere down the road, but that’s a worry for another day.
Parker pulls into the hospital parking lot and kills the engine. They pile out and head into the hospital, stopping at the coffeepot on the way. In the ER they run into Linda Butler, the captain’s wife, who’s volunteering while the dental office is closed. Parker says hello and then makes himself scarce.
Linda gives her husband a hug. “I scavenged a few sleeping pills for you,” she whispers in his ear.
“I don’t need any damn pills,” Scott angrily whispers.
“We’re not going to argue about this, Scott. You’re exhausted and grumpy as hell,” Linda says before breaking the embrace and stepping back. “I still love you, though.” She reaches out and tenderly places a hand on her husband’s cheek. “You need to put what happened in that prison behind you, babe.”
“How exactly do I do that?” Butler asks.
Linda lowers her hand. “By talking it through. If you’re not going to talk to me, then talk to Freddy or someone else who endured that hellhole. Keeping it bottled up inside is not an option. And you know that.”
Butler nods. “I know, but if I talk about it I’m afraid I’ll relive it.”
“Maybe some of it. But right now, you’re reliving it every night. Maybe you should go talk to Tracy Green. I thinks she’s in the hospital today.”
“I’m not talking to a shrink. Hell, that woman’s got more than one screw loose.”
“Shh,” Linda says, looking around to see if anyone overheard. “Okay, not Tracy, then.”
Linda sighs in frustration. “There has to be someone you can confide in. What about your brother?”
“I can’t call him because there’s no phone service. I’ll get it worked out.”
Linda steps in closer and lowers her voice. “Bullshit.”
Butler holds his hands up about shoulder high. “Okay. I’ll talk to Freddy about it.”
“Good. Do I need to clue him in in case you forget?”
“No. I won’t forget.”
Linda leans in and gives Scott a peck on the lips. “If I didn’t love you I wouldn’t care.”
“I know. And I love you, too.” Butler takes a sip from his coffee cup. “What are we having for dinner?”
“Tonight I will be heating up the beef ravioli in meat sauce.”
Butler rubs his belly. “Sounds yummy. Can’t wait.”
Linda laughs. “I have to run. Love you, babe.”
“Love you, too. See you tonight.”
Butler takes off in search of Parker and finds him where he thought he would—at the nurses’ station. “Ready to roll, Freddy?” Butler asks.
“Yeah. Did you check on Clark and Perez?”
“We’ll come back later.”
“You mean when they brew a fresh pot of coffee?”
Butler shrugs. They make their way back to the truck and climb in. Freddy takes the wheel again and fires up the truck and pulls out of the parking lot. A mile down the road, Butler says, “Freddy, we probably ought to talk through some things . . .”
CHAPTER 91
McLean
Despite a worldwide manhunt, the man known as Basir Nazeri remains a
t large. How he slipped the quickly closing net is still unknown. FBI agents viewed vast quantities of traffic and pedestrian camera footage in and around Boston and have yet to find any trace of Nazeri. Current thinking is that he may have slipped onto a ship in Boston Harbor, and with his computer skills could have easily erased or covered his tracks some other way. The FBI is still trying to trace the calls from the landline phone inside the building. The calls were bounced around the world several times and whom Nazeri was communicating with remains unknown. In fact, much remains unknown about the man who caused so much death and destruction.
The one spot of good news, depending on a person’s political perspective, is that the president will fully recover after having his pacemaker replaced with one the authorities say is unhackable. Paige has been working around the clock with others from the NSA to dissect the computers captured in the raid and to unravel the worm that has compromised a large number of the nation’s computer networks. The dissection is almost complete, but ferreting out the malware is a job that will take months, if not years.
Now back at her spacious condo after many days away, Paige Randall closes the lid of her laptop and returns to the kitchen for another cup of coffee. She’s been running on coffee and energy drinks for days on end and she knows she needs to slow her intake of acidic drinks to give her roiling stomach a break. After taking another sip of coffee, she pours the rest down the sink, vowing to stop the caffeine cascade this very moment.
As she cleans the coffeepot she wonders what Peyton and Eric are up to. After Paige reached out to the FBI’s Chicago field office, a couple of agents were sent out to find her sister. It didn’t take them long to locate Peyton and Eric, who were still in the neighborhood, staying with one of her sister’s friends. Paige was shocked to learn about their house burning down, but the agents insisted her sister and brother-in-law were doing just fine and Paige had passed that information on to her mother, Frances. Surprisingly, Champlain still has power and cell service. Paige had been so busy that she and Frances have talked only briefly during the week, but her mother did let on that she might be seeing someone.
Paige smiles at that thought as she puts the carafe back in place. She’s happy for her mother. Exiting the kitchen, Paige walks down the hallway, enters her bedroom, and turns into her closet, searching for the perfect outfit for today’s lunch meeting. After pawing through the rows of slacks and jeans, she turns in another direction and selects a simple skirt and a sleeveless top and pulls out a pair of Tory Burch three-inch espadrilles. After laying everything out on her bed she slips into her spacious bathroom to shower. She doesn’t know what to expect from today’s meeting, but she’s hoping it turns out well.
* * *
Across town, Hank Goodnight steps out of the shower in his apartment and grabs a towel. He had spent most of the week in Boston searching for any clues that would lead to the capture of Basir Nazeri. But the clues are few. If Hank and the FBI didn’t have a picture of him they would think he doesn’t exist—a ghost. However, they do have a picture of the man, thanks to Hassan Ansari, and it’s been plastered on newscasts and newspapers all across the globe.
Ansari and the other four members of the terrorist gang are still being held at undisclosed locations and the interrogations are ongoing. Their lives and past actions are undergoing intense scrutiny while authorities debate which legal forum would be best for prosecution. Regardless of which court forum is eventually chosen, all five will never enjoy a single day of freedom for as long as they live. There have been murmurs of prosecutors wanting to seek the death penalty, and Hank won’t be surprised if that does occur, but he’ll fight to keep Hassan away from the needle.
Hank wraps the towel around his waist and runs a comb through his hair. He has a few butterflies about the upcoming lunch meeting only because he doesn’t know what to expect. The power is still out in D.C. and many other cities and towns across the country. Some portions of the grid will be repaired much quicker than others and the thinking is the electricity in the nation’s capital could be restored within days. He spoke with Nana earlier today on a landline phone at tribal headquarters. Her generator is still humming along and the Chickasaw Nation still has a good supply of fuel.
The stock markets are still a mess and it will be months before active trading begins again, if ever. The malware destroyed millions of documents and what money belongs to whom may never be sorted out. Hank opens the closet door and doesn’t spend a long time worrying about what to wear. He grabs a pair of jeans, a button-down shirt, and his cowboy boots. Elaine Mercer, his boss, hasn’t decided where his skills would be put to the best use, so Hank will continue his hunt for Nazeri until something new pops.
After slipping on his jeans and pulling on his shirt, Hank takes a seat on the edge of the bed to put his boots on. To say he was surprised about Natalie’s revelation that her sexual preferences have changed would be an understatement. Not that Hank cares. He’s a firm believer in love who you want to love and he’s happy that Natalie is happy. He has no tolerance for those people who denigrate another person’s choices. His biggest pet peeves are intolerance and hypocrisy and he’s not shy to let people know that. Hank stands and, after checking the mirror to make sure his shirt is not on inside out, he grabs his keys, his pistol, and exits his ground-floor apartment.
His Shelby Cobra chirps when he presses the key fob to unlock it. Stopping to inspect a suspicious stain on the hood, he discovers it’s a grease spot and he rubs it away with his thumb. With little thought, he wipes his thumb clean on his jeans and climbs behind the wheel. It’s hot outside and it’s about thirty degrees hotter inside, thanks to the black leather interior. Punching the start button, he fires up the massive engine and flips the air conditioner to max cold. After putting his pistol in the glove box, he reverses out of his parking spot and shifts the transmission into first gear, goosing the gas and steering the Mustang out of the parking lot. He shifts to third gear then fourth when he hits the main road. Traffic is light because most of the residents in McLean work in the now-dark D.C. area.
After weaving through traffic he pulls into the parking lot of One Westpark and motors up to the entrance. He can’t help but smile when Paige exits and walks to the car. She opens the door and climbs in. “Hi, Hank,” she says, strapping on her seat belt.
It takes Hank a moment to pull his gaze away from her tanned, toned legs. “Hi, Paige. Nice outfit.”
“You like it so you can ogle my legs.”
“Nothin’ wrong with starin’ at your legs. You have very nice legs. Legs a man might like to run his hands across.”
“Lunch, Hank. We’re going to lunch.”
“No dessert?” Hank asks.
“Yet to be determined.”
Hank eases his foot off the clutch. “I like a woman with an open mind.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The first round of thanks, as always, is reserved for you, the readers. If it weren’t for you I couldn’t do what I love doing. Thank you!
A special thanks to two people who are often overlooked—my production editor, Arthur Maisel, and my copyeditor, Randie Lipkin. I happen to think both are two of the best in the business. Thanks for finding my mistakes!
Thanks to my terrific editor and friend, Gary Goldstein. Thanks, Gary, for taking a chance on an unknown writer and for the dinners and adult beverages we’ve shared.
Thank you, Steven Zacharius, for giving us a place the writers can call home. Thanks, Lou Malcangi, for another great cover. I’m eternally grateful to all those who work at Kensington, including: Elizabeth (Liz) May, Lynn Cully, Lulu Martinez, Vida Engstrand, Kimberly Richardson, Lauren Jernigan, and Alexandra Nicolajsen. Welcome to the team, Lauren Vassallo! I look forward to working with you. A fond farewell to Morgan Elwell. Good luck in your future endeavors and thanks for being an advocate for my work.
Thank you, Jim Donovan.
Thanks to those who hold a special place in my heart: Kelsey, Andrew, and Camdyn Snid
er, Nickolas Washburn, and Karley Washburn. I love you all very, very much. Camdyn is our first grandchild and, yes, we do everything we can to spoil her.
This book is dedicated to my parents and to Tonya’s parents. Thank you for everything.
And lastly, to the woman who decided to share her life with me, Tonya. I love you forever and always.