“Looks like you finally got the roommate you’ve been clamoring for,” he said, unfastening his belt.
Blindsided by the revelation, embarrassment heated her cheeks. “Well, it’s very noble of you to sleep on the couch.”
Kicking off his shoes, he let out a nefarious laugh. “Fuck that! I’m sleeping in my bed. Where you sleep is up to you.”
Ryan met her gaze, issuing an unspoken challenge. She inched toward him until her lips grazed his teasingly. The length of her body pressed against him. He responded with an aggressive, urgent kiss that severely eroded Franny’s self-control. His hands roamed, exploring her body, each caress a command that sent passionate currents racing through her. Mustering all her willpower, she extricated herself from his embrace then whispered, “Thanks for the good-night kiss.”
Ryan stood, hands propped against hips. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Then conceding the battle, he added, “Your loss.”
Franny retreated into the bathroom. Even under the shower’s cold spray, she couldn’t banish the intoxicating feel of his touch. She helped herself to his razor, shaving her legs for the first time in months, and contemplated crawling into bed beside him. The prospect was exciting and intimidating. Franny hadn’t been with a man for years, not since she had conceived Sierra.
Without warning, repressed emotions upwelled and she plunged her face into the water, letting it wash away her salty tears.
When she finally shut off the shower and turned around, she flinched. Ryan was peering at her through the frosted glass door. Wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, his backside was perched against the vanity as he lazily brushed his teeth.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she shouted.
“What’s it look like?” He slurped water from the faucet, spit it into the sink, and stowed his toothbrush in an Army mug. Then Ryan resumed his pose. “By the way, I forgot to mention that the lock’s busted.”
Franny opened the shower door just wide enough to slip her arm through, reaching toward a pitted brass towel rack.
Ryan snatched the towel and draped it around his neck.
“You really want to see me naked that badly?”
“Is this a trick question?”
Franny pushed open the door and ambled toward him. His eyes widened with shock then slowly surveyed her body. She leaned into him and began wringing her wet hair. A cascade of water trailed down his chest and soaked his boxers. She stepped back, admiring her work.
Wielding the towel like a jump rope, Ryan cinched it around her backside, and drew her to him, reclaiming her lips. The towel fell to the floor. His hands glided over wet skin, awakening nerve endings, charging her body with sensual energy.
Franny fingers slid downward, beneath the elastic band of his boxers.
He abruptly clasped her shoulders, held her at arm’s length, and said, “Good-night!” His cocky expression declared victory in their battle of one-upmanship, but she no longer cared about winning.
“Why settle?” Franny yanked down his boxers. “When we can make it a very good night?”
Chapter 10
—— DAY 450 ——
Tuesday, May 10th
106
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
BRADLEY WEBBER WAS the first to arrive in the briefing room, a half hour before the scheduled start time. He paused in the doorway, observing Captain Andrews. Tiny pieces of blood-soaked Kleenex dotted his face, and he was whistling some tune Bradley didn’t recognize.
“Lose a fight with your razor, sir?” he asked before snapping to attention.
“Oh, this?” Ryan brushed away the paper fragments and deposited them into his pocket, moving with an uncharacteristic bounce in his step. “At ease. Franny shaved her legs with my razor. Jacked up the blade.”
“Looks like you had a good night—”
“An awesome night!”
“I’ve never seen you so happy. Must be love—”
“Lust, Bradley! I am in lust! But speaking of love, how’d it go with Abby?”
Accepting the blatant change of subject, Bradley detailed Mia’s antics in the chapel and her quest for a dishonorable discharge. He admitted to recording the conversation with a Chinese cellphone, deliberately omitting Fitzgerald’s role in its acquisition.
Ryan stopped fiddling with the projector. A sudden anger lit in his eyes, signaling that his role had shifted from friend back to commanding officer. “That’s a serious security breach. The Chinese can activate the camera and microphone. You know better!”
“The phone was only out of quarantine on two occasions: when I recorded the conversation, and when I replayed it for Abby. Without it, Mia would’ve destroyed my marriage and my career, sir.”
Ryan stared into the rectangle of light projected onto the wall, then gnarled brows relaxing, he said, “You still have that phone?”
“Yes, sir. It’s inside a radio frequency/EMI shielding pouch.”
“An unencrypted call might’ve aroused suspicion; but using one of their cellphones? That’s the perfect way to bait the trap for this op. I want it in my custody immediately following the briefing.”
“Yes, sir.”
Index fingers hunting and pecking over the laptop keyboard, Ryan said, “So after all the drama, where do you stand with Abby?”
“She says we’re starting back at square one. Whatever that means.”
Chuckling, Ryan said, “It means you won’t be getting any for the foreseeable future.”
Bradley grumbled, “Thanks for the clarification,” but deep down, he was just grateful to have a second chance.
Over the span of ten minutes, several TEradS personnel filtered into the briefing room along with Franny Marion. Curious glances volleyed between her and Captain Andrews; then knowing smirks flickered around the conference table. Their happy demeanor was as effective as a press release announcing that they were sleeping together.
“Before we get started,” Ryan said, “you need to understand that this operation is off the books. Sanctioned only by me. If you are uncomfortable participating, feel free to opt out ...”
107
Ansley Air Force Base
Washington, D.C.
HOW MANY MORE TRAITORS are out there? Major Carlos Rodriguez wondered as he ate alone inside the Officers’ mess hall. Ryan Andrews had some sort of sixth sense for ferreting out treason; and he always seemed to know when to jettison the rule book. In this case, if he had not withheld custody of the laptop, this devious assassination plot would have gone undiscovered.
Did I do the right thing? Rodriguez asked himself yet again. With three unidentified traitors in the U.S. government, choosing an agency to trust was like playing Russian roulette. The FBI, NSA, Homeland Security, the Department of Justice, the Secret Service—any of them could have been compromised. He had devoted hours, investigating each director before realizing that longevity of service did not necessarily equate to loyalty.
No sense worrying about it now, he told himself. He had already placed the call; the die had been cast; and he would find out soon enough if he had chosen wisely.
His encrypted phone chimed, and Aldrich Ames wasted no time with pleasantries. “Have you retrieved the items, Major?”
“No, sir. My flight to Langden leaves in two hours—”
“You should’ve left two days ago.”
“My apologies, sir.”
“Address me as Director Ames. And I am not interested in your apologies.”
Irritated, Rodriguez said, “I have other responsibilities besides being your errand boy.”
“And what a fine job you’re doing, Major, losing ten teams to ambushes in as many days. Frankly, I don’t see the wisdom of funding a military outfit incapable of protecting itself, let alone the American people.”
A Colonel walked past Rodriguez, a reminder to avoid raising his voice. “TEradS East and West have devastated stateside terrorists. Can the CIA say the same of the
cells abroad, Director Ames?”
“Your attitude is unbecoming,” he replied, each syllable edged with condescension. “I intend to personally oversee the dissolution of the TEradS. All domestic antiterrorism operations will be delegated to the UW peacekeepers.”
Rodriguez couldn’t help himself, laughter just squirted out as another of Ryan Andrews’ predictions came to fruition.
“Be advised, Major, from now on I’m playing hardball,” Ames said, then he ended the call.
Noting the veiled threat, Rodriguez nudged back his chair and considered calling Andrews. Could Ames’ people intercept and decipher encrypted military communications?
It’s not worth the risk, he thought. I’ll brief Andrews in person later tonight.
He exited the building, squinting against the late afternoon sunshine.
A Humvee slammed to a stop, and two MPs emerged.
“Major Carlos Rodriguez?” Corporal Dalton had dirty-blond hair and stood a foot taller than Rodriguez. His partner, Corporal Pickett, was African American with the build of a basketball player, approaching seven feet; and Rodriguez felt like a child staring up at them.
“What can I do for you?”
“We need you to come with us, sir,” Pickett said.
“What’s this about?”
“Just get in the vehicle, sir.”
“Not until you answer my question.”
“Sir, we have orders to take you by force if necessary.”
The word hardball screamed through Rodriguez’s head followed by a question: Are these Ames’ goons?
“Whose orders?” he demanded.
Dalton reached for his sidearm, distracting Rodriguez.
He felt a syringe lodge into his arm.
His vision blurred, then a fateful fog smothered the sunshine.
108
District Six, Texas
KYLE MURPHY WATCHED Gary hobble into his office. The sheriff’s eyelashes, brows, and mustache had been singed when he leapt through the wall of flames; his arms and shins, mottled with first-degree burns.
“Abby’s strategy worked,” Gary said. “When the alarm sounded, everyone took up arms and turned their yards into kill zones. We found six dead Asian soldiers strewn between my house and yours.”
Kyle drew in a breath, struggling against the burden of responsibility. “I’m sorry. I know you and Maria lost everything—”
“Listen, Kyle, you can’t come to this office every morning at seven and go home every night at five. It’s too predictable. You need to rotate where you’re working and sleeping.”
“You want me to live on the run like a paranoid dictator?”
“I want you to stay alive. And the Chinese will try again.”
“I know.” Kyle defiantly met Gary’s eye. “But if it’s my destiny to be assassinated, I’d rather die standing up to the Chinese, not cowering like a scared rat.”
“No one’s asking you to hide in a spider hole,” Gary said. “You just need to be less predictable.”
A brittle silence filled the room, magnifying the tension, each man understanding the other’s position and unwilling to budge.
“Kyle!” Jessie rapped urgently then the door flew open. “Chi-phones just went on standby for a presidential address.”
She handed the phone to him. Kyle mumbled his thanks and increased the volume to its maximum. The LCD screen showed a podium bearing the presidential seal. Two flags hung in the background—Old Glory dwarfed by the Chinese flag.
Aaron Burr was introduced as the Vice President of the United States.
“My fellow Americans, it is with great sadness that I address you today. President William Patterson Quenten has taken ill with Alameda fever, and I must be frank. There is no treatment for this disease, and no one has survived.
“In accordance with Section Four of the Twenty-fifth Amendment to the Constitution, I have received a written declaration that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office. Therefore, I have lawfully assumed the position of acting President.
“As my first official task, I am issuing a mandatory vaccination order to include citizens outside the districts as well as military personnel. Refusing the inoculation will be deemed an act of treason. The rights of the individual will no longer be allowed to endanger the collective health of our nation.
“The White House will conduct daily briefings regarding the health of the President. However, we must steel ourselves for his inevitable passing and honor his sacrifice by complying with the law and by reporting anyone who jeopardizes the health and future of the United States. Thank you, and may fate smile upon our endeavors.”
All military personnel—the words ricocheted through Kyle, then the air in his lungs solidified, like a rock crushing his heart.
109
Fifty Miles North of Amarillo, Texas
EVEN FROM INSIDE THE storm cellar, Sybil had felt the explosion. It battered the old house and quaked the ground. Windows had been blown out along with Martha’s ears. The woman’s arms and legs were bruised and bloody with superficial cuts, a miracle given that the storehouse had been leveled, the UW truck shredded.
Sybil had spent the night underground, along with Izzy, Martha, and Mary, but sleep remained elusive. How did the UW peacekeepers find them, yet again?
Through the dim light of a candle, Sybil had searched the packages of dried fish from the train, expecting to find an RFID chip, a radio frequency identification device commonly used to track goods in transit. She found nothing. Was the technology too small to see with the naked eye? Or was she growing paranoid?
When daybreak finally came, Sybil and Izzy discovered that Moses—along with Martha’s plow horse—had run off, presumably frightened by the blast. Having no other option, they set out on foot, walking the dry, barren landscape, baking in the sun, tasting the swirling dust. Partially healed blisters swelled, each step punctuated by a stinging, burning friction and a sharp ache that shot up her calf.
They stopped to rest whenever a patch of shade presented itself, but those breaks only made it harder to resume. Sybil had folded down the heels of her sneakers to alleviate the pain and trudged on beside Izzy in a zombielike march.
As the sun drooped toward the horizon, they walked along a split-rail fence. Behind her, she heard horse hooves beating against the parched earth. Sybil spun toward the sound, thanking God that they had found Moses.
The horse, however, was a jet-black mare. Its rider was dressed in faded jeans, dust-covered boots, and a black Stetson hat.
“He doesn’t look like UW,” Izzy said.
“And he doesn’t look friendly.”
He had a deeply tanned face, pinched into a permanent scowl. His gloved left hand reined the horse to a stop; his right clutched a shotgun. “Ease that rifle onto the ground, Boy!”
He racked his shotgun to underscore the order, his eyes defensively analyzing every movement. Izzy slowly lowered the butt stock to the ground then let the barrel keel over.
“Now, put your backpacks down and back up ten yards. Both of you!”
Sybil’s pulse doubled, and her hands shook as she wriggled the backpack from her shoulders. Was he stealing their meager supply of food and water? Their only means of protection? And Sybil’s journal—her sole reason for not giving up?
“You heard me! Ten yards!”
With a trembling hand, she plucked the journal from her bag and backed away. The stranger dismounted and rummaged through their belongings, warily watching, his shotgun barrel trained on them.
“If you steal our food, water, and rifle, you might as well just shoot us now,” Izzy shouted. “ ‘Cause we can’t survive without them!”
A cold hint of a smile tweaked the man’s lips as he slung both backpacks and Izzy’s rifle strap onto his burly shoulders. He mounted his horse and circled around behind them. “Start walking!” He emphasized the direction with his shotgun.
Is he shooing us away from his property? Or taking us c
aptive?
“What should we do?” Izzy whispered, his voice crackling with fear.
Sybil uttered the only word that came to mind. “Pray.”
110
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
PERTURBED, RYAN ANDREWS paced along the wall of fallen heroes inside his office. The presidential address had been broadcast on a time delay throughout the base, and despite his warning, Quenten had contracted Alameda fever. Did the director of Secret Service ignore the assassination plot? Was he one of the unnamed traitors?
Quenten was a dead man, ensuring that Aaron Burr would inherit the presidency. Would he be a strong Commander in Chief? Would he have the fortitude to decimate our enemies? To expand the TEradS mission to include the eradication of invading peacekeepers?
Burr’s words pealed through him like thunder: Mandatory vaccinations for military personnel ... refusing the inoculation will be deemed an act of treason.
This time, I can’t massage the truth, he thought. Not with the Chinese monitoring each patient’s vital signs and progression along the death meter.
Ryan only saw two possibilities. Either Rodriguez would convince General Quenten to defy Aaron Burr and oppose the vaccinations; or Ryan and his TEradS teams would find themselves at war with the United States military.
111
Washington, D.C.
MAJOR CARLOS RODRIGUEZ awoke, lying on a small couch in a windowless room. He blinked against the fluorescent lighting and sat upright. The pounding behind his eyes intensified as he recalled the altercation with the two MPs.
His hands were unrestrained, and he instinctively patted his pockets. His phone and folding knife were missing. He pushed himself to a standing position and gripped the couch, steadying himself against a rush of light-headedness.
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