Author: David Vandyke; Ryan King
Date: 2017-04-11 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Apocalyptic; Science Fiction Fantasy; Post Apocalyptic; Fiction; Fantasy; Science Fiction; Action
Description: BOOK FIVE of the Plague Wars series. When a friend disappears, Skull must track him down. Spooky's family is sent to a death camp and he proposes a suicidal rescue, but only Reaper can lead it. Bogged down in a war with the rebel state of Alaska, at odds with Canada and meddling in Mexico's politics, the Unionist-controlled USA proceeds down an ugly path toward fascism, tyranny, and genocide. Politics, assassination and propaganda form the backdrop for a race against time to rescue hundreds of dying Edens held deep within the American heartland. The books in the Plague Wars series: Plague Wars
Publisher: David Vandyke

NEAREST NIGHT

Plague Wars Book 5

by

David VanDyke and Ryan King

NEAREST NIGHT

Plague Wars Book 5

Published by REAPER PRESS at Smashwords

Copyright 2016 David VanDyke and Ryan King

All Rights Reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-62626-199-0

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form, or by any means whatsoever (electronic, mechanical or otherwise) without prior written permission and consent from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Books by David VanDyke

Books by Ryan King

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

Books by David VanDyke

Plague Wars: Decade One

The Eden Plague

Reaper’s Run

Skull’s Shadows

Eden’s Exodus

Apocalypse Austin

Nearest Night

Plague Wars: Alien Invasion

The Demon Plagues

The Reaper Plague

The Orion Plague

Comes The Destroyer

Forge and Steel

Plague Wars: Stellar Conquest

First Conquest

Desolator

Tactics of Conquest

Conquest of Earth

Books by D.D. VanDyke

D. D. VanDyke is the Mysteries pen name for fiction author David VanDyke.

California Corwin P.I. Mystery Series

Loose Ends - Book 1

(Includes Off The Leash short story)

In a Bind - Book 2

Slipknot - Book 3

The Girl In The Morgue - Book 4

For more information visit http://www.davidvandykeauthor.com/

Books by Ryan King

Land of Tomorrow Series:

Glimmer of Hope

Children of Wrath

Paths of Righteousness

For more info about Ryan King’s books visit Three Kings Publishing on Facebook

Cover by Jun Ares

Chapter 1

Skull had mixed feelings about operating in fluid environments.

On one hand, they were places where his experience and natural skills could be showcased and put to maximum use. If the situation was predictable, you could write a set of instructions and any gun-for-hire could do the job. You wouldn’t need someone like Skull.

On the other, he liked to plan a mission to the last detail, and some extremes of fluidity made even Skull uncomfortable. Places that simmered to the point of boiling over with thick and deadly murderous hate. Genocidal, organized extinction, employing the weapons of the industrial age, but using nothing but machetes and bayonets if necessary.

Skull had seen it firsthand in places such as Sudan, Rwanda, and Bosnia. Not where anyone wanted to be, even when you weren’t the intended target of a blind killing frenzy fueled by hatred and fear.

The Democratic Republic of the Congo, the DRC, had never been a model of stable government. Set in the heart of Africa, it had gained independence from Belgium in 1960 and almost immediately devolved into spasms of chaos and violence that remained the only constant for the next sixty years. In such an environment, skill and experience meant less than in other places; you could be killed from a block away by child soldiers with hand-me-down AK-47s, lost boys devoid of judgment and moral compasses.

Skull had looked into the vacant eyes of these immature zombies and found their souls composed of nothing but wounds stitched together by loyalty to some warlord father figure. Sympathy for their plight didn’t fool him into thinking them any less dangerous…or more human.

Even more importantly, he prided himself on blending into any environment, but that was impossible in the DRC. Though many African countries were filled with people of dark skin, other types – Caucasians, Asians, Semitics – abounded.

Not so in the DRC. Skull was the only non-black person he’d seen in the forty-eight hours since his arrival, and he drew stares wherever he went. With those stares came attention, demands for bribes, and approaches to sell him anything from food, to rides, to even themselves, for an hour or a night.

This was no place for a professional like Skull to linger. One too many variables could kill him.

He knew the spread of the Eden Plague through the sprawling country had at first signaled a positive change. This giant forested river basin that was home to countless tropical plants and animals was also the birthplace of Ebola, AIDS, and human monkey-pox. Other diseases that originated elsewhere found a friendly home here. Malaria, dengue fever, yellow fever, rabies and a host of others ran wild in this giant tropical land.

The Eden Plague improved everything nearly overnight, but the unintended consequences of Daniel Markis’ decision took only nine months to manifest. In a country where infant mortality ran close to fifty percent in some regions and average life expectancy hovered under the age of fifty, near-perfect health and youth brought with it a population explosion. Food supplies, already inadequate, became even more scarce.

Even so, “virtue effect” of the virus engendered a newfound spirit of cooperation, and people pulled together to do the best they could. With crime reduced, the economy improved. People shared more, wasted less. Aid shipments made it through more often instead of being seized by competing warlords.

The populace soon realized their corrupt, non-Eden government officials were the principal source of their problems. For the first time in its history, Congolese citizens united in opposition to their government.

This was something those in power could not tolerate. They fought back, using the usual oppressive tools: the military, the police, and the criminal organizations on their payroll.

Therefore, as in so many places in the world, Congo’s Edens were demonized and dehumanized in order to divert the others from the ruling class’s misdeeds. Society blamed them for every wrong, their “affliction” painted in the worst possible light, as demon possession. They were denied civil rights and forced to place symbols on their clothing and homes declaring their “unclean” status.

So very much had changed in the last few years...but it was still the same old predictable show. Skull expected the play’s final act would end no differently.

He stepped out of a taxi that smelled of old onions and unwashed feet, and looked up at the Free Communities compound in Kinshasa. Never intended as a fortress, the large work and housing area was secured by hastily erected walls, with makeshift barriers set up at key locations.

Vulgar anti-Eden graffiti had been written on those walls, and teenage gunmen from the local militia stood watching the FC compound, weapons and cigarettes dangling contemptuously. They eyed Skull across a swarm of boys playing soccer in the street, too young to be given guns.

He eyed them back, ready to move if they did.

Walking up to the large sliding metal door, he pounded on its surface. A few seconds later a small opening appeared and a pale face peered suspiciously out at him, and then around and beyond.

“Candygram,” Skull said with false cheer.

The slot slammed shut.

Skull sighed. No one had a sense of humor anymore. He beat louder on the metal surface. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the militia becoming more interested.

“What do you want?” the face asked when the slot was opened again.

Biting off a sarcastic response, Skull forced out. “I’m here to see Shawna Nightingale. I’m a friend. Let me in, or I may have to kill someone.” He jerked his head in the direction of the armed men.

“Name?”

Two gunmen started to stroll his direction. One of the two opened and closed his fists, as if working up to violence.

Skull was sure he could deal with the two, but it would draw unwanted attention to the compound, perhaps providing an excuse to raid it. He turned back to the man in the window. “Listen, if it’s all the same to you, perhaps we should move this inside. Then you can do whatever the hell checks you want.”

“Name!” the man said even louder, looking at a clipboard.

Gritting his teeth, Skull said as softly as possible. “Alan Denham.” He wasn’t there under that name, of course, and in the wrong circles its use could get him detained for a long time and in unsavory circumstances.

Even enlightened governments tend to get a case of the ass about people running around with false identities, he thought. This place looks to be much worse.

“Alan Denham,” the man said loudly. “Here it is. Identification?”

Skull winced, leaned as close to the hole as he could and glared in at the man. “Listen. If you don’t open that door right now, I’m walking away. That might be good for you in the short term as you get to avoid doing your job, but there are some very important people inside who want to see me. Then you might not have a job at all.”

The guard glared at him for a long moment, and then the hole closed. He heard metal locks turning with protesting squeals. The door swung open.

Skull heard one of the gunmen behind him call out, but ignored the sound. He pushed his way through the door and slammed it shut, shoving the metal locking bars into place. The noise of yelling and beating on the door came through clearly.

“Put your hands on the wall and spread your legs for a search,” Skull heard the guard say behind him.

He turned slowly, and then suddenly kicked the man as hard as he could in the crotch, catching a pump shotgun in his hands as the guard dropped to the ground. A second guard had barely changed his expression from boredom to surprise when he found himself looking down the weapon’s barrel.

The man on the ground moaned as he tried to roll up into a ball the size of a cantaloupe. He kept trying to suck in oxygen while simultaneously retching.

“You earned that, you dumb shit,” Skull said to him, not taking his eyes off the one in front of him. “You almost blew my cover and got me grabbed out there.”

The one on his feet held his hands up and his eyes roamed, looking for help. Skull tracked where the man’s gaze traveled, to a door with a camera pointed in their direction. The door constituted the only inside access to the small, enclosed area, a safety measure no doubt.

With a buzz, the door popped open.

Chapter 2

Larry Nightingale hailed a taxi at Rotterdam-The-Hague airport, both for convenience and because his conspicuousness aboard public transportation irritated him after a while. The stares, the whispers…sometimes the come-ons. A black man might not be too novel a sight, but one pushing six foot six – two meters – in height was. “Do you play basketball?” was perhaps the commonest question people asked him, out of the blue.

“No, American football,” he occasionally replied, when he felt like chatting. After all, that was true. He had played football in high school before joining the Army. Mostly, though, he simply smiled and acted as if he didn’t understand. Sometimes the simpleton routine put them off and they left him alone.

He told the taxi driver to take him to the Kurhaus Hotel in The Hague, where he’d been briefed to go. It turned out to be a nineteenth-century seaside monstrosity that looked to him more like a palace than a place of lodging, something that should be depicted in an impressionist painting of more than a century ago, where mustachioed gentlemen in knee-to-elbow swimsuits strutted before parasol-bearing ladies with fancy hats and frilly dresses.

Once he settled into his room, admiring the picturesque view across a winter-cold, nearly empty North Sea beach, he texted a number he’d been given and waited. He’d already checked in with the South African U.N. representative staff to report his arrival, all routine, under the cover name Alex Crester. His real mission would begin when he received a reply to the text.

His phone beeped and he found displayed on it the name and address of a restaurant. A moment’s research showed it to be less than half a kilometer away, southwest along the strandweg, the beach-walk.

A short stroll took him past the Sea Life aquarium and a dozen restaurants with evocative names such as Blue Lagoon, Bora Bora and Cocomo. The festive decorations and signs contrasted with the brisk, wet, and some might say biting ocean breeze. He found it invigorating after the heat of the Congo.

At least the locals knew how to make the most of their restaurant locations. Enormous windows allowed diners to sit inside and still enjoy the beach view, and many eateries enclosed their patios with thick, clear plastic to block the wind, removable for the few high-summer days when the heat made them unnecessary. Aromas of cooking food wafted inland, and gulls eyed him speculatively from their perches atop benches, pilings and signs.

Larry decided he liked this place, despite its temperature. And, since he had the benefit of an expense account, he might as well enjoy the local cuisine. Maybe a steak…or pork cutlet? He knew the Germans loved their schweinefleisch, but what was a typical Dutch dish? Something with their famous cheese, maybe? He should have done more research.

When he arrived at the restaurant, he asked for a table for three as instructed. Moments later, a man and a woman arrived and greeted him, shaking hands and speaking to him like old friends. Both stood nearly as tall as he. He’d noticed many of the people in the Netherlands seemed tall and healthy, though most were not Edens. He wondered why. Clean living and clear consciences, his grandfather would have said.

The natives ordered beer for all. When the drinks arrived, the man raised his glass. “To success.”

Larry drank to the toast. “You’re not afraid to eat with an Eden?”

“We’re also Edens.”

Larry looked closely, realizing he could see the subtle signs of rejuvenation. “What’s good here?”

“You look like a hearty eater,” the man replied in a silken voice, his English barely accented. “We are too. I suggest snert and mussels.”

“Snert?”

“Pea soup. A local favorite.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

They passed the time with innocent chit-chat. When the waiter brought the soup, Larry found it thick, almost a stew, with savory chunks of pork and sausage. Heavy rye bread and rich butter accompanied it.

As the main course arrived – large pots of mussels boiled in fragrant garlic and wine, accompanied by a mustard sauce – the woman leaned in close and placed her hand on Larry’s arm, as if flirting. “After dinner we’ll go talk elsewhere. We just wanted to be certain you were free of surveillance.”

“Uh, sure,” Larry said, unfamiliar with this cloak-and-dagger routine.

“You seem nervous. Please try to relax. We have everything under control.”

“Pardon me, but if that’s so, why are we meeting like this? I’m no diplomat. No spy, either. Just a messenger, really.”

“Because, Mister Crester, we had to know your Chairman Markis was serious about supporting our efforts. Only by sending someone close to him could we be sure. You weren’t the one we expected, but you’ll have to do.” She caressed his arm with the hand that had never left it, a bit too intimately for his taste.

He fought not to pull away sharply. Only Shawna touched him like that. The Belgian-influenced Congolese hugged and kissed with familiarity, but this seemed quite different. Did the Dutch touch each other all the time, like the French? Was this woman playing a part, or making a play for him?

Larry caught the man looking on in amusement, and suddenly he became angry, realizing these people were patronizing him, condescending. Why? Was it because of his color, or his evident inability to fit in? Some kind of Jungle Fever fascination with the sexualized stereotype of the big black man?

Abruptly, he stood, shaking off her touch. “Thanks for the food. I think I’ll be going now.”

Their amusement turned to consternation. “I do not understand,” said the man. “We have business to discuss.”

“I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m out. I’ll be talking to Markis about you two.”

“No, no, no, please, sit down. I must apologize if our manner seems odd to you. Coba and I are old lovers. We have seen many things in our lives. Perhaps we moved too fast, assumed too much of a young, virile man like you.” He leaned back and folded his hands across a belly that wasn’t there.

Larry suddenly realized one thing that had been bothering him about these two. They moved as if ancient, economical of motion, yet vastly confident and comfortable, not like people in their mid-twenties, as they appeared.

Of course, all Edens looked young at first glance.

Larry’s eye narrowed. “How old are you?”

The woman – Coba, the man had called her – smiled and said, “Mees will be ninety-three this year. I’m only eighty-nine.” Her eyes crinkled in amusement. “Do you wonder why we gladly accepted the Plague?”

“Not a bit. I’m just not used to people being so…”

“Sensual? Isn’t that our reputation here in the Netherlands? Prostitutes tapping coins on the windows in Amsterdam, a sex shop on every corner, porn on the public television channels every evening at midnight? I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

Larry wondered if he had more in common with the Congolese than with these effete dilettantes. He found them difficult to take seriously. “Sorry, I’m not used to this kind of, um, society. I’m just a good ol’ boy from Georgia.”

“Forgive us, Mister Nightingale. We’ve lived a long time, seen many things. It’s not often we encounter someone so…novel.” Coba lifted a hand as if to touch him again, and then put it back in her lap.

“I’m not your plaything or your novelty. I’m happy to talk business. Otherwise, send me someone else.”

The two exchanged glances, and then their demeanor changed, becoming more serious. Mees said, “Of course. Pardon us. This was a test. We had to be sure.”

“Sure of what?”

“We were told you were an amateur to this business. A professional would never have reacted with such discomfort, or threatened to walk out.”

“Unless he were an extremely talented actor playing the part of an amateur,” Coba murmured with a wink.

“No, no, no, my dear. Don’t tax the man. Let’s finish and go. We’re all friends now, yes?”

“All right,” Larry said, turning his attention to his food, keeping a wary eye on his companions. He felt off balance, as if the ground under his feet were unstable.

They left in a large Mercedes. Coba drove while the two men sat in the back, another oddity to Larry. Five minutes and a dozen confusing turns brought them to a large gated house, or perhaps a small mansion, solidly built of brick and stone in the local style. They drove into a garage and did not exit until the door had rolled shut behind them.

Inside the house, they finally had the serious conversation Larry had expected, discussing how Edens would be smuggled or assisted out of unfriendly areas, places where they might be turned in, registered, arrested or interned. Larry relaxed, accepting that while these people seemed peculiar, they did have an excellent grasp of their own local people and culture, and of how the operation would work.

By the time they returned Larry to the Kurhaus, he’d changed his mind about them. The pictures of grandchildren, great-grandchildren and even great-great grandchildren, along with sixty-year-old black-and-white photographs of the two looking much as they did now, convinced him that they were simply two odd ducks, now given a new lease on life, frisky as teenagers. After facing the end of their lives, the Eden Plague no doubt made them feel as if every new day were a bonus, gambling with the casino’s money of life.

At some level, though, he wondered if they understood the risks they were taking. He believed they had more money than sense, and thought of the business of helping Edens escape to a Free Communities nation as a cloak-and-dagger adventure rather than a real, dangerous business. They took everything so cavalierly. Perhaps they thought themselves to be immune to disaster, having lived so long, and with many apparent connections to the wealthy elite of northern Europe.

Still, he was quite happy to return to the hotel, order more food from room service, and fall asleep to the sound of the sea drifting into his open window.

The next morning, after a relaxing breakfast, he received a message that a car would pick him up at a particular corner several blocks away. He bundled up against the chill, and strolled to the appointed place. Another Mercedes, a different one he noticed, pulled up beside him and the rear door opened.

Inside, he noticed the back seat was partitioned from the front, like a limousine. He couldn’t see the driver through the barrier. “Hey, buddy,” he said. “Hey, where we going?”

The driver didn’t answer, but drove to the nearest motorway and headed eastward, toward Amsterdam, according to the signs. By that time, his morning coffee had worn off and his big breakfast made him sleepy. He dozed off.

An indeterminate time later, he slowly awoke in a place reeking of metal and mold, head splitting with pain. When he tried to move, he found himself strapped to a chair.

Damn. I’ve been set up.

Chapter 3

Water everywhere, Sydney Bauersfeld thought with wonder. All around her it seemed the defining consideration of everything seen and much of the unseen. She looked out over the tabletop landscape and studied the numerous flat, parallel canals that were so typical of the Netherlands. Where tourists saw a cozy and charming beauty, the Dutch recognized their own strenuous, longsuffering efforts – and those of their ancestors – to claim land from the sea.

Perhaps more than any other people on the planet, they had reconstructed the world around them in order to survive and prosper. Those canals were not only for waterborne trade; they were a place for all the water to go, and a way for it to get there. The Netherlands at its core constituted a vast swamp, mostly below sea level, changed by mighty engineering into a prosperous nation.

But the water was always there, waiting, threatening, held back only by dike and polder, levee and berm. In World War Two, both sides had considered breaching the barriers to flood areas used by their enemies. Fortunately, this never became a widespread practice. Half the country might have disappeared.

Those canals were also a reminder of impending disaster, Bauersfeld realized. Flat, tranquil, and peaceful, but if the people of the Netherlands even for a moment became complacent about the sword hanging over their collective heads, one mighty oceanic storm surge or extra-heavy rainy season might trigger the disaster.

“The land is like the people,” Bauersfeld whispered, thinking of the evil virus sweeping the globe. As she always did when imagining the parasitic organism, she rubbed her gloved hands over her arms, as if to brush away any of the Eden germs that might have managed to alight on her.

It doesn’t work that way and you know it.

Bauersfeld did know it, but that didn’t keep her from being revolted by the idea of the Eden Plague. She peered closely at those passing her on the small street. Any of these people could be hosts and she wouldn’t know it, giant Petri dishes of a predatory life-form, its sole purpose the extinction of genuine humankind, to replace it with something…alien.

Sydney Bauersfeld had been a midlevel accountant at a moderately successful financial firm before the first two nukes went off in Los Angles and West Virginia. She’d been a bland, faceless speck of insignificance floating in a cacophony of frantic, purposeless activity.

That was Before. With a capital letter.

She often thought in capitals. It made the words more important in her head.

Before, she’d been blissfully unaware of how fragile her beautiful world was...like everyone else. Before, she’d been a drone, a mindless sheep in a flock of millions. Before, she’d been a cog in a pointless, joyless machine.

Now she had a purpose, one she’d been made for, or perhaps chosen for. She didn’t know by whom or by what. Call it God’s Will, or Fate, or simply Things Working Out in The Wash, as her grandmother used to say. It didn’t matter why. Now, though, she had a Purpose.

Her Purpose was her Work. Her Work was nothing less than the survival of the Human Race, and her Method was the elimination of the Eden Plague.

She’d been called a fanatic by some. Any more, she didn’t bother to disagree.

Bauersfeld checked the house number and positively identified the dwelling, though one she’d never seen before. The safe houses always varied and were never used twice, an unfortunate but necessary logistical burden on their clandestine organization.

A small, reasonable faction within the government of the Netherlands supported the anti-Plague resisters behind the scenes, but most of the populace and civil service didn’t want the attention or controversy. Like so much of Europe, they were still trying to walk the tightrope between those who recognized the threat of the Eden Plague and sought to eradicate it, and those who were sympathetic to the horrific so-called Free Communities. Those were nothing but a pathetic attempt at a fake, legitimate-seeming government of the extraterrestrial invasion-by-germ.

Bauersfeld believed that, as with anyone who walked a tightrope long enough, Europe was likely to fall to its death.

Turning into the narrow driveway, she looked up at the house. Typical of most Dutch homes, it was tall and narrow. This one even had a traditional thatched roof, though it looked to be in need of replacing soon.

She climbed the short steps and rang the bell. As she did so, she turned to the corners of the porch so whoever manned the cameras could get a good look at her.

After several seconds, the door unbolted and was opened by a small, fit but elderly woman in a gray woolen pantsuit, simultaneously practical and elegant.

“Hallo. Kan ik u helpen?” the lady asked.

Bauersfeld smiled. Even if this one didn’t serve the same masters as she did, she was certain the woman certainly spoke good English, like the vast majority of the Dutch.

Reaching into her purse, Bauersfeld pulled out a small brochure, the only one like it, and held it in front of the woman. “Hello. Would you be interested in contributing to the education of poor children in Rhodesia?”

The woman studied Bauersfeld’s face closely, and then the brochure.

Bauersfeld controlled her impatience. She’d completed the first half of the recognition code. There was no such country as Rhodesia anymore. The woman obviously knew Bauersfeld was supposed to be there, but remained standing patiently, waiting for the safety signal. Forcing the issue with these gatekeepers was a good way to end up in restraints, or worse.

Raising her hazel eyes slowly from the brochure to Bauersfeld’s, the resident spoke in English. “There are poor children everywhere.”

“Yes, but education is the key to prosperity,” Bauersfeld responded. “Might I come inside and share some tea with you?”

The woman’s lips tightened, and then she nodded, stepping aside and opening the door.

Bauersfeld walked inside.

The woman closed the door behind her.

Bauersfeld found two men pointing pistols at her. Raising her hands, she submitted to a rough, thorough pat-down. She knew the procedures. After all, she herself had written them.

After a search of her bag, one of the men ran an electric wand over her body, looking for any implanted transmitters or bugs. He eventually nodded, and then used a small device to conduct a retinal scan to confirm her identity.

After a cheerful beep from the scanner, the men relaxed, putting their pistols away. “Welcome, Miss Bauersfeld.”

“You’re not done,” Bauersfeld said darkly.

The men froze.

“You know who I am, but you don’t know what I am.”

The woman fidgeted nervously. “Do you really think that is necessary, dear?”

Bauersfeld turned to the woman and glared at her. “How do you know I haven’t been infected?”

The two guards looked at each other nervously.

“You don’t. I know I’m clean, but you can’t take my word for it. Don’t think; just follow procedures and do your jobs.”

The two men glanced at each other before one went over to a table and retrieved a small plastic case, opening it to remove a swab.

Bauersfeld opened her mouth to allow the man to wipe the inside of her cheek, picking up saliva and skin cells on the cotton. He replaced the swab into its clear tube.

Then they waited the requisite two full minutes.

The swab remained white. A change to green would have confirmed the presence of the Eden virus. “She’s clean.”

“Well, dear, I’m glad we got that settled,” the old woman said with a thin smile.

“Yes,” answered Bauersfeld, slowly pulling her glove back on. “And I’m going to need all your names and national identification numbers before I leave here.”

The woman’s smile vanished and a hint of fear flashed in her eyes.

“My name is Sydney Bauersfeld. You know who I am and the Agency I work for. If you ever refer to me as ‘dear’ again, I’ll turn you into a lab specimen.” Bauersfeld turned away from the shocked woman, toward the two men. “Now, take me to him.”

A short walk down the hallway led to a set of stairs that plunged steeply into a dark basement, a rare thing in a nation of ridiculously high water tables. As Bauersfeld descended the worn stone stairs she could smell the dampness and see a pale sheen of moisture on the shadowy walls. A sump pump line ran up one corner, undoubtedly the only way the cellar could be kept clear.

A stocky man she knew only as Adam stood at the bottom of the stairs with his customary wide grin. He wore a white butcher’s apron, now stained carmine.

“Miss Bauersfeld,” he said with a small bow. “A pleasure to see you, as always.”

As she descended, she detected the ferrous odor of old blood, and something else she often associated with places like this. They said that people couldn’t smell fear, but Bauersfeld thought she could. It hung thick in the air.

The man strapped to a chair in the center of the room inhabited a mass of dim shadows. His dark skin glistened with perspiration despite the chill in the moist air. Bauersfeld didn’t fully appreciate how massive the black man was until she stood near him. Even seated and hunched over, his head rose nearly even with hers.

Bauersfeld looked at the blood pooled out on the plastic sheet beneath the chair. Several intact teeth lay there as well, roots and all. She lifted her eyes toward the man and found it difficult to focus on anything else other than at the bloody stumps where fingers, toes, and an ear had once been.

“I thought we were going to try RH-46 on him,” she said.

Adam nodded. “I did, but it’s as we suspected. He’s resistant. I don’t know why a truth serum would be counteracted by a virus that repairs cellular damage, but it does.”

“Either that or specialized training. Perhaps hypnosis. However, I see you didn’t waste too much time trying to figure out why,” Bauersfeld said tilting her head toward the amputations.

“Tried and true methods are often best.”

“Did he tell us what we need to know?”

“Not yet,” Adam answered, slapping the man roughly on the back of the head, “but he will. The things we’ll learn from him will be most valuable.”

“I agree, but most urgently, we need his contacts here. We have to move fast before they go to ground.”

“Slow and steady gets the job done,” Adam answered with a mischievous grin, rubbing his gloved hands together.

Bauersfeld’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t like the way the interrogator reveled in his cruelty, and she detested the petty dramatics he couldn’t seem to resist.

That she herself might be subject to the same failings never occurred to her. A neutral observer might point out her own moments of petty drama, and the joy she took in her power.

The man in the chair slowly lifted his head and turned eyes, swollen shut, toward the sound of Bauersfeld’s voice.

Always nervous about possible infection, Bauersfeld forced herself not to step away from the monster before her. “They look so normal, don’t they? Like real people.”

“Indeed,” Adam answered. “Truly a remarkable creature. Actually, a superb training tool for my line of work. I’ve been able to test and perfect techniques on Edens that were never possible with humans.”

The man in the chair coughed and spat a wad of blood.

Bauersfeld jumped back, out of range.

The prisoner raised his head and rasped, “I am an official envoy, special attaché to the United Nations Representative from South Africa. I have diplomatic immunity.”

“I see he’s still sticking to his story,” Bauersfeld said.

“You can’t do this. I’m Special Envoy Alex Crester. I’m an engineer, here to consult on public works projects.”

Bauersfeld peered intently at the monster in front of her. “That’s true, you are an engineer of sorts, though according to your file you know more about weapons engineering than building dams and canals. The rest is lies. You are none other than Lawrence Nightingale. You were with Daniel Markis himself when this all started. You were one of the first humans ever infected with the Plague.”

The man shook his head. “I’m just a man, here to help people.”

Bauersfeld smiled wryly. “No. You are the very devil himself.”

Her prisoner dropped his chin to his chest. “Funny, the Afrikaners used to say the same thing about people of my color. ‘Black devils,’ they called us, and worse. Now Edens are the new niggers in your world. At least the virus is an equal-opportunity microbe. Progress, I suppose.”

“This isn’t about race. It’s about the infection that turns humans into…something else.”

The man in the chair lifted his face to stare at her with blind contempt. “You’re right. It’s not about race anymore. It’s not even about the Eden Plague. Not really. It’s about an excuse for your leaders to divide people and exercise power over them. Fanatics like you are tools for those who only care about themselves.”

Bauersfeld sucked in air through her teeth and suppressed an explosion of rage. She refused to let this bastard get her goat. “If so, then your leaders must be just the same. The difference is, my leaders are human. You and yours have become…aliens of some sort, slaves of an extraterrestrial virus. What better, cheaper way to invade a world than to infect it with a microbe that subverts its inhabitants, rendering them unable to resist when the time comes for invasion?”

“Really? You think aliens are coming to invade us?” The man chuckled, then coughed. “Listen to yourself.”

The torturer shuffled his feet, and Bauersfeld decided engaging with this spy was fruitless. “Do whatever you need to do to break him, but don’t kill him. Like you said, he can provide a wealth of information. Properly handled.”

Adam bowed his head and smiled.

Sydney Bauersfeld climbed the stairs.

As she closed the door behind her she heard screams.

The noise didn’t bother her.

It wasn’t as if the thing in the basement were human.

Chapter 4

Lieutenant Colonel Theo Kemp had wanted to command a battalion from the first moment he’d joined the U.S. Army twenty years before. As a young platoon leader, he’d idolized his own crusty battalion commander, someone who’d seemed positively ancient at that time, yet was always tough, direct, and fair. A leader. Someone soldiers could look up to and trust.

An officer who always knew what to do.

Now, Theo Kemp had been appointed battalion commander and he didn’t have the slightest idea how to proceed.

He knew it was important to hide his uncertainty and go through the motions for the sake of his troops. The trouble was, there was nothing to be done, not that he could see. His unit was in an impossible spot and their own government had put them there...and then abandoned them out here in the middle of the Great White North.

“They’re ready for you, sir,” said his battalion sergeant major. Her gaunt face and hollow eyes showed the edges of starvation that haunted his command. He knew his own looked the same.

The woman’s words pulled him from his thoughts, and he realized he’d been gazing out over the rugged frozen landscape. It was five in the afternoon, but could have passed for midnight. Canada’s Yukon Territory didn’t get much sunlight in January.

“I’ll be just a second,” Kemp told his sergeant major with a wan smile.

“Take your time, sir. RHIP.” Rank Hath Its Privileges. Her words contained an edge, a warning that he was in a tough spot himself, and maybe making mistakes. Or about to make one.

Prerogatives of being in charge, Kemp echoed in thought. He only wished he were taking his time for some good reason, rather than stalling. He’d come to dread this period of thought after receiving his subordinate’s dry, dire briefings. After all the grim reports, the pointless deaths. After they all looked at him with their trusting eyes for answers he didn’t have.

After they put their faith in him.

That faith made him feel like a fraud. Hell, he was a fraud. His crusty old battalion commander of twenty years ago would have known what to do. Kemp was certain of it.

How did he ever end up here?

Kemp turned his face east, toward Haines Junction and the glow of electricity. Resentment and a surge of anger welled up in him as he stared across the frozen landscape. The headquarters element of 10th Mountain Division was billeted in real houses. They had food, shelter, heat, and warm showers at least every other day. Out here, astride Highway 1 in a position to confront the enemy, Kemp’s people endured a daily struggle to prevent frostbite and consume enough calories to maintain their core body temperatures, all while enduring sniper fire from the Alaskan rebels and Canadian sympathizers.

We could have overrun the enemy with proper support, he told himself for the hundredth time. Then we wouldn’t be snowed in and trapped without the possibility of resupply or airdrops, without even any air cover, the “aerospace superiority” comfortable staffers had promised, that was supposed to make this entire operation a cakewalk.

The 10th Mountain had once been among America’s finest divisions, skilled in artic and rough-terrain warfare. They’d been unloaded by sea in U.S territory at Port Chilkoot and told to drive north to help put paid to the Alaskan rebellion. Marines were supposed to secure Anchorage, but Old Man Winter and the rebels had bogged them down in brutal urban warfare that made Fallujah look like a stroll through the flowers.

The Canadians had objected to the 10th cutting through their Yukon territory, of course, but Kemp heard the threat of a nuclear strike had backed them down. Now both sides maintained the fiction that the Americans were just transiting an ally’s terrain.

In reality, Canada was no longer an ally, and the 10th was no longer transiting. The Alaskans infiltrated the area around Kluane Lake, blew the main bridge, blocked the causeway and stopped them cold.

If he’d had plentiful fuel and ammo, he’d have ground the enemy down, but no convoys had made it up from the south and nothing was dropped by air. Higher echelons wouldn’t admit it, but they had nothing to spare. Most of America’s continental might, diminished after the fighting in Texas, sat facing an unfriendly Mexico to the south.

He envied his friends who’d fought in the Texas Reunification. That had been real warfare, with real battles, head to head, tank to tank, rifle to rifle. Not like the freezing hell they faced. Even when they did come into contact with the Alaskans, the rebels fell back to prepared positions or led them into ambushes when his troops gave chase.

All the sniping wasn’t just from the rebels. This operation had been condemned by the Canadian government as a violation of Canadian territory and sovereignty. Rumors of Canuck irregulars fighting them ran rampant, but to date there had not been any proof, and the northerners denied these claims. Or at least denied supporting or supplying them.

And by the time the division commander ordered confiscation of local supplies, it was too late. The Canadians had moved everything away or used it up.

The Unionist Party claimed that time was of the essence, that they would repair any damage to relations with their northern neighbors once Alaska was back in the fold.

Politicians. Snakes, all of them.

“Bloody hell,” Kemp mumbled. “Why couldn’t we have waited until spring?”

The sound of a rifle shot from the mountain to Kemp’s left brought him back to reality. He realized he’d begun shaking from the cold.

“Another damn sniper,” his sergeant major said from beside him. “Someone probably forgot their light discipline. I’ll check again, make sure it wasn’t our people.”

Kemp looked at her sharply, suspecting criticism, but relaxed when he saw none. His senior enlisted soldier wasn’t blaming him, just stating a fact. “We better go on in,” Kemp finally said.

She nodded and walked ahead of him toward the large tent with rocks piled around its base. It sported a doubled set of guy lines to keep it from flying away in the frequent frigid windstorms.

“The battalion commander,” the sergeant major announced, and his staff came clumsily to their feet in fits and starts, reminding Kemp of hungry, lame horses.

“At ease, everyone. Take your seats.” Kemp looked around the room at the thin, brutalized faces. Many had moved up to their positions after death, malnutrition or frostbite had claimed their supervisors. He saw no condemnation in their eyes, and that only made his guilt worse. He gazed at them silently for many long moments as the wind began to howl outside.

Mere days ago, the cold had turned from chill and harsh to bitter, unbelievable. Machines and men had begun to fail in droves. It reminded him of stories his German great-grandfather had passed down about fighting in the Wehrmacht, on the Eastern Front. He’d been one of the few to escape the Stalingrad debacle, battling the Soviets in the long, ugly retreat to Berlin.

Surrendering to the American Army had been the smartest thing he ever did, and his descendants – Kemp’s grandfather and father, along with their brothers – had fought their new nation’s battles: Vietnam, and then the Gulf Wars, with honor and distinction.

For Theo Kemp there would be no honor and distinction. Unless some massive resupply came, they’d starve, freeze, and die in place. They’d already have frozen if not for aggressive salvaging of downed trees, but those were running out…and green wood did not burn well.

Another report in the distance finally broke his paralysis.

“Okay, someone explain that,” said Kemp pointing toward the sound of the gunshot. “All our weapons are frozen solid, so why aren’t theirs?”

“I hear the Alaskans use animal fat to lubricate their weapons instead of machine oil,” said one of his platoon sergeants. “It’s an old Aleut trick. Much lower freezing point than oil.”

“Then why aren’t we doing the same thing?”

His sergeant major answered in a flat, brittle voice. “There was a directive from headquarters forbidding it. Not hygienic, the G-4 said. Attracts vermin. Makes maintenance more difficult. Likely to damage the weapons in the long term.” Her eyebrow lifted.

“I think I’d rather have a smelly weapon that works than a clean one that doesn’t,” Kemp answered. “Start using animal fat on my authority. I’ll deal with headquarters later.”

“Begging your pardon,” said his quartermaster, “but if we could get our hands on any animal fat, we wouldn’t be putting it on our weapons. We’d be eating it, sir.”

Kemp sighed. “The resupply?”

The officer shook his head. “Got a call right before this meeting. Said the weather is too bad. They’ll try to get a convoy through to us on Wednesday. Even if they do, I doubt it will be much.”

“Four more days.”

“That’s bullshit!” said a voice from the back. “Headquarters is keeping all the food for themselves.”

“Maybe we should go to them instead,” said another voice. “If they’re too chickenshit to come here, we can pick the supplies up ourselves.”

The quartermaster wearily lifted his hand for calm. “All the vehicles are still inop. Engines frozen solid. Division vehicles are in heated shelters or have block warmers, but ours are dead.”

“Like us,” muttered a voice from the back.

“At ease!” hollered the sergeant major toward the unknown speaker. “We’re leaders here, not buck privates. They’ll be no more of that talk.”

“The sergeant major’s right,” Kemp said. “I’m not going to lie to you. We’re in a tough spot, but hopefully a convoy will get through to us in a few days. Hopefully the weather will break and the Air Force can lay some fire on those hills and clear out the mountain passes. Hopefully a political solution will be found making this all moot.”

“That’s a whole lot of ‘hopefullys,’ sir,” said one of his first sergeants.

“Because that’s all we got,” said another.

His strained sergeant major was about to lash out again, but Kemp stopped her by addressing his quartermaster. “What’s our ration situation?”

“Bad. We won’t make it to Wednesday.”

The entire room groaned in despair. They were already only issued one meal a day.

“What about fuel for the heaters and generators?”

“Almost gone. We’ve pulled most of the diesel from the vehicles, but I wanted to leave enough to at least get them back to Haines Junction if the weather cleared.”

“The vehicles may never run again anyway,” said the battalion maintenance officer. “Once the engine blocks freeze, they often crack when they thaw. I made requisitions before we left for engine blocks with heaters, but Corps said the war would be over by now.”

“It’s not just the vehicles, sir,” said a platoon leader. “We’re using up the ready, seasoned wood to melt snow and ice. The green wood we cut barely sustains the fires. People don’t want to drink cold water, so it takes twice as long to get enough to drink. Many of my people are getting dehydrated.”

“My tents are filling up and I’m going to need priority for heating,” said the battalion medical officer. “We’ve got dozens of cases of hypothermia and even more of frostbite. It goes without saying that they need to be medevacked out of here ASAP.”

“Go ahead and drain the vehicle tanks,” Kemp said, resigned. “If we ever get one thawed without cracking, we can put enough back in to make it to town.”

“That’s only going to give us a few more days, at best,” the quartermaster said. “And without food…”

Kemp gazed around the room. At least the dead looks were gone from their faces. They were leaders again trying to solve a problem and he felt some of the weight lift from his heavy heart. “What else do we have for fuel?”

“Tires,” suggested the maintenance officer. “Rubber. Seats too. If the vehicles are dead, we might as well cannibalize them for anything that will burn.”

“Good,” smiled Kemp, pointing at the speaker. “You’re in charge of that effort. Detail as many people as you need.”

“Everyone remember your light discipline,” said the sergeant major. “Keep fires banked and don’t breathe the fumes.”

As if to emphasize her point, a shot came, and then another, closer. More gunfire crackled, soon followed by machine gun fire and explosions.

“We’re under attack,” Kemp said with a calm he didn’t feel. “Everyone to defensive positions.”

“To do what?” asked a platoon leader. “Our weapons don’t work!”

The sergeant major put her hand on Kemp’s arm. “He has a point, sir.”

“We’ll fix bayonets!” a voice called.

Kemp saw everyone looking at him expectantly. Trusting faces. Men and women who deserved better. Soldiers all but abandoned by a country they all knew was skidding off the rails.

“Okay then,” said Kemp slowly. “Consolidate the unfit at the medical tents. Everyone else escape and evade on foot back to Haines Junction. Small elements, no more than squad size.”

“They’ve probably got us surrounded,” said someone.

“Let’s not assume the worst. Go now. Good luck.” Kemp saw the magnitude of what he’d ordered sink into their stunned faces. “Go on now, there’s not much time. I’m proud of you all. May God be with us.”

“Let’s move!” yelled out the sergeant major, and the room erupted, officers and NCOs stumbling over each other and upending chairs.

The sergeant major and Kemp’s senior doctor followed him out of the tent. They made their way through dark chaos toward the medical laager.

“You should get out of here,” Kemp told the sergeant major.

“Not a chance, sir. I’m staying with you, orders be damned.”

“You do know what I’m intending, don’t you?”

His sergeant major nodded. “You’re going to save as many of our wounded as you can. I’d like to help.”

Kemp had to fight down emotion, finally giving her a tight smile and a nod. The three could hear sustained gunfire along their western perimeter, but it seemed one-sided to his practiced ear. He said a silent prayer, hoping his people were already making their way east.

The medical officer led them into a series of large aid tents crammed full of the sick and injured. “What now, sir?”

“Got a spare sheet?”

The medical officer looked at him in confusion, but the sergeant major yanked one off a nearby cot before pulling out the knife at her belt and cutting holes along one edge.

Kemp walked outside and searched until he found what he was looking for. Nearby, a tent had collapsed. Kemp pulled the central support pole out from under the mass of canvas.

The sergeant major began to tie the white sheet to the end of the long pole. When she was done, she reached out to take it.

“I have to do it,” said Kemp with a sad smile. “My responsibility.”

The sergeant major nodded, backing up.

The battalion commander lifted the pole and the sheet, struggling against the awkward weight in the breeze, but finally managed to get it upright to lean against the side of the medical tent. The sergeant major used a few stray strips of cloths to secure it to a support.

“Got a flashlight?” Kemp asked.

The sergeant major handed him one from her belt. Kemp pointed the bright light at the white flag billowing in the wind.

I’ve probably got about a dozen snipers targeting my head right now, Kemp thought, and found the idea comforting. If just one of them would pull their trigger, he wouldn’t then have to face what lay ahead.

But the bullet didn’t come. The cracks of gunfire started to slow, and then died off completely. The wind howled ominously loud in the pitch-black night.

They could hear voices approaching and the sound grew as minutes passed. When the Alaskans finally stepped into the circle of light cast by the flashlight, Kemp found himself startled by their sudden appearance, despite ample warning.

They were rough, bearded men and hard-faced women, covered in efficient-looking layers of clothing, some of furs and hides. They carried a hodgepodge of weapons whose hot barrels smoked and steamed from recent firing in the cold. Some sported elements of military camouflage that might have served dual purpose for hunting, but most wore functional civilian clothing chosen more for its warmth than tactical value.

A few were white or black or perhaps Hispanic, but most looked Inuit or Aleut to Kemp, what they used to call Eskimos. The Alaskans gazed at the tent and the flag, saying nothing, as if waiting for him to speak.

Kemp cleared his throat. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Theo Kemp. Might I ask who’s in charge here?”

“I am,” said a powerfully built Inuit standing directly in front of Kemp. “I am Captain Gabbo Kanguq of the First Aleutian Brigade.”

Kemp nodded and slowly lifted his useless pistol from his holster, holding it out grip-first. “Captain Kanguq, please accept the surrender of the Fourth Battalion, 10th Mountain Division.”

The Aleutian stared at Kemp for a moment before he stepped forward and took the proffered weapon. “I accept your surrender. You and your soldiers are my prisoners. They shall all be treated as well as possible, granted they behave.”

Kemp nodded.

“Good,” Kanguq said, turning to several of his men. “Start rounding up the prisoners and get them moving west.”

Two men grabbed Kemp and began to lead him through the wind and snow, almost gently. “I bet you wish you’d stayed down south of the border now, don’t you?” one asked with a wolfish smile.

Kemp didn’t answer, but he did wish it.

***

ANCHORAGE DAILY NEWS

VICTORY FOR ALASKAN FORCES IN YUKON

Yesterday, elements of the 1st Aleutian Brigade, 40th Denali Division, and the 12th Tanana Division defeated the U.S. 10th Mountain Division at the Battle of Haines Junction. Alaskan Forces under the command of General Benjamin Kirst accepted the surrender of the division after numerous subordinate elements were overwhelmed by superior local fighting spirit. Over ten thousand American invaders were reported captured.

“This is a great day for the New Alaskan Nation,” said President Kanoa at Anchorage earlier this morning. “Let this be remembered as the day Alaskans threw off the yoke of tyranny and subjugation. Also let this serve as a warning to the illegitimate Unionist party in the United Stated that Alaska will not be intimidated by threats of nuclear reprisals as was done with the New Texas Republic.”

There are unconfirmed reports that the Yukon-based Whitehorse Irregulars fought side by side with Alaskan Forces and were key to cutting supply lines to Haines Junction. The Canadian government vigorously denies any official involvement.

The U.S. President is expected to address his country this evening during a nationally televised address.

Chapter 5

When the inner door to the compound opened, Skull pumped the shotgun, spitting shells from its ejection port until it was empty, and then tossed the weapon at the guard, who nearly dropped it in surprise. Then he turned and walked through the portal.

On the other side, a tall man dressed in a startlingly clean white suit met him, flanked by two more armed men.

Skull spoke first. “My name is Alan Denham and I’m here to see Shawna Nightingale. She’s expecting me.”

“I’m Kondo Ntumbe, head of security here. We would have let you in, Mister Denham. There was no need to injure one of my men.”

“That’s on you, asshole. If he’s your man, you need to train him better. Besides, I presume he’s an Eden. He’ll heal. Maybe the pain will teach him judgment.”

The man refused to be baited. “Still, you could have handled that less…brutally.”

Skull smiled and pointed without looking through the open door behind him, at the guard still cradling the empty shotgun in his arms. “I tell you what. Take your time getting Shawna. I’ll be out here beating the living shit out of your other guard while I wait. You can even watch if that’s what gets you off.” He turned as if to go back.

“Wait a moment, Mister Denham,” said Ntumbe. “The lady will be here soon.”

As if on cue, Skull heard a loud female voice, one he recognized from long ago, rich and round with the tones of the American Deep South. “Alan? Is that really you, sugah?”

A large brown-skinned woman in bright local dress descended from one of the buildings toward him, a smile of relief on her face. “I can’t believe you really came. Come here and give ol’ Shawna a hug.” She enfolded him in her arms. “Oh, thank you. I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

Skull tensed, and then forced himself to relax and allow the embrace. He patted Shawna’s back awkwardly. He didn’t much like being touched or impeded. It made him feel claustrophobic and threatened. On the rare occasions when he allowed himself the distraction of female companionship, he controlled the situation. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am, and no cuddling afterward.

Skull wasn’t much of a cuddler.

Shawna finally stepped back and looked at him with a smile and wet eyes. It always mystified him why any woman became sentimental with him. He didn’t consider himself all that lovable. Maybe, like many he’d known, they saw his scars, his damage, and wanted to fix him.

Good luck with that.

“Let’s go inside. I’ll get us some tea,” she said. Turning to the guards around the enclosure, she wagged her finger at them. “I tried to tell you boys that it was only a matter of time before someone came along and taught you manners.”

Ntumbe bowed with an indulgent smile. Skull resolved to keep an eye on him. He had the confident air of a predator. He wondered what the man had been prior to contracting the Eden Plague, before his society turned against him. A criminal? A military man? A police officer?

Shawna led Skull inside an open, airy room with cool marble floors. Antique wood furniture occupied strategic locations around the large living room area. The only modern item he saw was a large television running British satellite news, its sound muted.

“Have a seat. Everyone’s out of coffee. I’ll get us some tea.”

“Tea’s fine,” Skull answered, walking over to look at Nightingale family photos on the wall. A big man and woman, with genuine, open smiles. A small boy and girl melted into their embrace. A truly happy family...one of the few Skull had seen up close.

And, he thought, given their skin color, they could blend here much better than he. He wondered if the guards’ attitudes had to do with him being white, or a non-Eden, or something else entirely. So much for the myth that Edens became sudden paragons of virtue. They might gain more balanced mental processes, but prejudices and bigotry masked themselves as rationality, even in Edens.

“Where’s the kids?” he asked.

“With their aunties. That’s what the local matrons call themselves. I thought it best we have this conversation without them. They’re too young to understand.”

Skull nodded and sat across from the television, casually watching the talking heads and reading the scrolling captions. The American collapse at the Battle of Haines Junction had stunned the Unionists and the citizenry. Even though he opposed its newly fascist government, as a former U.S. Marine Skull felt embarrassed for his country’s military.

Yet, he wasn’t really surprised. Morale was low from the civil war in Texas, and the Unionists were handling the military stupidly, blaming them for not solving the nation’s “Eden problems.” Like many extremists, the Unionists thought any problem could be solved with sufficient application of violence, and that the military should carry out their orders unthinkingly, even without proper support.

In reality, an elite military such as the U.S. once possessed needed a tremendous expenditure of resources to keep in fighting trim. Loyalty and patriotism only plugged so many gaps before things began to deteriorate, leading to catastrophes such as Haines Junction.

“Can you believe that?” Shawna asked, nodding at the television as she set down a tray of tea and cookies.

“Surprising, but not shocking.” Skull took the cup of hot tea she offered. “The Unionists are screwing up. They’re already purging competent people and replacing them with incompetent loyalists. Like Stalin did in the 1930s. Or, since we’re in Africa, like Mugabe did in Rhodesia, like Amin did in Uganda, like –”

“Funny you should say that,” Shawna gently interrupted, releasing a massive sigh. “Have you heard the latest from the American channels?”

Skull shook his head.

“The U.S. President and Vice President both resigned. Evidently the Department of Justice launched an investigation and discovered ‘subversives’ at multiple levels. They’re arresting hundreds, maybe thousands.”

Skull snorted. “Subversives? That’s an ambiguous term.”

“It means whatever the Unionists want it to mean. The Speaker of the House is now the acting President until the next elections. He’s a Unionist, of course, and he appointed Layfield as his acting Vice President. Other hardliners are moving up into their slots.”

“Unionists all, I see.”

“Of course. They’re also pressing allegations that Canada has been actively assisting the Alaskans.”

“Looking for someone to blame,” said Skull, “or maybe just a pretext.”

“A pretext for what?”

“Annexation. The Unionists obviously have designs upon all of North America. Maybe more.”

“You can’t be serious! This is still the United States of America we’re talking about.”

“Not really. The Edens have become the perfect distraction. Make them into enemies within, enemies without. It’s hard for good people to oppose fascism’s rise when it’s cloaked in patriotism and ‘homeland security.’ And besides, for most of our history, expansion westward was part of our culture. That only went out of style in the second half of the twentieth century, when we gave back a few things like the Philippines and Okinawa. Looks like empire building is making a comeback. Hang on to your cowboy hats and sixguns, and welcome to the new frontier, only this time it’s heading north and south.”

Shawna shook her head and looked at the television. “Usually I’d say you were too cynical, even a conspiracy nut, but these days…”

“I know that’s not why you asked me to come here. Tell me about Larry.”

She sighed and stared at the ceiling for a moment before speaking. “I last talked to him a week ago. He was in the Netherlands, serving as a special attaché to the South African U.N. Representative.”

“Larry’s no diplomat. What was his real mission?”

Shawna grimaced. “I tried to talk him out of it. I said it sounded dangerous.”

“Of course it was dangerous. Otherwise they would have sent someone else.”

“I don’t know everything, but best I can tell, he was supposed to help Edens trapped in Europe escape.”

Skull nodded. “Sounds like Markis’ and Cassie’s same old game. I’m sure they put him up to it. Why didn’t you contact them?”

“I did, but they won’t tell me anything. Besides...”

“Besides what?”

Shawna looked at him guiltily. “I’m not supposed to know...it’s classified. It could get Larry in trouble.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Skull said. “There’s not a spec ops man out there who doesn’t tell his wife what he thinks she needs to know, regulations be damned.”

“He wasn’t really sure who to trust. Because of that report you wrote. The one where there could be bad Edens infiltrating in amongst us. Psychos, people call them.”

“Ah, yes, that one.”

“Larry told me to contact you if something went wrong. He showed me how and said I could trust you.”

Skull sat back on the plush sofa. “Ironically, I’m hearing that a lot lately. This Free Communities of yours isn’t the Eden it was cracked up to be, and rotten ol’ Skull has to save the day again.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” Shawna snapped. “This whole compound is moving to South Africa in the next few days. It appears we’re no longer welcome here in Congo. That means I have to leave our home, the home I shared with Larry these last years, and go off to set up a new one without him. Without being sure if he’ll ever join me. It may seem like I’m holding it together pretty well, but I’m scared to death right now. I’m about to lose it, Alan.”

“How do you know Spooky hasn’t already sent in his people to find him?”

Shawna’s face turned angry. “He hasn’t answered me either. That little sneak wouldn’t lift a finger to help anyone but himself. Larry said he was always that way and the Eden Plague didn’t change that fact.”

“Larry is deceptively astute about human nature. He comes across as the jolly giant, but he has a way of seeing inside people. Still, I’d have thought Spooky would be helping for straightforward, selfish reasons. Such as, Larry knows a lot. Spooky wouldn’t want him captured and interrogated by the wrong people.”

“Larry would never talk!”

“Everybody talks, Shawna. It’s not like in the movies. It’s only a matter of when and how much. Which, as I said, should be motivation enough for Spooky.”

“’Should be’ isn’t good enough. I never trusted Spooky. I don’t trust Cassandra any more. I trust you. Will you help?”

He stared at her hard. “Did Larry really tell you to call me for help?”

She nodded sadly. “A delayed email popped up on my computer from his account, telling me how to reach you, just in case. It’s one of those that has to be cancelled regularly, or it sends. Spy stuff. ”

“I’m glad he set it up.” Skull rubbed his neck. “I have to tell you, though, I’m not some kind of genie or saint or white knight, to come riding in and save the day. I’m a lot better at punishing people than rescuing them.”

She frowned at him. “You showed, didn’t you? Besides, he also told me how to get into his FC expense account if you need that kind of motivation. I checked, and there’s more money sitting in there than we’ve seen in our entire lives. It’s yours if you can get him back.”

“That’s a good start, but I don’t need the money. Happen to have more of it than I can spend myself. And besides, things might not be so bad. He may have gone underground, incommunicado.”

“He’d have gotten word to me.”

Skull shrugged, sipping his drink and gazing into the distance.

“What are we talking about here, then? I need your help. Larry needs your help. What do you need to make it happen?”

Her question forced him to think, to examine himself. What do I need? What do I need? I had an idea what this was about when I came here. If I wasn’t going to help, why did I even show up?

It’s a good question nevertheless. Is it friendship? Maybe comradeship is a better term. Brothers in arms don’t abandon each other. Another part is, I need to make those who have taken from me pay...but...the most important reason is...

“I’ll do it. I need to work anyway,” Skull said suddenly. “This is what I do. I don’t play golf or collect stamps. I do bad things to bad people. I kill people that need killing. It staves off the boredom. And I might as well help friends and hurt enemies in the process.”

Her smile transformed her face like the rising of the sun as she reached out gratefully to take his hands in hers. Skull abruptly felt good about himself, a rare enough occurrence.

And then he felt like a total dick when she burst into tears, because odds were, things wouldn’t turn out all right.

They almost never did.

Chapter 6

Cassandra Johnstone sat at her office in the middle of the Free Communities Headquarters compound. Windows looked out on tropical jungle high in the Colombian mountains. She read the report from her agent in place near Shawna Nightingale and smiled slightly.

It had worked. Skull had accepted the job.

Cassandra knew Skull was unlikely to help her again after all the times she’d been less than honest with him, so she’d hacked Larry’s account and sent the email in his name, for Shawna to contact Skull.

She also felt sure Skull was at least a little bit in love with her, and she didn’t want to jeopardize that tiny spark of humanity and connection.

And now I’m using him again, she thought. Being deceptive instead of asking for his help. Not just with Alan, but with Larry’s wife as well. Do I have no shame left in me?

“I’m doing what I need to do,” she whispered. She needed a non-Eden to check into this, and frankly she was unsure whom to trust these days. Anybody could be a Unionist infiltrator, even an Eden. Someone who could blend in, but someone unlimited by the virtue effect.

Psychos, they were called. Terrible threats is how she thought of them, and it disturbed her as a trained intelligence operative that she’d grown complacent, missed the obvious, and had the tables turned on her so easily.

But Skull wasn’t an Eden. He could at least be relied upon and trusted...to a point. And she thought she knew what that point was.

She rubbed her face and tried to clear her head. What was done was done and there would be time to tidy up any personal friction burns later.

Cassandra composed a secure message to Geoffrey Rayburne, her mole in British Intelligence. She told him Skull would likely be traveling to Europe on Larry’s trail, and to have his people be on the lookout for him and to help him if they could.

That assuaged her guilt a fraction.

I’m not a bad person.

Sometimes the end did justify the means.

A knock came on the door and Cassandra’s secretary stuck her head in. “Ma’am, you asked Sergeant Repeth to come by?”

“Yes, please send her in.”

The athletic woman they called Reaper entered, measuring Cassandra up and down before looking around the room.

Cassandra had spent a lifetime as a CIA operative in the business of manipulating people. All types of strong personalities. Leaders, nerds, warriors, politicians, criminals, saints, beauties, and monsters. Working with them had been a tough job, a necessary evil and she’d done it well, making them believe she was on their side and in some cases letting them think they were using her.

But this woman was one of the few who made her feel uneasy. An element of danger and violence lurked just below the surface, and a refusal to be manipulated beyond a certain point.

Like Skull, a small voice said in her head and she pushed the thought away. And Spooky. They all remind me of myself.

Cassandra realized that an awkward silence hung in the air. She stood quickly and stuck out her hand, shaking Reaper’s. “Sorry. Haven’t had my coffee this morning. Thank you for coming. Please take a seat.”

Reaper sat, looking at her watch. “I’ve only got a few minutes before I have to get back.”

“How’s that going, by the way?”

“Good,” answered Reaper with a false smile. “If you’re asking me if I’m happy serving as Daniel Markis’ personal security detail chief, I am. If you’re asking me if I miss working for Spooky doing his dirty work, I don’t.”

“Fair enough. Just seems like the sort of job that would involve a lot of sitting around doing nothing. Not what I imagined someone like you would be happy with.”

“Someone like me?” Reaper said with a glint of amusement.

“A professional warrior. Someone who’s spent her life fighting and leading others. That’s all I meant.”

Reaper sighed and pointedly examined her watch again. “Ma’am, you asked me here and I came. Would you mind doing me the professional courtesy of putting down your stick of butter and beginning the barbecue?”

“No buttering. More like…easing into it. You might be shocked.”

“So shock me.”

“You know what a Psycho is, right?”

“Supposedly an Eden without the virtue effect.”

“Not just supposedly. They do exist, and we’ve discovered a clandestine CIA program to infiltrate the Free Communities, especially our power structures – military, governmental, police. The usual biological tests are useless. They read as Edens.”

Reaper sat pondering for several minutes.

Cassandra let her think.

“This isn’t good.”

Cassandra made a face. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“You believe that as the head of Markis’ security team, I need to know, so I can screen my people. I appreciate that.”

“That’s part of it, but not all. I need help finding these hidden Psychos too. They could be anywhere. Anyone. We’ve gotten stupid, relying on a virus to do our job for us. Now, we have to weed them out the old-fashioned way. With good counterintelligence work.”

“…and I already have a mental list of people I suspect,” Reaper said. “People getting into trouble when they shouldn’t. People with bad habits.”

“That’s simplistic. We know there is variance in the virtue effect. We should have known there might be people who lack it entirely, but we can’t simply assume anyone not living a model life is a Psycho. The Eden Plague doesn’t wipe out all temptations to crime; it only eliminates biological reasons, such as drug dependencies.”

“We institute behavioral tests, then. And how about bringing back polygraphs?”

“Already in the works. But that’s only part of the problem. Just because we’re pretty sure all the CIA moles are Psychos, doesn’t mean all Psychos are CIA moles. Nobody created this version of being an Eden. It’s evidently a naturally occurring condition for maybe one in ten thousand of those infected. Maybe fewer.”

“So what does Spooky think about all of this?”

“Spooky?” Cassandra looked away and reached for a piece of paper, stared at it, and then set it down. “Are you implying something about him?”

“He’s always seemed to be able to suppress his conscience when needed. Maybe he’s a full-blown Psycho.”

“Perhaps.”

Reaper chuckled. “Oh, so he doesn’t know you suspect. Good for you. Finally keeping something from that shifty bastard. But he’s going to find out about this sooner or later. He always does. Maybe he already has and hasn’t told you.” She cocked her head. “You think he’s working for the other side?”

“If by the other side you mean the CIA, or worse, then no. I don’t think he’s working for anyone but Spooky, and currently his interests align with ours. My concern is that they stay aligned. As long as they do, I can work with him. We need him. He’s frighteningly effective at what he does. And fortunately, he’s a little busy right now with a special mission of his own.”

Reaper leaned forward. “What type of mission?”

“He hasn’t told you?” Hesitating for a moment, Cassandra asked, “I presume you know the FC has been working to get Edens out of areas where they’re being persecuted?”

“I’ve seen it firsthand. Persecuted is a criminal understatement. It’s genocide. A new Holocaust. Organized mass murder.”

“You’d think humanity would have learned.” Cassandra drummed her fingers. “We’ve been trying to set up a worldwide system to get them out of unsympathetic countries and into the FC. A giant underground railroad supported by Eden sympathizers across the globe. Something much more organized than a few raids liberating prison camps, no offense.”

“None taken. I know our efforts are drops in the bucket. Your way makes sense for the long term.”

“We were working to evacuate the last remaining survivors of Spooky’s extended family, get out of the U.S. They’d been hiding in a safe house for over a year, but we decided the time was right to extract them.”

“But something went wrong,” Reaper said.

“Yes. Security Service forces intercepted and searched the convoy carrying them. We’re not sure if it was chance or if we were betrayed, but Spooky’s family was taken to an experimentation camp.”

“How many?”

“Twenty-five or so. Aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins. Several are children.”

“And Spooky is setting up a rescue?”

Cassandra shrugged. “Markis couldn’t really forbid him, not after forcing his hand so many times to save Edens. Besides, family is particularly important to his people.”

“Family is important to everyone.”

“Nevertheless, Spooky has drafted your old team to go with him.”

“Not my team anymore. His monkeys, his circus.”

“They still respect you,” Cassandra said. “They know you, not him.”

Reaper looked at her watch. “I really need to go soon. What exactly is it you want from me?”

“I want you to accompany Spooky on this mission.”

“Not a chance in hell,” Reaper said with a tight smile.

“I’m serious.”

“I’m sure you are, but the answer is still no.”

“I know you’ve had some issues with him in the –”

“Issues? He’s a lying snake. And I have an important job. He’ll be fine. They’ll be fine.”

Cassandra shook her head. “I don’t think they will be. What chance do you think your people stand without you there? And I agree that he’s a lying snake. That’s why I want you along.”

“Nice try. They’re all big boys and girls. No one is forcing their hands. They can take care of themselves.”

“Be that as it may, we’d like to rescue these Edens if we can.”

“We, who? The only person who can order me around is Markis, and I don’t see him here. And by the way, trapped and imprisoned Edens are everywhere. We can’t go after all of them. That’s what your new system is for, right?”

Cassandra waited, letting the guest stew until she became uncomfortable with the silence.

Reaper shifted in her seat. “Other than them being Spooky’s family, what makes these people so important?”

Cassandra still didn’t answer. Better to let her work it out for herself.

Realization began to dawn. “This isn’t only about the Edens, is it? This is about Spooky.”

“If he is a Psycho, he could bring us all down. The power he holds is immense. We have to know how far he’ll go in pursuing selfish goals, or whether he’ll stand with Markis and the FC. With us.”

“And if he turns against us?”

Cassandra stared at her without blinking. “Then we’d like you to take care of the situation.”

“Take care of the situation? You mean kill Spooky?”

“If necessary.”

“And you’re still saying ‘we.’ What we, Kemo Sabe?”

“Others at my level in the FC hierarchy. People like me who know Markis is too reluctant to make the hard calls, so sometimes we have to make them for him. You’re in charge of Markis’ security? This is part of keeping him secure.”

Reaper folded her hands in her lap and sat back, thinking. “Why not just arrest Spooky here and now and figure it out?”

“Because arresting him might tear the FC apart. Word would get out about the presence of Psychos among us, sowing waves of distrust. The innocent would be accused, some framed by real Psychos. And arresting him will tip him off. We’ll never figure out where his true loyalties lie. If he’s found guilty of something serious, the scandal could rip apart this very fragile thing we call the Free Communities. If it is to be done, we need it done quietly. If he dies, he dies a hero of the FC, not a traitor.”

“What gives you the idea I’ll do this? I already turned down wet work assignments. There are other people. Hell, get Skull to do it. I hear he’s sweet on you.”

Cassandra whitened and compressed he lips, but ignored the jab. “You’re someone who can be counted on to do what needs to be done. You have a strong moral compass and I know you can be trusted. And let’s be honest: haven’t you wanted to kill him more than once?”

Reaper pointed a finger at Cassandra. “Don’t be flip about this. We’re talking about betrayal and assassination. He’s our colleague. He trusts us. We have to be damn sure.”

“We’re talking execution of a suspected traitor, but only if he betrays us first. It’s the best option we have. We can’t leave him in such a powerful position not knowing. This mission should give you a good opportunity to gauge if he’s loyal to the FC, or only out for himself.”

“And get him far away from here if I do have to kill him.”

“Of course.”

“You’re no different from him.”

Cassandra’s lips thinned further. “There’s an enormous difference between wanting to do something abhorrent and believing I must do it. In fact, I suggest to you that it’s more admirable to sacrifice my own qualms for the good of all than to give in to my distaste for it.”

“Sophistry. Aha, you’re surprised a grunt like me even knows that word, aren’t you? Well, here’s another one. Casuistry.”

“Hairsplitting? Sure. I cede the moral high ground, Jill. I know I’m sinking into the muck here. But I don’t see any other way.”

***

Reaper thought for several long minutes. Despite her words, she did miss her old team, and she worried about them under Spooky’s direct command. She also couldn’t really fault Cassandra’s logic, despite her objections. She wished the task would fall to someone else, but she needed to face the fact she was probably the right choice. Only someone Spooky trusted, someone he wouldn’t suspect could turn against him, might get a chance to take him down.

Also, Marines didn’t whine when given an unsavory task, or ask why another couldn’t do it instead. She might not wear the uniform anymore, but in her heart she remained Semper Fi. Always would.

And, she’d been bored out of her mind recently anyway. Following Markis around on trips. Securing hotel rooms and vehicles. Checking dumpsters to ensure some crazy with a grenade or a machine gun didn’t pop out. Over the last few months Reaper realized that she’d begun hoping something would happen just to provide excitement, and that attitude courted disaster.

“I have a responsibility,” Reaper finally said. “There’s no one to do my job.”

“How about Karl Rogett?”

“He was part of INS, Inc., working for Durgan before he became an Eden. Too much baggage. I already turned him down for the security detail.”

“We all have skeletons in our closets,” Cassandra answered. “He’s been a good soldier since becoming an Eden and joining us here. And he knows his stuff. He’s been in charge of overall compound security for almost a year.”

“How do you know he isn’t one of these Psychos? Now that we’re talking about it, what do you really know about him at all?”

“I have my sources. My people have checked out Mister Rogett thoroughly and have been watching him. All indications are that he is a changed man and is loyal to us.”

“Are you willing to risk Markis’ life on that? Better yet, is Markis willing to trust his life and maybe that of his family on this belief?”

“He is,” answered Cassandra solemnly.

“You’re a better man than I, Gunga Din.” Reaper sighed. “Damn you, and damn Spooky. I can’t believe I’m going to do this.”

Her voice grave, Cassandra said, “Thank you.”

“I’ll do my duty, wherever it may lie.” She gave Cassandra a chilling look before standing. “Wherever it may lie. Better make sure you’re never in Spooky’s position, chiquita.”

“I’m not a Psycho.”

“How can we be sure?” Reaper pointed a finger-gun at Cassandra and pulled the trigger. “Pow,” she said before turning and walking from the office.

Chapter 7

Skull strolled among the remnants of a temple already ancient when Julius Caesar lay on the marble floor of the Roman Senate in a pool of his own blood, wondering what the hell had gone wrong.

Byrsa Hill sat in the heart of the ancient ruin of Carthage, just north of Tunis, the modern capital of Tunisia. Carthage had been the center of a vast empire controlling most of the western Mediterranean world for nearly a millennium. The city was home to a million residents five centuries before Rome would attain such glory.

Yet it had all come crashing down, and so fast, so suddenly, that it reminded Skull of the fragility of things.

A military history buff, Skull had always been fascinated by Carthage. For a time it was the most powerful and advanced civilization west of the Levant, until it had been annihilated in three bitter, disastrous wars with the brilliant upstart Romans.

Today, most people had never even heard of the Carthaginians other than the story of Hannibal crossing the Alps with elephants, and much of their culture had been erased from the planet.

Bunch of object lessons there, thought Skull. The other guy always surprises you. Nothing lasts forever. Shit happens. Don’t get caught when the walls fall.

Skull strolled easily down the steep, rocky hillside toward the remnants of the once-famed manmade twin harbors of Carthage. In their heyday, they could berth over three hundred trireme warships.

Now nothing more than a giant hourglass depression showed in the ground, the formerly wide channels that connected it to the sea little more than watery ditches.

What will be left of our civilization after two and a half millennia? And who – or what – will replace us?

Making his way along the seashore toward the fishing harbor, he enjoyed the sun, warm breeze, and sounds of lightly crashing waves. The fresh salt smell typically meant relaxation to Skull. A place he went after a difficult job to unwind and recharge.

Not here, not yet. The work is just beginning.

Getting to the Netherlands would be relatively easy if he were anyone else. As long as he could pass the airport health checks – a euphemism for Plague testing and quarantine – he could have caught a commercial flight. But that meant biometrics, and biometrics were hard to fool. Alan Denham was well known in some circles, and not always viewed fondly, to understate the case. He needed to be someone else, and that meant avoiding those damned scanners that were all the rage now in airports.

It would mean getting in some other way.

A short, potbellied man, balding and swarthy, stood on the dock smoking. Skull didn’t need to compare him to the provided description to identify his contact. Doing this sort of work long enough, he’d gotten a feel for those individuals who occupied an obscure substrate of civilized society: part criminal, part artist, part idealist.

“You him?” the man asked with a thick French accent.

“You him? What kind of bona fides is that? Any cop or security person could just say, ‘yep, that’s me’ and your ass would be in prison before that cheap cigarette hit the ground.”

The man pulled the cigarette from his mouth and looked at it. “Is not cheap. Good tobacco.”

Skull sighed. “My rhetoric is wasted again. Got something for me?”

The man smiled revealing several prominent dental vacancies. “So long you got something for me.”

Skull waved a folded sheaf of Euro. The man smiled and reached for it, but Skull pulled it back. “Not yet. Let’s go.”

They walked down a rickety dock maze among marginally seaworthy vessels until they arrived at one of the larger ones. Paint peeled off every visible surface and an impressive number of pumps worked overtime to keep the vessel afloat. Skull could barely make out the boat’s name - Last Chance – stenciled on the stern.

“You have got to be shitting me,” said Skull, rounding on the man. “I’m supposed to cross to Italy in that? It’s sinking right now.”

“No shit you,” the man answered. “Good boat, no sink.” He held out his hand, and Skull put the Euro in it with evident disgust.

“Chancy will make it across the Med, don’t you worry,” said a deep, firm voice.

Skull turned to look at what could only be the captain. A tall, thin, elderly man with leather skin and deep age lines regarded Skull from pale blue eyes.

“That’s not a name to inspire confidence,” said Skull.

The captain stared at him for a few seconds before waving him aboard. “And yours is, Mr. Skull? We put your things below. I’ll show you where.”

Skull followed both men belowdecks and into a small room. There sat a large, locked rolling bag and a leather attaché case. The captain opened the latter and pulled out a set of photo identification documents with Skull’s picture on them.

“They good,” said the first man. “My son make. He genius.”

Skull examined the documents closely and grunted in appreciation. “You might actually be right.” He put the documents in one cargo pocket, and then pulled a chain from around his neck. It held nothing but a curious indented cylinder, a key. Skull inserted it into the rolling bag’s lock and opened it wide. He found his clothes and tactical gear, including his weapons. Flying here with them would have been impossible, of course. They’d been smuggled inside bulk cargo.

The captain poked Skull softly on the shoulder with one index finger to get his attention. He then moved the digit to point at the bag’s contents. “You get caught with any of that, they’ll cut your eyes out.”

Skull loaded a pistol and put it in a holster at the small of his back, along with extra magazines and a thin blade. “I won’t get caught, and if I do, you know nothing about it. I know nothing about you. That’s how it works.” He closed and relocked the bag.

The captain nodded as if that settled everything, and returned abovedecks.

The swarthy man fidgeted, his nervousness level quadrupled after seeing the contents of the bag. “We done?”

Turning to him with a smile, Skull nodded. “Don’t worry. I don’t need to kill you, right? You’ll keep your mouth shut?”

He nodded so vigorously that his cigarette flew from his lips.

Skull walked over and stepped on the burning ember. “Good thing the captain didn’t see you do that. He’d have killed you.”

“Thank you, bye-bye,” the man said, rushing up the steps and off the vessel.

Back on deck, Skull saw the captain watching him from a rusty folding chair. Several members of the ship’s crew performed menial tasks. None paid him any attention.

“How long till we depart?” Skull asked the captain.

The old man looked up at the sky, and then twisted around to gaze out to the ocean before answering. “Noon. We’ll be able to put you ashore on Catanzaro around midnight. Once there, as long as you got enough money, any Italian you run into will take care of you. Even the police or Carabinieri. Especially the Carabinieri. Their pay has been cut twice this year. They are expected to work for love of the Virgin Mary and Bella Italia, so they take bribes. How else will they support their mistresses in style, much less their wives?”

Skull chuckled, and then looked at his watch. He had at least three hours. “I’ll be back before you sail. I’ve got some unfinished business. If you leave without me, I’ll kill you.”

The captain smiled indulgently.

Walking off the ever-sinking ship, Skull hurried away from the piers and hailed the first taxi he saw.

Once seated, he specified an intersection near the address of a man who worked at the U.S. Embassy in Tunis. The last Psycho he’d tortured and killed gave up every member of his CIA network before dying.

The image of his grandmother came to mind, as it so often did in these moments.

Taking care of one more hidden Psycho wasn’t part of his mission, but why miss an opportunity, especially as he didn’t have anything else to do?

Besides, he’d already seen all the old Carthaginian historical sites. They were as dead as his target would soon be.

Nothing lasts forever. Shit happens.

Don’t get caught when the walls fall.

Chapter 8

Spooky Nguyen didn’t much care for the reactions he was receiving from the men and women in front of him, mostly members of Reaper’s former covert action team, with a few promising new possibilities. His face remained a mask of calm, but inside he struggled to control his frustration.

These people have gone soft, sitting around for months, waiting for the call to battle. And, I must admit, I haven’t cultivated them. I’ve been too busy. And since Markis hasn’t given me the authority to order them, I must convince them, for the sake of my family.

“Sounds like another damn suicide mission if you ask me,” said Flyboy. “And again, you got me flying a pair of boots. This sucks.”

Bunny gave Spooky an openly appraising look, cocking her hips and deliberately folding her arms under her ample chest. “That never stopped us before.”

Hawkeye shook his head in amusement at the deadly temptress’ wiles. “The truth is, sir, this doesn’t sound like the sort of mission with a high likelihood of success. I respect what you’re trying to do, but it’s likely to get not only your family killed, but us as well.”

Spooky clenched his fists, and then slowly opened them. “I have planned this mission down to the finest detail. My people have run the numbers and the chance of success works out to sixty-seven percent, plus or minus three points.”

“Thank you, Doctor Spock!” said Shortfuse with an oversized smile.

“I think you mean Mister Spock,” Flyboy stage-whispered. “Doctor Spock was the –”

“Shut up, birdbrain. Sixty-seven percent, huh? Why didn’t you tell us that first? We’d have said yes in a heartbeat!”

Spooky ground his teeth at the sarcasm, feeling his iron control slipping. These people seemed to have no respect for him and his authority. If only they were part of his own organization, but his teams were small, two to four people, and trained for clandestine infiltration, assassination and intimidation rather than full-blown spec ops. They had no problem following his orders.

He suspected it was because they were all together. Like a wolf pack facing a tiger, they were confident because of their numbers. And he was an outsider. His personal reputation only went so far when, he knew, the Free Communities Armed Forces regulars had been subtly turned against him by the rumors of his methods.

If only he could have convinced Markis to assign Reaper to him again, but the Chairman had told him she could make up her own mind. And when he asked her yesterday, she’d said no, just at the time he really needed her.

Spooky was honest enough with himself to realize he’d miscalculated. He’d overdrawn the bank account of Reaper’s moral tolerance once too often. He resolved to make sure in the future she owed him, rather than vice-versa, and also to find more leverage on her. Maybe that Python fellow…a threat to send him in harm’s way, or a promise to help them both find some cozy love nest?

That was worth more thought. But it didn’t help him now.

With these people…he wanted to kill them all.

There must be some way to convince them.

“That’s still pretty shitty odds if you ask me,” Shortfuse continued. “You think I’d touch an explosive that had a thirty-three percent chance of blowing my head off? Covert ops is about precision and predictability. For all your so-called meticulous planning, we just don’t know what we’re getting into here.”

Spooky gave the squat demo expert a glare of pure poison. “You don’t have to tell me about covert operations. I was killing lowlanders in Vietnam before my balls dropped.” He walked over and pointed at the map of the United States again. His finger jabbed at a mountainous spot in eastern Tennessee. “There. Intelligence indicates they are there. Camp Pleasant, a small camp with higher-value prisoners, isolated from the major urban centers.”

“That’s rough country,” said Tarzan, the survival expert. “Those Appalachians aren’t the Andes, but in the winter they can be deceptively dangerous.”

“And we’ve all heard of Camp Pleasant,” said Stitch, the medic. “Suitably Orwellian name, if you ask me. They dissect Edens, I hear, looking for a better way to exterminate us. Not the sort of place any of us wants to end up.”

“We’ll have the element of surprise,” explained Spooky again with heavy patience.

“That’s it? Surprise? That will last all of fifteen seconds.”

“Seems like you’re asking us to go on faith,” said Livewire, the comms specialist. “You wanted to leave all our asses hanging out there in Ethiopia. Why should we trust you now?”

Spooky sighed. “You are an expert covert action team. You’re trained to get out of tough situations. Do you really want a higher element to come swooping in to save the day every time you bump your knee?”

“If we ask for it, yes,” said Shortfuse. “And isn’t that what you’re asking us to do? Swoop in and save the day because your people aren’t up to it?”

“My people have different specialties…such as wet work.” Spooky gave Shortfuse a menacing look.

“See, there you go again, coming off all Billy Badass, threatening people.”

“Yeah, dude, that’s way bad karma,” Tarzan chimed in. “You Asians ought to know about that.”

Spooky’s voice rose. “Asians? What does that mean? Because I share a continent with someone I’m somehow like them? I am Degar. My culture is nothing like the lowland Vietnamese, much less the Chinese invaders or Thais or Kampucheans or Laotians or even Kazakhs. They’re all ‘Asian’ too. And I’m not even a Buddhist! I don’t believe in karma!” Spooky stopped himself, realizing his control was slipping. It had been ages since his legendary cool-headedness had begun to crack like this.

“What’s in it for us?” asked Bunny, stepping forward to show him an even better view of her figure.

Interesting. Was she throwing him a bone? Suggesting the carrot may work better than the stick? “First, the same thing that’s always in it for you,” said Spooky. “The opportunity to use your skills in a worthy cause. You’ve all been sitting around too long without a mission. You’re getting rusty. Maybe it’s making you a little bit scared of going back out into the big bad world.”

The giant Hulk moved forward aggressively. “None of us here are scared. Least of all by you.”

Spooky sized the large man up and mentally cataloged the various ways he could disable him. If it would further his cause, he’d be happy to take Hulk down. But it would probably put the nail in the coffin of this op. He forced evenness into his tone. “So what do you want?”

Hawkeye smiled. “Besides a mission we can expect to return from? How about some R&R? We’ve been stuck within twenty miles of this compound for six frickin’ months without a chance to cut loose. Bunny and Tarzan can only service so many.”

“You wish,” Bunny said with a grin.

“Hey!” said Tarzan. “I am not gay!”

“No, but I hear your husband is,” said Flyboy.

Spooky thought while the juveniles bantered. “Fine. A week in Buenaventura when we return. Ten thousand dollars apiece in bonus pay. And my eternal gratitude, which is worth more than either.”

“That sounds good, huh?” Hulk rumbled, looking at the others, who seemed guardedly pleased.

“It’s a start,” said Hawkeye.

Spooky spread his hands. “And the truth is, you need a mission.”

“Who says we ‘need’ a mission?” asked Tarzan. “I’m perfectly content to sit around all day chillin’, dude. When I get in the mood I can go hike in the jungles here or climb a mountain. I ain’t no supercharged adrenaline junkie like some here.”

“You’re a different sort of junkie, you fruitcake,” said Livewire.

“Hey, that’s a slur. Why does everybody think I’m gay?”

“Because you use guy-liner?”

“I do not! These chick magnets are all-natural.”

“And you shave every visible part of your body except for your head.”

“I shave more than that.”

“You’re proving my point. And why do you care anyway? Shortfuse is gay and he owns it.”

Tarzan stared at Shortfuse. “You are?”

Shortfuse shrugged and smiled.

“Can you children focus for even one minute?” Spooky snarled. “Do you agree to my terms?”

Hawkeye, their natural leader, turned to Spooky with a flat stare. “I’ll go on a mission when the time is right. This isn’t the time and this isn’t the mission. Not for me. Not with you. Though I might consider it if you stayed behind. At least I know you’ll support us this time. Your relatives will be depending on us. Or…if Reaper leads us. I’ll go then.”

The team looked at Hawkeye, and then at Spooky, and nodded their agreement with their comrade.

Silence hung thick in the air and Spooky closed his eyes for a long moment. When he spoke, he did so with precise diction, each word like a driven nail. “Reaper isn’t coming back to this kind of work. She’s moved on to working for the Chairman. I know she was your favorite mother figure, but it is time you all moved on as well.”

“That’s not all this is about,” broke in Shortfuse hotly. “It’s about you, not her.”

“Yet none of you have performed any significant missions since she became Chairman Markis’ security team chief. I also know that the FC government isn’t likely to let you all keep sitting around sucking up the free room, board, and copious amounts of booze without getting some work out of you.”

“We don’t drink that much,” said Flyboy.

“Well, you do,” answered Bunny. “Kind of frightening for a pilot, if you ask me.”

Stitch said, “Besides, we’ve been working as cadre, training the regulars. I know I’ve been busy.”

Hawkeye stepped forward, cutting them off. “I’m getting tired of your insults,” he said to Spooky in a low voice. “I thought you were a Green Beret. Hearts and minds, isn’t that your unofficial motto? You’re doing a shitty job of winning ours.”

The small Vietnamese sized up Hawkeye. “I’m not insulting you. If the shoe fits, wear it. I simply state facts. If you resist joining my mission, I’m sure you’ll be given another. You can’t avoid operations forever.”

“See, there you go again, implying we’re chickenshit.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No,” ground out Hawkeye. “And we’re not going to be goaded into accepting just because you call us cowards. We’ve got nothing to prove. So, we’re not volunteering. If you really want us, get an order from our chain of command. Otherwise, find someone else. Like those guys.” He gestured at the group of tough-looking strangers standing nearby, keeping to themselves. “Why not take them? They look ready to go.”

“They’re augmentees,” answered Spooky, lowering his voice. “This mission requires a cohesive, highly trained element. People who know their jobs and understand everyone else’s roles. It won’t work without you as the core.”

“You don’t have time to train a new team, do you?” asked Shortfuse.

“I thought that was obvious,” answered Spooky. “Forgive me for giving you all more credit than you were due.”

“More insults,” said Stitch. “Good tactic. Seems to be working. Not.”

“The answer is still no,” said Hawkeye. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do. We all have family, but we’d like to live to see ours again.”

“Tarzan doesn’t,” said Bunny. “He was hatched from an egg and raised by spider monkeys.”

“Hairy spider monkeys with razor blades,” Shortfuse muttered.

“Bottom line,” continued Hawkeye, giving the two a warning look, “we need to get back to the work you don’t think we do. We’ve heard you out at length and now we’re done. If you come up with something new, call just me, okay? Don’t waste everyone else’s time with this drama. I’ll evaluate your proposal and pass it on.”

Spooky sighed as he readied himself to go. “Snipers. Why are all of you so difficult?”

“Because they’re elite specialists, and they don’t like close-range bulletfests,” said a female voice from behind them. “That’s what you’re proposing.”

Everyone turned to see Reaper approach with feline grace, dressed in tactical gear rather than her usual semi-civilian bodyguarding clothes.

The team let out a chorus of catcalls and greetings. Hawkeye and Shortfuse shook her hand. Bunny gave her a hug. The rest slapped her back or patted her shoulders, all except Stitch, new to her since Crash bought it on their last mission.

“All right already,” Reaper said, batting them away. “When did you people get so handsy?”

“Some of us always were,” said Bunny.

“Ooh, some lesbo action!” said Tarzan.

Reaper rolled her eyes and turned to look at Spooky.

One eyebrow arched, all the surprise he’d allow to show.

“If you’re here to help talk us out of it, Reap,” said Hawkeye, “there’s no need. I told him to go pound sand.”

“Actually,” said Reaper, eyes sweeping the team, “I’ve decided to lead the mission.”

The team stared, shocked.

“Spooky may not have earned our trust, but this time he’s motivated, and it’s personal. It’s his family on the line. And, I don’t know about the rest of you but I think I’m getting a little soft hanging out here with the REMFs.”

“The REMFs serve good food,” said Hulk.

“What about that shit he pulled in Africa?” asked Shortfuse.

Reaper shrugged. “We’ll keep an eye on him. Why should Spooky’s innocent family members suffer because he doesn’t inspire loyalty? Besides, his elite ass will be at risk with the rest of us.”

“I inspire loyalty,” said Spooky softly. “When I need to.”

“Epic fail today.” Reaper kept her eyes on Hawkeye and Shortfuse, knowing the rest would key off them. “So what do you say? Saddle up and ride again?”

“With you in charge? Not him?” asked Hawkeye.

“That’s the deal. Reaper’s Rangers, one more time. Though it is his family.”

“Then I’m in.”

“Me too,” said Shortfuse. The rest agreed in a rush.

Reaper walked over to stand before Spooky. “Well?”

“Yes?”

“I think what you want to say is, thank you, Reaper.”

“Thank you, Reaper,” said Spooky slowly. “But Jill, you’re not in the habit of doing free favors any more than I am. It makes me wonder why.”

“Who said it was free? You’re going to owe me, big time. And I’ll collect, you can be sure of it. Besides, I’m bored, I’m getting soft being a bodyguard, and I miss the life. And...I think with you along for the ride, our perspectives and goals will line up a little better.”

“Fair enough,” nodded Spooky. “I pay my debts. I will owe you, ‘big time,’ as you say.”

“So we can get rid of these posers?” asked Bunny pointing to the group of men and women watching from the back of the room.

“The plan is for a twelve-person team,” said Spooky. “If all of you are going, that makes ten with Reaper and me. We need two more.”

“These guys have skills?” Shortfuse asked.

Spooky ignored him and looked at the group. “Long Knife and O’Malley, step forward. The rest of you are dismissed. I thank you for coming out.”

A tall, dark woman and a pale man walked up to Spooky; she, lithe and fit; he, squat, muscular and bald.

“This is Vivian Long Knife,” said Spooky. “Expert hand-to-hand and a damn good shooter. Survival expertise as well.”

Tarzan gave her an appraising look. “Whoa, cool.”

“Put it back in your pants, blondie,” she snapped.

“Sorry, it just popped out.”

“Oh, snap!” said Bunny, high-fiving Tarzan.

“And this is Conlan O’Malley,” said Spooky, ignoring the byplay. “Comms, urban warfare, backup pilot.”

“What do we need another pilot for?” asked Flyboy. “You already have the pilot.”

“Call me Buzz,” said O’Malley.

“Spirit,” said Long Knife, shaking hands with everyone.

“Welcome to Reaper’s Rangers,” said Hawkeye.

“All right, people,” Reaper said firmly, “playtime’s over. Go get your gear and be back here in two hours. Send your letters, get in one last quickie with your lovers, and show up with your heads on straight. Bring everything you think you might need. We’ll work the loadout plan on the fly. Now go!”

Chapter 9

The newly nominated and confirmed Vice President of the United States sat in the southwest corner office of an impressive house built in 1893 on the grounds of the U.S. Naval Observatory, located in D.C. about two miles northwest of the White House, near Embassy Row. Since 1974 it had been the official residence of the Vice President. A large, comfortable mansion of nearly ten thousand square feet, it was much more modern than the President’s picturesque but rather overcrowded residence.

The White House was larger, but it was a working building and not a mere home, the epicenter of America’s power that just happened to serve the President as a comfortable place to sleep and eat and shower. In her job as the National Security Advisor, Prudence Layfield had spent most of her workdays in the White House, but resided in a small brownstone in Alexandria.

Now, though, Layfield hated it. Not only being the Vice President, but the mansion as well.

The first thing she’d noticed was how large and quiet the place was. She was the first Vice President to live in the mansion without a family, not even a spouse. Her husband had abandoned her and she’d divorced him in absentia. Her son Toby had been taken by the Eden Plague and was dead to her now, not even human anymore. She pushed the painful thoughts aside.

When the previous President and Vice-President had been forced to resign after the disaster at Haines Junction, for the first time in history the U.S. Constitution’s extended line of succession had to be employed. Those among the populace who’d forgotten their civics classes were surprised that the Speaker of the House of Representatives came directly after the Vice-President.

So, Congressman Zachary Brenner from the great state of Alabama had been sworn in as President, and as a hardline Unionist had looked for an equally staunch vice-presidential candidate to fill that vacancy. Layfield had called in all her markers and twisted a good many arms, eventually succeeding in becoming what she’d thought of as the second most powerful person in the world.

Oh, how naïve she’d been.

She’d had more power and far more influence as National Security Advisor. In that position she’d been able to affect the policy and decisions of the President, and thus the entire federal government. It had been she who’d directed and won the War of Texas Reunification. It had been she who’d forced through a tacit, undeclared invasion of Canada in order to squash the Alaskan rebellion.

It had been she who’d moved the United States into a position to annex all of North America, both Canada and Mexico, if that fool above her and his cabinet would just open their eyes and grow a single pair of balls among them all.

It had been she who’d preserved their nation from the growing threat of the Eden Plague, the most terrifying and dangerous menace to ever face the human race.

Now she spent her days presiding over the Senate, which was about as exciting as watching grass grow and paint dry. She could cast a single vote whenever there was a tie, an unusual occurrence. She also attended ceremonial functions in the name of the President. Sometimes she stood behind him when he made speeches on camera.

Finally, when allowed, she offered her counsel and advice to the President, something he desperately needed and usually ignored. However, it was his cabinet that had his ear, a cabinet she’d imprudently promoted herself away from.

But Prudence Layfield was not without her own Party-based power and influence, if only she had the guts to use it. She looked up at the muted television that hung in the corner of her office. It showed thousands of the poor and disenfranchised protesting the current Mexican administration, an oligarchy composed of wealthy elites. It was just the sort of chaotic situation that would welcome U.S. intervention.

Layfield had used every tool at her disposal to undermine the Mexican government after their traitorous complicity and failure to act in the Texas Rebellion came to light. The ragged commoners, many of them Edens themselves, would never support U.S. involvement in their affairs. The elite, though – bankers, intellectuals, “enlightened” ones – knew the benefits of a grateful America: money, power, support for their ambitions. Status they’d never had before. Hope that Mexico would ascend from its position as a third-rate power to finally take its place on the world stage as the equal of such influential nations as Germany and Japan.

They had done their part, and now all it would take was for the U.S. to do theirs.

She gazed at the television and whispered, “I did that.” A thrill of excitement and power ran through her as she saw tear gas give way to bullets as the panicked Mexican soldiers started to break and run, firing behind themselves to deter the mob’s pursuit.

But would the President act? Or would he miss this opportunity?

If he were merely disloyal to the Unionist cause, that would make everything so much easier. No, it was not that simple. Like his predecessor, the President and his cabinet were not disloyal; they were something much worse.

They were myopic and mediocre.

Bureaucracies were often stuffed with mediocre people, she knew. Those who advanced by not making mistakes seldom accomplished anything. Gutless, self-important creatures cloaked in puffed-up power. That is what she had to deal with.

She punched a button on her phone, putting the call on speaker.

“Yes, Madam Vice President,” came the answer from her secretary.

“Set up a meeting with Director Sturgeon,” Layfield said. “Make it a private lunch here.”

“How about tomorrow? Your calendar looks clear then.”

Layfield suppressed her frustration. Her calendar was almost always clear. That was part of the problem. When she was National Security Advisor, she was scheduled sixteen hours a day. “Tomorrow will be fine.”

“I’ll set it up.”

As Director of National Intelligence, Sturgeon headed the vast U.S. intelligence apparatus. Layfield believed Sturgeon was exactly the sort of visionary man who would be willing to work with her behind the scenes for the greater good, and he’d joined the Party.

Others had also agreed to work with her, out of the limelight. The President may have intended to sideline her, but she knew many dirty secrets, which gave her a different sort of power.

But that’s not my purpose, she told herself. For all her frustration with the President and his cabinet, the real enemy was the Free Communities. The real threat was that parasitic life form that used human beings as hosts.

She forced herself to look at the corner of her desk. There sat a sphere of lead crystal, flat on the bottom so it didn’t roll. It was perfectly clear except for the very center, where a red ball the size of an olive floated.

Reaching out with trembling fingers, Layfield steeled herself to pick up the object and draw it close to her face. She stared into the red swirling sphere, still alive. Still unimaginably evil.

Forcing herself not to draw away, she gazed at the small mass of blood infected with the Eden virus. Unlike normal blood, it didn’t clot and decay. Instead, it waited there like some alien thing, patient and malevolent. Her son’s blood. Toby’s.

Only he wasn’t her son anymore.

Pulling her face away from the ball, she moved to place it back on the corner of her desk.

The heavy thing slipped from her fingers.

A shriek escaped her lips as she clutched frantically, but it rolled away from her and bounced heavily on the thick wood of her desk before falling over the side.

There came a thud, and then a dull rumble like contained thunder as the ball rolled across the hardwood floor and came to rest against a bookcase, where it wobbled unbroken before settling.

Layfield rose from her desk and carefully walked around to its opposite side. A small but thick woolen rug lay on the floor there. It was something her predecessor picked up on one of his travels to some dirty, backward country. She’d intended to have it removed, but until now had forgotten.

That’s what softened the fall, she realized. Otherwise the ball containing the Evil might have struck the hard floor and shattered.

It’s not an airborne virus, she reminded herself, trying to calm her frayed nerves.

“That’s what they say. But life forms mutate,” she muttered.

Layfield almost called her assistant to come in and pick up the ball for her, but that would make her appear weak. The story would make the rounds. As a former staffer, she knew how gossip flew. She forced herself to walk slowly forward on shaky legs and pick up the ball, setting it carefully on the desk and making sure her new favorite rug lay beneath the nearest edge.

Peering deep into the red center, she thought it swirled even more vigorously than before. It seemed to be looking out at her. Waiting. Hoping for escape, when it would come for her.

Turning her eyes away, she forced herself to gaze out the window at the gardens there. “I can’t let my plans be derailed,” she said aloud. “I will not fail.”

She buzzed for her assistant. When he entered, Layfield asked him, “When’s the next Cabinet meeting?”

Let them try to keep me out.

Chapter 10

In The Hague, Netherlands, Skull climbed carefully off an express train from Paris. He moved awkwardly, dragging a large wheeled piece of luggage. He leaned heavily on a cane to disguise his height, and to sell the appearance of a lame foot.

He’d learned long ago that people felt uncomfortable around others who exhibited any sort of disability, a deeply buried biological imperative that overrode higher thought. The handicap also made him seem less threatening, and if anyone did remember him, they remembered the handicap, not the man.

Limping slowly down the train platform, Skull caused an open space in a sea of humanity, the crowds parting around him. People came close to him, and then noticed the cane. Without even thinking about it, they looked away from his face to avoid eye contact.

He waited patiently outside for an available taxi as people on bicycles filled the streets. In a nation without mountains and with hardly a hill to its name, the inexpensive and eco-friendly bicycle, not the automobile, was a citizen’s primary transportation.

Eventually hailing a cab, Skull told the driver to take him to the Kurhaus Hotel, where Larry Nightingale had stayed before disappearing.

After checking in and making his way to his room, Skull opened his laptop and utilized a hacking tool. Within moments he’d burrowed through the flimsy firewall of the hotel server and had gained administrator access.

Like most establishments these days, the hotel found it cheaper to set up partitions on one network instead of running entirely separate networks for guests, employees, and their security department. It took him less than a minute to pull the historical logs and find out what room Larry had been staying in, under the name Alex Crester. He pulled up the security footage of the hallway outside Larry’s room, as well that of the main entrances and exits.

It took some time to filter through it all, but when he saw the image of his former comrade-in-arms, he couldn’t mistake it. The giant could have likely passed for just about anything except a diplomat.

What was Cassie thinking? He answered himself in a whisper. “She was thinking she had no one else to trust. Not for something like this.” A guess only, but the one that seemed most reasonable.

Skull saw Larry check into his room, and then after about an hour leave the hotel, presumably for dinner. He wasn’t one to miss a meal, even before the Eden Plague. Skull had heard, though, that Elise Markis and her team had cracked the hunger problem recently, genetically modifying the virus to be more efficient. However, it would obviously take a long time for the new version to spread and replace the old.

Skull hoped for Larry’s sake he already had the new one.

Larry had come back later that day. Except for dinnertime, he’d stayed in his room that night, no visitors or anything else unusual.

The next day, he’d gone to breakfast, come back for a time, put on his overcoat and then left – and never returned. The Do Not Disturb sign remained on the door, so no maids visited his room.

The next day several men in suits, accompanied by police officers, entered the room and took away all of Larry’s belongings.

They didn’t look as if they were investigating his disappearance. Rather, they seemed to be covering it up, sanitizing the room. So, some sort of government job, with the complicity of local law enforcement.

Checking the phone logs, Skull saw that Larry didn’t make or receive any calls on the landline, but that wasn’t surprising. He’d have used his mobile phone. His internet activity showed him only checking news and sports, except for periods that seemed to have no record. Skull was no tech wiz, but he figured Larry had used some kind of special software to cover his tracks. Presumably, that was when he’d communicated with the people he’d come to see. Unfortunately, it also suppressed any clues.

Skull looked out the large windows at the cold North Sea. Sitting transfixed for a time, he watched the waves blown into heavy whitecaps by the stiff breeze. The scene helped to clear his mind and he allowed his imagination to wander.

A government job, he thought again and closed his eyes. He mentally filtered through the list of useful contacts he’d memorized and pulled out a U.S. Homeland Security Liaison Officer who worked at the Europol headquarters in The Hague.

Maybe he could shed some light on why the Dutch were interested in Larry. Maybe they could tell him something that would lead to where Larry was now. And maybe he’ll give me a nice fat target so I can take care of two birds with one stone, thought Skull, checking his weapons.

Chapter 11

On the surface, the plane carrying Spooky, Reaper and the team appeared to be a commercial Airbus transport flying from the Dominican Republic to Boston. Their tactical gear was piled atop high-value spices and delicacies from the Caribbean country. This mission aside, the virus-infected foodstuffs would be sold at bargain prices to a restaurant supplier. Spooky tried never to waste an opportunity.

He’d kept security tight. Only he had known the details until the last minute. There seemed little chance anyone had tipped off the Americans. Still, he checked the high-altitude wing-suit and parachute he wore, the same as the rest of the team. They had donned the specialized gear at one hour until jump time.

Then he lay back, soon looking for all the world as if he were deep in sleep, yet that was far from the truth. Instead, he concentrated. He thought.

Plans within plans. Contingencies within contingencies. Everything that could go wrong and so little that might go well, but this was how it had always been. Special ops troops weren’t merely good at reacting to changing circumstances; they were trained to plan for and think through all the possibilities they might face. Spooky arranged these contingency plans like a deck of cards in his head.

The first potential contingency would be an intercept by the Air Force or Navy, to force down or, if necessary, shoot down the plane. This would only happen if the U.S. authorities suspected something out of place. Everyone aboard was ready to jump out and evade within the populace rather than land and be taken.

Even if everything went smoothly, they would jump. On paper it seemed the best way to get everyone and all the equipment into the States covertly.

The next contingency would be some kind of mid-jump issue. Everyone on the team was fully qualified in all aspects of freefall, but they’d only had time to jump all together once, and without the cargo, though they’d done dry runs on the ground.

This was complicated by the need to guide several large pallets of equipment during the freefall and landing. The wing suits should help, but as far as Spooky knew, they’d never been used this way before. The team would act as rudders to steer the pallets, but despite everything, the pallets might be hard to handle.

Spooky knew this was the most dangerous and complicated high altitude insertion he’d ever attempted. It was the sort of mission he’d have scoffed at in his Special Forces days, the type of mission that mid-grade staff officers with a minimal amount of field time dreamed up, likely to get the operators injured or killed.

But I dreamed this one up, Spooky thought, gazing down the inside of the plane’s fuselage. Desperate times call for desperate measures. With great risk comes great reward.

He watched Reaper and her team’s casual banter founded solidly in trust, a camaraderie of a temper only forged in the trials of combat and danger. Spooky felt a tinge of envy that he was too honest to dismiss – envy not for the feeling, but for its ability to control others.

He usually thought of envy as a useless emotion, but perhaps it could instruct him this time. Maybe it was telling him he should emulate Reaper, adopt her methods, since they seemed more effective.

Would I be doing this if I were one of them? One of the normal ones?

But you’re not one of them, Tran, he said to himself. You’re different. You always have been, even before your mind was opened and the clarity came. The road you must walk is lonely and heavy with responsibility.

And you only have one family.

The sentiments that bound him to his family might be muted by the narcissism with which he struggled, but they existed. Besides, the thickness of blood would be useful to him in the future.

There came a crackle in Spooky’s headset. “Jumpmaster, this is Eagle One. Ten minutes out. No bogies detected.”

“Roger.” Spooky stood and walked to the edge of the closed ramp, where everyone could see him. The team’s eyes tracked him, awaiting instructions. Though Reaper had demanded tactical command, he was by far the most experienced jumper and thus had been designated jumpmaster.

And, regardless of agreements, Spooky intended to gradually move the team toward thinking of him as the overall boss.

“Ten minutes!” Spooky called. “Begin oxygen. Check equipment.”

Reaper moved to inspect Spooky’s gear one final time, and he did the same for her.

“Cut the interior lights,” he said into his intercom mike.

“Cutting lights now.” The inside of the plane filled with an eerie red glow.

“Switching to radio.” Spooky took off his wired crew headset and hung it on a hook, and activated his encrypted radio comms link. “Sound off for equipment check.”

His earpiece crackled as they began to call in by established order.

“Spirit check.”

“Buzz good.”

“Stitch ready.”

“Hulk good.”

“Bunny’s always ready.”

“You can say that again. Livewire roger.”

“Flyboy’s shit-hot.”

“Tarzan’s swingin’.”

“Shortfuse check.”

“Hawkeye’s go.”

“Reaper, all okay, jumpmaster!” She gave him a grin.

“Spooky check. Pop the chemlights.”

The team bent the plastic tubes on the corner of the pallets, causing a fragile glass cylinder in each to break and the chemicals to mix, glowing in the infrared spectrum visible on their NVGs, night-vision goggles.

Spooky addressed the pilot. “Eagle One, drop the ramp.”

A loud hydraulic whine vibrated through the fuselage. A frigid blast whipped through the plane’s interior. As the ramp lowered, a thin strip of night sky appeared, a deep blackness against the plane’s interior red glow.

Reaper, Shortfuse and Spooky moved up to check the large cargo parachutes on the three pallets.

“One minute,” called the copilot. The plane slowed, extending full flaps as if for landing in order to reduce speed to the minimum needed to keep flying. The noise and vibration increased.

“One minute!” Spooky held up one emphatic finger. “Take your positions.”

Spirit and Stitch joined Reaper and Shortfuse each at a corner of the first pallet. The rest moved to their assigned places, each on a pallet’s corner.

“Thirty seconds,” the copilot said.

“Pull the chocks,” Spooky ordered.

The team removed the locking devices on the pallets, allowing them to move freely on rollers that extended down the ramp and out the back of the plane.

“Ten seconds.”

“Ten seconds!” Spooky repeated aloud.

“Go,” said the copilot. The jump lights turned from red to green. The jet engines roared as the pilot brought the nose upward toward a stall, tilting the plane so the cargo would more easily roll out the back.

“Go!” yelled Spooky, pointing at Reaper, who along with the other three began to push the pallet down the ramp toward the square of darkness.

“Go!” Spooky yelled again, pointing. Hawkeye, Hulk, Bunny, and Flyboy shoved their pallet, only one second behind the first.

The rear of the plane bucked slightly as the first pallet slid off the end of the ramp, four jumpers hanging onto it, then again as the second cleared.

Spooky ignored the fog creeping onto his goggle lenses. This problem would solve itself in the blast of terminal velocity as the air rushed into every crevice of his equipment.

Buzz, Livewire, and Tarzan joined him, pushing the third pallet. Spooky grasped the thick cargo netting. “Go!”

They accompanied the pallet into the void.

One hand tightly grasping his corner, Spooky opened his arms and legs wide and the panels of the wingsuit caught the air. He struggled to stabilize himself, the heavy pallet dragging him downward faster than his suit wanted to fall.

A drogue chute deployed from the pallet, stabilizing it and slowing its plunge to the approximate speed of the accompanying human bodies. Below and ahead of him, Spooky could see the other two pallets, or at least he could see the IR chemlights attached to their corners. He checked his wrist altimeter. Twenty thousand feet already, and falling fast.

“Everyone have the beacons in sight? Say now if not.”

No one reported negative. He could see IR strobes flashing at the drop zone below, invisible to anyone not equipped with the proper devices. Buzz, Tarzan and Livewire seemed stable at the other corners of his own pallet.

“Pallet pathfinders take over now and command your teams.”

Now, one leader of each pallet would coordinate his or her own aim, guiding the falling cargo toward the drop zone while keeping the team together. Without teamwork, it was easy for jumpers to go astray in the dark and land far from the others.

Spooky switched to his small team’s individual freq. “Rotate south by southeast. Good. Now expand a bit and catch some air.”

He heard three affirmatives. Everyone loosened up their body positions, and their legs flew upward, hands hanging onto the corners.

Fifteen thousand feet.

“Easy. Buzz, close up a bit.” Spooky struggled to keep the pallet’s mass aimed in the correct direction. He felt his shoulder stretch with pain as his wing-suit snapped with a sudden gust. The weight of the heavy load pulled him head-downward. The pallet bobbed and rocked around the drogue chute’s attachment point. The others whipsawed, barely hanging on.

Ten thousand feet.

With a sudden jerk the pallet flipped to one side and began to tilt and spin, oscillating back and forth trying to find equilibrium in the wind resistance. Spooky saw Buzz lose his grip. Searching upward, he saw the man above them. “Get back on the pallet,” Spooky ordered.

“I can’t,” Buzz replied. “I think my hand’s broken.”

“Then use your other one!” said Tarzan.

“One hand won’t do it.”

The pallet started a deep slow oscillation that grew until it was jerking the three attached bodies side to side. Then it began to buck and spin.

The motion launched Livewire away while Spooky and Tarzan held on at opposite corners, hands gripping the pallet’s webbing while their legs were thrown out from them by the wind resistance and the centrifugal force of the pallet’s oscillation.

“Abort guidance! Break off!” Spooky ordered. Tarzan let go and Livewire backed off his attempt to regain a handhold. “I’ll ride it in. Come find me if I missed the DZ. We can’t afford to lose the gear.” He crawled to the center of the pallet and slid his legs under the heavy risers that would support the cargo when its main chute deployed. He had to make sure he was out of the way before…

The automated opening device cut the heavy Dacron support cord, letting the drogue chute be drawn upward by the wind. Its powerful pull snapped lightweight cotton breakaway ties, allowing the main canopy to be dragged out of its carrier and into the blast.

The giant parachute opened with thunderous sound. The shock slammed Spooky into the pallet’s top and he groaned as he bruised, but in a moment he found himself riding the cargo peacefully downward.

Standing and holding a riser, he located the strobes on the ground. Putting his full weight on the riser closest to the target, he tipped that side of the canopy downward and spilling air from its opposite edge, a crude method of driving the parachute in the direction he wanted it to go, a technique developed in the early days of the Airborne. “Spooky here. I’m on the pallet. Report status.”

“Under canopy,” answered Livewire. “Got you in sight.”

“Me too,” said Tarzan.

“I think I’m below you,” said Buzz.

Spooky looked southeast and estimated his angle of drift. Surprisingly, the strobes seemed much closer. It looked like the wind had brought him some luck, blowing the pallet rapidly toward the DZ. Combined with his own impromptu steering, it appeared he’d make it, just barely.

“Get some clearance from the pallet and hit the DZ. I don’t want you in the trees,” he ordered his sub-team. “Find me as soon as you land.” He switched to the all-team freq. “Pallet three here. I’m riding the cargo and slipping it toward the DZ as best I can. I’d call it fifty-fifty whether I reach flat ground. One and two, report status.”

“Pallet one chute open and on target,” said Reaper. “We’re under canopy and are following. No sign of hostiles, nothing unexpected.”

“Pallet two chute deployed and on target, more or less, on the northwest edge of the DZ. I think those damned pilots put us out a few seconds late,” said Hawkeye.

“Well done,” Spooky forced himself to say, suppressing the urge to chew the asses of his own sub-team. They should get the message.

As he came in, Spooky had time to register the location of the other two pallets by their lights, one nearly in the center – that would be Reaper’s – the other off to his far left, near the tree line.

He also saw the smaller, personal IR chemlights attached to the helmets of the first eight team members, but curiously, they all seemed stationary instead of bobbing about with the unloading of pallets. Alarm bells rang in his head, but by then, he’d run out of time. The pallet slammed into the ground and tumbled with its sideward momentum.

Spooky leaped and curled into a ball, hoping for no tree stumps or large rocks to break his bones. His undeployed chute and helmet should protect him from smaller bumps and bruises. Luck was with him again. He rolled to his feet and immediately began moving toward the pallet, now at rest, tangled in its shrouds and lines, ten yards from the trees. As he walked, he readied his favorite P90 assault rifle, a small, handy thing perfect for a man his size.

“Take your hands off that weapon,” said a deep voice from the darkness. “Drop it on the ground slowly, and the handgun.”

Spooky hesitated, trying to find the source of the voice. He could dimly make out at least a dozen shapes in his NVGs, all with rifles aimed. Should he make a break for it himself? Alone, he could disappear into the woods and probably take out several, disrupting the enemy plans. Or were they enemies? Security Service would likely have gunned them down already and captured anyone who survived.

“You’re surrounded and outnumbered,” the voice continued. “Stand down.”

Spooky sighed and set his weapon slowly on the ground. He then pulled out his pistol and dropped it as well.

Chapter 12

Larry Nightingale drifted toward consciousness from a deep well of darkness. Part of him fought coming awake. That was where the pain lived, a horrible and terrifying agony. It took away all dignity and caused him to say things he couldn’t control. Worse even was the fear of what might come next.

He’d never have believed it of himself before this. With the Eden Plague to assure him of healing, he thought he could face any torture with a John Wayne stare and a comic-book quip.

He was wrong. The Eden Plague had betrayed him. It refused to allow his nerves to become dull. It forced him to feel every cut, burn, shock and stab. And even though he’d been inoculated with Elise’s updated, low-hunger virus, in these extreme circumstances, craving for food added to his misery.

He tried to lift an arm to rub at itching eyes, but found he couldn’t move. Testing other parts of his body, he discovered he was strapped down to a flat, cold surface. A constant hum filled the background.

He felt himself drop, and his empty stomach protested, adding incipient nausea to his misery.

I’m in an airplane, he thought, but to where?

He’d held out for as long as he could. Resistance training told him forty-eight to seventy-two hours was about average. He’d made it four days, he thought. Maybe five. He’d lost track. Nothing to be ashamed of, he kept telling himself. After a few days, information grew stale, and less important. That’s what the book said, anyway.

Initially, he’d only given them his cover story. After several days, they had broken through this, and to his shame he’d told them most of what they wanted to know, though slowly and with as many evasions as he could insert.

Though he’d withheld one key piece, stashed deep in his memory.

Larry hoped the holdout period had given his contacts in Europe time to be warned, to scatter and go to ground. The interrogator, a man who called himself Adam, had not been happy. He obviously knew he was winning, but not fast enough, and it made him angry.

Larry took that as a small victory.

Opening his eyelids, renewed pain washed through his head and he nearly passed out again. Part of him leapt toward that solitude, but he fought the temptation and clung to consciousness despite the promise of agony.

Yet he found nothing but darkness. Straining hard, Larry thought he could see hazy shapes, patches of dark and lighter dark, though they were probably illusions. He closed his brutalized eyes, feeling savaged tissue there instead of the smoothness of normal corneas.

How long will it be before I can see normally?

Will they allow me to live that long?

“Hey, look,” said a high-pitched male voice, coming closer. “I think he’s awake.”

Larry heard two sets of footsteps approach, and then pain exploded in his left kidney. He groaned and recoiled as much as the straps would allow.

“Oh, you better get used to that, big boy,” said a second voice. “Where you’re goin’, everything that’s happened to you so far is gonna feel like foreplay. They’re gonna take you apart and see what makes you tick.”

Both men laughed. One of them punched him in the belly, and then they walked away.

He knew what the threat must mean. An Eden death camp, with a side dish of biological experimentation. In America, he assumed. There were similar camps in China, in certain countries in the Middle East, and in the New Soviet Union, giant masses of starvation and torture, but these sadistic bastards were obviously Americans.

It seemed an irony of life that the closer a man began to his fellows, the more vicious they became when they turned against him.

Larry also sensed these particular abusers weren’t done with him yet. Adam had promised as much at their last encounter. They still wanted something from him, or wanted to use him as leverage against the FC. Maybe he’d be part of some kind of prisoner exchange.

Don’t think about that, he warned himself. False hope is worse than no hope. These types wouldn’t release an Eden.

And, I’m going home, he thought with an odd mix of nostalgia, sadness, and loss. The USA wasn’t his home any longer and he knew it. When he and his family took off from the Arizona desert in that plane several years ago, they turned their backs on everything that had come before. They’d built new lives, in new places, in a new world. A better world, or so he’d thought.

But things had gotten worse, not better.

“Some homecoming,” he mumbled.

“What’d you say?” asked the first man from nearby.

Larry didn’t respond.

“That’s what I thought,” said the second.

“Better enjoy this while you can,” said the first. “Things are about to get real...pleasant...for you soon. Ha ha, get it? Pleasant?” Both men laughed.

Larry got it. He’d heard about Camp Pleasant, the Little Auschwitz of America. Instead of responding, he found himself fantasizing about killing them, slowly, torturing them as he’d been tortured.

Then he felt ashamed. He was no murderer, returning evil for evil. But if they got in his way when it came time to make a break…he wouldn’t hesitate to take them down.

And if he had the chance, he’d infect them.

That would be the sweetest revenge of all.

Chapter 13

Chairman of the Free Communities Daniel Markis gazed at his multi-screen teleconferencing installation, showing senior leaders from a variety of governments. He wondered again how he’d ended up in this position. As the initiator of the Eden virus’ rapid spread around the globe, he was seen by some as a visionary saint, by others as a terrorist villain, the Devil incarnate.

Whole treatises had been written debating his motives, merits, and sanity, most without ever consulting him or asking directly. Months ago he’d cut back on media interviews, because in the end they all had their agendas derived from the governments they supported or the owners of their media outlets. Those obviously set against him and the FC used selective editing to make him look evil, and those fair to him were viewed as his mouthpieces, purveyors of propaganda.

The world had become too polarized for rational dialogue. Moderates were seen by each camp as enemies: If you’re not with us, you’re against us.

Standing in the middle of the road got you run over by both sides.

I’m just a man trying to do my best, Markis said again to himself, a mantra. Please God, don’t let me screw up too badly.

“Chairman,” said South Africa’s Minister of Home Affairs, “we of course appreciate what you’re doing, but we’ve already got our hands full. It’s taking everything we have right now to relocate your people from the DRC along with all the Edens that are being pushed out of there and several other countries in Central Africa. Unfortunately –”

The Australian Deputy Prime Minister gruffly butted in. “We can say the same, but on a larger scale. Let me remind you all that we are working hard to resettle over a million Texans that the Unionists were threatening to exterminate. Many of them are still recovering from the aftereffects of radiation sickness from the Austin nuclear abomination. We, of course, stand behind you, but there is only so much we can do.”

“What about you, Arana?” Markis asked the Deputy Prime Minister of New Zealand.

The low-key, studious Maori smiled thinly. “We have only just settled the expelled Ethiopians.”

“That is fewer than fifty thousand people,” said the Australian. “Nothing compared to what we’re dealing with.”

“True, but our population, economy, and ability to deal with crises is much smaller as well. This influx has strained our small country tremendously. In a nation of only five million, fifty thousand is many.”

“Everyone, please,” said Markis, suppressing his frustration. “I think I understand your challenges and appreciate everything you’ve done so far, but the number of refugee Edens coming out of North America is growing. The Colombian government is putting pressure on us to stop building refugee camps here, and even eliminate some of them. The other Central and South American nations have been reluctant to take any. We need to find permanent homes for these people.”

There was silence as the three leaders looked down at papers in front of them.

Markis sighed heavily. “I can understand that no one country can take in everyone. I think we may have to divide and conquer in this case. I ask you each to go back and talk to your governments once more. Ask them to carefully consider the consequences of failure, and try to sell them on the long-term economic benefits of this influx of talent and labor.”

“Speaking of failure,” said the South African, “what’s this I hear about your man in The Hague? The one you asked me to add to our U.N. staff there? He’s gone off the grid.”

“The situation has been complicated.”

“Complicated how? What’s he talking about?” asked the New Zealander.

“One of my special attachés has disappeared,” said Markis.

“What do you mean, disappeared?” asked the Australian.

“We don’t really know. We’re trying to figure out what happened, but at this point we have to assume the worst. This man was a friend of mine, someone I trust. He wouldn’t have vanished on his own. He must have been taken.”

“Why would you send a friend of yours as a glorified aide?” asked the New Zealander.

Markis rubbed his tired eyes. “I can’t give you specifics.”

“He wasn’t there as an attaché, then,” said the Australian. “It must have something to do with the exfiltration network for the Edens in Europe. Can’t you see we’re already at our limits trying to deal with the Edens we have? Why take big risks to add more to the pipeline?”

“And,” said the South African, “this case at the International Criminal Court is important. If our governments get branded as undermining international law, we’ll be isolated even further. This incident with your agent won’t help matters.”

“It was a judgment call on my part,” said Markis. “We have no reason to believe the disappearance of the special attaché will reflect upon the case at the tribunal…though they may be related in fact. If someone snatched him, they may want information about either – the case, or the exfiltration network.”

“Be that as it may,” said the South African. “In the future it would be best if you included us on decisions such as this. You’re the FC council’s chairman, not an autocrat.”

Markis’ jaw clenched. “I include your council representatives in all political decisions. They get to have their say and vote me down if they like. I can’t run every minor diplomatic or intelligence issue past them. If you don’t like what I’m doing or how I’m doing it, find someone else.”

The mechanical wall clock sounded unusually loud in the sudden silence. Markis counted off ten ticks before anyone spoke.

“Daniel,” said the New Zealander in a soothing tone, “relax, my friend. You’re the right man for the job and we trust you, but we do need to make sure you have input from everyone when you make your decisions.”

Markis took a deep breath before answering. “I listen to all the advice I can, but leadership by committee is an oxymoron. I feel a responsibility to every Eden out there. Most of them wouldn’t be fleeing for their lives if not for what I did. I don’t regret the things I’ve done, but I can’t walk away from them either, and the human cost. As long as I’m Chairman, I’ll put people’s lives first.”

“Very well,” said the Australian official. “Send along your proposal and I’ll try to get it approved.”

The other two men mumbled similar responses.

“Thank you,” said Markis.

The New Zealander cleared his throat. “You know they’ll eventually come for us all, don’t you?”

“They’ll try,” said Markis.

“What do you mean?” asked the South African.

“Right now our enemies are mostly content to persecute or expel Edens. Some places are worse, rounding up and killing them, but only within their own borders. Eventually, the anti-Eden nations will finish with their internal cleansing efforts. They’ll see our rising economic success based on cooperation and shared sacrifice, and they’ll want it for themselves. They will work themselves into a frenzy and come for us. We should be ready.”

“Yes,” said the South African, “we should formalize a military alliance for mutual defense.”

“A military alliance is a start, but if we’re going to make this Free Communities arrangement work, it needs to be fully integrated – political, economic, legal, everything,” said Markis. “Like the EU, but more so.”

“That’s going to be difficult to sell,” said the Australian. “Our people aren’t ready for that. Let’s proceed one step at a time. Mutual defense makes sense, but I’m not even sure what a full alliance would mean.”

“Neither am I,” said Markis, “but we need to figure it out, because our shrewd Maori friend is right. Eventually they will come for all of us Edens, if they can.”

“Wouldn’t an open military alliance be just the sort of pretext one of the Big Three may be looking for to attack us?” asked the South African.

Markis sat back. “That’s a risk we’ll have to take, but the sooner we take it, the better. We must make ourselves stronger, to deter any major military moves. That means all of you need to increase defense spending.”

There came a collective groan.

“What did you think?” said Markis. “That an alliance would allow you to spend less on defense? Global economic crisis...demographic cliffs...blah blah blah. None of that will mean anything if we’re all nuked or invaded.”

“Trivializing our challenges isn’t the best way to endear us to your way of thinking,” said the New Zealander.

“It’s your way of thinking, Arana. You brought it up. You’ll have to sell it. Our time is nearly over for today; I see the secure satellite window is closing. Anything else?”

When the teleconference ended, Markis let out an exaggerated groan of frustration and turned to Cassandra Johnstone, who’d been sitting off camera. “Do you see what I have to put up with?”

“I thought it went quite well actually. You’re good at this. But I’m not here to talk politics.”

“When you sit in my chair, everything is politics.” Markis grimaced. “Spooky’s people working with you? Any of them giving you trouble?”

“Not so far, but I can tell you I’m going to need some help if he doesn’t come back soon. On the one hand, he hasn’t mentored a strong deputy, so his organization is taking my orders without too many protests. On the other, I’m now both your Chief of Intelligence and acting Chief of Security and Counterintelligence, which includes covert operations. I can’t possibly keep a close eye on everything, especially with some of his…unconventional arrangements.”

“Unconventional?”

“You really don’t want to know the details. Some operations he’s obviously running personally. I only know about them because certain people have made contact, and because I’m now reading his compartmented reporting. He’s really given a lot away by going on this mission himself.”

“It’s his family.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d have said Spooky was hatched, not born. You know he’s not quite like the rest of us.”

Markis nodded, his eyes hooded. “I’ve heard the theories about Edens who lack the virtue effect, but I have to judge people on actions and results, not on their personal proclivities. I haven’t seen any evidence of betrayal, not of me personally or, more importantly, not of the FC.” He let out a long breath. “Cass, I know you both try to protect me from the seamier side of the spy game, but I’m not a fool. I know you both push the boundaries of morality at times, but I have to trust you and Spooky to stay on the right side of the line.”

“That last part may prove just how naïve you are, DJ. No offense.”

“None taken. But how bad can it be?”

Cassandra lifted her eyes to the ceiling as if considering how to answer. “The postmodern secular ethos seems to have settled on murder as the ultimate evil. Do you think that’s true?”

Markis considered her in puzzlement. “What could be worse than murder?”

“A religious hardliner might say blasphemy. A feminist might point to rape and sexual slavery. A libertarian might say authoritarian fascism or communism. An anti-Eden crusader would claim allowing the virus to spread is worse than murder, believing the Plague takes away humanity rather than enhancing it.”

“So what’s your point?”

“People will rationalize any evil in the name of their chosen ideology. Spooky’s got an ideology that lines up with yours and the FC’s…for now.”

Markis rubbed his chin. “You’re saying he’s murdered people for what he sees as the greater good?”

“I’m saying we all have, DJ, you included. Whenever we make decisions that affect many lives, somebody dies. It’s easy for me to condemn Spooky because he’s more ruthless and direct than I would be, but I’m fair-minded enough to see my own hypocrisy.”

Markis thought about Cassandra’s words. “And mine, you’re telling me. Because I haven’t reined him in, because I’ve demanded he get results, I’m as much to blame as he is.”

“Responsible, anyway. Yes.”

“I accept that. I also accept the FC’s need for Spooky, or someone like him, to deal with our enemies that are far worse. The experimentation camps have shown how ugly this struggle has become. And there’s no one else I trust enough right now to take over for him, even as a temp. The FC is still on a razor’s edge. A slight push could bring everything crashing down.” Markis stood up to rub his hands, as if cold. “I should never have let him go on that mission. I let my personal sympathy sway my better judgment.”

Cassandra shrugged. “I think he might have gone anyway. Then you would have had to deal with open defiance. Better that you acceded with grace. And I can handle both hats...for now.”

“Have you heard from him yet?”

“Nothing,” answered Cassandra. “Like they say, no news is good news.”

“Except when it isn’t.”

“With any luck he’ll be back soon.”

“Speaking of coming back, have we gotten anywhere on finding Larry?”

Cassandra dropped her eyes. “Not yet. I strongly suspect he’s been taken.”

“He’s a giant, gregarious black man. How can no one have seen him in a country dominated by polite Caucasians? Isn’t this what you have all your source networks for?”

“We’re looking,” Cassandra said patiently. “We have a few leads.”

Markis’ face got tight. “Look harder, Cass. Find him. Fast. The information he has is critical. This is your top priority.”

“You’ve told me four different things are my top priorities over the last two days,” Cassandra replied, drumming her fingers. “Which –”

They were interrupted by the door opening. Markis’ aide poked her head in. “Your next teleconference is coming up, sir. Brazil.”

Markis said, “Thanks, Fran. One minute.” He turned back to Cassandra. “I have to take this. Close the door on your way out. Find Larry. No excuses.”

Cassandra ground her teeth and closed the door softly as she departed the chairman’s office. “Too many damn irons in the fire,” she said out loud, realizing it was true. A palpable sense of foreboding crossed over her mind like a dark cloud on a sunny day. Without Spooky, or someone like him, things would start slipping through the cracks.

It surprised her to admit she missed having him around.

Chapter 14

“Dump your knives too,” the voice from the trees said to Spooky. “You types always carry knives. Way too many, if you ask me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, you types?” asked Tarzan from nearby.

Pulling out three knives, Spooky laid them carefully on the ground in front of him. “Who are you?”

“You first, since I’m the one in charge.”

“And I’m the one in charge of this team,” Reaper interrupted, walking up to Spooky with her hands wide and empty. “I speak for us.”

“Speak, then.”

“We’re special operators from the Free Communities. You can call me Reaper.”

“What if we were Security Service? You just bought a one-way ticket to a concentration camp.”

“If you were, you’d have killed us already…or tried. No, I think you’re something else.” Reaper elbowed Spooky. “You remember that note on a group of Edens Skull ran across in this area, Spooky? Led by a former greenie beanie?”

“Of course I do,” Spooky replied. “I presume they spotted our LZ beacons…or they compromised one of my sources.”

“Spooky?” The voice became a man stepping forward, an Eden by his apparent youth and vigor. He lowered his rifle. “Why did she call you that?”

“It’s a handle I picked up in another life.”

“What’s your real name?”

Spooky crossed his arms. “Who wants to know?”

“My name is Derrick Straw.”

“I’ve heard that name. Sergeant Major Straw, Fifth Group?”

“And you started in Third, then spent a lot of time in First, at Lewis. You’re Master Sergeant ‘Spooky’ Nguyen.”

“I used to be, though I hear I’ve been dishonorably discharged and sentenced to death in absentia. I’m a brevet colonel in the Free Communities Armed Forces now.” Spooky stepped forward, holding out his hand.

Derrick took it. “I’ll be drawn and quartered. Spooky fucking Nguyen. And I got the drop on you.”

“I was rather busy at the time, riding a pallet in.” He refrained from pointing out that he might have slipped away as an individual, had he been willing to sacrifice the team.

Reaper stepped closer. “Since it looks like we’re all on the same side, can we put the bromance on hold and start breaking out our gear? We’ve got a mission. Derrick – should I call you Derrick? – sorry for dropping into your backyard, but we’ll get out of your hair as fast as we can if you’ll just forget you ever saw us.”

“Who were you in a former life, if I may ask, miss?”

“Miss?”

“He’s older than he looks,” said Spooky. “At least seventy, am I right?”

Derrick smiled. “I used to be.”

“I was a Marine tactical cop, 3RT,” Reaper said. “And a One Percenter, if that means anything to you.”

“It means I wouldn’t want to arm-wrestle you, I imagine.” Derrick looked from Spooky to Reaper and back. “So what is it that brings such elite operators to my doorstep?”

“Classified, no offense,” Reaper replied. “Need to know.”

“That won’t wash,” said Derrick. “You have to give me something. My people are well trained, but we’re not a military organization and I’m not a dictator. They’ll want to know what heat you’ll bring down on us. We’ve survived for these years by keeping a low profile, using local knowledge and not drawing attention. We’re fugitives living among the populace, not insurgents.”

Spooky turned to Reaper and raised an eyebrow.

“All right,” she said. “Brief him the minimum necessary. You have the most at stake. In the meantime, Rangers, load up and get ready to march.”

***

Day was breaking before they finally stopped walking. Reaper found herself surprised at the depth of her fatigue. Maybe she was getting soft, not training enough. “We need to stop for chow,” Reaper told the leader of the group that had “captured” them at the drop zone.

“Will do,” answered Derrick. “Just a few more minutes.”

“Thanks,” said Reaper. “You know, it would have made things easier if you told us up front you were on our side.” She nodded toward Hulk’s busted face and several of Derrick’s men who showed signs of healing injuries. Apparently, they’d had a little tussle.

Despite their threats, the local forces hadn’t actually been willing to fire first. She wondered if that was a result of prudence, or the virtue effect enhancing their reluctance to kill. It took training for anyone, especially Edens, to shoot human beings without hesitation, especially with lethal ammo.

As Derrick had said, these people weren’t really fighters, despite their weapons. They were armed fugitives.

“We haven’t survived out here on our own surrounded by forces that want to eradicate us by being overly trusting,” he answered. “Those are the sorts of things you take for granted in your secure FC compounds located in your friendly countries. Here, it’s always life or death.”

“Fair enough. We trust each other enough now to get our heavy weapons back?”

He turned to her and shoved the pack he was carrying in her direction, machine gun attached, and she caught it. “I was just lugging it around to be chivalrous, but you can carry your own weight now.”

Reaper put the pack on her back and adjusted her weapons. “Chivalry’s nice, but how about you just treat me like any other warrior.”

“I’ll try. In my day, women didn’t fight.”

“New day, new way.”

“Got that right. We’re nearly there,” Derrick said, pointing to a steep draw ahead of them.

At first Reaper could see nothing but trees, but as she peered more carefully, she picked out giant camouflage nets strung high in the trees. They looked to be military issue, meaning the nets were of the IR-, UV- and radar-scattering type, reducing the chances of being spotted from overhead recon. As they got closer, she saw an entire camp, with scores, possibly hundreds of men and women, even a few children, but quiet, with few visible fires and no permanent structures.

“Speaking of being out here on your own, how did you all manage to make it this long?”

“We’re careful. We have sympathetic contacts among the populace that warn us if anything is coming our way. Lots of people don’t like what the feds are doing, even if they are afraid to become Edens. Mostly we keep our heads down and stay in rugged terrain, away from roads. The SS don’t suspect how many of us there are, I think. If they did, they’d bring in assets from elsewhere, but fortunately, they have their hands full controlling the cities and larger towns.”

“Sounds like you run a tight ship. Good security and discipline.”

“Everyone here understands this is life or death. Many are escapees from one of the concentration camps. Some are staging through the Eden Railroad.”

“Eden Railroad?”

“Like the Underground Railroad that got slaves out of the old South. We’re part of an extensive FC network trying to save as many Edens as we can. That’s another reason to avoid scrutiny.”

Reaper thought back to some of Cassandra’s reports she’d read. She remembered skimming lengthy paragraphs on exfil organizations such as this, but never really contemplated how large or involved they might be. There were evidently networks all over the globe in various stages of development.

Such arrangements would provide a perfect opportunity for the Unionists to sneak in a subverted Eden. How many had the FC taken in? How many of those had even been questioned? Reaper knew the answer to that: almost none of them. For all intents and purposes, being an Eden was your ticket into the FC. There could be thousands of Psycho infiltrators.

Reaper looked around the camp at all the people and found Spooky staring at her. She wondered what was going through his convoluted mind.

Hawkeye walked by and she grabbed his sleeve. “Keep our people together and have them eat our own rations. Reclaim all our own gear from Derrick’s people, redistribute and reorganize, and then get some sleep.”

Hawkeye nodded and walked away.

Spooky was still looking at her and Reaper forced herself to meet his gaze. His eyes were not challenging, simply appraising, as if he could see everything about her.

Could I really kill him in cold blood? The classic trolley problem: kill one in hopes of saving five, or fifty, or five hundred. How skewed does the math have to be before its reasoning seduces me?

It would be a lot easier if he did something obviously traitorous or evil.

As if he could read her thoughts, Spooky nodded at her and turned away.

Reaper’s stomach rumbled and she almost continued following Derrick, but noticed another man staring at her. He seemed familiar. She walked toward him. “What’s the matter, your woman not keeping you happy?”

The man started to speak, hesitated, and then wet his lips before talking. “You don’t remember.”

“Remember what?”

“You could have killed me, but you didn’t. You made me an Eden and let me come along. I’m younger now.”

Reaper stared at him hard, trying to see an older man in the youthful face.

“I’m John Clayton. The assault on the McConley farm. Seems like forever ago.”

The memories came rushing back. The family that had sheltered her in eastern Tennessee when she was on the run. The ones who took her in and treated her like one of their own, costing them the life of their oldest son, Jimmy, a man she might have loved.

Reaper felt a lump in her throat and tried not to let herself get angry. “It’s been, what, four years? How’d you end up here?”

“We hid in the caves through the winter, and we sabotaged what we could without killing anyone. Burned SS and Unionists buildings. All that did was bring them down on us. Maybe if everyone had risen up everywhere, but…you know. The common people were scared of the Eden Plague. They believed the lies. The next spring, we slipped away, went deeper into the wilderness. Then we fell in with Derrick and his folks and have been with them ever since.”

“We?”

“The McConleys.”

Reaper found it was hard to speak. “Here? They’re here?”

Clayton nodded. “Follow me and I’ll take you to them.”

Reaper’s team had been watching the curious interaction, and when the two walked off, they followed. She figured it wasn’t every day they saw their hard-as-nails leader get emotional.

Clayton led her up a steep path past small tents and low-smoke fires. Men and women were busy preparing and enjoying breakfast. Most looked at the outsiders with curiosity.

Reaper heard Big Jim before she saw him, and had to fight back tears. It wasn’t just that she felt gratitude toward them for taking her in; there was also a king-sized serving of guilt still buried in her soul.

If she’d done better, worked faster, fought harder, their son might still be alive.

“Sarah,” said the voice of Big Jim, “you know I don’t like cheese in my grits. Damn, woman, I been tellin’ you that for near thirty years.”

“And I’ve been telling you,” his wife responded, “that if you want your food some p’ticular way you can fix it yourself. You ain’t helpless, just lazy.”

A gathering of people looked on with easy smiles at what obviously passed for regular entertainment.

“Now, I got more than just your desires to consider,” Sarah continued plopping food into bowls, “and I’m busy, so why not save your bellyaching for when I actually have the time and inclination to listen to it.”

“Ain’t you in a mood this morning?” he said, eating his cheese grits out of a bowl.

“Big Jim,” said Reaper softly.

Her voice was hardly more than a whisper, but he turned nevertheless. He squinted at her and stopped chewing. Then his eyes grew wide and he set down the bowl. “It can’t be,” he said. “We figured you for dead, girl, when we didn’t hear from you.”

“Jill?” said Sarah hesitantly, and then her face lit up. With a squeal she jumped up and ran toward Reaper and wrapped her in a tight embrace. Tears of joy ran down her face.

Big Jim walked over slowly and settled his long arms around them both.

“I didn’t know what happened to you after I left,” Reaper said and found that she was crying as well. “Where is...is everyone else...?”

“They’re fine,” Big Jim said. “Janie and her husband are at another camp right now. You might see them this week if you’re staying.”

“Husband?”

“Yeah,” answered Sarah. “Got a beautiful little girl, too.”

“What about Owen?” Reaper asked looking around for the frail, formerly autistic boy she’d known.

“What about him?” asked a tall, handsome teenager standing nearby with a smile, a rifle slung diagonally across his back.

“Owen?” Reaper asked. “Is that really you?”

“It is, Miss Jill. I imagine I’ve changed a little bit since our paths last crossed.”

“That’s an understatement,” said Reaper, pulling him toward her for a hug. “You’re a man now.”

“S’pose so. I’m sixteen.”

The four visited and talked and hugged on each other, exchanging stories while those around watched with smiles of their own.

***

Reaper’s Rangers gathered with bemused looks on a nearby slope.

“What’s all that about?” Shortfuse asked Bunny.

“Beats me,” she answered. “I didn’t think Reaper ever hugged anyone, except that Python guy she hooked up with.”

“Whoa, is she actually crying?” asked Tarzan. He chuckled.

“You make fun of her, she’ll have your balls,” said Hawkeye.

“Or I will,” said Bunny.

“Promise?” said Tarzan.

“Can I watch?” asked Flyboy.

“It is mighty peculiar,” said Livewire.

“If you say so,” answered Buzz, watching closely.

Spirit nudged him, and then whispered something in his ear.

Chapter 15

Newly minted President Zachary Brenner sat quietly in the briefing room situated in the basement of the White House as his cabinet discussed the latest Mexican crisis. His eyes kept darting back to the brooding woman on the other side of the room. She watched the debate intently, occasionally clenching her jaw.

Prudence Layfield’s unstable, unbalanced, he thought. I don’t trust her and never will: my Vice President thrust upon me by the exigencies of politics. Will I ever be rid of her? Dammit, I hate idealists. Nothing’s more dangerous than a true believer. They don’t understand that the number one purpose of power is to maintain power, not to wield it on crusade. If she had her way she’d scrap the lot of us and burn down the world.

As if she could read his thoughts, she turned her dark eyes toward him. They stared at each other, neither turning away as the talk droned into the background. Eventually the President forced a reassuring smile and gave her a slight nod. She nodded in return, and then looked back at the debate.

“But if we don’t do something soon about Mexico,” argued the Secretary of State, a no-nonsense woman in a no-nonsense pantsuit, “the government is going to fall completely. They’ve already lost control of most of the north, and Mexico City is under martial law. If the capital goes, so will our allies.”

“Why should we care?” asked the hawkish Secretary of Defense. “That was the same government that undermined us in Texas. I’d say they’re getting what they deserve.”

The more pragmatic Secretary of State sighed heavily. The President had the impression she wanted to roll her eyes, but held herself in check. “They didn’t undermine us, really. They merely decided not to actively engage in hostilities. As for why we care, this rebellion is led by the uneducated masses, which are largely against us and in favor of the disruptive elements.”

“The sickos,” said Layfield abruptly. “Let’s call them what they are.”

“Regardless,” said the Secretary of Defense, “we should see how everything plays out and make our decision then.”

“By then it will be over and cost us much more to resolve. We have another option.”

“What is that?” asked the President.

“Foreign Minister Julez has signaled the Party that he is willing to break with President Fuentes. He has the backing of the military and the more clearminded elements, who want to put down these rioters with a strong hand,” Layfield said.

“The anti-Eden Contra Party, you mean? Backed by the military?” asked the Director of the Security Service.

“Yes,” she shot back. “Who else would I recommend we deal with?”

“Anyone but them. The Contras and the military are in bed with the drug cartels, who see their business declining. Most Edens don’t buy recreational drugs.”

“That sounds like treason!”

The Director stood. “Madam Vice President, it’s not treason to squarely face the facts. If we back the Contras, we’re backing cartels and strengthening the very military that refused to help us.”

“Once Julez is in power, he and the military can bring the cartels to heel.”

“And why would they do that? They’d lose the cartels’ money…money that comes from our citizens buying their drugs.”

Layfield smiled a nasty smile. “Because we’ll pay them more than they make with the trafficking to do it, and threaten them with the full weight of the United States if they don’t. Carrot and stick.”

The Secretary of State looked at the President, who was watching the debate among his subordinates. “Don’t you think the United States has learned its lesson backing Latin American coups? Decades of meddling got us nothing but ill feelings and mistrust. Let the Mexican people decide for themselves. We’re better off not sticking our hand into that hornet’s nest. Fortify the border and let them work it out.”

“That sort of attitude is naïve and dangerous,” Layfield responded. “For the first time in nearly two hundred years our northern border isn’t secure because the Canadians have turned against us. We need to control the south, and the border has never been enough.”

“The Canadians haven’t entirely turned against us, but they’re sure heading that way, thanks to your pet invasion,” snarled the Secretary of State. “The Unionist Party is about order and discipline at home. America first, not foreign adventurism. We have enough problems right here.”

Layfield snarled back, “What do you know about the Party? You’re still a Republican at heart. You joined at the last minute because you saw which way the wind was blowing.”

“I switched parties because I’m the best woman for the job and I care about this country. I’m trying to help the President hold it together in the face of the Eden threat, the military failure up north, a shaky economy, and a growing list of enemies around the world. Now you want to make one more, right on our doorstep!”

“Besides,” chimed in the Secretary of the Treasury, “we’re already borrowing too much. We’re running out of people willing to buy our bonds. Inflation is rising. Paying off Julez and the Contras would take tens of billions.”

Layfield said, “Cheaper than Mexico collapsing, which is what will happen if these communist peasants take over. Once they’re done looting, where do you think they’ll go? Meanwhile, we’re struggling to contain a biological weapon within our borders unleashed by the most dangerous terrorist group this world has ever seen.”

“I think you’ve summed up the situation nicely,” said President Brenner, finally speaking, “but I don’t think backing a Mexican coup will fix everything.”

“It won’t. Not everything, but it would be a start.” Layfield looked around the room at those assembled. “It strikes me that some in this chamber do not truly appreciate the gravity of our situation.”

“Oh, we appreciate it,” said the Secretary of State. “That’s why we don’t want to add one more problem to our list.”

“I’m glad you pointed that out again,” Layfield said.

“Pointed what out?”

“The problem of these sickos.”

“I never –”

Layfield cut the woman off. “If the sicko problem were solved, everything would get easier. So it stands to reason we need to solve it, in the most straightforward manner possible.”

“By genocide, you mean.”

“That word, that horrible act, only applies to people.” Layfield turned to the Secretary of Agriculture. “You described your efforts to destroy the Cantonese Blight that is ravishing our potato crops in the northwest. Destroying the ‘Edens’ is the same as getting rid of that blight.”

“Here we go again,” said someone in the back.

“Enough,” said the President. “The Eden problem is being contained. We don’t have time for your…your obsession, Ms. Layfield.”

Layfield apparently realized she was overplaying her hand. “Indeed we don’t have much time, Mister President.” She softened her face and smiled at him. “Appoint me to handle the Mexican question. I’m familiar with the situation from my time as National Security Advisor. I can work with all parties and brief you on recommended courses of action.”

“Sir,” the Secretary of State said, on her feet again, “That’s my appointed function, dealing with foreign affairs.”

“And I serve at the pleasure of the President,” Layfield said with a sweet, almost genuine smile.

The President’s eyes shifted from hers to several others in the room, exchanging glances, making sure of his ground. The new Presidency, under a new party, meant he had to proceed carefully…but firmly nonetheless. And he might be a new President, but as a former Speaker of the House, he was an old hand at politics.

Eventually Brenner shook his head. “Thank you for the offer, Madam Vice President, but I think others have it well in hand.”

“Who?” asked Layfield, pointing at the Secretary of State. “Her? She’s a bureaucrat. She has no vision, and she’s a coward!”

Brenner’s face went from relaxed to angry. “That’s enough, Miss Layfield. Might I remind you that you’re here as a courtesy only?”

Layfield felt the blood drain from her face. “I see. My apologies if I have overstepped my position. It was only my intention to offer sound counsel.”

The President turned to the Chief of Staff. “Perhaps we should move on to the Alaskan Rebellion.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the Chief of Staff with evident relief. “What do we have?”

“Not too much has changed, I’m afraid,” said the Secretary of Defense, rubbing his liver-spotted hands together. “Our forces are in disarray, those we have left anyway. The weather has been terrible.”

“So much for global warming, eh?” muttered someone.

“And the Canadians aren’t going out of their way to help us,” the SecDef continued.

“We need to pressure them more,” Layfield said.

“Prudence,” the President said, warning in his voice.

“I spoke with our Ambassador in Ottawa this morning,” said the Secretary of State. “The Canadian government is fully behind us, but faces serious challenges. Our intrusion into the Yukon was extremely unpopular.”

“Unpopular?” asked Layfield her voice rising. “Both our countries are facing an existential threat!”

“Existential threat?” said the Chief of Staff. “That’s a great line to scare the electorate. It allowed us to take power, but don’t try to feed it to us, Madam Vice President.”

“The Eden Plague threatens us all,” she said, nearly yelling. “Both countries, all countries and our ways of life. Am I the only one here who realizes that?”

“I suppose you’d nuke them into compliance,” said the Secretary of State with an icy stare.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Excuse me?” said the President.

“Why not nuke them?” Layfield insisted. “Oh, not Canada. Alaska. We have the right. It’s American soil. It worked in Texas, didn’t it?”

The room was still and silent for several long seconds as most stared at Layfield, aghast. “I have to agree,” said the Secretary of Defense eventually. “It must be considered. Or at least the threat of it, to bring them to heel.”

“Use of strategic weaponry was an extreme measure taken by my predecessor,” said the President. “It might have been necessary to preserve our territorial integrity, but this is different. Alaska isn’t even connected to the Lower Forty-Eight. We can afford to take our time, wear them down. We’ll invade in the spring, when the weather doesn’t favor the defense.”

“By that time it may be too late, sir,” replied Layfield. “Give them six months and you’ll have other nations recognizing their independence. Hell, North Korea and Iran already have, just to spite us. No, sir, Alaska must be returned to the fold. The Union must be preserved. Lincoln did it, and it was the right decision. You have to do it too.”

“The situations are different between Alaska and Texas,” interrupted the Secretary of State,

“How? Please enlighten me,” Layfield said with evident sarcasm.

“Alaska is made up largely of vast open areas. The only real major target is Anchorage, and that’s where all the American prisoners from the Battle of Haines Junction are being held.”

“We have to consider them already dead,” Layfield said. “They’re likely all sickos by now. Our enemy wouldn’t let them remain uninfected. We have to write them off. Killing them in a nuclear strike would be a blessing...a mercy killing, if you want to call it that. Like I said before, these sickos aren’t people anymore. They’re abominations.”

The Secretary of Defense rose and glared at Layfield. “My daughter and her family are in Anchorage. I’ve spoken to her on the phone. She doesn’t seem any different. And when we find a cure, we can treat everyone and be certain.”

“There never will be a cure, because the damage is already done. I’m very sorry for your loss, but whatever is left is a host for an evil parasite. Let her go.”

“What the hell happened to you?” the Secretary of State asked. “You think Edens are inhuman, look at yourself, abandoning your own son! I can see why your husband left you.”

“Enough!” barked President Brenner, stepping between the two. “We’ll have no more talk of killing our own soldiers, or about using nuclear weapons in Alaska.”

“But, Mister President!” said Layfield.

“You heard me,” he said turning a dark look in her direction. “You may have browbeaten the former president into taking the easy way out, but not me.”

“It wasn’t the easy way,” she replied softly. “It was the only way.”

“I think it’s time for you to leave, Madam Vice President. Tony, please escort Ms. Layfield to her vehicle, will you?”

The look Layfield gave Brenner would have poisoned an ox, but he was clearly done with her. He’d been forced to give her a position of status to appease the Party’s extremist base, but he was glad he’d maneuvered her into the Vice Presidency, where both by tradition and by law she had little real power.

Unless, of course, he died or became incapacitated. Brenner reminded himself to review security with his chief of the Presidential Secret Service detail. In her current state of mind, Layfield seemed capable of anything, and there was no dearth of lunatics who shared her view. One suicide attacker could change everything.

Chapter 16

Reaper leaned against the rough bark of a tall Loblolly pine on the edge of the camp and surveyed the forest-covered hills. Morning mist sat sleepily in the low concaves of the Earth’s wrinkles far below her. She knew there were towns and people somewhere down there, but with the height and the clouds it gave her the illusion she floated in a different world. Maybe one of those fabulous landscapes from the books her father had loved before he died, such as Middle Earth or Narnia, or maybe Amber.

She sensed more than heard someone nearby. Whoever it was had moved slowly and silently. Only three people she knew were capable of sneaking like that, and all were on this team. Spooky she probably wouldn’t have noticed at all. Spirit had no reason to come speak to her alone. So that left…

“Had your breakfast yet, Hawkeye?” she asked without turning around.

He sighed and sat down beside her, sipping coffee from a canteen cup. “This is breakfast. Never been one for food first thing in the morning.”

“What, you didn’t bring me some?”

He offered it to her.

Reaper smiled and took the cup from him. Nearly scalding her lips on the strong black coffee with just a hint of sugar, she winced as the liquid cut a channel down her throat, leaving what felt like a molten trail of scar tissue. “Holy shit! Do you have to drink it so damn hot?”

“Coffee is for savoring. Sip it slowly. Too many people now want to rush through everything. Take your time. Enjoy the flavor, the aroma, the way the warmth hits your stomach.”

“Yeah, because it’s burning a hole through it.”

Hawkeye eyed her, taking the cup back. “I’m sure they have some back there cool enough to chug like a coed on spring break, if you want.”

“Never really my style.”

He stared at her with a hint of a smile for a moment longer. “What’s our play here?”

Reaper thought with brief horror he was coming on to her. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d missed signals that others picked up on. Best to ignore it – if “it” even existed – and stay professional. “Assuming the coffee stays down, I figure we’ll sit here and enjoy the view until Derrick and Spooky are ready to move.”

Hawkeye looked over his shoulder, behind him. “Yeah, that’s what I mean. Those two have been meeting alone for quite a while. I don’t know this Derrick, but I do know Spooky. We’ve all got your back, but you’re supposed to be in charge. You should be in on any meeting.”

Reaper turned to face him, wondering if she should bring Hawkeye into her confidence. Tell him she was merely giving Spooky enough rope to hang himself. “He’s the best liaison to his Greenie Beanie buddy,” she finally said. “Don’t worry.”

“Something seems wrong about all of this.”

“How?”

Hawkeye shook his head. “I don’t know. Just a bad feeling I got. Happens every now and then. Remembered having it first when I was a boy back in Peru.”

“Tell me about it.”

He hesitated and looked away. “We were poor farmers trying to coax corn, potatoes, or squash out of the jungle. My father worked for a rich landowner down the mountain during planting and harvesting. My mother and father were happy to get the extra cash.” He paused and looked down into the mist. “I always felt at home in the mountains. It was where I felt most at peace...most free.”

“What happened?”

Hawkeye took a drink from his cooling coffee before continuing. “We were having breakfast. Cornmeal cakes with roasted yams, my sister’s favorite. My father got up to leave and suddenly I felt like I was going to pass out. I just knew that if he walked out that door, something terrible would happen.”

“So you begged him not to go.”

“No. In my family you never begged for anything, ever. Besides, my father was the type of man who owned up to his responsibilities. He’d told that son-of-a-bitch landowner he’d be there. A boy with a premonition wouldn’t have stopped him.” Hawkeye stared off into space. “It was the last time I saw him alive.”

“What happened?”

“He was driving a tractor along one of the terraces. Stupid experimental crap that was all the rage back then. Everyone thought it was a way to get more acreage out of hillsides, but all it did was pull the roots out of the ground and provide a highway for running water. They spent half their time repairing those damn terraces because they were always trying to return to their natural state. Anyway, the one he was on crumbled and the tractor tumbled a hundred yards down the side of that hill before coming to a stop. Crushed him, then drowned him in six inches of water.”

“I’m sorry,” Reaper said putting a hand on his shoulder.

He turned narrow, dangerous eyes toward her. “I didn’t tell you to get sympathy. I want you to understand that I think something really bad is going to happen. Whatever Spooky’s up to, it’s going to be bad for me and anyone around me. That means you, us, the team.”

Reaper pulled her hand back and turned away from him, shaken by the depth of Hawkeye’s belief in his feeling.

“Hey, there you are,” said a voice from behind them. They turned to see Shortfuse. “They’re ready for us.”

Reaper stood and looked down at Hawkeye. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll see what they have to say. If things sound too hairy, I’ll change the plan. If I have to, I’ll say no.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“And later…if the shit goes south…especially if you lose me, you’re in charge. Get as many of the team out as you can. Don’t let Spooky sacrifice you for his own agenda.”

Hawkeye rose slowly to his feet, never breaking eye contact. “That’s easy to say now, but I didn’t join the FC to abandon people who need us. That Others May Live; isn’t that Markis’ motto?”

“Yeah. I’m just giving you permission to make that call if you have to, either way.”

Hawkeye smiled. “Substituting rules for judgment starts a self-defeating cycle, huh?”

“You’re just full of sayings today.”

“Full of something, anyway.”

Shortfuse stood nearby with a confused look on his face. “What you guys talkin’ about?”

Hawkeye ignored him. “I’ve been a soldier all my life. You ride the lightning long enough, it only ends one way. I’m not afraid of dying, as long as my death means something.” He waved his hand to indicate the people in the camp. “Saving the women, the kids.”

Reaper almost smiled at Hawkeye’s old-fashioned sentiment, but she understood where he was coming from. Biologically, males were expendable once they’d passed on their genes. Mothers and the next generation weren’t.

But people were more than Darwinian organic machines, she knew in her gut. Their capacity for love and self-sacrifice proved it, as far as she was concerned.

She also reminded herself that evil lurked in the hearts of many.

By the time Reaper arrived at the meeting, two dozen people awaited. Spooky and Derrick sat together at the front, with others gathered around, sitting or standing.

“Now we can begin,” Spooky said, giving Reaper a look that might have been equal parts humor and irritation.

We’ve waited all morning for you and your new boyfriend to finish your powwow, she almost replied, but merely stared back at him.

“Okay then,” said Derrick. “I think everyone has met my core combat element.” Tough-looking men and women gave nods of acknowledgement from their seats. These were the people who’d met them at the drop zone.

“And you should know all of my people,” Spooky said.

Reaper couldn’t let that pass, though she didn’t want to reveal the divide in the FC team, so she merely grunted and shot Spooky another look.

“Our people,” Spooky corrected smoothly with a half-wink.

“I think we should lay it out for everyone,” said Derrick.

Hawkeye turned his head slowly and looked at Reaper meaningfully.

“Yes,” answered Spooky. “First, I want to thank you for your hospitality. Your local knowledge has made getting this far much easier.”

Derrick waved off the compliment.

Spooky continued, “Our original mission was to rescue and extract approximately twenty-five selected prisoners.”

“All family members of yours, if I understand correctly,” said Shortfuse.

Reaper saw Spooky’s eyes narrow and knew what was coming if she didn’t quash Shortfuse’s usual mouthiness. Walking over, she got close into Shortfuse’s blunt face, speaking low for only him. “You knew the mission before you came. No one twisted your arm. What does it matter who we rescue? They’re facing horror and we’re their only hope. Now shut up and stop embarrassing me. And yourself.”

“What Shortfuse said is true,” said Spooky, watching the byplay. “But you all volunteered. This isn’t the time to be raising concerns. This is the time to execute the mission.”

Derrick cleared his voice. “You guys good? Because I’m getting some weird vibes here. I’m not risking my people if you can’t keep your shit in one sock.”

“Don’t worry,” said Reaper, turning away from Shortfuse while squeezing his shoulder, hard, reinforcing her message. “Just a little pre-mission talk. Some of us aren’t used to having an audience, that’s all.”

“Can we get back to the mission?” said Hawkeye.

Spooky sighed. “We’re going to need Derrick’s help. The mission is no longer a surgical extraction. To be frank, now that I’ve been briefed on the situation on the ground, I’m not sure that would have ever been a possibility.”

“Why?” asked Flyboy.

“Because Camp Pleasant is more heavily defended than you thought,” said Derrick. “They have extensive security systems and camouflaged defenses. Attack helicopters and a quick-reaction force are on standby, thirty minute response time max.”

“Why?” asked Reaper.

“Come again?”

“Why is this place so heavily defended? I thought you said you weren’t riling anyone up.”

Derrick frowned. “We’re not the only resistance organization. This is Tennessee, after all. Even if they aren’t pro-Eden, they don’t much like the feds’ heavy-handed approach these last few years. Some groups have staged attacks, mostly sabotage. I can’t really blame them, but they’ve made it harder for us now.”

“So what’s the proposal?” asked Reaper.

Spooky looked around at them all for a moment before speaking. “We take out the whole camp. Destroy it. Infect or kill all the guards. Rescue everyone, and then get out. Not only will it free the personnel, it will hide our specific intent. It will also create another public relations defeat for the Unionists.”

“How many Edens we talking about?” asked Bunny.

“Three to five hundred, best we can tell, maybe more,” answered Derrick.

“Five hundred?” asked Livewire. “Can we extract that many?”

“No,” answered Spooky. “Our plan will only work for those we planned for, perhaps a few more.”

“That’s where we come in,” said one of Derrick’s men. “We bring the rest to the caves, feed them to the Eden Railroad as we can.”

“You ever move this many at once before?” asked Reaper.

“Not even close,” answered Derrick. “But we’re not leaving them. Some will join us directly, and the rest, we’ll figure it out. The opportunity to get out so many at once is the only reason I’m even considering risking such a big fight.”

Reaper looked at Spooky and saw him shift in his seat, and then grow still.

Derrick forced his hand, Reaper realized. Spooky tried to stick to the original plan, but Derrick made him agree to this, this…Great Escape. Bravo to him.

“Okay,” said Shortfuse, “but what about –”

He was interrupted by a series of faint alarms and dim, flashing LEDs, soon quashed.

“What the hell?” said Reaper.

Derrick and his people exchanged tense glances. “Quick,” he said, “get everyone under cover or in the blinds.”

They started running in all directions and Reaper looked out to see the camp in sudden, organized activity. A hand grabbed her elbow and she nearly struck at it before recognizing Owen.

“Drones,” he said. “They roam up and down the valleys looking for us. Our sensors give us about a minute warning time. Quick, follow me.”

Reaper ran after the young man and saw the rest of her team scatter into covered holes in the ground or climb up into carefully camouflaged blinds high in the trees.

“Here,” said Owen, pulling back netting that matched the surrounding hill. She saw the underside had a thick blanket attached to it. Inside was a small cave, a dozen sets of eyes gazing back at her. She climbed in and Owen followed, pulling the netting over the opening.

“These drones have heat sensors?” she asked.

“And acoustics,” whispered someone behind her in the dark. “So shut the hell up.”

Reaper froze as she heard a high-pitched whine. It became steadily louder. She pressed her eye to one of the many small holes in the thermal blanket. After a few minutes she saw a small drone fly into view, cruising slowly. She hoped the local’s drills included hiding the few small campfires and equipment somehow.

The drone started to pull away when a different movement drew her attention. Feet dangled from a tree, and then a form fell thirty feet to the ground with a loud crash. It was Buzz. He screamed loudly and rolled on the leaves, grasping his leg in agony.

The drone zoomed in, hovering only a few feet away from the thrashing man. Its cameras started to spin in all directions, and then the drone exploded in a flash of sparks. It fell to the ground.

Reaper heard the simultaneous burst of automatic gunfire and looked over to see Spooky standing with his P90 out, smoke rising from the barrel.

Derrick appeared beside him, yelling out to someone, “Was that the only one?”

“Yes,” came the answer, “but we can expect a bunch more real soon.”

“Evac plan alpha,” called Derrick. “Everyone up and out of here to the contingency sites. Take all directions from your team leaders. Reaper team, follow me to the ATVs.”

People poured out of holes in the ground and climbed down out of trees. Reaper and Owen exited their hide as the people behind them pushed forward.

Reaper saw Spooky standing over Buzz, his face impassive. She ran over to them, looking down at the man with the broken shinbone as he continued to scream loudly.

“Will you shut up?” Reaper said. “The drone is gone, but there’s still such a thing as combat discipline.

Buzz jammed his gloved hand into his mouth and bit down hard.

“That’s more like it,” said Reaper.

Stitch ran over and plopped down beside the man, examining him quickly. Grasping the knee and ankle, he jerked sharply downward. Buzz screamed again, but the medic ignored him. He placed flat boards on four sides of the calf and wrapped it tightly in bandages. He then yanked up one of Buzz’s sleeves and administered a high-calorie drip.

“How is he?” Reaper asked.

Stitch laughed. “He’ll be fine in a few minutes. Eden Plague has practically put me out of work, except for making sure the bone doesn’t set crooked. He’ll be good to go soon.”

“Fine,” said Reaper looking down at Buzz. He no longer screamed, but his face was pale. “What the hell happened?”

“I slipped,” Buzz whispered. “Tried to catch myself, only made it worse. Sorry.”

Reaper nodded. “It happens. Hulk, Spirit, get over here and help Buzz. Carry him if you have to until his leg heals enough to walk. We need to move out before the heat arrives.”

The big man and the tall, athletic woman ran over, but Hulk waved her off and grasped Buzz by the front of his uniform, lifting him and throwing him over his shoulder. “Get my rucksack,” he said.

Spirit nodded, adding it to her own load without apparent difficulty.

Buzz looked at Reaper from atop Hulk’s shoulder, his face chagrined. “Sorry, boss.”

“No problem,” said Reaper. “We’ll give you lots of shit later to let you know it’s okay, but right now we need to cover some miles.”

Buzz nodded as Hulk carried him off.

“Quite strange,” said Spooky softly.

“What is?” Reaper asked.

“That man. Conlan O’Malley. Buzz. He scored amazingly high on dexterity tests.”

“What are you implying?”

Spooky smiled. “Just making an observation.”

“Everyone slips now and then.”

Spooky nodded. “But this is twice. The pallet was his screw-up as well.”

“You chose him.”

“So I did. But he isn’t one of mine. He’s a regular that I selected from a review of files.”

“So what do you want to do about it?”

Spooky’s eyes flicked sideways. “Perhaps he should have a third accident, at a time and place of our choosing instead of his.”

“You’re saying he’s not just a screw-up? That this is deliberate?”

“Perhaps.”

“You’re willing to kill a man for perhaps?”

“Better than letting him kill us.”

Silence reigned for a long moment. “I’ll handle it,” Reaper finally said.

“You do that,” said Spooky. “Or I shall. If he steps out of line again, he’s done.”

“I said I’ll handle it.”

“So you did. I believe we should go.”

Reaper shouldered her ruck and headed for the ATVs.

Chapter 17

Skull had to admit there was a lot to appreciate about the Netherlands. In neatness, following the rules and appreciating order, they sometimes seemed more German than the Germans. They lived in one of the richest, safest, and best-educated countries in the world.

Also, nearly everyone spoke English and seemed friendly to Americans despite the U.S.’s recent swing toward fascism. This should greatly facilitate Skull’s planned reign of terror within their tranquil oasis.

Riding a well-engineered bicycle down a street filled with quaint homes, he slowed slightly in front of the one he’d been looking for. The curtains were open, but that didn’t mean anything. Culturally, the Dutch seldom closed them, leaving views inside their homes open to the public all the time. Some said this went back to the country’s staid Protestant roots, proof to their neighbors that everything going on inside was aboveboard. Others claimed it was about a love of light, or a desire to observe who was walking by.

Skull wondered again if his contact, the Europol officer, had lied to him and this was a trap, but dismissed the idea. The man’s explanation about who was working with the CIA had connected all the dots and made too much logical sense. Besides, his eyes had been those of a man desperate to tell the truth and make the tall wraith of death go away.

Checking his watch, Skull saw he didn’t have much time. Usually he would’ve simply killed the Europol officer after he was done with him, but instead the man was expertly trussed up in the trunk of his own car in an abandoned lot. Within a day he’d be reported missing and someone would notice the car parked in its odd spot. In a nation this size, anything out of place tended to get noticed.

A dangerous loose end, Skull thought. If he gets out earlier or I need more time, I’m going to go from the hunter to the hunted. Would have been smarter to just get rid of him.

“Because he wasn’t one of the bad guys,” Skull whispered to himself. He winced at the corniness of it, but recognized its truth. He tried not to waste time analyzing the past, but he did have regrets at times over some of the innocent people he’d killed for convenience sake. Each time the actions had seemed necessary, but like rocks in a shoe, they irritated his soul.

So, no more rocks if he could help it.

Pedaling past the target house, Skull spotted a small park up ahead where he could leave the bicycle. He pulled up and chained it to one of the ever-present racks, law-abiding Dutch notwithstanding. Then he strolled casually back along the path.

He’d have preferred to come at the house from the rear or side, but the homes were so tightly packed, his options were limited.

“Pardon me, sir,” said a stilted voice to Skull’s right. “Excuse me.”

Skull turned to see a small thin man in a suit crossing the street toward him, a large smile on his face.

“Perhaps you could assist me,” the man continued in a British accent. “You see, I’m not entirely familiar with this area.”

“Sorry, old chap,” said Skull. “Not from around here myself.” He maintained his course toward the home.

The man fell in beside him. “A Yank!” he cried with a smile. “I can tell by the accent.”

“Not any more. Now you might call me a citizen of the world.”

“Oh, I see. What is it that brings you to the Netherlands?”

“The tulips, the windmills, the pot. What’s not to like?” Skull sped up, hoping to lose his unwanted guest, but the fellow didn’t lag.

“That is true. Holland has its charms,” the man nodded philosophically. “Have you visited the Rembrandt Museum in Amsterdam?”

Skull stopped walking and turned to face the small man. “Look buddy, not that I don’t appreciate good conversation, but bugger off. I’ve got somewhere to be and I’ve already told you I can’t help you with directions.”

The man reached out and touched Skull’s arm with a manicured hand. “Yes, I know. But I’m going to need you to play along with me a little bit longer.”

Skull stepped back, belatedly wary. “Play along?”

“At least until we can get you off of this street and away from the National Police Chief’s house just up the street. I believe that was where you were headed?”

Skull scanned his field of view without turning his head.

“You won’t see them,” the man said, “but be assured they see you.”

“You trying to snatch me? Not going to work if you don’t want to cause a scene. I won’t go quietly, and you’ll be the first to die.”

“I am familiar with your methods, Mister Denham. If it were my intention to capture or harm you, I’d never come at you this openly, on a public street. And though they see us, they haven’t yet identified either of us as a threat to them. They’re merely…security.”

Skull thought quickly. He could snap this man’s neck and be away in five seconds, but if there really were others nearby, he might be in the crosshairs already, regardless of his words.

“What do you want?” Skull finally asked.

“Why, to help you, of course,” said the man with a smile. He turned back the way they’d come. “Let’s walk and talk a little, if we may.”

Skull turned to follow. As he did, he spotted a man watching them closely from inside a parked car. There was another up the street sitting on a bench. Possibly the man playing with a dog was one too. “So, who the hell are you, old chap?”

“You can drop the feeble Mary Poppins Cockney routine. You’re even worse than that Van Dyke fellow. My name is Cameron. I’m a diplomat assigned to the British Embassy. I’m also one of His Majesty’s eyes and ears.”

“MI-5? MI-6?”

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that we have mutual friends.”

“Friends?”

“One friend, at least. A prophetess of some distinction.”

Skull chuckled. “Cassandra.”

“Unlike the original, her predictions are often believed.” Cameron smiled. “Miss Johnstone is a friend of my boss, and she asked us to keep an eye out for you. To keep you out of trouble, if we could.”

“Who said I was here to cause any trouble?”

“Were you not intending to visit the house of the Chief of the National Police?”

“News to me,” said Skull.

“Of course it is, my mistake. But...if you were going to that house, the home of a man who has been secretly cooperating with what many this side of the pond consider a troubling American administration in order to assist them in their unlawful efforts to encourage worldwide genocide of Edens...”

“Why would I do that?”

“Perhaps to obtain information you need?”

“What information would that be?”

Cameron put his hands behind his back. “Information about this aforementioned conspiracy, funded by the Unionist party and consisting of anti-Eden extremists in every nation.”

“You make it sound like some vast global network. The world seems far more chaotic to me than that.”

“Hate to disagree with you, old chap, but I think maybe you underestimate the resolve of the gentlemen of the American firm. We often question their methods, but cannot argue with their level of effort and their ability to throw vast quantities of money around. You might be surprised to learn that their program to infiltrate the FC with turncoat Eden moles is quite extensive. That network also seeks to hinder governments or institutions that might be sympathetic to Edens. That’s why it was used to grab Mister Nightingale before he could perform his work here.”

They had nearly reached the park and Skull could see his bicycle. A man and woman stood nearby, casually talking, glancing at the two approaching men.

“Go on,” Skull said to Cameron.

“I presume you’re looking for Lawrence Nightingale.”

“Maybe,” Skull said, continuing to survey his surroundings. “Among other things. There’s so damn much to do here. You know, like the Rembrandt Museum in Amsterdam.”

“Doing whatever you want to do to that police chief may give you some personal pleasure, but it will not help you find Mister Nightingale.”

“Is that so?”

“It is. The policeman knows much, and he was complicit in the rendition, but he wasn’t informed of Nightingale’s destination.”

“Perhaps I’d like to ask him myself.”

“I’m sorry,” Cameron answered, “but I cannot allow that to happen.”

“What’s the alternative? He’s my only lead.”

“Suppose I give you what you need so you can be on your way.”

Skull smiled. “Just like that? Now, why would you be so helpful?”

“Because, like I said earlier, I know your methods, Mister Denham. You are anything but subtle. My primary job here is to serve His Majesty and the British people in any way I can. I currently have several very sensitive efforts of my own in critical stages.”

“I see,” said Skull. “So if I come along and start kicking ant hills it could interfere with what you’re trying to do.”

“Precisely.”

“Thanks for the leverage. So, you can tell me where Larry is?”

“I can tell you where he was, and where he is headed.”

“What was his mission, exactly?”

Cameron put his hands behind his back and bounced on the balls of his feet as if discomfited. “You’ll need to talk to a representative of the FC for that information.”

“I’m talking to you,” Skull said, his mien darkening. “I suspect you didn’t come by the information from an FC representative, so why not just go ahead and tell me before I get agitated and cause that public spectacle you’ve worked so hard to prevent.”

Cameron closed his eyes and sighed before opening them again. “No good deed goes unpunished. Very well. He was here to complete a deal with certain members of various governments within the European Union. The deal involved the FC providing money and resources in exchange for organizing a secret exfiltration network for Edens, especially those who are not EU citizens, who have difficulty travelling officially. They would leave the EU and resettle in FC territory.”

“Why would the EU risk the ire of one or more of the Big Three?”

The man’s face softened. “Not everyone would; but like myself, many are resolved to stand firm, because it’s right. There must be some principles, some decency. Some things simply aren’t done. A hundred years from now, when they write the history of this time, our descendants will read of the heroes and the villains, much as we do about World War Two. And, even if they do not stand on principle, politicians tend to have an eye toward their place in history. No one sets out to be the villain. Additionally, sending the Edens away would seem to reduce the problem for us, in the short term at least.”

“Was Nightingale’s mission successful?”

Cameron shrugged. “He probably didn’t have enough time. We don’t know his specific contacts, but there are indications he met with at least one of them before he disappeared.”

“So where is he?”

“Our intelligence indicates he’s been transported to an Eden testing and experimentation center in the United States. It lies along the border of Tennessee and North Carolina. A place ironically called Camp Pleasant. It is ostensibly a government facility for studying soil erosion. You Yanks come up with the thinnest cover stories. I’ve often thought they must be intended as jokes. Perhaps it’s enough to fool your woefully apathetic citizenry.”

Skull felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. “The United States? He’s already left?”

“Yes.”

“It would have been much easier if you’d told me before they got him out of the country.”

“I only learned this recently.”

“Seems convenient, though, now both me and Larry will be out of your hair.”

“You may believe what you like, but we’re on the same side in this matter. Let’s focus on what we can do, rather than might-have-beens. For example, we can provide you the coordinates of the camp, and some imagery.”

Skull thought and nodded. “Okay.”

Cameron waited, but Skull said nothing, letting himself glare at the little man. “So you’ll be on your way soon, I suspect?”

“That’s all you care about.”

“Not all, but it would simplify my life. You tend to leave destruction in your wake, and if I can get you out of here without an incident, that will be one of the crowning achievements of my rather undistinguished career.”

“You know what would really help me get out of here quickly?”

“Do tell.”

“A quick, clandestine flight to the States,” said Skull with a tight smile. “I could find a way into the U.S. eventually, but it could take me some time to arrange it. Time where I’ll be stuck here. You know, in your backyard. I might find myself with too much time on my hands and not enough to do. I’m sure there’s someone around here who deserves to die.”

Cameron closed his eyes and sighed once more. Opening them, he shook his head. “Come on then.” He walked toward a dark sedan parked along the curb.

Skull tossed the key to the man still standing near his bicycle locked in the rack. “All yours, mate.”

Chapter 18

Sydney Bauersfeld waited for the cargo plane to come to a complete stop before she stood and stared out one of its few windows. She saw a one-strip airfield in the middle of Nowheresville, USA. At the whine of the large rear door opening, a black panel van started rolling toward the aircraft.

“Signal for them to stop!” she yelled at the guards on the plane. “We haven’t confirmed their identity nor told them to approach. Why the hell can’t anyone follow the goddamn procedures?”

Two men jumped to the tarmac and aimed assault rifles at the van. Its nose dropped as it braked suddenly. Other guards still in the plane readied their rifles while one of the men on foot approached the vehicle.

After nearly a minute speaking to the driver, the lead guard jogged back to the plane. He motioned for the personnel steps to be dropped so he could board. “Ma’am, they check out. Papers are in order and they know the passwords.”

“Tell them to proceed.”

The man nodded and waved the vehicle forward. Soon, the driver of the van climbed up the steps and approached her. “Miss Bauersfeld, I’m here to transport the prisoner to the facility. Please sign the release documents.” The man held out a clipboard.

She looked at it, and then at him. “I’m not signing that, because I’m not turning him over to you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re transporting both of us to Camp Pleasant. Your job is merely to get us there, safely and securely.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“That’s how it’s going to work. You know who I am. Do you really want to test me on this?”

The man thought for a moment, and then shrugged. “Makes no difference to me. The rules require two guards up front, though. The only other space is back with the prisoner.”

Bauersfeld smiled. “Finally, someone who follows proper procedures. Let us proceed.”

***

Within five minutes Larry had been loaded into the van and laid flat on his back. Bauersfeld climbed in after him and sat on one of the utilitarian benches.

He might have made a crude comment about being able to look up her dress – this strange, creepy woman never wore trousers – but he’d been gagged since the start of the trip. Evidently they were afraid of him spitting on anyone to spread the virus.

She looked down at him and stared, unfailingly meeting his angry glare. “You have no idea how important you are. However, that merely means you’ll suffer more.”

Larry tried to tell her to kiss his ass, but all that came out was, “Ihff ma ahff.”

“Shh,” she said waving her gloved hand in front of his face. “There will be plenty of time for you to talk later. You may even find it hard to stop. You’ll beg us to let you tell whatever it is we want to know.”

Larry wondered why they thought he’d tell them more than he already had, which was little enough. They’d already tortured him in ways he’d never even imagined, in ways impossible before the Eden Plague made him able to survive the abuses. Actually, the inability to respond, to taunt his oppressor, was the most annoying thing about the situation. The helplessness, not the agony. The pain had become…routine.

“We’ve never managed to capture someone from the FC inner circle. This is quite a coup for me personally. The information we gain from you could help us bring down your whole rotten structure, your ridiculous made-up alien pseudo-government.”

Larry closed his eyes and sought to ignore the woman for the rest of the ride. It would do no good to explain that, though he’d happened to be on the team that rescued Elise Markis and liberated the Eden Plague from the Watts island facility, he really wasn’t close to Markis himself. His wife helped administer the efforts of FC biological researchers, and he’d been educating himself on all manner of heavy weaponry and engineering, but he had nothing to do with FC politics or spy stuff.

Until, that is, Markis had recruited him for this fiasco.

Bauersfeld nattered on with her paranoid ramblings, things that reminded him of pre-Plague conspiracy theories of secret Illuminati or Templars or the Elders of Zion, or alien abductions complete with anal probes. The main difference was, now the nut jobs had wormed their way into power.

Hours later they arrived and the rear doors opened. Bauersfeld climbed out, and then the two guards pulled Larry’s dolly out and set him carefully upright, as if they would damage their package. This merely demonstrated their hypocrisy, like a man condemned to death being given medical treatment to ensure he was healthy when executed.

His eyes, mostly healed now, ached in the sudden glare. He soon saw he was in a prison yard, surrounded by high, triple fences.

“Go ahead and take him in for processing,” Bauersfeld told the senior of the two guards. “Afterward, make sure he’s placed in his own cell. No experiments, starvation, or head games. No one talks to him without my consent. Anyone violates my instructions, I’ll have them injected with the virus and thrown in with the sickos. Understand?”

The man nodded and Bauersfeld walked off toward what appeared to be some sort of central building.

“Why are the hot ones always crazy?” the junior guard said, eyeing Bauersfeld’s sleek, skirted backside.

The senior guard punched him on the shoulder and hooked a thumb toward Larry.

“Ah, don’t worry. Who’s gonna believe him? Besides, you’re not going to say anything are you? Man code, right?”

Larry told him where he could stick his man code, but all that came out were a series of vowels. Very frustrating.

The guard nodded and clapped Larry appreciatively on the shoulder. “See. I knew he was a stand-up guy.”

The other guard shook his head.

“Did you see what I did there?” the younger guard asked, grinning. “Said he was a stand-up guy, and here he is standing up because he’s strapped to a dolly.”

“Yeah, you’re a real comedian. Ought to be in stand-up.”

“Ka-zanga! That was pretty good, Joe.”

“Oh, shut up. Come on, let’s get him inside.”

They turned him toward the central building and Larry got a view of the camp. He saw large holding pens and smaller cages, all made of cyclone fence riddled with tangles of razor wire, concertina wire and old-fashioned barbed wire. Some had insulators holding it away from the rest, electrified, he figured.

Inside these enclosures were things that had once appeared human, living zombies. Emaciated walking corpses, alive only because the virus would not let them die. Men with vacant eyes, no flesh on their bones. Naked bald women covered in seeping scar tissue from horrendous burns. Children with both arms amputated, trying pitifully to regenerate without adequate calories.

And these are just the ones in the general population, held for the possibility of later use, thought Larry. These are the castoffs, the ones they’ve learned from. Now they will let them starve to death. Won’t even bother to waste the price of a bullet. Or maybe they’re actually collecting data on how long it takes to waste away.

And they call us sickos.

Thankfully, he saw no more after they wheeled him into the central facility. Laid flat on the ground again, the two men passed behind a metal screen and spoke with other guards.

After a few minutes, an elderly man in a lab coat, with surgical mask and eye guards, came to kneel beside him. He used one hand, sheathed in a nitrile medical glove, to lift an eyelid. Satisfied, he made a note on a clipboarded form. Then he looked into Larry’s ears with a small instrument.

I already had my physical, Larry tried to quip, but what came out was unrecognizable.

“I suppose you’re asking if I am a doctor,” the man said without pausing in his exam. “They always ask that. I am. I’m the Chief Edenologist here.”

Larry gave him a deliberately confused look, trying to communicate with his facial expressions alone.

“Edenology,” he said. “The study of the Eden Plague, hopefully leading to a cure. Like most who come in here, you believe yourself to be well, but you are extremely sick. Unfortunately, like many caught an epidemic before effective treatments are developed, you will probably not live, but you should be happy. Your suffering will be appreciated by all who live plague-free because of your contributions.”

“How’s he look?” the senior guard, the one Bauersfeld had given special instructions, asked from behind him.

“For all the world like a normal human being...well, except for the fact that it is a giant who would like to crush all our skulls. Though the mind-altering disease will likely prevent that.” The man put his tools away and stood.

“He gives me the creeps,” said the second guard.

The Edenologist looked at the man and nodded appreciatively. “It, sir. It. It should, young man. A healthy respect for the danger this organism poses is the beginning of wisdom.”

“Put him – it – in 12D,” said a man behind the cage. “Down the hall to your right.”

The two guards grunted with effort as they lifted the dolly back to an upright position. After being buzzed through a steel gate, they wheeled Larry down a wide hallway, unlit from above. A glow spilled into it from somewhere.

As his eyes adjusted, he realized the light came from cells on either side of him. Rather than being walled with steel or concrete, these were more like zoo displays, fronted by thick glass embedded with wire mesh. They were brightly lit, making it easy to see in but not out.

People occupied most of the cages. Some stood near the front, faces pressed to the glass, staring out into the dimness, but most lay on thin pallets on the floor. None seemed well fed, but they looked somewhat healthier than those in the yard. Yet, despair marked them all.

When they arrived at 12D, the door buzzed and opened, apparently remotely controlled. The two guards stepped in front of Larry.

The senior gave Larry a nasty grin. “I know what you’re thinking. I’ll wait until they start taking these straps off. I’ll be as gentle as a lamb until I’m unrestrained, and then I’ll make my move. Am I right?”

Larry merely stared at the man, refusing to give him the satisfaction of admitting he was right.

“Well, that just ain’t going to happen,” the guard said. “You should know this ain’t our first rodeo, cowboy.” He pulled out a syringe and shoved the needle into Larry’s arm. “Do you see what I did there?” he asked the other guard. “First rodeo. Cowboy. Good, huh?”

“Pretty good on the spur of the moment,” his partner answered, deadpan. “Now let’s saddle up and ride on outta here.”

Larry felt a burning spread outward from his arm, and then suddenly all his muscles turned to rubber. He fought to keep his eyes open, but they began to close and reality drifted out of focus.

Just before losing consciousness, one crystal clear thought occurred to him.

I’m never leaving this place alive.

Chapter 19

Advertisements to the contrary, Reaper realized ATVs were not the best way to get around in the densely forested and steep hills of Appalachia. The four-wheeled vehicles they drove were loaded down with heavy gear. Despite their speed and carrying capacity, they were forced to stick to wider trails, almost roads. Those on foot had much greater freedom.

“Is this really supposed to work?” asked Bunny, pulling up beside Reaper and Hawkeye as they waited for scouts ahead to give them the all-clear. “Won’t those drones just listen for the ATVs, or follow their heat signatures?”

“Not necessarily,” answered Hulk. “Those are small drones. They probably have only a few sensors each.”

Reaper, Hawkeye, and Bunny stared at the large man in amazement.

“Did you hear that?” asked Bunny. “The damn thing can talk. Do you think he’s becoming self-aware?”

“It’s true,” said Hulk. “If you want to carry a bunch of shit you have to be big.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” said Bunny, squeezing one of Hulk’s massive arms appreciatively. He responded by reaching around and groping one of her healthy breasts.

“You know this is still kinda one of those ‘life or death’ situations?” said Hawkeye.

“I’ve learned to take whatever happiness gets sent my way,” Bunny said. She turned her face to Hulk’s. “Want to go fool around in the bushes?”

“No,” said Reaper and Hawkeye at the same time.

“Sure,” answered Hulk. “If I’m on top.”

“No deal,” said Bunny.

“Shh,” said Reaper. “Hear that?”

There came a faint, high-pitched whine from the west.

“More drones,” said Hawkeye.

“These sound different,” said Hulk, releasing Bunny. “Bigger.”

“Well, size does matter, after all,” said Bunny.

Hawkeye quickly pulled binoculars out of his sniper bag and pointed them toward a speck on the horizon. “Oh shit,” he eventually said.

“What?” asked Reaper.

“Hulk’s right. We got a fixed wing drone coming in, like a Predator. Worse yet, I see missiles.”

“My namesake,” said Reaper. “MQ-9 Reaper.”

“Which way is it headed?” asked Bunny.

“Right for us,” answered Hawkeye. They looked below them at the line of ATV’s trying to make their way up the mountain path. Overhead tree cover was patchy on the steep slope. “They’re sitting ducks.”

Reaper keyed her radio. “Drones inbound! Spread out and take cover. Hide the ATVs, then grab your rucks and get away from them! Hulk, go downhill and tell anyone who didn’t copy!”

Without a word Hulk began running down the hill, crashing through brush and saplings as if they didn’t exist. When he got to the line of ATVs, he gestured wildly in the direction of the incoming drone and began helping push the ATVs under the cover of bushes. When one got wedged between a tree and a large rock, Reaper actually saw the man lift the thing, cargo and all, and move it from the tight spot.

“Uh-oh,” said Hawkeye.

Reaper turned to find him looking to the west again with his binoculars.

“What now?” asked Bunny.

“You know that Reaper headed our way?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, there’s more of them.”

Reaper turned to look and was alarmed at how close the first drone was. She could see it with her naked eye. As she watched, a pinprick separated itself and angled toward them, a thin line of smoke trailing it.

“Incoming!” Reaper screamed and ran to leap behind a pile of rocks.

An explosion shook the hillside. Debris and dirt leapt high into the air. The drone circled, no doubt examining its handiwork.

“Good thing they’re flying low, trying to pinpoint and shoot us, or we’d never see them,” said Hawkeye climbing out from under a fallen tree.

“How is this a good thing?” asked Reaper.

“They could simply track our movements, and then send in an airstrike or kill teams once we camped. Someone must be impatient.”

“Or worried.” Another explosion struck the hillside nearby and Reaper felt a burning on her face. She reached up to find blood.

“Yes, this is much better,” said Bunny, slapping at flames licking at her tightly pinned hair.

A lithe figure leaped in beside them from above.

“Jeez, Spooky,” Reaper snapped. “Give us some warning next time.” She put away the blade she’d drawn in reflex.

“How many drones are there?” he asked calmly.

“Three that I see,” said Hawkeye. “It’s a hunter-killer team.”

A missile struck the hill far above them.

“We have to get out of here,” said Reaper.

Spooky shook his head. “It will do no good. They might run out of missiles, but they’ll still know we’re here. We have to take them out so we can melt into these hills.”

“Take them out?” asked Hawkeye. “With what?”

Spooky smiled without a word, and then bounded down the hillside toward the scattered ATVs. He raced from vehicle to vehicle before finding the one he was looking for. He popped open a case strapped on the back and pulled out a cylindrical object and two small canisters, which he dropped into his cargo pockets.

“Is that a missile launcher?” said Bunny.

“Not like any I’ve ever seen,” said Reaper.

Spooky climbed up onto a large rock with an open field of view, placed the weapon against his shoulder, and looked toward the horizon.

“They’re coming back around,” Hawkeye yelled looking through his binoculars. “Eleven o’clock.”

Spooky aimed the weapon, his eye to a scope on the side.

Reaper watched as he slowly pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

“Crap,” said Bunny.

“Look,” said Hawkeye pointing toward the horizon. One drone descended toward the ground with deceptive grace until it crashed in a fiery heap.

Reaper looked back at Spooky and saw him unscrewing a canister from the bottom of the weapon, replacing it with one from his cargo pocket. “Maybe it’s a laser.”

“Maybe.”

Hawkeye helped spot the drones and Spooky took out the remaining two. They both crashed, one farther down the hill and another high above them.

The danger past, the teams began recovering their ATVs and scattered gear. Walking down the path toward Spooky, Reaper saw him smiling.

“What is that thing?” she asked.

“An experimental weapon,” Spooky answered with a touch of pride. “I didn’t make it, but I requested its development. Something from Herschel.”

“The guy who made the EMP bomb that took out New York City?” asked Reaper.

“The same.”

Hawkeye stepped forward and looked closely at the object. “A directional EMP weapon small enough to be carried.”

“Indeed,” answered Spooky. “The range is rather limited, but we’re working on that.”

“Derrick said to keep moving,” called Owen from below. “More could be on the way. The caves aren’t far.”

“He’s right,” said Hawkeye. “We need to hurry.”

“Casualties?” Reaper asked. Her team and Derrick’s conducted a quick roll call and found only superficial injuries and everyone accounted for...except Shortfuse.

“Anyone see him?” Reaper asked.

“He was at the end of the ATVs,” said Stitch. “Said he was going to keep a personal eye on his explosives.”

“Only he would cuddle up to what kills him,” Hawkeye said.

Reaper gave him a warning look, but began running down the hill toward the ATVs. She keyed her radio. “Shortfuse! Hey! Answer me! Sound off!”

No answer.

“Dammit. Where’s the ATV with the demo?” Reaper soon found it, undamaged. “Everyone spread out from here, quarter and search.” She began pointing out directions, images in her mind of her teammate crawling through the dirt, injured.

“I’m here,” came a distant voice.

Reaper looked down and saw the man struggling up the steep trail, a thick round metal object covered in wires on his shoulder. Stitch grabbed the thing, and then passed it to Hulk.

“What the hell happened to you?” asked Reaper when they arrived. “And what is that?”

Shortfuse smiled as Hulk lifted the heavy object off his shoulders and held it in his huge hands. “That’s a drone brain, a control module, whatever you want to call it.”

“Did it fall out of the sky on you?” asked Hawkeye.

Shortfuse looked confused. “No. I took it out of the one that crashed.”

“Why?” asked Reaper.

“Because it’s cool, duh,” he answered. “And it might be useful.”

“Since when do you go running off in the middle of a firefight and not tell anyone?”

“I told somebody. That guy.” He pointed vaguely toward one of Derrick’s people, then shrugged.

“We have to didi mao, now,” said Derrick, striding toward them. “More drones could be here any minute.”

“You heard him,” said Reaper. “Vamonos. Salvage what you can from the damaged ATVs and double up if you have to. Follow Derrick’s people. Hulk, give that thing to Shortfuse.”

“What?” said Shortfuse.

Hulk handed the object to him.

“You found it, you carry it,” said Reaper. She turned to race up the hill toward her ATV.

Chapter 20

As a genuine professional, Director of National Intelligence Jeremy Sturgeon was an anomaly in the current administration. Since its inception, the office of the DNI, much like the Director of the CIA, had been filled by a political appointee. No intelligence pro since General Wild Bill Donovan, head of the World War Two OSS, had held an executive level intelligence position.

Instead, all of those appointments except for his continued to be filled by novices. Politicians. People who knew how to shake hands and compromise their principles for a living.

In Sturgeon’s opinion, politicians were one step above lawyers and one step below prostitutes. And now one was coming to see him.

Sturgeon had entered CIA service nearly forty years before, straight out of Cornell University. The agency made it clear from the beginning they were much more impressed by the French and Arabic he’d learned growing up in the Middle East with his oil-executive father than by his Ivy League education. Still, his degree in International Studies hadn’t hurt.

Since then, Sturgeon could proudly say he’d fought for every inch of ground during his rise to the Directorship. He’d completed dozens of overseas and wartime assignments, the ones no one else wanted. He’d served in thankless headquarters jobs where he’d had to bite his tongue to keep from torpedoing his own career. He considered himself a tough man, a risk-taker and a visionary.

Now he stood at the top of his professional mountain, but he perhaps could go higher.

With Vice President Prudence Layfield’s help, of course.

The only problem was, by doing so, he might also become one of those politicians he despised. He salved his conscience by telling himself he’d be a different sort, bringing his vast background to the table, making decisions based less on exigency and more on informed judgment. That he’d elevate politicians everywhere by joining their sorry ranks.

There came a light knock on his office door. Sturgeon looked up to see his secretary standing there.

“Sir, the Vice President is arriving.”

Donning his jacket as he rose, Sturgeon’s eyes lingered on the disturbing report sitting on the corner of his desk. The classified cover was closed, but he knew what was inside. “Tell Stokes to greet Her Majesty and give her the full red carpet treatment,” Sturgeon said, not looking up. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

The secretary retreated, closing the door.

Sturgeon reached one finger over and flipped open the folder’s cover. The Top Secret report’s executive summary leaped out at him, as it had the previous times he’d read it.

We believe it probable that a group of expert operatives, probably trained and/or financed by the political entity known as the Free Communities (FC), is tracking down and eliminating members of the ABEL CONJURER program. It is deemed likely that the program itself has been compromised and associated friendly assets are in grave danger. Recommend immediate suspension of ABEL CONJURER and recall of assets associated with this program. Failure to do so may result in resource loss, disruption to liaison relationships, and extreme repercussions.

He closed the cover and tossed the report into his out box to be filed.

We’re not going to get rid of our most successful infiltration program in years merely because it’s dangerous. Certainly not when our nation is at the most precarious point in its history since Pearl Harbor. The damn report was obviously written by headquarters weenies who want to protect their own asses should something go wrong. They never comprehend what it is they’re doing or why. To them it’s simply a job, like working at an insurance company where you calculate the risks versus gains.

But this was not just a job. The United States intelligence community was the first, and often only, line of defense against foreign threats. From evil. Some would shy away from that term, but Sturgeon didn’t. As with communism back in the Cold War, it was evil they were fighting, and such a battle required sacrifice.

And unyielding resolve.

Which, to give her credit, Sturgeon admitted Vice President Layfield possessed in spades, politician or not.

Sturgeon walked out of his office and took the elevator to the ground floor. The DNI facility occupied the old CIA building in Arlington. While not as new or spacious as the CIA headquarters in Langley, Sturgeon actually preferred his current location. A sense of history and purpose pervaded it, something that often got lost in the newer, more modern buildings.

When the elevator doors opened, Sturgeon saw his deputy greeting Layfield as she exited a black armored suburban, her Secret Service detail fanned out in a protective circle. He walked quickly over and the woman’s hard eyes met his as she climbed out of the vehicle. She didn’t smile.

There is no warmth in this woman, he thought. No compassion. No ability to compromise. She won’t last long in Washington, despite her rise and current position. She’s not really a politician. She’s a warrior on a crusade, and folks who go crusading usually don’t come back. I’ll have to be careful not to get dragged down with her.

“Madam Vice President,” said Sturgeon. “Thank you so very much for visiting. It’s an honor to have you here.”

“Thank you, Jeremy,” she responded with a perfunctory smile.

“Please come this way,” said Sturgeon, leading her across the lobby and down a short flight of stairs into a small briefing room. Snacks, fruit, and drinks were arrayed in the center of the long table.

Sturgeon’s and Layfield’s entourage began to jockey for seats, all of them waiting for the Vice President to sit first, but she remained standing. Eventually, she cleared her throat. “Perhaps it would be best if Director Sturgeon and I spoke privately. We have several matters of importance to discuss.”

Those in the room took the cue and filed quietly outside. Once the heavy door closed, Layfield sat in one of the chairs, seemingly at random.

“Madam Vice President, if I remember correctly, you drink your coffee black.”

“I do, and thank you,” she responded. “Also, Jeremy, in private I prefer you call me Prudence. Like I said before, we are now partners.”

“Yes…Prudence.” said Sturgeon, handing her a cup of coffee and pouring one of his own before also taking a seat. “So this visit isn’t really to get an overview of current national intelligence budget procedures.”

She smiled. “No. Frankly I don’t care about any of that. Let Congress and the Treasury worry about money and budgets. I have more pressing concerns.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Is this room completely secure?”

“Yes. It’s soundproof and TEMPEST-shielded.”

“Good. I need you to pass along a message. To the New Soviet Union.”

Interesting. “Not via State Department channels? I’m listening.”

“Let them know unofficially that we would be grateful if they could establish a second front, as I believe military folks say, in Alaska. Tell them any damage they do to the Alaskan rebels would be seen as aiding their new strategic ally, the United States.”

“You want me to invite another country to invade the United States?”

“Let’s call it an incursion, not an invasion. For the specific purposes of helping us crush this rebellion. You must make it clear to the Russians they will not be allowed to retain any U.S. territory when this is all over.”

“And why would they agree to this?”

“Because in return, we’ll turn a blind eye to their next incursion in Asia. Your reports have shown they’re preparing to retake Georgia, Armenia and Azerbaijan. Between you and me, we can influence policy to go soft on them.”

“What about our NATO allies? That puts the Russians right back on the border with Turkey. Though it also will piss off Iran, a good thing for us.”

Layfield sighed. “Alliances can change. We have a new enemy now and must therefore seek new allies with common interests. The Russians meet that requirement, at least unofficially. The more we work together, the more likely we can make it more official, which they need more than we do.”

“Can you deliver on that? It’s a big move for the United States to abandon allies in the region, especially to what has been until very recently considered a common enemy.”

“We don’t need to abandon allies, as much as merely…neglect them a bit. Let me worry about what we can and cannot deliver. The important thing is, with Russia involved in Alaska, the President cannot belly-crawl out of the situation. He’ll be forced to get more involved. And we all need to recognize that the Russians are not our biggest worry. The Edens are the true enemy. The Russians understand that. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

“Am I your friend, Prudence? Because I’m taking a big risk doing this for you behind the President’s back.”

“Yes, Jeremy. And my friends are well rewarded.”

“Good. Because I like the idea of ‘National Security Advisor’ painted on my office door.”

“If it’s within my power, you’ll have it.”

Sturgeon thought for a moment, and then nodded. “I’ll pass it along to our people in Moscow today. They should be able to deliver the message by tomorrow. Any response is, of course, up to them.”

“Fair enough,” Layfield answered, sipping her coffee. “Let’s shift gears for a minute.”

“Sure.”

“I’m very concerned about the Canadian government right now. Do you have solid analysis that indicates they have a policy of sympathy and support for the Alaskans or the FC? Or is it just a matter of popular opinion and their failure to put a stop to it?”

“I don’t have a finished report, but the raw intel I’ve seen indicates the current Canadian administration is holding onto a majority by its fingernails. They’re afraid to do anything that might give the voters an excuse to replace them. That means not taking anything but token action against the Alaskan sympathizers.”

“Excellent,” said Layfield. “What I’d like you to do is make sure that the President’s Daily Read Book contains reports indicating the Canadian government is, in fact, secretly aiding the rebels and the FC, and remove any reports that indicate they’re not.”

Sturgeon stared at her in shock for several seconds. He hadn’t expected quite this blatant level of manipulation and duplicity…and she was asking him to implicate himself if it ever came to light. He rubbed his chin and stared at the wall to buy himself some time to think. He’d have to choose a fall guy to assemble the skewed reports and begin setting him or her up to take the blame, if necessary. “Do you have any idea what that could do?”

“I fully understand the probable outcome of this action, which is why I am asking you to do it.”

“That could lead to a severe deterioration of relations with Canada…even armed conflict,” he said. “We haven’t been seriously at odds with them since…hell, since the War of 1812!”

“Exactly. And if everything works out, it could mean much more than that.”

“Excuse me? More than what?”

Layfield smiled. “Let me explain.”

Sturgeon found himself shocked again at what she said, and, for the first time in a decade, a bit afraid. Layfield was raising the stakes indeed.

Chapter 21

“How about another Scotch?” Skull asked the statuesque flight attendant as he held up an empty highball glass.

“You know that’s part of our ambassador’s private stock, don’t you?” asked Cameron.

“Well, tell Sir Frumpy-Pants that I compliment him on his taste…in all things.” Skull eyed the woman in appreciation as she brought him his next glass of single malt.

She returned a meaningful smile and brushed his cheek with her blouse as she leaned over, as if by accident.

Skull folded the cocktail napkin that came with his drink, concealing the phone number written thereon, and pocketed it. He never allowed himself to be distracted by sex on a job, but between times, he permitted himself a few indulgences. Perhaps the next time he visited Britain…

“We’re almost there anyway,” said Cameron checking his watch. “We didn’t hit the expected headwind.”

“This private jet stuff is definitely the life,” Skull said, sipping. “I could get used to it.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. At least not when it involves His Majesty’s aircraft and the ambassador’s whisky.”

“What are you complaining about? You’re getting off easy. This is a bargain. Or would you rather I’d kicked around The Hague another day or two while I tried to get a flight?”

Cameron sat back in the plush leather seat. “Definitely not.” He turned to the flight attendant and pointed at Skull’s glass. “Would you bring me one of those, please? Neat.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Skull.

“I’ll blame it on you.”

When his drink arrived, he raised it in Skull’s direction. “Here’s to seeing your backside.”

“Sorry, bud, I don’t swing that way.”

“Pity. Makes things so much simpler.”

“…Now that some other minority group is the target of public suspicion, you mean?”

Cameron shrugged. “Every cloud, and all that.”

Skull nodded, and with a plummy faux accent said, “Silver lining? Oh yes, old chap. Good show.”

“You’re terrible at that, you know.”

“I’m a one-trick pony. Well, maybe two or three.” He winked at the flight attendant.

An hour later they made a smooth landing at a small private airport in Wyckoff, New Jersey, just across the Hudson River from New York City. They taxied toward a row of hangars, where a Security Service SUV waited for them.

“You sure this is going to work?” asked Skull. “Maybe I should retrieve my bag, just in case.”

“No,” said Cameron. “You’ll keep all your weapons stowed and safely out of reach. This isn’t just about you. If there is an incident at this stage it could implicate more than just you. Have no fear. All is arranged.”

“Great. You’re overconfident.”

“Relax. We have two important things working for us.”

“Such as?”

“Our diplomatic status.”

There came a knock on the skin of the plane. A few seconds later, the pilot opened the door and lowered the stairs. A large man in uniform climbed up and stuck his head inside, looking back along the small cabin.

“And the other?” Skull asked.

“A healthy dose of the almighty dollar,” said Cameron.

The customs official walked back between the aisles. “How many disembarking?”

“Only one,” Cameron answered, pointing at Skull. “The gentleman seated right there.”

“Passport,” the customs agent said holding his hand out.

Skull smiled. “Damn, I knew I was forgetting something. I remembered the blowup doll and the hair gel, but I had a feeling I was a little light. You ever get that feeling?”

The customs agent sighed heavily, looking at Cameron. “You know you’re going to get me fired, or worse.”

“We understand the risks you’re taking and are grateful for your cooperation.”

“A thousand dollars more grateful?”

Cameron nodded. “My pilot will take care of you.”

“Okay then,” the customs agent said, pulling out a small electronic device from a holster on his belt. “Assuming you check out, you can be on your way.”

“Check out?” asked Skull, worried about biometrics.

“That you’re not an Eden. I can’t risk bending that rule.”

“No worries.”

“We’ll see,” said the man, holding out the device. “Place your index finger on the pad.”

Skull felt a pinprick, and a moment later the light on the sensor flashed green.

“You’re all set,” the man answered pulling the device away. He produced an alcohol wipe and cleaned off his sensor before dropping it into a small bag at his belt.

“You get many visitors like me who forget their passports?” Skull asked.

The man’s smile vanished. “No. As long as you’re not an Eden terrorist lunatic, what do I care? All terrorists aren’t Edens, I guess, but all Edens are terrorists. Am I right?”

“If you say so,” said Skull.

“I do,” the man answered, looking at his watch. He turned to walk off the plane. As he descended the steps, he turned and stuck his head back inside, looking at Skull. “Oh yeah, welcome to the United States of America, Jack. Watch your fucking step.” Then he vanished.

“Nice people here,” Skull said. “Makes me a little homesick, to be honest with you.” He stood to go.

“How quickly can we be back up in the air?” Cameron asked the pilot.

The pilot looked out the door, and then back inside. “The fuel truck is headed this way now. Maybe a half hour. Twenty minutes if we rush it.”

“Rush it,” said Cameron. “I’d like to be out of here and over the Atlantic as quickly as possible.”

“What?” asked Skull. “I thought we’d go into the city together. Maybe have some dinner, take in a Broadway show. My treat.”

“Maybe another time,” Cameron answered.

“Okay, so we’ll stay in touch. Never know when I might need this level of support again.”

Cameron folded his hands in his lap. “Taking the piss out of me may be entertaining, but let me appeal to your sense of self-preservation and encourage you to get the hell off this plane. And if you ever show up on my doorstep again, I may not be so kind.”

“Fair enough,” said Skull, walking to the exit and climbed down the stairs. “Toodle-oo.”

A black luxury sedan waited with the trunk open. A man in a suit was loading Skull’s bags. “Where to, sir?”

“South,” Skull answered. “Find me a rental car place, but not at an airport. A busy one, where I’ll be forgotten.”

The driver nodded. “I know just the place. About an hour from here. Will that be all right, sir?”

“Perfectly.”

Skull was already mentally mapping out the drive in his head. It would take him at least twelve solid hours of driving to reach the area where Camp Pleasant was supposed to be located, a sparsely populated area of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park along the border between Tennessee and North Carolina.

Fortunately, he knew the region relatively well. After all, he’d grown up near there. Once more, he was going back home.

Thoughts of home reminded him of the last time he’d been in eastern Tennessee, four years ago. The last time he’d seen family. The last time he’d talked to his grandmother before she was tortured and murdered by Psychos to get leverage on him.

Skull lay back against the leather seat with his eyes closed, his fists clenched. A slow, familiar rage that never fully vanished began to simmer inside him.

I really should have killed the police chief.

Chapter 22

It took a day for Derrick’s and Reaper’s people to finally reach the caves that housed a holding area of sorts for Edens in the process of getting out of the United States.

Reaper was surprised and amazed by the vast size of the stone caverns. ATVs and other vehicles were parked near the entrance. Large tents stood around the edges, rows of cots inside. Lights descended from wires that crisscrossed the room, casting harsh shadows on blankets hung over doorways and entrances to adjacent caves. The steady hum of generators could be heard, an ever-present background.

“Kind of catches you by surprise, doesn’t it?” asked Big Jim, smiling at her from a chair nearby. “Lived in these parts most all my life and had no idea this even existed. Heck, no one did, as far as we know.”

Tired, haunted eyes looked out at her from various parts of the vast room. Some people were engaged in mundane activities, but most just sat and watched the world around them, not even animated enough to be curious. “What’s with all the people?”

“Edens,” Big Jim answered. “This is one of the main holding areas on the Eden Railroad. They wait here until we can arrange to get them out of the country.”

“They look so...”

“Dead?”

“I was going to say apathetic.”

“Most been terrorized and tormented. Many came near starving. This is a place where they can recover in peace and safety. Where we can feed them and comfort them. I tell ’em to have faith. The Eden virus is a miraculous thing. Given time, their minds and spirits will recover.”

Reaper felt the bleakness radiating from the people, the worry, the edge of despair. “I doubt they see it as a miracle now.”

“Owen does.”

“Jimmy didn’t.”

“God rest his soul, that warn’t your fault.”

“I know.” Her eyes roamed. “Where do they come from?”

“All over, really. We have agents in most of the major cities, watching for Edens. Some made it out of the camps. Even so, they ain’t many. Most of the Edens get caught and...”

“…die in places like Camp Pleasant. I know. I’ve raided some camps, gotten some people out. Never enough.”

“I’d love to hear about it when we got some time. I hear you’re gonna open a can of whup-ass on them damn Unionists.”

“We’ll do the best we can.”

“Lord willing and the crick don’t rise.”

“Excuse me,” said Hawkeye, walking up to Reaper with a concerned look. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure,” she said, following him to an edge of the room. “What’s going on?”

“Maybe you ought to ask them.” Hawkeye pointed at Spooky and Derrick, talking.

“I’m guessing they’re working out our next moves right now.”

“Yeah, me too, but I suspect it’s the wrong mission.”

“What do you mean?”

Hawkeye lowered his voice and leaned in toward her. “This is a covert operation. We just got strafed by a bunch of drones. They know we’re here. This mission is compromised.”

“You think it’s time to extract.”

“Yeah.”

Reaper said, “They don’t necessarily know we’re here. All they know is they saw a group of ATVs in the wilderness.”

“And fired on it without provocation. That proves they believe we’re enemies. They must have extrapolated our line of march and know where we’re going.”

Reaper rubbed her face as if to scrub off hard truths. “I don’t disagree. But what about all the Edens in Camp Pleasant?”

“They’ll be no worse off than they are now,” said Hawkeye. “Us getting killed doesn’t do them any good.”

Reaper glared at him. “Do you hear yourself?”

“Look, I’m not some heartless bastard. I’m not a coward either, but this isn’t about either of those things. This is about making smart decisions, regardless of emotion. This is about making the tough call.”

“You sure it’s not about your voodoo premonition?”

“That, too.”

“So I’m supposed to let hundreds of human beings continue to suffer horribly?”

“Yes. When it makes no sense to go on.”

“You know, these caves have amazing acoustics,” said Big Jim as he approached the two. “If you have a mind to, you can hear people talk from clear across the room.”

“Nice of you to tell us,” said Hawkeye.

“How much did you hear?” asked Reaper.

“Pert’ near all.”

“And?”

“It’s all a bunch of horseshit,” he said.

“You wouldn’t understand,” said Hawkeye. “This is a professional military operation.”

“Professional,” said Big Jim with a laugh, his voice rising. “Professional what? Shirkers? You all sure went to a hell of a lot of trouble to get here, just to run off at the first sign of trouble.”

“Problem?” asked Derrick, Spooky close behind him.

Big Jim pointed at Hawkeye. “This one here is tryin’ to talk Miss Jill into cuttin’ and runnin’.”

“Is that true?” asked Spooky.

“Hell, yeah,” answered Hawkeye, glaring.

“You drop in on us, call the heat down on us and woops, time to go?” said Derrick.

Reaper held up her hand. “Everyone chill out. Hawkeye has a point. We’re a covert action team, not a company of paratroopers. Our SOP is, if we’re blown, we abort.” She pointed at Spooky. “Your procedures too.”

“We’re not leaving,” said Spooky softly.

“We might be,” said Reaper. “Since the gang’s all here, let’s talk it through. This is no longer a surgical operation. They’re going to be on high alert, even if they’re not sure where and when we’re going to hit them. We don’t have enough firepower and people. Even if we pull this off, casualties might be heavy.” Reaper noticed more and more people – her team, Derrick’s team and a few civilians – were gathering around to listen.

“Good thing we heal fast,” said Big Jim.

Hawkeye spoke. “We’re not superheroes and we’re not immune to capture. All of us have information that could cause grave damage to the FC.”

“Then don’t get captured,” said Spooky. “Not alive, anyway.”

“Do you hear what you’re saying?” asked Hawkeye. “We’re not suicide troops.”

Reaper said, “No, we’re not. And Hawkeye has a point. We can’t just throw ourselves at the walls of Troy. I won’t approve anything that doesn’t have a reasonable chance of success, and that includes the extraction.”

Silence hung in the air.

“Let’s say we do this,” said Tarzan. “What will we do with all those Edens?”

“Let us worry about that,” said Derrick.

“We should be happy to have that problem,” said Bunny. “My question is, how do we breach a heavily fortified encampment and get Spooky’s people out?”

“If we can’t come up with overwhelming force,” – here Spooky glanced at Derrick – “We need updated intel to find a weakness in their defenses.”

“I got the drone brain,” said Shortfuse. “Livewire thinks he can use it to hack into their video network.”

“Good,” said Spooky. “That’s a start, but overhead imagery isn’t enough. We need eyes on target. Eyes we can control.” He looked at Reaper.

“We can observe from the hills around the camp. Someone could slip in close using a thermal suit. I nominate you and your ninja skills, Spooky.”

Spooky gave her a wintry smile.

“Too bad we don’t have someone on the inside,” said Flyboy.

Derrick flicked his eyes at Spooky.

“You have someone on the inside?” asked Reaper.

“I have a source.”

“Who is it?” asked Buzz from the rear of the group.

Everyone stared at Buzz.

“Hey, just askin’.”

Reaper turned to Hawkeye, raising an eyebrow.

Hawkeye nodded. “It’s a start. If we don’t like what we see, we can abort.”

“That’s right,” said Big Jim. “Plenty of time to save your own ass.”

Hawkeye turned his face to Big Jim. “You need to watch your mouth, cabrón.”

“Enough!” snapped Reaper. “Everyone get ready. We’ll move out at sunset. Plan to be in position by dawn. We’ll recon, then decide.”

The team members dispersed. Derrick motioned for Big Jim. Reaper watched their tense discussion.

“Civilians,” Spooky said.

“Don’t play dumb. If your family wasn’t down there we would have aborted long ago.”

Spooky stared at her overlong. “Yes. I would have aborted, but not for the reason you might think.”

“And what reason is that?”

“My own,” he answered.

“Your own reason may get you killed,” Reaper said, staring right back.

“I am not afraid to die.”

“Red herrings. Game playing. What the hell are you really up to, Spooky?”

“The same as always. Helping my friends, hurting my enemies.”

Reaper held her tongue.

Chapter 23

Larry lay on the thin cot and tried not to think of the food. His stomach tried to eat itself...and he tried not to think about the food. He opened his eyes and looked over in the darkness at the small paper tray on the floor, and its alluring aromas...and tried not to think about the food.

They would come and take it away soon enough, and then his resolve would no longer be tested. Still, he loathed himself for his weakness. He found his mouth trying to water at the mere nearness of the food.

I’ve eaten for the last time, he told himself again. I will not delay the inevitable. Death is my only release, he thought. God, please let it come quickly.

He hadn’t told them anything of substance yet, just bits and pieces, things to keep them hoping…but he knew eventually he’d break.

Everyone broke. Everyone talked. That’s what they’d taught him in SERE school so long ago, when he was still part of the U.S. Army. It was only a matter of time.

The trick was, to talk after it didn’t matter anymore. And, with the help of your fellow prisoners, to rebuild honor and morale.

But Larry had no fellow prisoners. He was alone, and had been brought into the belly of the beast. No help would come. FC forces had raided all the easy camps, the ones near the borders. That’s why the rest had been moved well into the interior.

At first, he’d reminded himself of people who survived for years as prisoners – captives of Tojo’s Japan, of North Vietnam, of Middle Eastern terrorists and Muslim militias. However, those had usually retained semblances of POW status, or had been used as propaganda pawns, perhaps to be traded.

Eden camps were more akin to the Soviet gulags or the Nazi death camps. Prisoners entered, but they never left. Not unless rescued.

His mind drifted to his family. The thought brought a lump to his throat and he pushed it away. He was afraid if he dwelled on them too much he’d break down completely.

Oh Lord, he prayed, I used to have more faith. Then the world went to hell and maybe I lost it. I don’t understand why You’re letting all this happen, but You must have a reason. I’d sure appreciate it if You would take care of my family.

Larry thought of Samson, according to the Old Testament the strongest man who ever lived. He’d honored Jehovah with his Nazirite vows, as a judge and defender of the ancient Hebrews…until he’d given in to the Philistine harlot Delilah’s pleading to reveal the source of his strength. After much pillow talk and nagging, he told her if his hair were ever cut he’d lose the Lord’s blessing, and his power.

She’d paid two men to sneak in while Samson was sleeping and cut his hair, and so the weakened Samson had been blinded, put in chains, and made to work turning a millstone.

One day the Philistine leaders gathered in a great temple for a sacrifice to their gods. More than three thousand people attended, and Samson was displayed as a trophy. He pleaded with Jehovah to grant him his strength just one more time. The Lord answered his prayer and Samson broke the central pillars, causing the stone temple to collapse, killing everyone, including himself.

It had always been a favorite story, ever since Larry was a boy in Sunday School, bigger and stronger than any other kids his age. As he grew, he’d thought of himself as Samson. He’d even refused to cut his hair, until the Army gave him no choice.

What sin had he committed to get him captured? He didn’t know, but it must have been something. He prayed that, like Samson, he would be granted one final chance to strike at these evil people.

And yet, he was weak. The smell of chicken and vegetables called to him. He growled, refusing to look at the food. Why couldn’t they come take it away already?

Larry sensed rather than saw someone watching him. He sat up, forgetting about the food for now, and peered out into the shadowy hallway. Sometimes, when the light was low inside, he could see out through the glass.

Dimly seen figures occupied other cells. He knew, because he could sometimes detect their movements, hear their pitiful stirrings, like mice behind the walls. He felt their frantic eagerness when feeding time arrived. They gobbled up the meager fare provided.

Were those eyes staring out at him from the cell across the hall?

Larry stood on shaky legs and pressed his face against the thick glass. He remained that way and stared for what might have been five minutes or five years. Time ceased to have tangible substance.

Two small, pale, disembodied hands slowly materialized from the darkness and touched the glass across the hall. Larry found his heart beating faster, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to lie back down on the cot and close his eyes. To go back to not thinking about the food.

To sleep, and to die, as he’d already resolved to do.

He forced himself to stand his ground and stare.

The skeletal hands remained against the glass. A face appeared between them. The eyes were devoid of hope or expectation. Larry had seen this one before, a young boy of perhaps ten.

“Why are they torturing you?” Larry whispered, and even this sound seemed out of place, like the dead talking in a tomb. He didn’t expect an answer; the rooms passed sound, but speaking to other prisoners was forbidden, and could earn a beating.

The boy merely stared back. After a minute he blinked slowly, as if this movement were a colossal effort, and then looked down, and then back at Larry.

When Larry made no movement he did it again.

Looking down, Larry saw the paper tray of untouched food at his feet. Easily more than the guards fed the others in three days combined. Chicken, vegetables, rice, beans. A feast. A small carton of milk accompanied it.

“You want the food,” Larry said.

I want the food, a cowardly internal voice cried.

No, I’m not eating it. But he might as well.

The boy’s face sagged in anticipated disappointment. His face withdrew back into the darkness.

Larry dropped down to the bottom of the door, where there was a gap. He found the two-inch-tall feeding slot, an opening without a cover. Across the way, the kid’s slot beckoned.

He could kill two birds with one stone. He could help this child and remove his own temptation at the same time. He carefully grasped the edge of the tray before looking across the smooth concrete floor.

“Get ready, little buddy,” Larry whispered. “It’s coming your way.”

The face came back and the eyes appeared brighter. The boy squatted down, mirroring Larry’s stance.

Taking a deep breath, Larry shoved the tray as hard as he could. It slid faster than he thought it would and bounced off the edge of the slot with a clatter, spilling some, but thin fingers snagged the thing quick as a snake and drew it in. The hand shot out again and again, scooping up what had fallen, plucking up food with its fingertips.

“There you go,” said Larry. “That’s how it’s done, champ.”

The eyes stared at him as the boy shoved food into his mouth. He chewed with desperation, trying to ingest it as fast as possible, as if it would be snatched away at any moment. Larry noticed he was shaking.

“Just take it easy, buddy,” Larry said, soothing. “It’ll be all right.” But he knew he lied.

Still, this small act of defiance, of human decency, lifted his spirits immensely.

There came a loud clang at the end of the hall. Larry heard a collective moan of dismay and more stirrings from the cells around him. The sound of clicking footfalls echoed down the hallway, preceded by a bright circle of light.

“What have we here?” Bauersfeld’s voice said in mock dismay. She shone her flashlight on the cell across from Larry’s and the thin boy shied away from it, back into the corner of his cell. Larry had a brief but horrifying look at hollow eyes, at a distended belly, skin covered in running sores.

Bauersfeld walked briskly over, opened the boy’s door and kicked the tray out of the cell, sending the remaining food flying down the hallway. There came more scurrying as some of the braver souls ventured toward the front of their cells to reach through their food slots in hopes of snagging a bit of something, anything.

Two guards behind Bauersfeld rushed forward, stomping at the prisoners’ hands. “Sorry, ma’am. They’re animals.”

“Nothing to worry about. You may go.”

The guards retreated to their posts behind the hallway door.

“Haven’t you ever been to the zoo?” she asked Larry. “What’s the first rule?”

Larry lay on his pallet, closing his eyes. Bauersfeld taunted him regularly this way. He’d gotten used to it, and it put the lie to her claim she only wanted information.

In reality, it was an indulgence of cruelty. He’d never quite figured out what motivated her, except the exercise of power over a helpless human being.

He remembered a psychological experiment he’d once read about. College students had supposedly been given power over an immobilized subject behind glass, actually an actor. One group had a button that purportedly caused orgasmic pleasure, one group extreme pain. On average, each group reveled equally in causing the “subject” to writhe on the table.

It didn’t seem to matter whether they dispensed ecstasy or agony. People liked power, and most quickly tossed their morals aside when they acquired it.

“Don’t feed the animals,” Bauersfeld answered her own question. “Only the zookeepers get to feed the animals. If everyone feeds them then they could get sick or fat. We wouldn’t want that to happen here, would we?”

Larry kept his eyes closed, trying to ignore her, and to ignore the smell of the food scattered around.

Lord, let me be like Samson. Give me my strength, just one more time.

Bauersfeld approached his cell. “I can see how difficult this is for you, but it doesn’t have to be like this. You’re different. Special even. The rest in here are common, everyday creatures. Finches, sparrows maybe. You’re a big, black eagle. This isn’t the place for you.”

Larry stood suddenly to stare at her.

Bauersfeld pressed her head against the glass of the door, the part that would open when, he figured, a guard at the station pressed a button. It would buzz, and then…

He dreamed about that happening. About getting his hands on this evil woman.

For a moment, he felt ashamed. He’d never struck a woman in his life. He’d been raised to treat them as special creatures, to be respected and revered. That’s how he felt about Shawna, and had never even thought of raising a hand to her.

But this one…with her actions she’d forfeited any immunity her gender might confer.

Bauersfeld pleaded, “Just cooperate a little, that’s all we ask. We don’t want to hurt anyone. We just need to understand how you people think.”

“You people.” That says it all, doesn’t it? Before, she called me a “thing.” Now she’s trying to get something and I’m a person again.

Lord, my strength, just once more…

With an explosive charge, Larry threw himself forward on formerly powerful legs, bursting the lock and slamming the armored glass door open, knocking Bauersfeld across the hall. She hit her head and slumped. His hands darted out and grasped the torturer’s stylish suit coat in both hands. Larry found the look of shock, pain and fear on her face immensely satisfying.

“Don’t…don’t…” she stuttered.

“Don’t worry,” he said, as if to a child. “It’ll be all right.” With irresistible strength he raised her hand to his lips, lifting her onto her toes to do it.

And bit, hard.

The skin broke, and blood welled into his mouth. It brought to mind the first time he’d done such a thing, the night Zeke had died, passing on the new virus to those in need of it.

“What the hell have you done?” Bauersfeld screamed.

“I killed you, the only way I could,” he said, laughing through the blood, the adrenaline surge making him babble. “You’re an Eden now. You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free. Free at last, free at last, thank God, you’re free at last!”

He hardly felt it when the guards tasered him, beating him with shock prods. He fell, they pushed him into his cell, and they carried Bauersfeld away.

After what could have been minutes or a millennium, Larry found himself able to move. He noticed something outside his cell on the floor. His door swung ajar, forgotten in the violence. He crawled over and reached through to grasp the object. He had to bring it close to his face to see what it was.

The carton of milk.

“Hey, little buddy,” Larry called out. “Got something for you.”

The pale face and hands materialized like a ghost from the darkness.

Larry slid the milk across the hallway. The boy reached through the opening and picked up the carton, opening it and raising it to his mouth with shaky hands.

“Pretty good, huh?”

The boy lowered the milk and smiled at Larry.

Larry smiled back. “I won,” he said. “I brought the temple down.”

He found that he no longer wanted to die.

Chapter 24

Layfield struggled to keep her eyes open through the droning of the briefers. After getting a tip from one of her contacts about the emergency Cabinet meetings, she’d wrapped up her marathon negotiating session with the Germans, trying to get them to see reason. Unfortunately, instead of properly quarantining Edens and limiting the spread of the virus, the namby-pamby socialists were actually talking about giving the abominations asylum in their country.

It hadn’t gone well.

Now, though, she had greater concerns than spineless Europeans. She looked around the White House Situation Room and saw shocked faces. The Cabinet hadn’t expected the Russians to move so fast. In fact, they hadn’t expected the Russians to move at all. Their invasion had come as a total surprise to everyone here but she.

A Navy intelligence officer pointed at a map of Alaska and the Bering Sea. “We’ve identified Russian surface forces here, here, and here. They’ve established a naval blockade, cutting off all shipping into and out of the region. We believe four Yasen-class attack subs have also converged on the area.”

“What about their boomers?” the Secretary of Defense asked.

“Their missile subs remain in their usual patrol areas, but it hardly matters. All of them are less than seven minutes ballistic flight from Alaska, less than ten from CONUS,” said the briefer and pointed back at the map. “Soviet naval infantry forces have also occupied several of the larger Aleutian Islands and it looks like they’re preparing to invade the mainland.”

“Have they responded to our demarche?” asked the Chief of Staff.

The Secretary of State shook her head. “We summoned the Russian ambassador to explain the actions, but he seemed as surprised about it as we were. He’ll forward our condemnation and demand to vacate, but I doubt it will do any good. This smacks of a pure military operation. The Premier is too weak to countermand.”

“Those damn Russians,” growled the Secretary of Defense. “Trust them to hit us when we’re preoccupied.”

“Sounds like they’re doing us a favor,” said Layfield.

“Please explain how invading our country is doing us a favor.”

Layfield leaned forward over the table. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. They’re hurting our enemies. Our efforts to crush the rebellion have stalled. This keeps the Alaskans on the defensive and allows us to prepare a renewed offensive from the south and east. It also may generate some sympathy for us. We can spin it as the chaos that happens when Edens infiltrate legitimate governments. The foment rebellion.”

“How do we know the Russians will hand back what they take? They used to own Alaska, and they’re not known for giving up territory without a fight.”

“Once the rebels are crushed, the Navy can come in and clear their ships off,” Layfield said. “They’re no match for us at sea. They’ll have to back down and withdraw their land forces, or they’ll be cut off.”

“This Machiavellian crap always backfires,” said the Secretary of State in a strained voice. “It never goes the way you expect. Mr. President, we can’t give them our blessing to invade. At the very least, condemn this publicly.”

“Speaking of which, sir,” said the Chief of Staff, looking at his watch, “you’ve only got about an hour left before your emergency address to Congress. It’s to be broadcast live, and the New Soviets will be watching.”

“What are you going to say?” asked the Secretary of Defense.

“What I always say,” answered President Brenner. “That we are in a moment of crisis, but in the end it will be okay.”

“Yes, but what will you tell the Russians?”

The President said, “I think I’m actually with Prudence on this one. It’s win-win for us. We’re weak in available ground forces, but our Pacific Fleet is robust. We can handle the Russians any time. Let them do our dirty work.”

Layfield smiled at the President’s words. “My thoughts exactly, sir. And sir…” She flicked her eyes at the briefers. “Need to know?”

The President nodded. “Commander, I appreciate your team briefing me on such short notice.” The military people took the cue and began to file out of the room. “You too, ladies and gentlemen,” he said to several general officers and staffers attending. “The SecDef will pass on any instructions.” They also left, though not without unhappy expressions.

The door had barely shut when the Secretary of State snapped at Layfield, “You did this. You somehow gave the Russians the green light. The New Soviet Union would never be mad enough to do something this rash without a nod from someone on our side. My God, this is just like when Saddam thought he had our permission to invade Kuwait, and it’s going to turn out just as bad.”

Everyone looked at Layfield.

She could have denied it but found she didn’t want to. Layfield was proud of her actions and gave in to the temptation to say so. “Someone had to do something. You were all sitting on your hands and talking about reaching settlements with these rebels. At least that option is off the table now.”

“Without the approval of the President?”

“I asked her to explore back-channels to the New Soviets,” the President said, startling Layfield with the smooth lie. So he was going to back her up and claim credit at the same time. It didn’t really matter, as long as it got done. “She may have given them the wrong impression, but I think it will work out.”

In for a penny, in for a pound, Layfield thought. Now that he’s thrown in with me, I might as well push my advantage. Maybe he’ll come along. She spoke. “If we play our cards right, we can not only bring Alaska back in line, but gain much more, possibly all of North America. Russia and China can help us with that.”

“What are you saying? Help us with what, exactly?” said the Secretary of State.

“The Canadians and the Mexicans both stabbed us in the back. The vile abominations have infiltrated their leadership. There’s only one real choice, and that’s to ensure new administrations friendly to ourselves come to power in those countries.”

“You’re still talking about meddling in their internal affairs?”

“What’s wrong, Denise? Don’t have the stomach for it?”

“You’re insane.” The Secretary of State turned to the President. “Sir, you can’t be entertaining these ideas!”

The President held up a placating hand. “I’m not ruling anything out.”

Layfield looked up at the map. “All we have to do is create a coordinated PR campaign to convince the world we’re doing it for humanitarian purposes.”

“How would expanding our influence in Canada and Mexico be considered humanitarian?” asked the President, more curious than hostile.

Layfield could see he was intrigued by this potential increase of American power and empire. “Sir, it’s become painfully obvious that their governments are either woefully incapable, or unwilling, to protect their populace from this virus that festers among them. We can’t allow it to grow and spread and keep flowing into our country. And is it fair to the citizens of those countries? We have no choice but to act. We have a moral obligation to help our fellow man. To keep them safe from harm. We ramp up the legitimate fear of these abominations and do it in the name of security.”

Everyone stared at President Brenner, looking for his reaction. He thought for several long minutes before he finally spoke. “What I am about to say cannot leave this room. Not yet anyway.” He looked down, drumming his fingers. “Our Vice President might be on to something.”

“Sir?” asked several people at once.

“Mexico is imploding and according to the latest reports from my Director of National Intelligence, Canada seems to be actively undermining our policies. It looks like both of them are becoming more and more sympathetic to the Edens. Pretty soon we’ll have unfriendly nations on our borders, something we’ve never tolerated. Do we really want to wait until things get that bad before we act?”

“Act how?” asked the Secretary of Defense, an eager expression on his hawkish face.

The President said, “We use the crisis to form a close military alliance with both of them, something like NATO, with an integrated command structure. Julez and the Mexican army will welcome us. We’ll raise their pay and put their house in order. The Canadians…well, they won’t be happy, but we’ll play up the Russian threat for a while. Convince them we need to remain united against the invader, and so on. By the time they figure out what we’re up to, it will be too late.”

“Take over Canada and Mexico?” asked the Secretary of State, aghast. “With all due respect, Mister President, this is…this is...”

“Visionary, sir,” Layfield interrupted. “Don’t you all agree?”

All but the Secretary of State nodded dutifully.

The President smiled, a practiced politician’s expression. “Thank you, Prudence. That’s why I want you all to begin contingency planning. Disguise the efforts as the usual ‘what ifs,’ and limit the studies to small teams of people with the highest clearances.”

His Chief of Staff cleared his throat. “Russia, sir? And the address to Congress?”

“I guess I need to speak with my new best friend, the Premier of the New Soviet Union. Try to get a call set up before the address. That will be all.” He rose, and the Cabinet filed out of the room.

Layfield waited until the rest had gone. “Sir?”

The President cocked his head at her with an expression like a bird eyeing a tasty worm. It worried her, but she pushed ahead with what she intended to say. “Thank you for backing me up. It’s been so very long since this country had a leader prepared to really lead.”

Brenner smiled. “Kind of you to say so.” He turned as if to go, and then faced Layfield again. “Oh, and Prudence?”

“Yes, Mister President.”

He leaned in close to her and whispered. “I’ll expect your resignation on my desk by tomorrow morning. How’s that for leadership?”

Layfield stood stunned, rooted to the floor as he walked away from her.

Chapter 25

Cassandra Johnstone sat patiently in Daniel Markis’ office and tried not to let her frustration show. This was her scheduled time to discuss urgent matters and what had he done? Taken a video call from the president of Bolivia, and now the two were discussing golf.

She had two dozen urgent matters waiting for her at her office, from her own and Spooky’s organizations. She’d had no idea how much was on Spooky’s plate until it had been added to hers.

“That sounds fantastic, Raoul,” said Markis with a laugh. “Tell the family I said hola. Yes, I’ll see you at the conference next month. Take care.” He ended the call and spun in his chair, shaking his head. “And to think that guy used to hate my guts. Maybe he still does, but he covers it well.”

“Diplomacy is your thing.”

“This isn’t diplomacy. This is just getting people to quit trying to assassinate me.”

“Sounds the same to me.”

Markis grunted. “What’s on the docket for today?”

“First, you asked me to keep you informed of Spooky’s mission.”

“I’m all ears.”

Cassandra took a deep, obvious breath and let it out slowly. “They’ve hit some complications.”

“Go on, give it to me straight. You don’t have to sugar-coat it.”

Cassandra nodded. “It looks like they’ve been at least partially compromised…not really sure how badly yet. Our man in the area who runs the Eden Railroad contacted me directly, very concerned. They’re still planning to go ahead, though.”

“No doubt Spooky’s pushing for it,” Markis said. “Let’s give him some leeway and see what he can do with it.”

“So you’re good with a high-risk op? Camp Pleasant is heavily fortified. If they know an attack is on the way, it might be suicide. And, it looks like they’re going to try to take down the entire compound, with some local help.”

“I trust the people on the ground to know the situation best, and make the right decision. When I was on active duty, I hated Headquarters micromanaging us, calling the shots from the top. I’m not going to do that.”

“Sometimes Headquarters has the best view…and there are considerations beyond the tactical. Like, how badly we’ll be hurt in the court of public opinion if this turns into a disaster.”

“I’ll handle the public relations if it comes to that. I’m more concerned about the lives of our people.” Markis sighed. “But I can’t call off ops every time something looks dangerous. Reaper and Spooky have been in bad spots before. Ethiopia was a long shot and they made that work.”

“This is nothing like Ethiopia. This is in the middle of the United States. In my opinion, we need to pull them out.”

“Objection noted. Tell them it’s their call.” The phone on Markis’ desk started to ring. “I’m going to have to take this. Keep me informed. Close the door as you go, please.”

Cassandra marched back to her office, grumbling under her breath.

Her assistant stood to hand her a file as she passed.

“Not now. Give me five minutes.” She closed her door, sank into her chair and stared vacantly at her computer screen.

I love and trust you like a brother, Daniel, she thought, but this time you’re making the wrong call. These people are indispensible, especially Spooky, I hate to admit. Without him, we’re losing ground. The drug cartels and criminal networks are already getting frisky, pushing back. I’m not ruthless enough to keep them in line, and I don’t have his reputation.

Eventually she logged on to check her secure messages. One from Reaper stood out, titled “What do we know about this guy?” asking for background on Conlan “Buzz” O’Malley.

“Dammit, Reaper,” muttered Cassandra, “I sent you to keep an eye on Spooky. He’s the one we need to be worrying about.”

She forwarded the request for information to her people. As she did, there came a knock on her door.

“Come in.”

The door opened and her assistant entered the office, holding out a file folder. “This really shouldn’t wait.”

Cassandra took it and flipped it open. “What now?”

“Director Nguyen’s deputy says the President of Colombia is demanding more money, or FC headquarters has to leave the country.”

“Damn.” She skimmed the report. “He knows Spooky is out of pocket. He’s trying to hold us up for double his usual bribe. Thinks that as a woman I’ll be easy to strong-arm. Typical Latin machismo. Too bad corruption is viewed as completely normal here. Even making this guy an Eden didn’t change his morals…or lack thereof.”

“Maybe it would just be easier to pay him. Let Nguyen handle it when he returns.”

“No,” said Cassandra. “That will only embolden him to demand more. Besides, I can be tough. Pull everything we have on the man. I need leverage.”

“Also, you missed a meeting with Rogett and his security people.”

“Damn, too much happening all at once.”

“And that British guy Nigel called. Said it was urgent that you get back with him soonest.”

“Tell Rogett I’ll be in the commander’s office at 1600. Remind me at 1545.”

“Sure, boss.”

Cassandra opened up her message queue and noticed a series of emails from Larry’s wife Shawna. All said pretty much the same thing: Tell me he’s okay. Tell me you’ve found him. Tell me not to worry.

“Dammit, I don’t know anything,” she muttered. “I already told you what to do, who to contact.” She typed up a quick, emphatic response to Shawna, resisting the urge to be too harsh. Then she retrieved Nigel’s secure phone number.

Her assistant came back in the door. “Markis just called. Said he wants you to drop everything and come brief him on Cuba.”

“Now?”

“He said it was urgent. Evidently the Cuban foreign minister is visiting his counterpart in Panama and Markis has been invited to dinner.”

“When is this?”

“Tonight. He leaves in one hour.”

“You can’t be serious.”

The assistant shrugged.

“Fine. Get Fleede to throw something together. Tell him I need it in fifteen minutes. Then tell Markis I’ll be there in twenty. Best I can do.”

“Yes, boss.” Her assistant closed the door.

Whatever made me take this job? Cassandra asked herself. “I never thought I’d say this,” she muttered, “but Tran, I miss you.”

Chapter 26

Skull had driven most of the day in the car he’d rented outside Jersey City. Now he lay on the bed of a roadside hotel off I-95, a book on the Black Plague held open before him.

The world calls the Eden virus a plague, Skull thought. This was a plague. It killed one quarter the population of medieval Europe.

Loud music from the hotel bar downstairs kept distracting Skull from his reading. He couldn’t decide if it was annoying or appealing. He decided a drink might help him sleep. Climbing out of bed, he put his boots back on and walked downstairs.

He found a table in the corner and ordered a beer when the waitress came. The place seemed crowded with a mixture of locals and guests. Loud music thumped from an overtaxed jukebox. A few people danced in a cleared space nearby. Skull sipped his drink and felt the booming and the ambience of humanity wash over him.

A loner by nature, yet he felt alone at times and craved the presence of people. Not direct interaction. Not conversation. Just the perverse anonymity of the crowd, combined with the unlikely possibility of seeing something interesting.

At his heart, a sniper was the ultimate observer. Something pleasant fizzed in the back of his brain when he was able to watch others undetected, some voyeuristic impulse.

But the illusion of distance soon dissolved. Women began to look at him appraisingly. Men sized him up. The waitress tried to engage him in conversation, asking his story. Any one of them might be a Security Service informant.

This was a mistake. I can’t afford mistakes.

Skull left and went back to his room.

Hopefully, I’ll be forgotten.

He thought he could sleep now. The combination of beer and the contentment of briefly communing with humanity left him feeling heavy and spent. He decided to check his messages one more time and saw one from Shawna Nightingale.

It would have been so easy to ignore it or wait until the morning to answer, but knew he should have contacted her earlier and felt a twinge of quilt. Opening the email, he saw she wanted him to call her on an untraceable video line.

She answered on the second ring, even though it had to be early morning in Africa.

“How you doing?” he asked her.

“As well as can be expected,” she answered and Skull thought it looked like she’d been crying.

“Sorry I didn’t contact you earlier. I believe Larry is alive. Whoever took him wants to use him, or get information out of him.”

“He won’t talk.” Shawna said.

“Everyone talks eventually.” Or dies, he didn’t say out loud.

“Do you know where he is?”

“I believe so.”

“Where?”

Skull said nothing.

She took a deep breath that contained several hitches, as if fighting off sobs. “Dammit, Cassandra was right.”

“Cassandra? You talked to her?”

“Yes. You weren’t getting back to me, and…”

She seemed about to reveal a secret. Irrationally, he placed his hand on the grip of his pistol, as if expecting enemies to burst in the door. It made him feel better. “Go ahead.”

“Cassandra didn’t want to let you know she was involved. Now she won’t tell me anything and I’m so scared I’ll never see Larry again.”

“Involved how?”

“I’m not sure, but the request for Larry to go do this came through her, so she must know more than she’s letting on.”

Skull stared a moment at her image on the screen, knowing the camera was showing his own face. “I should have expected that. At least it’s Cassandra and not…” Not Spooky, he said to himself.

“Please, bring him back, Alan,” she said, close to tears.

“I’ll do everything I can. This isn’t your fault. But…don’t get your hopes up. You need to prepare for the worst.”

She nodded smiling. “I will. Thank you.”

“Bye, Shawna,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.” He sat without moving for nearly five minutes. He thought about composing a nasty message to Cassandra, but in reality, he understood her role. She tried to do the best she could, to gain the optimal outcome possible. She gave instructions with the force of orders, not so different from a military officer. She played the spy game as well as anyone.

He couldn’t fault her.

Besides, he…liked her. If there was ever to be anything between them, he couldn’t hammer her too hard. Like the scorpion on the duck’s back, she was what she was. He wouldn’t change her.

Skull was what he was, too, and she wouldn’t change him. He doubted anyone ever would.

Turning off the lights, he lay on his bed and closed his eyes, listening to the muffled sounds of people from downstairs, feeling more alone than ever.

Wrapping himself in the armor of solitude, he prepared his mind for his coming task.

Chapter 27

Larry was surprised there hadn’t been dire consequences for his attack on Bauersfeld. He hoped he’d infected her, but apparently not. They brought her out in a wheelchair a few days later, bruised and bandaged.

His fast had brought with it a clarity of mind and an odd sort of humor. “Damn, girl,” Larry said. “You look rough.”

“I’ll survive,” Bauersfeld said through puffy lips. “I got to the antivirals in time. You should have known we keep plenty of them on hand here.”

“Too bad.”

“The Edenologists were curious about something.”

“They’ll just have to wonder.”

“They wanted to know how you were able to do this. How you could overcome the ‘virtue effect.’ I wasn’t threatening you, so there was no self-preservation involved.”

“For a bunch of people who supposedly study Edens for a living,” Larry said, “you all sure don’t know much about us. I think you’re letting your prejudices get in the way. Not very scientific.”

“So set us straight. Tell me about the virtue effect.”

“Why should I? You’re just going to kill me anyway.”

Bauersfeld laughed, a little too loud. Larry figured she must have indulged in some strong painkillers. “You’re far too valuable to kill,” she said. “Good thing, too, otherwise you would have been sent to the dissection chambers for what you did to me…but never mind that. I’m the forgiving sort. We hope you can shed some light on what’s going on with the FC and its leaders. Tell us your story. How it all happened in the beginning with Daniel Markis.”

“You don’t know?”

“Not everything,” she said. “And even confirmation of information is useful.”

Larry thought for a few seconds. After the attack, he’d anticipated torture and mind games, and had constructed layers of believable stories around the truth. His alternate realities were there, ready to be used.

And the more time he bought, the better. Time to be rescued? A fantasy. More likely, time to resist any way he could.

Hope springs eternal…and maybe the horse will sing.

“I see you thinking,” she said. “Why not just start with how you could attack me? What harm can that do?”

Larry stepped closer to the glass of the door, which had been repaired and reinforced with extra bars.

“Stay back!” ordered a guard from nearby.

“Just want to see her a little better, that’s all.”

“It’s okay,” said Bauersfeld waving away the guard.

“The virtue effect isn’t mind control,” said Larry. “You seem to think it’s something that changes your personality or governs your actions, but all it really does is make it very hard to lie to yourself, to go against your own morals and values. Our researchers say it’s simply the result of a healthy mind and body.”

“So your conscience didn’t give you any problems with attacking me? An unarmed woman not threatening you?”

“You and everyone running this facility are intent on genocide. I know that each person I infect saves more lives down the road. If you get injured or even killed in the process…” He shrugged. “Fortunes of war.”

“A war you started.”

“No. All we did was offer humanity a gift, a salvation. People like you started a needless war, and you keep it going.”

Bauersfeld thought for a few minutes before saying anything. “I thank you for being cooperative.” She waved at someone down the hall. “As a sign of my good faith, I brought you a reward.”

“Reward?”

“Yes. Southern cooking. Soul food, you’d call it.”

Larry smelled it before he saw it. Delicious odors floated on the air up and down the hallway. He could hear the stirrings of his fellow prisoners, even a few moans.

A guard appeared beside Bauersfeld with a tray. It contained what looked like fried chicken, a mound of mashed potatoes and gravy, collard greens with bacon, and cornbread. On the side sat a piece of red velvet cake.

Larry closed his mouth and his eyes. Temptation. He had to resist. Or should he?

If you eat, you can string them along, waste more of their time…maybe even get your point of view across. That’s what the seductive serpent whispered in his head.

Bauersfeld smiled. “See, we can be reasonable. Just talk to me on occasion and things can be much better for you in here.”

He lifted his eyes from the food, and then to Bauersfeld. Over her shoulder he saw the skeletal boy, trembling behind the glass.

“Give it to him,” said Larry.

“What?” She turned to look at the boy. “Why?”

“Because I asked you to,” said Larry. “Better yet, give it to him and go fix me another one just like it.”

“You’re in no position to make demands.”

Larry tilted his head upward. “The Eden virus was concocted in a laboratory in Virginia. I was part of a team put together by Daniel Markis to raid the facility. And...”

“And what?”

“And you get me another plate of food.”

Bauersfeld looked at Larry, and then at the boy. “Fine. Give it to him.”

A guard took the tray and slid it contemptuously through the slot. The boy grabbed the tray and retreated to the far corner, where he began to gorge.

“Why do you care about him?” Bauersfeld asked. “He’s a nobody.”

“Then why is he here, in the special cell block?”

“Special request from higher up, I hear. He also seems to be infected with a new version of the virus. One that doesn’t burn out its host quite as quickly as the original. One like you yourself have. What do you know about that?”

“I know a lot,” he half-lied. “First, though, I want better food for everyone on this block. Doesn’t have to be anything special, just enough calories to live on.”

“I’m afraid that’s quite imposs –”

“That’s not all. We all get some yard time each day. At least an hour. I know you have fenced-in areas outside. I saw them when I came in. None of this will hinder your research.” He spoke the last word with dripping contempt.

“Is that all?”

“For now.”

“I think you overestimate your value.”

“I don’t think so. Why the hell are we even here? All this could have been done back in the Netherlands. Or could it?”

“I wanted to see to your case personally.”

“Exactly,” smiled Larry. “You said it yourself. I’m important. Lots of interesting stuff in my head. I’m your ticket to your next promotion. You want to present your findings to your bosses in person, without anyone else taking the credit. I can see it in your swollen, bloodshot eyes.”

Larry kept Bauersfeld arguing for nearly an hour. In the end he got what he wanted. In exchange, he doled out tiny morsels of information to Bauersfeld, who recorded their conversations with barely contained glee.

Later that day, he walked in the yard under the open sky. It was heaven just to feel the air and hear the birds. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed the sun until he saw it again. It still hurt his regenerated eyes, and he avoided looking at the horrors stumbling around the grounds in every direction. He couldn’t help them. Bauersfeld would only grant so much.

There came a tug at his pants. Larry looked down and saw the ever-present boy from the opposite cell. He’d never told Larry his name. In fact, he’d not yet spoken, but had become Larry’s shadow.

So that’s what Larry called him.

Shadow.

Larry saw Shadow trembling, gazing off to the east. There, a backhoe dug in a field while guards forced prisoners to stack bodies in a pile beside the fresh dirt. He could have sworn some of the bodies were still moving.

“Don’t look at it,” said Larry, turning the boy and marching him irresistibly away to put the scene out of sight.

Edens clustered in the yard like dismal prison gangs. They stared at the giant man and his shadow with curiosity, but left them alone. They appeared to divide themselves ethnically or culturally, and Larry found out these people were not only Americans; they hailed from all over the world. It reminded him of what he’d read: that the Big Three threw international law out the window when it came to Edens. Any infected person, even a documented citizen of another country, might be seized and interned, and “disappeared.”

He noticed several groups of Asians of various sorts, but one cluster of about twenty men, women and children against a corner of the fence line seemed familiar. He studied them at length. They might be Vietnamese, Laotian or Cambodian, he thought. His time in the military had introduced him to many from Southeast Asia.

Shadow stared at them as well.

“What do you say? Want to go be neighborly? Not like we got anything else going on.”

Shadow nodded solemnly.

Larry strolled casually in the group’s direction, the boy close behind him. As he got closer, he divined a physical resemblance among them all. He guessed they were part of a family group. Naturally, the Eden virus’ ability to reverse aging made all the adults appear to be in their twenties at first glance. They seemed older because of their painful emaciation. Larry might have been embarrassed, had he not also lost fifty pounds in the last few weeks, despite the recent improvement in his diet.

“Hello,” said Larry, bowing slightly. “I’m Larry. This is my friend, Shadow.”

Several of the males bowed in return, but none of them spoke. All eyes regarded him carefully.

He tried humor. “What you guys think of this camp? Personally, the next time I go on vacation I’m choosing someplace different.”

Stares were their only response.

“Don’t you get tired of the crappy food around here? I could really go for a big bowl of brisket Pho with stir-fried rice right about now, know what I’m saying?”

The stares grew into glares.

Bantering isn’t working. Maybe they don’t understand. “Oh, I’m sorry, does anyone speak English?”

“Yes, most of us speak English,” said one man near the side. “Some of us were born in this miserable country, and we understand every boorish word that falls from your mouth.”

“Oh,” said Larry, dropping into a mocking, urban-thug mode of speech, complete with hip-hop hand gestures. “So y’all jus’ bein’ rude. I thought Asians were like supposed to be all super-polite ’n’ shit.”

“Go away,” said another of the men.

“No,” answered a third, stepping forward. “He is right. There is no excuse for discourtesy. He is obviously here for the same reason we are. My name is Tran.” The man bowed.

Larry dropped the act. “Tran? Vietnamese? I thought you might be.”

The man evinced mild surprise. “Very good. How did you know?”

“I have a Vietnamese friend named Tran. Tran Pham Nguyen. You look like him, too.”

Several of the people eyed Larry with interest. The speaker said, “That’s a little like saying you know a white American named John Smith.”

“He told me that himself at least once. I think he liked the anonymity of it. We called him Spooky, though.”

“How do you know that name?” said another man, coming forward. This one carried a distinct gravitas, and his accent was strong. The rest deferred to him.

“We were in the Army together. In fact, we were friends. Still are, I guess.”

The man stared at Larry for a long moment. “My name is Phuong Nguyen. Tran Linh here is named for his uncle Tran Pham. Tran Pham Nguyen is my sister’s grandson.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” said Larry. “Small world. How’d you end up here?”

“Uncle Tran Pham was getting us out of the United States,” Tran Linh explained. “The plan had been in the works for months, but we were betrayed, I believe.”

“Do they know of your connection to Spooky?”

Phuong shook his head. “I doubt it. They never asked anything specific, only questions about the Eden Railroad.”

“I suggest you keep it that way,” said Larry. “You think they treat you bad now. It could be worse.”

“They do not know and will not, unless someone tells them.”

Larry knew what the man was implying. Some prisoners traded information for favors with the guards. “I won’t tell them.” Larry smiled and looked down at Shadow. “See, I told you it was a good idea to talk to some people. Get to know our neighbors.” He turned back to Phuong, his face serious. “Besides, it’s not good to die alone. When the end comes, it’s best to be among friends.”

Phuong’s eyebrows lifted in mock surprise. “Oh, we’re not going to die here. Tran Pham will come for us.”

“How do you know?”

Phuong looked out at the hills surrounding the camp. “Blood calls to blood. Spooky is very close. I can feel him.”

“And they call him spooky. I hope you’re right. People are dying here every day.”

“But not you.”

Larry shrugged uncomfortably. “They want knowledge I have. I’m feeding it to them slowly, mixed with disinformation.”

“We all do what we must to live.”

Larry glanced at Shadow. “And that others may live. That’s the only way I sleep at night.” He saw the guard coming for him and knew his yard time was up.

As he ambled toward the doorway, he noticed Shadow was no longer beside him.

He turned to find the boy staring up into the hills.

Chapter 28

Reaper had arrayed her team in a horseshoe of hides a quarter-mile long. They looked through binoculars and sniper scopes down upon Camp Pleasant, from beneath thermal blankets and camouflaged netting. Enemy recon drones buzzed up and down the valley. High overhead, an armed MQ-9 circled.

She shared a hide site with Livewire, who was busy monitoring several screens. Each showed a video from overhead. The drone brain had provided a pathway for the computer-comms expert to hack into their intelligence network.

“Can you hijack them?” Reaper asked. “Take control?”

“Sure, but not without the controller at the other end knowing about it. Soon as I do, we lose the element of surprise.”

“If we haven’t lost it already.”

“I wasn’t going to say it.”

Reaper studied the drone feeds. All showed her the same thing the team could see with their own optics: a hastily erected compound set inside an old national park campground, long closed to the public. Three parallel lines of chain link fencing topped with razor wire encircled the camp. The perimeter formed an octagon, with towers at each of its eight corners. There were entrances and exits at the four cardinal points of the compass. Several armored Humvees parked in strategic spots, manned by SS drivers and machine gunners.

Long wooden shacks stood in the middle of the camp. Guards rousted thin prisoners out of these structures at regular intervals, for roll call or to form work details. A more permanent two-story cinderblock structure in the center provided facilities for those in charge. Reaper suspected basements beneath it held special cell blocks and laboratories.

Reaching for her radio headset, she chose a channel for the headquarters at the caves. “Spooky, this is Reaper. You seeing this?”

“Derrick here. We’re seeing this. Tell your man good job, this is amazing.”

“Where’s Spooky?”

“He stepped out. Can I help you with something?”

“Yeah,” Reaper answered. “How about a plan? This info doesn’t make things much easier. In fact, it only confirms how hard this is going to be.”

“It looks challenging,” said Derrick, “but we need to find a way.”

“Have you been watching the video feed? There’s no way to infiltrate and neutralize them from inside. The best we can do is hit them hard and fast, hope to overwhelm them, but we have, what, two dozen troops? They have at least a short company down there, almost a hundred guards. And oh, by the way, the prisoners are in bad shape. I’m not sure they’ll make the hike to your secret cave lair. Even then it will be damn hard to hide their traces, so the reaction force will just follow them right to us.”

“Sounds like you’re still trying to talk us out of it, but it’s going to happen.”

“It might happen without my team, then. I’m still not seeing a way to win here.”

She heard background voices on the other end of the line, and then, “Reaper, this is Spooky. Derrick tells me you still have some concerns.”

“No, I don’t have concerns. I have show-stoppers. I have deal-breakers. As soon as we kick this thing off we have maybe a half-hour before the reaction force and attack aircraft get here. Even if we can drive off four times our number and liberate your family, what the hell are we going to do with the rest of these half-dead Edens? Tell them to scatter? The cave is more than an hour on foot, even for fighters in good physical shape. We’ll be hard-pressed to make it there ourselves without being tracked.”

“So you’re admitting it can be done,” said Spooky.

“Dammit, Spooky, why don’t you want to face facts?”

“The facts are that this is more risky than normal, but it’s doable. Are you refusing?”

Reaper took a deep breath. “As it stands now…yes. If you or Derrick can come up with more troops or some other advantage, I’ll reconsider.”

“It’s not that cut and dried.”

“It is for me. Best-case scenario, we get in there and free some Edens, then we abandon them because helping them exposes us and the extraction network. Worse case scenario, we all get killed or captured.”

“Reaper, if you back out, I can’t guarantee extraction.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Just a fact. I’m going to try, with or without your team. Better that you help me succeed than end up all alone in the middle of enemy territory with the entire Security Service looking for you.”

“You don’t have a chance without us.”

“Likewise.”

“Better come up with something extra, Spooky, or I swear to God we’re walking all the way to Mexico if we have to. I did it once and I can do it again.” Cassandra suspected Spooky of pursuing his own agenda over the FC’s. Well, Reaper didn’t have to go along with it like a blind fool.

The radio stayed silent for a long moment. “I’ll see what I can do. When you’re done with your recon, return to base and we’ll discuss the way ahead. Spooky out.”

Reaper punched the dirt in disgust.

“That sounded like it went well,” said Livewire, still looking at his screens.

Reaper switched to the team freq, and then paused, thinking. Her team might be able to get out on their own. They could drift away tonight and Spooky would be none the wiser. They’d have a long head start. Would he betray them to the SS? Probably not, since his neck was in the noose too. He’d eventually come after them, but her people would be alive, and she felt fully justified in pulling out.

Legally justified, anyway. It was her call. That didn’t make it feel right. Absent hard evidence that Spooky was some kind of traitor, she couldn’t abandon the mission…at least not without giving him and Derrick a chance to pull a rabbit out of the hat.

She took her hand off the radio and went back to staring at the video feeds, searching for inspiration.

Chapter 29

Cassandra sat back in her chair. Then she leaned forward and read the message from Skull again, still puzzled. Where the hell did this come from?

She realized it could mean only one thing. Shawna Nightingale had admitted to contacting her, which Skull would interpret as spymistress-style manipulation…and he hated to be manipulated.

Damned amateurs.

Cassandra pulled Shawna’s contact info from the five dozen emails she’d sent in the last few days, and brought up the videoconferencing app. It chimed seven or eight times, trying to connect, before it activated.

Shawna wore a robe and rubbed her eyes as she appeared in front of the camera, the room behind her still shrouded in darkness.

“Finally, Cassie! Tell me you found something out!”

“Not yet,” said Cassandra. “This is about something else.”

“Something else?”

“Yeah, I just got a really strange email from Alan. You didn’t tell him anything you shouldn’t have, did you?”

Before Cassandra’s eyes, Shawna’s face transformed from confused to disappointed to angry to furious in quick succession. “Are you shitting me?”

“So that’s a yes?”

“You don’t return any of my calls. Your emails just say not to worry. You tell me to do it your way, but you aren’t any closer to helping my husband. When you finally do contact me you give me crap about talking to Alan about you?”

“We’re working hard to find Larry, but throwing my name into the mix only muddies the waters. I need to know how much he knows.”

“He knows everything I know!” Shawna nearly screamed. “At least he returns my calls. He said Larry’s been sent to one of those death camps in eastern Tennessee. Bet you didn’t even know that.”

Cassandra ignored the jibe. “Yes, Camp Pleasant. What else did he say?”

“That he’s Larry’s best chance of returning home.”

“Shawna, you shouldn’t have done that. I trusted you to let the professionals handle this.”

“Yeah, right. I’m sitting here not knowing anything and you’re playing your reindeer games, not getting shit done!”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why won’t you tell me anything?”

For a split second Cassandra let her professional detachment slip and put herself in the other woman’s shoes; to imagine the sanity-threatening worry, the children’s questions, the loneliness and pain.

Then she shut that down. Getting emotional never helped anything, especially with out-of-control friends.

Or with Skull. She pushed thoughts of him away as well, hoping this wouldn’t be the one that killed him.

She did care, after all.

“Do you have a way to contact Alan other than his secure email drop?”

Cassandra saw Shawna hesitate.

“Please, it’s important. I need to talk to him. If he’s already involved, I might as well help him any way I can.”

“Fine,” Shawna finally answered. “He gave me a cell phone number. It’s not secure, but it’s a burner.” She recited the number.

“I’ll get back to you soon,” said Cassandra.

“I’ve heard that before.” Before Cassandra could respond, Shawna ended the call.

Cassandra reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a satellite phone handset. The number Shawna had given her rang several times before Skull’s unmistakable voice answered. “I’m driving south now. Don’t know anything more yet, but hopefully I will soon.”

“It’s me,” Cassandra said, avoiding any keywords for the NSA computers to pluck from the air. “She gave me this number.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you kept out of this.”

“Not going to happen.”

“There’s no need for you to go. I have friends already vacationing in the area. They’re taking a pleasant camping trip.”

“I understand.”

“They can let the songbird loose without your help.” Get it, Skull, she willed silently. Songbird, Nightingale…

“I’m already on the way. I might as well crash the party. Do a few shots, spike the punch.”

“You might just get them busted. I’d rather you sit this one out.”

“Why, that almost sounds like you care.”

“I do care. About you, about them…too many cooks will spoil this soup.”

“I like soup. I’m not going away. How about you accept that and help me to help them?”

“You won’t like one of the vacationers. I’d rather you and he stayed out of each others’ way.”

Silence. “Our Asian friend?”

“That’s the one.”

“I won’t…do any shots with him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Or vice versa.”

“Let me handle it. Now give me the info. The longer we talk, the more likely someone notices.”

Cassandra sighed. “Last I heard, they’re taking down the campsite tomorrow night, but they don’t know about the songbird. You sure you won’t walk away? I can get you whatever money you need.”

“This isn’t about money. I made a promise, and the songbird is a friend of mine. Now how about you email me their contact info? It will make things a lot easier.”

***

Skull ended the call and pulled over into a rest stop, parking far from anyone else. He removed the battery and SIM card from the burner phone. Opening his door, he dropped the phone and card on the pavement to crush them underfoot, never leaving his seat. He drove over the mess as he accelerated back onto the road, and then tossed the battery out onto the grassy verge.

Was that all on the level? Is Cassandra manipulating me again? Hell, did she somehow put Shawna up to getting me involved, knowing full well I wouldn’t do it for mere money, especially with Spooky in the mix? Reverse psychology, maybe? “Oh, please, Alan, don’t fling yourself into that briar patch!”

Well, it hardly matters now. I’m a man with a mission. A bullet in the gun.

Forcing himself to remain calm, Skull rode in silence, thinking.

Chapter 30

Director of National Intelligence Sturgeon tried to schedule himself a seat in the Presidential Daily Brief at least once a week. The senior analysts who worked for him were more than capable of presenting the material and answering questions, but he believed in the importance of face time with those in power. Especially now, when the President appeared to be consolidating his grip on that power with the forced resignation of Prudence Layfield.

Brenner had thrown Layfield a bone by appointing her as a Special Assistant to the President and parking her in a very public glass cube, in full view of the staff.

Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, Sturgeon thought. He approved.

When the briefing was over, Brenner surprised Sturgeon by asking him to stay behind. The Chief of Staff gave the President a knowing look and pulled the door shut, leaving the two alone.

“Take a seat, Sturgeon.” Brenner sat on the table next to him, a position of psychological dominance.

“Mister President, are you going to ask for my resignation as well?”

“Not yet,” Brenner said with a tight smile. “How do you think Layfield was able to contact the Russians regarding Alaska? My staff hasn’t found any evidence of a call on the hotline, or of secure messages.”

Sturgeon thought quickly. It wouldn’t do to flat-out lie. Besides, the President wasn’t just fishing, Sturgeon realized. The man knew something.

“She asked me to help her. Told me it was extremely sensitive, so I used our intelligence backchannels to pass along the message.”

“Without my approval?”

“I was not aware you were not fully informed.”

“What about this sudden discord in Canada and Mexico? Are you and Layfield behind any of it?”

“The CIA’s days of overthrowing governments are long past. Our neighbors’ troubles are of their own making.”

“Entirely?”

“I have no knowledge of anything the intelligence community has done to exacerbate their problems, but…”

“Go on.”

“Maybe others in the Party did her a few clandestine favors too.”

The President put a hand on Sturgeon’s shoulder. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Layfield is unstable, obsessed with the Eden question rather than the good of the Party and the nation, and she’s carving out her own power base. That’s why I asked for her resignation. But even without a position of power, I’m concerned about the influence she has with some of the more extreme elements within the Party.”

“The anti-Edens.”

“Yes. They don’t seem to understand that focusing public opprobrium on these people is a means, not an end in itself, and it’s led to all sorts of mistakes, such as inviting Russians onto American soil.”

Sturgeon’s brow furrowed. “What are you suggesting, sir?”

“’Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?’”

“Layfield’s no Thomas Becket.”

“But she’s a fanatic just the same, and has a similar potential to rally the hardliners against me. We can’t have that happen.” Brenner sighed. “I need her out of my hair, but I don’t want a public scandal or trial. Neither our country nor the Unionist Party needs that right now. Do you understand that?”

“I’m not sure, sir.” Sturgeon felt trapped, not sure of which way to jump in this new arena of cutthroat politics. This wasn’t simply about turf wars, budgets, hiring and firing. Did the President want him to employ tradecraft within the sacred bounds of the White House? An assassination?

“Then let me make it plain for you. You and Layfield are linked in my mind. She’s going down, one way or another. If you want to go down with her, fine. If not, you can prove your loyalty to me personally by taking care of my problem.”

“I see,” said Sturgeon, his body tense. He started to rise, “Will that be all, sir?”

“No, it will not. Sit your ass back down in that chair until we’re done.”

Sturgeon obeyed.

Brenner smiled. “I’ll need another Vice President. I haven’t settled on a name yet.”

“Vice President?”

“Play your cards right and you can write your own ticket. If you don’t like the sound of Vice President, then how about National Security Advisor? I heard you were interested.”

“Just for…taking care of this problem?”

“That’s the first thing. But I’ll need a man I can totally depend on, who can be a problem-solver. A man not afraid to do what needs to be done, even if it’s distasteful. A good right hand, not a loose cannon, if you get my meaning.”

Sturgeon’s mind whirled. He considered himself a hardened player in the spy game, but the hazardous playing field had always been over there, outside, not within the ivory towers and the halls of power right here in Washington.

Before, the price of failure was getting sidelined, a career fizzling out, embarrassment among one’s peers.

Suddenly, now, the cost of a misstep might be much higher. Sturgeon had a strong feeling that if he turned this assignment down, the President would find someone else to wield his knife…and that knife might soon be turned his way.

He had to admit to himself that the idea of becoming Vice President of the United States was so appealing, so fabulous, as to seem a fantasy. Jeremy Sturgeon, the actual VP of the most powerful nation on Earth. This was within his grasp.

The President watched him closely.

Sturgeon cleared his throat and spoke. “Yes, Mister President. You have my complete and personal loyalty. I will do whatever you require me to do.”

“Splendid,” said Brenner, rising. “Do it tonight.”

Chapter 31

Back in the cave base, Reaper kept her team separated from the rest, and together. If Spooky tried to twist her arm, she wanted everyone ready to back her up, or even to move out at a moment’s notice.

She, Derrick and Spooky sat down at a table in a spot shielded by hanging blankets. “I’m still waiting for the magic bullet,” she said, eyeing the two.

“We do have some new information,” Spooky replied.

“Information. Great.”

“Knowledge is power.”

“Power is power, in this case. Convince me.”

“Cassandra says Larry is in there.”

Reaper rubbed her neck, tired. “Larry? You mean your buddy Nightingale? Sorry, but that doesn’t change anything.”

“I’ve confirmed members of my clan are there too,” said Spooky. “Your team took excellent pictures.”

“Still waiting for good news.”

Derrick said, “We have guard rosters, shift changes, etc. We can maximize surprise and limit their ability to react.”

“Right. You guys got shit. I’m going to rack out,” Reaper said, rising.

The other two rose as well. “Dammit, we have to figure out how to make this happen!” said Derrick.

Reaper looked closely at Derrick. “You don’t sound so sure. You’re squirming. Did Spooky invoke some Greenie Beanie brotherhood crap to get you on board?”

“I –”

“How many of your people have to die before you admit this is a bad idea?”

Derrick’s spine seemed to stiffen. “We’re all volunteers. This is the first chance we’ve had to strike a heavy blow against the fascists. We’re willing to trade a few of us for a few hundred prisoners.”

“There you have it,” said Spooky. “We’re going forward, with or without you, Jill. But mark my words: if you back out and we succeed, you’ll have made an enemy of me…and you know what happens to my enemies.”

Reaper stepped up to Spooky, grabbing his tunic front with one hand and lifting the shorter man off his feet. “Your threats don’t scare me.”

With a deft motion, Spooky placed his hand on hers and twisted, fingers digging deep into the flesh around her thumb. Reaper found herself briefly in an armlock, and then shoved away. “Don’t ever touch my person again, or I’ll…” He stopped himself with a visible effort.

“Look,” said Reaper in a voice of ice, “I understand your desire to save your family, but we’re simply not built for this sort of mission. This isn’t a surgical extraction anymore. This is three complicated missions in one. First, a mass assault on a fixed position where we’ll have to kill or incapacitate every guard down there. Second, a rescue of several hundred prisoners, some of whom might not be able to walk. And third, a mass evasion in enemy territory even if those first two parts are successful. We don’t have enough people. Not without an edge of some sort. Like I said, if you come up with that edge, I’ll consider it. If not, you’re on your own.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said one of Derrick’s men, lifting back a flap covering their little cave alcove.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I think there’s someone out here you need to talk to. A non-Eden. He penetrated our perimeter and says he knows Spooky. Says he needs to talk to him.”

Reaper exchanged glances with Spooky, who shrugged.

“What’s his name?” asked Derrick.

“He wouldn’t say.”

“Got any ID on him?” asked Reaper.

“Yeah,” the man answered. “Several, with different names.”

“Take us to him,” ordered Spooky.

They followed the man through the caves and outside into the late-afternoon sun. They saw a thin man sitting on a tactical pack.

“Hey, I know you,” said Derrick. “You came through here a few years ago.”

Skull stood. “I did, in fact. You still got my dogs?”

Derrick reached out and shook Skull’s proffered hand. “Your dogs? They took a liking to my girls pretty quick. They’re with them down on the other side of the mountain.”

“Chinga tu madre,” said Reaper, staring at Skull. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

“Cassandra invited me to your party,” Skull answered.

“That was not her call to make,” Spooky said.

“Actually, it kinda was, since she’s filling in for you back at HQ,” said Reaper, still staring at Skull speculatively.

“I was already heading this way, tracking Larry. She convinced me to break with my usual M.O. and coordinate. You’d rather I leave and rattle around like a loose cannon? Because I can do that.”

“Absolutely not,” said Spooky.

“You know this man?” Derrick asked.

“Yes,” said Spooky. “We’re…old friends.”

“Indeed,” said Skull, walking forward with his hand stuck out toward Spooky. “We go way back.” When he grasped Spooky’s hand, Skull’s smile vanished. He pulled the smaller man forward, at the same time punching him savagely in the gut.

Spooky tried to twist, but held fast and surprised, he fell to the ground, the breath knocked out of him.

“You had that coming for the shit you pulled in Africa. In fact, I owe you a few more, but I’m willing to put things on hold until the job here is done.”

Spooky rolled to his feet, dusting himself off. “Very well. Truce, until this op is over with.”

“Looks like your day to be manhandled,” said Derrick with a hint of amusement.

“And woman-handled,” Reaper said.

“Oh? What did I miss?” Skull asked.

“Moving on to operational matters…” interrupted Spooky.

Skull winked at Spooky. “Now you’re talking.”

“Okay then,” said Derrick, looking from one to the other. “Where were we?”

“I think we were talking about how impossible the mission was and an abort was the smart thing to do.”

“You can’t abort,” Skull said. “We have to get those people out of there.”

“To catch you up, Skeletor, I’m not sticking my people’s necks into that meat grinder unless we have more advantages.”

“I’m here now. That’s enough.”

Reaper snorted. “You’re good, but you’re not that good.”

“I assume you have Hawkeye with you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, with two superb snipers, it’s in the bag. I may need to borrow some equipment, though.”

Reaper sighed. “This isn’t like Africa. This is a fortified position. They have night vision, infrared sensors, drones, armored vehicles, heavy weapons, and gunships on call. Surprise and skill aren’t enough. And the longer we hang around, the more likely they’ll find us and send in a battalion to crush us.”

“Agreed,” said Skull. “That’s why we do this in four days.”

“Why four days?”

He looked around at them in surprise. “Haven’t you been listening to the radio?”

“No,” answered Reaper, “nor have we been watching movies or having karaoke parties. We’ve kind of been busy with the whole ‘save the camp full of Edens’ thing.”

“Well on the drive down I had lots of time to listen to the car radio. Nothing on it here in bumfuck, Tennessee except country music and dire weather forecasts.”

“What weather forecasts?” asked Derrick, looking at the sky.

“They say it could be the biggest blizzard to hit the area in two decades,” Skull answered. “Snowmageddon, they’re calling it. Worse here in the mountains.”

“So no airborne reinforcements or gunships,” said Derrick, his eyes gleaming.

“Exactly,” said Skull. “No need to thank me; I’m sure you all would have figured it out on your own…probably when the first flakes were falling.”

“All right,” said Reaper. “It just got one step closer to possible, but how do you play sniper in a blizzard?”

“The blizzard changes things.” Skull grinned, turning to Derrick. “Can you get me a large van or moving truck?”

Derrick nodded. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I’ll need that demo guy of yours too,” said Skull to Reaper. “What’s he called, Shortfuse?”

“That’s him. I like your idea already,” Reaper said.

“Breaching vehicle?” said Derrick.

“Yup,” said Skull.

“This will only work because of the blizzard,” said Reaper.

“Knowledge is power,” Spooky said softly.

Reaper pressed her lips together. “Better still. But we need more edge than that.”

“I have an idea,” said Spooky. “But I need your team’s specialized skills.”

“I’m listening.”

Once Spooky finished explaining, she nodded.

Chapter 32

Over the next three days the cave headquarters transformed from a tranquil holding station to a mass of activity. All available personnel, even Edens waiting to move down the Railroad line, were drafted to help. The temperature had begun to drop and the sky grew heavy and gray. Foraging parties brought food and wood into the caves, preparing for the influx of rescued prisoners.

“You sure this is going to work?” asked Flyboy, holding up a detonator and a one-kilo brick of C4 plastic explosive. “Maybe it’ll just blow up the drone.”

“Oh, it’s going to blow up all right,” said Tarzan. “What you have in your hands is enough to kill all of us.”

“Why isn’t Shortfuse here doing this himself?” asked Stitch.

“He’s with Reaper and Skull,” said Hawkeye. “Had to go get something important. No worries. This is simple stuff. Blasting cap, C4, tape, wires…nothing to it.”

Flyboy laid the items carefully on the table. “I mean, can Livewire really control these things remotely? And all at the same time?”

“I’m programming their flight paths now,” said Livewire from a table off to the side, not looking up from his laptops. “We’ll hijack the drones and bring them here. Then we’ll load up the explosives and send them in. Piece of cake.”

“Huh,” said Flyboy. “Electronics plus high explosives plus unmanned vehicles plus terrible weather equals what could possibly go wrong?”

“You got a better idea?” asked Spirit.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact I do. There’s an Army aviation base not thirty miles from here. Put me in the cockpit of a helicopter gunship and I can fly over and take out the whole camp.”

“In a storm?”

“Well, obviously it would have to be before the storm.”

“Then the enemy quick reaction team could come with their gunships.”

“Damn.”

“It’s a good thing you look good, because you’re dumb, son.” said Bunny.

“You finally copped to my outstanding good looks!”

“Sorry, not quite good enough,” said Bunny.

The group laughed.

“Damn,” said Flyboy. “Will I ever get to fly something?”

“You can fly a drone,” Livewire said.

“Not the same thing at all.”

Buzz stood up and began to walk toward the exit.

“Where are you going?” asked Hawkeye.

“I’m going to take a dump, if you must know,” Buzz answered. “Is that a problem?”

“Nope. Long as you don’t forget to wipe,” answered Spirit, exchanging a high five with Bunny.

Derrick poked his head into their alcove. “Anyone seen Spooky?”

***

The mole made his way through the busy camp, nodding and smiling at people he’d deliberately befriended. When he went outside the perimeter, Derrick’s people waved at him.

Making his way along a steep hillside, the mole stopped several times to make sure no one was following him. He circled back to double-check. Finally, he hiked a straight line toward his destination on the opposite side of the hill from the caves. He’d need to move fast so no one on his team got suspicious.

He found the tree with the identifying mark he’d placed a few days before. Digging in the leaves and dirt at the base of the tree, he exposed a large zip-lock bag. He’d carried it deep in his pack all the way from Colombia, but at every opportunity had hidden it somewhere else...just in case.

Reaching down inside the bag, he pulled out a secure satellite phone, and then the spring charger that served as a battery. Connecting the two, he cranked the handle until its innards had wound tight like an old-fashioned clock, and then flipped the switch that would slowly let the kinetic energy power the tiny electric generator.

Turning on the phone, the mole lifted it toward the sky, waiting for it to gain signal. Once it had, he called a number. After two rings it picked up.

“This is Gopher,” said the mole. “SITREP update.”

“Go ahead,” said the man at the other end.

“The attack on the camp is a go. Scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, when the blizzard hits. Same number of attackers as previous report.”

“Are they still in the caves at the GPS location you gave us?”

“Yes, but I recommend against attacking them here. It’s a highly defensible position and there are backdoors I don’t know about. Recommend waiting until they attack, then surround and eliminate. Without most of the shooters, the cave location will be much easier to mop up.”

“What’s their exfil plan?”

“Unknown. Also, they believe they can hijack the camp’s drones and use them to deliver explosives.”

“Let them try,” said the man. “We’ll change the encryption protocols shortly before the attack.”

The mole cleared his throat. “This will be my last transmission until it’s over. I can’t risk any more contact.”

“That is not convenient.”

“It will have to be. They also have someone on the inside. If you warn the camp too soon, it may tip them off that you know.”

There came a long pause from the other end, muffled voices in the background. “Understood. Our plan doesn’t require the camp personnel to know the attack is coming until the last minute. Just remember your success parameters.”

“I know. Eliminate the key personnel.”

“Yes. When that’s done, you can exfil to the rendezvous.”

“It might be harder than it sounds.”

“You won’t get your payoff if you don’t.”

“If I succeed, I’ll have earned it. And there aren’t so many like me around, remember.”

“You’ll be useless as a mole once you’re blown.”

“There are other organizations to be infiltrated. Plastic surgery will change my face.”

“Good luck, Gopher. You’re almost home.”

When the man returned to camp, he saw the others laying out an odd assortment of materials, such as aluminum foil, bare copper wire mesh, and extra metallized thermal blankets. Rather than admit his ignorance, he sat down quietly in the shadows to watch the others.

“What’s all this?” said Spirit.

“Hell if I know,” said Tarzan.

“Just follow my instructions and don’t think too hard,” said Hawkeye.

“Hey, we work better if we know what’s going on,” said Bunny.

“It’s need-to-know.”

“You don’t know either, do you?”

Hawkeye rolled his eyes. “Shut up and listen. We’re making reinforced bags with the blanket material and duct tape, then lining them with foil and this wire screen. First, cut up your thermal blanket into four equal pieces…”

Chapter 33

“Hey, Miss Daisy,” said Shortfuse, “you want to drive for a little while?”

“No, thanks,” answered Skull from the passenger seat of the rented moving van traveling east on I-85. “Anyway, we’re almost there now.”

“Finally,” grunted Shortfuse. “I think I saw a ninety-year-old woman give us the finger while blowing past us in her hybrid.”

“The speed limit is our friend. The last thing we need is to get pulled over. Besides, what else have you got to do?”

“Build bombs?” said Shortfuse. “I don’t trust those fumblefingered goobers back at base.”

Skull smiled. “What I show you will make it all worthwhile.” He pointed at an upcoming sign.

“Charlotte, North Carolina?” asked Reaper from between the two. “What the hell is in Charlotte?”

“You’ll see,” said Skull, grinning like a maniac.

“Damn, and I thought demo guys were wack.”

They drove in silence as the traffic became heavier nearer the city. Turning off the interstate, Skull gave directions to the industrial part of the city. As they got deeper into streets filled with warehouses and decrepit factories, they saw fewer people.

“Why do I feel like we’re going to make some kind of drug deal?” asked Shortfuse.

“You have a fine sense of things, my friend. Except these drugs are like nothing you ever saw. I think you’ll appreciate them. Here, let me drive now.”

Once they’d switched places, Skull drove slowly up and down the nearly deserted grid of streets. He slowed and looked down one street before going to another and turning left. Shaking his head, he backed up and went to the next.

“You don’t know where you’re going?” said Reaper.

Skull waved his hand at her. “Just give me a second. It’s been a little while since I was here. I’ll know it when I see it.”

“Great,” said Reaper, sitting back with her arms crossed.

“If you see a gas station or something,” said Shortfuse, “go ahead and stop. Those burritos we had earlier are trying to escape.”

Skull ignored them. He continued to drive sedately, looking up and down streets.

“Yeah, this doesn’t look suspicious at all,” said Shortfuse.

“Would a GPS help?” Reaper asked.

“Aha!” said Skull. “There it is.” He made a hard left down a street that looked the same as all the others, and then backed up against the loading dock of one large building with boarded-up windows and rusted sides. They piled out of the truck’s cab. “Come on.”

Skull banged loudly on a nearby personnel door. After several seconds he did it again.

“Go away,” said a high-pitched male voice from inside. “I don’t want anything.”

Skull leaned over to Reaper and whispered in her ear. “Be flirty. Get him to open the door.”

She looked back at him, incredulous. “Are you serious? Me, flirty? You should have brought Bunny.”

“I tried. You vetoed it, remember? Come on, flirty!”

“Oh, I got to see this,” said Shortfuse with a grin.

Reaper walked to the door. She smoothed her shirt and flicked her hair back.

“There you go,” whispered Shortfuse, nodding. “Work it, girl.”

“Shut up,” she hissed at him.

Skull pounded on the door again.

“I said go away,” the voice answered.

Reaper stepped closer to the door. “I’m sorry to bother you, but my car broke down and I’m not sure where I am.” She hesitated. “I’d have called my boyfriend to come help, but he…dumped me...yesterday. Now I don’t know what to do...I feel so alone...and vulnerable.”

Shortfuse bent over at the waist, trying to hold in his laughter.

Skull shook his head. “You’re terrible at this.”

“I know that!”

They froze when they heard a series of deadbolts turning. The door opened a crack to reveal a thin face with glasses, attached to a man with his hair in a ragged blond ponytail. He smiled shyly at Reaper, but his eyes widened as he saw Skull standing behind her. He tried to slam the portal.

Skull shoved on the door, and after an instant, Reaper joined him. The man stumbled backward. Shortfuse followed them into the vast spaces of a dimly lit warehouse, closing and locking the door behind them.

“Get out!” said the man, pointing a finger at Skull. “I’ll call the police, I swear I will.”

“Why, Bernard,” said Skull, soothing. “You act like you’re not happy to see me.”

“I saw what you did in New York City,” Bernard stammered. “The feds came crawling all over the place. I’m lucky I didn’t get caught with it. You’re lucky I didn’t get caught with it.”

Reaper turned to him with wide eyes. “There’s an EMP bomb here?”

Skull nodded with a wide grin. “Herschel and I left them in a dozen cities on the East Coast, just waiting to be used when needed.”

“Hell, yes!” said Shortfuse with a smile, rubbing his hands together.

“What if I told you I got rid of it?” asked Bernard.

“Did you?” asked Skull, his face suddenly dark.

Bernard scowled before answering. “No, but I thought about it.”

Skull smiled again, though without humor. “You made the right decision.”

“Maybe not,” said Bernard, his hand out toward Skull. “You gonna take out Charlotte?”

“What if we did?”

“Please don’t. I kinda like it here.”

“Today is your lucky day,” said Skull. “We’re not going to set it off here. As a matter of fact, we’re going to take it off your hands.”

“Awesome!” Gleeful surprise transformed his face. “That thing gives me the creeps.”

“So lead us to it.”

Bernard nearly raced across the warehouse, zigzagging around pieces of ancient machinery, concrete columns, and sagging sections of the old wooden floor. Eventually they arrived at a separate room, where the hum of electricity was heavy. Unlike everything else in the building, the large circuit boxes and electrical conduits on the dirty walls looked new. They supplied racks of computers, as well as air conditioners to handle the heat.

“You’re a hacker?” Reaper said.

“Hacker, cracker, darknet demigod, at your service.” Bernard pointed to a tarp covering something in the corner. “There it is.”

Skull carefully pulled the tarp back to reveal several small boxes and one large plastic ice chest. Heavy wires lay like rubber snakes among the pieces.

Shortfuse squatted down with a look of childish delight. “Can I touch it?”

“Go ahead,” said Skull. “That’s why I brought you. Bernard here is going to give you a crash course on how to rig it up and set it off.”

“Set it off?” asked Bernard. “Where?”

“Far from here. Don’t worry.”

Shortfuse opened the ice chest and looked at the guts of the thing. “By the size of these relays, it takes a lot of electricity to initiate the sequence.”

Skull nodded. “You’re right. It pulls a hell of a lot of current.”

“Where we going to find industrial-level power in the middle of the woods?”

“There’s a distribution substation not too far from our target. Should work nicely for our purposes.”

“They’ll have backup power,” said Reaper. “This is pointless.”

“It’s not about power. It’s about functioning electronics. This thing will burn out everything not shielded within a dozen miles.”

“Yeah, a dozen miles,” Bernard echoed.

“Is this power plant guarded?” asked Shortfuse.

“I doubt it, but we’ll handle that when we get there.”

“We’ll need a remote trigger,” said Shortfuse. “I should be able to rig something up.”

“If we need to emplace it tonight, we need to get a move on,” Reaper said.

“You’re right,” said Skull, turning to Bernard. “Tell my technical friend here everything that Herschel told you, but make it quick. We have to get moving.”

Skull and Reaper went back to open the truck. “You really helped build these things?” asked Reaper.

“Not really. I played nursemaid to a drunk genius while keeping him stocked with bourbon and tortilla chips.”

“The feds put out the word there were no more EMP bombs, that they had found them all.”

“Surprise, surprise. They lied. Or hoped a bit too much.” Skull checked his handgun, and then pointed. “Eyeballs. You take that corner, I’ll take this one.”

Half an hour later, Bernard and Shortfuse stepped out the door. “I think I got it,” said Shortfuse.

“Make damn sure,” said Reaper. “You can’t come back here and get a refresher if something goes wrong.”

“I got it,” Shortfuse assured her. “It’s simple.”

“Then why didn’t you patent it?”

“Okay, not that simple.”

“Enough yakking,” said Skull. “Load everything very carefully. Strap each component down. It’s all jerry-rigged, not robust.”

They spent the next half-hour loading the pieces of the device, strapping it down carefully, and then placing several large pieces of old machinery around it to camouflage it from a cursory search. The hard work left them dirty and sweating.

“Is that it?” asked Bernard.

“That’s it,” said Skull, shaking the thin man’s hand. “Mission complete on your part. Well done and have a nice life.”

Reaper held her handgun near her thigh, ready.

Skull closed the sliding door and climbed into the cab, surprising her.

“Ma’am,” said Bernard to Reaper.

“Yeah?” She kept one eye on Skull.

“Your boyfriend was an idiot to dump you,” Bernard said, absolutely serious.

Shortfuse made a choking sound from behind her.

“Thank you,” said Reaper. She gently patted his cheek. “Be good, Bernard.”

Bernard touched his face where she had, and then disappeared into the warehouse.

“Let’s go, people!” said Skull.

They loaded into the cab. Skull glanced at Reaper as she holstered her weapon. “Expecting trouble?”

“I thought you might kill him.”

“Oh, that popgun was for me?” He chuckled. “Bernard’s far too valuable a resource to deep-six. Besides, by this time tomorrow he’ll barely remember we came by. Nothing outside the web is real to him.”

“God help us.”

Traffic was light and the dire weather warnings filled the radio. Snowplows spread salt and the sky turned pregnant and heavy with the impending winter storm.

By the time they returned to the mountains it had started to snow.

Chapter 34

The prediction of the worst storm in decades turned out to be woefully inadequate to describe what the media was already calling the Snowpocalypse. Freezing rain, snow, and ice combined with gusts of near-hurricane force winds to cancel thousands of flights. The media trumpeted government calls across ten states for people to stay indoors and off the roads.

“Buzz, go tell everyone to come here,” Reaper said.

“What’s up?” that man asked.

“Did I stutter? Get your ass in gear and round them up.”

“Everyone who?”

“Everyone that’s hitting the camp.”

“Okay, boss.” Buzz circled the cave, passing the word.

When Reaper’s and Derrick’s teams had gathered around, she said without preamble, “I’m moving up the timetable by two hours. Any show-stoppers?”

“Why?” said Derrick.

She ticked off reasons on her fingers. “One, the weather’s getting worse, faster than expected. Two, it will give us more daylight to move the civilians. Three…I’ve got a hunch.”

“Hunch?”

Reaper stared at Spooky. “Cassandra taught me some tradecraft over the last few years.”

“Tradecraft?”

“Espionage techniques. They’ve been surprisingly applicable to covert ops. In this case, changing the scheduled go-time in case the enemy’s been tipped off.”

“Who would tip off the enemy?”

“Funny that you ask who rather than how.”

“I know human nature,” said Spooky.

“We good?” Reaper stared Spooky down until he answered.

“Very well. You’re in charge.” he turned to walk away.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Spooky stopped, but did not look back. “I have a lot to do, and two fewer hours to do it in. I suggest everyone get moving.”

Everyone moved into position two hours early, as ordered.

The support team, made up of Derrick’s fighters, situated themselves in the reconnaissance holes Reaper’s team had dug a few days before, in the hills above the concentration camp.

The assault team consisted of most of Reaper’s team plus several of Derrick’s, the ones with the most direct combat experience and skills. Reaper gave Spooky personal command of the assault team. Skull attached himself to it as well.

They armed themselves with the less-lethal, virus-soaked frangible ceramic SAM rounds, which had composed the bulk of one of the airdropped pallets. Reaper had given Derrick’s folks a first-hand demonstration of their use and had sensed their reluctance to attack wane. The ammo gave everyone hit a fighting chance to live through any wounds. Turning more enemies into Edens was merely an ironic benefit.

Reaper and Derrick formed the ops team, with Livewire to work the comms and Shortfuse for the remote demolitions. They intended to oversee, coordinate and provide a reserve if the plan went to hell.

Plans always went to hell.

“Good thing you got all these thermal blankets,” said Reaper to Derrick, pulling hers closer. “They’re not only good for hiding body heat. They’re warm.”

“I think we’ll be working up enough heat soon enough,” said Derrick. He looked at his watch, and then keyed the radio at his neck. “Teams, confirm position.”

“Support team in position,” said Big Jim over the radio.

“Assault team in position, ready,” said Spooky.

Derrick turned to Shortfuse and Livewire, who both showed him thumbs up.

“At the end of this transmission, shield all your electronic devices. When you see the effects of the pulse, remove them from the shielding, turn them on and perform commo checks. You have one minute. Command out.”

He signaled Shortfuse, who popped open his laptop and typed for a few seconds. He then stared at his watch.

Reaper looked down at the orange-lit camp below them. In the storm’s afternoon dimness, every outside light had been turned on.

“That’s it,” said Derrick pointing at Shortfuse. “Let’s do this.”

Shortfuse tapped a few times on his computer, and then shoved it and the radio into one of the shielding bags. A moment later, all the lights of the camp below went out.

“Okay people,” Derrick yelled. “Let’s get it all back out again. Move fast.” His words only carried to the nearest of the teams, but they knew the plan. The camp going dark had signaled the start of the attack.

Troops rushed to several small, camouflaged metal sheds they had set up under cover of the storm. Wire was woven throughout their surfaces, and metallic tape sealed all the edges.

ATVs powered up and the assault team began to drive out of the sheds and hook up to long trailers they planned to use to carry out the least mobile Edens. Shortfuse and Livewire pulled out the explosives-packed drones they’d commandeered right before the storm hit, and began booting them up from several laptops. Derrick turned his radio back on for the commo check.

“Assault team checking in,” said Spooky.

“Support team checking in,” said Big Jim.

“Read you Lima Charlie,” said Derrick. “Prepping the drones now. Stand by.”

Livewire arranged the drones in a circle and commanded them to all power up. After a few seconds they were airborne and headed in different directions, fighting the wind to stay on course. “Hopefully their internal software is good enough to compensate.”

“How much time until they reach their targets?” Reaper asked.

“Two minutes, if everything goes well. I’ll be surprised if they all hit simultaneously as planned, but they should be close.”

Reaper watched the drones as they struggled through the air and faded into the gusting snow, following their invisible military-grade GPS signals toward their targets.

A loud explosion sounded from the camp. They looked down and saw a gaping hole torn in the front gate. The drone’s explosives had not only blown the fence apart, but also the nearby guard shack. Troops began scurrying here and there in the camp below.

Another explosion took out the southeast tower, and then another the north tower.

“Four more,” said Shortfuse.

There was one more explosion at the south tower, and then nothing.

“Everyone hold,” ordered Derrick over the radio. “We’ve still got three more drones to go.”

“We can’t wait,” said Spooky. “We’re losing the element of surprise.”

Reaper grabbed the radio. “Stay put, dammit.”

“If we wait too long they’ll start executing prisoners.”

“That’s extremely unlikely. They have bigger things to worry about.” Reaper held her breath for a count of thirty. She thought she heard a muffled explosion far off to the west, but wasn’t sure.

“I’m going in,” said Spooky. “The rest of you can follow me when Reaper finds her courage.”

“Go ahead, then, everyone,” Reaper said. “Hit them hard.”

“Support team, initiate,” said Derrick. “Concentrate on the remaining towers.”

***

Sniper and machine gun fire erupted from the hills overlooking the camp as the support team hammered the standing towers with bullets. Spooky and the FC spec ops troops raced out of the thick brush through the still-smoking gate. “Humvees!” he barked, unnecessarily; three teams of three were already splitting up and targeting the vehicles, with their mounted heavy weapons. EMP might have immobilized them, but machine guns and grenade launchers had no electronic parts to fry.

Spooky splattered guard after guard with short, accurate bursts of his P90. A cross between an assault rifle and a submachine gun, it fired tiny, high-velocity bullets perfect for conversion to the frangible SAM round configuration. They punched through body armor and thin cover with ease, ripping flesh as they broke apart, scattering their loads of Eden Plague within the bloodstreams of their targets.

Not that he really cared about his enemies, except as pawns to be transformed into more burdens on the anti-Eden forces. Every convert subtracted one from “them” and added one to “us.”

Running beneath the nearest standing tower, Spooky ignored the chips of falling wood and shrapnel as he pulled the ringed pin on a SAM grenade, counted to three and tossed it up over the rail. A risky tactic, the delay meant any enemies had only two seconds, not five, to grab the tiny bomb and throw it away.

When it exploded, Spooky transmitted, “Support team, this is Spooky. Cease fire on Tower Six; I say again, cease fire on Tower Six. I’m taking it over.” He restrained himself from threatening to shoot anyone who fired at him by mistake.

He ignored the ladder and trap door to the bottom of the tower; anyone with decent training would keep it locked in a combat situation. Instead, he climbed the outside and rolled over the rail, knife in hand.

One of the two men in the tower still moved, but weakly. Spooky put his blade away and tapped a shot from his pistol into the man’s abdomen, figuring he’d survive long enough for the virus to take hold. Then he rolled them both over the rail, to fall to the snowy ground. The last thing he needed was one of them using up his final loyalty to the system and shooting Spooky in the back while he worked.

Freed of that concern, Spooky turned to the .50 caliber machine gun the tower men had barely employed. Clearly, they’d been caught unawares. Perhaps Reaper’s advancement of the timeline had done it, perhaps the snowstorm; staying alert when an attack seemed impossible was always difficult.

Fortunately this was one of the newer, lightweight models of the gun. He was able to dismount it from the pintle facing outward and drop it onto a similar mounting toward the camp. A moment more to ensure the ammo belt rose straight from its box, and he began to rock and roll.

First, he turned it toward Tower Seven, the next one to the north. The rifle bullets of the support team couldn’t penetrate the defensive position’s heavy armor, and they hadn’t yet managed to drop a grenade from a launcher through its windows. The guards there returned fire with their own heavy machine gun, tracers reaching out to the hills like science-fiction blaster fire.

The .50 caliber round was developed in World War I as an antitank weapon, back when tanks sported steel plating a mere inch thick. It had been improved in the intervening years, and fifty yards was point-blank range. Spooky’s finger-sized bullets tore steel-jacketed holes in the nearby tower and, no doubt, in the enemy machine gunners.

Their weapon fell silent. “Cease fire on Tower Seven,” he said. “I’ve neutralized them.”

Swinging his weapon to the next tower in line, he fired a sustained burst into it as well, and then the next. As he traversed the barrel, looking for his next target, he saw the blossoming flames of an automatic grenade launcher mounted on one of the several Humvees scattered round the inner compound. Apparently this one hadn’t been taken out yet, as the weapon pointed his way.

Time seemed to slow. A lesser man might have continued his traverse, laid his machine gun on the Humvee, fired – and died from the grenades already in the air. Spooky, recognizing the danger, dove backward and over the outer rail, catching himself on a strut on the opposite side of the tower. Clinging there like a spider, he balled himself up as tightly as possible, covering his head against shrapnel.

The grenadier had aimed the stick of five grenades well. Two dropped into the tower itself, exploding on impact and turning the interior and the machine gun into scrap metal. One fell short, exploding against the inner surface of its armor; one struck the roof and blew a hole in it; one overshot, impacting the ground beneath Spooky’s perch, stinging his legs with shrapnel.

He keyed his throat mike. “Skull, take out that grenade launcher.”

“On it.” The sniper should have been the last man in with the assault team, hanging back and performing overwatch in accordance with his skills. Shots banged out. “Grenadier is down.”

Spooky climbed to the ground, feeling his wounds, annoying but not serious to an Eden. Taking cover, he surveyed the situation. Despite knocking out at least thirty of the estimated ninety enemy troops, he and “his” team remained outnumbered, and the effect of surprise seemed to be wearing off.

And, the central blockhouse remained intact. They’d planned to clear the camp first, then lay siege to this bunker. He’d pointed out that would mean a hard fight to take the enemy’s most defensible position, but in the rehearsals, nothing else gave them a chance of winning. They had to wipe out those outside and free the ordinary mass of prisoners before trying to crack the hard nut.

He sincerely hoped none of his clan members were in the blockhouse, and that he could free them regardless. His family was vital to his plans, a repository of loyalty that, ironically, Spooky did not fully feel himself.

However, feelings were irrelevant. His cold calculations led him to the same conclusions sentiment would have: he needed them, and they needed him. All would benefit from the arrangement. Thus, simulated or real, he’d invest in his blood relations, just as he invested in others around him who could be useful.

It appeared the Humvees had been captured and the grenade launcher turned against the remaining enemy towers, neutralizing them. However, firing from the blockhouse intensified, mostly from small, second-floor windows that seemed designed for a siege.

***

Reaper found it difficult to see individual figures in the camp.

“Spooky to Reaper,” she heard. “We’ve cleared the open areas but we’re meeting heavy resistance at the central building. We need maximum fire to cover us while we assault.”

“It’s getting hard to see anything down there from our positions. I’ll bring the support team closer. Break break: support team, this is Reaper. I’m calling an audible here. Load up and move in at all deliberate speed until you get clear views of the camp, then provide assault support. ATVs, proceed to the north gate and enter for prisoner retrieval.” She stood, nodding at Livewire, who was putting away his laptops. “Stay here and coordinate comms.”

“You got it, boss.”

Reaper led Shortfuse and Derrick downhill toward the camp. As they worked their way closer, they saw others of the support team doing the same, and heard the growl of the all-wheel-drive ATVs hauling the trailers down the dirt roads. The snowfall continued to intensify, and it wasn’t until less than fifty meters’ distance that they could see the complex. “Make sure you identify your targets!” Reaper called on her radio. “No fratricide!”

Spooky transmitted, “We have control of the outer yard and temporary buildings, but they’ve sealed up the central structure. We need demo to blast in as soon as the support team is set again.”

“On my way,” said Shortfuse. “Don’t blow up too much before I get there.” He took off running.

Reaper stood to follow. “Dammit, I’ll cover his back. Derrick…”

“I got this, Miss,” he said. “Go.”

As she entered the compound, Reaper saw guards lying on the ground bleeding, some conscious and looking at them in confusion. She saw one scream and lift a pistol – not to point at her, but to place it under his chin.

“No!” she yelled, running toward the guard.

He pulled the trigger, his brains exploding out the back of his head.

“Stupid!” she yelled. “How can they be so stupid?”

“They’re SS fanatics,” said Shortfuse. “They believe all that crap about –”

He grunted and fell to the ground as Reaper heard a fresh flurry of shots. From the central blockhouse windows she saw troops firing at them. She raised her assault rifle as she moved toward Shortfuse, firing short bursts. Gunfire rang out from behind her, the support team volleying a hail of bullets to suppress the enemy. She bent down and dragged Shortfuse behind a low wall.

“I’m okay,” said Shortfuse probing with his fingers at the blood under his left collarbone. “Hurts like hell, but I’ll be on my feet in a couple minutes. Keep moving.”

“I’ll wait with you.”

“Derrick, this is Spooky,” she heard. “We have over a hundred prisoners here that need evac.”

“Understood,” said Derrick. “The ATVs are inbound from the north. They’ll load up and extract the same direction. Anyone ambulatory, have them follow on foot.”

Shortfuse struggled to his feet and they hugged the wall to its end, staying out of sight of the enemy in the blockhouse windows. They saw faint shadows through the snow in the direction of the long wooden structures, the main prisoner barracks.

“Come on,” said Reaper, moving in that direction. “Assault team, two friendlies coming up behind you. Hold your fire.”

As they approached, they saw zombie-like figures shuffling toward them through the blizzard. One fell into Reaper’s arms before she could react. The scarecrow of a woman sobbed and hugged her tightly. Several more gathered around Reaper and Shortfuse, pawing them like frightened children.

“Got to keep them moving,” she yelled at Shortfuse.

Shortfuse shoved the liberated prisoners away and pushed them north toward the exit, calling to them to stay low because of the shooters from the blockhouse. Then he and Reaper started running again, avoiding contact with Edens coming their way.

They came upon the first barracks just as Hulk walked out with a prostrate Eden in his arms. He laid the figure down on a blanket next to a dozen others. Stitch moved up and down the line, trying to thread high-calorie IVs into the worst off. More Edens stumbled out into the snow on their own, shielding their eyes and looking around in confusion.

“Head toward the gate,” Hulk yelled at them, motioning toward the north. ATVs with trailers began arriving, pulling up next to those on the ground. The area dissolved into confusion again, the liberated prisoners ignoring instructions, climbing onto trailers, mobbing the ATV drivers, begging for food and generally getting in the way.

“Where’s Spooky?” Reaper screamed to be heard over the wind and sporadic gunfire.

Spirit emerged from the barracks, carrying an Eden. “That way,” she said nodding to Reaper’s right.

Reaper and Shortfuse ran through the snow and passed a second structure similar to the first, but didn’t see Spooky or Skull. At the next building she saw them staring at the locked door of the third barracks. Tarzan had bolt cutters out and was cutting the lock on the door. The lock was frozen and covered in ice.

“Get back,” said Skull, pulling his rifle to his shoulder.

“SAM rounds won’t work,” yelled Shortfuse. “They’ll just disintegrate.”

Skull fired a burst at the lock and it blew apart, releasing the door. “Fuck your pussy SAM rounds. If I shoot you, you stay dead, full metal jacket.”

“And if you just shot one of my family, I’ll kill you,” said Spooky.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Spooky yanked at the door and had to stand back from the wave of Edens spilling out into the snow.

“Get them out of here,” Reaper told Tarzan. “The ATVs are at the north gate.”

Spooky stood near the portal, yelling in Vietnamese into the structure. He dragged and shoved stumbling survivors, trying to get them out of the building faster.

“Uncle Tran!” someone called from inside.

“Here,” called Spooky, “we’re here!”

A man so strikingly similar in appearance to Spooky as to be his brother appeared and fell into his arms, followed by more men and women. Seconds later they were joined by a half dozen small boys and girls, all with the family resemblance. They crowded around, hugging Spooky, who seemed to be returning the greetings.

“Damn,” said Shortfuse, “I never would have imagined. And I thought Asians were supposed to be all standoffish, bowing and not touching and stuff.”

“You been watching too many movies,” said Reaper. “I’m more surprised that there’s family feeling in Spooky’s icy heart.” She tried to yell at Spooky to get his attention, but it was impossible. She finally called him on his radio. “Spooky, this is Reaper. Can you hear me in there?”

“I read you,” he answered after a delay.

“I hate to ruin the moment, but we need to get moving. The job’s not done, and even with the storm delaying them, I’m sure the reaction team is on its way.”

Skull emerged from the inside of the barracks and walked over to the Nguyen group. He grabbed one of them by the shoulder. “Any of you seen a giant black man?”

Suddenly, machine gun fire raked across their position from the roof of the concrete building, hitting several of the Edens. Reaper felt a poker of fire go through her thigh.

“Get down!” Reaper yelled. “Jim,” she said on the radio, “they moved a machinegun up to the blockhouse roof. Take it out!”

“We’re on it, Miss Jill,” he said. Moments later, a hail of bullets began striking the side of the building, punctuated by explosions from a grenade launcher.

Skull climbed off the ground, bleeding from a scalp wound. “Anyone seen a big black man?” he called again.

“There,” said one of the Nguyens, pointing at a metal door at the base of the main concrete building. “He’s kept in the basement with all the other important prisoners.”

“Support to assault team,” Derrick broke in. “We’ve got a problem.”

“More than we got already?” said Reaper.

“Livewire says an armored column’s heading our way from the east. Several tanks and a dozen armored fighting vehicles filled with infantry. We got ten minutes at most before they arrive.”

“Tanks? That’s impossible! The reaction force doesn’t have tanks!”

“I’m just telling you what Livewire says. Ten minutes, no more.”

“They couldn’t have called anyone after the EMP,” said Shortfuse.

“And there’s no military base near here anyway,” said Flyboy.

“They knew we were coming,” said Reaper, a sinking feeling in her stomach. “Someone warned them. It was meant to be a trap. Without the weather and if we hadn’t moved up the timetable, we’d be dead already.”

“Load up those who can’t walk and get going,” said Spooky. “We exfil in five minutes. ”

Skull said, “Shortfuse, you got some C4?”

“Don’t leave home without it.”

“Come with me. I need cover fire, now!” Skull emphasized his instruction by grabbing Shortfuse’s harness and dragging him toward the door at the base of the blockhouse.

“Hey, we’re blown,” Reaper yelled at him. “With those tanks coming, we have to get out of here!”

“Not without Larry,” Skull shot back.

Reaper turned to Spooky. “Take your family and go. We’ll give Skull backup and form a rearguard, try to delay the reaction force.”

“You stand no chance against tanks and AFVs.”

“Better than you might think, with this storm to cover us. I saw antitank missiles in the back of the Humvees.”

“I thought you didn’t like impossible missions.”

Reaper’s mouth twitched. “I guess you convinced me. Go on, extract your family.”

Spooky turned away and spoke into his radio. “Derrick, get the Edens out of here and onto the Railroad. They’re your priority now. I’ll get my family and the team out another way.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Thanks for everything and good luck.”

“Same to you,” Derrick said, and then the radio went silent.

Spooky pulled a satphone from his pocket and dialed a number. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. What? I don’t care about the weather; just do it.”

“What the hell?” said Reaper, swinging her rifle to almost point at him. “You’ve been holding out on me?”

“Don’t be a fool. You should know by now I always have a backup plan.” He turned to the rest of Reaper’s team, who had begun to gather around the two leaders. Pointing at Flyboy and Bunny, he said, “Find us some vehicles that work and load up my family. Take them a quarter mile up the north road and wait for further instructions.”

“And if you don’t make it?” asked Flyboy.

Spooky scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “Go to these coordinates. You’ll see what has to be done.” He then turned to Reaper. “I’ll try to give you some warning, but it won’t be much.”

Reaper nodded and took off after Skull. After a few seconds she heard footfalls behind her.

Chapter 35

Cassandra couldn’t remember the last time she slept. She’d never felt this tired. Short naps at her desk were all she allowed herself.

“Feel guilty later,” she mumbled, for a moment unsure if she’d actually spoken, or only thought it. She knew she was losing focus, but couldn’t afford to rest. Too much going on.

Frantic work to get the Edens out of Alaska and figure out a plan for massive numbers streaming out of North America occupied most of her time. She knew every minute resulted in more death, and she felt the passage of time like barbed wire around her neck.

The damned Colombians hadn’t helped, wouldn’t see reason. She’d been forced to resort to blackmailing their entire leadership, threatening their livelihoods and their political positions, even their lives. There would be time to clean it all up later. After Spooky got back. Intelligence and spy work was one thing. Managing dirty politicians – a redundant phrase if she ever heard one – was not her strength.

Cassandra started awake. Her mind had been wandering and she’d dozed off. She looked up to see her assistant.

“What? What is it now?” asked Cassandra sharply.

“Nothing important,” the woman said, her face falling. “It can wait.”

Cassandra sighed. “No, come on in. I’m sorry for snapping at you. Just a little tired, that’s all. What do you have?”

“Nothing yet from the Camp Pleasant operation due to the blizzard. All comms are down.”

Cassandra tried to smile reassuringly. “No news is good news. They’ll be fine.” Who was she trying to convince? She could hear her own voice ring hollow.

“There’s another matter. Something Reaper asked the counterintel team about.”

Cassandra noticed for the first time the woman carried folders, holding them with both hands. “What is it?”

“She asked us to check into the background of the two new team members. I tried to pass it along to her, but haven’t been able to reach her.”

“And?”

The woman hesitated. “Just some anomalies our counterintelligence people identified in the man, Conlan O’Malley.”

Cassandra was torn, and so tired. She had dozens of crucial tasks vying for her attention. She finally surrendered and held out her hand for the folder. “Let me see.”

The woman passed along one folder with obvious relief, yet Cassandra could see she clutched another.

Would it never end? And Cassandra felt a sense of foreboding at the woman’s reaction. She opened the file and forced herself to ignore the fatigue. Her brain felt half mush.

“It’s –”

“Get me some fresh coffee, will you?” Cassandra interrupted, to stop her assistant from hovering.

Flipping through pages, she didn’t see it at first. O’Malley’s story seemed all too common. It looked like a normal life gone bad, typical for escaping Edens. Grew up here. Went to school here. Got married there. Bought a house and started to raise a family. Infected with the Eden Plague by their youngest daughter, who caught it at daycare in the early days before the system took preventive measures. Months of hiding before being turned in by neighbors. Interrogation and imprisonment.

Coffee arrived, along with more hovering. She sipped at the scalding liquid. Cassandra felt there was something she wasn’t seeing. “Does his statement check out?”

“As much as it can,” her assistant answered. “All we have on him is open source material, but that is consistent.”

“He said his family died in one of the camps,” Cassandra said flipping through the pages and stopping on a family photo of Conlan O’Malley, a lovely blond woman, a towheaded boy and a girl in pigtails.

Cassandra went back to the man’s statement. I love my wife and children very much. “He speaks of them as if they are still alive,” Cassandra said.

“Not uncommon,” said her assistant. “Our psychiatrists say it’s part of the grieving process. It takes us a while to adjust to our losses.”

It does indeed, thought Cassandra.

She finally closed the file and looked up. “I give up; what is it?”

“The CI folks think it’s too perfect,” said the woman. “Usually there’s gaps. No one shows up here and has every piece of a four-year jigsaw puzzle ready to fill in.”

Cassandra rubbed her face. “Okay, what else?”

The woman hesitated, fingering the other folder. “It’s nothing concrete.”

“Let me see,” said Cassandra holding out her hand.

The woman gave her the folder. Cassandra opened it to find pages covered from top to bottom with police mug shots, names and dates of birth.”

“One of our sources was able to download this on a thumb drive while visiting Eddyville Prison. The compound was converted to holding high-value Edens a year ago. They don’t seem to be abused there. No experiments, just tight security.”

Cassandra flipped through the pages quickly. There were hundreds of pictures from all races and genders, and ages from children to young adults.

One mug shot caught her eye. A little blond girl with pigtails.

“Interesting,” said Cassandra comparing it to the family photo. “Not just the same child, it’s the same photo.”

“I thought so too, but the names don’t match.”

“What about the others? Are they in here too?”

She nodded. “Page thirty and fifty-six.”

Cassandra turned the pages rapidly and compared the mug shots to the family photo.

“His family is still alive,” Cassandra said. “He lied about them.”

“Unless it’s not his family at all. He could be a plant. They could have simply used handy images to build his history.”

“Or it might be another cover layer, in case we find this out.

“Could he be one of the CIA psychos?”

Cassandra thought. “If he is, he won’t care about family, and these will be falsified. If he’s not a psycho, he’s being blackmailed.”

“But he’s been in Colombia for almost a year, never made a misstep,” her assistant said.

“That’s why they call them moles. They burrow in and wait.”

“What do we do now?”

Cassandra shook her head in frustration. “Who’s been working this?”

“Fleede.”

“Brief him and tell him to keep trying to contact the team to pass the info. That’s all we can do.”

Her assistant took the files and left the office.

I should have spotted this, Cassandra thought. I’d have seen it if I weren’t so preoccupied with everything else. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes for just a moment to help her focus, and promptly fell asleep.

Chapter 36

Larry awoke with a start. It took him a few seconds to realize what was wrong. The emergency lamps over the exits were on in the hallway. The lighting was typically so dim that it wasn’t that much of a difference, but he also thought he could hear voices.

The wind moaned outside, rising and falling, seeping through cracks in the hastily built blockhouse. Larry had seen the dark skies that morning in the yard and figured they were in for bad weather even before the guards had talked freely about the coming storm.

He never knew exactly what time it was, but he had learned to judge night and day by the feeding cycles and the time they were allowed out in the yard. Lunch had been a while back, but he hadn’t seen dinner yet, so…late afternoon.

Sleep was one of his few comforts. Larry guessed he slept fourteen hours a day or more. On the outside, in a normal workday he’d be lucky to get six. He figured it wasn’t just boredom. Studies had shown how sleep helped the body deal with trauma and prevent PTSD. Many psychologists had even postulated there was a correlation between the rise of PTSD and the lack of sleep for soldiers in the battlefield in the digital age. Prior to the advent of night vision and infrared sensors, most ground fighting had stopped at nightfall. With noise and light discipline and not much else to do, everyone had generally slept from dusk to dawn.

Now warriors stayed awake instead of going to sleep at night and allowing their minds to cope and heal. Night attacks, video games, energy drinks, internet connectivity and a never-ending supply of entertainment, even in the forward areas, made it inevitable.

So Larry hadn’t fought the urge to sleep all the time. He knew worry and the unknown were a constant threat. He let his mind deal with it while he was asleep. The nightmares and surreal dreams had been nearly constant, but he also knew this catharsis was not really a bad thing.

One of his most prevalent dreams had been of lights going out and strange sounds. Each time, shadowy figures would come and take him away to be tortured, his family watching. Shawna had looked on him disapprovingly, wanting to know why he’d done this to them.

It didn’t really make sense, but dreams seldom did, on the surface.

The door at the end of the hallway banged open.

Larry walked to the front of his cell to the sound of frantic voices. Guards rushed briskly by, carrying flashlights and weapons, proceeding through the door at the opposite end of the hallway.

The boy Shadow stared at him from across the way, curiosity in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Larry said to the unspoken question. “Some sort of power outage, I guess.”

A heavy, muffled boom shook the cells. Larry tensed. He strained his ears for an eternity, and then heard two more of the subsonic vibrations.

That wasn’t thunder. Something’s happening.

Pointing at Shadow, Larry said, “Get back. On the floor. Pull your pallet over you.”

Shadow obeyed him.

Larry could feel rather than see the boy’s eyes still on him.

Lighter thuds, then rattles, and frantic yelling.

Gunfire?

The doorway at the end of the hall banged open again and loud, agitated voices echoed down the hall. Guards in combat gear and weapons jogged past. They ignored the pitiful creatures on their right and left.

Larry watched them go by. One final guard came down the hall. He was preoccupied with trying to adjust the sling on his automatic shotgun. Backing up, Larry set himself as if on the one-yard line, feet against the wall for maximum push.

If I did it once, I can do it again, especially now that I’ve regained some of my strength…

When the guard jogged in front of the cell, Larry surged forward, aiming at the joint of the sliding door where once he’d torn it off its hardware. Something snapped – maybe a pulley, maybe a bone in his body – and a gap opened. Not enough to get through, but perhaps enough to reach –

Larry’s hand slipped off the guard’s uniform, but caught on the weapon sling wrapped around the man’s body. He roared with the pain that blossomed in his own shoulder, and jerked the man off his feet.

The guard slammed forcefully against the edge of the door with an audible crunch. Blood gushed from a broken nose. His eyes rolled up at Larry like a wounded horse, confused and scared, and then he sagged, unconscious.

The door at the end of the hall opened again to show a figure outlined in bright light, peering into the dimness. “Hey, Stimpy,” said the voice. “You better get your sorry ass out here or the Chief is going to throw you in a cage with one of the sickos. Stimpy? You there?” The man waited, and then began marching back toward them, shielding his eyes with his hand as if to see better. “Just great. Probably decided it was a good time to go take a shit,” he muttered.

Larry fumbled with the unconscious guard, pulling the man’s pistol from his holster and transferring it to his left hand. The marching guard froze at the sight of Stimpy on the floor. His eyes widened, and then moved up to meet Larry’s just over the barrel of the pistol. He fumbled for the rifle slung over his shoulder, but before he could even fully grasp the weapon, Larry shot him in the face.

A wave of guilt at the killing washed over him, but the guard had been in full combat gear, with heavy Kevlar vest and helmet. Only a head shot would ensure his silence.

Forgive me, Lord, but this is war.

The sound of the pistol had seemed impossibly loud. Larry waited to see if more guards would come in response, but none did. He braced himself, pushing his upper body through the narrow gap, and grabbed the first guard’s access badge.

Everything around there was controlled by the access badges and PIN codes. He hoped the locking mechanisms ran on emergency power as well.

Larry shook the guard at his feet. “Hey, Stimpy. Wake up. You took a little fall. You’ll be fine, but I need to get you some help.”

The man the looked at Larry in confusion.

“Stimpy, I need to know your PIN code. So I can go and get help.”

The man moaned and grumbled.

Larry shook him. “Come on, champ. Dig deep, buddy. Stay with me. Eye of the tiger, come on. What’s your PIN code?”

Leaning forward, Larry was about to shake the man again when he began to mumble. “Six...two...two...three...one.”

“Six two two three one. Good job, Stimpy.” Larry slugged the man again, putting him out, and then licked his own finger and shoved it in the guard’s mouth, hoping that would transmit the Eden Plague.

It took Larry more than two minutes to force himself far enough through the gap in the partially broken door to reach the card reader and PIN pad. If he hadn’t been so long-limbed, he might not have been able to do it, as it was set well out of ordinary reach. Finally, though, the mechanism released and he freed himself.

He checked the head-shot guard, hoping against hope that the man still lived and that the Plague might save him, but he felt no pulse under his finger. Stuffing the pistol into a pocket and taking the shotgun and ammo harness off the guard, he fastened it about himself. There was a flashlight attached to the end of the shotgun and he turned it on.

Then he used the card and PIN to open Shadow’s cell. The boy leaped out and clutched him tightly. “Easy there,” said Larry. “We’ll need to keep moving. Stay close to me, okay?”

Shadow slowly let go and nodded.

Walking up and down the line of cells, Larry unlocked all of them. Some of the freed rushed forward and embraced him. Others seemed terrified of his harness and shotgun, and cowered in their corners. Still others stared back at him, catatonic.

The ambulatory Edens rushed forward and pushed open the door at the end of the hall, going through the exit in a mass of arms and legs. Larry could see another corridor with more light, and the gunfire sounds from outside got markedly louder.

He looked at the Edens who wouldn’t and couldn’t move. He didn’t want to leave them, but saw no choice. Turning from the exit, he nearly shot Stimpy in surprise. The man stood against Larry’s cell, wobbling back and forth.

“What did you do to me?” he asked with wide eyes.

“I infected you. Thank me later. We don’t have time right now. You can either run after those Edens to freedom or stick around here and see how you like being on the other side of these bars.”

Stimpy stared in sudden comprehension, and then turned and darted down the hallway toward the exit.

“It’s time to get out of here,” Larry said to Shadow and began guiding the boy out of their house of horrors.

Larry heard the door open behind him and was turning when he felt pain explode in the side of his head. He crashed to the floor and felt blood gushing from his scalp. With a kind of stunned wonder, he lifted his hand to discover his left ear missing.

Rolling onto his side, he saw Bauersfeld shuffling toward him on one crutch, her other hand holding a smoking pistol. “You…you…” She fired again. The bullet ricocheted off the floor and into his thigh.

Larry struggled to get to his feet in the dimness, leaving the shotgun with its shining flashlight on the floor. He knew he only had a few seconds before Bauersfeld’s eyes adjusted to the dimness and she began shooting again. Fumbling for his pistol, he found his pocket empty.

Only one thing to do. He rushed her.

She might have seen him coming. Her pistol boomed once more.

When Larry hit Bauersfeld he drove into her, falling to the ground, slamming her forcefully into the concrete floor using the considerable weight of his entire body. Her head thumped off the floor.

She looked up at him, dazed. It amazed him she was still conscious, and she still held onto her weapon.

He pried it out of her hand. Hatred and anger warred within him, struggling with his inner chivalry, his reluctance to destroy a fallen enemy, even one as evil as Bauersfeld.

“I wish I could simply knock you out and infect you, but I bet you’re still full of antivirals,” he said. “So I’m sorry, and this isn’t personal, but…” He turned the handgun in his huge paw and slipped his finger into the trigger guard when a nearby gunshot deafened him. The woman under him jerked and stiffened.

Larry turned to see Shadow holding the pistol he’d lost, its barrel smoking.

He reached out to take it from the wide-eyed boy, and then checked Bauersfeld.

Dead.

He’s too young to be accountable, he thought. He doesn’t understand what he’s done, killing a helpless enemy, but eventually he will, and it will haunt him.

Larry stood, pocketing one of the pistols before turning Shadow away. “Don’t look, kid,” he said. “She’s gone. She’ll never hurt you again.”

The boy didn’t speak, but hugged Larry, shaking.

The exit door behind him creaked. Larry turned to see someone come through the door, a spot of illumination in his hand. He fired in the direction of the figure and the flashlight fell, shattering with an audible breaking of glass.

Larry stood still and squinted in the dimness, Shadow cowering behind him. He got the distinct impression that whoever had come through the door was creeping down the hall, quietly, carefully. Raising the pistol again, he aimed at the blob of darkness taking on the shape of a man.

And stopped as something in him shouted of recognition. Blood covered the apparition and it held a knife.

“Skull?” Larry asked, stunned.

“Hey, Larry. Long time no see.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Rescuing your fat, lazy, fried-chicken-eating ass, if you don’t fucking shoot me again.”

“I’m gonna let that slide, you skinny cracker. Hot damn, son, am I glad to see you.”

“Don’t get too happy. Things are a little dicey outside.”

Others entered the hallway from the exit and shone lights their way.

“It’s us,” Skull called out. “Larry’s with me.”

“Then let’s get out of here,” said a woman, limping forward. “We need to exfil right now.”

Larry took Shadow by the shoulder. “Come on, kid. Let’s go.”

Chapter 37

Outside, Reaper swore as she heard the crash of a tank gun and the hammering of twenty-five-millimeter cannon. The top corner of the blockhouse exploded in a hail of concrete and rebar. She strained her eyes, but couldn’t see the armored vehicles in the blizzard, a blessing because the enemy undoubtedly couldn’t see them either.

In fact, she couldn’t even see the front gates anymore, but she extrapolated the direction from the sounds of the vehicle-mounted weapons, waving her people to flee toward the west.

“This way!” yelled Hawkeye from behind the wheel of a large, older-model military truck. Spooky sat beside him. Another vehicle was already moving toward the opposite exit with Spirit driving, Bunny hanging out of the cab window waving them on. The back of each vehicle was filled with rescued prisoners.

“Don’t leave without us, you bastards!” yelled Skull, rushing toward the rearmost vehicle, already moving. He hopped in the back with the help of Buzz and an Eden who pulled him up. Larry lifted Shadow into the back, and then followed him.

Reaper climbed up after them, and then looked around. “Where is everyone else?” she asked and no one answered. She turned on her radio. “This is Reaper, give me a SITREP.”

A scratchy voice came back. “This is Livewire. I’m moving to the exfil route. We got infantry in company strength making their way up the mountain from the south. We’re trying to hold them off and fall back to the caves.”

“Company strength? I knew this was one big trap!” said Reaper. “Do your best and maintain commo. We’ll figure out a link-up plan later. Good luck. Break break: anyone else on this channel?”

No one answered right away. “Spooky, you there?”

“I’m here in the lead truck.”

“Why are these vehicles functioning, anyway?”

“Old trucks, old technology, over-engineered. No computer chips, resistant to the EMP.”

Disgustedly, she said, “And their tanks and AFVs are combat-shielded.”

“Yes. No battle plan, et cetera, remember?”

“No shit. Where are we headed?”

“Flyboy is just up ahead with my family. We’ll link up and try to –”

There came a high whine, and then an explosion between the vehicles. The rear truck tilted dangerously on its side before it slowly came crashing back down. Reaper held on tight, and when it righted itself, saw that a few of the Edens on that side of the vehicle were bleeding from stray shrapnel.

Larry leaned over the side and looked down. “That was a tank round, near miss. We got at least one blown tire.”

“No time to change it,” yelled Spirit from behind the wheel. “We’ll just have to drive on it and hope the rest hold.”

“Get out of here,” Reaper heard Shortfuse say on the radio. “We’ll delay off until you get away.”

“The hell you will,” she replied. “Exfil now, follow the trucks! That’s an order.”

Looking out the back, she caught sight of a tank coming over the rise. It stopped and swiveled its gun toward the two trucks.

“I got this,” said Hulk over the radio. A second later an antitank rocket leaped from the corner of the blockhouse, striking the tank’s front left track, which immediately began to unravel. “Mobility kill, lead tank,” he called.

The tank’s turret turned in Hulk’s direction and fired its coaxial .50 caliber machine gun. Reaper saw the burst blast through the concrete, watched Hulk’s body recoil as he stumbled away, leaving a wide path of blood. He made it a few steps before falling.

Behind the tank, two armored fighting vehicles deployed left and right, their cannons questing for targets.

“Sorry, boss,” said Shortfuse. “You’ll never make it unless we slow them down.”

Reaper saw Tarzan and Shortfuse running forward, tossing satchel charges under the nearest vehicles.

“I’m dismounting to help,” said Hawkeye over the radio.

“Me too,” said Bunny.

“Forget it,” said Reaper, hating herself. “Support team, we need your help. Jim, can you provide cover fire?”

Jim’s voice came back, breaking up. “Sorry, Jill. Derrick ordered us back. We got our hands full with all these Eden folks. I lost three men already and the rest of our people are shot up pretty bad.”

“Let’s go,” said Spooky. “Shortfuse is right. It’s six miles to the airport rendezvous and we can’t do that with armored vehicles in hot pursuit.”

“I knew this would happen, you asshole!” Reaper screamed and started to get down from the truck, but hands grabbed her from behind and pulled her back. She fought Skull and almost got one of her knives out, even as she spoke on the radio. “Hawkeye, Bunny, dismount and try to extract Shortfuse and Hulk. Get everyone out!”

“Help me,” panted Skull, and Larry added his weight, pinning Reaper to the bed of the truck.

Reaper screamed in frustration.

Skull yelled into his radio. “Go, goddammit, if we’re going to go!”

Spooky now driving, the lead truck shot forward, followed by the vehicle Reaper lay struggling in. She could hear the engines laboring as they climbed the slope of the hill’s road, eight wheels churning through deep, wet snow. “Get off me,” she snarled, and they let her up to aim her rifle futilely rearward, though Larry kept a grip on the back of her battle harness.

Hawkeye and Bunny ran down the road, using the deep-churned tracks of the trucks. Through the falling snow, the two figures began to blur and fade, along with the rest of the scene. Reaper could see bright blooms of light and muffled sounds – the sharp staccato of cannon fire, the crack of rifles and hand grenades. Figures ran and fell. Their voices cried out in her headset.

Tears of anger and frustration welled up in her eyes. “Shortfuse, come in! Hawkeye? Bunny? Hulk? SITREP, dammit!”

Chapter 38

For the three trucks – two plus the one that had gone on ahead with Spooky’s clan – a six-mile, fifteen-minute drive in good weather turned into a harrowing hour in the storm. On one steep section, Spooky’s truck started to slide back down the hill toward a cliff. Flyboy drove forward and crashed his vehicle into the back, enough to stop the slide. After that, they had inched upward in the lowest gear possible.

Visibility almost nil, the Edens huddled together for warmth in the uncovered backs of the trucks, wet snow piling up on them. Reaper sat alone and stared off into space. Larry tried to talk to her, but Skull told him to just leave her alone.

At the top of the last hill they found an unpaved landing strip beside a few buildings. Spooky drove down the middle of the runway, unable to see more than fifty yards. For a moment he feared that the plane was not there, but then he spotted the lights on the wingtips and the shadowy outline of a fuselage.

A four-engined C-130J Super Hercules transport aircraft with extra fuel pods sat at the downwind end of the runway, engines idling. Figures sprayed de-icer from hoses attached to a tanker-trailer that had obviously been unloaded from the plane itself.

Spooky raced forward and pulled around to the back of the aircraft as the tail ramp rapidly lowered. He jumped out and greeted the thin figure waiting, a man with neck tattoos barely visible above his winter parka.

“I was afraid you weren’t going to make it,” Python told him.

“We had some complications,” Spooky said. “Might have some company on our trail soon. How quickly can we get out of here?”

“Soon as you load up. Weather’s only getting worse.” He looked up at the shivering Edens.

Spooky saw Reaper’s eyes light up as she spotted Python, watched as she jumped down and embraced her sometime lover. He wondered if the two even realized how he used them to manipulate each other. In this case, their connection ensured maximum motivation for Python to be here with the plane to complete the mission.

The Nguyens and the others climbed down from the beds of the trucks and made their way into the back of the cargo plane. Python freed himself from Reaper with a smile and yelled, “Pack in forward, tight! Fill every seat!”

A man in a flight suit made his way from the front of the aircraft and tugged on Python’s sleeve. He made a cutting motion in front of his throat and yelled, “Winds are gusting at ninety knots and visibility is almost nil. We’re grounded.”

“Come on now,” said Python with an easy smile. “This is why I pay you. If anyone could do it I’d hire a cheaper pilot.”

“This isn’t about money,” the pilot said. “We try to take off in this and we’re going to end up dead.”

Spooky stepped forward to give the pilot his best, deadliest stare. “Our options are rather limited at this point. No doubt the enemy is only a few minutes behind us. You either get this plane off the ground or we all go back to that death camp we just left.”

“It’s not a choice,” said the pilot. “It’s impossible. No one can fly in this.”

Suddenly the man was pinned against the side of the plane, Spooky’s hand wrapped around his throat. The pilot struggled but couldn’t break free, despite outweighing the Degar by fifty pounds. “Perhaps I should explain your situation. You get in the cockpit and get us airborne or you die right here.”

“Did someone say fly?” Flyboy asked, coming up to break the tableau. “I can fly.”

Spooky let the pilot loose.

The man rubbed his neck and stepped away from Spooky. “Not in this. You feel those wind gusts?”

Flyboy nodded. “Sure. Nothing to it.” He held out his hand. “Headset.”

“You’re insane,” the pilot said, passing over his headset.

“Can you really fly this thing?” Reaper asked Flyboy.

Flyboy’s face showed hurt. “I guess I’ll just have to prove it to you.”

“Nothing like working with professionals,” said Skull.

“Yeah, I miss this,” answered Larry.

“Shut up, you son of a bitch,” said Reaper to Larry, putting her hand on her knife. “You weren’t part of the plan. We’d have been long gone if we hadn’t had to take down that blockhouse and break you out. Five good people are probably dead because of you. I hope to hell it turns out to be worth it.”

Larry’s smile disappeared and he nodded. “Got it. Sorry.”

“I’m not,” said Skull.

“That’s because you’re just as sick as Spooky,” Reaper snarled.

“Ooh, now that stings.”

Larry laid a hand on Skull’s arm and dragged him effortlessly toward the plane. “Sorry again, miss. Skull uses humor as a defense. He don’t mean no disrespect.”

Spooky touched Reaper, causing her to jump. “Feud later. Fly now.”

The propellers began to speed up. The two were the last aboard, and the ramp lifted off the ground, but didn’t close yet.

The plane started to roll. With no more seats, Reaper, Spooky and Python were forced to stand on the inside of the ramp. Many of the Edens lay flat on the airplane floor in exhaustion.

***

Reaper instinctively ran a mental checklist and felt a stab of pain. Shortfuse and Tarzan had stayed at the camp with Hulk, whom she’d seen fall. Bunny and Hawkeye had gone back. Stitch and Spirit were here. She might see Livewire again, if he made it to the caves. Buzz?

“Where’s Buzz?” she yelled.

“There he is,” said Spooky pointing out over the open ramp to the man making his way from around behind the back of the trucks.

“Idiot. Come on!” yelled Reaper waving him forward.

He ran and leapt onto the ramp as the C-130 gathered speed. The man was shaking and pale.

“You almost got left behind,” Reaper said.

Without the slightest warning, Buzz pulled his pistol and pointed it at Spooky’s head, pulling the trigger, and then he turned to leap off.

Spooky jerked backward and fell atop Python, bleeding.

“What the hell?” said Reaper, grappling Buzz, preventing him from exiting the ramp.

He punched her in the face with his free hand and fired another shot into Spooky.

She scrabbled for her knife.

He pointed the pistol at Reaper’s head.

She ducked instinctively and let go.

With an inarticulate guttural, Python rushed Buzz.

Buzz turned his pistol and shot the thin man in the face, punching a hole out the back of his head, spraying blood and brains onto the inner wall of the moving airplane.

Reaper lunged, driving her knife into Buzz’s kidney, a textbook attack. He spasmed, paralyzed by the pain.

She heard the hammering of an assault rifle. A cluster of bullets slammed into the man, turning his torso into hamburger, and he slumped and slid off the ramp, leaving Reaper to stand, stunned, knife in hand.

Python!

Before she’d wiped off her blade and put it away, she knew Python’s cause was hopeless. His open, staring eyes held no life. Crouching, she picked up his limp hand and held it to her cheek.

The plane’s speed increased. Around her, the team held onto cargo nettings and each other as the plane’s nose lifted and the powerful engines dragged it into the leaden sky. Gusts buffeted them, shoving the aircraft left and right, dropping it suddenly like a carnival ride.

Below them, they could see armored vehicles cresting the hill. Searchlights pierced the increasing darkness, probing for the aircraft, but they failed to find it.

Skull slung his assault rifle and slammed his hand against a button aft of the left paratroop door. With a pneumatic whine, the ramp closed, leaving them in sudden peace, surrounded only by the muffled roar of the engines and the airflow over the plane. “What the hell was that?” he said to her.

Reaper forced herself to speak. “Some kind of traitor or mole. We had our suspicions, but no proof, and he never did anything overt.”

“Until just now, when he put two into Spooky. Don’t worry, though. I punched his ticket.”

“Spooky.” Reaper sat up suddenly and looked for the little man. She saw Stitch patching him up. The medic gave her a thumbs-up.

“Guess I’ll get some rack time,” said Skull.

“You do that.”

“Need anything?”

“Go away, Skull.”

A moment later she felt him drape a blanket around her shoulders. She sat unmoving on the ramp with the flesh that had been Python, and allowed herself to mourn.

Chapter 39

Director Sturgeon sat in his Tudor home in Chevy Chase, Maryland and tried not to grin. Doing so might ruin his gravitas, the aura of power he was cultivating in anticipation of his new position.

A car would be arriving shortly to take him to the Oval Office. There, he and the President would discuss plans for announcing his appointment as the next Vice President and getting his confirmation through the Congress.

Normally he’d have driven himself, but not today. Sturgeon didn’t relish trying to navigate the snow and ice of the Snowpocalypse. D.C. drivers were notoriously bad, even in the best of times, and the news showed hundreds of crashes, from fender-benders to fatalities.

Besides, he deserved the luxury of being served.

“Vice President of the United States,” he said aloud to the empty room, relishing the sound of it. “Vice President Sturgeon. Mister Vice President. How do you do? Pleased to meet you. You’re too kind. Yes, it’s an unexpected honor and I hope I can do it justice.”

The President wouldn’t want to rush the announcement, but in this time of uncertainty he couldn’t wait too long either. It was only this morning they’d found Prudence Layfield dead in her bed. Evidently the poor woman suffered a heart attack. She’d reportedly been under an immense amount of stress. Everyone said that they remembered her fondly. She’d be sorely missed. A truly beautiful and wonderful woman.

Sturgeon chuckled at the thought. Layfield had been hated, despised and feared. It amused him how everyone talked so nicely now they were safe from her. No one wanted to speak ill of the dead.

At least, not in public.

The President would, of course, be pleased by the way Sturgeon handled the matter. He’d suborned a member of Layfield’s household staff, a woman with Eden relatives, terrified of losing her job – or worse – because of the taint. He’d handed her an envelope stuffed with cash to sweeten the deal, along with a vial of an odorless, colorless, non-traceable substance to put into Layfield’s evening tea. Cardiac arrest soon followed.

“If we’re lucky we’ll all go as quickly,” he murmured, still talking to himself.

The cash itself had been infected with Eden Plague, carried via a short-term, volatile contact solution. One anonymous tip and the SS had picked up the poisoner on the way home, before she had a chance to spend any money: just one more for the camps.

No one would believe the ravings of an Eden anyway. Those sickos would say anything.

Sturgeon reached for the remote and turned up the television. It was time for the special address to the nation. The talking heads stopped their blathering and switched to the White House Press Room, where the corps of reporters rose at the arrival of the President.

“Good afternoon. I want to thank everyone in this room for braving the weather to come out today. I have spoken to the governors of Virginia, Maryland, North Carolina, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Georgia, all of which are declaring states of emergency and activating the National Guard. I would like to urge people to stay safe indoors, and I pledge my personal support to the people of those states.”

Brenner looked down at his notes and paused as if dreading his next words.

Oh, he’s good, thought Sturgeon.

“As I’m sure you have all heard, Vice President Prudence Layfield died of a heart attack late last night or early this morning. She was fifty-one years old, and not married. As everyone who knew her will tell you, she was a wonderful woman and the perfect Vice President. She will be missed. As soon as we’ve worked out details, my Director of Communications will announce the date of the funeral.

“We will honor her, remember her, and miss her. But if she were here she’d tell us the work of serving the American people must go on. She’d want us in this time of crisis not to mourn her, but to honor her memory best by continuing the work she started. That we shall endeavor to do.”

He stopped as if observing a moment of silence, and then lifted his eyes to gaze steadily into the camera, the very model of a compassionate leader.

“Moving on to other, more positive matters, I would like to be the first to announce that at seventeen hundred hours Pacific Standard Time today, the Secretary of Defense will accept the unconditional surrender of the Alaskan regular forces currently in a state of unlawful rebellion.”

All the reporters jumped to their feet and tried to ask questions.

Brenner held up his hands. “You’ll all get details soon. This victory is a testimony to our dedicated men and women in uniform, including those who paid the ultimate cost of freedom. I am proud to say that their sacrifices will not be in vain.”

He paused again, to let the information sink in, and for the murmuring and the questions to die down.

“I also want to thank the New Soviet Union for its assistance. Several weeks ago, Premier Grekov offered to help with the Alaskan rebels, a mutual enemy and a threat to his nation as well as our own. Together, we were able to bring this conflict to a speedy resolution, with minimal loss of life.”

Sturgeon nodded. Good. Everyone is thinking about the nuclear bombing of Austin right now, and how Alaska could have been so much worse.

“The world is safer when our nations stand together, united against Eden-based terrorism. I have always sought to work together with partners and I trust this coalition will continue to fight our common enemies in the months and years to come.

“During this trying time it has become evident that we face many dangers, dangers that threaten not only the sovereignty of our nation, but of the very fabric of western civilization. I know it will come as a shock to you to know that our neighbors to the north, our Canadian cousins with whom we share so much history and culture, are enduring an insurgency of their own, plagued by so-called Northern Separatists.

“These dangerous radicals, a coalition of Eden extremists, racist supremacists, and imported Muslim terrorists, have infiltrated the Canadian government at every level, rendering them powerless to resist the creeping takeover. We saw the deleterious effect when Canadian forces and citizenry stabbed us in the back and helped the Alaskans to treacherously surround and massacre our forces in the Yukon.

Oh, lovely, Sturgeon thought. The Big Lie, salted with just enough truth to make it palatable. Over the past week, the White House had leaked a dozen seemingly unrelated stories to support this narrative, preparing the populace to swallow the bullshit.

Brilliant.

Brenner continued his solemn speech, those present hanging on his every word. “We cannot in good conscience allow a rogue nation to endure on our borders. Our responsibility lies not only at home, but with the common people of Canada, with all of North America. We must seek to make our world safe for democracy, secure from terrorism.”

Brenner paused and sighed as if this was very difficult for him and not actually rehearsed dozens of times in front of a mirror.

“It is therefore with great sadness and reluctance that I have decided to accept the plea of the people of Canada, and of those parts of the legitimate Canadian government that have not yet been corrupted, to temporarily administer its provinces, extending to them the full protection of the United States and its just laws.”

Pandemonium reigned for a long time, and President Brenner let it spend itself rather than fight it. At the perfect moment, he held up a calming hand to go on.

“Our forces are moving into position now to confront terrorists who have seized Canadian military equipment, even donned their uniforms. Special agents from multiple law enforcement agencies of the United States, under the umbrella of our Security Services, have already begun to detain and question traitorous officials of the false administration in Ottawa, Calgary, Montreal and Toronto.

“Once these enemies of freedom have been defeated and the Canadian people are capable of responsible self-rule again, we intend to restore their full sovereignty, but not before peace and security is assured.

“Our days ahead are filled with trial, but also with promise. Our defeat of the rebellion in Alaska proves that. I urge you all to remain vigilant and strong. God bless you all, and God bless the United States of America.”

The president turned and walked off stage as reporters fired questions at his back. The video feed cut from the room to several news-channel talking heads. Sturgeon reached over and hit the mute button.

“Exciting days ahead,” he said and smiled. He even allowed himself to imagine becoming President one day. Why not? He’d be, as the saying went, “One heart attack away from the White House.”

The doorbell rang. That should be his ride. After donning his jacket and combing his hair again, he’d be ready to go fulfill his destiny.

When he answered the door, the President’s Chief of Staff walked in, followed by two Secret Service men.

“Andy! I didn’t expect you to come personally,” Sturgeon said with a smile and a handshake.

The man shrugged and looked around the large room. “It’s a big day for all of us. Anyone else here for the ride?”

“Nope, just me. I gave the housekeeper the rest of the day off. Wife’s at her mother’s in Pennsylvania.”

The Chief of Staff checked his phone. “We might as well sit and chat for a few minutes before we go. The President is going to be delayed a bit. Better to wait here than there.”

“Sure,” said Sturgeon. “Would you like a drink?”

“No thanks. Feel free, though.”

Sturgeon poured himself a splash of whisky, more to have something in his hands than out of any real desire for it, and then sat in his favorite chair.

The Chief of Staff settled himself across from Sturgeon and waved his bodyguards out of the room. “Close the door, please.” He turned to Sturgeon, placing his phone on the table between them. “That was quite a shock. About the Vice President, I mean.”

“Indeed it was.” Sturgeon suppressed the urge to wink. He was feeling positively giddy. “Most unexpected.”

“Hmm. Not totally unexpected. And very smooth. Out of curiosity, how was it done?”

Sturgeon hesitated. The subject seemed crass for gentlemen to entertain out loud. “An untraceable substance that induces cardiac arrest. Something from the Agency’s dirty tricks department.”

“You administered it yourself?”

“Of course not. One of her household staff was suborned.”

“And where’s that…person, now?”

Sturgeon checked his watch theatrically. “Infected, detained, and on her way to a camp.”

“Excellent work.”

Sturgeon nodded. “Thank you. It’s what the President wanted.”

The Chief of Staff picked up his phone again and raised his voice. “Gentlemen?”

The two burly men in suits returned to the room, pistols in their hands. Suppressors projected from the barrels.

The reflexes of long, arduous field service did not entirely fail Sturgeon. He rolled out of his chair and had his hand on the drawer of the desk where he kept a snubnose .38 when the bullets caught him in the back.

“Contacting the Russians behind our backs was one thing,” the Chief of Staff murmured, addressing the dying Director, “but murdering a high elected official of the United States? Tsk tsk. Can’t have that on my watch.”

He waved at the fanatically loyal Party men who were not, in any way associated with the Secret Service. “Bring in the cleaning crew.” They’d make the body disappear, sanitize the house, and then plant evidence of Sturgeon’s defection to the New Soviet Union. Records of his backchannel communications would be used to support that narrative.

The Chief of Staff thought about Sturgeon’s wife, his second, the trophy version. A younger woman, apparently amazing in bed, her file indicated she’d be happy to transfer her affections and ambitions to him…after a suitable mourning period, of course.

Andy, my boy, things are looking up, he told himself.

The trick was to know one’s place, not rise too high too fast…and never, ever make the boss nervous.

Chapter 40

Droning engines lulled the exhausted passengers and troops to sleep on the flight from eastern Tennessee to Colombia. In the cockpit, though, Flyboy and his copilot remained busy, unbeknownst to his passengers.

First, one of the engines failed. He couldn’t tell why, but the storm certainly didn’t help. The stalwart C-130J, the last in a long line of increasingly capable military turboprops, otherwise handled beautifully under the pressure, shrugging off the weather like a buffalo in a Great Plains blizzard.

When they finally rose above the white blanket into the starlit night sky, Flyboy breathed a sigh of relief and set his cruising altitude at 28,000 feet, avoiding the worst of it.

Over Mobile, Alabama they were intercepted by Air Force F-35s. In accordance with Spooky’s cover story and the aircraft’s markings, Flyboy passed a set of code words that convinced the fighter pilots and their controllers the C-130 was a clandestine CIA aircraft. Once they proceeded out to sea, he turned the controls over to the original pilot and relaxed in his seat.

***

In the rear of the aircraft, Larry watched Shadow become gradually more animated. He seemed fascinated by the flight. Unsurprisingly, it was the first time he’d seen the boy relaxed and unguarded.

“What’s your name, honey?” asked Spirit, putting a gentle hand on Shadow’s back. “Mine’s Vivian.”

“I call him Shadow. He doesn’t talk,” Larry told her.

“Sure he can,” she said. “He’s just a little rusty. Don’t you listen to this big dumb paleface.”

Larry choked. “First time I’ve ever been called paleface. I must have lightened up some in the camp.”

Spirit winked. “Okay, how about White Eyes?”

“A little better.”

Shadow stared solemnly at Spirit, saying nothing.

“Come on,” she urged. “If you like ‘Shadow,’ that can be your handle, but I know you got a real name in there somewhere. Names are important.”

He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. His face scrunched up in concentration. “Toe...bee,” he said slowly, and then more confidently. “Toby.”

“Yeah!” said Spirit, giving him a hug.

“You don’t look like a Toby,” said Larry with a mock-suspicious look. “You sure you didn’t just make that up?”

“Leave Toby alone, White Eyes,” Spirit said. “Kid ought to know his own name.”

“I think you’re overplaying the whole Indian thing.”

“Okay, shut up, Thug Life.”

“Oh, I see how it is.”

Spirit turned back to Toby. “Got a last name, kid?”

Toby suddenly became shy from the nearby watchers. Most of the Nguyens, along with Stitch and Flyboy, were observing him with interest.

“It’s okay,” said Spirit. “No one is going to hurt you here. We’re all like you. A big family.”

“Layfield,” he said.

“Well, Toby Layfield, it’s nice to meet you,” said Spirit.

“Interesting,” said Spooky. Turning to his kin, he spoke rapid words in his native tongue, receiving a hesitant response. He said something more emphatically, and the family bowed their heads in acquiescence. “My family will take care of the boy for now.”

“I thought he might come home with us,” said Larry, surprised.

“That would be unwise.”

“Why?”

“What did he say his last name was?”

“Layfield…oh, shit!”

“Indeed. What if the CIA takes an interest in finding him?”

“I –” Larry snapped his jaw shut.

“I think it best he become a Nguyen, hmm?”

Larry ran his hand over his head and sighed. “Yeah. All right.”

***

Fifteen minutes out from landing in Colombia, Flyboy walked to the rear. Reaper sat with her back against the skin of the plane. A body bag containing Python lay beside her. Her hands and clothing were still stained with his blood.

“You need to get into a seat and buckle up,” Flyboy told her gently.

“Leave me alone.”

Flyboy squatted down beside her. “Listen to me. None of this is your fault. You didn’t ask Shortfuse and the rest to stay behind. They did it on their own because that’s what team members do for each other. You didn’t ask Python to come to your rescue. He did that on his own because he loved you.”

“You can save the pep talk,” said Reaper. “Not in the mood.”

“No one else is in the mood either, boss, but we’re doing our jobs. Now your job is to get in a seat.”

Reaper didn’t respond, only stared at the body bag, rubbing at the bloodstains on her hands.

“You think you’re the only one grieving?” Flyboy asked. “You think the rest of us loved Shortfuse or Hawkeye or Bunny or Hulk any less than you?”

“It’s not the same. I was in charge. Just give me some space.”

“We’re about to land. You’re still in charge, and we need you. We completed the mission. We freed several hundred Edens. We retrieved the Nguyens, and Skull’s buddy Larry. You thought it was impossible, but we did it. And our team members…they stayed behind for us. We’d have done the same. And some of them might have made it to Derrick’s people.”

“I told Spooky I’d keep an eye on Buzz, and I blew it.”

“From what I could see, Buzz laid low until the last. You couldn’t have seen it coming.”

“I should have.”

“Nobody’s perfect. Except Spooky, of course.” He flicked his eyes. “And if you don’t man up and start acting like the boss again, he’s gonna find some way to screw us.”

Reaper sighed heavily and didn’t speak. Finally she reached out and grasped Flyboy’s hand, lifting herself to her feet.

“Now we need to get into our seats and buckle up.” Flyboy said.

“You know how many times I’ve flown in one of these without a seatbelt?” she asked.

“Not with this goober at the controls you haven’t. Frankly I give us even odds he doesn’t crash and kill us all. Now get in your damn seat. I need to go back to the cockpit and supervise.”

Despite Flyboy’s words, the pilot stuck the landing without trouble. Soon, the plane taxied onto the airfield’s apron. Skull opened the ramp before the aircraft even came to a halt.

The Colombian sunlight and heat following the snowstorm and darkness seemed surreal. The passengers squinted against the brightness as they disembarked. They saw several buses and a squad of medics, who immediately began checking those in the worst shape, threading nutrient IVs into their veins.

Spooky stepped up beside Daniel Markis as the Chairman looked over the Nguyen family.

“Rough mission, I hear,” Markis said, reaching out to shake Spooky’s free hand, the other bandaged into a sling.

“Reaper lost five people, probably. Four of my own family did not survive the experience.”

“I’m sorry. The adults could all be your brothers and sisters.”

“None of them actually are. I was the only one of my immediate family to escape and survive the wars. What you’re looking at is four generations of Nguyen – my great-uncles and aunts, uncles and aunts, cousins, nieces and nephews. All that is left of a once-numerous Degar clan influential in the highlands of Vietnam.”

“Yes, you’ve told me how your people were persecuted.”

“Persecuted is a weak word. Our women were stolen and forced into prostitution, our men put into labor camps or killed if they did not submit, our children sent to be raised by lowlanders. When the Communists normalized relations with the West, many immigrated to America, only to become Edens and again be oppressed.”

“You should write a book.”

“Perhaps some day I will.”

“Welcome back,” said Cassandra Johnstone as she approached. She did not reach for Spooky’s hand, and he didn’t bother to extend his.

“Thank you for holding down the fort.”

“You may find a few changes in your absence.”

“The price one pays for family. I’ll soon set things right.”

Spooky watched Cassandra roll her eyes at Markis, who smiled. He’d spoken truth, though. He’d been prepared to pay the price of disorder to retrieve those of his clan, for now they were chained to him absolutely by the bonds of gratitude and family, of which he’d become the new de facto patriarch.

Spooky waved at a couple of his black ops people, there to meet the returning heroes. He pointed at the bag on the ramp. “Take this body to the morgue. Prepare it for a burial with honors.”

They nodded and retrieved a stretcher and used it to carry Python away.

Spooky caught Reaper’s eye as she moved to intervene. “It’s all right,” he said to her. “They’ll take care of him.”

“Don’t think this means I don’t hate you.”

“Hate will take you places love can’t.”

Reaper turned away as if baffled, and wandered into the crowd.

Spooky watched as Larry disembarked and clapped Markis’ shoulder, looming over the smaller man. Putting on his best Uncle Tom routine, he said, “You don’t call, Massah Daniel, an’ you don’t write. Look at the shit I got to go through to spend a li’l quality time wid you, now you Mistah Big.”

Markis laughed and embraced Larry, who lifted him off the ground. Larry eventually set the Chairman down and reached out to hug Cassandra, kissing her on the cheek.

“Welcome back, Larry,” she said. “My assistant here will take you to my office. Shawna’s already on the line. She hounded me like hell to get you out of there.”

Larry laughed. “Yeah, she can be a bit...insistent.” He turned toward the main complex with eager steps, only to run into Skull.

“Where you think you’re going, convict?”

Larry laughed again, loud. “I hear they got a price on your head. Wanted, dead or alive.” He reached to embrace Skull, who stiff-armed him.

“You’re not really my type, brother,” Skull said with a death’s-head grin. He shook Larry’s hand, and then allowed himself to be pulled into a half-hug. “Be good.”

Larry refused to let go of Skull’s hand. “You came for me. Thanks.”

“You always were one weepy son of a bitch. Now turn loose of me, you ogre.”

Larry released Skull, who gave him a salute with his index finger and backed up. Then Larry resumed his eager rush toward Cassandra’s office and Shawna’s video call.

Spooky leaned against the skin of the aircraft as he watched Skull approach Cassandra, cataloguing their interactions, filing them in his copious memory.

“Hey, Cassie,” Skull said. “You look good, as always. Relaxed. Having fun playing Spider Lady? Got everybody in your–” he spread his hands and wiggled his fingers, as if manipulating marionettes on strings, “–your web?”

Cassandra gazed flatly at him. “Can we talk? Like grownups?”

Skull shrugged. “So talk, mom.”

“Look,” she said. “I know you’re angry. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I did what I had to do, just like you do. I had more than just one person to save. I had to look at the bigger picture.”

He stared at her for a long moment, expressionless. “Fair enough.” He leaned forward and put his hand behind her head to kiss her, firmly, but without passion. “Good-bye, Cassandra.” Skull walked away.

Markis stepped up to stand next to Spooky. “Ah, young love.”

“Broken trust is hard to mend,” Spooky said.

“Yes, it is. I’m glad I can trust you.”

Spooky turned to search Markis’ eyes. He thought he read in them more depth than usual, and reminded himself that just because the Chairman of the Free Communities was a good man, a moral man, didn’t mean he wasn’t a dangerous man.

I could only follow a dangerous man, he thought. “You can trust me, Daniel,” he said. “The moment you don’t believe that, do me the courtesy of demanding my resignation. I assure you I’ll trouble you no more.”

“Oh, I know that, Tran. I know.”

Again, Spooky pondered Markis’ words. A promise? A warning?

Markis looked at his watch. “I have to go. Please organize a memorial service for those you lost.” He seemed to have subtly emphasized the word “you.” Placing blame?

Responsibility, at least.

“I’ll take care of it personally,” said Spooky.

“Of course,” said Markis putting his hand on Spooky’s shoulder. “And stay away from Reaper. In my experience losing comrades – or lovers – is something that hits you suddenly. Never know how she’ll react. I’d hate to have to add either one of you to the rolls of the fallen.”

Spooky nodded as Markis left. He turned to find Cassandra staring at him. Somehow he’d have to mend fences with her…but not today. Today, it seemed, everyone wanted to blame Tran Pham Nguyen for the butcher’s bill.

Nguyens…he grabbed his gear and began to walk along the flight line toward the main compound, following the buses, which had begun to roll. He passed Reaper, Flyboy, Spirit and Stitch, all who remained of the team. He made a mental note to expend every effort to find out for sure whether anyone reached Derrick’s people. Doing so might buy him a small measure of redemption.

***

Flyboy turned to Spirit and Stitch. “Hey, why don’t you give Reaper and me a minute?”

“Sure,” said Spirit. “We’ll be at the bar after we clean up.” The two departed.

Flyboy looked away from Reaper before speaking. He opened his mouth and shut it several times.

“You did good,” Reaper said, forcing a smile. “Finally got to put those mad flying skills to use. Saved us all.”

Flyboy sighed. “Look, I know this isn’t the best time, but...the three of us are leaving.”

“Leaving? Where?”

“Chile. Argentina. Patagonia.”

“Like, on vacation?”

Flyboy smiled. “No. Before Hawkeye…well, before, we were thinking about going to help the Eden insurgency there in the mountains. Hawkeye’s people are fighting against anti-Eden death squads, cartels, cocaine growers, smugglers…lots of people who think Edens make good slaves, or should be stamped out. They could use some help.”

“And Stitch and Spirit are going with you?”

“They’re leaning that way. They don’t like what just happened.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Nobody could have done better.”

“I could have aborted.”

“Then all those people would still be in the camp. Look, it was worth the risk. The trade. A handful of people for hundreds. Makes sense.”

“But?”

Flyboy slapped his chest. “But this war is changing. It’s changing you, it’s changing us, it’s changing what Markis has got to work with. People like Spooky, like Skull, like our spy queen…”

“We become what we hate.”

“This wasn’t a surgical strike with SAM rounds, converting them into Edens. We killed a lot of people today. Fifty, a hundred? That’s not what I signed up for. Fighting monsters makes monsters of us. I don’t want to become a monster.”

Reaper crossed her arms and toed the soil at her feet. “I get it.”

“Come with us,” pleaded Flyboy. “Get away from all of this. All the intrigue and politics. Come with us to a place where it’s all simple again. It can be like it used to be. We’ll still work with the FC. Hell, we’ll need supplies of sublethal ammo. But we can do it on our terms.”

Flyboy’s offer cried out to her. It was an opportunity to escape, to get away and start over. What did she have here anyway, now that Keith was dead? Rogett could bodyguard Markis. Cassandra would never be far from a satphone.

Spooky…she still didn’t understand him.

At least he hadn’t turned out to be a traitor.

At least she hadn’t had to put a bullet in the back of his head.

You’ve let yourself be carried along by the stream of events, she told herself. Get out. Get away. Go back to a simple life and a simple code.

She lifted her head and smiled. She found herself on the verge of accepting the offer, until she noticed her hands, still stained with Keith’s blood.

Let them go, she thought. How much more blood will be on your hands before it’s all over? This is their escape, not yours. Don’t screw it up for them.

Looking up, she shrugged, as if helpless. “My place is here...at least for now. Maybe I’ll catch up with you.”

“Yeah. Drop us a line.” He backed up, and then turned to go.

Reaper found herself alone.

Epilogue

After an evening of heavy drinking, rare for them both, Larry convinced Skull to accompany him to South Africa. Skull awoke hung over to find Larry pushing him along in a wheelchair, the big man swaggering and whistling like a bird in spring.

“Where am I?” Skull moaned, shading his eyes from the bright sun.

“Are we feeling a bit under the weather this morning?”

“Shut up and answer the question.”

“Testy too, I see. I’m wheeling you to a long-range transport. It’s going to take us to my new home. Shawna is mighty pissed at me over all of this, one reason I want you there. She’ll be on better behavior and go easier on me with a houseguest.”

“Where’s my gear?” asked Skull, looking around at the tarmac and the airplanes loading there.

“Already taken care of. Couldn’t get your lazy ass to do dick-all this morning. Just slept and snored. Is that how they do it in the Corps? Would Chesty Puller be proud of you? I think not.”

Skull put his hands on his face to block out the sunlight. “Would you please just shut the fuck up?”

“I don’t remember you being this big of a wuss before. If I had known you were going to be a crybaby I’d have ordered you a near beer, or maybe a glass of buttermilk.”

“You know damn well you have an advantage.”

“Yes, I have an advantage. I’m one bad mofo and you’re not.”

“You’re an Eden. Your alien mutant dinosaur DNA filters out toxins.”

Larry’s voice sobered. “You can have it any time.”

Skull tried to get up. “I must have been stupid drunk to agree to this. Let me off.”

“Bullshit,” said Larry, pushing Skull forcefully back down in the wheelchair. “A promise is a promise.”

Skull slept it off during the flight to Pretoria. An SUV met them on the runway, and after loading up their gear they headed into the suburbs. Larry kept fidgeting and making comments about everything he saw outside.

Skull smiled in sudden understanding. “You’re nervous. Hell, you’re scared shitless of your old lady.”

“You would be too,” Larry said. “Shawna is no woman to mess with. I’d appreciate it if you could run interference. You know...create a distraction.”

“Not. A. Chance.”

Larry laid his head back on the headrest. “Thanks for nothing.”

“You owe me, remember?”

The driver had to lower the window to show his identification when they entered a secured compound. Through the window they could hear an unmistakable voice.

“LAWRENCE STEVEN AUBREY NIGHTINGALE, YOU BETTER GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE RIGHT THIS SECOND!”

“Steven?” Skull said. “Aubrey?”

“Uh-oh,” said Larry.

Skull’s wide, genuine smile transformed his face. It was a look few had ever seen. “Got any popcorn? This gonna be fun.”

The SUV pulled through the gate, which closed behind them. Before the vehicle had even stopped, they saw Shawna marching toward the passenger door. She yanked it open, staring at Skull in confusion.

He pointed across. “Other side.”

She hurried around and snatched that door open.

Larry stepped out. “Now look baby, I –”

Shawna cut him off by pulling him down to her and planting a gigantic and lingering kiss on his lips. After a few surprised seconds, his arms wrapped around her and lifted her off the ground.

Skull stepped out of the vehicle, feeling genuinely good for the first time in a long while.

Over dinner and drinks – hair of the dog, Skull thought – they caught up on the last several years since Markis loosed the Plague. In the basement, beers in hand, Larry told story after hilarious story. Skull allowed himself to simply enjoy the company without having to watch his back. He found himself again tempted to accept the virus, but…no, he refused to give up his scars, too much a part of himself.

“Hey, are you seeing this?” yelled Shawna from above.

“Seeing what?”

“Turn on the news, but don’t go getting any crazy ideas about leaving again. I own your ass.”

Larry turned on the television mounted on the wall and saw news of massive protests in Mexico. The government was using tear gas and water cannons on the crowds. The crawler feed across the bottom said they’d instituted martial law.

“What’s this about?” Skull asked.

“It was on the television in the bar last night,” Larry said. “Were you that damn drunk?”

“Just tell me what happened,”

“A radical faction within the Mexican Congress staged a political coup and kicked out the old administration, but they’re not going gently. Looks like the new guys have the backing of the military, though, which is what really matters.”

“– and have just introduced a proposal to petition for a political union with the United States. President Julez points to the growing Eden problem, and the need to combine forces to contain the infection. He also claims that joining the U.S. will result in an economic boom –”

Larry said, “Normally I’m not a fan of conspiracy theories, but they’re all over the internet. I think there might be some truth this time. With the Canada thing, this seems too coordinated to me. Like the Unionists are taking over both countries.”

“The Sudetenland and Austria, huh?”

“What language are you speaking, bro?”

Skull sighed. “The curse of education. Read a history book, will you?”

“I got enough education to know this ain’t gonna be good for the FC.”

“It looks like your average Mexican is none too happy about it either.”

Larry nodded. “Lots of Edens in Mexico. If they join with the United States, they know it’s gonna only be a matter of time before the Unionists start rounding them up too.”

“Damn,” said Skull shaking his head. “I saw this coming. If Mexico goes, all North America will be under Unionist domination. They’ll take the Caribbean and Central America too, if they can.”

“Maybe. I can’t figure out if they’re really so scared of the Eden virus that they genuinely think they need to stamp it out, or they’re just using that fear as an excuse to go all Genghis Khan on nearby countries.”

“Probably a little of both.”

Skull found the spell had been broken. His cigar had turned to ash, his Scotch no longer tasted divine, and Larry wasn’t telling funny stories. “I think I’m going to turn in. Where you got me?”

“Here, on the sofa, if you don’t mind.”

Skull swept his eyes around the room, lingering on the windows. “Don’t mind at all. Where’s my gear?”

“I’ll bring it down.”

“Thanks.”

When he had his bag, and Larry and Shawna had gone up to bed, Skull repacked, dumping a few things he didn’t need to lighten his load, and then slipped through one of the windows. A guard let him out of the compound with a wave.

Walking down the streets of Pretoria in the evening was no longer the equivalent of Russian roulette. The Eden virus had swept the poor of South Africa and dramatically reduced violent crime, he’d read, just like in the other FC countries. Things weren’t perfect, but they'd improved dramatically for the average citizen.

After checking his mapping app, Skull thought about Larry and his family. He admitted envy of what his friend had, but not resentment. He might have built the same himself.

Had the love of his life not died on a California mountain road.

Had he made different choices.

Had he been a different man.

Had he been willing to let that germ have its way with him.

But he could never do that.

He’d had family once. Not a wife and kids, but parents, grandparents, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews. Like the Nguyens, he supposed. A Denham clan, scattered throughout Tennessee, Kentucky and a few other places. All now gone. According to his researches, the Edens among them had been rounded up and done away with in the early days of the Plague, more collateral damage of Markis’ arrogance. The few non-Edens, he’d lost track of.

His grandmother Detta had been the last connection to his past, but she’d been tortured and killed. His brother’s three daughters might have called him Uncle Alan if they hadn’t died in an experimentation camp. All because of the Unionists and their Psycho servants, sick bastards who believed the ends justified the means.

They were right, though, he had to admit. His ends justified his means. The difference was, his ends heralded the destruction of injustice, even if he had to use the ugliest of means.

The irony was not lost on him.

“To fight monsters, become a monster,” he murmured.

A passerby glanced at him, and he nodded. “Evening.”

Now, as usual, he isolated himself within the fortress of his mind, walling off the emotions he’d briefly allowed himself.

They were nonproductive.

They only got in the way.

The only emotion he’d allow himself was hatred.

Skull found himself at the foot of a subtropical trail. A lighted bungalow lay at the end of that pathway above him. The name of the man and his address had come to him unbidden. The particulars were inscribed on a vast mental death warrant that Skull had already committed to serving. He’d plugged the address into his smart phone app and allowed it to guide him here.

He knew he could report the Psycho. The man would be arrested and interrogated by the South African authorities. Larry would make sure of it.

But not like I would. It needs to be final. You can’t infect and improve a Psycho; he’s already infected. Better to eliminate him and throw the fear of death into the others.

And admit it, Skull. You do enjoy it.

He stood at the bottom of the path and looked up at the house silhouetted against the darkening night. A weathervane fashioned as a sailing schooner twisted slightly in the breeze.

I am like a ship on the seas, Skull mused. I make ports of call, but there’s no home for me. I go where the winds of war send me.

The breeze blew gently behind him, turning the ship on the house in the direction he faced. Then the breeze died.

As the man in the house soon would.

THE END of Nearest Night

Continue reading below for a sample from the next book, The Demon Plagues.

Sample from

THE DEMON PLAGUES

Prologue

Infection Year Ten
Alan “Skull” Denham put his eye to the sight of his venerable Barrett sniper rifle. Mexico City sprawled smoggy as ever; he could just barely see his target area. The fascist United Governments of North America hadn’t done any better than the old Mexican regime had in cleaning the place up. Annexation of Mexico and Canada by the former U.S. had proven to be the proverbial anaconda swallowing the buffalo; the process seemed inevitable, but very, very slow.

Skull was indigestion.

The cold logic of insurgency dictated that he kill as many northerners as possible and spare the locals, sowing distrust between Latinos and gringos. When he did, government cracked down, locals protested and rioted and bombed.

Skull loved it.

This target was special: a Security Service Psycho officer, one of the tiny percentage of infected humanity that the Plague turned evil…or at least narcissistic. Most people considered the two the same.

Like many low-level Psychos in the Unionist-Party-dominated UG, this one led an SS death squad, searching out the UGNA’s enemies, criminal or political, real or imagined.

Crosshairs drifted downward to rest on the norteamericano. Skull inhaled, then let his breath out most of the way and paused naturally. His finger gently squeezed the trigger, surprising him with the sharp report. All well-aimed shots were unanticipated; that was a secret of the sniper, especially for shots like this at over eight hundred meters.

He didn’t have to see the Psycho fall, didn’t have to observe his head explode like a ripe melon. Zen-like, as soon as the bullet left the barrel he had felt the shot was good. Skull was already moving from his position before the first sirens wailed and the SS airmobile reaction team spun into the air.

He slid the weapon into the beat-up guitar case, barely large enough to contain the gun. A sombrero settled onto his head, completing his mariachi costume. With his dark eyes and deeply tanned face wrinkled from a lifetime of outdoor exposure, he became just another local musician heading to a concert. His Apache grandfather had bequeathed him the ability to tan darker than any ordinary white man, and he blended in among the South and Central Americans with ease. Down the stairs, off the roof of the building and into the slums, in two minutes he had disappeared among the bars and cantinas and squalid apartments.

Helicopters pummeled the air overhead, too late. The crowds on the dirty streets hid him, one among many, as he made his way to his dwelling.

In his tiny rented room he searched his own face, dark eyes like pits in the cracked mirror. Over fifty now, he was resigned to the aging as long as he could keep the hate alive. He nursed it like a beloved child; the killing gave his life meaning. Perhaps someday the fear of age and infirmity would tempt him to accept the emasculating Eden Plague virus that had upended his world.

But not today. Today he had filled his cup of death. Today he was whole.

Water on his face, on his hands. In the fading light coming through the cheap curtains it turned to blood, but he ignored the sight by long practice. He reached for a bottle of mescal. “Arriba, abajo, al centro y pa ´dentro,” he murmured, and then drank a slug from the neck. The traditional toast of “up, down, center and in” seemed to make the smoky liquor taste better.

Opening the guitar case, he gently removed his exquisite rifle. Before he stripped it down and cleaned it, he took out a knife and made a thin hash mark at the end of the row on the stock.

His fingertips touched the four hundred and fifty-five tiny indentations, one for each kill with the weapon. The first ninety-six had been the enemies of his country, back when he had a country, back when the United States was something to believe in. He’d killed in Somalia, Iraq, Yemen, Afghanistan and countless other places.

The rest of the marks…those were personal. Payback for his old commander Zeke, payback for hacker Vinny, payback for the innocents in the death camps and for the other millions murdered by the chickenshit jackbooted thugs of the Unionist Party and the United Governments, those that had corrupted his flag, stole his Constitution, and murdered all he held sacred.

Who needs sex, he thought, when killing is so much more satisfying.

Closing the knife, he began to lovingly service his weapon.

Chapter One

Colonel Tran Pham “Spooky” Nguyen, Free Communities Armed Forces, checked the action on his well-worn P90, ensuring for the tenth time that it was ready to function: ready to pepper his opponents with Needleshock rounds, the apex of FCAF nonlethal-weapons technology.

Each tiny ultra-high-velocity discarding-sabot shell accelerated a narrow penetrator to over five thousand feet per second, able to defeat most body armor. The needle contained a highly charged capacitor that dumped enough electricity into the target to put him out cold. Combined with the ablative Eden Virus coating, it was the most effective small-arms ammunition the FCAF had. As long as the user was careful to keep his shots away from the enemy’s head and heart, it was nonlethal. Every wound would initiate the Eden Plague cascade, immediately organizing the infectee’s body to begin healing thousands of times faster than normal, making them into Edens.

This had led to the absurdity of enemy-issued body armor that deliberately did not protect the head and heart of ordinary troops; their political masters preferred a dead soldier to a converted one. As a result, enemy morale was usually low.

Spooky looked around at his team, eight people crammed into a small submersible and crated inside a standard high-cube intermodal shipping container. The carefully shielded box was designed to appear to any scanners to hold high-quality electronic cabling; in reality the material was mere camouflage that hid the men and the mini-sub from prying technological eyes.

The team felt a thump as a crane lifted their container off its stack inside the Maersk cargo ship and placed it onto a robotic carrier on shore. The spidery vehicle followed its electronic trails in a carefully orchestrated dance around the Port of Hawaii transshipment system, to join in a queue of its fellows waiting to load onto the United Governments of North America-flagged hydrofoil freighter Stetson. When the robot attained the front of the line, it placed its container gently onto the tarmac, precisely one meter from the adjacent box, and scooted back down the automated roadways to its next assignment.

Shipborne trade still flowed, the lifeblood of the world economy. Though the restrictions and checks were repeated and onerous, vessels from all over the world loaded and offloaded goods through Port of Hawaii.

The team tried to relax in the dimness of a glowstick taped to the overhead of their mini-sub. They had checked their weapons repeatedly, they had meditated and dictated family messages into memory chips, they had told stories and read or listened to books on their readers, they had watched movies, and they had slept. And twice each day they put on their virtual reality goggles, set down their weapons, picked up motion-controllers, and ran through the mission in VR space. It had been a long six days, and it would be one more before they could move.

Picking them up from the tarmac, the crane on the tender swung the metal box through the air to be deposited in the narrow hold of the Stetson. Other containers soon joined them, and any concerns about discovery evaporated.

One more day. The six men and two women wiggled in their seats, seeking comfort that would not come.

Spooky let them sleep while he ran through the mission on his own glasses once more to fend off creeping claustrophobia. It would be tricky, and it would be dangerous, but if they succeeded, they would change the course of the sputtering, back-and-forth conflict between the Free Communities and the Big Three.

After fighting one sort of war or another for many decades, first against the Communist government of Vietnam, then for the US Special Forces, the thought of peace, political or personal, had seemed just a remote dream.

Until now.

Hours later a feeling of motion alerted them to the ship’s departure, heading for New Zealand and, unbeknownst to its crew, for an open-ocean rendezvous designated by nothing more than a set of encrypted GPS coordinates.

Chapter Two

Rick Johnstone opened the office door without knocking. “Mister Chairman, they just struck Kinshasa.”

Free Communities Council Chairman Daniel Markis’ blood ran cold. “Elise?” he asked.

“Just fine, sir. She left a few hours before. All the staff did, when the warning came in. They’re on their way to the facility in South Africa.”

“Thank you, Rick. You can go. Tell Millicent to hold my calls and visitors for a few minutes, please.” Another few thousand civilians dead, collateral damage from the UGNA’s “precision” strikes. Markis put his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes. The latest atrocity weighed on his soul. He told himself he was not responsible, but the accusing serpent in his head hissed, Liar!

He thought he had gotten rid of that thing when the Eden Plague healed his body and his brain. But the virus could only fix organic issues; he had lived with the snake for too long before his infection to lose it that easily.

He stared at the deep crimson beret that sat on the shelf above his desk. It was symbolic, a replacement. His original one, the one he had kept with him everywhere he went, from Afghanistan to Mogadishu, from Iraq to Yemen, was lost, probably in some UGNA evidence vault. But the symbol had a powerful meaning for him. The metal flash on its face showed an angel with her arms wrapped around a globe, and the motto underneath: That Others May Live.

There are worse things to dedicate a life to.

Markis shook himself out of his funk. I am the Chairman, damn it! He was the closest thing the Free Communities had to a leader, or at least a figurehead. When he proposed something, it usually got done with a minimum of wrangling, as long as it made some kind of sense. The Eden Plague had not only wiped out disease, it had wiped out a lot of petty-mindedness and self-interest. But it hadn’t wiped out politics; it had just made the struggles a bit more honest.

He steeled himself to address the Council once again. Opening his door he called, “Millicent, please ask Rick to set up a video teleconference with all available Council members at 1400 hours.” Two p.m. was a good time for videoconferences over the secure link, from Eastern Standard Time in the Americas. Asians and Australians would be up already, or at least could be, and Europe and Africa would not be abed yet. That gave him half an hour to get some lunch.

Walking down the hall to the little cafeteria, he got himself a big bowl of stew and some iced tea. He thanked the server and went over to look out the second-floor window at the view of the town of Tunja, Colombia Free Community. It was an unlikely place from which to run a world resistance movement; that was exactly why he did.

Stomach filled and back in his office, he reviewed his notes for a few minutes, then walked down to the basement where the secure conference room waited. He nodded to Rick Johnstone, grown strong, free of the muscular dystrophy that had made his early life a creeping hell.

“Most of them are up already. I have a few more to connect.”

“Thanks. Let me know.” Markis sat down, shuffled papers for a few moments.

“All right, everyone’s up, and you’re live, Mister Chairman.”

Nodding once more, he turned to address the Council of the Free Communities. “Hello everyone. I won’t say good day. By now most of you should have heard about Kinshasa. Here’s a video of the last strike, taken from about ten miles away.”

The feed dissolved to a grainy shot of the entrance to the lab complex, then pulled back to see the scrubland between the cameraman and the target, and the city of Kinshasa, Congo, beyond. The unnamed videographer spoke as the image jumped and steadied. “Should be any time now. Hope to hell I’m far enough away.”

A few more seconds went by, then streaks of light and explosions whited out the picture. As it cleared, they could see several mushroom clouds, miniature copies of the aftermath of nuclear explosions. One billow, off target, rose deep inside the densely populated city. Then the picture faded.

Markis spoke.  “It was a sub-launched ballistic missile, another non-nuclear Trident MIRV, multiple kinetic strike. I believe this happened because someone leaked word of the research facility there. I will tell you in confidence that our science program has not been seriously damaged, because none of our scientists had occupied the facility. They attacked too soon, before the lab was in operation. But we cannot let these atrocities continue.”

He wasn’t going to tell the full council about the warning that his human intelligence network, his spies in the United Governments territory, had provided. While the video teleconference technology was secure, the Council itself, and the staffs of the members, were not.

Like any political body, it leaked like a sieve.

He selected one of the blinking lights that told him a member wanted to address the Council. This was one of his most important powers: the power to choose who would be heard, and in what order. Best to let the opposition speak first. “Yes, Ms. Farnsworth?”

“This proves what I have said repeatedly. We must shut down the research programs. There has been very little progress in the last five years, since the fertility and metabolism issues were solved; the virtue effect has proven itself uncrackable. And the high-tech weapons programs are a waste of resources and cost countless lives as they provoke the Big Three to these horrifying actions. We must bide our time. Our projections show that the Plague will eventually reach everyone. If nothing else, we will outlive our opponents.”

“Thank you.” He pressed another button, to hear from a more moderate source. “Go ahead, Mr. Ramirez.”

“Thank you Mr. Chairman. We are not responsible for the evil of the UGNA, the Russians or the Chinese. But what are we doing to curb these leaks and security breaches? If there were none, they would have no reason to target facilities, real or imagined, with weapons of mass destruction. I cite Antigua.”

Antigua had been incinerated eight years ago, before the Nuclear Concord agreement that ended atomic weapon use, apparently because of a mere rumor of a nonexistent Free Community research facility.

Markis pressed the speaking key. “Unfortunately the virtue effect does not preclude simple foolishness and gossip. It’s human nature. We cannot and will not use heavy-handed tactics like our opponents to try to control leaks. That’s an impossible and self-destructive task. All of the Free Communities must implement their security plans in their own way. Next?”

The debate carried on for forty-five minutes; complaints and recriminations, discussion points and politesse back and forth. The only difference between this and a pre-Plague political body is that occasionally someone’s mind was changed by logic and common sense. And they were more or less civil. And there were no filibusters allowed. He supposed it was an improvement.

When the requests for the floor finally died down, Chairman Markis addressed them. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement that may provide some hope. As you know, the Central American arena has proven the UG’s current quagmire. Since seizing everything south to Panama, the drug cartels, the Maoist guerillas, the independence movements, and simple intractable poverty consumes their resources at an alarming rate. The employment of the Security Service Psychos has exacerbated the situation for them exponentially, a tremendous blunder. Death squad tactics and gratuitous atrocities have turned the population against them.”

“The Free Communities have survived, even prevailed in Africa, South America and Australia, and the Neutral States have stabilized Europe, Southwest Asia, the Middle East, and the Indian subcontinent, but the situation has become stalemated. Millions of people languish in concentration camps, enslaved and starving. They don’t even have the benefit of the updates in the virus that have eliminated the hunger and the fertility issues. Our Armed Forces commandos have rescued as many as we can. But I am here now to tell you we have a chance to change the balance of power, to break the stranglehold of tyranny for millions.”

He checked his watch. They should be boarding the submarine just about now. Markis continued.

“I can now tell you that our intelligence service is on the verge of scoring a tremendous success. We have suborned a high-ranking official in the UGNA, an official so high that he ranks near the Triumvir-Presidents themselves. He has provided us with a data dump of the UGNA strategic targeting and activation codes. In a matter of hours, we will be able to deploy our latest cyber weapons to take control of, and selectively launch their own ballistic and cruise missiles, regardless of warhead, at targets of our choosing.”

Almost every picture on the screen flashed with a request for the floor; he had expected that, and he ignored them. “Please, let me finish, then everyone will have a chance to speak. Perhaps I can answer some of your questions right away.”

“I have not gone mad, nor have our intelligence specialists. No one will be launching these weapons against human targets. But in the narrow window we expect to have before the UG regains control of their arsenal, we intend to retarget and launch as many missiles as possible, to strike in harmless, empty places. These weapons are expensive, and they are deadly; if we can expend hundreds or even thousands of them, we can substantially reduce our vulnerability. There will be no nuclear detonations. We do not have the Permissive Action Link codes to activate the weapons themselves. But in one stroke we might just destroy more than half their strategic weapons.”

Now if they’ll just believe this necessary lie.

Chapter Three

Larry Nightingale rolled over in the gentle morning’s light. He gazed for a time at the perfect curve of his wife Shawna’s waist and hips hiding under satin sheets. He wondered how he could ever have been so lucky, and sent a prayer of thanks skyward. His Baptist faith, never very strong, had taken a beating for a while. Now, despite the struggles he saw miracles everywhere, mostly in the love of a woman he knew was far too good for him.

Aware of his contemplation, she stirred and rolled over to face him.

He reached out to touch the notch at her throat, the mark of a master craftsman, he had always thought. How could anyone think that something as beautiful as this woman came about by random natural forces?

“Hey, hunky-dory.”

“Hey.”

“Penny?” Shawna smiled.

Larry blinked. “Just thanking God for you every day.”

“You say the sweetest things.” She leaned closer to enfold herself in his arms, and his passion rose. The world went away for a while.

Some time later they sat together at the breakfast table, with scrambled eggs and toast between them. “Remember how this used to be? Three dozen eggs just for you?” Shawna laughed.

“Sure glad Elise got the metabolism thing worked out.”

“Elise and her team, you mean.”

“Yes, sorry, all of you guys.”

“Oh, not me. I’m not claiming credit. I’m just an administrator.”

Larry laughed. “And I just blow stuff up. Without you, the research program would fall apart into a thousand little jealous factions with redundant and wasteful efforts.”

“Lesouer wouldn’t agree with you.” She made a face.

“Too bad the Plague doesn’t cure sticks up the ass.”

“I don’t think there is a cure for that.” Her laugh was hearty and feminine, but not in the least ladylike, as befit her big, brash personality – dominating anywhere but here. With Larry, she melted.

“So,” he asked, idly poking at a fraying part of the tablecloth, “how is the research program going?”

“Which part? No progress on the virtue effect – if you can call it progress.”

“It would help to make them a bit more afraid of us.”

“I’m not so sure. We get so many refugees just because they know we will treat them well; that we don’t torture or abuse them.”

“I don’t want to abuse anyone. I just wanna be able to use kinetic weapons, especially against combat vehicles, without feeling like a murderer. Do you know the UG is retrofitting their Wraith combat drones to put a man in? They announced it on the news. They know our options are much more limited without lethal force.”

“Our EMP and charged particle beam weapons are coming along.”

“I been hearing that for a while.”

She pouted. “We’re doing the best we can.”

“I know you are. What about the space program?”

“It’s a catch-22. We need to be able to test things – engines first, then actual rocket bodies – but the last two centers we established got nuked. We buried the scientists deep enough so we didn’t lose many, just a few that were going in or out – but we can’t do anything aboveground with all their overhead coverage.” “Overhead” meant satellite reconnaissance.

“So without rockets we can’t make missiles to knock down the spy satellites that keep us from making rockets.”

“I have some hopes for the beam weapons project. The Australians –”

“The Australians saved their own bacon. The only FC state to give the Big Three a bloody nose – and they killed a lot of people to do it. I’m still not sure how. And I’m not sure we’re not going to pay for it later. But they won’t talk about it.”

“Maybe it’s because if we knew, we wouldn’t want to know. It almost split the FC and brought down the Council as it is.”

Larry sighed. “But it stopped the Big Three from striking Australian soil, so now our most important research facilities are being moved there. Somehow they jury-rigged a solution to the virtue effect. I’ve been runnin’ it over in my head and I can only think of a few ways, and all of them scare me.”

Sounds of sleepy bare feet slapping on the tile floors echoed down the hallway from the bedrooms. Hands rubbing eyes led pajamas into the kitchen as Daniela and Ellis, nine and seven, padded over to the breakfast table. Ellis grabbed a piece of toast, began to butter it, while Daniela sat down primly and said, “Tea please.”

“Tea please coming right up. Larry, I have to get going.”

“Woman works from sun to sun…”

She laughed. “You got that right. Have a good day.” She poured the tea and then kissed Larry soundly, leaving him to his Mister Mom routine.

He didn’t mind; schools were good now that South Africa was a Free Community run by Edens, the telework infrastructure was excellent, and he had his weight room handy whenever he felt like taking a break. They were far enough out from any facility that he believed – he hoped – that no one would initiate a strike on them. The FC research effort was widely dispersed, depending on virtual space and online collaboration.

He saw the kids off on their bus and then sat down at his bank of screens. Right now he was modeling shaped explosives in hopes of developing a nonlethal kinetic weapon to use against armored vehicles. It was an enormous technical challenge; how do you strike a tank with a projectile smart enough to disable the vehicle but not kill the crew? Targeting was a big part of it, though that had largely been solved. By using top-attack missiles and aiming at the engine compartments or the tires or treads, most of the time you got a mobility kill with no crew death.

But most of the time wasn’t good enough for FC politics. The Eden Plague had enhanced some of the populace’s tendencies to stick their heads in the sand, turned them into what used to be called lefties and tree-huggers and peaceniks, and the enhanced revulsion to killing made “most of the time” unacceptable to those Edens. Even the Council members, who tended to be more pragmatic, realistic and hard-nosed, were as kill-phobic as uninfected humans used to be nuke-phobic.

He sighed, rubbing his head. His idea to develop a high-shock, low-temperature round – almost the opposite of the usual shaped charges designed to cut through armor – was hard to put into practice. He’d like to be able to hit any part of the vehicle and have the smart shell precisely calibrate the force of the explosion to transmit the right amount of shock and concussion to the crew to render them combat ineffective without killing them. It was the age-old problem – the politicians and the populace wanted guarantees that the weapons would work perfectly as advertised.

But there were no guarantees in war.

***

Shawna Nightingale drove through the quiet, well-tended streets of Carletonville to her South African administrative office. She could have set up a telework station at home with Larry but if she did she would never get anything done. Besides, she and her small staff worked better with some personal contact.

Her title was “Chief of Integration.” What she really did was try to coordinate and rationalize the entire far-flung research program of the Free Communities. This meant a lot of work on elimination of redundancies, negotiations on budgets and resources, and personnel issues. It also meant she and her staff had tremendous visibility across the spectrum of development efforts, from the genetic engineering and improvement of the Eden Plague, to the foundational work on the fledgling FC space and missile program.

As soon as she got there she logged into a secure link with Elise Markis. The chairman’s wife headed up the Free Community’s Eden Plague improvement effort, and had been instrumental in eliminating its major problems. All except the virtue effect. That had never been overcome. Shawna sometimes suspected that it never would be, and perhaps shouldn’t be.

Maybe the scientists working on it have suppressed information; if they tweaked the virus to overcome the virtue effect, we’d be back to a lot of the same old crap – crime, vicious politics, domestic abuse – that is mostly gone now. If the price is difficulty defending ourselves…tough call. Can’t force them to cough it up.

The microbiologist’s face popped up on her screen. “Hey, Shawna, How are you? You look fresh and bright.”

“You do too; no more all-nighters? How’s Cape Town?”

Elise smiled. “It’s all right. Though I get a lot more done if I work straight through. Research is a creative endeavor.”

“Yes, you’ve fed me that line before. Any news? You’re late on your last report.” Shawna put on her best no-nonsense boss face.

“Sorry about that. I let a lot of the staff take some time off. Tinker should be back today. No, nothing new. Has you-know-who come up with anything on you-know-what?” Elise was talking about Cassandra Johnstone, Markis’ chief spymaster and confidante.

Shawna wondered how Elise could avoid worrying about the close working relationship those two had, but she never seemed concerned. “No, sorry.”

Elise shrugged. “Well, frankly we’ve gone about as far as we can on the EP. It unravels the Devil Plague - the original alien virus - almost perfectly now, and it augments the immune system against just about any known germ. But we have no idea of how it will do against a Von Neumann nano-infection, assuming there even is such a thing.” She was talking about theoretical self-replicating machines tiny enough to inhabit a human body and affect it just as germs did. “We need a sample of a real threat before we can defend against it.”

“I hear you, just like I heard you last week. I’ll ask again,” she said resignedly. “Anything on the airborne front?”

“The usual.” Elise shrugged.

“Elise, are you sure…” Shawna ground down, exasperated. “Look, I’m no microbiologist but I do know that viruses mutate and become airborne all the time. It’s always a big worry with any deadly new one. How hard can it be?”

“Shawna, are you asking me whether I’m lying to you?” Elise’s eyes were wide with surprise.

“I’m just asking what others ask me, Elise. I don’t think you’d lie to me unless you thought it was very, very important…life and death, in fact. Some people think if the FC makes the Plague airborne, the Big Three will initiate an all-out nuclear strike…so are you sure none of your team is suppressing a discovery out of that fear?”

Elise’s brow furrowed. “No, I can’t be absolutely sure. We have scattered and distributed operations, we have a lot of quirky personalities, and we have way too many leaks.” She sighed. “I’ll try to keep my eyes open, but you know what? I’m exhausted. Tomorrow my second-in-command will be returning from his week off. I was thinking of going to visit DJ.”

Shawna frowned. “I’m sorry, Elise…” She chewed the inside of her lip. “DJ asked me to tell you in case it came up that he thinks it’s too dangerous for a while. Something he wouldn’t tell me about, some kind of big thing that really worried him. In fact, he said if you had time off, you should go camping with the kids. Somewhere away from populated areas.”

“Dear God, is he worried about more strikes?”

“More than normal? I’m not sure, but I think he’s concerned about nukes again.”

Elise rubbed her eyes. “Dammit. You don’t know how lucky you are to be with Larry every day.”

“Oh sweetie, yes I do. Why don’t you pack up the kids and come on up here? Yours and ours can keep each other company, and if you’re at a slowdown, I guess I am too.”

“Liar. You have a dozen irons in the fire besides the bio program.”

“Yes, and nothing going right. We have to somehow eliminate the threat of these strikes on our facilities. Doesn’t do any good for research when the staff is worried they could be vaporized on ten minutes’ notice.”

Elise shook her head. “Thank Cass and her intel network we get that much warning. You’re right, you’re so right. Okay, I accept. We all need a break, and if I can’t go visit DJ, I might as well come see you…that didn’t come out right.”

Shawna laughed, booming. “It’s all right, I get it. Let me know when you’re on the road. I’ll have the guest room made up; the kids can bunk together.”

End of The Demon Plagues sample.

Books by David VanDyke

Plague Wars: Decade One

The Eden Plague

Reaper’s Run

Skull’s Shadows

Eden’s Exodus

Apocalypse Austin

Nearest Night

Plague Wars: Alien Invasion

The Demon Plagues

The Reaper Plague

The Orion Plague

Comes The Destroyer

Forge and Steel

Plague Wars: Stellar Conquest

First Conquest

Desolator

Tactics of Conquest

Conquest of Earth

Books by D.D. VanDyke

D. D. VanDyke is the Mysteries pen name for fiction author David VanDyke.

California Corwin P.I. Mystery Series

Loose Ends - Book 1

(Includes Off The Leash short story)

In a Bind - Book 2

Slipknot - Book 3

The Girl In The Morgue - Book 4

For more information visit http://www.davidvandykeauthor.com/

Books by Ryan King

Land of Tomorrow Series:

Glimmer of Hope

Children of Wrath

Paths of Righteousness

For more info about Ryan King’s books visit Three Kings Publishing on Facebook

Cover by Jun Ares

Table of Contents

- Books by David VanDyke
- Books by Ryan King
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 36
- Chapter 37
- Chapter 38
- Chapter 39
- Chapter 40
- Epilogue