Green Fields Series Box Set | Vol. 4 | Books 10-12

by Lecter, Adrienne

  It got way worse as we reached the end of the corridor and stepped through an airlock that appeared as if it hadn’t been closed for years, judging from the lack of scuff marks on the floor and ceiling. I forgot all about that when I caught a glimpse of what was waiting for us beyond.

  My first impulse was to try to puzzle out with what kind of nerve agent they had just gassed us to make me hallucinate like this, but judging from the look of abject horror on Nate’s face before he managed to hide it, we either shared that hallucination—or it was real. Impossible, unbelievable, but real. There was mood lighting and soft elevator music playing in the background. Leather sofas and plush-covered chairs. Potted plants, artfully arrayed in corners and on decorative side tables. Hardwood floors, thick floor runners, cream-colored wallpaper, tasteful if bland art. There was even a hostess in a pretty if conservative uniform behind a reception desk, who cast us a glance that belied the casualness of her stance but then pretended to ignore us.

  What the ever-loving fuck was going on here?

  All three of us must have been staring at the hostess for a little too long as our guide paused in the middle of the room and glanced at us over his shoulder. “Please refrain from enacting any and all hostage-taking plans you might have. Anyone you will be coming in close enough contact with to grab is deemed as utterly dispensable and thus useless to you.”

  Neither Hamilton nor Nate reacted to that barb, but I couldn’t resist. “That include you?”

  I got a tight-lipped smile for that. “Of course.” No further explanation—and he still didn’t look uncomfortable walking with his back fully exposed to us. My guess was that, however genteel it all seemed, we were three seconds away from someone who’d empty a magazine into the back of our heads; maybe five.

  The level of surrealism increased as we left the foyer behind to step out onto some kind of gallery. The pastel-and-burgundy theme picked up here, the walls held in tasteful, dark colors now to make the already massive space seem even larger. Through the glass balustrade I could see into the two—no, make that three—levels below us, arranged in different styles and different “room” heights depending on what was going on there. One corner seemed to be a bar—including mahogany furniture—while another served coffee and cake; seating areas were arranged all through the room, and even a small bistro in the corner. But even worse than the seemingly extravagant-but-everyday commodities were the people milling around, more and more turning to casually regard us. Not just because of the glass that kept us well above and away from them, it all seemed like an exhibit to me, or like a museum: see what the apocalypse ripped from our grasp. The people fit perfectly into their environments, decked out in casual clothes in the sitting area, or wearing an elegant evening gown or tux in the bar. And it wasn’t just any random people: I recognized quite a few, but not from ever having met them. A few politicians, yes, but mostly celebrities from all walks of life—singers, movie stars, CEOs of Fortune 500 companies exposed enough that they themselves had been better known than their work. Athletes, socialites, and about everyone else who must have had enough money to buy a ticket to this place, or had otherwise been deemed important enough to… “preserve” was the word that came to mind foremost. Not a single one of them showed any signs of starvation or hardship, making me doubt they’d even set foot outside the bunker since the shit hit the fan. An ark of the wealthy and important—making the three of us stand out like a dirty, sore thumb. And while all of them were staring, it was curiosity on their faces, not even a hint of trepidation or disgust. It was as if we were the odd thing to be ogled and discussed over dinner.

  There were no soldiers walking below—or even standing at mindless attention in corners—but five more lingered up here, with two guarding the staircase at the other end of the glass walkway, well out of clear sight of the carefree minglers below. One of the guards twitched as he saw us come onto the gallery, making me presume that he and the fellow beside him still had enough computing power to realize who—or what—had just come strolling into their lair. We continued on past them, leaving the large, open space behind as we followed the gently curving staircase—only to step into a similar space, this one more geared toward entertainment. A yoga class was going on in one of the larger spaces, next to a spinning class in another. There was a golf range simulator, and a weight room, although that was empty at the moment—and not much in use, if the general condition of the people seemed any indication. The other half of the room was taken up by several computer stations and two separate partitions for movie theater setups, seating maybe twenty people. I could also see a playground for children, but only two kids sat there, listlessly driving trucks around. Again, people stared at us as if we were three very interesting specimens.

  One more staircase, and the building around us changed. The floor remained hardwood but the walls and ceiling looked more utilitarian, huge open space giving away to smaller rooms. I wondered if this was where, finally, we’d find all those four-star generals waiting that I’d expected here. Scott and his marines had mentioned that they’d been guarding the president—well, plural, since they seemed to have gone through a few—but apparently, that hadn’t been going on here from the lack of brass in attendance. Looking back, my guess had been that Marleen had killed Scott to keep him from recognizing the address we’d found in the car SatNavs, but it looked like that hadn’t been the case. Maybe that was a second bunker, even more exclusive than this one, too lavishly furnished to let us in. The very air we breathed out might have smudged anything.

  Whatever this part was, it seemed to be used for more mundane administrative purposes. What I hadn’t seen yet was a medical wing or infirmary and any lab spaces; it would make sense not to guide us through those—if they existed. There must have been private living and sleeping quarters for the well over five hundred people that we’d seen somewhere, too, but it all looked way more like a luxury resort than, well, a bunker to weather out the apocalypse in. The admin wing here was only a single level, conventional room height, and seemed to end with what appeared like a large conference room—which seemed to be our destination. The door was open, but since it was slightly offset from the corridor leading there, all I could see right now were four soldiers, at attention, next to each other. Unlike those up on the galleries, they were armed and in full riot gear, if without plate carriers or packs to carry extra ammo. Since I doubted they were alone, that would have likely been overkill.

  Bewildered as fuck from what we’d just walked through—and with dread rising with every step I took forward—I did my very best to steel myself for what I knew was to come. Unexpected and weird as it had been, what they’d paraded us through didn’t necessarily mean that doom wasn’t waiting for us in that room. While the two huge, open spaces had looked extravagant to the point of gaudiness, I hadn’t missed that everything was reinforced and built to last an eternity—and easily withstand waves of assault, if not a bomb dropped on the entire complex. Our little nukes-that-weren’t-nukes seemed so very inadequate to cause much damage here—but then, they didn’t need to.

  I cast a last, sidelong glance at Nate, trying to read his expression. He looked very much the embodiment of everything he’d ever strived to be—including the merciless killing machine, his eyes that careful kind of neutral that betrayed no emotion but spoke of iron-clad control. I could only guess at how he must be feeling, about to stand in front of his mentor again, who had, in all things that counted, tried to utterly destroy Nate in every way possible. I had to admit, as much as I was of course dying with curiosity to, finally, come face to face with the man responsible for the apocalypse, and, in so many ways, my life and death—but if I could have, I would have turned on my heel and walked right out of the bunker, and never looked back. Whatever happened in that room wouldn’t undo the damage done; wouldn’t resurrect the billions of people killed, wouldn’t kill the millions of zombies plaguing every corner of this world. It would change nothing about our ordeals; it wouldn’t tak
e away the pain from our losses. All we could do was hope that we’d get a chance to put a final end to all the shit that the man hiding like a spider in the middle of his web had flung at us—and to make sure that what was left of humanity had a fighting chance to survive, going forward. If that came with a hint of personal revenge, fine—but I wasn’t counting on it anymore. Killing Taggard had done virtually nothing for me, and I couldn’t help but feel that with Nate and Decker, it would make even less of an impact. His former mentor had long since become a burden Nate needed to deal with, nothing more—and, at worst, leave an emptiness that nothing else could fill but the endless guilt because of everything that had happened because Nate hadn’t killed him sooner.

  Suddenly, that tiny, little life hopefully growing inside of me took on a very different meaning. No, we couldn’t really change anything for us—but we damn well could make sure that our kid would grow up in a very different world; a better world, a world that was large and dangerous, but also full of wonder and opportunity. And to make that a reality, any sacrifice necessary would be worth it.

  Now all I could do was hope that Nate would see it the same way—and do what needed to be done.

  Our guide stopped just outside of the door. He was still that annoying, pleasant kind of neutral, not a hint of anticipation or nasty glee visible. “They are ready for you now,” is all he said as he stepped away, and with something akin to a flurry, grabbed the handle of the second part of the door to pull it open, letting the three of us advance abreast, taking the need away to work out who’d go in first.

  It took me a single look at the raised dais at the other end of the room—past the double rows of soldiers lining the walls as an unnecessary honor guard—to realize one thing: We had been so wrong—about everything.

  Chapter 22

  There were four people up on that dais, and I knew who all of them were, although I’d only met three.

  Marleen was the least surprise. I felt the anger in my gut flare alive as soon as my eyes met hers, and the way she grinned back at me—not unpleasant, and still not like the psycho bitch I knew she was—looked very much like an invitation for me to try.

  Richards also wasn’t a surprise, and like Marleen, he was easy to read—as in, he was standing there, ramrod straight, radiating unease and something bordering on panic. Yes, it absolutely could have been a show that he was putting on for us, but my gut reaction was to believe that he wasn’t the traitor Marleen had halfheartedly set him up as. Maybe he’d had no other choice; maybe he’d decided to try to infiltrate the other side to later be able to help us. My guess was that he’d been the one to deliver the envelope to Rita in Dispatch—a somewhat reluctant lapdog, caught on the leash others had put on him. He must have known that Cole would still be with us.

  But the envelope addressed to the impertinent Delta operator? My bet was that it had come from the woman on the far end, dwarfed next to Richards’ tall stature—Gita, Gabriel Greene’s hacker, former activist, and my self-proclaimed fangirl number one. That explained why I hadn’t seen her at the New Angeles docks, or at the very least gotten a chance to chat with her on the radio. I couldn’t remember the bullshit excuse Greene had given me when I’d asked about her, and what had become of her since coming back with us from France. If Richards seemed vaguely uneasy, she looked a step away from a nervous breakdown, and working very hard on trying to hide it. She was attempting to look all high and mighty but was clearly crapping her pants—and I doubted that it was from being afraid we’d brand her as a traitor. She must have known what was about to happen, and was likely afraid she’d become collateral damage in the consequences. Again, my instinct screamed to trust her—but what did we really know about her? She’d admitted in the past having been a part of the hacker group that had brought down the internet when the shit hit the fan. That she’d turned against them in the end could have been a lie that none of us could ever disprove. A long time ago, she’d called herself my biggest fangirl, but then it was entirely possible that she also blamed me for losing Tanner. Where did her loyalties really lie?

  And the last person—sitting on a bona fide throne while the other three were standing, Marleen to the left, seen from us, Richards and Gita to the right—was not a wizened, old bastard of a man, but that didn’t mean that I didn’t recognize her immediately. I would have loved to claim a striking family resemblance, but while her hair was dark and her eyes a light brown not unlike her brother’s, it wasn’t physical clues that tipped me off. She was a little younger than me—late twenties or so—but then she must be, given the time that had passed. Sitting there, with her legs crossed and her hands splayed on the armrests, it was hard to tell, but she looked fit, and without a doubt she was attractive. But the hate spewing from her eyes destroyed what even features created easily.

  I didn’t need anyone to tell me who she was: Hamilton’s sister.

  Because Nate stood between us, I couldn’t see the reaction on Hamilton’s face, but he missed a step, making me guess that he hadn’t had a clue about any of this, either. Nate pretty much didn’t show anything, but I could see his eyes widen for a moment before his expression closed down as he must have thrown years’ worth of plotting and analyzing to the wind, starting from scratch. It was then that I realized I didn’t even have the timeline straight—how long ago had it been that they must have last seen each other? Ten years? No, it must have been closer to fifteen, considering the apocalypse was already five years ago, and Nate had left the military two years before that, and he had been part of the serum project for more than a measly three years. That would have put her in her early thirties—and that was pretty much the least interesting detail about any of this.

  It wasn’t every day that I was left completely clueless, feeling as if someone had pulled the rug out from under me, but that was a pretty accurate description for how I was feeling right now. I could only guess at how much worse it must have been for Nate, not that he was showing any of that.

  Not for a single second did I think this was some kind of elaborate ruse. One thing was obvious—we’d been wrong about Decker being behind any of the shit that kept raining down mercilessly on us. I very much doubted he had been alive to see any of it—but I had a sense we would very soon know more about that. I mean, if you go so far as to destroy the entire world on your crusade for revenge, the least thing you would have time for when things finally came to a close in one last, penultimate showdown was a villain speech, right? I’d know; I’d incited a—albeit very toned-down—version of it myself.

  And that this was about revenge was obvious from the abject hate in her eyes, on her face, and seemingly screaming from every fiber of her being. That woman had done literally everything in her power to make the lives of those she thought responsible for her misery a living hell.

  And it made sense. So much sense. Fuck Nate’s cobbled-together theories. I didn’t need to hear a single word of explanation from her to see it clearly now, how it all fit together. And the worst of it? I was nothing but collateral damage myself. That pissed me off way more than if Decker himself had presumably been using me to torment Nate.

  Marleen raised a hand when we were roughly halfway across the open space to the dais. “That’s close enough,” she called out. “We wouldn’t want to invite any accidents, now, would we?”

  I was ready to tell her that any and all violence that would come from us would be very deliberate, but for right now I decided to leave the talking to the others. Marleen’s attention was fully focused on Nate and Hamilton, which left me to glance at Richards instead. Our gazes locked for a second but he looked away quickly. I had to cut down on a frown, but when I looked back once more, his eyes were still downcast. Was he trying to tell me something? Like that there was a smudge of something on my left pants leg, presumably lube? More out of vexation than anything else I glanced at his thigh—where I found his fingers, featherlight, drumming a pattern where, at best, Gita could have seen it, but neither of the other two women
. Maybe it was because I was hyper paranoid about the nukes, but that definitely looked like that same pattern Nate had drilled into me—the Morse code signal for SOS. No shit, we were in trouble—but then I started thinking. What else could he mean? Maybe I was just being a know-it-all, but I remembered, someone had told me once that its sister signal—Mayday—was really coming from the French m’aidez which translates into “help me,” and since we had been to France together, it made sense... that if Richards was actively trying to help us, he would have to be sneaky about it. Or he was asking for our help—or something. It wasn’t like I could ask for clarification.

  “So we meet again.” Hearing those words in an unfamiliar voice made me focus back on the resident evil mastermind. She had a good voice for it—alto, but not too deep or smoky; definitely some public speaking training since she spoke in a way that even the last soldier in the corner could have understood her. From what I could tell, the effort was wasted on half of them since nobody was home in that meat bag holding a rifle. But enough did show emotion on their faces, if mostly carefully neutral not to give away too much.

  My mind was still reeling, trying to reorient itself, but Nate seemed to have settled on a strategy, taking on a more relaxed—and unnaturally cocky—position, with one leg slightly extended, his elbows out, fingers touching the tops of his thighs. He was still keeping his expression neutral, but there was an arrogant tilt to his chin, and he looked a little more physically imposing than I was used to—not that hard with me standing beside him, I was sure. It was a pose demanding attention, quite literally so. “Looks like it,” he said simply, but it had a certain “and I’m not impressed” ring to it. I honestly wasn’t sure if antagonizing her was a smart idea—but it seemed to be effective as far as drawing everyone’s focus to him went.