by B. C. Tweedt
“…I have the right to speak out as much as anyone, to provide a voice for other victims just as I tirelessly labor for the good of this great state. I am Governor first, candidate second.”
The crowd erupted in whoops and hollers, cheering him on. The contest was getting heated, and his supporters increasingly saw the other candidates as weak and incompetent. There was no one as qualified to run for their party’s nomination as Governor Reckhemmer. It would still be another ten months before he could be appointed his party’s nominee at the national convention, another two after that before he could be elected President, and another two months after that before he would be inaugurated, but they were already anxious, zealous even. The stakes of an election had never been higher.
“But if they want to make this about the election, you know what? I don’t care who we elect. I don’t care what his or her name is. But we must make sure that whoever the nominee is, he or she will not rest until there is justice, until the victims and the victims’ families are taken care of, and until Des Moines is rebuilt.”
He pointed to the west, where he imagined the scene of destruction, where he had witnessed first hand the horrors of the blast. Experts had said the explosion had been equal to 20 kilotons of TNT – as big as the bomb that destroyed Nagasaki. Almost a mile in every direction, blocks and blocks of houses were laid flat, demolished and scattered over the streets. Cars were nearly incinerated and blown hundreds of feet from their garages. And now, besides those they still found under rubble, countless radiation victims packed the hospitals, losing their livelihoods or their lives.
“We must make sure that this person is willing to do anything…to sacrifice anything to protect this great country from terrorists – those who wish to destroy or divide – and there is little difference between destroying and dividing.”
He scanned the crowd again, hoping there were a few Pluribus sympathizers out there, listening. “There are real enemies in our midst. They are wolves in sheep’s clothing – out to devour us. And this country deserves a shepherd, who after experiencing the evil and danger of the wolves’ fangs firsthand, is especially vigilant – who has every nerve and muscle primed to take a knife to the wolves’ throats in order to save the flock.”
He paused as the crowd once again erupted into cheers, their faces lit with a mixture of excitement and the same anger that he felt himself. “I hope you find that person. And I hope each one of us are those shepherds – in our homes for our families, in our communities for our neighbors. And where we shop or dine or are entertained – we will watch for wolves. To protect those we love.”
That was Sam’s cue. He pushed open the double doors before the flashes of lights, waving flags, and applause. He smiled wide and waved back, striding upright and confident beside his dad, who embraced him for the crowd to see. They hugged and then stood and waved even more, hand in hand. Ever since his mom had passed away years ago, they had been an inseparable pair. The voters would be electing them both in a way. In troubled times, the ads said, the country needed a courageous man in office – one who would do anything for his country. And most knew what that meant. The ‘anything’ was ordering the jets to destroy the Pluribus truck carrying the nuclear device before it could reach downtown – even when he thought his son was inside. If he would do that for his country, what wouldn’t he do?
Sam smiled and waved – a symbol of what his dad would sacrifice for the country. He had to be perfect for them, otherwise, how significant was the sacrifice?
His dad looked down on him with a smile that could have been a mirror. “I love you, son.”
“I love you, too.”
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Beep. Beep. Beep.
Orion watched the heart-rate monitor with glazed eyes, itching at the cast on his left arm. The other teenaged boys beside him were growing impatient. They had been watching for several minutes now and there had been no change. She was in a coma. There wasn’t supposed to be any change.
But Orion kept watching, the hatred burning in his face and crooked nose, flushing it red – but not as red as his sister’s hair. Her beautiful hair. Usually long and luxuriously curly, it now seemed ragged and greasy, flattened against the hospital pillow. Her eyes were closed – her mouth choking down the breathing tube. Of all Orion’s adopted siblings, he’d known her the longest. Emory had rescued her shortly after he’d rescued Orion. He couldn’t stand to see her in pain – to see the stitches on her forehead where they had operated on her to stop the hemorrhage that the ball-bearing from Greyson’s slingshot had caused.
Brain damage.
The words from the doctors had struck him like a hammer. If she awoke – if – she would have permanent brain damage.
The doctors figured it had been shrapnel from one of the explosions, but Orion knew what had caused it. So did the boys next to him – the tall one, the one with buzzed hair, and the one with the broken glasses.
“He did this to her,” Orion said, unmoving.
Buzz nodded, grimacing. “If he wasn’t dead, I’d –”
“We don’t know he’s dead.”
The boys glanced from Orion to RedHead’s seemingly lifeless body.
“I – I thought you said he jumped into the river,” Buzz asked.
“They never found his body.”
“They haven’t found a lot of bodies.”
Orion sneered. “He’s alive.”
“But how?”
“I jumped and I’m alive, aren’t I?” he glared at Buzz until he backed down.
Orion had broken his nose and arm, but he was alive. Once he’d called his dad to tell him that the kids had escaped from the back of the moving truck, his dad had ordered him to leave the bomb with the Russian and to escape himself. Not long after Greyson had jumped, he too had thrown himself off. The water had been deep enough to break his fall, but shallow enough to break his arm as he submerged. He had barely made it to the shore and caught his breath before the shockwave knocked him back into the water among downed trees.
He knew it was a miracle that he was alive. If he’d jumped a moment later, he would have hit land. And if he’d decided to stay on the truck, he would have been incinerated when the jet’s missile set off the nuclear device.
He was alive for a reason. And he knew what it was.
With a sudden rage, he flung a food tray across the room, kicked a wheeled cart into the wall, and stormed into the hallway. Nurses stopped to stare and the other boys joined his march out of the hospital.
“I’m going to find him. And I’m going to kill him.”
Chapter 2
The next morning
Greyson swung as hard as he could, over and over, delivering powerful blows. The sweat flew off his forehead and he was growing tired, but he knew he couldn’t stop. Now was the time when the battle was won – when his enemy grew weak and he stayed strong.
“Aaaaagghhh!” he pounded the punching bag again and again, rocking it side to side as it hung from the basement’s rafters. The chain had begun chafing at the wooden beam above, sending tiny wood fragments whirling below like tiny snowflakes. Some stuck to Greyson’s sweaty chest and back, but he didn’t notice.
DOOF! DOOF! DOOF! DOOF-DOOF-DOOFDOOF!
He paid extra attention to his breathing. His last bodyguard, Kip, had said that it was crucial in any fistfight. If the fight lasted longer than the first blows, the winner was often the one with more endurance. Endurance had always been one of his strong suits.
DOOF-DOOF-DOOFDOOF!
Especially if something was driving him to keep going and it all depended on him. He’d die before failing.
DOOFDOOFDOOFDOOF!
And that’s what hurt the most. He’d failed so many people even though he’d tried so hard. And it hadn’t been fair. How did it all come to be on his shoulders? Why was he the one who could have stopped the State Fair attack? Why was he the one who could have stopped the bomb, who could have saved Liam?
DOOF! DOOF!
Why hadn’t God, or Fate, chosen someone who would have succeeded?
DOOF! DOOF!
Why did God let so many people die?
His arms were on fire, his heart racing faster than he could land punches.
DOOFDOOFDOOFDOOF!
Why did God let Mom die?
“Aaaagghhh!”
DOOFDOOFDOOFDOOF!
“Greyson!”
A man’s voice. Angry.
Greyson turned rapidly, his hands held up, ready to fight, but his body sagged, dripping sweat to the concrete floor. When he realized who it was, he heaved out a breathy sigh and wiped at his mess of hair. “What? I said I wanted privacy.”
The man took a step forward, frowning. He towered over Greyson and had dark stubble along his chiseled jaw. Though he was dressed in a plain button-down shirt and khakis, it was clear he meant business – and not business like most think of it. He was a killer of killers. One of the FBI’s most elite. And he didn’t look happy.
“Screaming – when you have four men upstairs on edge, protecting you – not smart.”
Greyson swiped his shirt from the floor and dabbed his face with it. “Sorry, dude.” He was unstrapping his punching gloves and heading toward the shower when the man pressed his fingers against his sternum. Greyson looked up at him.
“And your punches get sloppy when you’re tired,” the man said. “Conserve your energy and make them count.”
For a moment he relished the advice. It was good. He wanted to say, “Thank you, Agent Gavin.” But he didn’t. Gavin could probably train him as well as Kip had, but there was no way he was going to get close to another bodyguard only to either find out that Gavin was using him or to watch Gavin die – or both, like had happened with Kip.
Gavin arched his brow at him, as if offering himself as trainer or friend.
Greyson scoffed. “Whatever.” If all went according to plan, Agent Gavin wouldn’t be around much longer anyway.
He waited for the man’s hand to retreat and then made his way to the shower’s spout jutting out from the concrete wall behind a thin curtain. Greyson figured the FBI was running out of money just like the government was and couldn’t afford to finish their safe house basements.
Even so, the basement had worked well as his little sanctuary. The Hansens had even brought down a couch to make it his own room. And everybody knew to give a boy privacy in his own room.
Greyson pulled his mesh shorts halfway down and stared at Agent Gavin. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind…”
Gavin turned on his heels and left up the stairs, shaking his head.
-----------------------
Sydney opened cupboard after cupboard, frustrated.
“Where’re the stupid glasses?”
The safe house was nice, bigger than the house she had grown up in, and it had a lot of perks. But it wasn’t the home she had grown up in. That alone made her hate it.
Her mother found the glasses and poured her some orange juice. “We’ll get used to it soon enough, Syd.”
“You sure?”
They shared a look – her mother’s eyes sparkling beneath heavy eyelids. “We don’t have a choice. We will.”
Sydney sipped her orange juice and sat down as her parents sipped their green tea on the bare dining table. Some days an FBI agent or two would join them for a drink, but this time they were alone. Two of their FBI guards sat together on the front porch, one was following Greyson, and the fourth was somewhere on the perimeter – which, in a suburban yard, wasn’t too far away either. Still, it was one of the first private moments they’d gotten in a few days. There were many things Sydney wanted to talk about, but she didn’t know how to start.
It was like there was something in the air, preventing them from having an ordinary, everyday conversation. Normally they’d be discussing the day’s activities – her day at school for instance. But she wouldn’t be starting at her new school with her new identity for a few more days. And today’s activity consisted mostly of Liam’s funeral, which only her parents would be attending. That didn’t make the best conversation. Other topics could include the updated body count, her memories of the terrorist attack, or…
“How’s the orange juice?” her mother asked.
Sydney sipped again, as if she had forgotten. “Good. Pulpy.”
Her mom pumped her eyebrows and attempted a smile. Another awkward moment and her dad tried. “How’s Greyson, honey? Yesterday had to have been tough.”
Sydney descended into thought. She couldn’t cry, no matter what – not in front of her parents. And she’d cried enough – more than Greyson. Had he even cried at all?
“I don’t know. Same I guess.”
“He had a nightmare again last night,” her mother said, concerned etched on her brow. “Poor thing.”
“Think he needs help?” her dad asked. “I mean, professionally?”
“Just ‘cuz he doesn’t cry?”
“That’s just part of it. Most boys don’t cry because they’re afraid. They’re afraid it makes them less of a man. But they get it all wrong. Being a man is not about what you don’t do – it’s about what you do – whether you humble yourself and whether you take on responsibility for yourself and for others. He’s not the only one to get that mixed up.”
“I think they already tried talking to him about that stuff. He hated it.”
“I wouldn’t like it either, but he should talk to someone. He needs someone.”
He talks to me. “Just saying, if you tell him that, he might run away.” Faster than his current plans…
Her parents descended into thoughts themselves, stirring their tea with the bags. “Well,” her father started, “I guess it’s not up to us, anyway.”
Sydney nodded. “Are they going to make him?”
He shrugged. “They could.”
“Then they’ll have to make me, too, right? Why not? They’ve made us tell the story a dozen times already, why not force us to relive it all again? What’s one more time?”
A sudden memory flashed in her mind.
She sat in a cold, metal chair in a bare room. Greyson and Jarryd were next to her and a table separated them from two suited FBI agents. One of them, Agent Feldkamp, she had met before, after the incident at Morris. She was nice, and Sydney trusted her.
“I know it is hard, with all you’ve been through,” Agent Feldkamp said, leaning her elbows on the table, “but it is vitally important that we know all the details. I don’t think I have to explain to you why your testimonies are essential for us in finding the truth.”
They had been speechless, curling into themselves as if they were cold.
A small camera on a tripod was capturing it all – every facial movement – or the lack of them.
“So, I hope you understand that we must keep you safe until the investigation is complete. As far as we know, Pluribus and Emory are not aware that you are all alive. We will have to keep it that way. That means you will all need new identities. New lives.”
They nodded, blank-faced. Sydney glanced at Greyson, but he gazed into space, as if in a daydream.
“What if we refuse?” Jarryd asked. “I mean…my parents. What if they…refuse?”
Agent Feldkamp glanced at her colleague. “We will discuss that with your parents. Now, before we end today, is there anything else that you haven’t told us? Anything at all?”
Sydney stared at the camera – its retina just inside the lens seemingly focusing on her, zooming in and out. She turned to Greyson and examined him, waiting. He hadn’t shared everything – almost everything, but not all. He was holding something back. Agent Feldkamp looked trustworthy, but apparently not enough so for Greyson.
He wouldn’t tell her what Emory had whispered into his ear before loading him into the truck for what seemed to be a sure death – “Your father is in Nassau.”
Sydney’s mother patted her daughter’s hand. “Are you okay, dear?”
Sydney took a
deep breath and suddenly smiled as if it were all perfect again. She could be good at pretending if she tried hard enough. “I’m fine.”
Her mother furrowed her brow, but chose not to pry further. “Where is Greyson, now?”
Part of Sydney had wanted her mother to pry. But she shook it off. “I heard the shower turn off awhile ago.”
Her dad took a silent prompting from his wife and started abruptly. “We’ve been meaning to talk to you about something, Syd.”
“Okay.”
“Greyson’s a nice kid…”
Sydney felt a wave of embarrassment wash over her. They were going to have this talk now?
“…we like him a lot.”
“Okay…”
“And just so you know,” her mother interjected, “We weren’t so sure to begin with. He’s one of those bad-boy eye-candy types with no regard for authority, doing what he pleases.”
“Mom!”
“And he takes his shirt off willy-nilly…”
“Mom! He’s a good guy! He ‘disregards authority’ when it’s bad. He does what he does to help other people. And he’s funny, disciplined, smart, and…and…”
Her parents were giving each other a knowing look. She hated that look – like they thought she was cute. Finally, her mother elbowed her father, prompting him to continue. “Anyway, we just wanted to say that, though we have discouraged you to befriend boys in the past…we think it’s good for you to be with Greyson during this time. To be close friends.”
Friends? They were giving their approval for her to be friends with him?
“Okay. That’s what we are.” Is it? Are we just friends?
Her parents nodded at each other. “Good,” her father said, relieved. “Glad we talked. Maybe you could find him now – do friend stuff.”
