An Unlikely Phoenix

by Frank Zafiro

  “On what charge?” Ryan asked, finally breaking his silence.

  “Aiding and abetting a terrorist, I would think. Or more than one.”

  “Terrorist? More than one?” Ryan shook his head. “What kind of fantasy world do you live in?”

  “Oh, my world is very real,” Potulny said. “I don’t think it will be difficult to prove that you gave comfort and aid to your wife, or that you assisted in her evading the service of a legal arrest warrant. That goes almost without saying. And when you add to that the results of your internal investigation, the picture becomes quite clear.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? The internal cleared me.”

  Potulny gave him a strange look. “What makes you say that? I’ve read it and I can assure you it says exactly the opposite.”

  “You’re lying,” Ryan insisted.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “It’s what you do. It’s what all of you do. You cloak your lies in truth and truth in lies, and you present it as reality.”

  Potulny shook his head sadly. “That’s very poetic. And I supposed from the warped perspective you’re coming from, that is how it looks.” A thought occurred to him. “I wonder what we would have discovered if we’d put you through that return-to-duty psychological review? Some paranoia? A skewed world view?”

  Ryan ignored his baiting. “Where’s Gleeson?” he asked. “I want to talk to him.”

  “Gleeson? Oh, he’s not going to save you, Officer. No, after a long and illustrious career, Captain Gleeson has opted to retire from the Metro.”

  “Retire?” Ryan couldn’t believe it.

  “Yes. He’s gone.”

  Questions flew through Ryan’s mind like leaves in a windstorm. Did they force Gleeson out? Or did he retire so they couldn’t touch him?

  It didn’t matter. He was gone, and with him, whatever integrity existed in his investigation. Now Potulny could write whatever he wanted to in the report, conclude whatever he chose to conclude. Who was going to say otherwise?

  “Not that your career is much of a concern for you, at this point. Or so it would seem.” Potulny gave him a knowing look. “Flying out of Nashville? Did you think we wouldn’t catch that?”

  “It was a vacation,” Ryan said, weakly.

  “It was a mistake,” Potulny said.

  Ryan couldn’t disagree. “What do you want?” he demanded.

  Potulny shook his head. “Nothing. The time has passed where you have anything I want, Officer Derrick.” He frowned. “I guess that’s not going to be true much longer, is it? Maybe I should start calling you Mr. Derrick now, so we can both get used to it.”

  “Get used to this,” Ryan said. “I want a lawyer.”

  Potulny didn’t show any irritation or disapproval. In fact, he didn’t react at all, except to get up and exit the room, leaving Ryan to wonder what came next.

  THE FIRST LAWYER RYAN tried was Michael Brooks, a longtime associate who he knew had defended people out of favor with the Party. The receptionist told him that Brooks had changed his practice to family law, and was unavailable.

  The next attorney he could think of was a prominent criminal defense attorney, Stephen Workman. Workman declined due to what he called “political conflicts of interest,” which Ryan took to mean that Workman had joined the NAP.

  Finally, two hours later, he settled for the court appointed public defender, Anna Garwin. Garwin proved to be a harried young woman whose nervous disposition did little to inspire his confidence. They spoke briefly on the phone, and forty-five minutes later, she met with him in person.

  Ryan told her little, even though he understood attorney-client privilege. His reasoning was that she only needed to know what she had to know to defend him, and what she didn’t know, she couldn’t betray. If Garwin sensed he was holding back any details, she didn’t show it.

  After giving him half-hearted assurances that she would return shortly, Garwin left to contact the prosecutor. Ryan settled in for a long wait, expecting to remain in holding for the remainder of the day and be transferred to the county jail in the morning. He was surprised an hour later when Garwin returned as promised.

  “You’re being released,” she told him.

  “What?”

  “That isn’t what you wanted?”

  “Of course, but...they aren’t charging me?”

  “I expect they will, but you were only being held on a charge of obstructing the execution of a lawful arrest warrant. It’s a felony, but I convinced the judge that since you’re no longer in a position to obstruct or render assistance, there was no reason other than punitive to keep you incarcerated.” She smiled uneasily. “The prosecutor didn’t like my argument but the judge agreed, and the prosecutor said he wasn’t prepared to file complete charges against you yet, so...” She gave a wave of her hand. “You’re free to go.”

  “Are there any restrictions?”

  “No further violations. You have to report any contact with your wife. And remain in the county limits, of course.”

  Ryan nodded. “All right.”

  “All right, as in you’ll comply? Because as an officer of the court, I have to vouch that you’ll do so before the release is finalized.”

  Ryan looked her dead in the eye, and surprised himself at how easily he lied to her.

  IT HAD OCCURRED TO him that Potulny might have allowed him to be released in order to follow him, in the hopes that Ryan might lead them to Nathalie. So despite the pain in his hip and the overall soreness in his entire body, Ryan didn’t take a cab or AutoUber when he left the precinct. Instead, he walked block after block, turning randomly at every corner, but generally going in a serpentine fashion. He checked behind him in the reflection of windows, and with occasional glances over his shoulder, but didn’t believe anyone was following him. Then he caught sight of a traffic camera and realized how fruitless his efforts were. Potulny could be following him from his desk, clicking to a new surveillance source every so often.

  Frustrated, he got on the subway and took a train to a stop nearest his house. He wanted to run from the station, but the ache in his hip told him that was a bad idea. Instead, he struck a steady pace, and made it home in good time.

  The door was unlocked, and when he opened it, he was met with all of the disarray he expected from a police search. There was a time, early in his career, when they were directed to make as little a mess as possible when searching, but Homeland Security clearly didn’t adhere to that philosophy. Drawers stood open, closet doors were askew. The floor was littered with a multitude of items, making the place look like the aftermath of a hurricane.

  Ryan stepped over the papers and clothing on the floor, calling out for Nathalie.

  There was no answer. He went from room to room, anyway, searching and calling. When he’d finished, he started again, going through the entire house a second time. No one answered him, and he saw no evidence of his wife or daughter’s presence.

  They must have gotten out, he decided. Slipped out the sliding back door and fled. But where?

  Then a simple answer occurred to him. Art and Maggie, the next door neighbors. They were good people. They’d hide them, without question.

  He reached for his phone, then stopped. He knew his phone had to be tapped at this point. And if he were right, then Art and Maggie had already taken a great risk for them. Calling them now, on a monitored phone, would cast suspicion on them, and bring retribution. He couldn’t allow that.

  Besides, he realized that Nathalie would not have stayed with them any longer than she absolutely had to. Once the HSA agents finished their search at the house and left, she would move on. But to where?

  He stood in the living room, trying to think of an answer to that question. But in the end, he had no idea.

  Ryan sank slowly onto his couch, suddenly exhausted. He sat there for a long while, listening to familiar sounds of his home, but taking little solace in them. Finally, he placed his phone on the coffee table,
rose and went into his bedroom. His nightstand drawer was removed and upended, the books and other contents spilled onto the floor. He knelt carefully and tilted the stand to the side.

  The folded envelope was still there, taped to the underside of the nightstand.

  Ryan let out his breath, realizing then that he’d been holding it. He picked up the envelope and spread it open. The small plastic chip was still inside.

  Back in the living room, he swapped out his phone’s chip with the one Wayne had given him. Then he rebooted the device. When the software came back online, it looked nearly identical to before. He checked his contacts. The list was unchanged, except for the first entry. The contact name was Unidentified and the number read Restricted.

  Ryan hit send.

  Chapter 24

  Friedrich Zimmer, noted European political historian, has long been considered to hold the American political process in various levels of contempt, depending on the era under discussion. This assessment was only reinforced in 2064, when the abstract for one of his professional research papers stated that, “it is apathy that I find to have been both the most common and the least virtuous tendency among American voters during the 2020s.” When another scholar publicly asked him on an online academic critique forum which tendency he found to be the most surprising, Zimmer’s famous reply was as cutting as it was pithy:

  “Same.”

  — From An Unlikely Phoenix by Reed Ambrose

  ALEX SAT WITH EBBY in the conference room, waiting for the Governor. The technology aide gave him a frank stare for a long while, eventually making him uncomfortable enough to ask her, “What?”

  “I’m just wondering,” Ebby said. “Did she offer you the position of Vice Governor? Or Secretary of State?”

  Alex was mildly surprised, then realized he shouldn’t be. If anyone was going to be dialed into the inner workings of the Governor’s office, it would be Ebby. He looked back into her intelligent brown eyes, and said, “I’ll tell you if you tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “What your position will be. I’m thinking Director of Intelligence.”

  Ebby smiled mysteriously. “If that were true, and I told you, I wouldn’t be very good at my potential job, would I?”

  “I suppose not.”

  The Governor appeared at the door, apologizing for her tardiness. “I was on the line with Governor Kakuda.”

  Alex raised his eyebrow. “And?”

  “They are drafting a secession statement right now. The retroactive nature of this latest decision was enough to push them over the edge, and with this nonsense about everyone earning citizenship, the sentiment on the island is that there is no going back.”

  “You convinced him to wait?” Alex asked.

  “I tried.” She sighed. “And I believe I was successful, but only for a very short time. He said Alaska was on board as well, but I haven’t spoken with the Governor yet. That’s next on my to-do list.” She looked pointedly at Alex. “You should be with me on that call.”

  “Of course.” Alex glanced at Ebby, who gave him a knowing smile. “Anything I can do to help.”

  “Good.” The Governor turned to Ebby. “Okay, Ebby, give me the referendum results.”

  “Turnout was relatively high at fifty-two percent of registered voters,” Ebby said, as she hit a few keys on her device and a holographic map of the state appeared in front of them. The state was riddled with green and yellow segments, while some remained gray. “This is based upon precincts who have reported, as well as exit polling and predictive models. We won’t have the official count until late tomorrow.”

  “But right now?”

  “Right now, it appears that seventy-one percent of the voters are in favor of continued resistance to White House immigration policies, to include remaining a sanctuary state. And forty-five percent are in favor of secession, if necessary.”

  “Opposed?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “That leaves twenty-three percent undecided,” the Governor frowned.

  “True.”

  “That’s a big number.”

  “So is forty-five,” Ebby said.

  “Forty-five percent of the fifty-two percent who turned out?” The Governor asked, shaking her head. “Almost half of the eligible voters didn’t even bother to vote. If those voters and that twenty-three percent of undecided joined with the dissenters, they’d have a significant majority.”

  “But they didn’t,” Alex told her.

  The Governor looked down, deep in thought.

  Alex waited respectfully for a long while, then finally reached out and touched her shoulder. When she looked up, he said, “Think of it this way, Madame Governor. Those forty-eight percent of the voters who didn’t go to the polls weren’t saying, ‘I don’t care.’ Neither were the twenty-three percent who abstained.”

  “No? Because that would seem to be the easiest interpretation.”

  “Easy isn’t necessarily right,” Alex said. “What I’d suggest is that maybe what those voters were saying was, ‘I trust you to decide, Governor Sarandon.’”

  She smiled indulgently. “Is that really what you think, Alex? Because I wonder if an abstention is really their way of saying that secession is too unbearable a thought to even vote on.”

  “Maybe,” he admitted. “I didn’t say I was right. I just said you could think of it in the way I described.”

  The Governor laughed lightly, and patted his hand.

  “Definitely Sec/State,” Ebby murmured.

  “Well, Alex,” the Governor said, her tone resolute, “if you’re right, then I guess I have a decision to make.”

  Chapter 25

  The Crisis of 2029 that prefaced the more tumultuous events of the 2030s forced men and women across the United States to make a slew of personal choices. Albert Dynna, a shadow journalist whose contemporary commentary on the events have proven invaluable to later historians, broadcasted reports on a number of these cases in which men and women were faced with difficult choices and divided loyalties. Dynna offered most of these profiles without commentary, though his single editorial observation cropped up in his patented close to each episode. “Hard choices now,” he frequently stated, “because we didn’t make enough of them earlier.”

  — From An Unlikely Phoenix by Reed Ambrose

  RYAN LEFT HIS PHONE at home, as instructed. He drove his own car, but parked it several blocks away from the HSA Arena, and took a circuitous route to the arena. The lights inside the building were dark, and it stood empty. He made his way around to the rear loading dock.

  Wayne was waiting for him.

  They shook hands firmly, then Wayne pulled him in close for an embrace. “I’m sorry, brother.”

  Ryan nodded that he understood. A small part of him held out the fear that doors to the loading dock would snap open and HSA agents would pour out. He could even imagine the expression on Wayne’s face, resigned and ashamed at the same time.

  Instead, Wayne pushed a padded manila envelope into his hands. “Here.”

  Ryan tore it open. A fake identification card with his photo and the name ‘Robert Hall’ was the first thing he noticed.

  “Where you’d get this?”

  Wayne gave him a look.

  “Never mind,” Ryan said. “More importantly, will it hold up?”

  Wayne nodded. “To a surface check, anyway.”

  “And this?” He lifted up a plain credit card with no name or identifying marks on it.

  “It’s a pre-paid card. The currency is BitCoin, so you’re going to have to be selective about where you spend it. A lot of places don’t accept BitCoin anymore, but enough do. And it’s an anonymous transaction, so it’s far more difficult to track.”

  Ryan nodded. That made sense.

  “Use the Hall identification and the BitCoin pre-paid to rent a car. Get something middle of the road. You don’t want to be noticed. And believe me, brother...the federal government has a lot of ways to notice
you these days. Everything from traffic cameras to satellites. Once your name goes public, every law enforcement officer in the country will be helping. And if they’re serious about bringing you in, they’ll bring in guys like me, too.”

  “Guys like you. Or you?”

  Wayne stared at him, not answering. “Just disappear,” he said. “And stay off the Interstate.”

  “Why? It’s the fastest.”

  “It’s also thick with cameras wired with facial recognition software. They’ll pick you off before you get a state away.” He motioned to the envelope. “There’s some cash in there, too. And an emergency contact number of a guy I know in Utah. He’s good people, but only call him if you have to, you hear?”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Now, none of this will do you long term, but if your plan is still to head to California...”

  “It is. But I have to find Nathalie and Melina first.”

  Wayne smiled. “I think I can help with that.”

  THE SMALL HOUSE WAS hidden in the center of a solidly middle class housing development. As they made their way through the winding streets, the houses all looked very much alike to Ryan. He felt anticipation building in his chest as they drove. He imagined being reunited with his family, then saw images of Potulny and his lackeys waiting for him in the living room of the house. He cast sidelong glances at Wayne, feeling both suspicious of his former commander and guilty for it at the same time.

  By the time Wayne finally turned into a driveway, opened the garage door, and drove inside, tension coursed through him like electricity. He sat waiting while Wayne shut off the engine and lowered the garage door. “Let’s get you to your family,” Wayne said.

  Ryan opened the door and got out of the SUV. He limped toward the door that he assumed led to the house, but Wayne got there first. He opened it wide and motioned for Ryan to go inside. Ryan didn’t hesitate. There was no point. If Wayne had betrayed him, he was lost. But if he remained true...