Nothing. The general stared straight ahead, unblinking, a firm set to his jaw.
Cade leaned forward and powered open the cabin door. Leveling a hard stare at Fan, he said, “If it’s any consolation, Sishén, I didn’t recognize your face when I first saw it on the 8x10 a friend gave me. Even when I saw it blown up on the monitor during the briefing back at Peterson, your piggy mug didn’t register to me. The name Li Fan didn’t ring a bell, either. However, as soon as one of your men called you ‘Sishén,’ the wheels in my head started to turn. I’ll never forget that name for as long as I live. Undeniable confirmation only happened when I heard you speak. Can’t be very many Chinese torturers with a lisp who call themselves Reaper.” He shook his head. “You’re no Reaper, Fan. I’m still on the good side of the grass.”
“It’s all because I left you with my apprentice,” Fan said. “I should have finished the job myself. I regret it, now.”
Cade looked toward the ground. Though he wasn’t wearing NVGs, he could still see ghostly shapes milling about in the parking lot. “Well, you didn’t. And here we are. Two reapers face-to-face.” He paused while he released the buckles on the man’s safety harness. “But I’m not going to kill you, Fan. I’m just going to introduce you to what your people let loose on my country. Sishén, meet Jiangshi. Jiangshi, meet Sishén.”
With Jinlong looking on in horror, Cade manhandled the torturer from his seat and shoved him into space. He didn’t pause to savor the moment. Didn’t give Fan time to beg or plead. Here one second, gone the next.
Cade leaned out and watched Fan fall the twenty feet to the ground. Saw him land atop a Z and bowl over a couple more before coming to rest on the asphalt, writhing in pain, face contorted in terror and staring straight up at the hovering helo.
Their raggedy clothes and greasy hair being whipped about by the rotor wash, the twenty or so Zs down below pig-piled on the fresh meat.
Staring into the general’s eyes, in Mandarin, Cade said, “Talk, or Baby Bird gets shoved from the nest.”
The general swallowed hard, then began speaking rapid-fire Mandarin.
Cade silenced him with an upraised hand. Peering out the door, Cade regarded the feeding frenzy. On Fan’s flailing arms were deep fissures pulsing blood. One creature was gnawing on his neck. Another plunged its gnarled fingers into the torturer’s ample belly and ripped out a length of shiny intestine.
The man was on his way to meeting the mythical Pale Rider, that much was clear.
Having seen enough to know the man’s fate was sealed one way or the other, Cade started the door closing.
Eyes narrowed against the rotor wash, Griff regarded Cade. “Adios, motherfucker. Shitbag reaped what he sowed. Where’d you learn that trick, Wyatt?”
“From an old Cowboy named Mike Desantos.”
Ari came on over the comms. “That was savage, Wyatt. Know that it will not make it into my report. Where to now, boss?”
Cade said, “Home,” and turned toward the general, eager to learn all of the man’s secrets.
Chapter 81
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Colorado Springs, Colorado
“I hope it doesn’t rain,” Raven said to Max. “All those decorations they put up. Then there’s the Pueblo survivors sitting on stage without umbrellas. It’ll really suck if it does.”
Sleeping on the floor nearby, Max didn’t even stir when his name was uttered.
It was quarter to noon on Sunday and Raven was alone in the Founders Suite. She was standing on a chair she’d pushed against the window. Even then, she had to stand up straight in order to see over the head of Secret Service Agent Lyle Galt, who’d set up his overwatch position on the outside veranda.
We will have to secure your weapons ended up not being as bad as it had sounded the day before when Agents Woodson and Lowell first visited. Instead of removing everyone’s weapons from the premises, cable and trigger locks were placed on all the rifles and pistols. The weapons were then stowed inside a pair of Pelican cases, which were then secured with padlocks. The agents had put the cases in a closet and, before leaving, had stressed that the door was not to be opened.
Next to the thirty-something agent behind the scoped sniper rifle was an Hispanic agent named Maria Diaz. The woman had pretty brown eyes, angular features, and a sinewy gymnast’s body, no doubt a byproduct of surviving in the zombie apocalypse.
Diaz sat on a chair taken from the Founders Suite, elbows braced on the rail and one eye pressed to the eyepiece of a powerful spotting scope.
Thirteen floors below, Antlers Park was swathed in red, white, and blue. Banners and flags were draped on seemingly every flat surface. Of the thousand or so people in the park, Raven doubted if there were a dozen who weren’t waving an American flag.
Surrounded by Jersey barriers and twelve-foot-tall hurricane fence, the park could only be accessed by the public on the two corners closest to the Antlers building. Each corner entry had a magnetometer of its own and was manned by several uniformed CSPD officers.
Nobody was sneaking a gun into this event.
The stage was dead ahead. Behind the stage was a tent where a reception was to follow. Parked beside the tent, with people in white aprons coming and going from their open rear doors, was a trio of black vans.
Railroad tracks ran behind the stage. They were paralleled by the western wall, a couple of blocks distant.
Wilson came in from the room opposite the Founders Suite. “Someone’s going to be partying after this thing.” He clapped his hands together. “And it ain’t going to be us.”
“I don’t want to be anywhere near that park,” Raven admitted. “If they would have caught Pirate and Snake and Pixie … maybe I’d feel different about being seated a few feet from the President.”
“Duncan and the others didn’t seem too worried.”
“How about you? Why didn’t you go with Taryn and Sasha?”
Wilson said, “Sasha has Peter”—Raven made a face—“and Taryn gave me permission to listen to the ceremony on the AM radio I found down in Maintenance. I put batteries in and it works just fine. Signal seems pretty strong.”
Raven said, “Admit it … you’re scared.”
“OK, OK,” he said, “Though I think you’re blowing it out of proportion, I am a bit spooked.”
“Since we can’t go up to the roof, or even use our own damn patio”— hoping Galt and Diaz would hear her, she had said it with her mouth real close to the window, all the while drumming her fingers on the glass— “you might as well bring your radio in here.” Turning to face Wilson, she added, “Please?”
“Sure,” he said. “Just don’t tell anyone why I stayed behind.”
“No promises,” Raven said. “Just hurry, it’s almost noon.” As Wilson neared the door, she called, “And bring binoculars.”
Max rose and stretched. Seeing Raven, he strolled over and rubbed his head against her calf.
“Hey, boy. have a good nap?”
Max yawned, then sat down and stared up at her.
Fishing some venison jerky from a pocket, she shared it with the dog.
Wilson returned carrying the requested items, the music playing in the park already coming out of the radio’s dual speakers.
Humming along with some country singer going on about how proud he was to be an American, Raven returned her attention to the park, where she saw the President’s black SUV limousine pulling through the blockade. It gave off a don’t mess with me vibe as it crept slowly, left to right, toward the stage.
Raven stuck a hand out. “Binoculars, please.”
The music kept playing as the President’s black limousine, nicknamed The Beast, stopped near the stage.
A trio of sunglass-wearing agents piled out. After poking around the stage, the agents returned and one of them opened the door for President Clay.
The President stepped from the highly modified Cadillac, waving and smiling at the cheering crowd. She wasn’t wearing her trademark b
all cap. Instead she wore her dark hair in a ponytail.
Instead of the usual outdoorsy garb—jeans, plaid shirt, hiking boots— President Clay wore a navy-blue pantsuit and sensible heels. Flanked by two Secret Service agents with submachine guns and dark glasses, she approached the stage.
The country ditty was starting to fade out.
“Before she speaks,” Wilson said, “I have a question.”
“What is it?”
“Where’s your dad? And along those lines … where’s my Tahoe?”
Raven said, “His message to me said he got in late last night. They were about to have a debriefing is why he didn’t call. Apparently, the flight back was pretty eventful. I guess he was nursing a couple of minor wounds and couldn’t sleep aboard the helicopter like he normally does. So, after the debrief he was going to stay there so he could get some sleep.”
Throwing his hands in the air, Wilson said, “I might as well go out and find another rig.”
“What’s stopping you?”
He made a face. “I would, but this one still has the new-car-smell.”
“Relax, Wilson. After today, my dad won’t ever need to borrow it again.”
The music on the radio was replaced by a recording of Hail to the Chief. It played for a couple of minutes and finished with a rousing conclusion.
Standing before a podium adorned with the Presidential Seal, Valerie Clay said, “My fellow Americans … please remove your hats, find a flag to face… not hard to do here—” laughter from the crowd—“and help me in singing our National Anthem.”
Wilson mumbled something under his breath. Turning toward the window, he removed his boonie hat and placed it over his heart.
Raven put her hand over her heart. Just as the music was starting to filter through the radio speakers, she saw movement left of the stage. It was another black van. It had writing on the side. Writing she couldn’t read from a couple hundred yards out.
The Secret Service agents manning the gate The Beast had come through were taking notice. Hands ducked into jackets as the protection detail went for their weapons.
“No, no, no,” Raven said.
One of the detail approached a row of portable roadblock signs. He started a conversation with the black van’s passenger.
Raven bellowed, “Give me the binoculars.”
Shooting her an angry look, Wilson hissed, “The Anthem!”
Still standing on the chair, Raven forcibly removed the Steiners from around his neck. Putting them to her eyes, the van snapped into focus. She read the white lettering: Loretta Jean’s Pies.
Panning the Steiners to the van’s front end, she saw that Pirate was the one talking to the agent. Though it was clear to her the driver’s arms were tattooed, thanks to the angle, she couldn’t see his face.
“Stop them. Arrest them.” Knowing the agents on the veranda couldn’t hear her, she banged on the window, hoping to get them to listen to her. To do something.
Galt didn’t flinch. Diaz, however, rose up from the spotting scope.
Wilson whispered, “That’s the pie van, isn’t it?”
Raven said nothing. She was looking Diaz in the eye and motioning for her to open the sliding door.
Diaz shook her head. Mouthing, “I can’t,” she returned her eye to the spotting scope.
Raven began, “Sasha and Taryn are down there—”
“—in the front section with the others,” Wilson finished, his face whitening.
Max growled.
As the rendition of Francis Scott Key’s song got to the rockets’ red glare line, inexplicably, the agent allowed the van to drive forward.
Raven banged on the window, harder this time, as she watched the van park behind The Beast.
Nothing. Both agents were now fully ignoring her.
Just as Raven dragged the satellite phone from her pocket, Pirate and Snake stepped from the van.
Brewing beer my butt.
Thumbing the Iridium to life, she saw the agent walk away from the van.
She thought, No, no, no. There’s a bomb in the van. Back to banging on the window, she screamed, “Shoot them. There’s a bomb in that van. You have got to warn the President!”
Galt drew his eye from the scope, looked at her, then shook his head.
Max whimpered.
Binoculars in one hand and pressed to her face, Raven shook the sat-phone, saying, “Come on, damn it. Power the eff up.”
By the time the agent had returned to his post behind the barricades, Pirate and Snake had looped all the way around the rear of the van. But instead of opening the back doors like Raven expected them to, they double-timed it toward the train tracks behind the park.
Hands shaking, Raven dialed Chief Riggleman’s number from memory. As she waited for the connection to be made, she took her gaze from the phone and watched the terrorists through the Steiners.
The pair were now stopped by the western wall and appeared to be arguing about something. In Snake’s hand was what looked to be a smartphone.
In a funereal voice, Raven said, “Snake has a detonator.”
Wilson said, “If that van blows with us standing here, we’re going to get a face full of broken glass.”
Just as Raven said, “If that van blows, all of our friends are dead,” a slew of things happened all at once.
Beyond the tracks, mouth moving a mile-a-minute, Snake shook the device in his hand and stabbed a finger at Pirate.
In response, Pirate took a step backward, drew a pistol from his waistband, and pointed it at the smaller man.
Clearly, they were having a falling out.
As that strange turn of events was registering with Raven, there came a knock on the door. Still balanced on the chair, Steiners pressed to her face and being attacked on multiple fronts by all kinds of stimuli, she ignored it.
A tick after the short flurry of knocks ceased, the doorknob rattled, and the door swung inward.
Reacting to the sound, Raven lowered the Steiners and jumped down from the chair.
Seeing Chief Riggleman in her CSPD uniform and filling up the doorway, Raven said, “I’m calling you. The pie van is down there right now.”
Clutched in the chief’s hand was a satellite phone. Though it was making no sounds, its screen was lit up with an incoming call.
“I know,” said the chief. “What you just witnessed was totally expected by us. We provided the credentials that got the van and driver through the outer perimeter. The bomb in the van is inert. It was assembled with help from one of our people. The parts in it look real but are not.”
Incredulous, Raven said, “You’ve known all along … and didn’t tell me? Hell, Agents Galt and Diaz knew and just let me go into complete meltdown mode.” Jaw clenched, she banged the binoculars against her thigh.
Ending the incoming call without answering it, Riggleman said, “Couldn’t be helped. We have been following this plot for some time now. Even though things have changed drastically because of Omega, Lady Justice is still blind. She has to remain blind. That’s why we had to let it play out. Catch the cells in the act.”
Puzzle pieces finally falling into place, Raven said, “Cells? Snake and Pixie are the cell … and Pirate is one of yours.”
“His name is Rory. And, yes, he’s FBI. He’s also truly grateful you didn’t shoot him in the gut the other night.”
“I was so close to ending him,” Raven said. “I thought he was a terrorist. I thought … maybe he could see me even though it was real dark and I was hiding in some bushes.”
“He made you. He’s real good at what he does,” Riggleman said.
Interrupting, Wilson said, “But you said cells. Plural. How many more are there?”
Riggleman said, “Thanks to Raven and her dad figuring out the Klingon angle, we rolled up another cell that kept slipping our noose. There’s still some threads we’re following. We think they were ready to go when Omega was released. They were coordinated by various Chinese-run institut
es on the West and East Coasts whose connections lead back to the mainland.”
Raven said nothing. She figured it would take a talk with her dad to fully grasp what the chief was alleging.
Pointing to the radio broadcasting the President’s speech, Riggleman said, “Keep listening, Raven, President Clay is going to mention the plot and thank those who helped expose it.”
Wilson said, “Anonymously, right?”
Regarding Wilson, Riggleman said, “Of course.” She paused and walked to the window.
Raven said, “I thought you were discounting me because of my age.”
“I had to shine you on. And for that, I’m really sorry. You’re bright and resourceful. Maybe one day you’ll want to try out for CSPD?”
Wilson said, “Or the FBI.”
Raven said, “If anything, it’ll be Army Rangers. Then, maybe Delta.”
Riggleman said, “Shooting for the moon,” and handed Raven a small sack. Something inside it jingled as it hit Raven’s upturned palm.
The chief went on: “Keys for the trigger locks. We had to do that so you would be less apt to rustle up a posse and go out on another late-night jaunt.”
Raven nodded. “It did cross my mind.”
Riggleman smiled at that. “I better go now,” she said. “We’ve been asked to help the Bureau lock the crime scenes down so they can preserve all the evidence. There will be a trial.”
“And hopefully a public execution,” Wilson shot.
Riggleman said, “Let’s not put the cart before the horse,” and turned to go.
As Riggleman neared the door, Raven said, “Tell Rory I’m real sorry for pointing my gun at him.”
“Will do,” she said, then let herself out.
Raven tapped softly on the picture window. Drawing the attention of Galt and Diaz, she mouthed, “I’m sorry.”
The pair on the veranda threw her mock salutes, then went back to the task at hand.
“Well,” Wilson said, “since that’s all settled, what do you say we go down and watch the rest of the ceremony from the good seats?”
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