by Tim Waggoner
Rattlesnake drew a knife and rushed toward Jack. Jack flung the rope toward the man, jumping through the loop as he did so. The lasso caught hold of the man’s knife hand and drew tight around his wrist. Jack yanked, and the knife flew out of the man’s hand. He pulled the man toward him, caught the knife, and stabbed the bastard in the shoulder with it. The man screamed, and Jack loosened the lasso to release him, and then threw him against the bar. The man bounced off and went down to lie next to his companion.
The last redneck attacked, and Jack caught him with the lasso and hurled him onto a table. The impact caused the table to collapse beneath him, and he lay there, stunned.
By this point, the other three rednecks had gotten to their feet. They might have been a bit the worse for wear, but they were mad as hell now and ready to get back into the fight. Jack pressed a control on the handle, and the lasso untied itself and became a whip. He spun it around and cracked it against the floor, as if daring the rednecks to come at him. They took the bait and charged. Jack lashed the whip toward one, catching him around the neck and flipping him onto a pool table. He caught a second man’s wrist, yanked him in, and punched him in the face. He threw a third man onto the concrete floor, and he slid a dozen feet before coming to a stop. The fourth redneck—Rattlesnake—came stumbling toward him. He caught hold of a chair, swung it into the fucker, and the impact sent him crashing through a window.
Eggsy looked at Jack, impressed as hell. He’d taken out those four bastards in seconds without breaking a sweat. Jack smiled at Eggsy, tipped his hat. He thumbed a switch on the handle, and the whip retracted. He then replaced the handle on his belt and walked back to the booth.
The other bar patrons had watched the fight in silence up to this point, but now that it was over, they burst into wild applause, whistling and cheering. Jack acknowledged their reaction with a nod of his head, and several other men took it upon themselves to collect the unconscious rednecks and begin dragging them outside.
Harry, a bit roughed up but essentially unharmed, turned to Jack as he approached.
“Thank you,” he said. “Impressive work with that lassoo.”
“It’s pronounced lasso,” Jack said, scowling. “Rhymes with asshole.”
Harry turned away from Jack, no longer able to meet his gaze.
“I… I don’t know what happened. I… saw butterflies. They were all around me. I…”
Eggsy and Merlin exchanged glances, and then Merlin put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “We rebuilt your neural pathways. It’ll take time to get coordination back. Time and retraining. And you may experience… episodes. Lapses of clarity. I’m sorry.”
Harry nodded his understanding, but Eggsy could see that Merlin’s words deeply troubled him.
Just then, a loud burst of static noise blasted from the TV mounted in the corner behind the bar, and everyone in the place turned to look at the screen, Eggsy, Harry, Merlin, and Jack included.
A golden circle appeared briefly on the screen, and faded to reveal a red-headed woman, wearing glasses and a yellow jacket, seated in a black leather chair. On the wall behind her was a sign that read POPPY’S PHARMACEUTICALS. Her expression was serious, and her green eyes shone with intensity.
“Mr President. My name is Poppy Adams. I am a proud American, a military veteran, and CEO of the Golden Circle, worldwide distributor and manufacturer of non-regulated pharmaceuticals. I believe that the UN has no teeth, so I have selected you, as the leader of the free world, to receive this communication. And I am inviting you to begin negotiations in the largest scale hostage situation in history.”
She rose from her chair and began walking across the stage, still facing the camera.
“Over the past week an engineered virus has been released, contained in all varieties of my product: cannabis, cocaine, heroin, opium, ecstasy, and crystal meth. Alas, it’s already too late for the early birds. But here’s what the rest of the world can expect in the coming days.”
She stopped before a row of opaque isolation cells, four in all. She snapped her fingers and one of the cells became transparent, revealing a man dressed in a tracksuit, his skin covered with a blue rash.
“After a brief incubation period, victims will begin to show first-stage symptoms: a blue rash.”
She stepped to the second cell, snapped her fingers again, and a woman in a tracksuit with the same rash was revealed. But unlike the man, who seemed calm, she was clearly distraught, almost frenzied, pounding on the glass and yelling, although no sound was emitted from within the cell.
“Next, victims begin to present with stage two symptoms as the virus invades the brain: disinhibition, delusion, dementia… Very distressing for the victim and those around them.”
A third cell, a third snap of the fingers, another rash sufferer revealed. Unlike the previous two, this man lay on a bed, unmoving, his body rigid.
“Stage three: paralysis. Muscles enter a state of catastrophic seizure. And once the muscles of the thorax are affected, breathing becomes impossible.”
As if on cue, the man’s eyes bugged out, projecting absolute terror. After several long moments of suffering, his gaze dulled, and it was clear that he was gone.
“Leading to a very nasty death. But I have good news for the millions already infected: it doesn’t have to end this way.”
Her grave expression brightened as she went to the last cell. A snap of her fingers revealed Elton John, also wearing a tracksuit. He was covered with the blue rash, standing rigid, eyes desperate and pleading. Inside the cell, a male nurse stood next to Elton, holding a small vial of liquid.
“I have an antidote,” Poppy said, smiling.
The nurse held up the vial for the camera to see, then put it to Elton’s lips and gently poured the contents into his mouth. Within seconds, the rash began to fade, and Elton’s body relaxed. Able to move again, he rushed toward the glass and started pounding on it, yelling at the nurse.
“Get out! Get out! Get out of my fucking room!”
Poppy ignored Elton’s outburst.
“One hundred percent effective, and ready to ship out worldwide at a moment’s notice. You have my word that I’ll make that happen. If the following conditions are met. First: you agree to end the war on drugs once and for all. All classes of substance are legalized, paving the way for a new marketplace in which sales are regulated and taxed, as per alcohol. Next: my associates and I receive full legal immunity. And finally: the Golden Circle becomes a registered corporation, with an IPO in twelve months. Meet my terms, and I look forward to helping you keep our beloved country great—boosting our ailing economy and relieving spending on law enforcement. Or continue this blinkered, outmoded, and frankly disastrous exercise in prohibition, and live with blood on your hands.”
A slogan appeared on the screen beneath her image: SAVE LIVES—LEGALIZE.
The camera remained focused on her face for a few seconds longer, and then the screen went dark.
The bar’s patrons remained absolutely silent for several moments, stunned by what they had just seen and heard, then everyone began talking at once in loud, fearful voices. Jack’s watch buzzed. He glanced at the dial and then looked up at the others.
“Champ wants to see us. Now.”
* * *
Poppy may have addressed her message to the American president, but it was broadcast worldwide, and people across the planet reacted with shock and dismay.
The trading floor at the New York Stock Exchange was in total chaos as terrified Wall Street traders panicked.
At Glastonbury, festivalgoers swarmed the medical tent.
There was panic in Magaluf as partygoers freaked out.
The streets in Compton erupted in mayhem.
In an assembly at a posh British school, uniformed students tried to hide their alarm from the concerned headmaster on stage.
In overrun hospitals around the world, medical staff relying on “alternative medications” to help them combat the effects of sleep depriv
ation felt the same terror as their virus-infected patients.
In the American states where marijuana remained illegal, cancer patients who used the drug to deal with the aftereffects of chemotherapy realized they now faced a new threat to their lives.
Around the world, men and women with psychological problems ranging from depression to borderline personality disorder to schizophrenia—people who self-medicated with substances mainstream society deemed illicit at best and downright evil at worst—realized they’d just been handed a death sentence, simply for trying to find a way to make themselves better.
And on and on and on. Any place where someone used “unregistered pharmaceuticals,” whether for pleasure, temporary release from the overwhelming stress in their lives, to self-medicate because of psychological or physical conditions, or simply to help their minds and bodies keep up with the crushing demands of their jobs, there was fear—which was, of course, exactly what Poppy wanted.
* * *
Agent Tequila lay on the hospital bed in Ginger’s lab, unconscious, his body covered with a blue rash, his limbs twisted and stiff. Ginger had been performing CPR on him for several minutes, but he showed no signs of a pulse. In desperation, Ginger turned to the crash cart next to the gurney and activated the defibrillator. She set the energy level to two hundred joules, pressed the charge button, and the device began to emit an electronic tone. It felt like it took forever, but the tone stopped, indicating the machine was ready. She took hold of the paddles, and even though no one else was in the lab with her, she almost said, “Clear!” She pressed the paddles to the anterior and lateral sides of Tequila’s chest and simultaneously pressed the buttons that would send electricity coursing into him. The man’s body spasmed once, then fell still. Ginger placed the paddles back on the cart and immediately began chest compressions again, head turned so she could watch the defibrillator’s heart monitor.
One of the bad things about working for a super-secret independent intelligence agency was that, in order to keep it super-secret, it had to be kept small. While the CIA’s official employment numbers weren’t public knowledge, Ginger knew the agency employed over twenty thousand people and had an additional four thousand foreign spies on its payroll. In comparison, Statesman had a dozen or so agents, and she was the only tech person in the organization. That meant she had to be a jack of all trades: computer programmer, engineer, chemist, physician, psychologist, forensics specialist, medical examiner… basically everything but chief cook and bottle washer. She was too modest to ever say so out loud, but she was a certified genius, with an IQ so high no test had been invented yet that could accurately measure how smart she really was. She had to be a genius in order to do everything she did for Statesman. But right then, with Tequila’s life slipping through her hands, she’d have traded her so-called advanced intellect for a highly trained medical team and a couple of specialists in infectious diseases.
More minutes passed, and still she kept working on Tequila, kept watching the flat line on the heart monitor, praying she’d see some movement in it. And then, there it was! Faint, but unmistakable—a pulse. But one so weak, she knew it wouldn’t hold. Tequila was going to die, and there was nothing she could do about it. At least, there was nothing she could do about it now. But if she put him in cryogenic suspension, he’d remain as he was, hovering between life and death, until she could discover a cure. Assuming, of course, she succeeded. If she didn’t, Tequila would remain frozen forever. It wasn’t much of a chance, but it was the only one the man had.
Working swiftly, Ginger prepped a cryo tube, slid Tequila into it, sealed it, and turned it on. She watched as the tube’s plastic window became covered with frost, hiding Tequila from her view. She let out a long, shuddering sigh. She’d done all she could. She hoped it was enough.
She wondered where Merlin was right now. She could use someone to talk to, someone who understood what it was like to wear so many hats and carry so much responsibility. More than that—she needed him. But first, she had to tell Champ what had happened to Tequila.
She pulled her phone from her slacks pocket and made the call.
The Oval Office, Washing ton, D.C.
Fox Nouvelle sat across the Resolute desk from the president. Queen Victoria had given this desk as a gift to Rutherford B. Hayes in 1880. It was made from the wood of the British Arctic exploration ship Resolute—hence the name—and had been used by many presidents in the years since. The desk had a long and distinguished history, something Fox wasn’t certain she would be able to say about her tenure at the White House. Being the president’s chief of staff was a high-stress job in any administration, but working with this president—with his hair-trigger temper, mercurial whims, and tendency to seek vengeance for any slight, large or small, real or imagined—was nothing but stress twenty-four seven. She felt as if she were always on the verge of being fired, or worse: summoned by Congress to testify about one scandal or another that the president was embroiled in. Fox’s job was a combination of personal secretary, sounding board, babysitter, and ego-booster, and she never knew which role the president expected her to play at any given moment.
So things were bad enough around here on a regular day. But this had ceased being anything close to a regular day the moment Poppy Adams had broadcast her video message for the entire world to see. Before the video had finished playing, world leaders began calling the president to urge him to comply with Poppy’s demands. So many had phoned that the president had been forced to have staffers speak to them. Except the Russian president, of course. They were old friends, and the president always took his calls.
The president was standing, hands on his desk, leaning forward as if he might leap over it and attack Fox at any moment. The president was a tall man, over six feet, and although he was in his early seventies, he possessed the presence and energy of a much younger man. He was wealthy enough to afford the finest tailored suits, but despite this, his clothes were always rumpled and ill-fitting, and his hair—what there was of it—was an unruly, untamable tangle, as if it were a reflection of the brain beneath.
Another of the president’s trusted advisors, General Bannon McCoy, stood nearby, hands behind his back, expression stern. He always looked like that. Fox thought the man’s face would probably shatter into a thousand pieces if he ever tried to smile.
“Prepare the bill for legislation,” the president said. “And tell intelligence and law enforcement to stand down. We’re going to dance to this lady’s tune.”
Fox felt a wave of relief at the president’s words. “Good. We can make this work. Spin it that it’s not a matter of negotiating with terrorists, it’s—”
“No. I’m proposing that we appear to agree to her demands to prevent global panic. Then we let the junkie scum go down in flames and take Poppy Adams and her so-called Golden Circle down with them. No users, no drug trade. We’re in a win-win situation here.”
There was no way to predict what might come out of the president’s mouth at any given moment, and because of this, Fox was used to maintaining a noncommittal expression whenever the president spoke to her. But now her mouth fell open in shock.
“Mr President, sir, we’re not talking about a handful of hostages. We could be looking at the deaths of hundreds of millions, worldwide!”
The president plopped back down in his chair and folded his hands across his paunch. “Hundreds of millions of criminals and burdens to society,” he said.
Fox knew the president hated to be challenged, but she felt in this case she needed to push the matter a little harder.
“Sir, that’s not… What about people who were just experimenting? Folks who self-medicate? Functioning professionals? Kids?”
“Ugh, spare me your crap, Fox.” The president grinned. “Fact is, this presidency just won the war on drugs. No drug users, no drug trade.” He turned to the general. “Am I right, McCoy?”
The general, still grim-faced, nodded, but Fox thought she could see a gleam of s
atisfaction in his eyes.
She did her best to smile, because it was expected of her. But inside, she was thinking, This is going to be a disaster. She looked longingly at the Oval Office’s liquor cabinet. The president didn’t drink, but Fox sure could use a belt right now. And that bottle of Statesman whiskey sitting on the shelf at the back of the cabinet looked mighty tempting…
* * *
Eggsy, Harry, and Jack had gathered in Champ’s office at his request. Harry had donned a Kingsman suit, and—except for the one black lens of his glasses—he finally looked like his old self. Champ sat behind his desk, the other men sat in front of it, and resting on the surface of the desk was a belt buckle in the shape of the Statesman logo. In reality, the buckle was a powerful audio receiver, one that picked up transmissions from agency listening devices. And right now, it was tuned in to one device in particular: the one hidden within the Oval Office’s liquor cabinet. They’d just finished listening to the conversation between the president, Fox, and General McCoy, and none of them had liked what they’d heard.
Champ had been tasting a new batch of whiskey for quality control while they’d listened. He spit a mouthful into a spittoon on the floor next to his chair, then capped the bottle and set it on his desk.
“Whether they broke the law or not, those victims are human beings,” Champ said. “Tequila’s a great guy and a great agent. And right now, he’s lying in a deep-freeze, waiting on our help.”
Eggsy noticed that Jack didn’t look at Champ as he spoke. He looked past Champ at the stock ticker screen on the wall behind him. Eggsy was no expert, but if he was reading the bloody thing right, Statesman’s share prices were plummeting. It made sense. Poppy had said nothing about her virus being spread through alcohol, but alcohol was a drug too, and it looked like people didn’t intend to take any chances.
