by Marcus Sakey
Cooper raised his foot again. “You know how I realized that? The only time I could read you was when you were about to hit my son.” He snapped the man’s left shin like kindling. “So Todd says hello.”
Soren screamed.
Outside, Cooper heard more gunfire, the same fast cluster as before. Shannon’s SMG. There was no returning fire. Good. Cooper smiled. Then he tried to lean against the wall and fell down instead.
A moment later she was in the kitchen, moving fast, the gun up. “Nick!”
“I’m okay.” He took the hand she offered and wobbled back to his feet. “You?”
“Fine.”
“Hey, Doc,” he yelled to the other room. “You can come out now. The good guys won.”
On the floor, the man who had put his son in a coma writhed and moaned, his face a bloody mess, hand destroyed, a bone sticking out of his calf. Cooper watched. After a moment, he said, “Doc?”
“Cooper.” Ethan’s voice was faint from the other room. “I think you need to see this.”
He glanced at Shannon, and she trained her weapon on Soren. Cooper limped through the arch, past the shattered pictures and the broken glass, to where Ethan stood staring at the television.
A line of tanks burned against the skyline of an apparently unscathed Tesla. Corpses lay everywhere, thousands of them carpeting the desert. The prefab buildings smoldered, black ropes rising into the sky. Helicopters buzzed through the haze, firing on the few soldiers still standing. Then the video cut to something new.
No, oh no.
Something that had once been the White House. The building had been replaced by a massive crater. The surrounding earth was bunched and rippled like carpet. A column of thick smoke obscured most of the strike itself, but the debris was everywhere. The columns of the South Portico were scattered like children’s blocks. Shattered glass glinted amidst piles of limestone and marble and bent steel. Paper blew in gusts, and small blazes flickered. Dust and dirt and flesh and blood mingled into an unholy gray. The trees on the north lawn were burning, a harvest of fire wavering like autumn leaves.
He stepped forward and found the volume.
“—a missile apparently launched from a submarine. The White House has been completely destroyed. We believe President Clay was inside at the time, along with . . . oh God.” The announcer choked. “It was a computer virus, a Trojan horse triggered by the abnorms. The military force in New Canaan has torn itself to pieces. Casualties are in the tens of thousands. We—” A pause and a choke. “America is now at war. My God, we’re at war with ourselves.”
Cooper stared. Saw everything he had fought for burning.
They were no longer on the precipice. They’d gone headfirst into the abyss.
Without thinking, he kicked the television, the screen toppling over and smashing against the wall, sparks flying. Ethan jumped, said, “Jesus Christ!”
Cooper turned, staggered back to the kitchen. Soren had rolled to one side and lay shivering. Shannon looked up with wide eyes. “Did I hear—”
“Yes.” He stared down.
Ethan joined them, saw Soren, said again, “Jesus Christ.” Then, “Where’s my family?”
“Safe,” Shannon said. “Nobody’s after them. She’s going to her mom’s.”
Slowly, Ethan nodded. “Now what?”
Now what. Now what indeed.
Cooper had known that this plan was a long shot, known he was likely to die trying. And instead he’d survived, saved Ethan Park, and it didn’t matter. The White House was destroyed, the president dead, the nation in a civil war. John Smith had won.
No.
I won’t allow it.
“Doc. Your boss, Couzen. You know him pretty well?”
“Sure. But he was kidnapped—”
“No. He faked it.”
“He faked it?”
“Yes. He’s out there somewhere, and he’s got the recipe for the last best hope we have. You’re going to help me find him.” He turned to Shannon. “This isn’t over.”
“Nick . . .”
“It’s not. It’s not over unless we give up. Unless we let Smith win.” He took a breath, tried to stop the shaking of his hands. “Everything is falling apart. But we can still fight. We just have to decide to do it. My children are still alive, and as long as that’s true, I’m never going to quit.”
She stared at him for a long moment, his fierce warrior woman, and then she nodded slowly. “What’s the plan?”
“You’re going to take this piece of shit”—he gestured at Soren—“back to Epstein.”
“What? Why?”
“Epstein said that he’s Smith’s closest friend. That he understood Smith better than anyone.” He read the confirmation in her eyes. “Good. We’re going to need that.”
“What about me?” Ethan said.
Soren groaned on the floor. Idly, Cooper wound up and kicked him in the temple. The man stopped moving.
Then he looked at the scientist. “You and me, Doc?” Cooper smiled. “We’re going to go save the world.”
END OF BOOK TWO
EPILOGUE
The diner had cracked Formica counters and photos of ugly children taped behind the register. The cook saw him standing there and said, “Two black coffees to go?”
The man nodded. You’ve fallen into a pattern. This will have to be your last visit.
He scanned the room. A fat man hunched over a plate with great concentration. Two guys in matching work clothes talked at the counter. The small tri-d showed a scene of devastation. Ah yes, the White House. He’d heard something about it being destroyed—a week ago, perhaps?—but he’d been too busy to investigate.
“Look,” one of the laborers said, “that missile coulda been a nuke. They could have firebombed Manhattan. They didn’t. So maybe we oughta—”
“Twists had their chance,” the other replied. “There’s ninety-nine of us to one of them. Let’s see ’em use a computer virus against a bayonet.”
The cook set the coffee on the counter. “Four bucks. My name’s Zeke, by the way.” He held out his hand to shake. It was plump and sweaty, and his nails needed a trim.
Dr. Abraham Couzen looked at it. “Sorry. I’ve got a cold.” He laid four dollars down, picked up his coffee, and walked out.
Early December, the sky a chilly white. Abe peeled back the tab from one of the coffees and took a long sip, and then another, and then another. When he finished it, he tossed the blue and white cup in a trash can and started walking. The South Bronx was not a glamorous part of town, but he’d grown used to it. And it was the last place anyone would think to look for—
That man waiting for the bus. Didn’t you see him yesterday?
The breeze smelled of gasoline and fish. Bits of trash in the chain-link fence hummed in the wind. Abe turned up his coat collar and walked another fifty feet, then spun on his heels. The man hadn’t followed.
It didn’t mean anything. There could be high-altitude drones tracking him right now. Government agencies, terrorist groups, Epstein’s spies—so many dirty fingers picking through his past, scanning camera feeds for his profile, ransacking his home.
Pierre Curie did it.
The notion had occurred to him last night. A way to be certain his work could never be taken.
The building was a low, windowless brick rectangle. Abe unlocked the deadbolt and pressed a thumb against the biometric scanner. Bank after bank of fluorescent lights flickered on, illuminating two thousand square feet of previously abandoned warehouse space. It had been laughably easy to funnel aside enough of Epstein’s money to buy the building and rebuild it to his exact specifications.
Barry Marshall did it.
A row of positive-airflow suits hung limp, respirator tubes trailing to the ceiling. Beyond that were lab counters broken out by function: wet bench, instrument bench, calculation space. Freezers and reagent refrigerators. A dry block incubator. A thermal cycler. A row of centrifuges. A micropipetter. Three DNA sequence
rs.
It was equal to the laboratory he’d abandoned in Cleveland. But no one knew about this one, not even Ethan. The bastards wanted his work, they’d have to find him first.
Jonas Salk did it.
There were things to work out, kinks, problems. Side effects. Tests that he should have been allowed to perform. Erik Epstein’s hurry had prevented it. Along with the government’s meddling.
But he was a scientist. His job was nothing less than wrestling the universe into a choke hold and making it cough out its secrets.
Abe took a long sip of coffee. Then he walked to the refrigerator, opened the door, and took out the syringe. The suspension fluid inside was milky.
This is foolish.
He tore open an isopropyl swab.
Reckless.
Rolled up his sleeve.
But Pierre Curie strapped radium salts to his arm to show that radiation caused burns.
Wiped his bicep with the alcohol.
Barry Marshall drank a batch of Helicobacter pylori to prove that ulcers were bacterial.
Picked up the syringe.
Jonas Salk inoculated his entire family with his polio vaccine.
Pushed the needle’s tip through his skin and depressed the plunger.
And Dr. Abraham Couzen injected himself with non-coding RNA to radically alter his gene expression.
It was done. There was no going back. Abe set the syringe aside and rolled down his sleeve.
He’d always known he was a genius.
Now it was time to become brilliant.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am indebted to so many people it’s embarrassing.
Scott Miller and Jon Cassir are the finest agents in the business, and it’s an honor to have them watching my back.
The entire team at Thomas & Mercer is extraordinary. My FF Alison Dasho performed a masterful edit with a baby in her belly. Alan Turkus expertly took the reins when said baby insisted on coming out. Jacque Ben-Zekry will soon rule the world. Gracie Doyle is the Queen of PR. Danielle Marshall is a mysterious genius. Daphne Durham is unbeatable for bourbon-tinged book talk. Jeff Belle is the original class act. Thanks also to Andy Bartlett, Terry Goodman, Paul Morrissey, and Tiffany Pokorny.
I’m grateful to Alex Hedlund, Palak Patel, Joe Roth, and Julius Onah for their dedication to not simply making a movie, but making a great one. Thanks also to David Koepp for a rock-star script.
Robert Yalden, formerly of the Secret Service, helped me with the details of the White House and provided a frightening perspective on cyber-security.
Huge gratitude to my high school buddy Dr. Yuval Raz for figuring out how abnorms work on a genetic level, not to mention bringing Cooper back from the dead. Any errors, inaccuracies, or wild flights of fancy are mine.
Jeroen ten Berge knocked the cover out of the park, again. Thanks for never settling.
Joe Buice drew the flyer for Ringo’s Army-Navy found early in the story, and Nick Robert designed the poster for (Ab)Normal. Both did it for no other reason than they like the book, and that’s just about the coolest thing ever.
Thanks to all the friends and family who read the draft and gave me notes, especially Darwyn Jones and Michael Cook, gentlemen and scholars.
Marjorie Braman’s editorial pass offered exceptional insight into all the things I could do better. Jessica Fogleman caught all the things I’d screwed up.
My boys Sean Chercover and Blake Crouch were instrumental every step of the way. It’s not just that without them this book would be worse—it’s that it might well not be at all. Thanks also to Gillian Flynn for a ton of support.
Thank you, dear reader, for rolling the dice on my novel. I hope I didn’t let you down.
My family means everything to me. Thank you Sakeys 1.0, also known as my mother, Sally; my father, Tony; and my brother, Matt.
Jossie, you’re the best thing I’ve ever cocreated. I’m wildly proud of you, and I love you so much it makes me dizzy.
Finally, g.g.: my partner, my wife, my life. I love you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PHOTO © JAY FRANCO
Marcus Sakey’s novels have been nominated for more than fifteen awards, including the Edgar and two ITW Thriller Awards. His book Good People was adapted into a feature film starring James Franco and Kate Hudson. Three of his other novels have been optioned for film, including Brilliance.
To research his work, Marcus has shadowed gang cops, trained with snipers, toured the morgue, flown planes, rappelled with SWAT teams, hung out with spies, and learned to pick a deadbolt. He was the host and writer of the acclaimed television show Hidden City on Travel Channel, for which he was routinely pepper-sprayed and attacked by dogs.
Marcus lives in Chicago with his wife and daughter.
His website is MarcusSakey.com, or follow him on Facebook (Facebook.com/MarcusSakey) or Twitter, where he posts under the clever handle @MarcusSakey.
