by Andrew Mayne
“I know. Feet over the edge.” He helps me turn sideways. “Good girl. Can you slide into these sweatpants?”
I let him guide me into them. Even though we’ve been far more intimate than this recently, his manner is entirely clinical. Almost insultingly so.
“I’ll tie your shoes.” He kneels down and slides on a pair of sneakers.
“Damian, what are you doing?” I still feel so passive from the drugs.
He stands up and rests his hands on my knees. “The people who are after you. Their leader, Winter?”
“Probably.”
“Why did he go to jail?” he asks.
“For killing someone.”
“Right, how?”
“A bomb.”
“A bomb,” Damian replies.
“You think he might try that next? We need to tell Ailes.”
Damian shakes his head. “There’s nothing to tell right now. All I’m saying is that it’s only a matter of time before they stop coming after you with knives. The sooner we get you out of here, the better.”
“I don’t think they’d come anywhere near here. The police have their descriptions.”
“Yes, of the ones on the train. What about the girl in DC? Was she working with others?”
“We think so. We found a farmhouse. Two men lived there.”
“Were the ones who attacked you from there?”
“No. Probably not.”
He looks up at me, his arms still resting on my knees. “Three people in DC. Three people here. Plus at least one calling the shots. That’s seven people, Jessica. At least seven that we know of. How many are in this cult?”
“I don’t know.”
“Any idea why they want to kill my favorite FBI agent?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Last time it was for something I saw.”
“That bitch, Marta,” Damian snarls. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe she put a contract on you before she died.”
“These people are environmentalists, not hit men. It doesn’t make sense.”
I let Damian slide my hospital gown over my head without hesitation. In our infrequent rendezvous, we probably spend more time together naked than dressed.
Reaching to my side, I feel the bandage. I pull it free and see the puffy skin and stitches. It’s not that big a gash. The surgeon did a pretty good job from what I can see. I’ll have a scar, but not a bad one.
“Three pints.” Damian kneels back down to look at it in the moonlight.
“What?”
“That’s how much blood you lost. Any more and you would have gone into cardiac arrest.”
He places a new bandage on the wound while I try to clear my head.
“It doesn’t add up,” he says. “Going after you is attracting attention they shouldn’t want. And they’re environmentalists? Not some voodoo cult?”
“No. But they’re weirdos, for sure.”
He helps me put on a bra and a hoodie. I try not to tear up as the wound begins to sting. “Are you good to go? There’s a guard at the door. I’ll distract him.”
“FBI?” I ask.
“No. They’ve got their hands full. Only local. Thus the urgency.”
“Isn’t Ailes coming, or Gerald?”
“No. It’s complicated.” He takes my arm and helps me to my feet.
“Complicated?” I feel reasonably steady, but I let him brace me for a moment.
“DC is in lockdown.”
“Lockdown? What happened?” I stumble, but manage to grip the edge of the bed and steady myself.
“Rioting. Very bad. They’ve shut down the airports and train stations.”
My head clears. “What’s going on?”
Damian steps back to see if I have my footing. “There was a shooting.”
“The president?” I immediately think of the first lady.
“No, no. He’s fine. Nothing like that. Capitol Police shot into an unarmed crowd on live television. At least four people are dead. Several more are wounded. The whole town is going crazy.”
I feel like I’m going to throw up. “They shot into the crowd?”
“They killed one protestor almost point-blank. A teenage girl.”
“All of this over the earthquake?” Nothing makes sense.
“Now it’s a civil rights thing. The rioting has gotten much worse. People are converging from all over. They’ve shut down the roads into the city. Protests are breaking out in New York and here in Boston too. That’s why you’ve only got one sleepy guard.”
“Damian, what’s happening?”
He checks the door, anxious that we’re being too loud, but knows me well enough to understand that I won’t relent until I have some answers at least.
“Well, if you watched the news over the last few hours, you’d think we were on the verge of civil war. People are shooting at the cops in DC. The White House, the FBI building are surrounded. It’s a mess and it’s getting worse. Police have had to pull back. Marines are inside the gate of the White House holding the line along with the Secret Service uniformed division. Martial law is going to be declared any moment.” Damian walks toward the window. “Crap!”
“What?” I lean over to see what he’s looking at. There’s an orange glow in the distance.
He nods to the conflagration. “It looks like they set fire to Schroeder Plaza. The police station is there. It’s starting here too.”
“Rioting?”
He moves away from the window and takes my arm. “Rioting. The fires. In DC they’re even shooting at firemen.”
“But, I was just there a few hours ago.”
“Twitter, babe. People were primed for this.”
I’m still trying to understand the world I woke up to. “They shot at protestors?”
He leans me against the wall by the door and peers into the hallway for a moment. “Clear as day and in four K. Even the Iranians are condemning us. That was just a few hours ago. It’s going to be even worse tomorrow when word spreads. Nothing like that has happened in this country since Kent State. And that wasn’t broadcast live.”
“Can I at least tell Ailes I’m okay?” I ask as we head out the door.
“No need.”
“Why is that?”
“He’s the one who told me to come get you.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Informant
Traffic leading into the city is at a complete standstill as police direct cars toward on-ramps and away from the chaos downtown. Damian listens to updates on a police scanner and takes us around the congestion through center aisles, side streets, and occasionally sidewalks. He’s acquired a large black SUV it would seem expressly for this purpose.
The cars on the road begin to thin out the farther we go. Occasionally an emergency vehicle, lights flashing and siren blaring, races past us. He takes the entrance to I-95 and starts driving southbound. I dig through the duffel bag at my feet and find my phone. There are several text messages from Ailes telling me to call him.
“What have I missed?” I ask after he picks up.
“For heaven’s sake, Jessica!” His voice is full of surprise. “Let’s start with: How are you?”
“Fine. Fine.” I touch the bandage at my side. It’s beginning to itch. “I was careless.”
“I’ll say,” Damian mutters.
I glare at him, but he ignores me as he studies the road, keeping a watchful eye on the rearview mirror.
“I hate to ask you this, but when you feel up to it, come into the office.”
“I’m up to it.” My head is groggy, I can still feel the knife in my side, and I’m half-convinced this is a nightmare, but there’s no way I can sit still.
“Well, you have to give us mortals a chance to sleep. It’s four in the morning.” He sounds tired, but not sleepy.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,” I reply.
“Are you kidding? I should have come straight to you.”
“Stop,” I cut him short. “We’ve got
a lot to deal with. It’s under control.” I throw Damian a sideways glance. “And I’m in, um, capable hands.”
“Yes. He was closest to you. I would have come or sent Gerald, but Dulles and Reagan National are shut down.”
“That bad?” I ask.
His voice sounds distant, almost defeated. “The panic is always the worst part. They’re telling people not to go into the DC office.”
“You’re kidding.” The FBI headquarters is shut down in Washington? What the hell?
“No. I wish I was.” This must weigh even more heavily on Ailes than it does on me.
“I guess that’s why you’ve resorted to unusual methods,” I say, referring to Damian.
“He is unusual.” Ailes lowers his voice. “I was afraid of the Red Chain getting to you first. Boston PD was overstretched.”
“I’m sure I’m safe. If he wanted to kill me, it’d have happened by now,” I say, glancing sideways for Damian’s benefit.
“Don’t worry. It’ll be a murder-suicide, with you doing the killing.” Damian’s wink is more chilling than comforting.
“I was able to push through a temporary authorization for him as an informant,” Ailes explains. “That’ll make it easier on our end when we have to explain why you’re in the presence of an FBI person of interest.”
Person of interest. That’s one way to sum up Damian. With a knack for getting involved in cases in the most suspicious ways, there are more than a few people in the FBI who would like to get him into an interrogation room.
“Have we had a chance to follow up with Boston police about my attackers?” I ask.
“We’ve sent out your descriptions. You think these are the two from the farmhouse?”
“No. My gut says it’s a separate group. Maybe a Boston cell.”
“Hmm.” There’s a pause as Ailes thinks this over. “Different cells with three people each?”
“Well, the DC one was until they killed the woman who failed to get me. Maybe they’re recruiting. I should check Craigslist for Psycho Hell Bitch Wanted ads.”
I see a grin at the corner of Damian’s mouth. Eyes forward, he reaches one hand over and squeezes my left knee.
“Never change,” he whispers.
“Interesting,” Ailes says.
“What?” I can tell when he’s on to something. Processing takes him an instant; conjuring up entire theories and explanations takes a few seconds longer.
“I’ve been reading up on cult structures. It’s kind of fascinating. We think of the classical cult where they brainwash members into staying. But some cults maintain devotion by expelling people. Rather than convince you to stay, they make you afraid you’ll be forced to go. It’s a little more complicated than that, but the threat of excommunication can be very powerful.
“There’s also a third way that’s even more powerful. And that’s making you loyal to your subgroup. Like a military platoon. Your loyalty is to the people immediately around you. You stay because of them. It’s one of the reasons cults are quick to sanction their own marriages.
“Three is an interesting number. Too small to be a platoon or even a family unit if they’re all adults. But there is an exception. When Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge took over Cambodia, one of the things they did was break apart families and force people into three-person units. Each one was pressed to inform on the others. It became easier to have them self-manage. There weren’t any secrets.”
“So is this a political group or a religious group?” I ask.
“Probably the worst of both. The IRA, Hamas, Al-Qaeda, ISIS were all aligned on religious and political axes. The Red Chain may have a similar structure.”
“If they’re that internally sufficient, it would be easier for Ezra Winter to pull the strings.”
“Maybe,” Ailes replies. “There are lots of instances where cults kept going while their leader was imprisoned, but there was usually someone on the outside vocally supporting them and directing the group. With Winter, there’s not a visible connection.”
“What about the e-mail hack?”
“For sure. That doesn’t surprise me. We’re all but certain the major skinhead gangs have been operated by guys behind bars serving life sentences. It’s not out of the question here that Winter could technically be issuing commands. It’s just that there’s not much of a Free Ezra Winter movement. You’d expect that if he had legions of devout followers.”
“Maybe anonymity is more important to the cause?”
“Possibly.”
“But you’re not buying it. Me neither, I guess. I think he has a lieutenant, someone who is really running the show. But Ezra is too arrogant to let on he’s not directly running the Red Chain.”
“That’d make sense,” Ailes replies. “I’m going to dig into his visitor records and see if there’s someone who doesn’t raise any red flags, but might be worth investigating.” He continues, “So, if it’s not too soon to ask, find anything at Devon’s house?”
I’d almost forgotten. I was in the process of sending the address from the box when I’d realized I was being followed. “Yeah. Let me text you an address I found on a videotape box in the attic.” I send the message through. “Got it?”
“One second. Citizens Communication Agency?”
“Yeah. Heard of it?”
“No. Let me do a records search.” Ailes stifles a yawn. It’s late, but I know neither one of us can sleep without an answer. “Nothing. Hm. I can make a few calls in the morning when the rest of the world is awake.”
Damian takes an exit off the highway. Quantico is almost a straight shot down 95 from here. “Where are we going?” I ask.
“An airfield outside Providence. I’m not driving you all the way back to Virginia.” Although he’s kept a careful watch in the rearview mirror, I know he’s still concerned we might be followed.
“Great. A small plane.”
I’ve had a particularly bad experience in one that involved almost getting thrown out of it a thousand feet up, and then crashing. Of course, the crash was technically my fault, since I shot the pilot on account of not wanting to be thrown out.
“It’s an FBI pilot,” says Ailes. “He’ll take you to Alexandria. Agent Nadine Cox will be there to pick you up. We can’t get a proper safe house set up just yet. So she’ll take you to the dorms at Quantico.”
“Great. I should just buy a mobile home and park it there.”
Going after the people I do, I frequently make it onto someone’s hate list and find myself needing to put a barrier between them and me. Often just to prevent bystanders from getting hurt. The dorms are usually where I end up.
“Wait here.” Damian pulls my gun from the duffel bag and lays it on my lap. He then climbs out of the cab and walks over to the plane to talk to the pilot, checking to make sure everything is legit. He gives me a thumbs-up.
I say good-bye to Ailes. “See you in a few.”
Damian puts his hands on my shoulders and kisses me on the forehead when I reach him midway between the SUV and the plane.
“You’re not going with me?” I’d been kind of expecting him to make the trip all the way. To be honest, kind of hoping.
He shakes his head. “I think you’ll be safe until you do something stupid again.”
“Again?”
He points to my side. “Yes. You were a centimeter away from an artery.”
I avoid eye contact and look across the dark airfield. “I don’t need a lecture. I know how close I came.”
“Twice,” says Damian, holding up two fingers.
“What?” I shake my head, confused.
“Twice. You were dumb to find yourself cornered on the train. Then you were dumb for ignoring your wound and deciding you can just troop through it. You were real close to cardiac failure.”
“I don’t need this from you. You’re not my grandfather.”
“Father,” he replies.
“Excuse me?”
“People normally say ‘father.’ Yo
u said ‘grandfather.’ That’s my point. You wouldn’t listen to your father, your grandfather, or anyone else. You won’t even listen to yourself. Jessica, you got to be smarter.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I reply tersely.
“You’re a target. You’re always going to be one. Every room you walk into, you have to assume someone is out to get you.”
“That’s no way to live.” The truth is it’s how I’ve been living, but I’ve been denying it’s a permanent way of life.
“You’re right,” he says. “We can get back into the car and just drive away from here. Leave all this behind. You’ve done your part. More than that.”
So much of me wants to just go away with him. We could do whatever the hell we want, and stay far away from people who want to shove knives between my ribs or hurt others around me.
“I can’t.” I think of Ailes and the others. I think of my sense of responsibility.
“I know,” he replies. “That’s why you have to be even more paranoid than ever. Be careful.”
I get the sense he’s not sending me to safety as much as sending me away from him. “What are you going to do?”
Damian avoids my gaze. “Look for your friends in Boston.”
It’s pointless to tell him not to do anything rash. “We need information from them.” It’s the only way I can tell him not to kill them.
“I understand. Like I said, be careful. It would be bad if we lost you.”
“Bad for who?” I reply.
His face grows serious. “I’m one person with you in this world. Without you . . . I’d be another.”
Of all the personalities I’ve met—geniuses like Ailes, psychopaths like the Warlock, and master manipulators like Marta—Damian has the greatest potential of any of them. Like any other kind of raw power, that potential could be used for good or for bad. I’m both frightened and to be honest attracted by the thought I’m the one guiding light leading him toward good.
I hope.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Citizens Communication Agency
When I was a student at the University of Miami, I went through a few different roommates. Some I still talk to, and others I’ve lost touch with. In weird dream logic, Nadine Cox, the ever-cheerful FBI agent who’s the sunny yin to my dark yang, is the college sorority sister pulling me out of bed in the morning and dragging me from party to party at night, never relenting in some kind of happy-go-lucky torture.
