by Meg Gardiner
Brian’s shoulders drew upward, just the slightest motion, but it tightened his whole posture. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I knew: Luke and Tabitha were not in Paxton’s truck. This was a double cross. We were going with the Sidewinder.
Brian said, ‘‘Your way, then. It’s in here.’’
He turned around, confirmation on his face, a look that absolutely chilled me. I stepped back behind the shrouded missile, getting into position.
The walkie-talkie crackled. ‘‘Brian. Heads-up—’’
Paxton was sauntering in. I shut off the walkie-talkie, my heart drumming. Marc had seen something. What? I tried to look around without looking around. Smollek and the bikers scuttled in, kids eager to see what Santa had left under the Christmas tree. The wind cracked through the barn like a horsewhip. Sand flew, flashing and jinking in midair.
Brian grabbed the tarp with both hands and pulled it off. The Remnant’s men gaped at the Sidewinder like it was the Ark of the Covenant, the missing link, ball lightning.
Brian said, ‘‘Delivered as promised, Paxton.’’
Slowly Paxton began circling the missile, surveying it. The bikers stood rooted to the sand. Smollek leaned forward tentatively, as though fearful to approach it, and read the specs printed on the fuselage. Lips moving, whispering.
" ’U.S. Navy. Naval Air Systems Command.’ " Louder, coming to all caps: ‘‘ ‘WARHEAD, GUIDED MISSILE . . .’ ’’
He leaned further, his mouth gradually hinging open. Tentatively he poked a tail fin with his index finger.
I slapped his hand down. ‘‘For God’s sake!’’
He jerked back, hand shriveling against his chest.
Paxton said, ‘‘Open it up. I want to see the works.’’
‘‘Not until you let me see my son and his mother,’’ Brian said. ‘‘It’s time for a quid pro quo.’’
At the Latin, all the Remnant’s heads snapped up in sync. As though words, not rough handling, would detonate the missile’s warhead. Spells. The old name for voice activation.
Paxton sucked his teeth. ‘‘Smollek, persuade him.’’
Outside the barn light and shadow sped across the background like ghosts. But the revolver in Smollek’s fist was not imaginary.
‘‘Show us the germs.’’ He was red-faced, his acne a landscape of nodules capped with the nose gauze. He extended his arm toward Brian’s chest. ‘‘And speak English.’’
‘‘Fine.’’
Stepping up to the Sidewinder, Brian started spinning wing nuts, loosening the ring clamp around the warhead. Smollek’s shoulder quivered.
He said, ‘‘Take it slow, man. You might jostle it, you know, upset things.’’
‘‘I know what I’m doing.’’
He spun the nut one final time. With a whoosh and a hiss, the warhead began spraying a white mist into the air.
Brian stepped back. The CO2 and pepper spray hit the Remnant face-on. Hit me too. The pepper spray had been vastly diluted, but in the cold fog its hot hint felt like death. The bikers ran for the door. Smollek started squealing.
I dove for Brian’s backpack. ‘‘The syringe! Where is it?’’
‘‘Front pocket.’’
Paxton was backing away from the missile, looking enraged. The CO2 billowed, filling the barn. Smollek’s shrieking intensified. He waved his arms as though fighting off an attacking flock of birds. I ripped open the backpack and grabbed the syringe. Paxton saw me and started around the Sidewinder, but I stabbed the needle into my arm and pressed the plunger.
Brian shouted, ‘‘Too late, Paxton. That was the only dose I had.’’
Paxton’s head swiveled. ‘‘Then you’re doomed, too.’’
‘‘No. I’ve been vaccinated against anthrax. And now so has my sister.’’
Smollek said, ‘‘Anthrax? Anthrax?’’
Brian said, ‘‘Hardened military anthrax. You have one chance here. You want the antidote? You return Luke to me now.’’
Paxton blinked and started coughing. The CO2 fogged the barn.
‘‘Right now!’’
Smollek said, ‘‘Ice! Do what he says!’’
Paxton said, ‘‘God damn you to hell, Delaney.’’
‘‘Ice! You tell him, or I will!’’
The fire extinguisher inside the missile reached its bottom. It shut off with a squeak. Smollek jumped, screamed, and fired at the Sidewinder.
I stood transfixed, hearing the revolver pop and metal ching as the bullet hit the missile and ricocheted. Smollek fired again and again. I threw myself to the dirt.
Then hell arrived.
Men charged in the door, figures in black solidifying out of the CO2, armed, one yelling, ‘‘Freeze! Down on the ground!’’ Smollek spun, eyes wild, gun chest-high. The voice roared, ‘‘On the ground! Do it! Do it!’’ Smollek’s gun blared, and then answering fire.
It’s an electrifying experience, being in the middle of a gunfight. My senses flung themselves open. My skin seemed to turn inside out. Cordite stank in the air. I pressed my face down in the sand and covered my head with my arms. A second later I felt Brian land on my back, shielding me. The voice shouted, ‘‘Federal agents!’’ Above us came more shots, shouts, a man barking orders, wood splintering. Moaning. I squeezed my eyes shut, nerves on fire, waiting for a bullet to rip into me.
One of the intruders shouted, ‘‘Outside!’’
And I knew what I had seen through the slats of the barn—not shadows, not clouds passing by on a cloudless desert afternoon, but men positioning themselves to raid the barn. That was what Marc had been trying to warn us about over the walkie-talkie.
One of the agents, face covered with a balaclava, approached me. ‘‘Evan, sit up.’’
Startled at hearing my name, I craned my neck to look at him. He pulled off the balaclava. It was Garrett Holt.
People were shouting and running outside the barn, men barking commands, radios crackling, engines gunning. The moaning continued, weaker. The fog was dissipating, but not my confusion. Garrett stood above me and Brian, an automatic in his hand. He looked down and said, ‘‘Don’t move.’’
On the far side of the barn a form lay twisting on the ground. It was Curt Smollek, flat on his back, bleeding heavily.
Brian was facedown, hands laced behind his head. He peered sideways at Smollek, said, ‘‘Shit,’’ and called out, ‘‘Smollek. Luke and Tabitha, where are they?’’
Smollek’s hand groped the sand. He stared at the roof, beyond persuasion.
Garrett snapped, ‘‘Quiet.’’
Brian hissed out a breath, said, ‘‘Fuck.’’ Turned to me. ‘‘You know this guy?’’
I said, ‘‘He’s the pilot I told you about, except he’s no pilot.’’
Garrett grabbed my elbow and hoisted me to my feet. ‘‘Outside.’’ Pointed at Brian. ‘‘You, don’t move.’’
He led me from the barn, holding my elbow as though I were a disobedient child, pulling me past my car, past Smollek’s truck, past a new vehicle, a silver Suburban with a big whip antenna. Government agents were all over the barn and grounds, moving alertly, faces on guard. They wore bulletproof vests, and some had labels on their jackets. FBI. ATF, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. On the ground one of the bikers lay handcuffed. He was shaking his head like a dog tearing at a bone, roaring, ‘‘The Lord revengeth! He reserveth wrath for his enemies!’’ My eyes and lungs burned.
Finally moving out of earshot, Garrett let go. He unzipped his jacket with a ripping motion. ‘‘Shut up and listen to me, if you want to stay out of jail. I’m NCIS.’’
‘‘You’re a cop.’’
‘‘I’m a civilian investigator for the navy.’’
‘‘Undercover as an officer.’’
‘‘Yes. I’m investigating weapons thefts from the base.’’
Jacked on adrenaline, I angered instantly. ‘‘So you’re a fraud.’’
He had duped me. And, of course, he had done it with my compli
city, by pretending to be exactly who I wanted him to be: Action Man, My Hero. He had played me like a banjo.
‘‘We’ve been after the Remnant for months, trying to get evidence that they’re buying stolen weapons, enough to take down this theft ring at the base. We thought this was a break.’’
‘‘What did you do, plant a homing device on my car?’’
He shook me. ‘‘Listen. We thought this was a break. Instead it’s bait and switch. And you cannot imagine how much the Bureau and ATF hate being made to look like idiots.’’
I rubbed my eyes. They only burned worse. Near the barn, two agents came into view, flanking Marc Dupree. One of the agents held Marc’s pistol in his hand.
Garrett said, ‘‘This was dangerous and stupid. What was your brother trying to accomplish?’’
‘‘Trying to get his son back.’’
‘‘By trading him for a stolen ’winder?’’
‘‘He didn’t steal anything. The missile doesn’t belong to the navy; it wasn’t stolen from the base.’’
‘‘Then where’d he get it?’’
‘‘I got it. From the China Lake Museum.’’
‘‘You’ll have to do better than that.’’
‘‘If you insist.’’
I took a letter from my pocket. It was typed on museum letterhead and began, Dear Ms. Delaney: Pursuant to your request, we will be pleased to loan the museum’s decommissioned Sidewinder missile (Case assembly no. 30043-65251957) for your exhibition the weekend of October 30-31. It was stapled to a shipping invoice and receipt, all stamped and signed by Abbie Hankins.
Garrett smiled sourly. ‘‘Well, aren’t you the clever cookie. I think you’ve just saved your bacon.’’
At the sound of voices we looked up. Outside the barn Brian stood arguing with an ATF agent, jabbing his finger at the man’s face. The agent shook his head, gestured in our direction, and Brian looked around at Garrett.
That was when I noticed that the Remnant’s motorcycles were gone.
Brian charged toward us. ‘‘You.’’ Pointing at Garrett. ‘‘You ran this operation?’’
Garrett stood motionless, watching him come on.
‘‘You idiot. They were about to tell me where Luke is, and now everything’s blown. While you were storming in the barn door, Paxton kicked his way out through the back wall. He’s gone.’’
My stomach dropped.
Garrett said, ‘‘If this op’s blown it’s your fault, Commander.’’
‘‘Bullshit. You weren’t here to rescue my son. Not one of you. You were here to catch the Remnant stealing weapons.’’
Another agent started toward us. Garrett waved him away. He said, ‘‘You had zero authority to act on your own.’’
‘‘But you knew I’d do it, didn’t you? That’s why you blew me off at the jail. You wanted me to do it. This was all a setup.’’
I said, ‘‘Wait. Garrett came to see you at the jail?’’
‘‘That day you went out to Angels’ Landing. He came with the FBI.’’
It felt like a steel cable snapping deep within me. That day at Angels’ Landing—Garrett hadn’t left me to rush back to the base. He had returned to town to interrogate Brian. He could have gone with me to the fallout shelter, and together we could have gotten Jesse out. I had told him Jesse needed help, that we had to hurry. . . .
‘‘You absolute bastard.’’
He misunderstood. ‘‘Who, me? This plan of your brother’s was reckless and totally unprofessional. Exactly what I’d expect from a couple of jet jockeys.’’
Brian muscled forward, looking ready to head-butt him. ‘‘Listen, you whiny-assed pilot wannabe—’’
I pushed my way between them and grabbed Brian by the shoulders. ‘‘Stop it,’’ I said, forcing myself to focus. ‘‘We have to do something. Fast.’’
They looked at me.
‘‘Don’t you see what’s happened? Paxton thinks that you poisoned him with anthrax, Bri. He’s going to think you were part of the raid—that you set him up to be attacked by federal agents.’’
‘‘Shit.’’
‘‘They’ll think you set the beast on them, that the battle’s starting. They’re going to attack.’’
27
‘‘Shit!’’
Garrett Holt was losing his cool. He was pacing in a tight circle, rubbing his temples, and keeping one eye on Brian, who was ready to punch him. He held up both hands, saying, ‘‘Shut up, just shut up,’’ even though we hadn’t spoken.
He pointed at me. ‘‘Glory claimed that the Remnant plans to attack Santa Barbara. Correct?’’
‘‘That’s the flashpoint.’’
‘‘I’ll contact the Santa Barbara police.’’
Brian turned and started toward my car.
‘‘Delaney. Where do you think you’re going?’’
Brian said, ‘‘To find my son and his mother.’’
‘‘No, you’re not.’’
Brian ignored him. Garrett again said, ‘‘Shit,’’ and started after him, his jaw clenched, his face red. I followed, hearing him mutter, ‘‘Freakin’ fighter god.’’ Brian’s crack about him being a whiny-assed wannabe had, I realized, hit home.
I said, ‘‘Let him go.’’
He gave me an acidic look. ‘‘Go? I haven’t even started with you two yet.’’
‘‘I know you’re furious. But you know you can’t arrest us.’’
‘‘Just watch me.’’
‘‘You’ll only end up releasing us. So do it now, when we can still make a difference—’’
He turned and glared. ‘‘You think I’m that stupid? You’re going to run off and get yourself even deeper into this mess.’’
‘‘Come on, you’re still way up on points here. You’ve gathered a wealth of information about the Remnant by tagging along with me.’’
‘‘You don’t call it even with the FBI or NCIS, Evan. That’s not how it works.’’
‘‘We’re wasting time. Look, SBPD can’t comb the entire city. Brian and I would be two extra pairs of feet on the ground. We aren’t going to try to battle the Remnant. We don’t even have weapons.’’
He looked toward the barn and the Sidewinder.
‘‘Give me a break,’’ I said. ‘‘Don’t force us to sweat out an interrogation right now. We’ll come in another time, I promise. Tomorrow.’’
The wind rasped over us. The mountains reared like a wave about to break.
‘‘Luke is Brian’s life, Garrett.’’ I looked into his sea green eyes and swallowed it all—the anger, the resentment, my pride. ‘‘Please.’’
He stared at me for a long while. Finally, for the last time, he said, ‘‘Shit. Where would you go, Tabitha’s house?’’
‘‘Probably.’’
‘‘Make that ‘definitely,’ so I can tell SBPD you’re there and they won’t accidentally shoot you. And I want both you and your brother on base at NCIS tomorrow at oh nine hundred. No exceptions. Got it?’’
‘‘Got it.’’
‘‘Now go. Quickly, before I change my mind.’’
A minute later we were booming down the highway toward China Lake. Brian said, ‘‘We don’t have time to drive to Santa Barbara. Head for the airport.’’
He rented a twin-engine Piper and flew us across the Tehachapis, droning toward the brilliant glare of the ocean. The tailwind chucked us around like a pin-ball. I clawed the seat, holding on, but Brian was unfazed, could have been flossing his teeth for all the strain the turbulence caused him, and came into the airport on a steep, sweeping approach. I looked down at the city. It lay breathless under scoured skies, crystal clear and exposed.
Nikki and Carl Vincent met us at the airport. Nikki hugged me and handed me the morning’s paper. It snapped in the wind like a flag. The headline read, ‘‘Cult Threat to Schools,’’ by Sally Shimada.
Carl pointed across the parking lot at his Jeep Grand Cherokee. ‘‘I can go with you. Four-wheel drive and a full tan
k.’’
He looked sturdy and stone-certain, standing there in his white button-down shirt, khakis, and owlish glasses. I felt gratitude welling up, an immense fondness for him.
‘‘No. You should get out of town. Drive to L.A. for the day.’’ He started to protest and I said, ‘‘The Remnant knows where you live. Go somewhere.’’
He glanced at Nikki and handed me his car keys. Then he put a hand on my shoulder and said with conviction, ‘‘Fear no evil.’’
The power in his voice rooted me there. Brian snatched the keys. Calling thanks over his shoulder, he pulled me toward the Jeep.
We roared toward Tabitha’s house, up San Marcos Pass and along the switchbacks of West Camino Cielo. Breaking out of the foliage along a ridge, we caught a view down the mountains. I wondered where Paxton was, whether he had sent word to Chenille Wyoming to light the fuse.
Brian jerked the wheel and shot along Tabitha’s rutted driveway. He gunned it right up to the house and skidded to a stop, definitely not coming in under the radar. Reaching into the backseat, he unzipped his backpack and pulled out a handgun.
‘‘Where’d that come from?’’
He racked the slide. ‘‘It’s Marc’s. He got it back from the feds. Now I have it.’’ He opened the car door. ‘‘Stay behind me.’’
We strode to the front door. My heart was pounding. Taking a breath, Brian raised the pistol and turned the knob. Stillness greeted us, a thick silence that contrasted with the wailing wind outside. He waited for a moment, listening, and then charged into the living room.
He stopped. The walls were covered with hideous black-and-white drawings. Tabitha’s eschatological art gallery had expanded to cover every inch of wall space, floor to ceiling. He stared at a picture of the Antichrist with an ax stuck in his head.
‘‘Jesus Christ.’’ His gun arm wavered.
I went past him, looking in the bedrooms, the bathroom, the kitchen. Found nothing. I checked the garage: empty. The supplies Jesse had seen were gone. The only thing left was a piece of paper thumbtacked to the wall, flickering in the wind. It was the Revelation checklist. Smoothing it out, I saw that all the boxes were checked off.
Armageddon, you are go for launch.
