I tried to help them, but they waved me off.
“Inside! The people!” Circe cried in a voice that was as fragile as cracked porcelain.
The sirens were getting louder. Help was coming. Thank god.
I ran to the front of the destroyed Starbucks just as the first police cars came screeching into the parking lot.
I stepped into a scene from hell. The ceiling lights had all been blown out. People were screaming. Those who could still scream. I looked in through the shattered window. Too many of the sprawled figures lay still and silent, their voices silenced forever. The place looked like it had been spray painted with red, but it wasn’t the cheerful holiday red of Christmas.
There were no other shooters. The woman in the Grinch shirt was on her hands and knees, splinters of glass glittering in her hair like stardust. She looked around at the carnage. Then she looked down at the figure that lay beside her.
Marty Hanler.
She screamed. I couldn’t blame her.
“Federal agent!” I yelled. “Police and ambulances are on their way. Everyone stay down!”
Top and the others swarmed past me to provide first aid.
Ghost stood above the last of the shooters. The only one still alive. I had to step over the dead and dying to get to him.
“Off,” I said quietly, and Ghost released the ruin of an arm. “Watch.”
The man was white from blood loss, but he was far from dead, the wound in his neck was bad but not fatal, his arm was probably a total loss unless he got to a top-notch microsurgeon in the next hour or so, but even with all that he would live. When he looked up into my eyes I could see the precise moment when he realized that surviving this was not going to be any kind of mercy.
Not for him.
Interlude Thirty-seven
The Seven Kings
December 19, 5:51 P.M. EST
When the American came back to his office he found Toys sitting on the floor, his shirt covered in drying blood, dark stains on the carpet. Toys held his head in his hands as if it would crack and fall apart if he didn’t press the broken pieces together.
“Holy shit,” said the American. “What happened?”
Toys sniffed, shook his head. “I tried to tell him,” he mumbled. “I tried to explain the danger he was creating for himself.”
“Ah,” said the American. “Yeah, I could have told you that was a waste of time. He hit you, huh?”
Toys sobbed into his hands.
The American took a clean towel from the wet bar and poured ice cubes into it and handed it to Toys. Then he took a bottle of Don Julio tequila, pulled out the stopper, and dropped it on the bar. He placed his back against the wall and slid down to the floor so that he sat next to Toys. He nudged Toys with his knee and handed him the bottle. Toys shook his head.
“Take a fucking drink,” growled the American.
Toys sighed, took the bottle, and drank a careful mouthful through torn lips. Coughed, gagged, drank another. He handed the bottle back and the American took a pull. For the next ten minutes neither said a word. They passed the bottle back and forth and let the minutes harden the cement that held their thoughts together.
“He’s going to get himself killed,” Toys said.
“Probably.”
“It’s your mother’s fault.”
“It’s both their faults. They were made for each other.”
They each took a pull.
“I think I’ve been fired as his Conscience.” Toys tried to laugh about that, but his lips hurt too much.
“You’ll always have a place with the Kings, Toys,” said the American.
Toys looked at him. “Why? I’m Sebastian’s luggage. What am I to you?”
“Don’t sell yourself short, kiddo. You have clarity of mind. You can see the Big Picture without getting seduced by the shiny little details.”
“You mean I’m a cynic.”
“I prefer ‘realist,’ but yeah.”
Toys held out his hand for the bottle, took a pull.
They drank in silence for a long time. Then the American said, “I don’t have anyone to talk to.”
Toys looked at him in surprise. “What? You have—”
“Santoro? He’s a psychopath. I use him the way I’d use a gun. Point and shoot. But if it came down to where he had to decide between me and Mom, you know how he’d jump.”
“Is it going to come down to that?”
The American nodded. “Yep. You know it is.”
Toys sighed. “Sebastian, too. A Goddess, a King, and the Angel of Death. Very nice. You could build a heavy metal album on that.”
The American laughed. “Guess you’ve figured out that the whole ‘no secrets’ thing between the Seven Kings is a frigging joke. Always has been. Some of them take it seriously, and I pretend to … but I always hedge my bets. I don’t trust easily. With the Kings, I’ve made a fortune. I’m damn near richer than God, but I don’t really enjoy it. I fuck around with money because what else do I have?”
“‘When Alexander saw the breadth of his domain, he wept for there were no more worlds to conquer.’”
The American grunted. “A misquote from Plutarch, but it hits the bull’s-eye. My point is, though, that I can’t trust the Kings. I can’t trust Santoro. And I never trusted my mother. I’m glad I wasn’t actually raised by her. She was a rich debutante when she had me, but she gave me up and my dad raised me. He was a blue-collar guy. When he struck it rich, they got married, but by then I was in college. I didn’t know how corrupt she was until I was twenty-two or -three, and I didn’t know how crazy she was until I was thirty. She was already working on this Goddess thing when I created the Seven Kings.”
“That long ago?”
“Sure. She’s brilliant, but she’s totally fucking nuts. Gault is perfect for her. Brilliant but nuts.”
“Sebastian is broken.”
“A lot of people are.” The American nodded and took a pull from the bottle. “Sebastian and Mom are pushing this Ten Plagues Initiative forward despite everything I’ve tried to do to stop it.”
“Like … ?”
The American turned to him and smiled. “Before I answer that, you answer me this: if you had to pick one quality that defines everything the Kings stand for, what would it be?”
“Chaos—?”
“C’mon, kiddo … you know as well as I do that’s just the company line. What’re the real characteristics?”
Toys thought about it. “Misdirection. Lies, misinformation, disinformation. All of that.”
“See, you are a smart young fellow. Misdirection. The Israel-Islam thing? Misdirection. The terrorist attacks—9/11, the India attacks, bombing of the USS Cole? Misdirection. The whole Ten Plagues Initiative is mostly misdirection. Most of it is a pure profit machine, like we’ve been saying. But some of it—a lot of it—is to keep eyes looking in the wrong direction even among us. You can’t believe hardly anything we say, even when we’re telling the truth.”
“Okay. So, how does that answer my question? How does it explain how you’ve been trying to stop Eris? Mostly it looks like you’ve been helping her … .” His voice trailed off and he smiled as much as his mashed lips would allow. He cocked an eyebrow. “When Dr. Kirov died it nearly derailed the Ten Plagues Initiative.”
The American grinned approvingly. “Didn’t it, though.”
Toys smiled as much as his damaged lips would allow. “Kirov’s death was pretty convenient.”
“Uh-huh. It should have stopped the Initiative in its tracks. But … Mom talked the Kings into bullying me about calling Gault.”
“You didn’t want to bring him in?”
“Hell no.” He handed over the bottle. “Can you guess why?”
“Because … he would do what he has done. He’d figure a way to make the Ten Plagues Initiative work.”
“And ain’t that just a kick in the fucking ass?” The American patted Toys’ knee. “Now … keep thinking that through.”
>
They sat side by side on the floor while Toys worked it out. Toys asked, “When did Eris first ask about Sebastian?”
“Six months ago. Right around the time Dr. Kirov had his first stroke. A ministroke. Son of a bitch bounced back faster than I expected.”
“Six months. That’s … right around the time that the DMS started hitting cells being trained to support the Initiative.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We know that someone has been making anonymous calls to Mr. Church to tip him off.”
“Yep.”
“In order to reveal the location of those cells, the caller has to have a source within the Kings organization.”
“That’s what the Kings believe. There have been all sorts of internal witch hunts to find the blabbermouth. Turns out, it was Kirov’s Conscience.”
Toys looked at the big man, but the man’s smile never wavered.
“Inconvenient that the man died before someone as persuasive as Santoro could make him talk,” Toys suggested.
“Yeah, what interesting timing that was.”
Toys took a final sip of the tequila and set the bottle down. “A Big Picture kind of person might look at that and wonder if Kirov’s Conscience was ever truly dirty.”
“They might.”
“And that person might also wonder if there is truly a war between the Seven Kings and the Inner Circle.”
“Indeed.”
“And that person might wonder if the entire thing was misdirection from the jump. Maybe to start a war.”
“And how would that benefit the Kings?”
“It destabilizes those in power.”
The American grinned like a happy bear. “How’s the mouth doing?”
“I can barely feel it.”
“Does it hurt too much to talk on the phone?”
“No.”
The American got clumsily to his feet. As he did so his cell phone fell from his pocket and landed next to the bottle. He pretended not to notice it.
Toys looked at the phone and then up at the towering bearlike anomaly of a man. This King of Fear.
“Remember what I said to you a while back? About how Judas got a bad rap when he was really probably trying to save Jesus? In fact, here’s a bit of interesting biblical trivia. In Luke 24:33 and Mark 16:14 it clearly states that when Jesus rose from the dead he met with ‘the eleven.’ Most people assume that the missing disciple was Judas, who was supposed to have killed himself out of remorse for his act of betrayal. But in John 20:24 we learn that the missing disciple was Thomas. So … that means that the other eleven included Judas. And in 1 Corinthians 15:5 the Apostle Paul says that Matthias wasn’t voted in as the replacement twelfth Apostle until forty days after the Resurrection. So … Judas was still there. In fact, in Acts 1:25 we learn that Judas ‘turned aside to go to his own place.’ People don’t read the whole Bible. They don’t get the Big Picture. Judas’s death was a fake, and considering that God ordained his betrayal, and Jesus predicted it, Judas was acting according to the will of God. He wasn’t a traitor—he was a company man who did the right goddamn thing, even though it was the hard goddamn thing to do. He was a Big Picture guy. Just like me and you.” He smiled down at Toys. “Lock up when you leave, kiddo.”
He turned and lumbered out.
Toys stared at the empty doorway for a long time, and then he set down the ice and picked up the phone. It was an exotic model with a kind of scrambler attachment he’d never seen before.
Chapter Fifty-five
Starbucks
Southampton, Pennsylvania
December 19, 5:54 P.M. EST
Every cop in five towns and some from Philadelphia descended on that parking lot. The streets were closed off, the airspace declared a no-fly zone except for SWAT choppers.
The cops wanted to bag my team, but that wasn’t going to happen. We had the right credentials, and by the time the first ambulance rolled in Echo Team was already at work on the survivors. Khalid was an actual M.D., so he and Circe sectioned the coffee shop and triaged the wounded. Bunny, Top, and John Smith went to work patching bleeders, immobilizing injured backs and necks, removing the most immediately threatening glass splinters, and treating people for shock. Then waves of EMTs arrived, as well as a couple of carloads of nurses and doctors from the nearby hospital. As the professionals claimed the scene, we backed off.
I called the DMS but was unable to get Church on the phone, so I told the duty officer the pertinent details and said that we needed someone on the horn to the local chief of police and probably the governor.
Top caught up with me. “Khalid’s got the prisoner stabilized. Want to go have a little chitchat?”
“Yes, I do.”
My nerves were still jangling and I had the jitters and sick stomach that often follows violence and an adrenaline surge. If I had the time I’d throw up, then buy a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and curl up in my room and watch Comedy Central until I passed out. Fat chance of that. My thigh hurt like hell, and blood from the cuts had pooled in my shoe, so I sloshed as I walked.
I went over to the corner where the wounded shooter was being prepped for transport. Khalid had removed the man’s scarf, goggles, and hat to reveal a face that was as American as apple pie. Well, as American as pizza and cannolis. His skin was a greasy gray, and pain had etched deep lines on either side of his mouth. His eyes followed me with glassy uncertainty. An IV bag was plugged into his arm and he was wrapped in bandages. His uninjured hand was cuffed to the stretcher on which he lay.
Ghost sat a yard away looking like he was unhappy to have had his fun interrupted. His white pelt was streaked with blood, but he didn’t appear to be seriously hurt. I stood over the shooter and looked down at him.
“What’s his status?”
Khalid rocked back on his heels. “He’s lost a lot of blood, but we’ve stabilized him for transport.”
“Put him in the back of the TacV. Do not transport him until I say so. I need to ask him some questions, but we need privacy. Is he able to talk?”
The shooter answered that one himself. He glared up at me and said, “Fuck you.”
I smiled at him.
Chapter Fifty-six
Starbucks
Southampton, Pennsylvania
December 19, 6:03 P.M. EST
While the shooter was being loaded, I popped the lock on my Explorer, found a plastic container of Wet Ones, and did a quick job of cleaning and examining Ghost. He had some minor cuts from flying debris and a splinter thick as a coffee stirrer gouged into his back. I told him to sit and be still and I pulled it out. Ghost whined and even bared a tooth at me, but it was all show. He braved it out, and luckily the splinter had gone in at an angle so it stuck mostly in the rubbery top skin, missing the real meat and muscle below. The cut didn’t even bleed much. I put a pad on it and wound some surgical gauze around his barrel chest.
“You’ll live, fella.”
Ghost used his “I’m dying, please be kind” face on me, so I gave him a couple of Snausages and emptied a bottle of spring water into his plastic bowl. My hands were shaking so badly I spilled half of it.
Ghost licked my hand and looked into my eyes for a moment before he bent and began lapping up the water. Yeah, the best of friends, no doubt.
My phone rang and I sat on the ground to take the call. Church.
“Ten shooters. Nine dead, one in DMS custody, and—”
He cut me off. “How is Circe? Is she injured?”
“No. In fact, she took out one of the shooters.”
There was a long silence. “She killed him?”
“Yes. But listen, there’s more. Your friend Marty Hanler … he’s gone, Boss. He went down in the initial attack. He never saw it coming, and I doubt he felt anything.”
Church was silent.
How did a guy like him process that kind of news? I’ve buried a lot of loved ones over the years and I’ve had to eat a lot of my own pain, but I also have had friends, like Ru
dy, my dad and my brother, and for a while Grace to help me deal.
Who did Church have?
All he said was, “That is unfortunate.”
Then he changed his tone, shifting into a “business as usual” mode that I found disconcerting.
He said, “Talk to that prisoner. Find out what he knows.”
“I can’t do that with a lot of civilians around.”
“Then do it in the air. I’m sending a Chinook from Willow Grove. Rendezvous with it in Tamanend Park. It’s two miles up Route 232.”
“Copy that.”
“Is the prisoner stable enough for interrogation?”
“Probably, but he’s a pro. He’s not going to talk—”
“Captain,” Church snapped, “I’m not asking for an estimate on how difficult it is for you to do your job. People are dying and he has information we need. Surely some solutions will occur to you.”
He hung up.
Ouch.
I WAS JUST about to climb into the back of the DMS TacV when Circe came out of the ruined Starbucks, wiping her hands with a wad of paper napkins. Her hair was in disarray and there were bloodstains on her clothes. Ghost wagged his tail at her. Guess he forgave her for being a cat person.
“How are you?” I asked. It was one of those insanely lame questions we ask when nothing more sensible occurs to us.
She shrugged, then shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“You did good work back there,” I said.
Saying that caused a visible change in her. One moment she was a doctor who had spent the last twenty minutes struggling to save lives—she had been surrounded by death and blood, but to a degree she was in a known world and in the center of her own power—then my words jarred her back to the moment before she had entered the coffeehouse. She looked down at the powder burns on her hand. Circe had the calluses of someone who spent regular hours on a pistol range, and she’d handled her gun with professional skill and accuracy. Even so, her face went paler still and her mouth twisted into sickness.
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