[Jack Emery 01.0] The Foundation

by Steve P Vincent

  “Orders. The torturer made it clear that this was all about getting to Ernest. I think it might have worked.”

  “Well, whatever the reason, I’m glad to have the company.”

  They said nothing for a while. He felt human for the first time in days, as safe in her arms as a newborn in its mother’s embrace. He felt a mix of relief at being spared Malley’s fate and fear of what was still to come, but whatever the next move was going to be, at least he wasn’t alone. He hugged her and laughed.

  She drew back from him slightly. “What’s so funny?”

  “I’m in here with you. I could just as easily be slumped outside with a bullet in me.”

  She nodded and sat on the concrete floor, gesturing for him to sit too. He didn’t resist when she gently moved his head to her lap; it felt like a pillow after so many days without sleep. He enjoyed her strokes on his cheeks, and realized it was the first time he’d lay down in days without water, or light, or pain to break up his attempts to sleep.

  She leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “Let’s just stay sane until we’re out.”

  He closed his eyes. “We might never be out.”

  Chen sighed as he looked through the night-vision binoculars. He’d spent several hours on his stomach and now the front of his clothing was cold and damp. It was a less than glamorous way to spend an evening, but it was vital to getting in and out with his head still on his shoulders and with the information he needed.

  The men guarding Anton Clark’s house were in sight. The amount of security made Chen’s job harder. More warm bodies moving about always did. The guards were all part of a small security detail that kept Anton’s family and property free from threat, though it had done nothing to protect him from Michelle Dominique sticking a pen in his eye. He knew they could outgun anything he had access to at such short notice. He couldn’t worry too much about that, but he could stay hidden and hope his superior training would win out if he was seen. He was just glad that Dominique had managed to craft a story about Anton being overseas on business. The cover seemed to have held up.

  He put the binoculars down and pulled himself up to his knees. He brushed his gloved hands over the front of him, removing the leaves and other natural detritus from his clothes. Within a few seconds he’d placed the binoculars in one of the many pockets on his combat vest and zipped it closed. Taking mental stock of his equipment, Chen made sure nothing was loose and he hadn’t dropped anything on the ground. His Heckler and Koch USP Tactical pistol was loaded in its holster on his right hip. On his other hip, he had a small combat knife. Most importantly, among all sorts of utility equipment that he might need in the vest pockets, he had a pair of USB drives.

  Chen took a deep breath and started off. He drew his pistol and walked as quickly as he could through the scrub. It took ten minutes to reach the first difficult part—the road. He took another breath, looked both ways, crouched as low as he could and walked rapidly across. When he was just near the base of the wall, he heard a small scrape to his left. He turned with alarm at the sound, raised his handgun toward the noise and pressed his finger slightly on the trigger.

  He released the trigger immediately when he saw a boy, probably about thirteen, in the very dim light, staring at him with wide eyes. Chen cursed that he hadn’t seen the boy during his reconnaissance, but it didn’t matter now. He lowered his pistol slightly and quickly approached the boy. He was frozen, so Chen reached out and put a gloved hand over his mouth. The boy tensed and no doubt feared the worst as Chen crouched down towards him.

  He put his mouth close to the boy’s ear. “You look old enough to realize what’s at stake.”

  The boy nodded vigorously and gave a barely audible moan.

  “I need you to keep calm. You’ll be fine and home with your mother tonight if you do. But I need you to be quiet. Understand?”

  The boy nodded again.

  Chen slowly removed his hand from the boy’s mouth, and to his relief the boy said nothing and didn’t move an inch. He could use him. Chen dug in his pocket, pulled out a few hundred dollars and held the money up in front of the boy. Eyes wide with recognition, the boy’s eyes flicked back and forth between the cash and Chen’s face.

  “You can have all of this if you listen very carefully. In a few minutes I want you to throw some coins I’ll give you over the fence, right there.” He pointed to the compound.

  “Okay.” The boy’s voice was barely a whisper. He seemed to relax a little now that his life was not in immediate danger and there was the promise of a large amount of cash. Americans—always about the profit. He handed the boy the wad of cash and a few coins. He squeezed the boy’s hand shut around the coins, lest he drop them.

  “Count to one hundred and eighty, then throw the coins.”

  “Okay.” The boy smiled. “Easy.”

  Chen hadn’t planned on this, but he could use it to his advantage. Anton’s guards had a timed routine that took them around the property every thirteen minutes. Chen needed them to be as far from the house as possible and the coins would help delay them when they were.

  “Once it’s done you need to run straight home. Don’t stay near here and don’t tell anyone about me. You found the money.”

  The boy nodded and started to move to where Chen had pointed. Chen wasted no time, leaving the boy and creeping along the wall. He stopped just short of one of the gates. He hugged the wall and waited. He hoped that Dominique’s hacker had taken out the cameras. He was alert to any sound, hopeful that the coins would land on the ground inside and distract the guards for an extra few seconds. The coast would be clear.

  He looked at the watch on his wrist, which he’d synced with the watch given to the boy. Once the clock hit three minutes, he sprang into action. Chen hoped the boy had done his job and was long gone, but he didn’t spare him another thought. He tried the gate latch with one hand. It was locked, but it took only a second for him to pick. He pushed the gate open.

  He followed a preplanned route across the garden and to the house that should get him to the target of the entire expedition: the computer in Anton’s study. He thought he might make it without incident until he rounded a corner and found two very surprised security guards.

  As Chen’s gun came up, the guards froze in place and started to draw their pistols. He knew it was the automatic response of most American law enforcement and security personnel, when they should have sought cover. It was their deadly mistake. His own pistol was on them before either hand reached a holster.

  He fired two shots at the first guard; a sound akin to compressed air being released and the pattering of two spent bullet cases dancing across the hardwood were the only evidence. The guard didn’t get the chance to make much more than a muffled gurgle as a bullet penetrated his throat, severing the carotid. The second bullet hit him in the chest.

  The other guard continued to draw his weapon as Chen brought his own pistol onto target. The man’s fate was sealed by his instinctive look to his left, where his colleague had just been. The man looked back to Chen, his eyes wide, before Chen put a bullet between them. The guard dropped limp, and his gun fell from his hands.

  Chen moved quickly to the two men. One was clearly dead, while the other writhed on the expensive hardwood floor as his lifeblood escaped from his throat, forming a crimson pool next to him. Chen put a bullet in his head. He took both their weapons and threw them into the pot of a houseplant.

  After a few more corners he reached the home office and pushed the door open. The room was empty. Chen closed the door behind him, moved to the computer and sat at the horribly modern glass desk. The laptop blinked on when he opened the lid. He clicked on Anton’s username and entered the password. An hourglass appeared for a second and then a chime sounded. He was glad Dominique had been right about the password. He grabbed the two USB sticks from his pocket.

  He inserted his own USB first and copied the documents folder from Anton’s computer onto it. Chen turned and trained hi
s pistol on the door, but nobody interrupted him for the minute or so it took the job to complete. Once the dump was complete, he pulled out the first USB and inserted the second. Automatically, an algorithm was activated and started the attack, just as Dominique had promised. When it had finished its work, he pulled it out of its slot and the computer went to sleep. Nobody would ever know he’d touched it.

  He smiled at the wizardry of it all as he put the sticks in his pocket, then moved to the study door. Anton’s computer had been savaged. Dominique would now have all the files she’d need to run the Foundation, along with any of Anton’s secrets. A few pesky files that she’d wanted destroyed were gone, too, while others had been planted.

  Chen had paid her back for extracting his family from Taiwan and now had all of Anton’s documents as insurance.

  Within five minutes he’d be back in the trees. He’d be home in Wisconsin in a day.

  14

  CHINA LAUNCHES ALL OUT MISSILE AND AIR ATTACK ON TAIWAN!

  After a week of high tension and tactical strikes, the island of Taiwan woke this morning to the sound of jet engines and the heat of explosions, as China launched the heaviest attacks yet in the conflict. The United States Air Force and ground-based missile defense units failed to halt the onslaught, leaving Taipei heavily damaged. China has reportedly delivered a letter to the United States Ambassador in Beijing. Reuters has learned that this letter was a guarantee that China will not use nuclear weapons. Despite this, it may only be a matter of time before China launches a full-scale invasion.

  Correspondents, Reuters, September 28

  Jack couldn’t hear the explosion, but he could feel the heat of it. He was unable to escape, surrounded by fire. He looked around. Celeste was next to him, mouth open in mute terror, no words able to escape. Others were flailing their arms. One man, Jack didn’t know him, had a shard of steel through his stomach that he gripped and tried to pull out, just as they plunged into the icy water of the South China Sea.

  Jack’s eyes shot open and he sat up on the air mattress. He winced in pain and rubbed his eyes, confused. A second ago he’d been on the Seahawk as it plunged into the ocean, but now he was in his hotel room. He exhaled deeply and lay down. Never before had the cobweb on the plain white ceiling that housekeeping never got around to cleaning been such a welcome sight. He was home.

  “You awake?” Celeste stirred on the bed. “You okay?”

  “Sorry.”

  She smiled. “It’s alright. Anyone ever tell you you snore really loudly?”

  “Every friend, roommate and girlfriend since puberty.” He laughed. “Erin, too.”

  He felt a small measure of regret as her smile disappeared, replaced by a frown. “Which one this time? The Chinese cell?”

  “Nope, the chopper just as the destroyer blew up. We hit the ocean and I wake up.” Jack snorted. “I guess I don’t like the cold even in my dreams.”

  Celeste laughed softly. “At least your mind gives you a bit of variety in the nightmares.”

  Jack was more glad than ever that Celeste had offered to stay at his hotel room once they’d arrived back in the States. Ostensibly it had been to look after him, but he did not doubt that she welcomed the company and support as well. Neither of them had family in America, and Celeste had sold him on the idea of sticking together. He’d agreed, on the condition that she took the better bed.

  He turned his head to look up at her. “What were you treated with last night?”

  “The rape.” She didn’t open her eyes. “Again.”

  “I’m sorry, Celeste.”

  “Wasn’t you doing it.”

  That much was true. While Jack’s nightmares ranged from the helicopter going down, the variety of torture he’d received and others that didn’t make much sense, Celeste had only one. The rape. He struggled up, his body screaming in pain the whole time, and sat on the edge of her bed. He placed a hand on her shoulder and she finally looked at him.

  “I’m here if you want to talk about it.”

  She smiled weakly. “I don’t want to add to your smorgasbord of head-fuckery.”

  He squeezed her shoulder. “Try me.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, seeming to size him up, then nodded slightly. “On the first night, three men entered and stripped me naked.”

  Jack immediately felt uncomfortable. “You don’t have to talk about this if it’s too hard.”

  She stared at the wall, not even acknowledging that she’d heard him. “They laughed at me and took my clothes. The next day, they returned and did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “They held me down. They watched one another.” Her bottom lip quivered slightly, and Jack placed his arm around her. “The third day was the worst. Objects…”

  Jack closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Celeste.”

  “Like I said, not your fault.” Her voice trailed off. “They returned my clothes just before they threw you in with me. I knew then that something must have happened.”

  “Yeah. Ernest gave them whatever they were after.”

  She nodded, and closed her eyes again.

  Jack still hadn’t managed to speak with Ernest McDowell, despite his best efforts. From the prison, they’d been taken along with Christian Malley to a private airfield, placed aboard an EMCorp jet and flown home. They’d eaten, been looked over by a whole team of medical personnel and slept for hours on end. Once they’d landed, the two of them had been chauffeured to the hotel. But his calls to McDowell had been for naught.

  He laid down on the bed beside Celeste, who was already asleep. He reached over to the side table and found his phone and earphones. He listened to the news, and felt a sense of hurt that the radio announcer who prattled away in his ear didn’t interrupt the broadcast to curse the world on his behalf. Jack had learned that no matter how long you spent in bed, it took a great deal of time to heal when you had been abused.

  At least this morning there was some fresh news—as depressing as it was—about the attacks on Taiwan. For the past week the US and Chinese airforces had danced with each other, but been unable to deliver a killing blow. That had apparently changed this morning—half of Taipei had been hit.

  At some point he must have dozed off, because he woke up with a new program in his ears and a mouth as dry as the Sahara. He sighed, removed the earphones and did his best to sit upright. He reached for a glass of water, took a mouthful and placed it back. He let his head collapse onto the pillow and cursed under his breath at the spike of pain.

  In the week spent at the hotel, he’d been able to gather his thoughts. It felt like he’d taken only a few breaths in the last month, given the incredible speed at which events had spiraled out of control. The divorce. The bombings. Erin’s death. The sinking of the USS George Washington. His torture. The war between China and Taiwan. He felt like he was at the center of it all.

  His phone rang. He picked it up off the side table. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Jack? Peter Weston calling.”

  Jack frowned, unsure why Ernest McDowell’s assistant was calling him. He switched the call to speaker. “Hi, Peter.”

  “How’re you feeling?”

  Jack laughed. “It’s a regular party town over here. Come over if you like, but don’t forget the scotch.”

  Peter laughed. “Maybe another time? Ernest wanted me to invite you and a guest to the company box at the Yankees playoff game. If you’re feeling up to it by then.”

  Jack didn’t even consider it for a moment. “Baseball tickets? Not for me. Stupid sport. But thanks anyway.”

  “You sure? They’re expensive tickets.” There was a note of incredulity in Peter’s voice. “Ernest would appreciate it if you could make it.”

  Jack was about to decline for the second time when Celeste shoved him lightly. He looked at her and she gave him a thumbs up. He’d have hell to pay if he didn’t accept. He reasoned that it would probably be worth it if it took her mind off her experiences, even for an afternoon
.

  “Alright, I’ll be there. I’ll be bringing along Celeste Adams.” Jack looked at Celeste. Her eyes had grown wide and she nodded vigorously. He smiled at her.

  “Great. Someone will email you the details. I’ll give Celeste a call and invite her if you like.”

  Jack paused. “She accepts.”

  “I’m sure she will.” Peter sounded confused. “But I’ll still have to call.”

  “Celeste is here, she accepts.”

  Celeste leaned into the phone. “Hi, Peter.”

  Weston was silent for just a second too long. “Oh, well, you two have fun.”

  “Plan to. Speak later, Peter, thanks.” Jack hung up.

  “Plan to what?”

  “Nothing. But he thinks we’re fucking.”

  Celeste went beet red, then punched him in the arm again, lightly, before lying down with a sigh. “Thanks a lot. You’ve really done wonders for my career there, Jack.”

  “You’ll just have to impress him at the game.”

  Jack rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. He was content to be warm and safe for the time being. He’d recuperate, mourn for Erin and then work out what came next. Hopefully it would include getting his life back on track. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was enough for now.

  “I love baseball.” Celeste rolled over. “It’s going to be wonderful.”

  “It’s going to be horrible.”

  Ernest closed the lid of his laptop with too much force. It slammed shut, causing the ice in the glass next to the computer to jingle a little. He let out a long sigh as he swung back in the leather chair, closed his eyes and massaged his temples. He’d been at his desk for fourteen hours, trying to catch up on work that had piled up in the past few weeks. The days spent dealing with the Senate committee and the EMCorp board, the negotiations with Michelle Dominique and China—and freeing his people—had put him behind with everything else.

  But what had finally broken him for the day was a pair of emails he’d only reached a minute ago. One, from Dominique, suggested a particular line on the next day’s coverage, while another, from the Chinese, suggested a different approach. While the emails were couched in polite terms and carefully manicured to appear appropriate if they fell into the wrong hands, he knew they weren’t suggestions at all. For Ernest, there could be no clearer illustration of the prison he’d engineered for himself.