The floor in front of him was blurry. Barron blinked and tried to wipe the moisture on one shoulder.
"Stop struggling," grumbled Gruber. "Walk."
"Keep moving," agreed the other guard. Barron lifted his head and tried to see past Gruber. Down the length of the darkened hallway, light seeped around the edge of two doors. He couldn't remember if this place was a hospital or if they were still in the Bunker. It had been so long since Jayne had put a gun to his back and betrayed him.
Me! The Goddamn President of the United States! Marched me out of my office at gunpoint like a common criminal…
The first days of his imprisonment were dark. They threw him in a room with no windows and no lights. The only sound he heard was the beating of his own heart and the ragged breath in his chest. The only light appeared when the door opened and a tray of food dropped unceremoniously at his feet. Three times a day he marched to a small bathroom. There wasn't even a cot. He slept on the floor, shivering until he fell asleep. He never even knew such a room existed in the Bunker.
Barron repressed a shudder and tried to fight back the nightmares that clawed at him in those dark days. Has it been days or weeks? Maybe only hours…
He'd had no sense of time at all, but his imprisonment seemed to last an eternity. Visions of all the death he'd caused—by action or inaction—haunted him and nibbled at his sanity. He'd screamed, howled, and raged to no end. When he could scream and pound on the door no more, the President collapsed on the floor and waited for death.
But then the door would open and two rough men would drag him to his feet and down the hall to the toilet. Someone else would show up and drop off food—just enough to survive. Scraps of bread and a little cloudy water. By the time they finally pulled him out and cleaned him up, Barron wasn't entirely sure who he was anymore.
The clothes he wore belonged to a bigger man but mostly fit him across the shoulders. He looked down and glanced at the suit that hung limp around his bone-thin arm. I think I remember this suit… What have they done to me?
"I said, are you ready?"
Barron looked up and blinked. When did we stop walking? He licked his parched, cracked lips. "I'm thirsty." He wanted to swallow but his throat was too dry.
"Shut the fuck up," growled Gruber. He grabbed the lapels on the President's coat and jerked him forward, bringing Barron's face inches from his own.
"You better toe the line in there," Gruber said with a jerk of his head toward the door. "You think things've been bad for you lately? I'll introduce you to an entire new world of suffering if you fuck this up."
The President wanted to spit in his face, smash his forehead into Gruber's nose. He wanted to struggle, fight, growl—resist—but he just nodded meekly. It was easier that way. You beat me…you win.
"You understand what you're supposed to do?" asked Gruber, one eyebrow raised.
The President stared at him. Don't make me say it. Give me that at least…
"I asked you a question."
You bastard. The President looked away. "I'll do what you want," he croaked.
Gruber smiled and stepped back, gently smoothing the front of Barron's coat. "There. That's much better. That wasn't so hard, was it?" Gruber glanced at the guards. "Let's do this." He turned and opened the doors, bathing them all in blinding light. Barron closed his eyes against the pain and felt himself unceremoniously pulled through the doorway.
"Oh my goodness," cried the siren's voice.
Barron kept his eyes shut. If I can't see you, you can't see me…
"What have they done to you, love?" Soft hands enveloped his face. He smelled her. The heart-racing perfume permeated his every thought.
Jayne.
Barron's senses pricked up. The President felt more himself than he had in what seemed like a lifetime. Strength flowed through his legs once more and he stood fully on his own. He opened his eyes, and they adjusted faster than he would have thought possible. He looked around, more alert than he'd been in days…weeks?
The Press room. They were in the Bunker's Press room. He took in the familiar sights: the royal blue drapery hanging on the walls, the American flags flanking a mahogany podium emblazoned with the Presidential Seal. Microphone stands, teleprompters, expensive cameras—it was from another life.
We're still in the Bunker!
"I will have a word with Gruber," Jayne whispered as she stared into his face, her eyebrows creased in concern. Her fingertips caressed the ridges on his forehead and his now prominent cheekbones. He wanted to close his eyes and go to sleep. Her touch promised safety.
Wait—you're the one who did this. The President stared at her, wanting to be angry but as his eyes devoured the beauty before him, his rage melted under her touch. She was breathtaking, and it'd been a long time since he'd seen her prepared for a public appearance.
Her hair lay in long, soft, glossy curls that embraced her as she moved. Her skin fairly glowed and the gray suit she wore enhanced her graceful curves but made it clear she was in charge.
"There, there, dear—this will all be over soon enough."
"What…" Barron licked his lips. "What do you want me to do?" he asked quietly. After the initial adrenaline rush of seeing her, he felt almost weaker than he had before.
"Come over here," said Gruber, dropping a heavy hand on the President's shoulder.
Barron shuddered and almost fell. Jayne stepped up and wrapped him in an embrace, the softness of her chest pressed to his own. For a moment, he forgot all of it and only wanted to be alone with her again.
Hold it together. You will only have one shot at this. You need to save your strength. He garnered the strength he had left and tried to appear as weak as possible.
Barron fell into her arms and let her hold him up. He went over in his mind how he would do it. Doubt swirled around him like sharks waiting to strike. Would he be fast enough to put his hands around her throat? Would she fight back? Would he be strong enough to squeeze the life out of her before Gruber or a guard put a bullet in the back of his head?
He looked into Jayne's eyes as she helped steady him back on his feet. He thought there was genuine concern there—no, not concern—pity. She won't have time to fight back. She doesn't believe I can do it. The pity in her eyes fanned the flames of rage that had only smoldered in his chest. Jayne was another one now on the long list of people who had lost faith in him.
"Back up!" she snapped at Gruber. "I gave you specific instructions—this was not what we planned!" She smoothed Barron's coat and stepped back to look him over. "He has to be presentable—"
"He is," argued Gruber. "He looks a little skinny but—"
"Goddamn it," she seethed, causing Gruber to step back. "He looks like he stumbled out of a concentration camp!"
Barron's eyes opened a fraction. He'd never seen Jayne lose her temper. Ever. That was what made her so dangerous. What's going on? Why are we in the Press room? Something has you on edge… Is it Harris? He got the National Command Authority up and running didn't he? The codes worked didn't they?
Jayne paused and the anger in her face vanished as if it had never been there. Her lips spread into a glistening ruby smile. "You find something amusing, love? Perhaps you like it when I get mad, mmm?" she purred, stepping close.
He felt the heat rise in his cheeks. If she didn't step back something else would rise. The betrayal by his own body made it even worse. In the midst of all this, after all she'd done, she still held that power over him. He hated himself for that. His anger flared anew and his resolve hardened.
"I missed you," he whispered through cracked lips.
"I know," she replied. She slipped her slender arm under his and Barron marveled at her strength—or was it his own weakness? He felt like an octogenarian—weak, frail, and brittle. His arm was no bigger than hers. What have you done to me?
"Now the fun begins," she said loud enough for everyone to hear. She guided him slowly toward the dais and positioned him behind the oak podium. She
pointed at the teleprompter. "Can you read that?"
Barron blinked and focused his eyes. "My fellow Americans—"
"Good!" said Jayne. She turned and snapped her fingers. "Get the cameras, he's ready. You," she said, pointing to another guard. "Get a glass of water for the President."
"What do you want me to do?" asked Gruber.
Jayne pursed her lips and tapped them with one red-tipped finger. "Contact Reginald—let him know we're about to begin. And make sure those IT geeks get the signal and hold it this time."
"I still don't understand why we can't just tape the damn speech and send it when we're ready," began Gruber.
"Because any time now Harris will be able to shut down our transmissions whenever they want. It's got to go out now—before they realize what we're up to." Jayne dismissed him with a wave and turned back to the President. "You know what I want you to do, dear?"
The President gripped the podium with emaciated hands. "Talk?" he asked with a weak nod toward the teleprompter and the camera beyond.
"Yes, love. But more than that—I want you to give your finest speech. Read the words, but put yourself in them. You need to make America believe again. Our country is sick, love," she said. Her eyes pleaded with him to help her fix things.
Barron reached out and gently wiped at the wetness she'd produced in the corner of her eye. Oh, you're good, you're real good. "Don't worry, I'll take care of everything."
Jayne looked at him with eyes full of false adoration. "You will?"
Barron nodded. You bitch. He caressed the side of her warm cheek with his hand and smiled as she closed her eyes and nestled into his touch. Barron stared at the bones protruding from his skeletal claw of a hand and had to use every ounce of his willpower to keep his anger locked away. "I'll do it for you, Jayne."
She smiled. "I knew you could help me, help us all. That oaf Gruber said we should kill you, but I wouldn't let him. I knew you would save us." She leaned in and gave him a long, lingering kiss that promised much more than he knew she would deliver. As she slowly pulled away, he looked down at her ring as she adjusted her suit.
There it is. Is that what you're going to dope me up with again?
Gruber stood up from a laptop on the other side of the room. "We're ready," he announced.
Jayne nodded and stepped away from the President. "Good. Places everyone! Get the camera rolling." She turned and gave him a wink. "Knock 'em dead," she whispered.
The President returned his attention to the teleprompter. One of the guards handed him a glass of water. Barron thanked him, but the man merely grunted and walked away. The cool water quenched his parched throat. He licked his lips and enjoyed another drink. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd had a full glass of clean water.
"Are you ready?" asked Jayne from the darkness on the other side of the spotlights.
The President adjusted his vision until he could see the teleprompter again. He nodded. I can do this. Just get through this speech—whatever the hell it is. And then…
"Did you hear me, love?" called out Jayne.
President Barron stared at the teleprompter. The words had scrolled to the top of the thin plastic screen and paused waiting for him to speak. What's your plan? He stared at Jayne. Why are you making me do this? He began to read the words. This doesn't make any sense. Jesus, she's making me out to be a monster…
"He's not gonna do it…" muttered Gruber's voice in the distance.
"Go ahead, pull up the picture," Jayne said. Louder, she spoke to him: "Mr. President, I'm going to have to ask you to look to your left. Watch the screen very carefully."
The President turned his head toward the monitor on his left. It had displayed the Presidential Seal but now went black. The image was replaced with a picture of his wife. His heart raced. His mouth fell open. "Alice!" Her name choked in his throat and he nearly collapsed at the foot at the podium.
"Yes, we know you thought she'd been killed while ago. Your family is perfectly safe. They're at a secure location. But they won't be alive for very long if you don't read the script. Watch," commanded Jayne.
The camera zoomed out and Barron saw with horror his two teenage sons, each held by a couple of guards in black suits and ties. His boys had a man behind them with a gun pointed straight at the back of their heads.
A choked cry escaped his throat, strangled on the fear. Barron collapsed to the floor, his arm reaching for his family. It was one thing to believe his family had been killed. To see they had been kept alive all this time while he betrayed his country, to know they'd seen the things he did—the things he authorized…the shame of it all was too much. And now, to see them at the point of death…all because of him. He turned and stared at Jayne from the floor.
Not because of me. Because of you.
"I see the hate in your eyes, love," she said, one hand on her chest. "It hurts, it really does. I've done nothing but help you. You've been a willing partner in everything that we've done." When she noticed her words had no effect, she frowned. "Don't look at me like that," she said. Her voice sharpened, all emotion vanished. "Get up."
Barron flinched as if struck, but didn't move.
"Clock's ticking. We're going to get a good signal soon…" muttered someone in the background.
Jayne frowned. "Do you hear that Mr. President? You're only going to get one chance. You need to get to your feet and start reading that speech, now. If you don't, I'll give the order and your family will be executed while you watch."
"No!" breathed the President. He staggered slowly to his feet. He fell heavily against the podium and nearly toppled it off the stage, but managed to remain standing.
"That's good, very good. Now, compose yourself and begin to read."
The President glanced at the image of his family one more time. "Don't hurt them…"
"I'm going to count to three," said Jayne, her voice completely serene. Warning bells went off in the President's mind.
She's serious!
He snapped his attention back to the teleprompter. "Okay, okay!" he said, both hands up in surrender. He slowly lowered them to the podium and cleared his throat. "Okay. You win. I'll do it." He mustered his last shred of dignity and forced his voice to mimic the commanding tone of a President one last time. "Roll the cameras, let's do this."
"That's more like it!" said Jayne as she gave a little clap of approval.
The President stared at the teleprompter and swallowed. I need to figure a way to get a message out. A message they'll get in Denver…think damn it!
"My fellow Americans…" he began. A smile threatened to curl up the corner of his lips as he remembered his Secret Service training from after the inauguration. He read the words on the teleprompter, not bothering to read them. He was a vessel. His body was occupied with repeating the words his eyes saw. His mind turned inward.
When he and Denton had first been elected, a grizzled Secret Service agent had warned them about the possibility of kidnapping one or both of them by terrorists. President Denton had laughed it off as nonsense.
The agent was from the old school Secret Service—nothing was assumed, everything was a threat. And so he insisted they prepare for every possibility. Barron had been taught if he'd ever been kidnapped and forced to read a hostage statement, to give certain tells Secret Service agents would recognize.
Barron let his eyes and mouth run the show. He was on autopilot. The words scrolled up the teleprompter, and he read them like the good little prisoner.
"… egregious transgressions from the North Koreans, the nuclear strike on Atlanta…"
The word stabbed at his heart. Atlanta. At once the President was back in the Bunker staring at the screen, watching the body counts rise. The red glowing crater in the center of Atlanta that marked the death of thousands.
Focus. Stay focused. What the hell was I supposed to do to let whoever is watching know that what I'm saying this under duress…?
"…fully authorize the use of deadl
y force against the civilian insurrection and…"
CHAPTER 14
Denver, Colorado
Emergency National Reserve Operations Center.
COOPER SIPPED HIS COFFEE and split his attention between President Harris' news conference on a TV and the digital strategic threat map net to it listing global Council assets.
The information he’d retrieved from the chalet had proved worth the effort so far. Reginald had operatives in fourteen states and seven countries in Europe. Cooper frowned. Those were the ones easily identifiable—the data was mostly still encrypted.
He put his mug on the table and crossed his arms. The problem was the assets that hadn’t been identified yet. The tech guys knew the intel was in there somewhere, they just had to get through all the bogus info and protection systems first. It would take time.
Cooper glanced back at the TV. The scrolling text at the bottom read: President Harris reacts to Barron speech, declares flu Wildfire Event—takes emergency measures not seen in ten years…
Time is something we don’t have. He looked at the map. The orange dot over Denver bothered him, it represented where one of Reginald’s known operatives had been discovered and neutralized. He remembered the look on the assassin’s face as he’d driven a broken piece of his knee brace under the man’s chin. If one of Reginald's spies had wormed his way in to Harris’ new capital complex, how many more had as well?
Damn it, give me a target! All this cloak and dagger bullshit drives me nuts.
The door to the briefing room opened and Charlie walked in, followed by Jax. Without a word, Charlie grabbed the remote off the table and changed channels. Cooper opened his mouth to protest but Charlie pointed at the screen. “You need to see this.”
“…disastrous, tragic attempt by Vice President Barron to start a civil war. We will not allow the seeds of bitter hatred he planted to come to fruition—not now, not ever. We as a nation need to focus everything on surviving this monstrous disease and expelling the North Korean invaders from our western states. America is and always will be united.”
Firestorm: Book III of the Wildfire Saga Page 8
