The Devil's Game (The Game Trilogy Book 2)

by Sean Chercover

  He checked the living room, under the couch cushions and tables, above the entertainment center, behind furniture. He looked through the hall closet.

  Nothing.

  Pat came in from the bathroom. “Clean. Not even a toothbrush. But the towel is still damp. Dillman was here this morning, and it don’t look like he’s plannin’ to return.”

  Daniel felt a chill run down his arms. He looked at Pat. “It’s going down today.”

  Kara strode over to the phone, hit the speakerphone, and pressed Redial. The phone rang four times and went to voice-mail.

  The message started with a few seconds of Frank Sinatra singing “Come Fly With Me.” Then a man’s voice with a thick Carolina accent: “You’ve reached Emmett’s Flight School, where we help you grow your wings! Sorry we can’t get to the phone, means we prolly up in the air right now. But you’ll wanna leave a message. Soon as we touch down, we call ya right back. Bye-bye.”

  Daniel said, “A private airfield.”

  Kara’s eyes went wide, her expression turning to horror. “The plague they’ve got is pneumonic. They’re gonna cropdust the city with it.”

  A rain of fine, dark mist on a cloudless day.

  45: A HARD RAIN’S A-GONNA FALL

  Northbound I-77

  Near Great Falls, South Carolina

  11:00 a.m.

  The rental car had an electronically limited top speed of 110, and Pat had it pegged.

  “Goddamn nanny state,” he said.

  “Ninety-seven’s coming up,” said Daniel. “Take it westbound toward Chester.”

  “Ninety-seven to Chester, got it.”

  Daniel turned his attention back to the phone.

  Raoul said, “We’re back-channeling through an ally in the governor’s office, but with an election coming up, he’s not gonna declare a state of emergency and risk looking like a fool if nothing happens.”

  “I thought you guys had influence everywhere.”

  “We do—that’s what back-channeling through an ally means. But until we have some proof that an attack is underway, the governor’s not gonna budge. We’ve also got ranking members of the state police and South Carolina National Guard. They’re on alert, but again, until we know it’s going down for sure, they can’t deploy. They’ve called some snap drills for this afternoon, so their troops will be as ready as we can make them. Soon as you know for sure, text me 999 and I’ll get them deployed.”

  “Not good enough,” said Daniel.

  “For the moment, it’s going to have to be,” said Raoul. “The Foundation does not reveal itself, you know that. Whatever happens. Our power resides in our ability to leverage the systems that exist. We pull levers, call governors and generals and ambassadors, nudge the systems that are already in place. And that’s how we win the long game. Soon as we reveal ourselves, we’re out of the game entirely, and then we’ll have no influence on the future. So just keep your shit together.”

  Daniel looked outside at the clear blue sky. “It’s going down today, Raoul. I know it. Kara dreamed of a rain like dark mist from a cloudless sky. The plague’s pneumonic, it’s aerosolized. At least twenty of Dillman’s mercs flew into Atlanta yesterday, at least thirteen to Columbia—that’s just the ones we know about—and Dillman’s last call before cleaning out his apartment was to a private airfield.”

  “And if you’re right,” said Raoul, “we’ll pull the trigger, and the military will scramble jets and deploy troops. But if we pull the trigger and they deploy on a false alarm, we lose influence with our allies the next time we need them. More importantly, we give Conrad Winter the chance to restage this thing somewhere else. The fact that Dillman cleaned out his apartment today does not prove that the attack is happening today.”

  Daniel said, “I’m gonna call Evan Sage.”

  Raoul said, “You’re kidding, right?”

  “He needs to know. Maybe he can do something. And he already knows I exist, so you can relax—I won’t be revealing your existence by calling.”

  “Daniel, give your head a shake. It’s like you’ve developed the world’s fastest case of Stockholm syndrome. The prick tortured you.”

  Not helpful.

  Daniel took a deep breath and blew it out, fighting against the flood of images and sounds and feelings, fighting them off before they got out of control.

  He took another breath. “I don’t see how that’s relevant. I’m not asking him to wear my frat pin.”

  Raoul said, “The answer is no,” and broke the connection.

  Daniel looked at Pat. “Screw it. I’m gonna call Evan Sage.”

  Pat said, “Raoul will lose his freakin’ mind.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Good. Then call him. Just don’t be any more sharey than you need to.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Daniel fished Evan Sage’s business card from his wallet. He dialed the number for Sage’s cell.

  “Sage here.”

  “It’s Daniel Byrne.”

  There was a pause. “What do you want?”

  “Like I told you before, I want the same thing you want. I also want to break your nose, but that’ll have to wait for later.”

  “Understandable,” said Sage. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

  “The target is South Carolina, probably Columbia.”

  “I’m in Columbia,” said Sage.

  “Then you need to get shot up with Cipro. I think you’re at ground zero. They’re flying out of a small private airstrip near Chester, less than sixty miles north of Columbia. Emmett’s Flight School, Dillman’s last phone call was to there. We think they’re gonna cropdust this shit.”

  Sage said, “The target could be anywhere within flying distance of that airstrip.”

  “It’ll be Columbia,” said Daniel. “I know Conrad Winter, how his mind works. He appreciates the value of symbols, the grand gesture. He’ll choose the capital city—the democratic seat of government—over a military target or commercial center or tourist town. He wants to put the weakness of democracy on display.”

  Pat swerved for the Highway 97 exit, wheels skidding on the ramp, shooting past the sign to Chester. Ninety-seven was a two-lane blacktop in good condition with no traffic in sight. Pat kept their speed up.

  Daniel said, “I’m less than six miles from the airstrip, no planes yet. Will let you know. Meanwhile, get the government ready for a disaster. If I don’t get there in time, you need to drop a net over Columbia. You can’t let those people spread it outside the state.”

  “You just get there in time,” said Evan Sage.

  “You’re an asshole,” said Daniel, “and I’m still gonna break your nose.” He ended the call.

  Pat slowed as the airstrip appeared up ahead on the left.

  A large grassy field with a landing strip paved down the middle, no fence around the property. An airplane hangar loomed at the far end of the strip, probably large enough to house a dozen single-engine aircraft. Closer to the road, a fairly new double-wide trailer served as the office. Wooden billboards lined the driveway on both sides. Handpainted on a red background:

  EMMETT’S FLIGHT SCHOOL

  COME FLY WITH US!

  WE HELP YOU GROW YOUR WINGS!

  The logo above the office door featured a smiling cartoon Carolina Gamecock piloting a cartoon spitfire with Confederate flags painted on its wings. There was a white Ford F-350 pickup, also new, parked next to the entrance.

  Pat stopped next to the double-wide, shut off the engine, and twisted to face Kara in the backseat. “Hand me the shotgun.”

  Kara opened his duffle on the seat next to her, rummaged inside.

  “The big one, for God’s sake. Hand me the big one.”

  “Don’t bite my head off, I’m not a gun girl.” Kara handed Pat the shotgun. It had a pistol grip and a short barrel, b
ut it was the biggest gun in the bag.

  Pat propped the shotgun up in the passenger footwell next to Daniel’s legs. “Okay, this is our fallback position. We leave the keys in it and the doors open, ’case we be leavin’ in a hurry.”

  They left the car, doors standing wide. Daniel adjusted the pistol in his belt and glanced at Kara.

  Kara said, “I know, stay behind you.”

  Pat unzipped his Windbreaker. They climbed the three wooden stairs and stepped inside the trailer.

  The man standing behind the counter was huge—even bigger than Pat—so big his head looked like it had been transplanted from the body of a much smaller man. He wore oil-stained coveralls and a week’s growth of beard. He grinned at the visitors.

  “Howdy, folks. What can I do ya for?”

  Pat said, “I got my pilot’s license with me. Can I rent a plane? Wanna take these folks up.”

  “Sorry. Not the way it works. We got rules, you gotta be a member, gotta fly with me first, get checked out.”

  Daniel said, “Any flights leave outta here today, Emmett?”

  “I’m not Emmett,” said the man. “Emmett’s home sick.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” said Daniel. “Any flights leave outta here today?”

  “Sure, a couple.”

  “May I see the flight logs?”

  The man looked at Daniel for a long moment. “Sure, sounds awright. Got ’em right here.” He reached under the counter and came up fast with—

  —the top half of the man’s head exploded, gore splattering across the map pinned to the wall behind him. A shotgun clattered to the floor, and the man’s lifeless body crumpled, disappearing behind the counter.

  Pat reholstered his pistol, turned to Kara. “Had to be done.”

  Kara blew out a long breath. “How did you know he was going for a gun?”

  “Mercs are pretty good at recognizing each other. He pegged me, too, soon as I walked in the door. Saw it in his eyes. From there it was just a matter of who was gonna draw first. Daniel gave him the perfect excuse.”

  Daniel said, “A guy with a licensed airfield is not gonna just show his flight logs to some guy who walks in off the street and asks.”

  Kara said, “So I’m the only one who didn’t know we were about to be in a gunfight.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” said Pat.

  It was then Daniel heard the sound of engines from outside.

  Aircraft engines.

  “Look!” Kara pointed out the window.

  A line of single-engine Cessnas taxied out of the hangar and onto the tarmac, single file.

  Six of them.

  Daniel sprinted through the door, straight for the car.

  Pat passed him, yelled, “You drive!” and ran for the passenger side.

  Daniel jumped in behind the wheel as Pat slammed his door and grabbed the shotgun. Daniel cranked the engine. Kara was in the backseat before he put it in Drive. He mashed the pedal to the floor, tearing across the grass field toward the paved airstrip.

  Pat yelled into the backseat, “Stay down. Find the box marked Slugs and get ready to pass ’em to me one by one.”

  They were perpendicular to the runway, still thirty yards away, and the first plane was already passing in front of them.

  Then the second.

  At ten yards, Daniel could make out the cropdusting hardware—pipes and nozzles mounted under the wings.

  “We’re not gonna make it,” he said.

  The third plane passed.

  “Just step on it!” said Pat.

  The forth plane passed.

  Daniel said, “My foot’s on the floor! Goin’ as fast as it’ll go!”

  They hit the tarmac just behind the last plane and Daniel wrenched the wheel, skidding in line behind the procession.

  Now on pavement, the car finally gained speed.

  Pat braced himself against the door, leaning his head and shoulders through the window, holding the shotgun on target. “Closer!”

  The last plane shifted slightly to the right. Daniel dropped down a gear, and they lurched forward and left, their front bumper now parallel with the plane’s tail.

  At the front of the line, the first plane went airborne.

  Pat unloaded, not at the plane beside them but the one directly ahead of it. It skidded a little, almost took them both out, but then righted itself and pressed on.

  The second plane took to the sky.

  Pat pulled back inside. “Slugs!”

  Kara handed the shells to him, and Pat fed them into the shotgun.

  The third plane left the ground.

  They were gaining, the car’s front wheels now parallel to the last plane’s tail. The pilot turned his head to look down at them, and for a frozen moment he and Daniel held eye contact.

  Michael Dillman.

  Maybe twenty years older than in the photo Gerald had dug up, mustache now gray, face now deeply lined, but it was the same man.

  The fourth plane took off.

  And the fifth.

  Daniel edged to the right, bringing the car’s engine compartment gently against the fuselage and clipping the plane’s tailsection, shoving it farther to the right.

  The plane lurched, tilted, and went over on its right wing, showering sparks along the runway, shuddering violently as the end of the wing snapped off, finally lurching to a stop, resting on what was left of its right wing.

  Daniel slammed the brakes, turning the wheel and skidding to face the wreckage. He jumped out and drew his pistol, using the car door for cover.

  On the other side, Pat did the same.

  The door on the right side of the cockpit fell open and Michael Dillman dropped down twelve feet to the ground, came up with an assault rifle leveled.

  At this distance, the chances of Daniel hitting Dillman with the little .380 were slim, and Dillman’s rifle had a significant advantage over Pat’s larger pistol as well.

  But Dillman didn’t pull the trigger.

  Instead, he just stopped and stared down. The payload tank had ruptured, and he was standing in a dark purple, viscous liquid. It was all over his pants, his shirtfront, his hands and forearms, his neck. He was covered in it.

  Michael Dillman looked back up at Daniel, his face a frozen mask of abject terror—no amount of antibiotics could protect him from this deluge.

  Dillman put the barrel of the assault rifle under his chin and pulled the trigger.

  In the distance, five single-engine Cessnas flew low over the horizon, straight toward the capital city of South Carolina.

  46: ONE MAN ISLAND

  DHS Field Office—Columbia, South Carolina

  1:45 p.m.—One hour and thirty-two minutes after contamination . . .

  Evan Sage stood facing the crowded bullpen through the window in the inner office’s door. Twelve Homeland Security agents and five support staff, the governor’s chief of staff, the Columbia PD chief and his deputy, the local FBI special agent in charge with three of his underlings, four representatives from FEMA, and another dozen or so emergency workers Evan had not yet identified.

  The big dog in the room was Major General Sanders, who commanded the eleven thousand troops of the South Carolina National Guard. As Evan looked across the room, he noticed that Sanders was the only person not talking.

  Everyone else was talking at the same time, not to each other but at each other, each voice staking its claim with ever-rising volume, demanding to be heard amid the growing din, each making it impossible for anyone at all to be heard, should anyone shut up long enough to listen.

  And these were the professionals. There’d been so much brain drain—so much talent siphoned off by the corporate world. Everybody had chased the dollar.

  And where were they now, when their country needed them?


  Air raid sirens continued to echo across Columbia, muted by the building’s double-glazed windows, almost drowned out by the voices of constrained panic inside, but Evan could hear them when he listened. One long blast every minute since the planes passed overhead at 12:13—so low it looked like the middle plane might clip the flagpole on the State House dome—leaving behind a fine, dark mist to settle like a blanket over the city. A few minutes later, three F-15E Strike Eagle jets screamed across the sky from north to south.

  Evan had arrived to the office two minutes after noon. That was when his phone started buzzing with a series of one-line text messages sent from the number Daniel Byrne had used to call him earlier:

  Now heading your way

  5 Cessnas with dusting gear

  Disabled plane 6

  . . .

  Pilot was Dillman

  Send biocontainment team

  Dillman ate his gun

  Evan immediately called up a biohazard team and directed them to the private airfield south of Chester. Government bureaucracy being what it is, immediately meant three separate phone calls and two lengthy waits on hold.

  He was still on hold when the planes appeared in the distance, growing larger, flying in a V formation like a small family of Canada geese heading south for the winter.

  Evan watched the planes through this window, standing in this office, impotent to stop them from releasing their poisonous black rain, the telephone receiver still in his hand.

  Ten minutes after the planes had passed, the governor appeared on television and declared a state of emergency. The governor assured the citizens of South Carolina (and the rest of the country—his statement was carried live on CNN and Fox News) that he’d been in contact with the White House, that the National Guard had been activated, and that he’d ordered all state and local police and emergency personnel to report for immediate deployment. He calmly ordered all citizens to get indoors and stay indoors until the particulate matter sprayed from the planes had been identified, and he suggested duct-taping the seams of their windows and doors and boiling their water.

  And the citizens responded by running wild in the streets, looting antibiotics and first-aid kits from pharmacies, bottled water and canned goods from grocery stores, firearms and ammunition from every Walmart in the state.