by Tom Abrahams
Custos tried to mule kick the man, grunting and growling to free himself, but he didn’t have the strength. The man was too strong. Or he was too weak. Either way, he was stuck.
His vision blurred again. It was going in and out like a television with poor reception. He knew he wasn’t near the center of the room. Maybe he was at the edge of it. He couldn’t be sure. When the man tugged on his ankle and yelled at him, Jon Custos concluded now was as good a time as any.
He needed to detonate the charge.
*
Matti followed Brandon into the darkness, where a pinprick of light was dancing in a space above their heads. It looked to Matti as if it was above the ceiling.
Brandon turned on his flashlight app on his phone and scanned the room. It cast a pale, narrow glow on shelves, cleaning supplies, a workbench.
“Go back,” Matti said, placing her hand on Brandon’s arm. “On the shelves.”
Blood painted the shelves. Brandon guided the light skyward and saw the hole in the ceiling. Two of the large square tiles were missing.
“He’s up there,” Brandon whispered. “What do we do?”
“We go get him.” Matti started climbing the shelves. She’d pulled herself halfway up when Brandon stopped her.
“I’ll go.”
“What are you going to do?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, her feet planted on the third shelf from the floor. “How are you going to stop him?”
“I don’t know. How were you going to stop him?”
“I don’t know.” Matti shrugged and motioned for Brandon to lead her toward the ceiling.
Brandon pulled himself up to the top shelf, a couple of feet from the ceiling, and poked his hand into the opening, waving it around. He glanced back down to Matti, who was holding onto the top shelf, her arms wrapped around one of the vertical framing rails.
“Better to lose a hand than a head,” he whispered and then hoisted himself into the opening, latching onto a large iron beam before sliding past the opening.
Matti followed him up into the darkness. She squinted into the distance, and about fifteen or twenty feet ahead she could see the bounce of a small light. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out the outline of the bald man up ahead. She tugged along the beam, inches behind Brandon’s feet, trying to keep her focus on the man up ahead.
She slid inch by inch until Brandon’s foot caught her in the shoulder. Matti backed up and lifted her head again. She could see the man clearly, despite the ache stretching from her temple to her jaw. Brandon was holding onto his leg. The man tried kicking him and grunted loudly.
“Help me!” Brandon called to Matti. “I’m losing my balance.”
Matti, her head thumping with pain, wrapped her legs around the beam and grabbed onto Brandon’s calves. Brandon was struggling with the bomber. Matti held onto his legs as she would have a bucking bronco. Twice, his heels knocked her in the forehead.
“He’s wearing the bomb!” Brandon yelled. “It’s strapped to his chest!”
Without thinking, Matti let go of Brandon’s calves and pulled herself on top of him. She pressed her body against his, sliding along his back. When her face reached the back of Brandon’s head, she swung herself upside down. Matti was clutching the beam from its underside, her body in the tight space between the beam and ceiling tiles. She stuck her heels into the groove between the top and bottom of the beam, gripped the bottom of the beam, and slid herself directly underneath the bomber. She could hear him cursing as he fumbled with something above her.
Matti reached around with her right arm and grabbed at his side. She clutched his leg and yanked downward as hard as she could.
The man howled, losing his cell phone as it banged against the beam and tumbled below. It landed on the tile beneath Matti, the light shining upward toward the bomber.
Against the light, she caught a flash of the device. It was strapped to his chest. He was struggling to activate it, but being facedown on the beam and unable to turn enough to gain any leverage, he couldn’t reach whatever was needed to detonate himself. Matti didn’t know he needed the phone to spark the bomb.
Matti reached up again, her arms and legs burning with weakness, and ripped at the man’s leg. He screamed and instinctively jerked to grab at her hand. When he did, he lost his balance, tumbling over the side of the beam. He fell headfirst, his momentum taking Brandon with him.
The bomber crashed through the ceiling tiles with a gasp, hitting the floor some twenty feet below with a sickening slap. His cell phone tumbled with him, landing on the floor next to his face. It shone on his eyes, wide and fixed. A bright white bone protruded from the side of his neck. He was dead.
The threat was eliminated.
Matti managed to swing herself back on top of the beam and found Brandon’s fingers gripping the bottom of the beam. She braced herself and reached down to grab his arm above his elbow. Both of them grunting and groaning against fatigue and pain, they managed to pull Brandon back onto the beam.
Matti laid her head on the beam, its cold iron soothing the throbbing pain. She closed her eyes and started laughing. It was an uncontrollable laugh from her belly that forced her to wrap her legs tightly around the beam so she wouldn’t fall.
“You’re laughing?” Brandon was breathless, the weight of his exhaustion sinking into his arms and legs. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” Matti chuckled, trying to contain herself. “Nothing at all.” Matti didn’t know why the laughter overtook her. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was nerves. Perhaps a combination of the two.
“We need to get down from here,” Brandon said. “And call the Secret Service.”
“I agree with the first idea,” Matti said, sliding along the beam toward Brandon, “but not the second.”
“Why?”
“I don’t trust our government,” she said. “Our second call needs to be to the Barcelona police.”
“And our first?”
“The hotel manager,” Matti said. “We need the surveillance video from the hallway and the stairwell and the lobby. Without it, our dear president might try to pin this on us.”
“Us?” Brandon grunted as he wormed his way closer to the hole above the supply closet. “Why me?”
“You were with me,” she said. “You helped me.”
“You’re right,” he wheezed, finding the hole and lowering himself back into the supply closet. He waited for Matti on the top shelf and helped her down.
They reached the floor and embraced. Matti placed her hands on either side of Brandon’s face and pulled his lips to hers. His lips were salty with sweat, as she imagined hers were, but she didn’t care. She held him against her, not wanting to let go.
They stayed there in the dark for minutes after their kiss ended, with their arms wrapped around each other. For the first time in a long time, Matti was whole. She was protected. She was safe.
CHAPTER 49
WORLD TRADE CENTER
BARCELONA, SPAIN
President Felicia Jackson checked her phone. Too much time had passed. Something was wrong. She swallowed hard, clenching her jaw. Her grip on the table tightened and she dragged her nail across the glass.
“What’s the latest?” she called out to the royal guard. He stood by the door, his face awash in the glow of his cell phone. “Is the threat contained?”
“I’ve not heard.” The guard looked up from the screen and shook his head. “They’ve not given me an update.”
“Well, then get one.” President Jackson stood from her seat and marched to the door. “I’m not sitting in here forever.”
The guard murmured softly into the microphone at his wrist. He waited, his eyes avoiding contact with the president, and then spoke again. His eyebrows twitched and he asked what sounded like a question. President Jackson could hear the overmodulated voice speaking to him in his earpiece.
“What is it?” President Jackson demanded. “What are they saying?”
“They�
�ve found the bomber,” said the guard. “He’s dead. He had another bomb. They also have the people who stopped him.”
Felicia Jackson was having trouble understanding what the guard was telling her. It didn’t make sense. She stepped back from the guard.
“W-w-what people?” she asked. “Who’s dead?”
“The bomber is dead,” the guard repeated. “The people who stopped him, they are talking with Barcelona police.”
“Who is?” she demanded, her fists balled so tightly her nails dug into the soft flesh of her palms. She was on the verge of a tantrum. “Who is talking to the police?”
The guard held up a finger and then murmured again into the mic. The answer came quickly.
“They’re your people,” he said. “Chief of Staff Brandon Goodman and Special Assistant Matti Harrold.”
The names echoed in Felicia Jackson’s ears, snaking into her brain like a venomous eel. She wanted to scream. Instead, she thanked the guard and turned to walk back to her seat. Her press secretary met her halfway.
“What?” she snapped.
“I talked with Dillinger Holt,” he said. “He’s got a lot of questions I can’t answer. He seems to think there’s a conspiracy of some kind. He’s about to publish what he calls another, more damning post that connects the SECURITY Act to today’s bombing. He says he thinks there’s a connection to the Capitol plot too, though he admits he’s still got work to do on that angle.”
“Call his editor,” Felicia said through her teeth. “Put pressure on them. Threaten to revoke their White House credentials.”
“Well, Madam President,” the press secretary said, inching closer to her ear, “we don’t control the passes; the White House Correspondents’ Association is in charge of that. Plus, why would we do that? He can’t prove any connection to anything.”
The president took a deep breath and looked down at her shoes. “I don’t know what he can prove.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I’ll deal with it.”
Felicia Jackson pulled out her chair and sank into it. Dazed and disillusioned, she tried not to consider the repercussions of her failure. There was still an outside chance the initial attack was enough to sway some of the undecided. SECURITY could still pass domestically, and she could cobble together enough support to at least initiate some international cooperation.
But with Matti alive and Goodman helping her, there were complications. With the idiot of a bomber identifiable, given he hadn’t blown himself into countless pieces, there were complications. With a reporter asking questions and already having too many answers, there were complications.
Her superiors, the men to whom she answered, would not be pleased. She pulled her finger into her mouth and chewed on the cuticle. She didn’t see the British prime minister approaching her from behind.
“They’ll be very disappointed,” he said, the words barbed with derision. “I warned them you weren’t up to the task. I told them Secretary Blackmon would have been the better option. They were convinced you’d rise to the challenge, as it were. It seems, unfortunately, I was right.”
Felicia Jackson said nothing. She didn’t even turn around to face him. She knew he was right. No matter what happened with SECURITY, she hadn’t delivered. She’d left loose ends. And because she’d already killed Sir Spencer, there was nobody else upon whom they could lay blame. She was done.
Matti Harrold had won.
EPILOGUE
PHOENIX
“We are not going to achieve a new world order without paying for it in blood as well as in words and money.”
—Arthur Scheslinger Jr., Historian
Matti Harrold adjusted the towel beneath her on the chaise and pulled the water bottle to her lips. The sun was dipping below the horizon and the Pacific Ocean was an artist’s canvas of blue, orange, and gold. For the last four months, this was a daily ritual: the towel, the chaise, the water, and the sunset. It centered her. It made her grateful for the day she’d lived and hopeful for the one to come.
A woman in a pale blue cotton uniform approached her from the north. She smiled in advance of reaching Matti and waved meekly.
Matti smiled and toasted the woman with her water bottle. She recognized the nurse as a woman named Dottie. She was pleasant enough. She always introduced herself as “Dottie with an i-e on the end.”
Matti slid her sunglasses onto her forehead and recapped the bottle, setting it on the arm of the chaise. She anticipated the pear-shaped nurse was retrieving her, about to summon her back to the main house on campus.
“Matti, you have some visitors.” Dottie planted her feet in the sand, her toes buried, and she stood with her hands on her wide hips. “Would you like them to come here, or would you like to go to them?”
“I have a choice?” Matti was incredulous, her tanned arms folded across her chest.
“You always have a choice, dear.”
“Who are the visitors?”
Matti had only seen two people from the outside since she’d entered rehab sixteen weeks, five days, three hours, six minutes, and thirty-four seconds earlier. Brandon Goodman was a regular every Thursday. Her father was every Saturday. This was Tuesday.
“Mr. Goodman”—Dottie counted on her fingers—“a man named Holt, and some other gentleman whose name escapes me. He looks official.”
Matti’s heart fluttered hearing Brandon’s name. Holt, she knew, was the reporter who’d been writing a series of scathing web posts about SECURITY. President Jackson had blamed Holt publicly for the legislation’s failure in both houses. She claimed he was reckless and corrupt. That assertion had only fueled his popularity. Brandon had told Matti that Holt was working on a book.
Matti wondered who the third man was but didn’t ask.
“I’ll come to them.” She slid forward on the chaise and stood. She caught a last glimpse of the dipping sun and turned to follow Dottie to the main house. The security guard assigned to Matti followed five paces behind them. Brandon was paying for twenty-four-hour protection. He didn’t trust anyone.
The trio trudged across the beach to a white wooden gate and then climbed the limestone steps up the grassy dune toward the main house. They reached the top of the dune and followed a crushed granite path lined with lit tiki torches to a circular seating area. The plush chairs and loveseats surrounded a limestone fire pit. The pit’s black lava glowed hot and a small flame licked into the breeze pushing from the shore. Dottie kept moving along the path toward the main house, leaving Matti to her guests.
Matti saw Brandon first, the soft glow of the fire making him all the more attractive. Matti couldn’t contain her smile. She was so focused on Brandon, she didn’t notice Holt or the man sitting next to him.
Brandon reached out and hugged Matti. His broken ribs were healing, his nose was fixed, he was in good shape. He’d left the White House, taking what was officially a “medical leave,” and was hotel-hopping across southern California. He never spent more than one night in the same place. His guard was awaiting him in the facility’s lobby at the front of the main house.
“You know Dillinger Holt,” he said, motioning to the reporter on the couch.
“Nice to meet you in person.” Holt stood to shake Matti’s hand. His grip was firm, his knuckles oversized. He had the musculature of a boxer. “It’s about time.”
“Yes.” Matti returned the firm grip. She’d gained strength from daily yoga classes and was as fit as she’d ever been. “It is about time. I hear you’re writing a book.”
Holt looked at his feet and let go of her hand. “I’ve had a couple of offers,” he nodded sheepishly. “I’ll keep working at the website. It’s too much fun. By the way”—he reached into his pocket—“I brought you this.”
“Thanks.” Matti took the thumb drive from him and held it up.
“It’s the newest Horus release,” he said. “There are maybe ten songs he recorded before his death. It’s pretty goo
d.”
“Matti,” Brandon interrupted the exchange, “I’d also like you to meet Holt’s friend. He’s the reason we’re here tonight.”
Matti turned to face the man. She knew immediately he was all business. His haircut was high and tight. His neck was thick and his shoulders broad. The deep creases along his brow and those that defined his cheeks told her he was an experienced man who spent more time deep in thought than smiling.
“Bob Kurk.” The man snapped his arm straight and offered a salute of a handshake. “I work for a private security firm called Wignock Homeland Intelligence Group.”
Matti shook his hand, her eyes dancing between Brandon and Holt. “I have an offer for you,” he said, his staccato a bit unnerving. “I want you to come work for us.”
“I’m in rehab,” she said, laughing uncomfortably.
“You’re out in two months,” said Brandon. “That’s no time.”
“Of course,” chirped Kurk, “we’d wait to officially extend the offer until you completed your rehabilitation. We’d need assurance you were fit for the tasks we’d assign you.”
Matti’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re a brilliant woman, Ms. Harrold,” said Kurk. “You have incredible potential.”
“Thank you,” Matti replied. “I guess.”
“We think a relationship with you could be mutually beneficial.”
“How so?”
“You won the battle when you stopped the second bomb in Barcelona, but you didn’t win the war. ” Kurk glanced at Brandon then turned his attention back to Matti. “There are forces at work, as there have been for hundreds of years, whose goals contradict free will and democracy. You hit the pause button on their plans. However, rest assured, they will redouble their efforts once they’ve regrouped.”
