by Adam Hamdy
“Likewise. I’m just glad you’re alive.” Bailey pulled the rope clear of Melissa’s wrists. “Tie him up,” he said, tossing it to Salamander.
Melissa threw her arms around Bailey and pulled him into a tight embrace. “Thank you.”
“How’s Francis?” he asked.
“Beat up, but OK, I think,” Melissa replied, wiping away joyful tears.
Bailey rounded Francis’s chair and saw that she was right. His face was covered in cuts and bruises and his wild hair was matted with blood, but his eyes were alert and watched Bailey, greedy for freedom.
Moments later the newsman had his wish and was rubbing his sore wrists as he thanked Bailey and the others.
“We should get out of here,” Salamander advised. “In case the last one comes back with friends.”
Bailey helped Danny to his feet. “I know exactly where we need to go.” He glanced across at Melissa, who was supporting Francis. “Mel, how would you feel about running a story?”
76
Ash found a fresh pullover and a small pair of jeans in the closet, along with sneakers that were only one size too big. She put them on and sat on the edge of the bed and waited. Her fingers teased the quilt folds and when she looked down at her hands, she saw they were shaking. She felt hollow, as though her innards had been replaced by a foul specter that infused her with shame and despair. She realized her bottom lip was trembling and that tears had sprung anew and were sliding down her cheeks. She pinched her thighs and squeezed her thumb and index fingers hard, inflicting a reminder of what real pain was. The sensation shot up her spine, shocking her out of maudlin self-pity. Betrayal was a lie born from the illusion of trust. If she never trusted, she could never be betrayed. The days of darkness, spent baking in the disciplinary cell, finally made sense. Her father was trying to teach her that she couldn’t trust anyone. Not him. Not her mother. Only by standing alone would she find true strength.
Weak, toxic grief was replaced by a flurry of memories of her past and projections of the future, a jumble of thoughts, all racing, colliding, merging, melding, mutating into a massed cacophony of violent conceptions, beginnings, endings, the hard middle, making her want to laugh and cry hysterically, a barrage of simultaneous emotion that was impossible for any one person to express. Ash put her right hand to her mouth and bit the fleshy side of her index finger until pain silenced the mental bombardment.
As the tumult died away, Ash’s senses returned and she noticed that the cell phone on the bedside table was vibrating.
“It’s me,” she said as she answered.
“Chris? John said you’d been taken.”
It wasn’t who she was expecting, but she recognized Bailey’s voice at once. The man who, like her, had sacrificed so much to save John Wallace. So, he and Wallace were in contact. Did he know about Wallace’s involvement with Steven Byrne?
“I escaped,” Ash replied. “I’m OK now.”
As the words left her mouth they took on a truth of their own, and by the time they reached her ears, she believed them. She was OK. Just a different kind of OK. Like a snake shedding its skin, her experiences had helped her grow. More than that, they were helping her evolve. She felt nothing, but maybe there was nothing to feel. Maybe this was how her father had faced the world, emotionless, detached, his isolation protecting him from harm, giving him the freedom to do exactly whatever he thought was right.
“Is John with you?” Bailey asked.
“No,” Ash said quietly. “He’s not with me at all.”
“I wanted to check it would be OK to break the story, that it wouldn’t put you at risk, but you’re free, so we’re good to go,” Bailey continued excitedly. “We’ve captured a member of the Foundation.”
“The Foundation?” Ash asked. She’d first heard of the radical anti-capitalist group almost two years ago, when Parker had been assigned to look into its activities. Ryan Silver, the student Pendulum had hired to create a diversion at the Manhattan Regent Hotel, had said in his deposition that he’d believed he was being recruited into the Foundation.
“Pendulum was part of it,” Bailey told her. “The guy we’ve caught is going to give us everything he knows. The news should break in a matter of hours, blowing the whole thing wide open.”
Ash felt the stirring of her past self, a ghost that wanted to congratulate Bailey and express relief, but so much had happened while she’d been held captive that the old world no longer seemed relevant. Besides, she had no way of knowing where Bailey’s loyalties really lay. So she simply said, “I’ll let him know.”
“Are you OK?” Bailey asked.
Give him nothing, a voice said. A moment later, Ash realized her inner adviser sounded a lot like her father.
“Chris?” Bailey pressed, his voice tinged with concern.
“I’m fine,” Ash replied. “I’ve got to go,” she added, before hanging up.
The phone rang almost immediately, but she left it unanswered, and it vibrated in her hands for what seemed like an eternity before finally falling still. It started again, and with it a flood of thoughts that had one common root: doubt. What if she was wrong? What if they were her friends? What if the true danger lay elsewhere?
What if the . . . ?
What if . . . ?
What . . . ?
She felt as though her mind might fry with the ferocity of her thoughts, and the nagging, insistent pulse of the phone only seemed to make things worse. She longed to hurl it against the wall, see it flying through the air, spinning wildly before a violent impact smashed it into shattered pieces. But she couldn’t. This was how they would find her. They. Yet more people she couldn’t trust, but at least these ones she knew she could manipulate . . . command . . . that was a better word. Command and control . . . to ensure the guilty were punished and justice was served. So she bit her lip until it bled, and the doubt that had flourished in her mind withered and died. Finally at peace with herself, she let the phone ring and waited for them to arrive.
Wallace was exhausted and on any other day he would have succumbed to sleep, but today was different. He’d returned to Ash regularly but she was still out cold, and Wallace was confident rest was what she most needed. Between visits to check on her, he and Steven had spent their time talking, and as unconventional as their relationship was, Wallace felt his host might be right. In a different life, they could have been friends. They’d spoken of their shared grief, how the desire to set things right had pushed them both down dangerous paths, Wallace with the Masterton Inquiry and Steven first with Max, and then with Smokie. Wallace knew that few people would be able to understand him the way Steven did, and was drawn to the man. It seemed that the sentiment was mutual; his host had researched him thoroughly, and was intimately familiar with the Inquiry and the massacre. He even knew about Captain Nash, and was fascinated to hear Wallace recount the truth of what had actually happened that day in Kandahar. The tale of his ordeal seemed to deepen their connection, and Steven murmured sympathetically when he heard how hard Wallace had fought to try to win justice for Elam, Mai, and all the other people who’d been killed that day. It seemed to help Steven to understand the process that had broken Wallace, turning him into the bitter drunk who had trolled Erin, ganging up with others and hounding her. He wasn’t inherently evil. He’d been ground down by his tribulations and had lashed out, spreading his suffering to another innocent who’d been unable to cope with it.
The double doors behind Steven opened and Tyrese came in, carrying a laptop. He crossed the room with a sense of purpose.
“I found something on Freefall,” he revealed, placing the laptop on the coffee table in front of the couches. “This was posted on a dark web hacker board a couple of months ago.”
The web browser displayed a bulletin board from a web address that was a jumble of letters and symbols. It was a place only the initiates were meant to find.
User: GozertheGozerian
The Foundation is coming. Freefall will reshape
the world.
Beneath the text was a symbol: three circles beneath three curved, sharp teeth, like a trio of warped punctuation marks.
“The symbol is Welsh,” Tyrese added. “Awen. It means ‘truth.’”
There were no responses to the post, but the board view count showed that it had been read 102 times.
“Can you identify the user?” Steven asked.
“Possibly,” Tyrese replied. “But this might not be anything, could just be someone bragging. I got a hit on Archangel, though. It’s the Secret Service call sign for Victoria Hawkins, the Chair of the Federal Reserve.”
“You think he’s going to try to kill her?” Wallace asked.
“Maybe,” Steven responded uncertainly. “Her death would send markets into turmoil, but I was expecting something bigger. Smokie said it would all be over.”
“We need more resources,” Tyrese observed.
“I’ll talk to Christine,” Wallace said. “There’s an agent she trusts. Maybe we can take this to him.”
Steven thought for a moment, and then nodded.
Wallace left the room and walked down the dimly lit corridor to the guest bedroom, where he was surprised to find Ash awake. She had her back to the door and was sitting on the bed. As he entered the room, he could see that she was holding the phone Salamander had given him.
“You’re up,” he observed. “Who’re you calling?”
Any relief he felt that she was awake disappeared the moment Ash turned to face him. She exuded despair. Her bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes were the gateways to a lost, broken soul. The fiery independence that had kept him alive, that made her such a vital, independent force, was gone, and in its place lurked a mutilated, dangerous creature.
“I’m so sorry, Chris,” he said, sitting beside her.
She flinched when he tried to enfold her in his arms.
“It’s OK,” he reassured her, as he took her in his embrace. “It’s OK.”
Her whole body shook, and Wallace heard choking sobs as she pressed against him. He wished he could take her pain away. He thought about their meal together, the feelings he’d developed for her, the kiss they’d shared, and was overwhelmed by guilt at having abandoned her to such horror. He pulled her close, relieved she was alive, grateful to hold her.
“I should never have let them take you,” he confessed. “I should’ve done something. We came for you as soon as we could.”
The shuddering stopped and Ash pulled away from him, the despair in her eyes replaced by something else, a hardness that bordered on hostility.
“You couldn’t do anything,” she said flatly. “Could you?”
The question sounded more like an accusation. Wallace waited for some reassurance, but none came and the two of them sat in awkward silence.
“What do you mean?” Wallace asked at last. He tried to ensure his tone was as gentle as possible. He could only imagine how she’d suffered at the hands of Smokie’s people, but he knew that her ordeal would have warped her thinking.
“You let them take me,” Ash spat, her voice barbed, her eyes blazing.
“You told me to go . . . I couldn’t . . .” Wallace began, but he didn’t know what to say. He could sense Ash’s rage building, filling the room. How could he explain himself? Even though she’d signaled him to do nothing, he knew he shouldn’t have left her. He’d abandoned her to horrors that seemed to have changed her. She looked at him with open hostility. He could see that whatever feelings she’d once had for him were now dead. “As soon as we knew where you were—”
“We?” Ash interrupted.
“Steven Byrne. He’s been financing the Foundation. It’s behind all this. But he wants out . . .”
“Does he?” Ash asked bitterly. “And what makes you so sure?”
Wallace hesitated, unsettled by her darkly cynical tone.
“He wants to turn himself in. To help stop Smokie. The only reason he hasn’t is because Smokie’s infiltrated the government. The Foundation has built a network of members around the world. It’s impossible to know who to trust.”
He saw Ash’s eyes cloud with uncertainty, before the steel returned. “And you believe him?”
“I’ve spent time with him,” Wallace replied. “I don’t think he’s lying.”
“Then he’s going to get his wish,” Ash said ominously.
“What do you mean?” Wallace asked, worried about his friend’s demeanor. Whatever they’d done to her, she clearly wasn’t herself.
“I called them.” Ash indicated the phone. “I called the Bureau. They used the phone to trace my location. They’re on their way.”
Wallace backed away, disturbed by the revelation.
“Your new friend can help all he wants,” Ash added.
“You said we couldn’t trust anyone,” Wallace protested, getting to his feet.
“Advice you ignored,” she shot back accusingly. “But I was right. I can’t trust anyone.”
He staggered toward the door, almost overwhelmed by his sense of loss. His friend, the woman who’d sacrificed so much for him, who understood him better than anyone else, was gone. He didn’t recognize the mangled creature sitting in her place.
“I wish I’d let him take you,” Ash mused darkly. “That night on the roof. I could have saved so many lives if I’d just let Max kill you. It would have been better all around.”
Wallace couldn’t bear to hear her talk about him in that way and couldn’t stand to look at the damage he’d caused. He backed away and fled the room, then raced along the corridor, his mind spiraling out of control. The woman he loved wished him dead.
“She’s called the FBI,” he announced as he ran into the room. “They’ve traced her location. They’re on their way.”
Steven and Tyrese exchanged angry looks.
“After what it cost to save her,” Tyrese noted.
He’d hardly got the words out before he became aware of a familiar sound. The room vibrated with the low, deep hum of an approaching helicopter.
77
The sound of muffled gunfire filled the room.
“Tell security to stand down,” Steven instructed Tyrese, who produced a radio from his pocket and relayed the command. “They’re to give themselves up. We need to go,” he said, turning to Wallace. “I think we can stop Smokie. But if we get caught . . .”
Wallace needed no further explanation. His experiences of law enforcement and protective custody had been unrelentingly bad.
“Give me a minute,” he said, racing down the corridor. He couldn’t leave her. Not like this. He needed her to know how he felt. He had to make it better.
He burst into the bedroom and found Ash where he’d left her, sitting on the bed, her eyes wet with fresh tears. She was adrift, lost in misery like a parent grieving for a dead child.
“Chris, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything, but you need to trust me. We’ve got to leave,” Wallace pleaded. “Come with us. Please. You mean so much to me. I don’t want it to be like this. I love you.”
Grief was replaced with unmistakable rage as Ash glared up at him.
“Please,” Wallace said, clasping her by the wrist.
“Love?” Ash growled. “Don’t you dare use that word!”
The scream startled him, and he jumped back, narrowly avoiding being struck by Ash’s fist. She came at him, crying and shouting curses, intent on inflicting harm as she punched and kicked his body. Some of the blows connected, and Wallace staggered back in pain. He couldn’t bring himself to fight back, but knew that if he didn’t do something, this well-trained, ferocious woman would put him down. Ash caught him with a punch that sent him crashing against the wall, and he smacked his head against the hard surface, the impact sending the world into a wild spin. He put his hands over his face in a feeble attempt to protect himself, but was surprised to sense sudden movement beside him. Steven rushed into the room, grabbed Ash, and knocked her to the floor. She tumbled on to her backside, but quickly recovered and sat up
with a fierce look on her face, as though she was goading Steven to fight her.
“We’ve got to go,” Steven urged. “Now!”
Wallace wavered, looking at the enraged woman. “Chris,” he tried. “You’re right, I should have done more. I never meant to hurt you. Please come with us.”
Ash got to her feet and leaped at Steven, who reacted instantly, flooring her with a single, brutal punch.
“You can’t help her, John,” Steven said. “She needs professional attention. Let the FBI take care of her.”
Wallace allowed himself to be pulled from the room, but when he gave a backward glance he felt nothing but grief. She cut a tragic figure, lying on the floor, her body stirring as blood streamed from her nose. She’d been broken trying to protect him, and all the ills she’d suffered had crystallized as hatred. Whatever they’d once had, the warmth they’d felt, the connection they’d established, it was all gone. She despised him, and as he was pulled along the corridor, Wallace lamented all those shared moments and mourned what might have been. Maybe in another world, they could have had a life together. But not in this one. They should have died lovers, but the fierce contempt in her eyes was unmistakable. Finally, Wallace accepted that she loathed him.
Shock robbed Wallace of continuity. His flight from the residence became a series of snatched moments. Steven leading him to a concealed exit. Their steps echoing around a stairwell as they thundered down the stairs. Opening an exterior door and creeping across a courtyard that was swarming with police officers and FBI agents. Lights shining on the faces of Steven’s security as they were rounded up. Tyrese thrust into the back of an FBI van. Steven leading Wallace to a storm drain. Removing the metal grate. Emerging from the fetid pipe that fed into the Hackensack River. Clambering through mud and grass. An apartment block. Waiting while Steven broke into a car. Driving along the highway, the car rising and falling rhythmically every time it rolled over the ridges that separated the slabs of asphalt. The gentle beat sending him into the welcome embrace of sleep. Feeling sick as he wavered on the cusp of consciousness. Traumatized as he recalled the hate in Ash’s eyes. Consumed by bleak emptiness at the thought he’d lost the woman he loved. And then nothing.
