by Ryan Schow
“We’ll leave him with the Humvee,” Marley said. “We can hide him in back.”
“No,” Isaiah said, firmly. “I’m sure they’re going to be checking us for weapons and anomalies. He’s an anomaly, Marley. You’re an anomaly.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Look at you. You’re half-scared out of your mind and you’re too good looking to not be a distraction. Plus, have you seen yourself? You look like you’ve been dragged through a hundred feet of gravel.”
“It’s not that bad,” she said.
“To them it will be,” he said. “Not me, because I look like hell, too. But I got the invite, not you.”
She took a deep breath, wondered if it would be best to just get out and go home. Then again, she wasn’t the kind of woman to tuck tail and run from a fight. Quitting just wasn’t in her blood.
“I always wanted to go to D.C.,” Marley said. “I wanted to see how the federal government worked from inside the White House. I wanted to be a part of that. But I’ve seen things, Isaiah. And now I’ve done things.”
“You and thousands of other White House employees,” he said.
The whole story she wasn’t telling him, however, was the story of Savannah Swann. Her kill list wasn’t just a few people long. There were still people on that list who were living. Rhett Jensen. Killian O’Brien. She wouldn’t get to either man running from this fight. And she wasn’t about to take the heel-toe express home.
Thinking of Walker, she said, “I’m a McDaniel, Isaiah. That matters more than you think.” Because I’m a McDaniel, and the McDaniels don’t run.
“You want to protect him?” Isaiah asked, nodding to the boy.
“Of course.”
“It’s him or you,” Isaiah said.
She turned and looked at Adi in the backseat. “Will you be okay on your own for a bit?”
Fear lit the boy’s eyes. “Are you coming back for me?”
“If I’m still alive, yes.”
“But what if you die?” Adi asked.
“Then you’re going to have to figure out how to live without me,” she said, cold. He started to cry. She took his hand; he let her hold it, but he didn’t hold hers back. “Suck it up kid, the first people to die are the crybabies.”
He looked up at her and she held his eye. She then smiled and gave him a nod. He gave her a return nod then drew a deep breath and wiped his eyes.
“Isaiah,” Marley said, “Adi’s getting out.”
“Not here,” Isaiah said, driving around the block. He slowed the rig in front of the West Virginia Department of Education’s Building 6.
She looked out and saw a spot that might work.
“Get in there,” she said, pointing to the nearby industrial-sized dumpster. “Pull the garbage over the top of you and if we’re not back by nightfall, we’re likely dead and you’re on your own.”
The kid started to cry again.
“Get out, Adi.”
He did, looking at her one last time. She was already having a hell of a time doing this without melting over the kid’s waterworks.
“Crybabies die in this world, Adelard,” she said, using his given name. “Don’t be a crybaby.”
Adi stood there watching them go; Isaiah started to drive off. When he was gone from view, Marley sat there quietly, her eyes on the road ahead.
“You okay?” Isaiah asked.
“When I called him a crybaby,” she said, wiping her eyes, “I was talking to him as much as I was talking to myself.” She wiped her eyes, then turned and glared at him. “I hate you for that, you know.”
“You probably saved his life.”
She wiped her eyes again, tried to put Adi out of her mind. That only worked for so long, for trying to forget about the child only hurt her heart worse.
Isaiah said, “If you’re going to leave him behind, you’d better make it worth it.”
She nodded, but didn’t say anything.
After a moment, he drew a deep breath and said, “You realize we’re about to crawl into a lion’s den wearing a meat suit, right?”
Still visibly sad, she nodded. “Yeah, I know that.”
“So pull yourself together.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’ll be ready.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rowan McDaniel
Outside the decorative brick and white-columned governor’s mansion, Rowan’s stomach dropped and he felt his nerves igniting. The open parking lot had more than a few old but clean cars present. Rowan’s crew parked, taking off their baby-faced masks.
VP Aldrich got out of his vehicle, stretched, then took off his mask and flung it back inside. He saw Rowan and Hwa-Young, walked their way.
“Just you,” he said, pointing to Rowan. “Not her.”
“Yes, her,” Rowan said.
“I can kill both of you,” Hwa-Young said.
Aldrich ignored her. “Where did the Humvee go?”
“It turned off the road a few minutes ago. Maybe the driver had to take a nervous piss or something.”
One of the crew came up, almost like he was waiting for instructions from Aldrich. The former VP said, “There are only so many seats inside. We need you out here. No telling what kind of an entourage these clowns will have covering their sixes.”
“I want in,” Hwa-Young hissed.
Aldrich stepped into her personal space and said, “You didn’t earn this seat. You’re a glorified tagalong until you’re not.”
“Let me in, you’ll see,” she said, as incensed as Rowan had ever seen her.
Aldrich’s guy flanked her, gun out at his side. He looked at Hwa-Young, the threat clear. “I’m going to insist you stay out here with us.”
She stepped back and spit at the VP’s feet. She was too angry to do anything else.
“That’s gross,” Aldrich said. He turned to Rowan. “Let’s go, cowboy.”
Hwa-Young caught up, pleading her case to Rowan, but he didn’t want to be put in the middle of this.
“I want this, Rowan,” she said, matching his stride. “You know this. You know this!”
“And that’s why you’re staying outside,” the VP turned and said. “Cooler heads must prevail if we’re to both assess the situation and properly manage it.”
“The second they leave, they’re dead,” she snarled.
“I can live with that,” Aldrich replied. He nodded at his crew then returned his attention to her. “You’re making a scene, Hwa-Young.”
She stopped, her eyes pained. Rowan looked back at her, more than a little nervous about what he was walking into. He had to assume he might not be walking out of there alive.
The VP looked at him and said, “You look like hell.”
“I know,” Rowan said.
“It’s perfect, but only if you have a cover story. You’ve got something, right?”
“I’ll have one,” Rowan said.
He glanced over, saw the beat-to-hell Humvee making its way into the parking lot.
“Clear your mind, man,” Aldrich said. “Get focused. I need the other you, that animal you have inside of you. He has to be ready to go on a moment’s notice.”
“This whole world is a cover story, Aldrich.”
“I’m not really that worried about your story,” he said. As they walked toward a wall of diplomatic security—guys frisking everyone going inside—Aldrich took a deep breath then looked at Rowan and said, “Are you ready?”
He looked at the man and lied. “You’re damn right I’m ready.”
“We may not come out of here alive.”
“You indicated as much.”
“And you’re still okay with that?” he said, raising his arms for one of the security team to frisk him.
“Weapons in the bins,” one of the men said in a heavy Middle-Eastern accent.
Rowan pursed his lips and nodded.
Aldrich put two guns in the plastic bins. “I know my round count,” he said to the men runni
ng security. They frowned, then exchanged a look.
As Rowan was frisked, he thought of Constanza and Rose and knew they could not survive happily in this world. What he was about to do, he wasn’t doing for himself, or Marshall Aldrich, or even all of the friends he lost. He was doing this for his fiancée and his child, two people he’d likely never see again.
He thought about the statement Aldrich made about his child back at his burning house just before they got in the trunk, but then he thought otherwise. If they survived this meeting, Rowan would ask, otherwise he didn’t need or want the distraction of such strong emotions.
Together they walked inside the governor’s mansion, ignoring the splendor. They were patted down again, this time by Russians. One of the men asked Rowan what happened to him.
“People tried to kill us,” Aldrich said, answering for him, “they died instead. It was hands-on and not very pretty.”
“You shouldn’t look like this,” the man said in a thick, clunky accent, “not at this meeting. Not with these people.”
Again, VP Aldrich stepped in to control the conversation. “These people we’re meeting need to know it’s not a cakewalk out there. They need to know that society has already unraveled and their men cannot just waltz in here and think the Americans are going to lay down for them. They’re burrowed in and they’re vicious. They should see this. And so should you.”
“This isn’t setting a good tone,” the man said again.
Aldrich bowed up on the Russian. “Do you think I give a damn about your opinion of what our tone is at this meeting?”
The man stiffened, his eyes narrowing.
“Your job isn’t to tell me my job,” Aldrich continued, hostile. “It’s to make sure we’re all clean before going inside. Are you clear on that, Neanderthal?”
The man looked down his nose at Aldrich, but he wouldn’t be intimidated. Aldrich ignored him, walking toward the conference room with his jaw clenched.
A rather imposing Russian woman met them at the door. She looked Rowan over twice, frowned, then escorted the two men into to a large room with a very large round table.
“This table is new,” Aldrich said.
Before each of the seats was a pencil, a sheet of paper, and a tall water glass. In the center of the table were several decanters of water.
He glanced at the various parties already in place. Like their hostess, they gave Rowan the once-over, none of them pleased by the sight of him. Aldrich, however, couldn’t look more pleased. They all greeted him as if they knew him personally. Maybe they did.
He and Aldrich sat down. Rowan poured himself a glass of water, then took a sip. A few moments later, a black man with a black garbage sack walked in. Rowan’s older sister, Marley, walked in the door behind him.
Rowan froze, unable to breathe.
Blinking twice, now completely disconnected from his body, he eyed her again, discretely, but with purpose. She saw him, but barely acknowledged him.
When she sat down, she looked at him again and he saw nothing in her eyes. Just perfect emptiness. One thing was for sure, he looked like hell, and she did too. Looking at those vacant eyes, though, he knew her well enough to know there was so much going on, more than even he could imagine. She didn’t show it, but he felt like she had been glad to see him.
Once they saw each other, however, they made it a point not to look at each other so directly again.
Another man strolled in. He had a barrel chest and the build of a military man. He gave a nod to a few people, then took a seat.
“Who are you and where is Diesel Daley?” a Middle-Eastern man said.
When the big man started to answer, Aldrich leaned over and whispered, “That’s Elham Golbahar asking questions, the Iranian Minister of Defense.”
“Rhett Jensen, sir,” the man said with what Rowan thought was a distinct Tennessee accent. “I am second in command of the Hayseed Rebellion and Diesel Daley’s predecessor.”
Rowan saw his sister glance over at the man, a touch of fear in her eyes.
What is that?
“Where’s Diesel?” the Iranian asked.
“He is likely dead, sir,” Rhett said. The Iranian nodded, not happy. “We tried to get word out earlier, but we’ve been unable to confirm his whereabouts.”
“We were promised a token for the seat at this table,” a Korean-looking woman said. She was sitting between Marley and Golbahar.
Rowan finally placed the Korean’s title with her name and face. She was Sung Jong-un, one of Kim Jong-un’s nieces and a ruthless woman if ever there was one.
“If Diesel had such a token, I am not aware of it,” Rhett said. “I was only told that I must be here in his absence.”
The black man with his sister lifted a garbage bag onto the table and said, “I brought the token you’re asking about.”
Sung Jong-un looked at the bag and smiled. “Well, open it up.”
He folded the sides of the bag down, then pulled the head out of the sack, plopped it on the table, and shoved it toward Sung. Rowan’s stomach rolled.
The Korean lifted the decapitated head up by the ears, looking at. She smiled, then turned the head of the President around to face them. “Magnificent,” she purred. Looking at Marley, but still holding President Kennicot’s head, Sung asked, “Who is she?”
“She’s the woman who killed the president, and I am the one who cut her head off. She is me and I am her.”
“You must be Isaiah Wright,” the Iranian said.
“As advertised.”
This mortified Rowan. It was all he could do to conceal his emotions. Marley refused to look his way, but he saw her swallow hard.
Dear God, what did she do?
Rowan took a long drink of his water, tried to remedy the dryness in his mouth. A moment later, a tall and imposing Russian man walked in the room. He sat in the chair next to Rowan.
Rowan felt his skin pebble with gooseflesh. This was not a minister of defense or even an ambassador…this was the new Russian Prime Minister, Putin’s right-hand man.
Andros Bocharov looked at Rowan and nodded. Rowan nodded back, terrified he couldn’t make the poker face required to survive this meeting.
“Shall we start?” Bocharov asked.
Everyone nodded.
A cruel, almost hungry grin broke over his face. “I flew in extra low, looking at the landscape of a fallen giant. The United States has officially collapsed. We did it, comrades.”
“We’re not your comrades,” Sung said with a frown and a high-pitched, almost nasally voice. Then her face changed and an equally frightening smile appeared. “And yet here we are, sitting together in the belly of the slain beast.”
Everyone smiled, including Rowan, although his smile was forced.
The door then opened up and one last man walked in, an American with a familiar face. There were no more seats left at the table.
“I’m sorry for my tardiness,” the intruder said. He walked right over to Rowan, looked down at him and said, “You’re in my seat.”
“Piss off, Killian,” Aldrich said.
“Seriously…get up,” Killian said to Rowan while ignoring VP Aldrich completely.
Killian? Killian O’Brien? The President’s new Chief of Staff?
“You are late!” Golbahar roared from across the table.
The man turned and said, “I’m Killian O’Brien, and don’t talk to me like that you sandy roach!”
The whole room bristled, then Killian laid his eyes on Marley.
“What is she doing here?!” he hissed.
“She brought the token,” Sung replied with a grin. She patted the decapitated head, which lay on its side. She then picked it up, slapped it down on the stumped neck, and spun it around to face him.
Using the president’s head like a ventriloquist doll, she worked her jaw and said, “You come in late, insult the minister, harass the former Vice President’s escort…time to go pretty man.”
A few people laug
hed, but Rowan was horrified. Bocharov picked up a two-way and said something in Russian that Rowan felt might have to do with security.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Killian said. “You let her in but now you’re going to kick me out? And Isaiah…I mean, what the hell, bro…?”
“How did you get in with that?” Isaiah said, speaking to Bocharov, but referring to the two-way radio.
“He’s in charge of internal security,” Golbahar said of the Russian. “We drew straws.”
The Russian guard Aldrich told off earlier walked in the room, looked at Killian, and said, “Come with me, now.”
“Or what?” Killian asked.
The man frowned, cocked his head sideways. “You’re going to come with me.”
“Get out of my seat!” Killian turned and barked at Rowan.
Rowan stood up in the man’s personal space. Killian was eyeballing him with vile eyes and clenched fists. Rowan head-butted him as hard as he could, flattening his nose and forcing him to take an unstable step backward.
Killian grabbed his nose and tilted his head up just enough for Rowan to make the go-to move of street fighters and killers world-wide. He throat-checked Killian, causing the man to gag and sputter. It wasn’t a death blow by any means, but it was bad enough to put a lid on the ruckus his mouth was making. Wasting no advantage, Rowan grabbed the man and kneed him in the nuts. The riotous nuisance dropped to the ground like a sack of garbage.
Looking at the Russian security agent, Rowan said, “Next time just shoot him.”
“No guns allowed,” the security man said.
Rowan sat back down, then took another long drink of water. To the others, Aldrich said, “This is Rowan, in case you’re wondering, and this is why I have him with me.”
The Russian guard picked up Killian O’Brien’s body, slung him over his shoulder and walked out.
Marley looked at Rowan again, still without an ounce of expression. It was the same look she afforded everyone else. He tilted his head ever so slightly. She narrowed her eyes.
“Who was that unfortunate creature?” Sung asked.
“He is the creature who uploaded the virus to the US’s satellite security system allowing your country to level America with the two EMPs,” Aldrich said, this fact surprising Rowan.
