by Dom Testa
I bypassed the showy main staircase and found my way back to the service stairwell. If the Ops Room occupied the third floor, as Parnell claimed, it slashed my search in half. On the stairwell landing I heard voices through the third floor door and waited. Somebody was hard at work here, which was both a good sign and bad. It suggested I’d struck pay dirt; it might also mean I’d found trouble.
The voices faded away, followed by the sound of a latch closing. Nudging open the door and keeping one hand on the gun inside my jacket, I poked my head out and saw no sign of life.
An odd feeling surged through me and I stepped back inside and shut the door. Leaning against the concrete wall I closed my eyes and tried to make sense of what I’d just experienced.
In all my years as an agent for Q2 I’d never been overly concerned with consequences. I guess it’s pretty obvious why. Just plow ahead and get the job done, right? If things go wrong I could always get my do-over. Granted, I got bumped back to the starting block like a bizarro-world version of the game Sorry, but at least I knew I could return.
Now, standing in a dim stairwell on an island well off the coast of the United States, I was overcome with a feeling of . . . what? Determination? No, I was always determined. This was more like stubborn pride. I’d be damned if I was gonna let these twin crazies pull off their deadly stunt, and I sure wasn’t going to let them — or their goon squad — take me down in the process. That probably explained why I’d developed the surprising urge to eliminate Richter when I did. This case, this setting, and this cast of characters had driven me to a point I’d never felt before.
For a moment I wondered if the despicable killing of Kyra had somehow affected me in a new way. I mean, that final hug she’d given me, and the empty words I’d mumbled into her ear, Everything’s gonna be fine. Had all of that simmered so long that the pot was boiling over?
Maybe. Except I’d lumbered my way through an awful lot of collateral damage over the years, with more than a few innocent civilians caught up in a deadly game played by wicked, blood-thirsty ghouls, most as bad as Richter and a few much worse. So why now? Why this intense desire to not give any ground this time?
Whatever was going on, I knew I couldn’t let it alter the way I approached my job. We were down to mere hours; the last thing our country needed was an obstinate agent suddenly changing his methods for reasons he couldn’t even put clearly into words. Feelings are damned dangerous at this point. See and act, and that’s it.
I channeled my inner Quanta with a slow, deep breath, then pushed the door open again.
The first two rooms were infinitely more interesting than what I’d found earlier on the 5th floor, but still no Ops Room. My gut told me, though, that I was close.
I checked the time on my otherwise-useless phone: 1:21. By now I was right in the middle of the long hall, standing outside a door that sang to me. I pulled out the Glock, swiped the card key, and pushed inside with the buzz.
It didn’t look, at first glance anyway, like what you’d expect might house the heart of an operation like LoGo’s power trip. I suppose we imagine a scene out of Apollo 11, with technicians in short-sleeved white shirts and skinny black ties gathered around old-time screens, ingesting data with bleary, exhausted eyes. This room didn’t look like that, but I knew I’d found the spot.
There was a small collection of computer monitors and, along the back wall, a modest rack of what had to be communications equipment. A white board, which on one hand seems antiquated but on the other is just too practical to replace, stretched across another wall. From this distance it was too dark to make out all the scribbles and arrows coating the board. The room, as a whole, looked like it would take a while to digest.
For a moment I considered just destroying everything in the room, which, let’s face it, would’ve been the smartest move. But there’s always that curiosity factor. While I had a chance, I wanted to learn more about what was going on. The information, if I could either upload it or simply fly it back to Washington, could potentially help ward off another similar sick attempt. As with all of my assignments, gathering intel was almost as important as chopping down bad guys.
I decided the quickest data collection could come from the white board. If I needed to install more computer gear, like I’d done in Telluride, so be it. But might as well read what they’d left out for me in plain sight.
It only took a moment to realize the magnitude of what I was looking at. If what my phone’s flashlight revealed was real and not just some wild speculation on someone’s part, things were about to get really, really bad.
With a dark blue marker the top left of the board showed: New York/11:05am ET.
Beneath that: Boston/11:15am ET.
Then: Philadelphia/11:25am ET.
Washington/11:35am ET.
Atlanta/11:45am ET.
Tampa/11:55am ET.
That was just the row on the left. In the center of the board, also at 10-minute increments, I saw:
Detroit, Chicago, St. Louis, Dallas, Houston, Minneapolis
The row on the far right listed:
Denver, Phoenix, Las Vegas, Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles
My stomach sank. This wasn’t a little one-town experiment. This wasn’t a ‘statement,’ a stunt to drum up business, or a scare tactic.
This was a full-on, balls-out blitz. It represented a tidal wave of destruction that would sweep across the country from east to west. Within a three hour period the country would turn dark and cold.
With just a rough calculation of the 18 metro areas listed, I imagined it affecting 150 million people, maybe more. Maybe many more. If these EMPs were as bad as we thought, it wasn’t just going to take out the power; it would fry the systems. It could be weeks — or months — before anything could be restored.
I’ve seen my share of dystopian movies, where the world is plunged back into the middle ages, either through plague, nuclear weapons, or a cosmic collision. It’s frightening enough when Hollywood wizards paint a picture of desolation; when the real thing looms, you suddenly realize just how much we have to lose and how horrific it would be. When a spoiled society decayed overnight, the panic, the rioting, the looting, the widespread killing would be indescribable.
Who knew how many would die in the first few days alone? After a few weeks it might become nearly impossible to recover.
I stood there, staring at the casually-scrawled timeline, wondering if the sick shit who’d marked up the board was truly as cold and psychotic as the minds who’d come up with the idea in the first place? How do you just jot down those cities and times without envisioning the chaos and sorrow it would unleash upon millions of innocent people?
Now it was clear why LoGo had ordered so many drones.
Breaking free from my trance, I snapped a picture of the white board. Then I turned back to face the room, wondering what damage I could do to stop it all from happening. Before I could take a step, every light in the room came on, a blinding flash that caused me to wince and turn my face to the side, raising a hand in a futile attempt to shield myself.
A voice reached me, with that familiar accent. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. What’s-his-name.”
My eyes adjusted and I turned to see Parnell leaning against the door frame, an amused smile on her face. Four good-sized men had spread out on each side of her.
Naturally, all four were pointing guns right at me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Don’t think I didn’t size up the competition in about a second and a half. Could I take all of them? My personal record was three in one showdown, but I have to admit the fourth gunman in that particular incident caught me with a grazing shot along the forehead. It bled like a bitch and gave the creep who did it enough time to get away while I staunched the flow and cut loose with multiple expletives.
That was then. I couldn’t take the chance this time. Oh sure, I could fling myself to the ground and try to get lucky. But even through the surprise of being discove
red I was fully aware that a couple hundred million people needed me to keep breathing a while longer. I was the only thing standing between Merry Christmas and Electrical Armageddon, and the latter was poised to begin in 33 hours.
To keep anyone from getting trigger happy, I slowly raised my left hand, which still cradled my phone, while gently lowering the Glock with my right, setting it on a table beside me. I returned Parnell’s smile and said, “I’m so glad you guys showed up. I’ve been looking everywhere for the men’s room.”
Parnell shook her head. “I’ve got to do a better job of following my intuition. You’ve been setting off personal alarms since the first moment on the ship.”
She maneuvered between the tables to my side of the room, picked up my gun, studied it for a second, then pushed the barrel into my belly. Looking up into my face, she smiled again. “Will I ever get your real name?”
I lowered my hands because it’s just stupid to stand there like that when you’re covered by so many weapons. “You seem very hung up on names. You go first. What goes in front of Parnell?”
“Mrs.”
“Oh,” I said. “There’s a Mr. Parnell. Is he here on the island, too? Perhaps one of those rugged gentlemen with the guns over there? Does he know you get lost at night on boats and can’t find your own room?”
She shoved the gun into my gut a little more. “I’m obviously not the only one around here who gets lost at night. What are you doing here, Mr. Mayer?”
“I always like to report early on my first day,” I said. “It makes a good impression.”
“I’m not talking about here,” Parnell said, indicating the room. “I mean here in general. What the hell are you doing on this island? Who are you working for?”
The banter was starting to get old, even to me; I can usually go all night. I lost the smile. “I’ve got questions for you, too, Mrs. P.”
“But the gun is pointed at your spleen, not mine.”
“And you’re smart enough to know that killing me isn’t the right play. Not now, at least. Otherwise you would’ve done it.” I glanced at the jokers still training their guns on me, then back at Parnell. “Is there some place we can go to talk?”
This must’ve amused her. “Smooth. Even in the face of death.”
“Oh, Death and I are pals from way back. I could tell you stories. How did you know I was up here?”
“I told you, Mayer, you’ve been setting off internal alarms from the beginning. As soon as I told you where to find this room I figured you’d want a peek. Someone’s been watching the video the whole time. Do you think we’re stupid?”
“I think some of you are dangerously unhinged,” I said. “Is that the same thing?”
Parnell tried not to smile. “So much charm. How does your wife stand it?”
“She can’t. That’s why she moved next door. What about your husband? Does he know this dark side of you, or does he think you’re in sales or something?”
“I’m tired. It’s already late and you’re exhausting.” She reached down and took my phone out of my hand. Without breaking her gaze she motioned with her free hand to one of the men, who moved up to her side. “Take him to the Storm Building,” she said. “I want to talk to him after I’ve had some sleep. If he gives you trouble just make him cooperative.”
“Is that villain-code for beat him up?” I asked.
“I’d shut up if I were you, Mayer, or this night could be one of your worst.”
The two goons shoved me toward the door. Over my shoulder I called back, “Now you sound like a female Goldfinger. I expected better from you.”
I was ushered out of the building by three of the four men, across the walkway to one of the smaller structures. The gusty winds had ushered in a layer of clouds which now cloaked the starlight, leaving only a few security bulbs to guide the way. A few scattered raindrops touched my face, hinting at a bigger storm that might be rolling in.
I wondered how Fife and the team would manage if the seas became exceptionally rowdy. I had to trust they were equipped and trained for anything below hurricane conditions.
At all times on our walk I was flanked by two of my escorts, while the third hung back with his gun. So far their spacing was good. There was no way I could make a move to overpower all three.
Once inside they took me to a small room with a single chair. The first guy, the biggest one, turned me around and delivered two punches to my mid-section, hammer-like blows that expelled every ounce of air from my lungs. No good reason at all. I think he just wanted me to know how much misery he could inflict. It was a lot. And the bastard did it all without saying a word. Then they trussed me into the chair just like you’ve seen in all the movies, shut the lights off, and left.
I was thankful my current physique was well-muscled, which helped at least some with the body shots. But don’t kid yourself — when a big guy like that puts his mind to it he can crumple you. I could only hope for a chance to return the favor.
Now, sitting alone in the dark, the magnitude of my blunder settled in. I’d been right there in the Ops Room with a chance to do some real damage. Granted, I didn’t have the first clue where to start, or what was vital and what wasn’t. I suppose I could’ve just set the whole damned building on fire and made a dash for it. But the spy side of me, as usual, outweighed the agent side of me — and there is a distinction. I was desperately curious about the entire plan, which had paid off with me finding the list of targets. That payoff, though, had come with a steep price.
I wanted to grab some sleep because who knew if I’d have another chance before zero hour. But my mind began rolling everything over, searching for something, anything, that could provide an ounce of advantage. Dozens of details from the case vied for attention, but two things kept pushing their way back to the front.
One was Parnell and her role. What was a woman like her, trained in something as deadly as Krav Maga, doing here? Richter and the assortment of hired help seemed enough to carry out the hits they needed to silence any troublemakers. The martial arts technique Parnell used was more of a personal defense skill. That’s why Richter was dispatched to murder Kyra, the defenseless accountant whose only mistake was to sleep with a corporate snitch.
Parnell was a tough nut to crack. She’d hit on me and been disgusted by me all at the same time. She’d had doubts about my identity even before she caught me snooping around the Ops Room. And then to find out she was married? Hey, I’m not naive; I know people mess around, and it’s not like I haven’t been propositioned by married women — and men, for that matter — in the past.
It’s just that somehow it didn’t add up. What brought her to this job, staying on this island for who knows how long after things go to shit on the mainland? Seemed odd to me.
The second thought forcing its way into my head was bigger picture stuff. Honestly, this entire scenario of attacking the country’s power grids struck me as above the pay grade of the twins. Sure, they were creepy sociopaths, but I’ve known a bunch of those in my life and very few of them have tried to blow up the United States.
I’d only spent a few hours in their company, but unless they were phenomenal at hiding their skills, I just didn’t see it. They had to be getting some real badass help, in other words. The first name that popped into my head was LeMan. He was around, he was a sneaky twit, and he was here on the island.
But I really didn’t get the mastermind feel from him, either.
This was a fruitless pursuit, of course. The entire LoGo board of directors could’ve been loaded with malevolent assholes bent on taking down the grid. This might truly be a group effort. I think many of those people were at the party a few hours ago, making small talk while they waited for their alternative energy ship to come in.
And that made sense: Let the experienced, well-heeled schmucks put the agenda together behind the scenes and plop the founder’s bratty kids in front, acting as the public face of the company with their world education and tall, dashing good l
ooks.
We’d focused on the despicable twins and hadn’t dug deep enough into the other suits. Now that I’d found this idea I couldn’t let it go. I replayed my dinner conversation with Lucas and Gillian. She was aloof and a flat-out asshole, and he was a chattering dolt. Hell, there was no way those two could’ve put this together. It had to be the board.
Worst of all, shit was going down soon and I was nicely confined to a chair in a dark room in an out-of-the-way building. Well done, Super Eric.
From outside I heard and felt a low rumble of thunder. I lowered my chin to my chest, tried to ignore the itch on my nose that my hands couldn’t reach, turned down the volume of my thoughts, and went to sleep.
A light snapped on and startled me awake. The tough guy who’d pummeled me stood in the doorway. Then he stepped aside and Parnell strolled in. “Good morning, sunshine. Pleasant dreams?”
“The usual,” I said. “Falling. Caught in public with no clothes on. Forgetting my homework.” I blinked my eyes a few times. “Any chance of getting some water? Or a Bloody Mary? Screwdriver?”
“Oh, I see you’ve lost your German accent overnight.”
“Seems stupid to keep it up now.”
“True. Untie him, Carter,” she said. The hulk went to work behind me.
I said, “If you’re gonna have any more unwanted guests, maybe you should install a jail.”
Parnell ignored this and, as my hands came free, handed me a bottled water. “We’re going to talk with someone in a few minutes,” she said. “You have people curious.”
“Not worried?” I asked. “Just curious?”
She motioned for me to stand up. “Nobody’s worried about you. You’re just one guy trapped on an island. And you may not be on the island for very long.”
She led the way out of the room. Walking down the hallway I heard the sounds of rain blown against the windows. I knew it was daylight but things were shadowy outside because of the storm. I turned around and saw we were accompanied only by the meathead. His associates were nowhere to be found.
