Divided States, page 28
He wants to keep her breathing just long enough to endure more pain than humanly possible.
Fuck that.
“Well then,” Lori says, “sounds like you better do me the same courtesy as Dr. Hosseini here and give me the talking points.”
“Oh, it’s pretty simple, really. Your ex, trying to keep you sneaking into his bed every so often, got hooked up with the doctor via his piece-of-shit father.” Novak turns to Jeremiah. “That paperwork’s already been forged. So you would call in Vicodin prescriptions for pickup at the in-store pharmacy where you’ve stopped nearly every trip through Oklahoma City since before the secessions began.”
If he really has forged prescriptions, nobody can argue Lori takes pain meds regularly. “So?”
“So, after a while the doctor threatens to expose the illegal prescriptions unless Reynolds goes along with the plan to hijack the bomb. The plan involves you pretending to be kidnapped with the help of the good ol’ boy network of Fowler, Moore and Boudreaux, allowing everyone else at the plant to claim Reynolds went rogue with his team.”
Novak backs up and addresses his patsies as a whole again. “Y’all executed your plan, and I tracked you here, taking out everyone but the doctor and Miss Young. But I was just a bit too late to stop the detonation. However, with the two living suspects in custody, I am given authority by the Council to oversee the information extraction, which will lead to the realization that the Chinese and Iranians wanted the war and decimated oil industry—with the hope that Russia will join the war effort—which will bring everyone to the table to stop them with a re-unified United States military.” He begins pacing again. “See, all your efforts today barely inconvenienced me. We had to put Gates and Clarke in the truck so they get vaporized along with Levine. Gates was supposed to live, but with Fowler taking the fall for planning the New Year’s Eve shootings on behalf of Dr. Hosseini, he’s just a rich retiree who got lost in the woods on a hunting retreat in Wyoming or Idaho. And Clarke, well she was going to be just another Cushing victim either way.”
Lori refuses to believe this would’ve worked. Novak can’t be an evil mastermind who outplayed everyone in this room. It’s been a while since she felt pride, but dammit, Lori can’t let this fucking guy get the better of them.
“So, what now, you just gun everyone down here in the hospital, wait for the bomb to go off, then haul me and the doctor back to The Republic for interrogation?”
Novak’s eyes sparkle again. “Pretty much.”
Dr. Hosseini stops praying. “Sir, may I ask one indulgence before you commence with the rest of your plan?”
“Why would I do that?”
“If you permit this one act of kindness, I will offer no resistance and admit to everything you’ve outlined.”
Novak nods for the doctor to continue. “Just before your friend arrived”—he looks at Taggart—“we were going to call Mr. Ramirez’s family to let him know what had happened. Given the circumstances, I’d like to give him morphine and let him drift off, then tell his family he died in no pain. The numbers are on that piece of paper”—he nods to the middle of the table—“Mr. Ramirez was my last patient, and I’d like to finish my job.”
Novak works his jaw for a moment, then shakes his head. “I admire what you’re trying to do, but I can’t let that happen. He needs to look like he died fighting me and my men, not in a hospital bed.” His hand brushes past Dr. Hosseini’s cellphone as he secures the slip of paper. “I probably should know who the media can contact when it comes time to have family members cry over the deaths of men led astray by their compromised commander and his ex-wife.”
He unfolds the note and clears his throat as though preparing to deliver the Gettysburg Address. He reads Sarah Grace’s name and number. “Panhandle Province area code. Must be the wife.”
Novak continues with the next entry. The name is Lexi Ramirez. The country code is unfamiliar at first, but Lori matches it to the USA. The area code is Washington. She’s surprised to find a match to the next three digits. They’re for a cellphone carrier she once called, the number for a member of the DEA task force in Amarillo.
Novak’s voice tapers off and turns breathy as he reaches the last four digits. Lori catches them, which is good news. As spooked as Novak is, they’re bound to be important.
But why? One of Jesús Ramirez’s relatives has a working cellphone issued by the United States government. If the number still functions, Lexi Ramirez must still work for what remains of the federal government, now in Philadelphia.
Lori. Gloria.
Lexi. Alexia.
President Alexia Ramirez.
Holy shit.
If she hadn’t done the same with her name, Lori might not have put it together so fast. Then again, Lori’s smart.
Less-than-ten-seconds smart.
Lori has no proof she’s right, other than Novak’s strong reaction. But if his goal is to get the relevant Allied Nations leadership together quickly enough to keep China from striking, it would have to be on a conference call. Which means he has direct lines, including the one he just read.
Everyone’s underestimated Novak because of the untethered drivel he and his UNIC followers spout, but he’s no moron. He’s smart enough to have been a step ahead of everyone.
Until now.
Novak eyes the clock, then pockets the piece of paper.
“Taggart, tell one of your men to get Ramirez out of bed and into his gear. Have someone else go check the security cameras and make sure there’s no activity outside. We’re eight mikes away. That’s just enough time to do this, long as nobody calls it in to the locals early.”
With only eight minutes left, Lori knows it’s time to get free and call President Ramirez. Anything. The lack of a plan can’t be an excuse for inaction. She scans the room, and everyone else seems to know it, too.
All eyes shift to the conference room door when a guard throws it open. “We have a situation.” He rushes to Novak, who listens, then puckers his lips.
“Goddamn superstorms. Everyone but Taggart, go do a physical perimeter check.”
Ice on the security camera lenses, her father says.
Her father? “What the …”
Novak quits sucking on his sour candy. “Something to share with the class, Miss Young?”
Lori shakes her head, at both Novak’s question and her own. Because it wasn’t her father. At least, not the Colonel whose voice takes up years of space in her head. This voice was an idealized version of her father. It had a softer tone. A loving tone.
A dad’s tone.
Not only is the voice wrong, but the process is wrong. She searches the archives and replays the voice. The recordings have never played on their own. Then there’s the fact that the voice was responding to current events, which means it wasn’t a recording.
She’s not listening to voices. She’s hearing them.
Just like her mother.
When the time comes, listen. That’s what she’d said.
Lori’s mother wasn’t schizophrenic. She had the same fucked up thing as Lori. And she at least suspected Lori had it, too.
Her almost-father interjects. You don’t have time for this. There are only three of them in the room, and one is directly behind you. Now’s the time to act. Stand and kick your chair into Taggart, then charge Novak. He’ll underestimate you, so you can side-step and knee him in the stomach or balls, whichever presents itself. Then put him in a headlock and drop his head onto the floor. Do it now, Gloria.
“My name’s Lori.”
Lori didn’t mean to say it. Somehow her inner monologue is gone, replaced by whatever psychotic break has taken over.
But it works to her advantage.
“Secure Miss Young,” Novak tells his remaining guard. “We need her out of here, anyway.”
As the guard approaches from behind, she decides to listen.
Lori’s chair is just enough of a distraction to charge Novak, who looks more curious than worried—just like the delusional narcissist he is. When she’s a few feet away, he cocks his right fist.
As she ducks under his haymaker, Lori sends her left knee into Novak’s stomach. When he doubles over, she raises her cuffed hands up her back, slips his head between her left elbow and side, plants her right leg, and executes a move worthy of any pro wrestling ring.
By the time Lori gets to her feet, everyone else has done their part. MacLaughlin is cutting Fowler loose with the guard’s combat knife while the rest of the former servicemembers are either checking a weapon, restraining Novak and Taggart, or barricading the door.
“Hey MacLaughlin,” Lori says, “cut me loose.”
With her hands free, Lori rushes to get the doctor’s cell. “Fowler, do you know any local cops or sheriffs in Cushing?”
“Yeah,” he says. “What terminal was it?”
“Columbus,” she says.
Jeremiah follows up with the new license plate numbers. They now have the means to locate the bomb before it detonates, but it won’t matter if Lori can’t get the code to cancel the detonation.
Nobody picks up on the first ring, so she texts.
Friend of your bro, x-wife of cmndr Reynolds. Nuke missing from the plant in AMA. Will det in 4 min. Need universal cancel code now.
She dials again. No answer.
Redial. No answer.
Then an incoming call.
“Put Zeus on.”
The connection is bad, but she races through her spiel. “I can’t. He’s hurt. It’s a long story, but I’m Jeremiah’s ex-wife, and you’re going to have to trust me. I need that code now so we can get it to law enforcement here in Oklahoma. Otherwise—”
“You’re breaking up. You said you’re Lori Reynolds?”
“Yes. Well, I—”
The call drops.
President Ramirez knew to ask for her brother, which means she got the text. So rather than waste time calling again, she sends another message. As she does, Lori prays for the first time since her mother left.
Yes, Lori R. Nuke to det in 3 mins. Need code.
Three dots appear a second later, followed by sixteen alphanumeric digits, which she says out loud.
“Fowler, are they at the truck yet?”
“Yeah, and we talked them through hooking the keypad up.”
Lori reads out the digits as bullets splinter the door to the conference room. Boudreaux and Jeremiah return fire. The rest drop to the floor. Fowler yells the last few numbers and letters into the phone as the rest cover their ears.
Lori’s done everything she can.
Now she can die.
56
ERIC
The guy in Cushing’s doesn’t get it. Yes, it’s loud. And sixteen digits and letters is a long code. But with two minutes and change until detonation, you’d think a guy standing over a nuclear bomb would step up his game.
Instead, the guy’s asking for the code again to confirm what he’s already written down, which he decided to do rather than just punching it in.
“Slide me the phone,” he yells to Lori. “Guy’s asking for the code again.”
She says something to herself—Eric can’t hear, but he’s sure it’s mostly incoherent cussing—and sends it his way.
It gets hung up on debris just in front of the porous door and table that’s barricading it. He hesitates for two seconds, then crawls to the cell.
Eric’s calf takes a round. He screams in pain but keeps moving, securing the cell before crawling across the floor to the side nearest Lori.
“Okay, I’m giving this to you one more time,” Eric yells into the satphone, “then you’re going to have to put it in and pray it’s right.”
Before he starts, Lori puts herself between Eric and the mayhem, hunching over his head and the phone. She yells at MacLaughlin, who does the same, giving him something that resembles a sound buffer. Eric repeats the numbers and wishes Godspeed to the sheriff’s deputy, who says he’ll stay on the line to report the outcome. The wait will be less than ninety seconds either way.
But before he gets confirmation of the bomb’s neutralization, Boudreaux yells that the room’s been breached.
MacLaughlin and Lori abandon their positions, leaving Eric exposed. MacLaughlin moves toward the door, staying low and close to the wall, holding her knife by her side. Lori crawls the opposite direction and gets to Taggart just before he completes a barrel roll away from the room’s center. After socking him in the face couple of times, Taggart’s body goes limp again. She searches him and pulls an ankle pistol one of the others missed or never searched for.
Hansen has started firing another tactically acquired pistol. He’s not firing many shots, but every time he does, one of the bodies drops through the door. At this point, they’re crawling over each other to get in.
Moore has another knife and has taken up a position similar to MacLaughlin, ready to clean up any garbage the firearms don’t take out.
Eric and the doctor are the only ones without weapons. Dr. Hosseini is in the fetal position in the corner farthest from the shooting. He’s not moving, but Eric doesn’t see any blood. He’s about to crawl over to check the doctor’s status when Reynolds yells.
“I’m out.”
Boudreaux says the same ten seconds later. Hansen’s been diligent, but he only hangs on another five seconds. By this time, the bomb’s either exploded or someone’s on the line screaming with joy, but that’s secondary.
Eric sees three more Guardsmen through the doorway. They’re firing as they charge but nobody’s in their line of sight but Novak and Taggart. As the first steps through, MacLaughlin shanks him in the hamstring, then the neck. The second finds a similar fate at Moore’s hands, though he uses the thigh and throat.
The third doesn’t attempt to cross the doorway, choosing instead to wildly empty his mag into room. Boudreaux cries out and so does Taggart. Eric hears the Guardsman drop his rifle, then start with his pistol. After a few dry clicks, everything goes silent.
Then Eric sees another flashbang bouncing directly to him.
Before he can think himself out of it, Eric grabs the cylinder and shovel-passes it back in the direction it came. Then he curls up and hopes his aim was true.
Eric isn’t sure it worked until he sees MacLaughlin and Moore rush out into the smoke. He can’t hear much, but somehow an electronic voice cuts through the noise. Eric picks up the satphone.
“Repeat, we had no detonation. No detonation. Is anybody there?”
57
JEREMIAH
Fowler’s voice is the first noise that rises above the ringing. Jeremiah can’t make out all the words, but it’s clear the bomb didn’t detonate. Next comes Mac yelling all clear from the doorway.
With that knowledge, the next objective is tending to their wounded.
“Everyone alive?” he yells, keeping his eyes and muzzle facing the door in case they missed one.
Boudreaux—or Big Easy, or whoever he is—answers in the affirmative, adding that he’s been hit in the leg.
“I took one in the calf,” Fowler says. “But I have Payne County calling Osage to send medical units.”
Mac’s hacking turns into a laugh. “Guys, we’re in a hospital.” She walks to Dr. Hosseini. “Are you hurt?”
“I do not believe so,” he says.
“I know you’re shaken up,” she says. “But can you help them?”
“Yes, of course.”
Mac helps the doctor to his feet and Dom joins her. Before they lead Dr. Hosseini and the wounded to the trauma rooms, she calls out for Moore. “All clear out there?”
“All clear.”
Jeremiah peeks outside to satisfy his paranoia, then helps them navigate the bodies. As Dom rounds the corner, Moore comes back in.
“Everyone else good?”
Taggart groans. “Not me. I’m hit.”
Jeremiah walks over. Taggart’s bleeding from his side and likely won’t make it without prompt medical attention.
Oh well. “You can wait until more help gets here.”
Next on Jeremiah’s list is Novak, who’s alert but not talking.
“Where’s that plane going?”
Novak’s eyes dart his way but return to the ceiling a moment later. “What plane?”
Jeremiah punches him in the nose. “That big ugly fat fucker you used to blow up LA. Is it still in Amarillo?”
Novak turns his head away from Jeremiah and spits out blood. “You won’t get shit out of me. I’ll die before talking.”
Jeremiah grabs his face and turns it to him. “That’s pretty tough talk. But I know guys who really would die before giving up intel. They’re loyal to a cause. You’re only loyal to yourself.”
He lets go of Novak’s face and kicks him in the ribs. “Hey Moore, give me that knife.”
After palming the Ka-Bar, Jeremiah drops a knee to Novak’s chest. “Last chance.”
