Divided States, page 5
But in situations like this, you have to trust someone.
Jeremiah motions for her to follow. They move to the back of the building and find a spot that’s not lit up. Their heavy black coats, pants, and combat boots blend into the dark, and her head seems to float behind the condensation from her breath.
“We got cut off, but Robb said he received classified intel last week that there’s an imminent threat of a nuclear attack on the United … on the Allied Nations.”
Mac’s a pro and doesn’t react, but he knows her tells. She chews on the inside of her bottom lip for a few seconds and the cloud around her disembodied face thickens.
“That’s an awful joke to make after what happened tonight.”
Jeremiah looks around, then grabs her by the shoulders and yanks her close. “Look at me,” he says over her protests. “Do I look like I’m fucking around?”
She studies him for a moment. Mac knows his tells, too, but she doesn’t find any.
“What does he want us to do about it?”
He releases her shoulders and shrugs his. “Like I said, someone interrupted us.”
Mac turns her head as Zeus starts singing Mac and Master Chief, sittin’ in a tree.
“Go screw yourself,” she says, then grins and walks toward him like she hadn’t just heard the worst news in their lifetimes.
Jeremiah smiles, too.
He picked well.
* * *
Zeus walks up to Jeremiah with two silver Yetis full of awful break room coffee and hands one to him without conversation. The kid’s high is wearing off, and Jeremiah can tell he’s pissed that Dom and Mac are sleeping and he’s not.
It was an easy decision. Dom needs to be rested if he has to drive a load out of the plant, and the person in charge of comms can’t be dozing off in the middle of a transport.
But Jeremiah empathizes with him. “I appreciate you coming in tonight. I’ve had a hangover hit in the middle of a shift. More times than I’d like to admit.” He takes a sip of the coffee, which is only drinkable when it’s half milk and sugar. “It’s better to stay awake and work through it. Trust me.”
Zeus takes an impossibly long draw of the sludge. “Yeah, right. You coming here drunk. Like I’m going to believe that.”
If you only knew. The divorce—and the events that led to it—gave Jeremiah the excuse he always wanted, and he dove into a bottle of whiskey with no plans to come up for air. He’d been at the edge for as long as he could remember. That first taste of hard lemonade sitting around his uncle’s campfire, then graduating from bitch beer to the real thing at fifteen. Bud heavy at first, but switching to light when he realized he could drink more and still be lean for football. From there, life gave him plenty of reasons to stay drunk during his downtime.
Now, with Lori missing, Jeremiah wishes he’d been more sober. Perhaps they could’ve worked through it.
“Ask Daniels,” Jeremiah says. “First time he caught me with liquor on my breath, he gave me a choice. Come with him to a meeting that night or pack my shit.”
That gets a grin from Zeus. “I’d totally call your bluff if he was here.” His expression changes, as if he just realized it. “Where is he, anyway?”
Though that’s the question of the night, Jeremiah plays it cool. “He took the family on a trip out of town. Down near the border.”
Zeus accepts the answer without pause.
It’s not in Jeremiah’s nature to lie, especially to someone he might fight alongside if shit does hit the fan, but he also can’t put people more on edge. The faces he sees hustling around the campus are already agitated, some bordering on frantic.
In fact, the more he studies them, the more Jeremiah realizes his people are the only ones not scurrying around.
He turns to Zeus. “I’m going for a walk. Turn to the secure frequency.”
Jeremiah’s not familiar with most of the structures at the plant. He knows where to eat, where to work out, and where to run drills and train on new weapons and tech. There was never much of a reason to concern himself with the rest. The cargo is precious, and his team takes the parts wherever they need to go.
He starts walking toward the center of the compound. He’s familiar with the facilities near the entrance, but Jeremiah knows the weapons are handled near the middle. Past that, the research happens in another cluster of buildings about twenty miles due east.
As he nears the edge of familiar territory, many of the workers look like they could be at any industrial workplace. But as he gets farther away from his territory, the dress code changes in subtle ways. The coveralls are not blue, but shades of green and white. Some of the men and women wear rubber gloves.
Two green UTVs sit facing the open space that leads to rows of white domes, which are usually nonthreatening but now look more like intercontinental ballistic missile silos at the ready. Nobody’s guarding the vehicles, so Jeremiah slips into one and takes off, first on a designated path, then cutting across the prairie.
He parks fifty yards away. Jeremiah doesn’t know if he’s allowed to use the UTVs or spy on the goings-on, but his strategy is to get there inconspicuously then act like his presence is routine. As he gets within twenty yards, Jeremiah hears a murmur. Voices. Doors opening and shutting and opening again.
Jeremiah rounds a bend and finds the source, a swarm of plant employees taking off or putting on purple and red hazmat suits as they rush from structure to structure. He’s out of place in his dark uniform but nobody seems to notice until an older guy passes without his hood.
“Help you with something?” he says, sweat streaming down his cheek from silver sideburns despite the January air.
“No, just making my rounds. I was brought in for extra security tonight.”
The man nods. “Glad they at least have the brains to do that.”
It sounds like he’s in the mood to vent, so Jeremiah gives him a reason. “They sure do have y’all scrambling tonight. You usually work night shifts on holidays?”
“Brother, I’ve been here thirty years and we’ve never had an assembly bay this full of overtime workers.”
Someone yells in their direction and the guy hustles away. Jeremiah wanted to ask more questions, but he got the most important piece of information.
Assembly bay.
He and the others aren’t here for added security. They’re here for a transport. But that doesn’t make much sense with only four of them. They’re missing a dozen others.
As he starts mentally tallying who’s not there, Jeremiah realizes who is. Dom to drive the rig, Zeus to shoot anyone who tries to breach it, Mac to call it in, and him to coordinate.
Everyone needed to get a package on the road.
But nobody to escort the truck.
10
LORI
Covert field office, New Orleans, Louisiana
The South
Lori raps on the door, trying to strike a balance between sad and angry. She smooths out her hair and puts on a Mona Lisa smile because starting innocent is key.
When one of them opens the door, she takes a step toward him. He looks defensive until she lowers her gaze slightly, tucking a bit of hair behind her ear. “Are you Tommy, or John?”
She looks back up and his eyes have softened.
“Actually, it’s Thomas.” He nods toward the other one. “He’s Jonathan. But Moore likes to say it the other way because he’s a baseball fan. You know, the surgery.”
Lori grins. “Or the underwear.” Getting them to picture her without clothes is an important step. “He sounds fun to work for. I’ve had bosses like that.”
As Thomas returns the camaraderie, Lori’s mouth goes full Cheshire. She has him.
“I wanted to apologize to you both for earlier. If I’d known you were the good guys, I wouldn’t have fought so hard.”
Thomas reflexively folds his hands together and holds them between his legs. “He told us you’d be squirrely, but you are one tough lady.”
Jonathan jumps in. “I’m sorry I had to hit you like that.”
Lori reaches out and cups his elbow, rubs her thumb on his skin. “I keep in shape. But all that struggling and sweating has worn me out a little. Do you think you could bring me a cup of coffee?”
They look at each other, pigs silently deciding which of them deserves her more. Thomas tells her he’ll be back in a minute. Makes sense. She did punch him in the junk earlier. Lori steps back into the room and Jonathan shuts the door.
The plan’s working so far, but it’s about to get harder. She kneels in front of the couch and reaches underneath, making sure the letter opener is still in the right spot. Satisfied with the placement, she slips off her boots and socks and sits on the end farthest from the entrance.
When Thomas opens the door a minute later, her left arm is draped over the side, a grin inviting him to come sit down beside her. He turns to Jonathan and gives him the gimme-some-privacy head bob, and she hears his bootsteps as Thomas shuts the door.
Good, you arrogant prick.
Before he can offer the drink, she pats the other cushion with her right hand. “Take a load off. You deserve it.”
Thomas obliges and hands her the foam cup, which she places on the floor below her, bending in a way that invites him to look down her shirt.
“So, Thomas, how old are you?”
He adjusts his seat and moves his right arm to the back of the couch. “Twenty-seven, ma’am.”
Lori acts offended and puts a hand to her chest, drawing his eyes there again. “Ma’am,” she says, mimicking his accent. “Just how old do you think I am?”
He looks her up and down, smiling, considering. “Well, my mamma always said it was impolite to talk about a woman’s age.”
The time has come to be more forward, so she leans in. “Well, your mamma raised a very polite young man. And so handsome.”
She hates herself for what’s coming next. But it’ll be worth it.
Lori places her hand on his inner thigh and pulls, opening his legs and scooting herself closer to him. He licks his lips and leans down to kiss her. She lets him get 90 percent of the way, then stops him with an index finger. Thomas looks confused until she bites her lower lip and begins sliding off the couch.
He leans back and interlaces his fingers behind his head. The cocky little shit is going to make her unbutton his jeans and lower them.
Just like she knew he would.
She does it—even manages to maintain a pleasant demeanor in case he sneaks a peek—and gets the jeans just above his ankles. That’s when she reaches under the couch and grips the blade.
Lori wants to do it then. And, if it were one of her knives, she could. But a letter opener isn’t as sharp, and he’s wearing tighty-whities that aren’t so white anymore, so she takes a deep breath and reaches up with her left hand to grab the elastic. Thomas obliges by lifting his butt, allowing her to slide them down to the jeans. He spreads his knees as far apart as he can and slides his butt to the edge of the cushion.
She works the hand back up his leg and Thomas grunts in anticipation. After making sure she has just the right spot on his inner thigh, Lori raises her right hand and plunges it as hard as she can into his femoral artery, twisting and churning the gold-plated steel for a second to ensure maximum damage.
Now comes the hard work.
Thomas pulls both hands down to his bleeding leg and cries out. Lori hopes the walls muffle the sound and his friend’s far enough away, though it only lasts a moment. By the time his hands grab the letter opener-cum-dagger, Lori has already wrapped her legs around his torso and covered his mouth, pinning his arms to his side and muffling his screams as a crimson river of life flows out of him.
Lori squeezes her thighs tight, fighting the pain of her stitches pulling at taut skin. She keeps one hand over his mouth, the other palming the back of his head. He stands and tries to take a step, forgetting about his pants and pathetic undies.
When Thomas falls on top of her, Lori hopes the other twin mistakes it for rough sex. Also problematic is her own leg wound, which has torn open, blood beginning to soak through her jeans. But his movements are getting weaker, his breathing shallower, his blood colder on her exposed lower back. Lori bears the pain for his last moments and, when there is no more fight left in her victim, she rolls over and straddles him.
Lori pushes herself up despite the shaking. She doesn’t have long until the other one comes back, and she needs to be ready. The letter opener is no longer in Thomas’s leg, and Lori turns frantic when she can’t find it.
Calm down. Focus. She scans the floor and sees a sliver of gold in the pool of blood. It’s slick and so is her hand, but his shirt is mostly clean and makes a suitable towel.
If she can get one clean opening, Lori might get out of this hellhole.
She settles into her new post near the door’s hinges. The wait feels excruciating, but when there’s finally a knock on the door, Lori slows her breath, steadies her hand. When Jonathan gets no response, he opens the door and rushes to his comrade’s side with a flurry of murmured curses.
As he hunches over the lifeless body, Lori jumps and lands a clean shot into Jonathan’s neck. Though stunned, the bigger of the boys turns and grabs her arm. She struggles but can’t shake free. Another quiet death was her goal, but that’s not going to happen now, so Lori quits pulling and bull rushes him. They move backward as one, an awkward dance that ends when his legs hit the desk.
Jonathan’s momentum stops on a dime and she times her jump perfectly, sliding across the polished wood on her hip like cops on a cheesy TV show. She’s weak, though, and doesn’t stick the landing, her shoulder crashing into the wall.
She scrambles to her feet and bolts for the door, expecting to get intercepted.
But Lori makes it.
Lori pulls up Moore’s guided tour as she stumbles into the hall and sprints to the closest exit. Lori is nearly at a door marked STAIRS when it flies open and she nearly barrels into a large man with a thick beard.
She changes direction, but Blackbeard moves fast for a big man and swallows her in a tight bear hug. She struggles, but it’s useless. His arms are as large and strong as her legs, but with a few more tattoos. Despite her screams, she hears a man yelling in the stairwell. Blackbeard spins her so they’re facing the entrance.
Though she’s physically and emotionally exhausted, Lori has enough for one more round of kicking and screaming as Robert Fucking Moore walks toward them.
“Looks like you’ve been up to no good,” Moore says, his smooth tone now replaced with a sharp edge.
She sets her jaw but stops struggling. Lori knows she can’t escape Blackbeard’s grip, and if they were going to kill her, they’d have done it by now. After she’s been still for a moment, Blackbeard releases Lori and steps aside.
Moore points to Blackbeard.
“Lori, meet Boudreaux.”
11
ERIC
FAST offices, Cushing, Northeast Province
Republic of Oklahoma
He hates the taste of energy drinks, but nothing else has ever allowed him to stay awake and think clearly. So, like he has since his first overseas post, Eric pours the skinny can’s contents into a tall glass and mixes it with carbonated mineral water and a twist of lemon. He learned the trick from Boudreaux, though he drinks black coffee—with a touch of pharmaceutical enhancement.
Boudreaux should be close to New Orleans, but Eric still has time to scratch an itch.
Who ordered the massacres?
Eric can think of only one person more connected to the kinds of animals capable of carrying out that attack.
Randall Gates.
DDO: Expecting confirmation on RM location soon. Meantime, what intel do you have on NYE attack?
He doesn’t expect Gates to know yet. But if he has a lead, Eric wants to provide support. Their goal from the beginning has been to ensure the relative peace that’s been found on the continent. The mission evolved some over time, but few people know that. This new adversary believes they struck the first blow in a campaign against Eric and Gates.
DCI: Obviously organized by RM.
Gates never liked Moore. He didn’t recommend Moore to replace Eric, and when Gates’s own retirement left another void in the command structure, he again blocked Moore’s career advancement. Moore joined Anderson’s cabinet before the ink on the FSA’s secession documents were dry.
Gates has an axe to grind with Moore, so Eric will need more evidence than Gates’s gut feeling.
Especially since it conflicts with his own.
Moore is an expert tactician and infinitely dangerous when in the wrong hands, but executing civilians is not in his repertoire. The officer he worked beside and trusted to run myriad operations simply wouldn’t give that order. No end could justify those means. Eric is sure Moore would rather leave President Anderson’s administration.
DDO: Proof?
DCI: Will have to discuss later. Shootings have accelerated timetable for MANIFEST. Contact from Firestarter is imminent.
Eric chugs his drink and stands to make another. He and Gates had spent so much time planning the operation that it had become more fantasy than reality, a thought experiment designed to inspire a cure that could never be achieved.
