Here We Stand (Book 1): Infected (Surviving The Evacuation) (2 page)

He raised a hand, waving at the police. They’d been sent on Max’s orders, he was sure. He could imagine the two officers speaking to their control room. There, the duty officer would be standing ramrod straight, awaiting instructions relayed from the White House.

“Go on, Max. Let’s end this now.”

The officers stayed in the car, and he began to feel ridiculous. He gave the cops another wave before walking up the path to his house. Whatever tomorrow would bring, tonight he’d make the most of his freedom. A cold drink, a comfortable chair, and that documentary about how Max had won the election. He enjoyed listening to the pundits with their oh-so-wrong conclusions. His smile froze. The light above the door hadn’t come on.

He’d replaced the bulb… when? It was after the election. Christmas, that was it. When he’d gone looking for a bulb, the stores were all closed. He hadn’t realized it was Christmas Day. He looked up and down the street, but other than the police, he was alone. It was a busted bulb, he told himself. He grabbed the key from his pocket, opened the door, and his heart skipped a beat. The hall lights didn’t come on. That was wrong. Very wrong. He’d rigged it so the wall-light to the left of the door flickered. Anyone entering would glance toward it and so present their face to the camera hidden in the fitting.

“It’s the fuses,” he said, trying to believe it. He stepped inside and flipped the switch. The hall lit up. The polished floor, the ornate mirror, the solitary cabinet; it was all unchanged from when he’d left that morning, yet old instincts told him not to believe it.

Shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, bunching his fists, cocking his head, listening not just for sound but for its absence, he crossed to the cabinet. It had the appearance of a baroque antique, but he’d designed it himself. The ornate curls of the elaborate fretwork had been fashioned to conceal the hidden panel. He slid it back. The compartment inside was empty. The gun was gone.

His mouth went dry. Some part of his dark past had caught up with him. He’d lived a life of aliases, all of which had more enemies than friends. As he inched along the polished floor, memories came back to him of the people he’d been and the names he’d used. Above all the others, there was one that had caused more trouble for more people than any other: Sholto.

His heart beat faster and became all that he could hear. Wanting to get the confrontation over with, he ran into the living room. He spun around, fists raised. There was no one there. He slammed a hand against the light switch. The room lit up. No, there was no one there. No one living.

He recognized the body instantly. It was Imogen Fenster. She was a journalist and, at twenty-six, already ran one of the world’s largest networks of independent reporters. They’d met on the campaign. In her search for an angle that no one else had covered, she’d turned her inquisitive eyes to him. Ostensibly, he was an old friend of the candidate, and most of the press had bought that line. She hadn’t. She’d dug into his past and discovered a few breadcrumbs. Not enough to sink the campaign, but enough to destroy him. He’d had no choice but to tell her about Archangel, Prometheus, and the conspiracy. Without naming names, he’d revealed enough that she’d wanted to look for more. It had been a test. His way of assessing whether she could be the backup plan he’d been seeking. Someone on the outside, in case everything went tragically wrong.

She’d been shot once. The bullet had entered above her right ear. Blood had pooled around her skull, turning her blue-dyed hair a dark, matted brown. It was obvious why she’d been killed. Not killed. Murdered. Here. Tonight. And then he saw what he’d been looking at all along. His gun lay next to the body.

His phone was already in his hand. He swiped the screen, bringing up the keypad. He tapped in a six-digit number and pressed dial. Instead of placing a call, an app opened, one that he’d had specially written. It showed the security cameras inside the house. Half of those streamed static. That was as it should be. Those were the cameras they were meant to find. He scrolled back through the others until he watched Imogen enter the house. She wasn’t alone, but with a man dressed in the government uniform of a dark suit and tie. The man was in his thirties with a boyish face framed under a shock of white hair. Imogen wasn’t a prisoner; she marched into the house with a smile. She stopped in the den. There was enough time for puzzlement to furrow her brow before the white-haired man drew the revolver and fired. She collapsed. The man put the gun on the floor, and left.

The time stamp said it had happened while he, Tom, had been in the residence with the first lady. This wasn’t the time and place to consider the full implication of that. He put the phone away. Precisely who that white-haired man was, Tom didn’t know. He could guess the name of the man he worked for: Farley. Proving it would take time, but he could now rely on the full might of U.S. security services to do that.

There was the sound of an engine outside. Blue and red lights danced through the window. The police. He crossed quickly to the front door and looked out. It was the cruiser that had followed him from the White House.

He’d already turned the latch before he checked himself. He glanced at his phone. Max hadn’t called. The secret service agent was right. If Max wanted him, he didn’t have to call, but nor would he send a couple of uniformed cops. They got out of the car. The officers wore bulletproof vests over their uniforms. It didn’t seem right. The vests had no police markings and seemed bulkier than standard issue equipment.

Of course it wasn’t right. Farley’s agents had discovered and disabled some of the cameras. They would have assumed there were others. The body had been left and the gun dropped, but they hadn’t finished staging the crime scene. A vital element was missing. They couldn’t risk him speaking to a lawyer, or even being seen entering a police station. No, they would kill him here. The police report would state that the two officers responded to the sound of gunfire, forced an entry, and shot him dead. The coroner would be bribed, the time of Imogen’s death faked, witness statements forged, and the whole thing would get forgotten.

The cops were on the path, approaching the house. There was no more time. He had to escape.

He went to the rear of the house, opening the sliding glass doors that led to the garden. He’d prepared for this. If he’d chosen the neighborhood because of the name, he’d selected the house because of its ease of escape. That had been two years ago, and he’d not thought about it in the time since. Mud had drifted up around the loose section of fence. Splinters dug into his hands as he dragged the wood free. He let the panel fall conspicuously on the lawn.

There were no lights on in the neighboring house, and no easily stolen car left in the drive. That was frustrating, but not an insurmountable problem. He pulled out the phone and opened the app that would summon a cab.

He walked quickly, but didn’t run. It would attract too much attention. He’d been pursued often enough to know that you didn’t run until you had to, and he knew he’d have to soon enough.

When they found he’d gone, Farley’s men would call in for orders before they began their pursuit. That gave him time, not much, but more than he needed. He would call Max and send him the video of that man killing Imogen. After that, it would be a long night of questioning and the rest of his life in jail. Perhaps he’d get a presidential pardon. Perhaps.

A car pulled over to the curb fifty feet ahead. His phone chimed. It was the cab. He didn’t relax, but his muscles fractionally unclenched. He’d make the call from the car. Not to Max, since he no longer carried a phone, but to the First Lady, Claire. He’d send the video to her. She would give it to Max, and by the time the cab reached the White House, his innocence would have been proven.

He was level with the cab, reaching for the passenger door when he saw the driver’s reflection in the side mirror. The hair was hidden under a hat, but that face was the same one he’d seen marching Imogen into his home. He took a step back, and another. The driver’s door flew open. The assassin stepped out. Now was the time to run if it wasn’t already too late. He darted down the sidewalk, glanced back, saw the face, the hand, the gun.

As a bullet pocked against concrete, he leaped over an ornamental hedge, rolling across the lawn on the other side. There was another muffled retort. Grass flew a few inches from his hand. The gun was silenced, not that it mattered. A barrage of artillery might bring police uniforms, but he couldn’t trust the people wearing them. He picked himself up and sprinted for the edge of the house. A flowerpot exploded as he ducked out of sight. He heard glass breaking. He didn’t look back. The house lights came on, illuminating the rear garden as he ran across it. There was an indistinct yell that turned to a scream, and was abruptly cut short. He stopped, but there was nothing he could do. He shoulder-charged the fence, knocking it down.

He was in an alley, about five feet wide with a brick wall immediately in front. The next house had a wooden fence. He ran over to it, kicked until a panel came free, and dragged it out of the way. He didn’t cross into the garden. He kept running down the alley until he was hidden behind the bulk of a white oak. He waited, watching. The assassin bounded into the alley, but barely paused before running to the gap Tom had kicked in the fencing. The white-haired man disappeared through it.

When he was sure the man wasn’t coming out, Tom doubled back on himself, running soft-footed down the alley. The alley led to a road. The road to a park.

He stopped and took out the phone. It was broken. He cursed. On the other hand, the white-haired man
had
been in the cab, he’d probably been tracking the phone. He dropped it on the ground.

What he had to do was obvious. He had to get online, retrieve a copy of that video, and get it to Max. He began walking. It was many years since he’d been on the run, but old habits came back to him. He picked up his pace, determined that the conspiracy had claimed its last victims.

Chapter 1 - Outbreak

February 20
th
- Lower Manhattan, New York

Tom hesitated with his hand over the keyboard. For the umpteenth time, he searched for an alternative. He knew there wasn’t one, but from the moment the call was made, there truly would be no turning back. It was a month since the inauguration, and his pursuers were closing in. At best, they were only hours away.

After he’d fled from his house, it had taken nearly twelve hours before he’d found a phone, downloaded the video of Imogen’s murder from the cloud, and sent it to the First Lady. It had been eleven hours too many. When he’d followed the message with a call, it hadn’t been Claire who’d answered but some anonymous agent from an unknown agency. He’d called the White House. Max wouldn’t take his call. Instead, he’d spoken to Chuck Addison, the chief of staff, and been told that his video he’d sent was a fake. Apparently, they’d already seen other footage that showed Tom firing the fatal shot. That recording had been taken from
his
house, from his
very own
security system. Before he’d been able to protest his innocence, Addison had continued listing the evidence against him. It included a computer that contained files implicating him in the bombings in Carson City, Richmond, and Tulsa. That computer had been recovered from the car he’d left in the White House residence. According to an unsent email on Imogen’s phone, she’d been investigating Tom since the campaign, suspecting him of being the one behind a conspiracy to undermine the government.

He’d been stitched up, sent down the river, and thrown over the side of the boat before he’d realized they were on to him. Not only had they discovered his plans, they’d concocted a way of neutralizing him without his ever noticing. Paranoia had him checking and re-checking every communication he’d ever sent and every channel he’d used. His systems hadn’t been compromised, but it was his increasing reliance on technology that had been his downfall.

Max had appointed Farley as secretary of state one week after the election. That had been a signal to the cabal that Tom hadn’t revealed what he’d learned about the conspiracy. It had been no great leap for the conspirators to realize that he was waiting until after the inauguration. They’d acted first. The bombings had been planned to distract the president long enough for Imogen to be lured to Tom’s house, be murdered, and for the evidence to be planted. Even if Tom had confessed everything to Max on January 20
th
, it wouldn’t have mattered. Any suspicions against Farley would have been shrugged off when the evidence against Tom was discovered. It was clever in a very old-fashioned, low-tech way, and he should have expected it.

He’d been on the run for the last month, alone, and cut off from most of his resources. Most, but not all. There was one way left in which he could get word to Max, but words weren’t going to be enough. To him, the planted evidence was proof that the cabal was behind the bombings, but it had damned him in Max’s eyes. He’d tried to come up with an alternative plan, but he’d run out of time.

Large pieces of the conspiracy were still hidden from him, but the cabal had moved their plans forward. Tom had done the same. Everything now rested on this last, desperate throw of the dice. The world would be saved, or it would be in ruins before the year was out.

Still, he hesitated.

Later today, he would leave America. There was a chance they might never find him. If he continued, he would be hunted by the intelligence services of every nation on the planet. That fear was replaced with a memory of his dead parents and the infant brother stolen from him. He pressed enter. The VOIP software placed the call. He tapped a button so the conversation would be recorded. The phone rang. Once. Twice.

“This is the White House,” a woman said. “How may I direct your call?”

“Charles Addison, please,” Tom said.

“And who’s calling?”

“Lionel Kendrick,” Tom said, naming one of the campaign’s major donors.

There was a click, a pause, and Tom waited for the call to be picked up.

“Office of the chief of staff. How can I help you, Mr Kendrick?” a young man said.

It was now or never.

“Hello? Mr Kendrick?” the aide prompted.

“This is Tom Clemens. I need to speak to Chuck,” Tom said.

There was a short intake of breath, followed by a stuttering, “I… I…”

“I’m going to stay on the line for thirty seconds,” Tom said. “After that, I’ll hang up. He’ll want to take this call.”

“Please, um… please hold.”

Tom clicked a button on the tablet. A timer began counting down. On the laptop, he brought up a window split into four boxes. Each showed the view from a different camera: a section of road; the entrance to an apartment; a hallway with a door at the end; the inside of a room. Other than a couple pushing matching baby-strollers along the sidewalk, there was nothing to see on the screen. Not yet.

“Tom?” Addison’s voice sounded weary, edged with skepticism.

“Hi, Chuck. It’s really me.”

There was silence followed by a slow intake of breath. “Why are you calling?”

“I need to speak to Max,” Tom said.

“He’s not going to talk to you, Tom. He can’t. You know that. The president can’t get involved in a case of domestic terrorism.”

“I was set up, Chuck. I sent you the evidence.”

“And I got it. I saw it. I’m not sure what it proves. You fled the scene of a murder, Tom. In your own house! What do you think that looks like? We have the maps of where those bombs went off, and the emails you sent, and the information that journalist collected on you. Whoever your accomplices are—”

“Chuck, do you think I’m a murderer? You know me.”

“I don’t know, Tom. I don’t think I know you at all. I do know that Tom isn’t your name.”

Tom winced. He’d been wondering how much Farley and the rest of the cabal had learned, and how much they’d share. It didn’t matter. Not now. He glanced at the tablet, making sure it was recording. Of course it was, but after a month of looking over his shoulder, paranoia had truly taken hold.

“If you won’t let me speak to Max,” Tom said, “I need you to give him a message.”

“Turn yourself in, Tom. Maybe you can… speak to him when you’re in custody.” From the stilted sentences, Tom guessed someone else was in the room. It would be one of those anonymous suits, gesturing for Chuck to keep talking, while they awaited confirmation that the call had been traced. Did that agent work for Farley, or not?

“It’s not going to happen,” Tom said. “Not yet.”

“Where are you, Tom?” Addison asked.

“A non-extradition country.”

“No, I don’t think so. You’re close, aren’t you?”

Tom glanced at the timer. It had been long enough. “Tell Max this is about Prometheus and Archangel,” he said. “There are people in his administration who’ve spent decades plotting to bring about their own vision for global domination. The bombings were part of it; so was killing that journalist and framing me for murder. There are plenty more deaths I can lay at their door and—”

“Conspiracy theories, Tom. You’re losing it. You know how many calls like this we get every day? We’ve had twenty this morning warning us of shadowy forces wanting to create a new world order. Seriously, you’re losing it. You need—”

But it was Tom’s turn to interrupt. “I’ll call back tomorrow. Pass the message on.”

He hung up.

The call had gone as he’d expected. He’d never dreamed that he’d actually be put through to Max. Speaking to Charles Addison was the second best thing. Like the VP, Max had known Chuck since high school, and Tom knew he could be trusted. The call’s purpose was to lay the groundwork for what was going to happen next.

He picked up the tablet, plugged it into the sat-phone, brought up a window, and entered a password. A dialogue box came up. There was no written prompt. He’d not bothered putting one in, just a simple yes or no option. Before any more doubts could beset him, he pressed yes. It was done. There really was no turning back. Not now, not ever.

Then doubt returned, not that what he’d done was right, but that it hadn’t worked. The tablet buzzed, alerting him to a new email. It was the one he’d sent. His receipt confirmed that it had gone to all ten thousand accounts on the list. Some were in America. Others were spread throughout the world, in nations considered both allies and foes. There were military commanders on that list, diplomats, politicians, scientists, and journalists. The content was short and simple: a statement of the conspirators’ plans with a few facts that would pique the recipients’ professional curiosity. Not all would open the email, and fewer would believe it. Like Addison had said, conspiracy theories were commonplace, but hopefully enough would read it for questions to be asked. Tom’s plan depended on getting a copy of the answers. To that end, he’d had a busy month.

He’d gained access to Farley’s email accounts during the campaign. The man was a creature of habit. For a former spy, those habits were bad. He changed his passwords once a week, always on Sundays, and always from the computer in his home office. A small camera hidden behind the Revolution-era musket hanging on the wall recorded his every keystroke. Unfortunately, there had been nothing incriminating in any of those accounts since the man’s bid for the nomination had imploded. That was why Tom had come to New York. The email he’d sent should have diplomats talking, arguing, and threatening one another. Where was the greatest concentration of international politicians? The U.N.

Tom drummed his fingers on the desk, his eyes glued to the camera feeds. He was growing impatient, but he couldn’t rush, not now. Everything had been planned to the last detail and timed to the last second. He’d created a web in which he’d catch all the conspirators. Should any of the strands break, and he failed, a new era of darkness would be ushered onto the world. What if he didn’t get proof? What if no one talked, at least not in places to which he’d gained access? What if the email was ignored as the product of a fantasist? What if—

In the window on the laptop, a car drove into view. The time for doubting introspection was past. Red and blue lights flashed behind the grille, but there were no markings on the vehicle. Out of it jumped four men, all wearing black tactical gear, with bulletproof vests marked FBI. So far, so unsurprising. They didn’t enter the building. Instead, they lingered on the curb, waving pedestrians away.

“What are you waiting for?”

The answer came ten seconds later when another SUV pulled up. The figure who got out wasn’t wearing black, but a blue suit and brown overcoat. The clothes screamed detective even without the badge hanging from a chain around the man’s neck. Tom played around with the camera’s controls, enlarging the image until he was certain that it was a New York detective’s badge. He knew it was a fake. The face underneath that shock of white hair had haunted his dreams for the last month.

The man’s name was Powell. At least, that was the name he’d given the police in Maryland. His cover was good, but Tom had created enough false identities that he could spot a fake. In Maryland, after Powell had opened fire on Tom, and Tom had fled, the police had arrived on the scene. The
real
police. The white-haired man had presented credentials identifying himself as Agent Powell of Homeland Security and explained he was on a matter of classified national interest. Powell was the cabal’s hatchet man.

On the camera feed, he watched the armed group enter the building. Tom picked up the sat-phone, unplugged the tablet, and placed both in his pockets.

The armed group had reached the door of the apartment. Tom brought up a command line prompt, tapped in a few lines of code, and paused. He watched the group take a collective look at Powell. The man held up a hand, signaling they should wait. Powell held a hand to his ear. A puzzled expression crept across his face. He took out a phone. Odd. Tom wished he’d installed microphones along with the cameras. He could try to trace the call later. Powell hung up and motioned agitatedly with his hands. The group broke into the apartment. Tom turned his eyes to the final screen and smiled as he watched the men storm an empty room.

He took a moment to enjoy their confusion. The call to the White House had been routed through an empty apartment, six blocks from the partially constructed office building he was now in. He tapped the keyboard. The laptop’s screen went blank as almost all the contents were erased. He grabbed the hard hat and the paint-splattered rucksack and made his way to the bare concrete stairwell.

So far, everything was going to plan. Powell’s presence in New York was a surprise, but it wouldn’t be a problem. Within the hour, they’d have found the construction site and the laptop. It would take them at least a day to recover the files. Those would lead them to Mexico City, by which time Tom would be on a fishing trawler, out on the Atlantic.

The street-level traffic was more frenetic than usual, even for downtown New York. Bumpers ground into one another as cars shunted back and forth, trying to break free of inescapable gridlock. The sidewalk wasn’t much better. People barged along with their eyes fixed to their phones, or ran blindly, barely pausing to curse as they ran into one another.

There was no choice but to let the crowd carry him along. He waited until he was a block from the construction site before he pulled out the sat-phone and dialed a number he’d memorized long ago.