The Anonymous Signal

44

“Look, you need to understand. This comes from way up — from Sergei. We need those users in China. If we don’t expand into those markets, we’re going to end up on the wrong side of history in tech.”

The bald suit behind the desk looked down at his desk as he spoke. Across from him, a dark-haired man with smart glasses stared forward with intense eyes. His fingers drummed on the arm rests of the chair.

“Wrong side of history? What the fuck is ‘Don’t be evil’ then? We censor and keep information from people? Information should be free for everyone! You know, even the Chinese! I thought that’s what this company was about!”

“We have to make compromises. Find the right balance.”

The young man stood up, his voice seemingly focused on the conversation, but his fingers on a smartphone and tapping furiously. He began to pace the small office space.

“And what about the backdoors to NSA and others?”

The superior finally did look at the younger man. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. I’ve got enough access to source that I can recognize a backdoor when I meet it. Fucking sloppy code too, if you asked me. Some Russian mobster is going to rape you up the ass for it someday if you don’t clean it up.”

“I think you’re definitely poking around in places you don’t need to be,” he said, swiveling around in his chair to fully face the young man.

The pacing continued. “Oh, look at that. Suddenly we’re all serious like. Well, I’m into free information. Nothing is off limits.”

“Then you’re going to have to find yourself another job. I don’t know why we tolerated you as long as we did.”

“Because I can code circles around anyone here.”

“No one is irreplaceable.”

His step uninterrupted, the youth laughed. “Oh, a threat. From the internet’s biggest, baddest company.”

“You should take that seriously. We can make you. Or break you. Don’t fuck with us or you’ll never work in the valley again.”

Finally the pacing stopped and the man stood over the desk, facing his superior. “Make me? What, move up the ladder? To what? Chief of sucking China’s dick? You dumb ass, I can make more money hacking clueless banks than you pay me here. I thought maybe there was something good in the corporate cesspool. Man, you guys have let me down.”

The man behind the desk looked stunned. “There will be no more talk of illegal activity in my office.”

“‘Cause the NSA is on the line, you mean. How much of your soul did you sell for this shit?” He laughed and shook his head. “Let’s get this straight. You're actually upset about me tapping the evaporation off these big companies while you prostitute yourselves to a dictatorship? Keeping information from its own people? Allowing our government to spy on its own citizens? Okay, this place is actually seriously evil. God, I didn't see it. I didn't want to see it. I mean, what’s left? I can be a legal criminal here or a black hat out there? This whole tech industry is in deep with the devil.” He threw a chair across the room. “Fuck you! And fuck the slave masters. The entire system’s corrupt.”

The bald man stood up behind his desk and pointed to the door of his office. “Get out of here. You’re fired! No, as of today, I can promise you, you’re finished in this industry.”

The youth laughed again. “You fucking moron. I’m just getting started.”

45

Sara Houston stared through the window of the helicopter at Washington, D.C. The familiar landmarks were gone. The bejeweled arteries of transportation dark, the lights extinguished by a city-wide black out. Along with the loss of the grid, the monuments vanished as the spotlights winked out — the Capitol, the Lincoln Memorial, the pillar of the Washington Monument. Gone.

But there was light — orange, glowing in a primitive anger rising from the ground. Fires.

The pilot’s voice rang in her headphones.

“I’m going to put you down as close to 1600 as I can. I’m broadcasting on all frequencies — if anyone is listening we’ve got the codes to prove we’re friendlies.”

“Maybe they’re shooting first and asking for ID later,” mumbled Lopez beside her, his words barely discernible in the thunder of the blades above them.

“Might be,” said the former Blackhawk pilot. “But the rest of the city is chaos. The food riots from the lockdown last week exploded earlier tonight when the power cut. It’s like something out of a zombie flick. You’ll never make it through the streets.”

Houston shouted over the noise, “The President is still there? Are we sure?”

“As of twenty ago, yes. They’ve had a marine contingent keeping the mobs at bay.”

“Why hasn’t she been evac’ed?” asked Lopez.

“Got me. Word was filtering through that they were going to. They were flying missions in. Marine One should have choppered her out, but something happened.”

Lopez looked at Houston and mouthed, “The Worm.” She nodded staring back down to the patches of red and orange flickering below.

The pilot continued. “But I don’t know why they haven’t been able to get a military mission in there. Someone must be running interference.”

Houston gasped, pointing vigorously below. “Maybe those?”

Lopez and the pilot glanced downward. Over the dark city, underneath and in front of them, structured like a migrating flock, small objects reflecting the moonlight sped along their vector. The outlines of the White House could be made out, approaching quickly, the building still illuminated by emergency power. The objects raced straight for it.

“Look!” cried Lopez. “The ones in the back — they’re carrying people.”

“Drones,” said Houston. “They’re dropping in a hit squad. Can you outrun them?”

The pilot shook his head. “We’re too close. This old shit heap you forced me to fly can’t compete with the new birds. It’s too slow.”

“Gun it!” she yelled, releasing her safety harness and grabbing a machine gun from the back. “Just gun it. Bring us into firing range.”

The pilot accelerated sickeningly. Houston was nearly thrown against the back of the cabin. Lopez leapt up and steadied her, pulling her forward beside him near the side door. They mounted one of the weapons on a makeshift turret, Lopez slinging the other weapon against him.

The helicopter darted forward, closing the gap between it and the flock of drones. They approached the back rows, human forms dangling from the larger machines, a strike team of nearly ten black shapes descending with the flock toward the growing form of the President’s house.

Houston slung the door open. “Keep it steady!”

They fired. At their distance accuracy was poor, but they compensated with a full spray of bullets. Houston worked the larger, mounted gun, the ordnance dramatically blowing apart machines and men. Between them, they managed take down more than half the team before the killers realized their peril. The rest dove straight to the ground and out of range.

The remaining drones ignored the helicopter and accelerated downward. Houston and Lopez fired maniacally at them, but only managed to down a handful more. The remaining plunged like kamikazes toward the White House.

“Aerial strike!” said the pilot.

Around the property, explosions erupted. The fireballs lit the drone’s targets — military trucks, fortified gunners, the power generators. The building was plunged into total darkness.

“Setting you two down!” came the pilot’s frantic words.

The chopper dropped like a brick, the lurch in their stomachs only matched by the strength of the crush to the ceiling. They held on for dear life. The aircraft came to a bone-shaking stop as the landing skid struck the grass on the front lawn, hopped, and slammed down again.

“Go!”

They leapt out of the helicopter and crouched, automatic weapons at the ready. The chopper climbed quickly to an altitude the pilot hoped would be safe from the madness below, prepared to return and retrieve them once Houston and Lopez had located the President.

They’d taken no friendly fire on landing, and it was quickly obvious why. Flames raged around them and smoke filled the air. The initial wave of explosive drones had more than neutralized the military defenses, leaving no one to guard of the nation’s First House.

Lopez pointed to the blasted remains of the fence in front of the building. Bodies of rioters were strewn everywhere. It was unclear whether they had been killed by the deceased marines or by the blast that had torn the barrier down. He screamed over the cacophony around them: “The assassins landed back there! They’ll be coming through the front gate.”

Houston nodded, motioning for him to follow. They sprinted forward, and she made a beeline for the blasted remains of a military barricade. Soldiers and their remains littered the makeshift rampart. Houston heaved one off a mounted machine gun, pointing the weapon toward the street.

“They wanted shock and awe,” she said, looking around. “They got it, but we punched a hole in their plan. We can stop them.”

Lopez crouched beside her and removed pieces of a weapon from a backpack. He quickly assembled a rifle and attached a night-vision scope. Placing it on the cement barricade in front of him, he aimed through it.

“They’re here!” he said. “Four. No, five! I can get several before they react.”

“Wait!” said Houston scanning around them. “Let them get through the fence.”

“That’s too close, Sara!” he said. “Less than a hundred feet. Anything could happen!”

“But if some rabbit and come at us from other directions, we might be sitting ducks hunting for York. Draw them in,” she said, pulling out two grenades. “Pick off as many as you can. The others will hunker down for a few seconds before making a run for shelter.”

He nodded. “Throw deep, girl.”

They didn’t have to wait long. In the dancing light of the flames, Houston was soon able to spot the shadows approaching. They were moving swiftly, in a tight formation, cautious yet still seemingly confident of the outcome. Overconfident.

Lopez squeezed the trigger. One of the five arched backward, paused a second frozen, then tipped like a bowling pin to the ground. Before he’d hit the asphalt the man beside him took a shot to the head as well.

The others dropped quickly to the ground. Houston hurled one grenade after another at their location. Her motion drew the attention of the attackers, but she continued to throw, even as shots whizzed by. She’d launched four grenades in quick succession when Lopez tackled her before she could remove more. As they fell, the explosions began.

“Dammit, Francisco!” she screamed over the series of detonations.

He ignored her and aimed the rifle again, staring through the scope. “All five down, you crazy fool!” he said, removing the weapon from the barricade and planting the butt on the ground beside him. He sighed. “What a mess.”

She smiled and grabbed him roughly by the cassock. “No more foreplay. Need to find POTUS.”

They turned to the entrance, preparing to run into the damaged building. A rapid fluttering sound whipped over their heads and two shadows dropped to the ground in front of them, catching them unprepared. They stared into gun barrels.

“Sara, down!”

Automatic fire erupted as they dove for cover. Houston felt two rounds slam into her stomach, the flak jacket absorbing the most dangerous energies. She rolled desperately away and then sprang to her feet, leveling her weapon. She expected to die.

A pair of women stood in front of them, the bodies of the assassins at their feet, smoke trailing upward from their weapons. One was a female Marine, bloodied, and with a fire burning in her eyes. Houston moved her finger off the trigger and raised her gun skyward. She stared at the other figure, an older woman in a dark suit, short gray hair in disarray, a gun in her hands.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned.”

It was the president.

46

“Madam President,” said Houston as she stood up, grass stains and soot plastering her face. “You look like you know your way around a war zone.”

Elaine York scowled and handed the weapon to the marine. “Ms., please. I don’t run a brothel. Your friend’s hurt.”

Houston’s eyes darted across to Lopez. He sat on the ground holding his left arm. “Shit!” She dashed over to him.

“It’s okay, Sara,” he said, seeing her wild eyes. “Just a graze. Not even my gun arm.” Blood soaked his shoulder and dripped through the cuff of his sleeve.

“Dammit, Francisco, you’re too much a linebacker to dodge!” Houston ripped open the fabric of the cassock and revealed an ugly laceration across his upper arm. “Graze or not, you’re going to bleed out if we don’t close this up.”

“Get York out,” said Lopez, glancing up as the president stood over him. “Call the pilot. We’ll deal with it after.”

A pained look in her eye, Houston pulled out a handheld radio. It cracked with static. “Extraction 1. Target is acquired. Retrieve immediately. There are wounded.”

There was a short silence, then: “Roger that. On your position. On the ground in half a minute.”

Houston thrust the handheld to the president who took it with stern eyes. Pulling the dark mask off her head, she ripped it length-wise and wrapped it into a tight mass, pressing it to Lopez’s shoulder wound.

The marine beside the President looked grimly over the field of battle. “Let’s hope to God that’s the last of those fucking deathbots.”

The deep throb of the helicopter blades grew quickly. Lopez stood up as the craft hovered above the building, kicking up debris and nearly blinding them. It set down on the lawn fifty feet from their position. The pilot waved them over franticly.

They ran. There were no more surprise landings. No shots fired or bombs detonated. As Houston slammed the door, the four of them still moving to take seats, the bird rocketed up, the sound of the rushing air muted as the latches sealed. She reached over and pulled a first aid kit from underneath the seat. Within seconds it was open and she was dressing Lopez’s wound.

“I was going to offer some help,” said the marine, eyeing her carefully. “I’m certified as a medic. But it looks like you know what you’re doing.”

Houston didn’t take her attention from Lopez, who grimaced unmoving as she worked the torn flesh. “We’ve had some experience.”

The President spoke. “Okay, so who the hell are you people? I don’t usually jump into moving aircraft with just any pair of armed personnel, but today has been a bit unusual.”

Houston continued working on Lopez’s shoulder. “The pilot will drop you off at Mount Weather. Plans were likely for NAOC or something, but given the buzzing drone armies, I think feet on the ground is the place to be.”

The President furrowed her brow. “You aren’t coming? What’s going on here? Who are you?”

Houston paused a moment and turned her head toward York, expression strained. “We don’t exist, Madam — Ms. — President.”

“Let’s not get cheeky, darling. Out with it. There are no government ciphers to me.”

“We aren’t government. We don’t exist. Friends called us in. But we’re out before the light of day.” Houston returned to treating the bullet wound, hands covered in Lopez’s blood.

York eyed her silently for several seconds. “Friends called you in, huh?” She shook her head. “Damn prescient friends you have and I’m not going to second guess them. Not after what just happened. I assume you’re legit or I’d be dead by now.”

Houston chuckled. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say we’re legit.”

Lopez opened his eyes and fought to smile. “I’m Gabriel,” he hissed between clenched teeth. He twitched his head at Houston. “This is Mary.”

York nodded. “Praise the Lord. Whoever you really are, I’m pleased to meet you.” She shuddered. “I thought we were goners down there. I hope to be able to thank you properly someday. Consider me very intrigued.”

Houston spoke flatly. “Who else is left?”

York closed her eyes and sighed, the fatigue apparent on her face. “A few staff. I hope to God they retreat to the bunker. We were cut off from escape by the explosions. Caved in a good part of the White House. Killed most of the soldiers. Nearly killed us.” She looked to the bruised and bloodied face of the marine. “We’re barely standing up again and it’s gunfire, more explosions, your helicopter in the mix. I thought you were the bad guys until the drones dropped off the last two.” She looked at Lopez. “Saved your life right before we mowed them down. Anyway, I judged you were friendlies. The Vatican look might have helped.”

“I meant, who’s left in the government?”

York’s face hardened. “It’s not good. Confirmed killed are the VP and the most of the leaders of Congress. The cabinet is MIA.” She opened her eyes and stared out at the receding flames below. “Damn. Look at her burn. Should take a photo for my presidential library.” The others stared at her in silence. “Meanwhile, Mount Weather makes a lot of sense. It’s close enough, secured like all hell, puts me in contact with all the governmental emergency systems. Better than airborne right now. Speaking of which, how safe are we?”

The helicopter began to descend. Houston finished taping off Lopez’s shoulder and slumped next to him on the chair, drenched in sweat.

“We’re not Air Force One, Ms. President,” said Houston. “Just another helicopter flying around on doomsday. Who’s to care?”

Lopez steeled himself and sat up as the craft neared the ground. “This is our drop off, Ms. York,” he said with difficulty. “The pilot is in our circle of friends. He’ll get you to the emergency operations center, assuming the little flying demons don’t pick you off.”

“Reassuring,” muttered York.

Lopez smiled. “Oh ye of little faith.”

The helicopter touched down and the pilot called out to them. Houston opened the door and prepared to jump. York grabbed her arm.

“Good luck,” said the president, holding Houston’s eyes in an intense stare.

She returned the gaze. “We’re all going to need a lot of that.”

47

They watched the helicopter disappear into the evening sky. Tall grasses spread over the remains of an abandoned farm and a dilapidated barn rose behind them, the property encircled with trees.

“Let’s get moving, Francisco.”

He nodded and they turned toward the barn, moving as quickly as the former priest’s fatiguing body would allow. There wasn’t a door to secure the building, the remains having fallen off and laying rotted to the side. Much of the ceiling had collapsed as well. The rank smell of rotting wood was overpowering.

In the center of the barn was a jeep, a canvas thrown over the vehicle hastily, barely covering the sides. Houston walked up to the driver’s side and yanked it off, tossing the fabric behind the truck. She helped Lopez remove his backpack and stripped his body armor.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said as he began to protest. “We should be done with commando activity for the night. You need to conserve energy.”

He acquiesced and entered the jeep, stowing the gear in the back. Keys were sitting in the ignition. “Savas has some connections,” said Lopez, staring ahead of them as Houston started the vehicle.

“I don’t think anyone is keeping score on favors right now,” said Houston, gunning the engine and racing out of the structure.

She felt conspicuous with the lights on, the clandestine and dangerous mission still locking her mind into a paranoid state. But it was too dark to drive without them, too dangerous on this poorly kept country road to risk ending their efforts for something so irrational. The jeep leapt and shuddered over holes and mounds in the dirt road. With each impact, Lopez gasped, his face a mask of pain.

Near the rusted gate to the field, Houston pulled the jeep to a stop. She removed a mobile phone from her shirt pocket and switched it on.

“No signal,” she said.

“Location bad?”

“No, this area was supposed to be blanketed, remember?”

“So the towers are dark. What’s even functioning, do you think?”

She shook her head. “Not much. Washington’s completely dark.” She released the belt and turned to the back, digging through one of the packs. She spun back in her seat holding a large handheld device. “At least we have this. Unless the damn worm fried the satellites, it should work.”

She switched on the device and let it power up. Within a minute she had punched in a call and was waiting for a response. A low click sounded as she put it on external speaker.

Savas’ voice burst into the crisp, Virginia air. “Gabriel? Where the hell are you two? What happened? It looks like an invasion in DC!”

“Mary here, John. Gabriel’s close, nursing a blasted shoulder.”

“Jesus! The president?”

“POTUS is secured. En route to the agreed upon location. She’s shook up, but okay. The lady can take care of herself.”

“You should see the footage on the city.”

“We were there, John. It’s worse. Look, I’m heading to the landing strip. We need immediate evac for Gabriel. I’m not going to wander into a local hospital, I hope you’ll understand. He needs stitches. Maybe some blood.”

“Roger that. We’ll get you two back here, however we can. It’ll be a bitch, though. You think the lockdown was serious before? Right now it’s not clear to anyone who’s running the damn country. The Guard is not ready for this. Folks are going to get killed.”

Lopez motioned to Houston for the phone and grabbed it with his good hand.

“John, Gabriel here. Look, we need to regroup. This is moving too fast. You need to circle the wagons and get that crazy idea of yours in motion. Something. Anything. I don’t think there’s much time left.”

“Agreed. Damn! We need to get her out of here to a different location, one where they’ll feel confident to make a move. FBI headquarters is likely not going to encourage them. We’re scouting some places, but it’s hard to imagine how to get around the way things are.”

Houston took the phone back.

“Look, John. We’ll figure that out soon enough. I’m closing this call and beelining to the strip. Please tell me something is waiting for us there and it has airfoils.”

“Fueled and ready. Go. There’s no way to say it right, but thanks to both of you. And I’m sorry. The worst is still coming.”

The line went silent. Houston flung the device into the bag behind her, released the break, and hammered the accelerator. The jeep jumped forward onto the main road, tires screaming as Houston veered sharply right. Within a minute the vehicle was lost from view, red tail lights winking like mad eyes in the dark, leaving the pastoral hills of Virginia to cricket song and the glow of distant fires.

48

A morning glow seeped through the filthy window and spilled onto two naked forms entwined on a bed. The woman lay with her head on the chest of the man, short-cropped hair like a sea-urchin next to his long, black strands. Both rested unmoving, eyes half-lidded. The man spoke.

“You know, Poison, it’s finally hit me.”

The woman frowned, her brow creasing, and sat upright in the bed, small breasts decorating the sculpted ribs of a thin body. She moved her hand down the man’s torso.

“What’s hitting you?”

The man grabbed her hand and sat up as well.

“I’m serious.”

“Yeah, that’s obvious.” She turned away, to stare out the window.

“I finally realized something about us.” Poison didn’t say anything, just watched the growing light. “You want to know what that is?”

“Fuck you, Fawkes,” she said rising from the bed and wrapping a tattered robe around her. “No games.”

“Not a game.” His eyes were intense. Almost wild. “I finally realized that something incredible has happened. Something I never, ever expected. Something that should be impossible for me. Really, man, if you knew. Should just be impossible now.”

“What, dammit?”

“I realize that sometime over the last month I’ve fucking fallen in love with you.”

Her face froze and then a smile crept outward, shyly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s happened once before. But I thought that was it, never again. I’m pretty much all fucked to hell and back, you know. Emotionally retarded and all that. Psych-ward material. But whatever. I’m fucking nuts about you. Suddenly, I don’t care anymore about all that shit, all these damn plans our stupid groups have been putting together. I don’t care. Right now, I realized all I want to do is just take off with you. Disappear. Live in some trailer somewhere and forget the goddamned world.”

She moved toward him with her hand extended, but he stood and turned away from her, slipping tight underpants on, grabbing a t-shirt from the floor.

“It came into focus and explained so much. Why I couldn’t concentrate. Why I was losing motivation.”

Her hand dropped to the side, her smile fading.

“And then I realized what I had to do.”

He turned toward her, the shirt pulled down over his thin frame, yanking on a pair of jeans.

“So what do you have to do?”

He sighed, snapping his fly closed. “It’s over, Poison. I’m leaving and not coming back. It’s been fun.” He held her eyes.

“I don’t understand. Her tone rose, the pitch quavering, her eyes large. “Why?”

“Don’t make it any harder. For either of us. Just let it hurt and die.” He threw things into a duffle bag. “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Then why are you doing it?” she shouted, tears in her eyes.

“Because it is so hard! Because I know! I know that all our feelings, this love and joy and soaring hope and wonder is all a lie!” He looked at her as some despised thing. “Bubbling broth of chemicals in our minds that will lead us astray. That will end in hurt.” He zipped the bag and walked to the door as she stood rooted, turning her head stiffly to follow his motions. “Worse. It’ll wreck my plans, erase my desire to achieve my goals, to impact a lasting change. And why? For love. For limbic lies. I will destroy everything I’ve worked so hard on, only to lie dazed and happy with you under some tree somewhere. Justice demands so much more.”

“Justice?” her face was a mask of confusion.

“It will not be stopped. Not even by you, Poison. I will go, our love will die, and I can finish what I started. I’m sorry for the pain. But it’s just withdrawal. Just your brain missing its biochemical fix. It’ll be over soon.”

With that he stormed out of the room, leaving Poison to sit on the bedside, her eyes red and wet, a snarl on her lips.

MILLER Deposition 4

49

The elevator opened and Savas saw the broad form of Frank Miller filling the space between the doors. The ex-marine’s suit bulged on each side and his shirt strained from the pressure of body armor underneath.

“Suiting up for a rough game, Frank?”

"Time to move," Miller said.

Savas stood beside Cohen and the woman who called herself Poison. No one moved for a moment, the air charged with the potential of what was to come. They were crossing a threshold, setting events into motion that could not be recalled.

"FEDs first," said Poison, grasping a USB disk hanging around her neck like a talisman.

Savas followed as Cohen limped into the car and turned around, watching the hacker intently. Poison continued to face them as Miller pressed a button to hold the doors open.

"It has to be done," said Cohen. "You know that."

Poison nodded, looking sideways around the room as if for an escape. "Yeah, but when it comes to it, leading the prick to the net seems low even for slamming your ex." She looked at them harshly. "Try not to hurt him."

With that she walked into the elevator and turned her back on them as the door closed. Savas felt it better to leave her last request unanswered.

“Gabriel and Mary?” he whispered to Cohen.

“On their way. He’s okay, patched up.”

“Once we’re outbound, I’d like to talk to them.”

Cohen nodded. Miller was silent, and the remaining ride to the basement garage was eerily quiet.

The doors separated to reveal an underground parking lot — gray walls, flickering fluorescents, and row upon row of vehicles blurring into monotony. Standing out dramatically from that background was a black FBI van. It was built for undercover work, devoid of any insignia or lettering, the communications equipment inside visible through the open side door. Only the telltale bulge of the black antenna by the back doors would announce an investigative presence to the trained eye.

Alongside the van was a row of four uniformed SWAT officers. They were fitted in black uniforms and external body armor with weapons at their sides. Poison looked them up and down with a scowl.

“I’m part of the matrix now,” she said bitterly. “Is this all you could get?”

“You think Fawkes will throw worse at us?” asked Miller.

“I don’t know what he might do anymore,” she said. “I hope these Storm Troopers know what the fuck they’re doing. He won’t mind wasting any of them.”

Cohen handed Savas her crutches and faced Poison, her brown hair like a shawl offsetting the angry fire in her eyes. Cohen startled the hacker by reaching up to her shirt collar and straightening it.

“Look, Ms. Ivy—Poison—whatever you want to imagine yourself to be in the matrix. A little appreciation for putting ourselves in harm’s way would do you well. Appreciation for dedication, duty, public good and all that. Inside the suits are human beings, just like you. Try to remember that.”

Poison stepped back from the intensity in Cohen’s glare, but the agent had turned away. Savas tried to rescue the moment.

“We were lucky to find anyone. Fawkes has pressed all the panic buttons. Washington’s on fire and New York might be next. We have what we have. Most importantly, we have you. I just hope Fawkes wants you badly enough to do something stupid.”

Miller motioned to the SWAT personnel. “Poison will go in the van with the team. There shouldn’t be any issues along the way, but if there are, they’ll need a small army to get to her out.”

“Assuming they want me alive,” she said.

“That’s the basis of the entire plan,” said Cohen. “Otherwise, he’ll just drop a drone on you when he gets your position.”

Poison looked terrified.

Miller continued. “The rest of us will follow in the car. I’ve put through all the channels we can for clearance, without revealing exactly what we’re doing of course. Hopefully we’ll make it through the checkpoints without issues. There are a lot of ways to get to Brooklyn. If we’re held up at one bridge or tunnel, we’ll try another. Hopefully we won’t waste too much time.”

Savas nodded. “What this means, of course, is that we’re on our own. No backup. This entire operation would never fly with the brass if they knew what we were trying. It’s too unorthodox, too poorly planned, too risky.”

Poison laughed. “You’re giving me a whole lot of confidence.”

Miller scowled. “You should worry about the warehouse. You’ll be dug in with no place to go there. Like I said, I don’t anticipate any issues in transit today. Fawkes doesn’t know what we’re up to, he won’t know where you are without his GPS device. Angel will leak the location once we’re ready.”

“Unless he knows a lot more than you think he does,” said Poison.

Tires screeched. The group turned toward the sound. From the exit ramp two white vans rushed recklessly into their level and came screaming to a halt. Savas cried out as the doors of the vans swung open and dark shadows leapt out, weapons drawn. Cohen grabbed onto Poison and fell with her to the ground behind a car as the FBI SWAT team faced the oncoming figures.

Miller drew his gun and concealed himself behind the back of the van. Savas rushed forward beside him, pulling out his Glock and crouching. The SWAT team remained exposed, flanking their right.

In the sudden chaos, the sounds of automatic gunfire echoed madly through the underground chamber.

50

The haphazard positioning of the participants insured that the firefight would be quick. The SWAT team was exposed and took the brunt of the initial offensive, unable to find cover. They responded by advancing into the fray and opening fire. Despite their protective gear and powerful weapons, they were outnumbered, and the attackers cut them down mercilessly.

But not without cost. Savas had kept the van between him and the assailants. He swung his gun arm into the line of fire just as the last SWAT man fell in front of them. Multiple bodies of their attackers lay on the asphalt as well, shell casings littering the ground beside him and in front of the vans. Gunshots exploded above his head as Miller fired, and Savas saw a shape fall as it ran, a body striking the concrete only feet from the shelter of parked cars.

His peripheral vision caught other forms dashing for cover on his left and right. A magazine dropped to the ground beside him as Miller reloaded, sliding down the side of the van.

“How many?” Savas asked.

“Four or five more,” Miller panted. “They’re spread across.”

Savas spotted movement behind a blue pickup. He blasted its windshield for effect more than any hope to strike a target.

“Right idea,” Miller said. “But it won’t stop them for long. They’ve got the firepower on us. And still the numbers. How the hell did they know?”

Savas shook his head. “No time for that. Take point.”

Miller swung into position and fired several shots. He ducked back and a barrage of gunfire chased him, blowing out the tires on the far side of the van, the windows exploding. Glass rained down on them.

“So much for an escape,” Savas muttered.

He had turned back toward Cohen. She was propped on one knee and the car, poised with a pistol, head barely over the hood. Poison crawled behind the Crown Vic, terrified. Savas wondered if she could be the target. Was Fawkes there to terminate her?

Harsh words disabused him of the notion.

“Send the girl!” a man’s voice cried. “All we want is the girl!”

Savas saw Cohen shake her head vigorously in the negative. Miller sighed.

“We might bring them down, John,” he said, “but not before we’re bloodied up good.”

“Any ideas?”

“If I had a few minutes, maybe.”

Their assailants wouldn’t give them thirty seconds.

“We’ve got one of your men!” came the voice. “He’s wounded but not dead. Send the girl or we waste him!”

There was a scream and Savas thought he heard the word “name”. A rattled voice could barely be heard.

“Agent Longwell. Special Weapons and Tactics.”

The voice was gasped, in pain, heavy breaths between the words.

Savas dropped to the ground and slightly forward. For a moment he was able to see ahead, the presence of an armed intruder pointing a gun at the slumping body of a SWAT officer, a trail of blood across the floor from where he’d been dragged. He rolled back behind the van just as shots ripped open the asphalt where he’d been. “Hurt bad but still alive,” he said to Miller. “Damn!”

“You got ten seconds!”

“John, whatever you do, don’t negotiate with these killers!” Miller looked furious.

Savas looked back. Cohen had dropped her head, defeated. He had a second to make a decision weighing a man’s life and a possible stop to a world terrorist event. He closed his eyes.

“Frank, take my gun and—”

“I’m coming!”

He opened his eyes and saw Poison standing up behind Cohen. The hacker moved her hands upward and danced around Cohen’s clumsy attempt to grab her, trotting forward awkwardly with arms raised.

“Anyone else move and this pig is dead!” cried the voice.

Savas cursed. The girl had taken things into her own hands. They hadn’t killed her, which ruled her out as a target. It looked like Fawkes had sent a retrieval team to get her out of FBI custody, that he wanted her alive and was willing to invest significant resources into saving her. Dammit! The plan would have worked!

Poison was now just in front of the van, walking slowly, eyes wide and face frozen. She was beyond the team’s reach now, any actions they might take could be countered devastatingly.

“They’ve got her,” Savas said to Miller, hand clenched into a fist.

Miller nodded. “She made the call. Damage control, John. We need to create a distraction.”

“A distraction?” he asked, the truth dawning on him.

“To get Rebecca out,” said Miller grimly. “No way we all walk. Not after those videos. Not after this bloodbath. We need to draw fire and get her the hell out of here. Somebody has to walk away and try to get assets on that van.”

Savas nodded, the implications hitting him like a sledgehammer. “Maybe we can take enough of them down, damage the van. Trap them, slow them down.”

“Good a plan as any,” shrugged Miller.

“But she can barely walk.”

Savas looked back toward Cohen. Her attention was focused on him. He motioned with his eyes to the stairwell, a bright EXIT sign over the door. She followed his gaze and nodded, grabbing the crutches beside her.

They heard a scream and thump. Savas assumed it was Poison being thrown into the van. They had only seconds now.

“Go!” he hissed to Miller, and the two spun toward the attackers, weapons drawn.

They opened fire.

51

Weapons discharge filled the reverberant chamber. It was several seconds before Savas could fully process what was happening. He’d locked on the shapes in front of the white van, the form of Poison glimpsed momentarily within as he took aim. From both sides figures were rushing toward the van in a blur of motion.

But something was wrong. The mass of figures was too large, and the flow of bodies counter to what would be expected of their attackers. Shapes were moving down from the access ramp, black fabric fluttering as they dashed.

They were firing on Fawkes’ team.

“Friendlies!” screamed Miller beside him, his combat vision parsing the chaos more quickly than anyone.

Lopez and Houston. Savas didn’t have time to consider how they had arrived and found their way to the conflict. That would come later.

“Sideways, John,” Miller yelled. “Watch the cross-fire!”

They darted away from the center. The team sent to snatch Poison was caught between a hailstorms of bullets. Lopez and Houston had drawn their attention, wounding several, just as Savas and Miller opened fire. In less than a minute, the firearms were silent. Shell casings tinkled to a stop on the hard surface below. The charred reek of gunpowder burned in their nostrils.

A mass of bodies was scattered around the white vans. Two of the forms jerked helplessly, one screaming in agony. The rest were silent and still. It was over.

“Poison!” cried Cohen. She hobbled on her crutches straight to the van.

Miller and Savas moved cautiously, training their weapons on the bodies below them while Cohen disappeared inside the transport. Lopez and Houston rounded the right side of the vehicle, the former priest’s left arm in a sling, his right clutching a submachine gun. Houston holstered a large Browning.

“Fuck, Savas!” she said, out of breath. “This was supposed to be where we recuperated!”

He frowned at them. “Thanks for saving our asses. Now get topside and check that we aren’t going to get another surprise. Call Angel when you get back and let’s try to figure this out.”

“Francisco can wait it out here,” she said. “Doc isn’t going to be happy with his recent exertions.” She sprinted away and up the ramp, weapon drawn again.

Lopez looked toward the fallen men around them. “I’ll see what’s left here. Go check on our bait.”

Savas nodded and ducked into the vehicle. Inside, Poison cowered at the far end, shaking, wedged into a corner by the back doors with her legs pulled up and her arms around them. Cohen crouched next to her, one hand resting on the hacker’s arm.

“Poison,” Cohen said. There was no response, just a wide-eyed and distant look on her face. “Tabitha.” She turned to Cohen, still not speaking, and Cohen continued gently. “It’s over. We need to get you out of here, now, in case more are on the way.”

“He knew,” Poison whispered, clutching her necklace. She grabbed Cohen’s vest. “How did he know?”

Cohen shook her head. “I don’t know, but we need to move.”

“We aren’t safe anywhere! He’ll know. He’ll follow.” Her eyes were wild. “How could he know?”

Savas’ baritone rumbled from the front of the van. “Maybe I can shed some light on it.” He spun from the front seat to the pair in the back, holding up a smartphone. “Look. GPS app.”

He held the device toward them. On the screen a bright sphere blinked on their position.

“You’re bugged, Poison,” Savas said grimly.

“Bugged?” Poison looked perplexed. Then a light flared in her eyes. She jerked her necklace hard enough to break the clasp, leaving two ribbons dangling from her hand. Inside her palm was the USB stick.

“The drive?” asked Savas.

She laughed bitterly. “My first hack. Backed up. Like a trophy for luck. He knew. The prick! He knew. He must have switched it with a tracking device. Jesus!”

With a wild motion, she flung herself through the van, forcing her way past Savas and outside. The two agents followed her out and watched her fling the device to the ground. She picked up one of the assault rifles beside a dead man and aimed the butt of the gun toward the USB stick.

Cohen extended one of her crutches and stopped her. “We want him to know where we are, remember?”

“You want another bloodbath?” Poison said, indicating the bodies at their feet. “He’ll come again. Can’t you see that?”

“No,” Cohen said. “We’ll shield it, jam it until we arrive at the warehouse.”

Poison nodded. “Yeah. All right.” Her breathing slowed. Her eyes flashed downward. “I still want to smash the damn thing.”

The edges of Cohen’s mouth twitched upward. “I’m sure you do.”

Cohen reached down awkwardly and scooped the stick from the ground, her face momentarily lost in a cascade of brown hair. Houston came jogging around the two vans.

“All clear,” she panted. “The guards at the front are dead and the gate mechanism’s smashed to hell and back. I used the phone there to call for some backup. This building must be ghosted. There hasn’t been any response!”

Savas nodded. “We’re spread so thin across the city that we’re losing function.”

“I also got Angel on the phone. She says she’s got some interesting news.”

Savas turned his head. “What news?”

Houston shrugged. “Something about immune code or something for the virus? I have no idea. I turned the conversation to our little problem down here. She’ll get some reinforcements to us soon. ”

“No need for a medkit, though,” said Lopez, stepping back into their circle. There was blood on his hands. “Too much iron, too many holes. They’re all dead. Your men and those from Fawkes. The last just bled out.”

They all turned to look out over the bodies scattered around them. Savas grimaced at the sight of the downed FBI agents, and the pools of blood clotting underneath them.

“This bastard is building one hell of a body count.”

Cohen held up the USB stick. “Yeah, and he still thinks he holds all the cards. But not this one. Not anymore. We make it go dark, move to the location, and set up. Then we switch it back on. After all this, is there any doubt?”

Houston smiled. “Moth to the flame.”

SAVAS Deposition 5

52

“Well, hi there, Fawkes!”

Angel stared at the computer screen and smiled. Once again buried in the basement of the Javits Federal Building late in the night. Again the mask of Guy Fawkes stared back at her, floating on the screen in front of her.

But this time, the gloating was gone.

“You fucking cunt!”

She laughed. “Don’t you swing that way, Fawkes? Or can I call you Guy? I thought you liked cunts. I know you liked Poison’s cunt. She says you visited all the time.”

“Fuck you!”

“And your pathetic attempt to grab her was as clumsy as your code, which, by the way, my programs are eating through right now. You notice?”

“You think you’re safe behind the firewalls of your NSA overlords, but you aren’t. I can’t reach you right now, but it’s just a matter of time before I’m back in and burn your fucking house down.”

Angel nodded as she typed. “Not before I hunt down every last one of your worms, you mean. Dissect the motherfuckers. I know you’ve been keeping score out there. See that tide rising?”

“You’re interfering in things you don’t understand!”

“Really?” She shook her head. “You going to mansplain the situation to this poor, clueless little cunt?”

“Damn you! You don’t know what I know. The power isn’t where you think it is. It hasn’t been for hundreds of years! I’ve hacked my way to it.”

She put her chin on her hand. “Fawkes, seriously. Is this where you try to tell me how we can rule the galaxy together if I’ll just embrace the dark side?”

The masked face in the video stream turned to the side. A scream sounded over the monitors.

Angel clicked her tongue. “You have major anger management issues.”

The face was back.

“Every nation, every corporation, every standing army is marching to hidden orders. Events — they’re all part of a big game board! Pieces — disposable pieces — moved by the few that really hold the power. We can’t change it from within. We can’t defeat them on their terms!” The face panted. “But they’ve made themselves dependent on the modern information system — and they can’t control it. For the first time in hundreds of years, they’ve made a fatal mistake!”

Angel stared silently for a moment. “You’re really a mental case, aren’t you?”

The scream again. “No! I can show you. Prove it! Your fucking code — it’s threatening everything! You have to listen to me!”

“Listen to you go full tin-foil-hat on me as you try to destroy the world? This crap’s not even up to the bottom suckers of the worst chat room. If you wanted to make a good first impression, you lost the chance big time when you screwed over my servers, when you brought my dad into this!”

“I will bring your shitty code down!”

She was standing now, palms down on the table. The light of the monitor reflected off her scalp and the metal in her face. “And we still got your girl! She’s singing, singing, singing like a fucking bird. Well, really, it’s a bit more like screaming. Honestly, so far — it’s just screaming. But we know we’ll get enough out of her to come after you in the real world.”

The mask hovered in the center of the monitor without speaking. Angel could hear his labored breathing. She twisted the knife.

“I can send you a live feed the next time we go at her. But do you really want to be there when we break her? Might fuck you up good, yeah? Watching what we do to her? Every little thing? Believe me, I can imagine how that’d make you feel.”

His next words were slurred — hissing. “You’re not the only one who can reach out in the real world.”

She laughed again. “You hit us with everything you had and I’m back. It’s worse for you than before. Really, Fawkes, you were an inspiration to write this code! Thank you for that.”

“I will make you hurt for this.”

“Oh, Guy,” she said dismissively, “I’m not scared of you. And neither is my code. Expect it, fucker.”

Lightfoote hit ENTER and sent a video feed through the connection. She watched a mirrored window on her monitor display the content — a young woman strapped to a table, men beating her, blood on her face and pouring from her nose. Poison.

She closed the connection and walled Fawkes out with the NSA module. The monitor went dark. She sat down and leaned back in the chair, disgusted with the lies they were sending him.

“But you made me get dirty, you fuck,” she whispered. “Now, come get her.”

53

For Elaine York, the “SF” was as comforting as it was alarming.

The acronym-smiths of the bureaucracy had called the Mount Weather retreat the High Point Special Facility, HPSF, but the human beings it was designed for had digested that down to something more manageable. High in the Virginia mountains to be sure, it was special in ways only a self-contained, doomsday hideout could be. Replete with self-sustaining environmental processes for waste and water, military grade rations lining underground storage silos to feed hundreds for weeks to months of isolation — its soldiers, weaponry, and communications systems were rivaled only by NORAD. Prime vacation estate for the nation’s leaders when the world went to shit.

And the world was definitely going to shit.

The Colonel—which one was he? She’d lost track in the chaos — droned importantly about the precariousness of their plight.

“Without the logistics software, Madam President, we risk an entire breakdown of the supply chain. Our recommendations are to secure all of the major air, land, and sea routes immediately for governmental use only.”

President York stared outside the reinforced glass window at the color explosion of the surrounding forest. The morning sunrise crested over the mountains and flooded the compound with light. Waves of flaming red and orange, bright yellow and dim browns blurred in her mind with impressionistic artists’ canvases. Patches within the tapestry, like flaking paint in a poorly maintained van Gogh, revealed the skeletal tree branches buttressing the display and hinted at the coming hardness of winter. York knew that this winter would be one of the hardest in memory.

The bald man behind her continued, his ghostly reflection in the glass distracting her. “It’s not just food and fuel anymore. We’re looking at a prolonged deficit in nearly every category needed to maintain defense functionality.”

She now presided over a nation teetering toward dissolution. The major neural networks controlling the modern world were misfiring, clogged with corrupt code like amyloid plaques, rendering the body of the nation as disoriented and confused as an Alzheimer's patient. Beyond the psychological damage of losing most of the modern computer infrastructure — a loss utterly traumatizing to generations now raised on its presence and dependent on the very idea of a world entirely connected, ubiquitously digitized — the very tangible losses of computer regulated transport, manufacturing, scheduling, communications, and medical care had left increasingly large swaths of the country reeling.

“As per NSA analysis, the projections from the last few days, the attacks are intensifying, likely to reach a climax very soon.”

Remember, remember the fifth of November.

It was November fourth, and York dreaded the passage of time like the helpless descent of a sleeper into a nightmare. “What about this anti-worm virus they were talking about?” she asked, turning around momentarily to face the officer.

“There’s too much contradictory data, Ma’am. No one knows where it’s coming from, who’s behind it, if it even is working against the worm. Some are convinced of it, but others aren’t. It might even be a feint by Anonymous to distract us. It is spreading, though. Pretty rapidly.”

“And the drone attacks?”

“Those have tapered off. The worm is a replicating resource, but the drones are finite. Anonymous is running out of them.”

“They seem to have done enough damage. And what of the reports of a lone mastermind — this Fawkes from the FBI data?”

The man shook his head. “Unconfirmed and isolated reports to a single division of FBI. Analysis casts a lot of doubt on the hypothesis.”

“Intel 1, if I’m not mistaken.”

The soldier nodded. “That is correct. But the consensus—”

“They trumped the consensus five years ago. You might remember.” She rubbed her temples. “I wish we had more time to consult with them.”

The lights flickered momentarily, then steadied. York glanced around the ceiling and then back at the Colonel.

“They’re still working out some kinks in the new electrical regulators,” he said.

York shook her head and turned back to the window. “Decades of prep time and what do we do? Repeat the same mistake the world over! The pretty digital magic, all wired up here, the Pentagon, White House! Look at the damn walls! Everything gutted now! 1970s wiring is our salvation! Sophisticated environmental, solar-powered-what-have-you duct-taped to rusted generators. I’m starting to think that when it’s all said and done we’re going to blow it all up and the damned forests out there are going to swallow what’s left of us.”

She tried to focus, but the crushing weight of the crisis and the lack of sleep was breaking down her will.

“It’s not just us,” the Colonel answered. “Every country is struggling with this. Some have it easier: North Korea was so damn paranoid that even the worm is slowed there. And the third world doesn’t have enough of a modern architecture that they’re relatively intact from the direct effects. But the indirect effects are equally crippling, Madam President.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, waving him off. “The world is flat as the pundits like to say. A sneeze in Beijing or Washington gives a cold to the world. You know what it feels like now? Not like a cold, but like that plague Ebola is eating its way through the arteries of civilization! It’s like the world were a giant hive, and now it’s degenerating into thousands of isolated and panicked islands.” She tried again to focus. “Market report?”

“Securities trading restrictions have effectively brought them to a standstill. The viral bidding is completely out of control. Destabilizing. The evaporating monetary base, huge capital movements into and out of banks by the worm — they’ve frozen lending and shut down more and more banks. Liquidity is gone. Commerce has coming to a standstill. The food riots are growing and taking root in some of the most populous regions of the globe. Hell, right here in America.”

“More reports?”

“New York. Chicago. Atlanta.” The Colonel paused. “We’re losing control.”

Remember, remember the fifth of November.

When York didn’t answer, the Colonel coughed. “It is the consensus of the Joint Chiefs and what remains of the military advisement panel that we should implement Directive 51.”

York glanced sharply over her shoulder to glare at the Colonel. The rest of her body followed and she walked deliberately to her desk. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees, the scarred walls of hanging circuits and controllers feeling like violated strips of her own body.

“So it’s come to that.”

The Colonel spoke quickly. “The situation is critical. Standard Constitutional protocols are hampering our ability to respond to this crisis. It’s urgent that we temporarily suspend the government and act under the emergency directive.”

York nodded. “It’s frightening how well prepared the United States government is to abolish the United States government.”

“You would be overseeing all the branches, Madam President. Nothing is abolished. Power is only concentrated.”

“Yes, with the executive. With me, as you note. That is exactly what frightens me.” She sat down behind the desk and sighed. “I know about REX84, Colonel. You remember the Readiness Exercise of 1984? My father served on the Senate panel that authorized and buried it.”

The military man stiffened. “That was an important first step, Ma’am, the first real plan to cover something outside of nuclear war. It was needed! We weren’t ready for every contingency.”

She nodded, her fingertips pressed against each other. “I know. We’d seen it happen to other nations. Well, after REX84, all a president had to do was declare a State of National Emergency and bang! The machine would kick into full gear. Martial law. Military control of state and local governments. Detention of citizens who were scored as national security threats.”

“Simulations were run. It’s the best way to contain such crises. Maybe the only way.”

“But Directive 51 goes one step further, doesn’t it? Bush and Cheney made sure of that. At least with 84 we had a Constitutional structure, a president answerable, in theory anyway, to Congress and the Judiciary. But here comes 51, paying respects to the three branches of government, to separation of powers. But bottom line? The president has unlimited power.” She cough. “At least I won’t be called chancellor. But we don’t kid ourselves, do we, Colonel? Not when survival is on the line.”

Concentration camps. Military rule. Dictatorship.

“Everything’s temporary. Reversible once the crisis is resolved. Meanwhile, we can have some breathing room. We can act without the delays of Congress and the fiscal limitations! The only other option is to invite collapse of this government!”

The man was red-faced. York arched an eyebrow.

“So the analysts predict,” he said, passing his hand over his scalp.

“Here’s a mouthful for you, Colonel: Ermächtigungsgesetz. German for Enabling Act. You heard of it?”

“No.” His face appeared strained.

“Passed by the Nazi-controlled parliament in 1933. They called it the ‘Law to Remedy the Distress of the People and the State.’ My father also taught about it in law school. It suspended constitutional authority and placed absolute power in the hands of the Chancellor, whom you may have heard of.”

“Ma’am, we aren’t Nazi Germany.”

“Neither was Rome, but it was easier for them, too. In hard times just turn over power to a strong leader. Doesn’t usually end well.” She laughed, closing her eyes. “Here we were the last twenty years, repeating the mistakes of the Weimar and serving as a script for George Lucas and Alan Moore. Do I make a better Susan or Palpatine, do you think?”

“This isn’t fantasy. This is serious. Look what’s happening! There’s a lot of concern about how to maintain order and preserve the nation through this catastrophe, Madam President. There are growing and serious divisions in the military.”

Her head cocked to one side. “Is that a threat, Colonel?”

He paled. “No, Madam President, what I mean is—”

She stood up from her desk, gripping its edge. “What you mean is that order — more to the point, loyalty to this office — is being lost. Whether you want to admit it to yourself or not, Colonel, what you’re telling me is that the military no longer has confidence in civilian rule. I see the beginnings of a coup.”

“You misunderstand—”

“Out!” she shouted, walking around the desk. “Go back to your handlers and tell them that they had better not underestimate my support. We’re at a precipice, Colonel, both externally and internally. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to bow to any pressure to burn our Constitution. Go back and tell them that I will ignore Directive 51. Tell them that they need to make their choices, and that those choices will define them for the rest of their lives!”

After a final, panicked stare, the man dashed out of the room. York stood in front of the door, trembling, pressing her fingertips to her temples again.

NORAD. The command structure there was solid, loyal. At least she hoped it still was. The location was even more secure. She would make arrangements to relocate the principle elements of government. But she had to move quickly. They were at a tipping point. The irony. She was as vulnerable here in this doomsday locker as anywhere.

Remember, remember the fifth of November.

The second line of the old song danced rebelliously in her mind.

Gunpowder, treason and plot!

54

The bright light of the sunrise was smothered by thick shutters that plunged the room into complete darkness. In the center of the space was a lone figure in dark robes, a shining Guy Fawkes mask reflecting the artificial light in front of him. The wall-panel of flat-screen monitors displayed multiple locations, scenes dim and sequestered. Figures stared back through the screens, their eyes wary and unsure, weapons and military-issue equipment surrounding them.

“What good is all your money if there ain’t nowhere left to spend it?” came one voice.

The mask spoke. “Have you forgotten the plan? When power is taken from the forces controlling our world, my software will orchestrate a new order. An order where each of you will preside like kings over lands and treasure and people. Kingdoms for kings, if you want. Or whatever you want. There will be no interference. I hold the keys to this new order. Have you become such terrified children at the destruction we have spread that you long for the safe chains of your former lives?”

The groups could be heard talking in a cacophony amongst themselves. The mask waited patiently. Several screens clicked off, the images gone, the fearful opting out of this terrible and all too real multiplayer game. The mask keyed in codes. A few remaining solo drones switched on in their hidden hangars. They were preserved for just this contingency, this betrayal and danger to his efforts. Along with a sortie to finish the game, they were all that was left of a once impressive fleet. Images flashed on the darkened screens, a God’s eye view of a takeoff and flight. The man behind the mask smiled. Once in, never out. They would be dead within minutes.

One by one, the remaining groups committed to the final missions or were similarly dispatched. The final plans were rehashed. Ports and landing strips. More nuclear power plants. Dams and oil rigs. And finally, a team recommissioned to the US electric grid. The mask closed all the connections save this last one.

“You have your new target?” it said.

A bearded man with a green army cap nodded. “I thought your damn worm was going to shut the grid down.”

“It was, but the anti-worm code has substantially weakened our capabilities. I can’t risk failure. The grid must fall and never rise again. America must be plunged into a final night.”

“Some speech you gave,” said the man, an automatic weapon in his hands.

“You are my most trusted allies. We have shared goals from the beginning. We do not hope to live as kings or queens. We know how vile and rotten the system is, how deeply the roots of the octopus dig. There is only one way to burn it out — wither the thing to the core.”

“You like to talk,” laughed the man. “We don’t give a fuck about your politics. For us, it’s just the high! Mutilation. Dissection. Destruction!” There was a loud cry in unison from the group. “You are the Dark Angel, masked man. You’re the power to bring Hell to earth! See you in the flames!”

The figure pressed a button and a screeching recording of death metal thundered in the room. The masked man switched it off and sat silently in the darkness.

The gore-grinders weren’t wrong. If all went according to plan, the nations would eat themselves. The violence would consume all power structures. Modern civilization would be laid waste by the very wires it used to hoist itself.

But it was of course not enough. True anarchy could not be achieved until they had erased the heart of corruption. And only his worm could achieve that. Only by completely liquidating all the modern elements of control could there be true freedom.

It was this very goal that was now in doubt. The FBI woman was tweaked, that was for sure. Only a deeply twisted mind could conceive of such a violent cure for the dying human enterprise. It broke all their laws. It was off leash and could possible turn on healthy systems. It was reckless and wild.

And it was winning. He had not counted on anyone with the talent or audacity to unleash the monsters that she had. She had his respect. He would not turn from the truth of it. Truth was the only thing left. The truth of human corruption. The truth of what needed to be done.

A screen opened revealing a set of black-clad men.

“Are you prepared?”

A man with intense eyes nodded onscreen. “It’s a small unit. There isn’t much left now. But it should be enough. We’ve been watching the building for days via the surveillance drone you spared us. Some boots on the ground, too. We could walk into the place without a problem. They’re decimated.”

“It must be done right. They have proven far more resilient than we imagined.”

“We aren’t taking this lightly after what happened to Bravo team.”

“You’re sure that several members of Intel 1 left the building?”

“Yes. Immediately after our extraction team failed. They sent decoys and used multiple evasive strategies. We didn’t have the manpower to follow everything. We lost them.”

“And Poison?”

“Signal was lost. They could have discovered the device. Or maybe they’re underground too deep. There are mazes of old tunnels on this island. Rumor has it there’s some kind of Fed bunker, too.”

The mask nodded. “One they will need soon. I have other plans for dealing with Poison. Stay on mission. You have the blueprints.”

The man laid out a building plan on a table, pointing to the lower portion of the paper. “Lower basement. These three rooms.”

“Your priorities?” asked the mask.

“Seize the mainframes,” he said, holding up a UBS stick, “and inject this code.”

“And the personnel?”

“We’re to kill them all, especially the bald woman.”

“Then go. There isn’t much time.”

The screen went dark. Fawkes removed the mask and exhaled, his features hidden in the darkness. Everything was coming to its final iteration. His ammunition was nearly spent. Ten years of preparation, weeks of assault on the world, and now the final activation. A signal to be sent to every active computer on the planet, one that would induce a final and unstoppable chaos.

He smiled. He did respect the girl. That’s why when he silenced her, insured her talented hands would not continue to wreak havoc on his plans, he would broadcast the signal from her very machines, thwarting her counter-code and symbolically triumphing over her impressive resistance.

He twirled the mask in his hands.

He was, after all, quite taken with the dramatic.

55

“Attacks on the power grid?” Cohen shouted into the phone as the car sped along the Shore Parkway, the waters of the Lower Bay tinted orange by the rising sun. Savas had engaged the switch boxes, running quiet unless hitting traffic, the red and blue flashing lights beginning to give Cohen a headache. Poison sat in the back of the vehicle with Miller, in silence. Behind them a second Crown Vic with Lopez and Houston followed closely.

“What’s happening?” asked Savas.

“Okay, Angel, hold on. Let me tell John.” She turned toward him and sighed. “Looks like the November fifth theory is right. Angel says all hell is breaking loose and major manufacturing and resource systems are under attack by the worm. The scariest is the power grid. You remember the briefings after 9/11?”

He nodded. “Yeah, craziest situation. What, ten critical power stations stand between us and the Stone Age? Six month black out?”

“Pretty much,” said Cohen. “It was nine of them. Out of fifty thousand. Which ones were classified of course, so no terrorists could get them. Unless—”

“Unless you’ve hacked into every computer on the planet and gotten your paws on the files.”

“Right. It would likely be down by now just from software attacks, but her crazy code seems to be slowing it. Maybe even turning the tide, she says.”

“That’s good, right?” He wove in and out of traffic, switching on the sirens to prompt cars out of their path.

Muffled sounds from the phone mixed with the wailing pitches. “Hold on, Angel. Yes, John, that’s good. And a lot of good news on that front. Angel says she’s working on a new iteration of her immune code, one she thinks will erase the worm once and for all. It can spread anywhere the worm has gone, using the worm to do so, and sterilize any machine that’s infected.”

“In time?”

Cohen shrugged. “She not done with it and Fawkes is putting things in overdrive.” There was more screaming from the phone as Cohen held it away from her ear. “Right! So, the bad news is that she’s convinced there’ll be a physical attack on the power grid, at what she’s calling a weak node.”

“And she knows this how?”

“She’s intercepting more and more information from Fawkes’ data stream, hacking more worm strains. She found blueprints, schematics for an assault strike on the power plant. It’s in Jersey, routes huge amounts of power from the US and Canada.” Angel called out loudly over the phone again. “And like Angel says, it was one of the weak links in the 2003 Northeast blackout. Caused by a software bug at a power plant, she reminds my battered ears.”

“Great,” said Savas, accelerating unconsciously. “They could already be there.”

“And at who knows what other weak nodes across the country,” said Miller from the back.

Savas shook his head. “No. I don’t understand how he built up the resources to do as much as he did, but they’re finite. It’s clear his supply chain is gone. I don’t think he planned to strike every weak grid point with a commando team. He couldn’t. Angel’s code might have just saved the lights.”

The ex-marine shook his head. “Nothing is certain, John.”

“We’ll see. But I do think this is because of Angel. I think he meant for the worm to throw wrenches into all the electrical machinery like the industrial plants. Machinery tearing itself apart, transformers exploding. But now he’s not sure anymore. His code might not be there or at enough locations. So he has to make sure, and the East Coast is the seat of government, finance. He’s sending all his assets to make sure.”

Holding the phone away from her ear again, Cohen nodded. “Angel agrees. She says you need to get Bonnie and Clyde on it.”

“Bonnie and — right. Okay, tell Angel we’ll call her back after we’ve explained things.”

Cohen smiled, closing the phone. “No need. She called them first. They’ve agreed and were waiting for your instructions.” The headlights of the car behind them blinked repeatedly. “I think she just informed them of your consent.”

Savas shook his head. “She’ll be running the damn place soon.”

The car behind pulled right and exited at an approaching turn-off, the black vehicle disappearing behind an overpass. Lopez and Houston were gone.

Poison spoke from the back of the car. “So, wait. Now it’s just us? I’m the bait for your trap and you three are going to face down all his killers?”

Cohen looked back in the review mirror at the frightened woman. “That’s right.”

“Well, fuck! Can’t you call in some cops or army or something?”

Cohen turned around and placed her arm on the chair. “In case you haven’t been paying attention, we’re in a war zone. There isn’t anyone who’s going to hand over troops or police to some obscure FBI division because they have some unsubstantiated theory about a crazed madman and are unilaterally going to test it by playing a dangerous trap-the-terrorist game with his ex-girlfriend.”

Poison simply gawked at her.

Cohen sighed. “We’re betting that he’s about out of muscle, and that most of it is headed to a power plant in Jersey.”

“Betting with our lives,” stressed Poison.

“Well, probably not yours, dear. He’s trying to rescue you from the monsters at the FBI, remember? You’ll be fine as long as some stray bullets don’t find you.” Her tone was impatient. “We’ll be the ones filled with steel.”

“Not if I can help it,” said Savas. “We’re going to set up carefully before we let that beacon out of the box. We’ll make them come to us and take heavy damage. If he’s as weak as we’re hoping, that might be enough.”

“Fawkes might not even come,” said Poison. “Could all be for nothing.”

“He’ll come,” said Savas.

“Why? He didn’t last time. He sent people, but he didn’t come. Why now?”

“Because you’re off site. Because of the last failure he won’t want to repeat. Because it’s almost over: The fifth of November is tomorrow. I don’t think he had much of a plan after that. Besides watching the world burn.”

Savas hammered the accelerator, Coney Island and the New York Aquarium flying past them. The engine howled.

“He’ll come.”

56

The electrical substation was located on the outskirts of Elizabeth, New Jersey. Houston had raced across Staten Island through a surreal apocalyptic landscape. Fires were raging around the ports, and Lopez thought he had seen Blackhawk helicopters launching missiles at boats and opening fire at the docks. Military vehicles from the National Guard were positioned at gateways — toll booths, tunnel and bridge entrances, certain exit ramps — but eerily, all were abandoned. News on their radio confirmed that rioting had spread through the tri-state area as essential functions continued to break down in the public and private sector. Law enforcement was completely overwhelmed.

They had crossed two bridges without incident, and were now speeding past Elizabeth and into a decayed urban wasteland of rusted warehouses and closed factories. The power lines around them were beginning to converge. The substation was near.

Lightfoote’s voice came over the speaker. Houston had wedged her phone inside a cup holder, the conical shape funneling the sound upwards and acting as a small megaphone.

“Power’s still up, so they haven’t hit it yet. Latest military data indicates a contingent of Guardsman are assigned there, maybe ten. The site was on a list to lock down in a national emergency. I don’t know if they made it or are still there, but if so, you have to warn them, prepare them.”

“And how do we do that without getting arrested?” asked Lopez. “They won’t let us get near, and if anyone tries to get our story verified, too many questions will be raised. We’ll be in a cell before nightfall.”

“I don’t know how!” cried Angel, “But we need all the help we can get. We don’t know how large Fawkes’ strike team is.”

“Mother of God,” whispered Lopez. “How many enemies do we have to fight?”

“Look, we’ll improvise,” Houston said. “Meanwhile, you were saying they would hit the transformers?”

“I’ve given myself a crash course in this the last few hours,” said Lightfoote. “Power from several coal and gas plants, and the nuke plant south of you, are funneled through the substation. To handle it, they have these enormous transformers that link up the lines coming in to the lines going out. Match up the power on them. For the size of the loads they’re dealing with here, these are giant things. We’re talking hundreds of tons, tens of thousands of gallons of fuel. This is one of the biggest in the country.”

“Fuel?” asked Lopez. “Why does it need fuel?”

“To run all the coolant systems,” said Lightfoote. “Ever had your outlet or computer heat up?”

“I think this phone is about to explode,” said Houston.

“Well, just imagine this transformer that’s bigger than a house and all the current running through it. Fawkes could take it out just by blowing the cooling units and waiting for the thing to burst into flames.”

“Jesus,” said Houston. “So, big as a house. Lots of big wires going in. We can’t miss it.”

“No, it will be obvious. And, from what I could find out, relatively unsecured. A chain link fence and some concrete barriers to stop suicide trucks.”

“Wait,” said Lopez, shaking his head. “Our electrical grid is dependent on a few of these behemoths and all we’ve done to keep modern civilization running is slap some cheap wire around it?”

“Pretty much, Holy Man,” said Lightfoote. “Lots of congressional hearings after 9/11. Not much done. It’s a sitting duck. If we lose it, it could be the entire Northeast and parts of Canada.”

“That’s unbelievable,” Lopez said.

“They did fortify the transformer in 2015. Says here it’s bullet resistant.”

“Bullet resistant? What, to protect from transformer snipers?”

“In part,” Angel continued. “There have been several incidents of lone wackos shooting at them. One guy caused an explosion that blacked out part of Texas for hours. Anyway, this one has reinforced concrete around it.”

Lopez pointed ahead of the car. “That’s it, Sara. Take that road.”

The substation opened up in front of them. Several football fields in surface area, it looked like something from a dystopian film. Wires sprouted from it like tentacles, only to be contrasted by the harsh steel and Frankenstein-esque electrical devices that neither of them had names for.

The transformer was obvious. Enormous. It dominated the other structures within the compound. Thick, metallic arms erupted above a sloppy concrete girdle around the thing, giving the object the appearance of a colossal robot design project gone terribly wrong. Thick wires connected to the transformer through the ends of the arms to the chaos of wiring overhead that linked the substation to the rest of the grid.

“You found it?” called out Lightfoote.

“Yes,” said Houston flatly.

“And the transformer? You see it?”

“Oh yes,” she said.

“Great!” Lightfoote’s relief was palpable.

“Not so great,” said Lopez as Houston slowed the car in front of the twisted and mangled remains of a chain length fence.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

Two National Guardsman lay by the wrecked gate, their bodies riddle with bullets. The gatehouse windows were shattered and the wood pocked with holes.

Lopez spoke in a rough baritone. “It’s on fire.”

Black smoke poured into the air in front them.

57

“The transformer’s burning?”

Lightfoote’s voice rang out desperately over the phone. Lopez exited the car and stared forward, shielding his eyes from low lying morning sun. Houston shut off the engine, grabbed the phone, and followed.

“I’m not sure,” said Houston. “Lots of fires and smoke. Some around the transformer. But, no, it doesn’t seem hit.”

“Then there’s still time!” cried Lightfoote. “We still have power. You still have a transformer. I need power to get the last code out! Hang up, get in there, and stop them!”

“Yes, ma’am.” Houston closed the phone. “She’s right. There’s still a chance. They haven’t managed to bring it down yet.”

“Could happen any moment,” said Lopez. “We don’t know their numbers or how they’re armed.”

Houston removed her Browning and pulled the mask over her smile. “I’m a lady who loves surprises.” She jogged down the small road from the gate, toward the flames.

Lopez reached inside his vestments and grabbed the submachine gun. His left shoulder was screaming, useless to help him aim his pistol. The submachine gun would blanket his targets and help compensate. He ran forward, chasing Houston.

They passed grassy lawns on both sides of the road. Ahead, rows of wired equipment intersected above them. In the middle of it all lay the concrete slab with the transformer inside. Keeping alongside a row of utility sheds, they remained concealed from anyone around the object. Apparently, the idea had occurred to others. The bodies of three men — not Guardsman — were strewn along the path of the sheds, gunned down while moving toward the transformer. The bodies of several soldiers were across from them, near the far corner of the sheds.

“They must have used the shelter of the sheds for a last stand.”

Houston pressed her back against the cold metal, stepping over the body of one, and peered discretely around the corner.

Her head snapped back and her eyes locked with Lopez. “More dead guards. Looks like grenades.”

“The strike team?”

“They’re there. Alive. Right next to the concrete around the transformer. One had his hands on the wall, fiddling with something. The other seemed to be yelling at him. That’s all I got.”

“Bomb,” Lopez said.

“Likely they’re wiring it up now. From the argument, we can only hope some of the dead bodies were their demolitions experts.”

“Assuming those two are the last.”

She nodded and spun around again, keeping her sights forward for several seconds before whipping back around.

“You think you can get me on top of that shed?”

Lopez frowned. “It’s over fifty yards, Sara. That’s a good shot, even for you.”

“You have better ideas? It’s all open field from here to the transformer. No way to sneak up on them. We could go in blazing and hope for the best, but odds are not good for a clean win. I’ll stabilize on the roof edge. Three shots or less and you owe me a drink.”

Lopez frowned and got on one knee. “Just don’t step on the left shoulder, or you forfeit any winnings. I’ll be ready for a sprint.”

She holstered the weapon and he hoisted her toward the roof. She grabbed the edge, swinging herself over. Lopez couldn’t follow with his bad arm, so he returned to the corner and crouched, weapon readied.

Houston kept low and crawled to the end of the shed overlooking the transformer. She could see the two men facing the concrete wall, oblivious to her actions as they worked on the explosives. She removed her Browning. The edge of the roof rose several inches from the base and she used it to steady her weapon. She sighted the two dark shapes, focusing on the one who seemed to be taking the lead. She calmed, steadied her breathing. His torso fused into an extension of the barrel. She felt the metal tube reach outward towards him, connecting, closing the space between them. She stopped breathing and pulled the trigger.

There was an explosion. The figure before them shuddered, hands jerking outward and away from the bomb. He fell to his knees, then onto his side. She repositioned the gun.

The man next to him froze for an instant and then wheeled in their direction, weapon raised. He scanned a small arc across the sheds, then centered on the roof, and Houston. He dropped to one knee and aimed his gun in her direction.

Two more shots burst in the compound, the sounds reverberating off the concrete and metal, echoing and blending in a dispersing chaos of noise. The man in front of them buckled, but did not fall. He began to turn toward the wall slowly, gait lumbering, face toward the device fixed to the transformer.

A fourth shot rang, a third bullet embedding itself in his torso. This time he fell, his weapon dropped. His legs jerked as he tried vainly to rise. Houston saw the broad form of Lopez race toward the shape.

“Four,” she said, sitting up and scanning around them for hostiles. The place was empty but for the dead and Lopez, who now stood beside the explosive device, waving her over. “Perfectly good glass of whiskey shot to hell.”

58

Houston sprinted across the lot toward the concrete security barrier. Two bodies lay beside the house-sized transformer, unmoving. Lopez had laid out several of their items: firearms, cell phones, and, most crucially, detonators and radio-controllers. He was studying an array of what looked like beige clay blocks taped across the concrete. Detonators and wires ran down from the blocks to a metal box.

"C-4?" Houston said, catching her breath.

"That, or something similar. Twelve blocks."

She examined them closely. “I'm guessing M112—military issue. Uncle Sam needs to keep his shit off the arms markets."

She crouched and examined the wiring. Above her, the huge expanse of two transformer arms cast a long shadow in the early light. The hum of the electricity flowing through the area was almost nauseating. Thick wires like oak limbs sprouted from the arms many tens of feet away.

"Look at this shape," she said, turning back to the molded plastique. "It's going to funnel the blast inward and up. Twelve blocks? Shit, this concrete wall will be turned into a weapon. Those humming arms are coming down, probably the whole thing will take major damage. No way this thing survives. Game over. Power gone."

"No timer, so we don't have to deal with that," said Lopez, eyeing the metallic box.

"Is it trapped?"

He shook his head. "Doesn't seem so. They didn't have time and weren't planning to leave it here long. Set it up, reach safe distance, maybe behind those sheds, radio the signal in to this control box. Boom."

"Should be easy to disarm then.” Houston frowned. "Why does that make me nervous?”

"Because nothing is ever for free."

Houston centered on the far-left block and placed her hand around the blasting cap wires. "Let's make sure and remove the detonators from each."

Lopez mirrored her actions. "Here goes."

They pulled on the wires. Thin metal tubes resembling smoothed hinge bolts came out of the soft material. As the end of the tube was cleared from the explosive, they paused and locked eyes.

“No boom,” she said.

They repeated the process until all the detonators were removed, and tossed the blasting caps onto the ground beside the dead men. Lopez removed a large knife and cut through the thick tape sticking the blocks to the barrier. Soon there was a stack of clay blocks on the ground as well.

“All right,” he said, wiping sweat from his face. “Always exciting. Let’s call this in to Angel. We did our bit to preserve the lights.”

Houston punched her contact number for Lightfoote’s burner cell. She frowned and looked at the phone.

“Zero bars. No signal.”

Lopez looked around. “This place should be blanketed. We had signal when we arrived.”

“Check yours. Maybe this cheap thing’s failing.”

He removed his phone. “Nothing. No signal.”

“Shit.” Houston folded her arms over her chest. “No coincidences. The towers are down. Probably the worm.”

“Or more of these guys,” he said, nodding toward the bodies.

“I doubt it. No way he has an army. This was a strategic target. Too many towers for physical strikes on the cellular system. That’s got to be the worm.”

Lopez nodded. “Maybe it’s just some of the carriers.” He reached down beside the corpses and grabbed two phones.

“Everything’s down. AT&T. Verizon. This guy had T-Mobile.”

Houston scanned the horizon back toward New York City. “Everyone’s cut off now. No voice, no data. I think this will trigger a real panic. After a few hours, it’s going to be mayhem.”

“There’s more here,” said Lopez working on one of the phones. “Messages. All about this raid. Has to be from Fawkes.”

Houston stepped beside him and looked at the screen. “With those kind of details? Fawkes for sure. They were getting sloppy.” She took the other man’s phone and examined it as well.

“Well, tomorrow’s the fifth, right?” said Lopez. “The end of the world as we know it. Security is so pre-apocalypse.”

Houston continued scrolling intensely through the phone’s messages. “Or maybe not. Fuck. Francisco, tell me you don’t recognize this address.”

The former priest stared at the small screen, brow furrowing. “That’s the warehouse in Brooklyn. Where they’re taking Poison. How—”

His eyes widened.

“They know, dammit!” said Houston. “Look at this message. ‘Heading to the site. When finished double back there for backup.’ They’ve known for a while!”

Lopez glanced up toward the car. A line of dark clouds was moving in from the south, promising to bring showers and possibly thunderstorms.

“Savas isn’t setting the trap. Fawkes is.”

“Jesus! No cell phones. We can’t reach them. We have to get over to that warehouse!”

“We took out their strike team. That helps.”

“Judging from the message, he wasn’t counting on them. They’re backup. He’s got others.”

“But what do we do with this mess? Dead men? Bombs?”

Houston stared down at the bodies with disgust. “Leave these assholes to rot.” She began stuffing the plastique inside a bag lying on the ground beside them. “But we take the bomb. Could prove useful.”

59

Lightfoote stared at hundreds of lines of code on her screen. She spoke in a distracted monotone. “All the carriers are down?”

Rideout nodded, tossing his phone on the table next to five others. “I checked them all. He’s nuked the cellular system.”

“Damn,” she said. “Cut off from everyone. Power’s still up so our Dynamic Duo hasn’t let us down. But we need the coast power up or we’ll never get this new worm out there with enough time to spread.”

He grabbed two of the phones and held them up. “You guys want your phones back?”

Across the room three men were arguing animatedly over the scrolling text of a computer screen. They waved him away to continue their heated debate.

Rideout leaned over the computer desk and whispered into Lightfoote’s ear. “I don’t trust those yahoos.”

She smiled, never removing her gaze from the screen. “John does. The older one, anyway. Simon. They have some kind of history. And to be honest, the coders from the NSA are really good. I’d never have gotten this finished in time without them.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” said Rideout. “And are you finished, anyway?”

Her face clouded. “Getting there.” She returned her gaze to the screen and typed furiously.

A stout man, near sixty, ambled over toward them and dropped heavily into a wheeled chair. He looked at Rideout.

“Ah, John-David?”

“Jean-Paul. Just call me JP. And you’re who again?”

“Fred will do,” said Simon, rubbing his eyes. “Angel I do remember. I’m getting too old for this shit.” Lightfoote ignored both of them as Simon continued. “Look, Dietrich at NSA lent us these two programmers. Technically, they’re not under our authority. I’m CIA. You’re FBI. But with our connections, and dangling your project in front of them, they ate it up. But they’re stuck on something now.”

“Can’t keep up?” asked Rideout.

“It’s not a pissing contest, son. It’s the new bit, the code randomizing thing.”

“The mutagenesis,” cut in Angel absentmindedly.

“Whatever you call it.”

She turned to him. “It’s important! It’s key. I call it mutagenesis because the whole thing is based on mimicking biology.”

“Is this going to be a graduate school lecture?” asked Simon, his face weary.

Lightfoote continued. “Look, we have code that hunts and recognizes Fawkes’ worm like a white blood cell. In the body, one thing those cells do is mutate the parts of them that recognize the foreign invader. For some mutants it screws them up. They don’t work anymore. But for a few, the mutations make them better or create variant cells that recognize mutant pathogens. And when you combine that with recognition-based replication, you quickly select for optimized cells, and make lots of them. It’s evolution!”

“I think I’m gonna fail this test, professor,” said Simon.

The two NSA men stood behind him. One interjected. “Yeah, but you know what happens when you get a lot of mutants in a population? You get cancer. Or autoimmunity. Bad changes with the good. Things go south, you know?”

“Sometimes,” admitted Lightfoote.

“And so what are we doing?” continued the man. “Unleashing rogue code, independent of any controls, that’s designed to replicate and mutate? We could lose control over it.”

The other coder chimed in. “We probably will lose control over it.”

Rideout waved his arms animatedly. “Does what is happening now look like an abundance of control? Sounds like you’re scared this thing might actually work, take down the worm. How about we put that fire out first, before it burns everything to the ground? We can worry about Angel’s mutants afterward.”

Simon nodded. “That’s about how I see it. We either fire the new weapon and hope the collateral damage is low, or we watch as that thing out there tears our world apart.” He stared at the two men. “But we need you two on this. Angel’s nearly done but she needs those modules from you. You in?”

They looked at each other. One sighed. “Yeah, I guess so. We have to do something.”

The other nodded. “Okay. But we are literally letting a genie out of the bottle here. Remember that a year from now.”

Lightfoote nodded. “If there still is a digital world left over for this code to haunt, we’ll work on it.”

“How close are you two?” asked Simon.

The men were back at their terminals. One called over. “We’re done. That’s the fight. We built a bomb, we’re just pissing our pants about arming it.”

Simon turned to Lightfoote. “Angel?”

“I’m debugging the mutation code. I don’t have the time to fine-tune it, and that worries me. Too much and it will fuck itself to oblivion. Too little and it won’t adapt fast enough to identify all Fawkes’ worms. But I’m almost there! Then I just need to assemble the modules and fire it out.”

An explosion rocked the building and the lights flickered.

“What the hell?” cried Rideout.

Dust filtered down from the ceiling and the lights completely cut out. Emergency lighting clicked on while the computers continued to hum. Shouts from floors above erupted, followed by gunfire.

“Fawkes,” said Lightfoote, her face grim. “He’s going to shut us down the old fashioned way.”

“Jesus,” mumbled Simon, rising stiffly to his feet.

Rideout unholstered his pistol and checked the magazine. “Thank God you put the servers on generator power. That explosion blew the main lines.”

“But not the hard lines. They’re buried too deep. We still have time!”

More gunfire. More screams above.

“Not much!” cried Rideout. “You two, you’re done, right? So get your asses over here! Move those cabinets to the door — quickly!”

The NSA programmers shoved the two waist-high cabinets, computer paraphernalia spilling out of the poorly closed doors, to block the entry. Rideout overturned a long table, spilling workstations and monitors to the floor.

Lightfoote tossed him a holstered firearm. “Mine. Give it to them.” She returned to the code.

“Spread this out!” said Rideout, waving his arms across the room. He frowned. “Either of you ever fired a weapon?”

Both shook their heads.

“Either of you ever want to fire a weapon?”

One put out his hand. Rideout gave him the black pistol.

“Safety’s in the trigger, so don’t point unless you mean to kill. Got it? Pull the trigger with follow-through, you’ll feel the safety release and then the shot. Slow, steady, pull. No panic. Aim and pull slowly, even if Godzilla comes through.” The NSA coder nodded frantically. “You,” he yelled at the unarmed coder, “grab that large wrench over there. Hide behind the server wall. If the guns fail, beat the shit out of the first person who comes in range.”

Simon braced himself on the wall beside the door, gun pointed at the entrance. “I’ll have the first. They won’t know what hit them.”

Rideout crouched behind the overturned table and motioned the NSA man with the gun over. “They’ll have to get past us to get to Angel, then get around the server farm between the door and her desk. We need to buy her all the time we can. Even if that means our lives, you understand? Her code has to get out!”

The programmer simply stared at him.

“What about the servers?” asked Simon.

Lightfoote called back. “I just need this computer, this one connection to send it out through the NSA back doors. It’s the end game now.”

The door shuddered from a heavy blow. Rideout and the NSA man concealed themselves behind the table, positioning their weapons forward. Heavy objects slammed repeatedly into the door, rattling the metal cabinets. The drumming was offset by the maniacal clacking of Lightfoote’s keys, the two percussions accompanied by the ever present hum of the server farm between them.

The thudding stopped. Dust continued to drift down from the ceiling. The sounds of muted shouts outside could be heard, along with muffled shuffling and scrapes. Several seconds of silence followed. Rideout and Simon aimed their weapons.

Then the door exploded.

60

The pouring rain clattered angrily on the metal roof, the storm winds shaking the thin walls of the warehouse. Daylight faded, dimmed further by the clouds, still just managing to illuminate the interior through the high windows. The air tasted of mildew and rot, chased by a metallic tang. A low rumble shook the long structure, momentarily interrupting conversation within. Two figures stood perched atop a large, moveable platform.

“I can’t reach anyone,” Cohen said, flipping her phone closed with a snap. “Looks like we’ve lost all cellular. We’re blind here.”

Savas nodded, examining the readout on a small control unit. “Not completely blind,” he muttered. “As long as the power holds.”

Cohen limped over to Savas and wrapped an arm over his shoulders. “Frank got the motion sensors up?”

“Yeah,” Savas said, turning toward her. There was another roll of thunder. “We’ll at least get some advance notice.”

“Crunch time, Johnny-boy.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “I’m starting to get a little tired of the world ending around us.”

He kissed her, cupping his hand behind her head. Her breath was warm in the frigid air of the unheated warehouse. A cloud escaped his mouth as he pulled away. “Don’t ever say I didn’t show you an exciting time, girl.”

“Just don’t make me climb any more ladders until this damned leg is healed.”

A shout from across the expanse of the building brought them back to their surroundings. Their eyes caught sight of a figure slamming shut the main door, water dripping from his muscular form. Miller jogged back toward their position, an automatic rifle in one arm.

“Motion detectors mounted and signaling,” he called.

The space within was long abandoned. Decaying, discarded crates the size of trucks littered the floor. The ex-marine dodged back and forth, zig-zagging as he approached. The detritus provided the perfect cover for their needs. Fawkes and his mercenaries would need to expose themselves several times in order to get near.

Savas and Cohen looked down from a raised, metallic platform. Once used by a supervisor directing the traffic in the warehouse during better years, it now served an unintended strategic purpose. They had positioned several crates facing the entrance. Together with the advantage of height, the cover would insure that only an elite commando force of some number would make it through. Whatever they would face, they were sure to do it much hurt.

Miller finished scaling the ladder and dropped heavily onto the platform, water scattering and dripping through the metallic mesh of the platform floor. He scanned the interior of the building and grunted.

“Of course, they could try blasting or cutting their way through any number of weak points in this flimsy structure. But I think that’s giving them too much credit and time to plan. And only if they had the numbers.” He pointed to the main entrance. “My money is on the front door. John and I can take positions on opposite sides of this platform — there and there. Rebecca, we could use your gun, but we can’t trust that hacker. Keep it trained on her the entire time. We’re vulnerable from behind.”

Cohen smiled. “Good plan. I refuse to move this leg again.” She turned behind them, looking down on the bound form of Poison. The hacker glared back. “Sorry about the cuffs.”

“Fuck you Feds. Maybe I should help him kill you.”

Savas crouched down beside her. “We don’t know that you won’t, Poison. Try to see it from our angle. There isn’t much trust going around when it comes to Fawkes and Anonymous.”

“He’s not Anonymous. Not anymore.”

“Who’s to say? He claims he is. He’s sprung several traps on us, tried to kill us. We can’t assume you’re on our side.”

“Why would I be here?”

“Maybe the bait is to hook us.”

She scowled at him but remained silent. At that moment, the monitor on the floor of the platform began to beep. Miller scooped it into his hands, glaring downward.

“They’re here. Barely time to prepare. Ten yards in front of the door. We’ve got seconds.”

Cohen leaned into one of the crutches, holding her firearm pointed at the platform near Poison’s feet. She stared intensely at the other woman. Miller and Savas shook the platform as they rushed to the opposite corners, crouching behind wooden crates and aiming their weapons toward the door.

Miller called to Savas. “If they throw frags, look away until the blast. Then back and focus.”

His anticipation proved correct. The door to the warehouse was slung open, the rusted metal screaming like something dying. Several black shapes outside hurled objects into the warehouse. Savas and Miller turned their heads as the grenades exploded, the sound rivaling the thunder outside. They recovered quickly and reoriented, training their guns on the men rushing inside. And opened fire.

61

The incoming soldiers were dropped quickly, their position impossible to defend. They barely had time to size up their enemy and the layout before rounds from one or both of the FBI men cut them down. Their lack of strategy made it clear they hadn’t expected this sort of resistance.

Four bodies lay within a twenty foot radius of the main door. There was no further motion from outside. The smoke of spent ammunition rose as a fog around the top of the platform. Savas started to rise, but Miller held up his hand.

“Not yet!”

“You think there are more?”

“Maybe this was a feint. Stay low.”

“But Fawkes isn’t there!” hissed Savas.

“We don’t know that. Can’t see their faces.”

“He’s not there,” said Poison, looking down on the corpses. “He’s no Johnny Rambo.”

“Don’t shoot!”

A cry rang across the warehouse.

“That’s Fawkes,” said Poison.

Miller peered over the crate in the failing light. He strapped on a set of night vision goggles and adjusted them.

“I don’t see anything, John. He’s still outside.”

“Fawkes!” cried Savas. “If that’s you, come in with both hands high in the air!”

There was a pause. “No way! You’ll shoot me!”

“Paranoid to the end,” whispered Poison.

“That’s not our plan!” yelled Savas again. “You’re useless dead. We need you to fix this shit!”

Another pause. “Is she there? Poison?”

Savas made to speak again but was cut off by the girl.

“Fuck yeah, you piece of shit! All this is because of you! And you bugged me, you fucktard? Seriously?”

A dark form ambled into the warehouse from the door, his head covered by a hood. His hands raised above him.

“Turn around,” called Savas. Fawkes obeyed. “Now close the door. All the way.”

Fawkes grasped the handle of the sliding door and yanked. At first it didn’t move and he lost his balance. After several hard pulls and better planting his feet, he managed to scrape it across the floor to the staccato bursts of metal on cement. A fifth jerk slammed it shut.

“Now back around with your hands high.” Fawkes complied and Savas stood slowly and turned to Miller. “I’m going to bring him up. He tries anything, end him.”

Cohen turned to Poison as Savas descended. “Will he try something?”

The hacker shook her head. “Are you kidding? He wasn’t even good at first person shooters. Your man’s safe.”

Miller watched tensely as Savas reached the hacker. Fawkes offered no resistance, walking slowly in front of the FBI man. Savas pushed him forward with his gun, and the pair navigated the obstacle course toward the platform. Finally, the Fawkes scaled the ladder as Miller trained his weapon downward. The pair reached the platform without incident.

Poison laughed. “You still have the fucking mask. Seriously.”

Fawkes stood shivering in a wet trench coat, water beading and running along its contours. Contrasting the black of the fabric was a white mask — the goateed, smirking visage that had come to haunt too many of their nightmares.

“Fawkes,” Savas said, stepping forward. “Miller, the extra set of cuffs?”

Miller handed Savas the restraints and he bound Fawkes’ hands behind him.

Fawkes looked to Poison. His voice was heavily muffled. “Looks like they’re still treating you well.”

“So that’s it? That’s all you had left to come rescue me?” The masked man said nothing. “What a sad way to go out, Fawkes.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. They can’t stop things now.”

Cohen kept her weapon at the ready, her eyes on Poison as she spoke. “I wouldn’t count on that, Fawkes. We have a plan to stop you.”

“You mean the little bald girl in the cellar?” The mask laughed. “I have a larger team taking care of her now. That’s over.”

“You son of a bitch,” Miller said, advancing on the man.

Savas held him back with his arm. “It will be hard on you if something happens to them.”

“Gonna be hard on all of us soon, Special Agent. But really it was the only way.”

“Only way to what, you sick bastard!” hissed Miller, a fire in his eyes.

“Can’t tell you or you’d just laugh. But really, it’s for the best. The things you don’t know and can’t believe — well, it’s like a mountain. The lies you live, the truths you hold that really hold you mockingly. Your ideals and systems. All lies. You are slaves to masters that count on your good intentions and low intelligence. There is a world order you don’t understand and can’t perceive.”

Savas looked at Poison. “Is this the genius you mentioned? This nutcase?”

“Low intelligence?” Poison scoffed. “You know, they played you from the start, you dumb ass. And you bought it! You took it all in your little shark mouth and they reeled you in! All those torture videos? Interrogation scripts? They were faked!”

“I know.”

“What do you mean, you know?”

“Players play the players because the play demands it.”

“John—” began Cohen.

“Okay, enough of this crap,” said Savas. “Let’s see what you really look like.”

Cohen furrowed her brows. “John, wait a minute. Something’s not right.”

He ignored her and grasped the bottom of the mask. Looking through the eye-slits, he stared inside. “Anonymous no more, Fawkes.”

He pulled. The mask didn’t move.

“What the hell?”

Reaching around, he yanked the hood back, revealing a head covered in black leather straps. The Guy Fawkes mask was fixed tightly to it, concealing a bulk beneath it.

“Gas mask!” cried Miller.

But it was too late. Fawkes squeezed his shoulder blades together and there was a click, followed by the sound of two metal canisters crashing and ringing on the platform surface.

They exploded.

62

Fred Simon was blown backward and slammed into a wall, dropping to the ground unconscious. Debris flew across the room, smashing into the racks of computers, pocketing the overturned table, and coating everything with a thick layer of dust. Within seconds, several armed men stormed through the hole breached in the doorway, crawling over the pile of rubble from the collapsed wall, trying to get their bearings in an enclosed space choked with smoke.

Gunshots blasted from behind the table and one of the men staggered, grabbing his chest. He fell to the ground. The second began a spray of automatic fire aimed wildly in the direction of the table, but a series of shots by two weapons behind it struck him four, five, and six times. He lurched forward, falling to his knees with a scream, and rolled over on his side moaning.

As two more men burst through the opening a chaos of weapons’ discharge erupted. The NSA man beside Rideout screamed and clutched his face, blood squirting from between his fingers. He rolled on the ground, howling. Rideout slumped behind the table, blood flowing from the right side of his chest, eyes swimming. His gun dropped to the ground with a clank.

Another mercenary had fallen, but two more stepped in to take his place. The invaders advanced slowly, unimpeded. The NSA man with the wrench shook behind the server racks, his pants moist around the crotch. Several feet from him Lightfoote worked like a woman possessed, ignoring the chaos.

The three soldiers stepped forward cautiously, converging on the table and the forms of the bodies behind it. Rideout glanced upward but didn’t move his head, energy evanescing from his body. They looked down on him and the flailing NSA man. Two returned their attention to the rest of the room, hunting for targets. The other fired several shots into the screaming figure. The cries ceased. He turned toward Rideout and aimed.

A series of shots roared from behind them, bullets bursting through the man’s mouth and throat. As Rideout watched him fall, the two beside him spun around, firing at the bloodied shape of Simon. The old CIA man managed to empty his weapon, wounding one in the stomach, even as the assailants killed him. Simon fell against the wall, bullet holes and blood decorating the surface behind him. He slid slowly to the ground, his chest a mass of wounds, his eyes blank. He lay still.

The other NSA man dropped the wrench and walked out, falling to his knees.

“Don’t shoot! I surrender! I’m not part of this group! I’m from the NSA! Please, don’t kill me!” Tears stained his face as he trembled before the soldiers.

“Where’s the girl?” rasped one.

“She’s here. Right behind me! At the terminal!”

The soldier fired into his head, and the programmer fell. The mercenary raced forward, his companion stumbling behind, bent nearly double with his wound soaking his clothes.

The first solider leapt around the stacks of computers and opened fire at the terminal against the wall. The chassis exploded into fragments, the continued discharge blowing it and the monitor to pieces. He ejected the magazine and reached for another.

A pair of feet swung down from the piping above, catching him square in the face. The impact snapped his head back sharply, and his arms and legs went slack before he dropped to the ground.

Lightfoote landed like a cougar, crouched low to absorb the momentum, her arm splayed to the side along the floor. The remaining soldier staggered toward her, movements sluggish and jerky, gunshots blasting wildly from the barrel of his weapon to pock the walls harmlessly.

Bright silver flashed through the air and the soldier’s head snapped to the side as the wrench slammed into his jaw with a heavy crunch of bone. His body continued to the side and toppled over. Both soldiers now unconscious.

Lightfoote leaped beside them and bludgeoned each in the head. Satisfied, she raced beside Rideout, her gaze lingering a moment on the body of Simon across the room. “JP! You there?” She slapped his face.

His eyes struggled to open, a gasp escaping his mouth. “Oh, God, Angel. Shit, this hurts!”

Lightfoote pulled off her shirt, revealing a tight sports bra. She pressed the shirt against the wound, eliciting a scream from Rideout.

She shouted over him. “JP! Listen. Here, this arm works.” She pulled one of his hands to the shirt. “Stay with me! Keep some pressure there. I’m running up to get a medkit. Slow the bleeding!”

He nodded and his arm tensed against his chest. He inhaled sharply. “Angel, wait,” he gasped as she turned to leave.

“What?”

Rideout stared at the blasted computers. Every terminal was destroyed. “The worm?” he managed.

She crouched beside him and kissed him on the cheek. Sweat dripped from her shoulders and arms. His blood glimmered in streaks across her scalp.

“Launched. Gone!” She smiled. “You did good. Now shut up and don’t die on me.”

63

The white vapor had nearly dissipated. The faint aroma of gunpowder and ash mixed with a sickly sweetness still lingering in the air. Hulking shapes breathed resonantly from within gas masks on the platform.

The FBI team was concentrated at one end of the structure, all of them handcuffed, soldiers in masks pointing guns in their direction. The captives were still coughing badly, tears and mucus running from their eyes and noses. Their weapons were in a pile at the feet of their captors.

The mask spoke. “So easy. Don’t you guys ever play chess?”

Poison stood beside Fawkes, a gas mask around her head. She looked down at the FBI team. “What are you going to do with them?”

Fawkes cocked the smirking visage to one side. “Kill them, of course.”

“Please, don’t,” said Poison, eyes large.

“Be grateful you aren’t there with them. I should kill you as well for betraying me. But I don’t have the emotional fortitude. You get to live because of my weakness. But not them. Not after what they’ve done.”

“I told you!” she cried. “It was all fake! They didn’t torture me!”

“Perhaps,” said Fawkes, “or perhaps this is some demented state of Stockholm Syndrome. Did they promise you amnesty? Immunity? Do you think any of that matters now?” The mask studied her coldly.

“No!”

He turned to the FBI team. “Even if it was all a ruse, it was a very painful ruse for me. Until I figured it out, before I realized that it was all too easy, perfectly engineered to elicit an emotional response, get me to put myself in terrible danger — before all that came into focus I really went through the agony of watching her suffer.” He extended his hand and received a gun from one of the soldiers. “And that will not be forgiven.”

“Stop, Fawkes!” cried Poison, moving toward him. A towering soldier grabbed her from behind and lifted her off the ground as she flailed.

Fawkes motioned to the warehouse floor. “Get her out of here. She doesn’t need to see this.”

Screaming, Poison was taken by two guards awkwardly down the ladder. Fawkes and the remaining guard stepped in front of the FBI team. The mask turned to Savas.

“It has been an interesting game, one still with several pieces in play. But here I have the King, and, I suppose, his Queen, even if by abilities I think the real Queen is lying in a pool of blood in a basement in New York City.”

“Just a video game to you, Fawkes?” spat Savas. “Our lives. The nation. The world. Millions, billions of people who will wake up tomorrow back in the Dark Ages. Most of them to die.”

There was a flash of lightning and a loud explosion. A deep rumble followed, shaking their bones.

“Fittingly dramatic. A sign from God do you think?” The masked man laughed. “Live free or die. I think New Hampshire’s motto? One of those tiny states. But a slogan that is central to the value of our short existence.”

He turned the weapon in his hands, removing the magazine, checking the chamber, and reinserting the box.

“Imagine a prison so intricately constructed that the inmates believe themselves free. The slaves cannot see their chains. When you’re one of the few to see through the deceptions to the heart of this darkness, most of the time you go mad, or cynical, or do something stupid and get the forces in control to erase you. That was nearly my fate.”

Cohen leaned against Savas and rested her head on his shoulder. Miller squirmed vainly in his restraints.

“But knowing what I know, it’s clear that the infection must be sterilized. Like cancer, the treatment will be horrific. It may kill the patient. Indeed, humanity may never rise again. And that might just be for the better, you know? Anyway, it won’t be for any of us to see, but for those a thousand years down the road. If any civilization rises from these ashes.” Fawkes motioned to the guard beside him, who stepped forward and raised his weapon. “Sorry for the pain, but it will all be over quickly.”

He raised his weapon and aimed at Savas. “Goodbye.”

There was another bright flash and deafening sound. But this wasn’t the storm.

The platform swayed from the force of a blast, the entire warehouse shuddering violently. Unlike thunder the rumbling was short lived, and debris rained across the interior, pieces of wood and metal thrown as far as the platform surface. The front of the warehouse had been torn apart, crates and other discarded elements shattered and burning. Black smoke filled the room, its turbulent structure illuminated by the raging flames.

Fawkes and the soldier were hurled to the floor of the platform. The soldier’s weapon discharged wildly as he fell, but his impact momentarily stunned him and he lost his grip. The gun skipped toward Miller and the back edge of the platform, plunging into darkness below.

Miller used the chaos and struck outward with a blinding kick, catching the man’s face full on. There was a cracking sound and the man screamed, rolling to his side as blood streamed into his hands.

Fawkes had stumbled forward and smashed into the railing beside Cohen, his mask shattered, jagged white pieces hanging loosely from the gas mask. Cohen grabbed his gun hand and brought it down onto the railing, the impact dislodging the weapon and sending it plummeting out of sight.

Fawkes leapt backward out of the grasping hands of Savas, stumbling into the railing on the other side of the platform. The soldier beside him pulled out a handgun and wiped blood from his broken nose.

“Kill them!” Fawkes cried.

But the soldier didn’t even raise his weapon. Two shots exploded from behind them, and the man’s head erupted in a soup of blood and flesh. His limp body dropped like a stone, shaking the platform.

A woman’s voice called from below. “Don’t twitch, masked-boy, or we’ll liquefy your big brain, too!”

“Houston!” Cohen cried.

Savas closed his eyes in relief.

There was a clattering from the ladder. A soot covered woman sprang upward, a pistol in one hand trained on Fawkes’ slumped form.

“Got you covered from two angles, asshole, so think before you act.” Her eyes darted from the shattered mask in front of her. “You three okay?”

“Yes!” Savas said angrily. “What about the other guards?”

“Killed in the explosion.”

The jigsaw face spun toward her. “And Poison?”

“She’s gone,” said Houston.

Fawkes screamed and lunged at her wildly, his hands a pair of claws aiming for her face. With a pivot, she sidestepped his motion and used her gun arm to bring the butt of the weapon viciously down on the back of his head. He collapsed and didn’t move.

Heavy steps sounded as Lopez awkwardly climbed the ladder with his one good arm. He landed roughly and glanced down at the two bodies. He exhaled slowly and smiled at the FBI team. “Better late than never, right?”

64

Armed men ushered President York down a dimly lit flight of stairs. On each side, soldiers took positions with weapons aimed upward, speaking quietly into headsets. Beside her was a lanky, gray-haired man, his face flushed, a sling around his arm. The group reached the bottom, the claustrophobic stairwell opening on a dank tunnel receding into darkness. Its opening was broad, wide enough for a vehicle to pass through. Water leaked out from it to pool at their feet.

“Madam President,” said one of the soldiers, “this shaft will take you to the helicopter. Sergeants Holmes and Nesic will accompany you.” Two uniformed men stepped beside the president. “We’re going to stay here and blow the tunnel if we have to.”

“And then what?” asked York.

“We’ll hide out. No one knows these emergency tunnels like we do. Everyone made fun of the upkeep. Well, who’s laughing now?”

“Be safe, Captain. And thank you. It’s good to know I have supporters even in the military.”

She grabbed her companion by his good arm and turned to the tunnel. The two other soldiers flanked the civilians and they moved forward, the neon green of glow sticks lighting their way.

“Elaine, how far do you think this is going to go?” asked Tooze.

“The coup?” she asked, pulling out a small handgun. “General Hastings isn’t a halfway kinda guy, George. Unless someone puts a stop to him — and I’m not going to dress up what that means — unless someone either arrests or kills the man, we’re heading for a full-blown military takeover.”

“What will that mean?”

“God only knows,” said York, shaking her head. “Kind of in unknown territory there. A centralized command for sure. Suspension of the Constitution and a streamlined civilian authority headed by military personnel. Either they’ll get the governors on board or they’ll install puppets to run the states — state militias and law enforcement. Once they have the guns under control everything else will fall into place. They’re going to marshal the entire national machinery to their power structure beyond the military — NSA, FBI, banks.”

“It’s really headed toward a dictatorship?”

“It’s a rare military coup that end with a vote.”

They continued walking, their shoes muddied and soaked from the brown sludge coating the bottom of the tunnel. “Until this all gets cleared up — and who knows how long that will take — they’ll want an iron fist to hold the nation together. I see their point. I really do. I just don’t think all of them see how things can go very wrong, very quickly. You walk down some paths and you can’t go back.”

“Do you think Hastings knows?”

Her eyes flashed intensely toward him. “My greatest fear is that he does, indeed. Temporary may be something only those around him believe. He always had a run of the crazy in him.”

The tunnel opened into another cramped chamber, a dull light above revealing a rusted spiral staircase. The walls and metal throbbed from a disturbance above.

“Bird’s here,” said one of the soldiers.

They scaled the steps, Tooze awkward and often requiring assistance as they climbed, his wounded arm useless. The light grew rapidly near the top.

They exited the emergency tunnels through a hole at the corner of a helipad. The blades of a powerful helicopter thundered overhead, kicking dust and forest foliage into their path. The green and beige camouflage of the machine rose like a wall before them.

“Damn, that’s a big one,” gasped Tooze.

A soldier smiled. “Sea Stallion, sir. Big mother. She’s loaded with an armored transport inside for when we drop you two off the mountain. Entrance in the rear.”

The president and the Homeland Security director followed the soldiers around the churning aircraft, heads bowed, hands over their faces to mask the debris. They rushed up a ramp lowered from the back. Several officers and two civilians greeted them inside.

“Ms. President,” said a boyish face in a mud-splattered suit. “Let’s get you strapped in and get the hell out of here.”

York quickly embraced him. “Daniel. So the Secretary of Defense is still with us. With Treasury I think we might just be able to field a government in exile.” She smiled toward a statuesque blond in a badly torn white dress

“Ms. President, please,” said the Treasury Secretary. “We’re sitting ducks.”

They made their way around an eight-wheeled armored vehicle with an enormous machine gun. Foldout seats were fixed to the sides of the aircraft. Civilians and soldiers took their places, buckling the belts. The rear door slammed shut.

The Defense Secretary spoke loudly over the growing din of the engines. “We were planning for an off-shore base, but they’ve seized control of the important carriers. They’ve got a version of events painting us in a bad light and we won’t get safe passage.”

“NORAD?” asked York.

“That’s the goal. The military and civilian leadership is resisting Hastings there. But it’s a ways and we’re going to have to regroup with some of the armed forces loyal to you.”

“Should I call them all Loyalists, now?”

The Defense Secretary didn’t smile. “It’s chaos out there, Elaine. The whole system is coming unglued. We’ve got anarchy in the streets and a governmental split. We need numbers and weapons to make it to Colorado.”

York felt the tug on her stomach as the giant bird went airborne. “No arguments from me, Daniel. This is going to be ugly and long.”

One of the soldiers gazed out of a window beside him and whistled. “Goddamn. The admin building’s blown! I can see fires across Mount Weather!”

The president released her belt and steadied herself beside the young man, staring grimly through the glass. “Fighting has started.”

Tooze shook his head. “I can’t believe it’s come to this! We’re turning on each other. First the riots in Washington. New York by now, I guess. And now this.”

York continued to look down at the retreat site, her words cold.

“Rome burns.”

65

How they had made it back to Intel 1 was as much by miracle as by the muscle they were forced to use. Between National Guard roadblocks and bands of rioters roaming the city streets, they’d had to fall back on force on three occasion. In one engagement they’d killing several armed gang members who’d tried to carjack them. It was a scene Savas had never imagined living through, firing weapons in the middle of the day on mobs swarming them in the heart of the city. The relative safety of the Javits building suddenly seemed like a haven in a growing storm.

The staff left at the FBI building were frazzled and leaderless. The brass had fled, either called to other duties or frightened for their own skins in the anarchy spreading across the island. Savas pulled the remaining personnel from normal functions and organized them into guards at all entrances to the building. The last thing he was going let happen was for some random group of thugs to undo all that they had accomplished.

They had Fawkes. Alive. And now they were going to make him stop this enfolding catastrophe, or show them how to.

“He looks like a damn kid,” said Miller, glaring at the man slumped handcuffed on the couch in Savas’ office.

The masks were gone. A dark-haired cipher rested calmly before them, his eyes closed behind cracked smart glasses, his voice strangely controlled given his situation.

“How’s the battle out there, agents?”

Cohen stared through the large window in the office down to the streets of New York. She spoke sadly. “People are dying. Many suffering. Some accomplishments you’ve racked up.”

“Simon’s gone,” Savas said. “JP's critical. Good people you’re not worthy of, Fawkes.”

“I meant in the matrix. Where’s that Angel girl?”

Lightfoote sat clacking over a laptop. “Here, boy-genius. Look for yourself.”

She turned the screen around toward him furiously as he opened his eyes. With a groan he raised his head slightly, blood still coating the back of his neck from the blow Houston had landed.

“Nice shoulders,” he said. “Drop that bikini top and we’re in business.”

“The red lines are my immune worms. The blue yours. Fucking kicking your sorry ass.”

He lay back and smirked. “Going to go twelve rounds, I think. Fuck, that’s beautiful, you bitch. Never imagined anyone would be that crazy.”

Houston and Lopez entered the crowded office in a rush. “Okay, we’ve got people at the main entry points. But it’s a weak job. Some are just secretaries, for God’s sake! They’ll fold quickly under any real assault.”

Savas nodded. “Hopefully there won’t be one. In the meantime, Fawkes, or whoever the hell you really are, we need to make sure Angel’s code wins. We need you to shut your worms down or tell us how to do so.” He pulled a chair up and placed a foot on it, leaning toward the hacker. “No good cop, bad cop. It’s all bad, today. You don’t look like you’d last five minutes with Frank.”

“He wouldn’t make it through one,” growled Miller.

“So you’re going to talk to us.”

Fawkes laughed. “You think I built an off switch? You fools. This was it. This was meant to go the distance. You can kick me, drown me, get me to do whatever or say whatever. I’ll even pretend two plus two is five for you. I’ll get on a terminal and tell you I’m fixing everything. If you hurt me enough, I might even believe it myself. But it will be for nothing. A lie. Because I didn’t build that worm to come home. No one can call it back.”

“Son of a bitch,” said Miller.

Fawkes continued. “You should thank me. You all should thank me for finally driving a stake into the world’s vampires. You—”

“Shut up!” yelled Savas. “I’m not in the mood for more of your crazy.”

“But I didn’t even tell you the best part,” said Fawkes, grin wide. “Paranoid? The best part is that I can show you.”

“Show us what?” asked Savas.

“The truth. The truth I discovered hacking through the financial systems. The truth that they couldn’t conceal from me. I know who they are. I know where they’re working from!”

Savas narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“Bilderberg.” Fawkes sighed.

Cohen spun around. “What did you say?”

“Bilderberg.”

Savas turned to Cohen. “What’s that?”

Cohen approached Fawkes, removing her glasses. “The Bilderberg Group. It’s a conspiracy theorist's wet dream. The biggest economic conference in the world. Center of Europe. Centuries old. Private. Secretive. No transcripts. No records. World leaders, industry magnates, academic powerhouses, media moguls. Bipartisan support in the nutcase-community that they are the real force running the world.”

“That’s the nexus,” said Fawkes, eyes alight. He pushed himself up and stood before them, postured stooped. “But it’s like an octopus. And it’s real. Let me show you! Take these cuffs off. The next part is what is really—”

There was a pop and tinkling of glass. Fawkes froze, the top half of his head blown apart, a crimson spray painting the wall behind him. His mouth hung ajar, his finger raised to make a point. Instead he dropped to the floor.

“Down! Everyone down!” yelled Savas.

Miller had moved alongside the wall, weapon held beside his head. He approached the window.

“Sniper round,” he said, examining the hole. “Long distance shot. A professional.” He lowered his gun. “He got his man.”

Houston came alongside him to get her own look, keeping her body away from the window. “Now I’m feeling a bit paranoid, myself.”

“He’s dead.” Cohen was bent down beside the body, sidestepping the blood seeping into the carpet. “You don’t think—?”

Lopez cut in. “That someone from a mysterious organization running the world killed him so he wouldn’t spill their secrets?”

She exhaled. “If you put it like that—”

Lightfoote stared at her laptop screen, speaking slowly. “No, you’d need enormous resources. You’d really have to be an octopus in every major corner of the civilized world. Perhaps eavesdropping on our conversations to know how close we had come. In the middle of all this chaos.”

Savas turned to his cybercrimes head. “Angel?”

“But maybe if you were a truly paranoid anarchist, you might do something strange. You might know this phantom group was after you. You might build in a contingency in case they got to you. Some kind of Armageddon fail-safe.”

“What are you talking about, Angel?” asked Cohen.

Lightfoote looked up from her computer. “Got an email as few seconds after the shot,” she said, glancing down at the body of Fawkes. “From him.”

Savas shook his head. “How could Fawkes send you an email? He’s dead.”

“Read it. You’ll see.”

Savas took the laptop and held it up to his face. He read out loud.

“Hi Angel baby, if you got this, well, I’m toast. Linked to my heart rate, so I must be dead. I hate it when that happens! Sorry for trying to kill you, but don’t take it personally: just the business of rebooting the world, you know? You’re one annoying bitch. That’s why this is for you. Things are much worse than you think. Only a few of us know the truth, and if you’re reading this, we’re all likely dead by now. Attached is an encrypted file: you might be able to crack it. If so, you’ve earned a shot at glory. Good luck. You’ll need it.”

Savas looked at Lightfoote. “Where’s the file?”

“Scroll down to the end of the email.”

Savas swiped his fingers on the trackpad.

“The Nash Criterion. What the hell does that mean?”

The office phone rang.

“I thought phones were down,” said Lopez, removing his gun.

“This is an internal line. From the front desk. I’ll put it on speaker.”

A loud rasping sounded from the phone. Someone on the other end wheezed and spoke with a death’s rattle: “They’re coming. The stairways. Get out. They’ve shot everyone.”

Explosions sounded and the line went dead.

“Let’s move!” cried Lopez. He and Houston sprang through the doorway.

They left the body of Fawkes behind, Lightfoote pulling a USB stick out of the computer but leaving the laptop on the desk. She pocketed the stick and drew a gun.

The six moved down the hallway, passing empty offices and abandoned desks, Cohen lumbering on her crutches. They reached the center of the floor just as the elevator doors opened. A group of men in combat gear stepped out.

“Behind the cubicles!” hissed Savas.

They crouched low, Miller and Savas pointing weapons forward, Cohen looking behind them with a puzzled expression on her face.

“Where—” she began, but was cut off by the blaring of a bullhorn.

“FBI Intel 1 division! We are United States forces here to apprehend you and the fugitives! Come out with your hands raised or we will be forced to engage!”

A deep stillness settled over the room. Miller touched Savas on the shoulder. “We’re not going to overpower these guys, John,” he whispered, his expression grave. “Whoever they really are, we’re outgunned and outnumbered.”

Thoughts racing, Savas considered his options. He was given little time.

“Last warning, Agent Savas. We know you have the terrorist. Hand him over, come out with your hands over your head and you might live!”

“He’s dead!” cried Savas. “The hacker is dead in my office. We’re coming out.” He placed his hands on the weapons of Cohen and Miller beside him. “Put the weapons down. We’ll figure a way out of this later.”

Lopez and Houston! He had to keep them calm, stop them from doing anything stupid. He spun around, but they were gone.

His eyes met Cohen’s. “Where?”

“Angel, too,” she whispered. “I don’t know where.”

“Agent Savas, come forward with your hands in the air!”

Savas placed his weapon on the ground and stood up facing a group of ten men. Miller and Cohen followed suit. The soldiers aimed weapons in their direction. One called out loudly as several approached them from the sides.

“Under the authority of Directive 51 and the Military Commissions Act, you are under arrest as unlawful combatants, subject to indefinite detention and a hearing before a tribunal. You are hereby stripped of your Constitutional rights and all rank and privilege. Follow all instructions precisely and rapidly or risk the use of force.”

They were cuffed and led into the elevators. Frantically, Savas scanned the room a last time, desperately trying to locate Lightfoote and the others. But it was empty. He saw no sign of them.

The doors closed.

SAVAS Final Deposition

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