Written in Fire

CHAPTER 20

Cooper couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here.

At first he’d tried to convince himself that the dropped call was just that. A digital glitch. But even as he’d frantically redialed, he was remembering the explosion of glass, the fist of smoke.

The screams.

A video call might freeze. The image might distort. But this . . .

After five failed retries, he’d started running. His head was packed with thoughts of his team: The time Luisa had taken three rounds in her vest on a raid, how at the bar that night they couldn’t get her to keep her shirt on, she just kept hiking it up to display the bruises, saying, “Would you look at my tit!” Valerie’s voice in his ear, only weeks ago, saying that she had outplanned John Smith’s security team, beaten them with their own system, the quiet pride in herself.

And Bobby. His partner. Cooper had never had a flesh-and-blood brother, but a cop’s partner was his brother. They’d been drunk together, hungover together, worked through both of their divorces together. Kicked in doors together. Taken down a corrupt president together.

An explosion and a fist of smoke. And screaming. In true pain or true panic, socialization fell away, and men and women shrieked the same. Could have been any of them. Could have been all of them.

He’d found himself in Epstein’s subterranean sanctuary, dark and cool, smelling of processed food and lit by images of horror. Video feeds from all over the country showed a nation consumed by madness. A limousine facedown in a black river. A police station with a half-overturned semitrailer sticking out of it. A raging fire consuming a complex of offices. SWAT teams firing tear gas rounds through the shattered windows of a government building.

The Department of Analysis and Response in ruins. Torn open as if a giant had scooped it wide, exposing the interior floors, row on row of naked desks and debris-choked halls and shattered toilets. The new building had collapsed entirely, reduced to a mountain of rubble half-obscured by billowing black smoke.

The new building. He remembered the video of Bobby’s office, the white walls with pictures leaning against them, no time yet to hang them.

And no time to come.

Cooper’s knees hit the ground and a sound came from his lungs.

Someone hugged him. Slender arms twining around his neck, and the smell of hairspray. “I’m so sorry,” Millie said into his shoulder.

He leaned into the embrace, squeezed back with both arms. It wasn’t Millie he was holding, it was Natalie, and Shannon, and his children, and his father, and Bobby and Luisa and Val. For a long moment he held them all, his face buried in Millie’s hair.

Then, slowly, he released her. She stepped back, her eyes on his. All around him, the apocalyptic images continued.

Val’s voice rang in his head. This is John Smith we’re talking about. Whatever he’s planning, it won’t be what we expect.

Words spoken when she was alive.

Words spoken moments ago.

Slowly, he rose to his feet.

“I’m, umm, I’m sorry.” Erik’s features were carved in deep pockets by flickering video. His hands were in his pockets. “About your friends.”

“Are they . . .” His voice cracked, and he paused. Coughed. “Are they dead?”

“Statistically—”

“Fuck your statistics!” The words came unbidden. He made himself breathe. After a moment, he said, “Sorry.”

“It’s . . . I’m sorry.” Erik paused. “Yes.”

“You’re sure.”

“The call originated from the west corner of the . . . yes. They’re gone. Estimated fatalities in the DAR between twelve hundred and two thousand.”

Cooper nodded. “Okay.”

“No,” Millie started, “it’s not—”

“How many attacks were there?”

“Fifteen so far. They were synchronized.”

“John Smith.”

Epstein nodded. “Your friend Valerie’s analysis was correct.”

“You were listening in?”

“Of course,” Erik said as though that were normal. “However, she was suffering from institutional bias. John Smith wasn’t acting against the DAR. And though we are in his endgame, this is not the master stroke.”

“No,” Cooper said. “He thinks bigger than this.”

“Agreed. Statistically—” He caught himself nervously. “Umm, I mean, logically, the purpose is to weaken existing power structures. For greatest efficacy, terrorists benefit from a desperate nation.”

“Yeah.” Cooper looked at the screens. “Well.”

“However,” Epstein said, “we’re no closer to John Smith than before. Perhaps we should use alternate methods.”

“You mean start torturing Soren? No.”

“Extreme interrogation doesn’t fit your personality matrix. Understood. But there are people suited for it.”

“You think I’m squeamish?” Cooper made a sound that wasn’t a laugh. “After all that’s happened?” He shook his head. “I hate everything about the notion of torture, and I’d take Soren apart a piece at a time if I thought it would work. But it won’t.”

“Expand.”

“I offered Soren the one thing he’s always dreamed of and never imagined he might actually have. I’m sure you were watching. I even lied and suggested that it might be made permanent. And he pulled the plug out of his own skull.”

“Still, perhaps pain would—”

Cooper shook his head. “He’s too strong. I’m sure you could break him. But it would be his mind you broke, not his will. There are only two people in the world he cares about. Only two he even believes exist. You could drive him mad, but there’s no amount of pain that would make him betray . . .”

He trailed off.

Millie stared at him. “Wow. Are you serious?”

Cooper turned away from her accusing eyes. Looked at Erik Epstein, pale and powerful and surrounded by images of a world in crisis. “I need you to get someone for me.”

“Who?”

“The other person Soren cares about,” Cooper said. “His lover, Samantha.”