Cost of Life (24 page)

In Philips Arena, all the chatter suddenly ceased. From their imperial skybox, Sutton Buttle and his wife put down their glasses of Merlot. Down below, Del Purrich was pacing the stage. He noticed the quiet, noted the time, and told Angelo—with whom he was on the phone—to call him back. A local pastor of some renown led a large group in silent worship. The mayor of Atlanta and the governor of Georgia were somewhere in the crowd as well. And of course there were the dozens and dozens of interspersed reporters, but 3
P.M.
came and even their chatter died away.

Not far away, at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta Airport, thousands of stranded men, women, and children—echoes, really, of the crowd at Philips—stood and sat and watched the ubiquitous screens scattered throughout the five-thousand-acre complex of jetways and terminals.

In the basement of the White House, the president and his national security team watched their screen with restless impotence.

“It is time!”
Bislan announced, and focused the camera on his smile-stretched visage.
“Aren't you all excited? I am. But countdowns always leave me feeling alive. You can only imagine how intolerable I become on New Year's Eve. Before we begin, I want to give a special hello to six continents. Yes, that's right—the viewership of this website is literally worldwide. And how often do events occur that can attract the interest of the world? I'd say this is cause for celebration—not celebration of me, of course, but of you! Your empathy in these proceedings deserves a round of applause.”

The image shifted to a view of the main cabin and all 171 passengers seated within.

“Come on, now,”
continued Bislan's voice.
“Applaud for the good people. It is their hard-earned cash they've spent to keep you alive—and think about that! They have never met you, will never meet you, and yet they gave you their money. Let the cynics crawl back into their holes. Man is good! So the least you could do for your benefactors is clap your hands. Come on now.”

The passengers clapped their hands, some enthusiastically, some not. Some already had their hands clasped in prayer. Larry and Marie held their hands across the aisle and clasped them there. Larry was sitting beside their son, Sean.

“But how shall we do this? My friends with their computers have two sets of names. Which group should I read first? Should the good news precede the bad? That's the very definition of a tragedy, and I'd rather avoid ending this on a sour note. On the other hand, if we open with the bad news, we're liable to lose viewers, and isn't it a rule of dramaturgy that the danger in an explosive start is that there's nowhere else to go? Perhaps I should have posted a poll on the website. As you no doubt have intuited, I am a staunch believer in the democratic process. Ah well. I'll resolve it the way these things always get resolved. One moment.”

The camera shook, then Bislan's left hand, his mangled hand, lifted up toward the lens an age-dimmed American quarter.

“Now that I think about it, given the date, this seems the most appropriate way to go. The father of your country is on one side and the symbol of your country on the other. Issue date 1992.”
He spun the coin around his fingers.
“General Washington here, the bald eagle there. The newer quarters don't have an eagle on their back. I just learned that fact the other day. Sad. But enough of my prattling. Which shall it be? Washington or eagle? Washington will lead us first to the execution and the eagle will lead us first to freedom. That sounds right. Here we go!”

He flipped the coin out of view. Its silver form spun briefly past the camera on its downward arc, and then the camera did its best to match it as it came to a stop on the carpet floor. The lens zoomed in on the image.

It was the eagle.

“Freedom it is! And now please enjoy this brief intermission while I retrieve the list of lucky people from my associates.”

The screen switched to an image of an American flag and a mellow Muzak snippet of “Stars & Stripes Forever.”

This lasted fifty-three seconds and then the American flag was replaced by the fore-view of the main cabin.

“Oh, this is exciting! I feel like the host of a game show. And let me add that the amount of money donated not just to save these five people but overall was staggering. Those of you at home, I do hope you don't feel discouraged or in any way disappointed if the passenger or passengers you championed were not selected. The process is almost always more valuable than the product. You have all engaged in an experience. Remember it. Treasure it. Archive this video feed and replay it for your children and tell them that you participated. But without further ado, I will read off the first name on the list, which is assembled in no particular order, and the first name on this list is—”

“Wait!”

The camera focused on Larry, who was standing in the aisle.

“Oh, Captain Walder, seriously. These interruptions of yours are a real buzzkill. Sit down
.
”

“No. I'm tired of sitting down.” Larry looked around at his fellow hostages. “Aren't we all tired of sitting down?”

“You're welcome to stretch your legs when we're through. Now if you please—”

“I've been sitting here, trying to think of a clever way to stall you. To stall this. But I can't do it alone.”

Marie stood up beside him.

“Oh great. Solidarity. United we stand. Rah-rah. Now where was I?”

Larry looked around at his fellow hostages. “We don't have to stall him. We just have to stand up to him.”

“Except some of us don't want to die!”

This came from off-screen, from an older male voice.

“Everybody dies,” said Larry. “Wouldn't you rather die fighting?”

“I think right now, Captain Walder, they'd rather go home to their families and their lives. Now if you would kindly shut up, I'd like to grant five lucky people the blessing of freedom.”

Another voice, female this time, cried out: “Freedom can't be bought!”

Larry looked around again at his fellow hostages. “You don't have to listen to me.” He held out his hands in supplication. “You don't have to listen to anyone. You certainly don't have to listen to him. Yeah, he's going to call out five names. And then he's going to call out another five and we all know what's going to happen to those people. And the only difference between those two lists is money. Money they now have. He thinks that's all America is about. Money. But he's wrong.”

“Captain Walder, you're rambling on live TV.”

“It's time we school him on what today stands for. He said it himself. ‘United we stand.' Freedom can't be bought. But it can be won.”

Seconds passed.

No one else stood.

“Very nice, Captain Walder, very jingoistic, but as you can see, the rest of us live in the real world and—”

Someone stood—near the back. A woman. One of the last passengers that Bislan had interviewed. Her name was Elena Shaw. She was from Corpus Christi and she was here with her boyfriend, Mitchell.

And he stood too.

Then more people stood. Retired police officer Drake Coxcomb and his wife, Rhonda. Deja and Maryann. Oletta and Anson Harmon. Davey Wood. Then more people. The sorority sisters. Addison.

Many, many others.

“How romantic,”
remarked Bislan. “
What a fine example you all are. But I'm still going to read the names of these five people. And the only person who is standing in the way of their freedom right now is you, Captain Walder. And I'm guessing that—”

A sputtering of Chechen overlapped the remainder of his sentence. The sputtering spiraled into manic screaming.

Bislan turned off his camera and crossed into the business-class cabin, where Alvi and Ansor were freaking out.

“What is your problem?” he demanded. “I'm trying to run a broadcast.”

The geeks took turns answering him:

Alvi: “The servers are gone!”

Ansor: “Or offline. Or have lost power!”

“So get our contact on the phone and—”

“He's not answering the phone!” replied Ansor.

What the hell was going on?

Bislan suspected he knew who might have the answer. He put down the camera and took out the phone—Captain Walder's phone—and dialed the most recent number and waited for that smug FBI agent—what-was-his-name, Jim something—to pick up.

What Bislan didn't expect was the female voice on the other end.

What happened was this:

First, Xana stepped out to the curb.

Next, a National Guardsman approached her. His name tag identified him as
SAWYER.
Sawyer had the look of a boy who was trying really hard to be a man.

“Ma'am,” he said. “Please return inside.”

Xana considered the different ways she could play this moment. She settled on exploiting stereotypes. She wasn't proud of it.

“Oh, Sergeant,” she said, and accelerating her breathing. “Please! I need your help!”

The instant hyperventilation flushed her face and moistened her eyes. Sawyer's gruff façade didn't stand a chance.

“Gosh, lady, what's wrong?”

“It's my pills! I left them in my car! Please! Can I get them?”

Sawyer sent a pleading glance to his superior officer. Her name tag read
HIGGINS.
Higgins had the look of a woman who was trying really hard not to beat the shit out of her subordinates.

“What seems to be the problem here?”

“I left my pills in my car. They're for my cancer.” The words tasted like acid on Xana's tongue. “Please.”

But Higgins wasn't having any of it:

“Ma'am, if you describe your vehicle for me, I can get your pills for you.”

Damn. Time to step it up a notch.

Crocodile tears dribbled down Xana's cheeks.

“Please…” she sobbed. “It will just take a minute…you can come with me if you want…”

Higgins glared. Then she sighed. “OK, OK. Let's go.”

They crossed the street. They ambled up the ramp to the parking garage.

Where there had to be hundreds of cars.

At least the airport had gone into lockdown relatively early in the morning. At least the lot wasn't full. Xana and her armed escort quickly walked past rows and rows of cars. Any one of them could have a terrorist crouched down low in the backseat, quietly operating a server.

Did the server even need to be operated?

No. But it did need to be powered.

She was looking for a car with its engine on or at least with its battery engaged, and that narrowed the suspects considerably.

“Did you forget where you parked?” Sergeant Higgins asked.

“No, no. Yes. Maybe. It's been such a stressful day. But I'm sure it's here.”

Or it could be in any one of the airport's other parking lots—if her hunch was even accurate. So far, none of these vehicles was on.

She walked past the pilot's car.

What time was it? Had Walder been able to stall the terrorists? Had the executions already begun?

She walked past Jim's car.

Yes, the executions had begun hours ago.

“Do you have a car alarm? Try beeping it.”

Xana reached into her jeans pocket. Her fingers found a key. It was the key to the front door of her halfway home. It was the only key she had. In the other pocket was Jim's phone and a few dollar bills. She'd long since run out of smokes.

“I…” she said.

They'd reached the back row of the garage. None of the cars in here was the one.

She'd promised Captain Walder a solution. And she'd failed him.

She began to walk back to the terminal. Higgins shadowed her without a word. No comment about the pills or the missing car. Maybe she knew it had all been a ruse. It didn't matter.

Xana could see the soldiers now. There was man-boy Sawyer, guarding the sliding doors. The soldiers were arrayed every few yards. To the left, the one-way road led to the interstate. To the right, the taxi stand was crowded with jitney cabs and hotel shuttles and even one or two jitney shuttles. Most of the soldiers, engrossed in the video feed on their smartphones, milled about the sidewalk. A few, though, were even inside their vehicles, enjoying the technological comfort of A/C on this hot July afternoon…

Before Xana had even made up her mind, she was rushing toward the taxi.

“I think I see someone I know!” she yelled back to Sergeant Higgins and then yelled forward to the taxi drivers: “Ronnie! Oh, Ronnie, is that you?”

Some of the taxi drivers glanced up from their phones as this madwoman tore toward them. One even angled his phone to capture the woman for his own video feed. But Xana raced past him to the first of the three currently air-conditioned taxicabs, a blue-and-white sedan.

“Ronnie?” she asked.

The sedan's driver was an ex-bruiser with a cauliflower ear. His eyes were shut. His drooping mustache dripped sweat down the sides of his chin. The backseat had rips in its vinyl but no server.

“Hey!” Higgins was catching up with her. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Xana moved on to the second taxi.

“Ronnie? Is that you?”

This one was one of the jitney shuttles. The bearded gentleman behind the wheel was reading a book on surfing. He had his feet on the dash. He glanced up at her with deep-brown eyes and then rolled down his window.

“Hi, there,” he said. His voice was warm rum on a cold night. “Afraid I'm not taking any fares at the moment.”

His backseat was also empty—or at least the first of the three back rows was empty. The other two rows weren't quite in view.

Sergeant Higgins placed a hand on Xana's shoulder.

“OK,” she said. “Crazy time is over. Let's go.”

The gentleman offered Xana a sympathetic look. She couldn't quite make out the faded emblem on his blue T-shirt. She could make out the three extension cords snaked near his gas pedal.

The hand on her shoulder tightened its grip.

Xana opened the driver's door and grabbed two handfuls of the man's T-shirt and yanked him out by the collar. As he stumbled away from her, Sergeant Higgins pointed her submachine gun at Xana.

“That's enough!”

Xana raised her hands. “Sure. OK. Just ask him why he's got a surge protector plugged into his car battery.”

“I've got a refrigerator!” he replied. “But if you think you're getting an ice-cold Coke, you've got another think coming, lady!”

“What kind of refrigerator requires
three
extension cords, genius?”

“It's…”

He didn't finish his sentence.

Higgins glanced into the van for herself.

“Hmm.”

She checked underneath the driver's seat to trace where exactly the cords went.

This allowed the man to grab for her submachine gun.

This allowed Higgins to shoot him at point-blank range in the left kneecap.

He toppled to the asphalt. A squad of soldiers, alerted by her gunshot, turned then scrambled toward them.

The man strung together every profane word in the English language and spat them all out, rat-a-tat-tat, at both women.

“Who is this ass-clown?” Higgins asked Xana.

“You got it,” Xana replied. “Just could we please turn off his car first? It's kind of important.”