State of Emergency: Jack Emery 2 (16 page)

He had to speak to McGhinnist and check in on efforts on the east coast. After that, he had to check in on the other cells. One of the problems of a tight cell structure and a small leadership was the amount of work each member had to do. It was critical to limit information to those in the inner sanctum, to reduce the risk of exposure and protect those close to him, but it took a heavy toll.

He turned around as McGhinnist picked up, just as the door closed behind Peter and Elena. He let out a deep breath. It was time to unleash the beast.

***

The bird is in the nest.

Richard smiled like a hyena as he read the text message, taking a moment to enjoy the words. He looked up from his phone. His was the only occupied table at the 1789 Restaurant, which had been cleared by his security detail prior. He picked up his glass and drained the last of the pinot. He sloshed the wine around in his mouth, savoring the taste, before swallowing. Along with pleasure came relief. It had been months since Jack Emery had been spotted, but since their meeting at the golf course Richard had kept an eye on him. He’d received intelligence that Emery had been central to the revitalization of the resistance. He’d miscalculated often when dealing with these individuals, but he was determined to get it right this time. He was glad he’d have the chance.

He’d first tried to smash the resistance by making an example out of the agitators in Indianapolis. But in hindsight he’d been too heavy handed. In trying to dampen down one crisis, all he’d done was make martyrs out of the dead and imprisoned. It had vindicated the resistance against FEMA control in the eyes of the neutral observer and emboldened the fanatics. His next miscalculation had been detention of loved ones and surgical strikes. Those hadn’t worked either. Neither the journalists or other members of the resistance had been dissuaded, instead all he’d been left with was thousands of people to detain at enormous cost to the taxpayer. It hadn’t gone down well with Morris. Finally, he’d hoped an appeal to the resistance’s nominal leader, Jack Emery, would work. It hadn’t.

At every step he’d miscalculated. He’d secured the country, but failed to eradicate the termites nibbling away at the base of that control. They’d gorged themselves, grown stronger and smarter, and now posed a greater threat to his agenda. But against all temptation to strike again, Richard had waited. He’d learned that not everything could be planned on a corkboard. He’d backed his gut, halted all offensive operations against the resistance and waited for Emery to emerge from hiding. As he did, he’d gradually begun to relinquish some minor elements of control, to show the public that with cooperation came increased freedoms.

Letting the resistance grow had been a huge risk, but he knew that if he couldn’t get Emery, he couldn’t truly end the resistance. If he’d waited much longer, the resistance would have been in a position to pose a serious threat. But the gamble had paid off. Richard now knew where Jack Emery was. On the eve of the commencement of resistance operations, he was in a position to smash them once and for all. Not only Emery, but a large number of prominent and affluent Americans. It would be a coup de graĉe in every possible sense.

He let out a long sigh of relief and stood to stretch his muscles, then picked up his briefcase and walked to the entrance of the restaurant, all thoughts of dinner forgotten. A few of the staff looked at him with confusion, but didn’t speak. They were probably appalled that Washington DC’s most well regarded restaurant had been cleared out for the evening so he could eat there, and he hadn’t even stayed for his second course. He didn’t care. He had work to do and his people would fix up the bill. He left the restaurant and climbed into the car that was waiting.

He leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Take me to FEMA headquarters, please.”

“Yes, Administrator.” The driver fired the engine. “Everything okay with dinner, sir?”

“Lost my appetite.” Richard sat back, making it clear he didn’t want any more small talk.

As the car inched forward and the lights of the police escort started to flash, he picked up the phone and looked back at the original message. He keyed a response and let his finger hover over the phone for a moment, as his mind processed the situation one more time, looking for any holes in his plan. With a smile and a shake of his head, he hit send. Once she read it, the woman he’d come to rely on would terminate the threat of Jack Emery, bringing a giant hammer down on his resistance. The endgame had arrived. He dialed Rebecca Bianco.

After a moment Bianco answered. “Hello, sir.”

“Good evening, Rebecca. Proceed with Operation Barghest.”

There was a pause. “Are you sure, Administrator? The cost will be enormous and once the order is given it will be difficult to recall.”

He sighed. His underlings continued to disappoint. He was astounded that Bianco had to ask if he was sure, after her hesitation in the face of his orders in Indianapolis. Though the pinot had been fantastic, it was as if she thought he’d made the decision to green light the most ambitious law enforcement operation on American soil in history after a few too many red wines. The weight of the whole country rested on his shoulders, yet stupid questions were still asked and answered. He let it go. She’d been a good operator for the most part. He had precious few of those.

“Yes, I’m sure.” His voice was unintentionally sharp. “I’m on my way to headquarters, I expect you to be there when I arrive.”

“That only gives me—”

“Sixteen minutes.” Richard terminated the call.

He put the phone beside him on the seat and closed his eyes. He’d underestimated Jack Emery and the resistance from the beginning. It was time to act, to cut off the head of the resistance and crush its membership into dust. Eyes still closed, he allowed himself a small smile. Tomorrow was going to be a good day.

Jack smiled as he looked around the table at the result of months of work. He’d returned to the Old Town office to meet with the team handpicked by Elena to handle all day-to-day coordination of the resistance. Alongside Elena and Peter were about a dozen others united in the same cause. The small group would be responsible for a tectonic shift in American politics, as the resistance began a concerted push against FEMA control across the whole country.

He’d been on the phone until the early hours of the morning, checking in with every cell leader. The people were in place and Jack was as happy as he could be with the preparations. This was their best chance to disrupt FEMA, expose their atrocities, influence neutral decision makers and take back the streets. It mightn’t work, but it wouldn’t be for lack of trying. Jack considered this network to be his masterpiece, an achievement far beyond what he thought possible.

“Last of all, I just wanted to thank each and every one of you for the risk you’re taking by being here and doing this work.” He glanced at Elena, then at Peter. “It’s all too easy for us, individually, to turn away when we’re faced with a situation like this. Hell, I nearly did. But an extraordinary person got me involved. Elena.”

Elena flashed beet red. “Jack, I…”

“You’re modest.” Jack smiled, held out a hand toward her, then started to clap. The others joined him in applause for a moment or two. “You’ve all built this. It’s important we acknowledge the work everyone has put in, but tomorrow the real work starts. We light the first sparks in what’ll become a roaring bonfire. Thanks.”

Jack nodded and walked away from the table. He could hear Elena telling the staff to go home, take a day for themselves, get some sleep and stay safe. That had been her idea, and he’d taken some convincing, but he’d swallowed his reservations. While he didn’t like the idea of a day of inertia, she was right. Everything was in place and it was important his people were rested before they hit the switch.

He moved to the office, closed the door and collapsed into the chair. He was exhausted. For all the talk of letting the team have a break, he hadn’t slept properly in a week. He closed his eyes and felt himself start to drift off, despite his mind protesting that he had work to do. His eyes shot back open when the door opened and Elena and Peter walked in chatting. He must have fallen asleep for a moment. They stopped in their tracks.

“Jack, sorry.” Peter held up a hand in apology. “Thought you could use a coffee. The others have all gone home.”

“Should have grabbed me a double shot.” Jack smiled as Peter placed the tray of coffees down on the desk. He stood and took one of them. “Thanks.”

Peter patted him on the back then looked to Elena. “And for madam, a soy—”

“Jack, I’m sorry.” Elena’s voice was pained.

Jack was confused by the shift in conversation. He looked over at her, the coffee cup still held to his mouth. Elena had a pistol trained on Peter. A tear streaked down her face. Jack’s cup fell to the carpet and his mouth fell open. A thousand thoughts and a million questions battled for primacy in his head, but they were overwhelmed by far too many memories of being held at gunpoint. One thing won out.

“Help!” Jack’s voice pierced the silence.

Elena didn’t move. She kept the gun trained on Peter as a single sob added to her tears. Jack held out his hands and tried to talk her down, to get her to lower the weapon, but she just shook her head vigorously. To his credit, Peter didn’t move an inch, merely held his hands up. He couldn’t comprehend what was happening, but Elena’s tears and hesitation gave hope for a peaceful resolution.

The two security goons ran into the office. Jack sighed with relief. The man who’d checked his name off the clipboard on his first visit scanned the room, his hand squeezing a revolver tightly, as his similarly armed colleague used his bulk to block the door. Elena looked over her shoulder at the men, sighed deeply and lowered her weapon. Jack relaxed a little, satisfied that the immediate danger had passed.

“Thanks, fellas.” Jack sighed with relief. “Elena, what the fuck?”

“Fucking hell, Jack.” Peter’s eyes were wide. Jack followed his gaze to clipboard man, whose knuckles were white from squeezing the pistol tightly. “This whole thing is a setu—”

In the small office, the boom sounded like planets colliding. Peter fell to the floor, his blood spraying all over the wall. Jack screamed, fell to his knees and scrambled toward his friend, lifeless and face down on the ground. He cradled the head of the man he’d been to hell and back with. There was no point. There was a hole the size of a small fist in the back of Peter’s skull, which oozed blood.

He turned and looked up at Elena. Multiple weapons were trained on him. “Why?”

“This was the only way.” Her voice cracked. “They’ve got my fiancé.”

“They’ve had him for months!” Jack’s scream was full of anguish and anger, but she didn’t react beyond another small sob. “Why now?”

“These guys are going to have a chat with you.” She looked down at the ground. “I’m sorry, Jack.”

“Fuck you.” He snarled as his head ached, trying to process this. “I assume this means the rest of the resistance is being fucked in the same way right now?”

“Yes.” She stared at the ground. “I’m sorry.”

Jack climbed slowly to his feet. His legs were wobbly. He spat in Elena’s face, his spittle mixing with her tears, then turned to clipboard man. “Let’s get this over with.”

***

A voice squawked in Callum’s earpiece. “All teams stand by.”

Callum nearly laughed at the absurdity of a command staffer having to warn them that the stroke of the hour was approaching. Every man and woman in his small unit had their eyes glued to their watches. He supposed it was good to let some commanding officer, somewhere, prove that he could tell the time at least as well as the people under his command. On the other hand, his operation was part of a countrywide effort, so maybe there was some logic in having an inane countdown.

Callum had no idea where the other targets were located, but he hadn’t been part of an operation of this scale since he’d been in Iraq. More than 120 guard troops had been mobilized to assault a single hotel. It was excessive force, but it would be effective. Shock and awe. He doubted the resistance posed enough of a threat to warrant such a hammering, but not much had been normal lately.

He checked his shotgun once more. There was no need, but he did it out of habit. It felt strange conducting an offensive again, but the weapon felt comfortable in his hand – more comfortable than his presence on the mission, anyway. He’d thought he was done with this business, now he was back in charge of a squad of State Guard troopers about to assault a resistance stronghold in the middle of downtown Chicago. He’d gone from one extreme to the other and then back again.

He let out a sigh. After he’d let Celeste Adams drive off, there had been a brief investigation. Callum doubted that the commanding officer of the detention center had wanted to be associated with an escapee
and
the guard who’d let it happen, so the incident had been brushed under the carpet. He’d been quietly reassigned to one of the active guard battalions. His call to Bainbridge had probably helped with that and, though he hated active duty, he’d hated being a prison guard even more.

That was how he found himself leaning against a concrete wall outside the Club Quarters Hotel in downtown Chicago. Much of the hotel had been booked for months in the name of an influential businessman and State Guard command suspected that much of the hotel was being used as a front for the resistance. Now, Callum’s squad had been assigned the task of assaulting the third floor while other squads hit other floors.

“Show time guys.” Callum pushed himself off the concrete wall. “Let’s go.”

His team moved in single file into the hotel lobby. The teams that had been assigned to the upper floors were already moving up the stairs. Once it was their turn, Callum led his team up the stairs and they exited on the third floor, taking up covering positions along either side of the corridor. After a few moments, a buzz sounded in his earpiece. It was time to make some noise. He gave his team thumbs up.

His team started moving in pairs to the door of each room on the floor they’d been ordered to hit. Callum was paired with Paddy Carlisle, a quiet kid from Boston he’d known for less than a day. He took up position on the left side of the door, while Carlisle took up his spot on the right. When his team was in place, Callum shouted for them to go and watched as Carlisle stepped forward with a ram. The soldier didn’t hesitate, smashing into the door once, then again. It gave a loud, tortured cracking sound as its timbers protested then gave way.

Carlisle dropped the ram and moved inside with his pistol drawn, followed by Callum with the heavy artillery. Callum scanned the room. There were no targets and only two possible hiding places: behind the bed on the far side of the wall or the bathroom. He gestured for Carlisle to take the bed, while Callum checked the bathroom. He edged forward, until he heard the tell-tale pop of a small caliber handgun. He turned around. A gunman had shot Carlisle from behind the bed, the exact spot Callum had been worried about.

“Freeze!” Callum raised the weapon as Carlisle fell to the ground. “Don’t do anything stupid!”

The gunman swung the pistol around. Callum reacted instantly. The shotgun barked and a dozen crimson stains appeared on the man’s white T-shirt as he fell. Callum moved over to where Paddy Carlisle lay motionless. The pistol round had hit him in the head. Callum checked his pulse. Nothing. He’d probably been dead before he’d hit the floor. Callum slammed a fist into the ground. With a growl of frustration he ripped the quilt off the bed, threw it over Carlisle’s body and then walked out to the corridor. Within two minutes, his entire unit had finished its work. Some prisoners had been taken, and some had fought back.

Callum gathered a detailed picture before he radioed in. “Command, this is Watkins. Third floor is secure. One Guard KIA. Three suspects killed and seventeen in custody. All clear.”

He ignored the confirmation from command as he returned to the room he’d cleared, placed his back against the wall and slid down until he was seated on the carpet. He let out a long breath and rested his head in his hands. He couldn’t believe he was back here, doing this work again, watching more young men go to their graves. He thought of Celeste Adams. He’d saved her life, but the price may very well have been his own. He wondered if he’d crack and have to have Bainbridge testify on his behalf at some trial or another. He didn’t get the chance to finish the thought, as heard a noise and looked up.

“You okay, Sarge?” One of his men was peering in with a strange look on his face.

“Fine, Private. Just a long day.” Callum climbed to his feet again. “Let’s move out.”

The private nodded. “I’ll gather the guys.”

Callum sighed. He wondered how many more people – Americans – had died today.

***

Jack’s head throbbed. He could barely open his left eye, it was that badly swollen. Every time he moved, his chest screamed in pain. He had cuts and lacerations all over body and his blood stained the carpet, mixed with the dried mess of Peter’s final moment. He kept his eyes closed as he felt around his body and inspected the damage further. He’d chipped a tooth on a leather boot and was pretty sure he had a broken rib. He wondered if the swollen left eye might have some permanent damage.

He rolled onto his side with a groan. They’d beaten him in the hours since Elena’s betrayal. But if there was one saving grace to having the shit kicked out of you by relative amateurs instead of the Chinese military, it was the fact that he’d managed to get some sleep in the early evening when they took a break. It was a small victory, but he’d take it. On the other hand, their lack of finesse also meant they lacked the skill necessary to extract maximum information for minimum damage

He pushed himself up with both hands and an enormous groan. His head spun and a wave of nausea hit him. He forced it down and shook his head, trying to clear the haze. He wondered if he had a concussion on top of the other injures. He did his best to squeeze his eyes open and looked over to where Peter had been shot dead. If nothing else, he was pleased that they’d dragged the body out at some point, though Peter’s blood had left a wide red stain on the carpet. He missed his friend already.

He sighed as he leaned forward and hugged his knees, wincing in pain. More painful was the knowledge that he’d fucked everything up and probably gotten everyone killed. He’d been so stupid, blinded by his trust toward Elena and oblivious to the signs of treachery. She’d been absent when Celeste’s home was raided. She’d probably betrayed the location of the Guerrilla Radio leadership. She’d leaked other information for god knew how long. She’d caused Peter’s death. Worse, she’d probably ended any chance of defeating FEMA.

He didn’t know the extent of the damage, but it had to be immense. She’d been at the heart of both Guerrilla Radio and the rebooted resistance effort. If she’d set up an attack in Chicago, chances were good that the other resistance cells had been hit as well. Jack didn’t know if anyone was left alive, but from what he’d seen in Indianapolis, Richard Hall would strike hard and aim at the head. Once that was done, the FEMA administrator would grind the body of the movement to a pulp. He wouldn’t chance another rebirth.

A small cough behind him startled him, and he growled in frustration at the pain in his ribs. He did his best to turn, but the movement was nearly comical. It was Elena, seated on an office chair with her elbows resting on her knees and her chin cupped in her hands. Make up stained her face and made her look like a panda. Her hair fell across her shoulders in a mess. What surprised him was the satisfaction he felt at the fact that she looked like shit. Fury rumbled in the pit of his stomach, despite the condition he was in.