The Foundation: Jack Emery 1 (14 page)

“I didn’t want anything captured electronically.” Michelle shrugged. “I also decided it was better to bring everyone together to sort out succession quickly and cleanly.”

Dunstan rolled her eyes. “I bet you did. You still haven’t answered the how.”

Michelle knew that Dunstan had been close to Anton, and that intimacy had kept her adventures at least partially in check over the years. While it was unlikely that Michelle would get the same level of cooperation, she also knew that there was no sense hiding from the truth. Some of it, anyway. They could never know the real reason she’d killed him: that he’d tried to take her out, and she’d taken control as a result.

“I killed him.” She looked Dunstan straight in the eye. Her tone was even, completely matter of fact. “I discovered evidence that he was acting unilaterally to explode a nuclear device in Cleveland, and paint Islamic fundamentalists as responsible.”

The room erupted. Michelle had wondered if any of them would assault her, though she had a fully armed Andrei Shadd a shout away. The usually reserved head of the Midwest cell, Mike Douglas, tapped his finger on the table, increasingly loudly, to get the attention of the room.

Once the room was silent, he spoke. “And why would he do that?”

“I don’t know, but if he’d succeeded, it would have diverted the attention of the President and his administration from the war with China, and placed America’s sight on the wrong target. It also would have made a mess of our efforts to get a large number of us into Congress.”

Douglas nodded. “It sure fucking would have.”

“We’ve wasted a decade and trillions fighting in meaningless deserts, more of that needs to be avoided.”

A look of grave doubt appeared on Dunstan’s face, her forehead creasing with stress lines. “Very well, if it’s as you say, it needed to be done. I trust you have proof?”

Michelle shrugged. “Plenty—I’ll make it available to you all after the meeting. I regret it, but my actions were necessary. We set it up to look like a street assault.”

Dunstan nodded. None of the others spoke up. She’d won.

“Very well, if there’s nothing else on that matter, we need to elect a director. There are too many balls in the air to not have someone in charge of the juggling.”

There were nods up and down the table. The people gathered were used to quick-moving situations. Anton’s death was forgotten.

The head of the New England cell, Bruno Cagliari, cleared his throat. “I’d like to nominate Michelle. She has the experience, contacts and the most in-depth knowledge of our current operations. Our cause will thrive or die on the success of a plan she and Anton developed. I throw New England’s lot in with her.”

Michelle gave Cagliari a barely perceptible nod. He’d be rewarded later. “Thanks, Bruno. I accept the nomination, but I’d also invite others to put their hand up.”

She looked down the length of the table and the representatives remained silent. She had them. Apparently the weight of her claim, along with the lack of support from the others, had aborted any power play by Dunstan. She felt the rewards were finally coming her way, after so long and so much planning. When no other nomination came forward, others began to swear their cells over to her.

“The Mid-Atlantic cell is yours.”

“The South East is on board with the new administration.”

Michelle had a nervous moment when the leaders of the South and Midwest cells, Duke Callister and Mike Douglas, shared a wordless exchange. They were traditionalists and the staunchest conservatives, even in a room full of them, and she was not sure they’d go for a woman who’d just murdered the boss. Finally, Callister leaned in and whispered something in Douglas’ ear. Michelle exhaled deeply when Douglas nodded.

Duke Callister spoke for the two of them. “If this evidence is as compelling as you say it is, Michelle, we’re on side. But you’d better hope it is.”

She nodded and smiled at him. “It is. I appreciate your support, Duke.”

Michelle knew she was close, all she needed was the Mountain cell and Dunstan’s West Coast. With the others on board—and the South in particular—she knew they didn’t have the strength to resist her control. She looked at Dunstan and then at Mark Harrison, head of the Mountain cell.

Harrison looked at Dunstan, then shrugged. “Okay, but I don’t like it. You’ve got an inch of wriggle room, Michelle.”

That left Dunstan. Michelle stared at her, right down the other end of the table. “Vanessa?”

Dunstan sighed. “Okay.”

Michelle was elated, but didn’t show her emotion. “Okay. Next order of business is an update from the director. In short, everything is on track and we’re about to see the rewards. We’re unblemished by Shanghai and the war has started nicely. The next part of our plan is more of us in Congress. I’d ask that you all focus your efforts on that.”

Dunstan scoffed. “I never understood this part of the plan, and how you expect the media to warm to our agenda, given their lack of enthusiasm in the past.”

“Easy. Through control of EMCorp. Which I’ve had for the last few weeks.”

She smiled, and enjoyed their reaction. They were more shocked by this news than they’d been about Anton’s death. She omitted the fact that the head of EMCorp was being a particularly large pain in her behind and might slip loose. This was no time to dilute her authority or have them doubt her achievements.

She stood and held her hands out. “We’ve got our endgame within reach and now we’ve got the means to broadcast exactly what we want.”

Douglas nodded and crossed his arms. Cagliari smiled. Even Vanessa Dunstan looked content as she spoke. “Well done, Michelle.”

“Right, now that’s covered, I think it’s a good time to take a five-minute break. We’ll discuss regular business after that.”

She didn’t wait for agreement. She left the room, aware that nobody else had moved. As soon as she was outside, they’d be gossiping about the changed environment, but she had control. Once out of earshot, she pulled her phone from her purse and dialed.

Through her friendship with Sarah McDowell, Michelle had put contingencies in place for controlling EMCorp if Ernest got out of control. Now she was ascendant in the Foundation, she couldn’t risk him following through on his threats from earlier in the day. Losing EMCorp after announcing it was in hand would be a loss of prestige with her colleagues. It would also make achieving her agenda all the more difficult. Better to cut her losses. If she couldn’t have him, nobody could.

“Chen? It’s me. I need you on a flight to New York. I’ve got another job for you.”

She hung up. Just as the Foundation meeting was about to reconvene, she wrote a quick text.
Sarah, let’s catch up, I’ve got some wonderful news for you.

Jack was impressed. While he’d only agreed to attend the first game of the American League Division Series out of a sense of obligation to Ernest, since he’d arrived at Yankee Stadium with Celeste they’d each had a smile on their faces. It seemed like the perfect way to finish their recovery. While the nightmares of their torture remained, some of the physical damage had healed. Jack felt almost human again.

Once a stadium staff member had spotted the lanyards they were wearing, they’d been escorted to the cavernous EMCorp corporate suite. Jack felt like some sort of king as they walked through the double doors, even though he knew the service being heaped upon him was only because of the color of his pass.

He turned to Celeste. “Pretty impressive, isn’t it?”

The suite was deep and rectangular, with floor-to-ceiling glass on one side showing off the field. On the far wall was a full-service bar. Guests had a choice of sitting at one of the dozen or so dining tables or in the leather recliners along the window with a view of the field. The room was already full, though it was over an hour until the opening pitch.

“Sure is.” Celeste beamed as she eyed the bar. “It’s going to be great. Want a drink?”

Jack hesitated. “You go ahead.”

She smiled and left him. A few months earlier, he’d have been up for the free booze. Now, he just wanted to sit in a corner, out of the way, until the game started. He avoided the large huddles of people making small talk and ignored the glances from the other guests as he crossed the room. Those who knew him were probably curious about his wellbeing, but he didn’t want to talk to anyone at the moment.

He nearly managed to find his way to a table and sit down when he was intercepted by a tall man with a broad smile and newsreader good looks, who stretched out his hand. “Warwick Jenkins. I work at the
Boston Herald
. You’re Jack Emery, right? Hell of a story, you making it off that carrier.”

Jack was surprised that Jenkins knew so much, given the details of their release had been tightly guarded. Jack watched the man’s eyes drift to the cuts and bruises on his face. For the first time, he knew how an attractive woman felt. Jenkins’ roaming eyes felt like an assault that he was powerless to stop without being rude. He didn’t know Jenkins, but if he was here then he was important to Ernest.

Jack gave his best attempt at a smile and shook Jenkins’ hand. “Just lucky, I guess. Lots of guys didn’t make it.”

“You’re just modest, son.”

Jack tried to change the topic. “Surprised you’re not in the office, if not for the injuries, I’m sure I’d be missing the game.”

“The war? We’ve got that covered. I don’t miss a Red Sox playoff game for anything short of nuclear winter. You watch, tonight the war will be number two on the news.” Jenkins laughed. “Say, I’d love you to meet my wife. We’re suckers for an Australian accent. Spent some time in Sydney a few years ago.”

Jack’s mind was scrambling to find an excuse when Ernest appeared alongside them. It was the first time Jack had seen him since his return from China. He nearly blurted out his thanks. Though he knew the price for his release must have been high, he didn’t know exactly what Ernest had had to agree to. He intended to find out and somehow repay him, but for now he needed to stay professional.

Ernest patted him on the back. “Hi, Warwick, good to see you. Jack, I’d like you to meet someone, he’ll be here in a minute.”

Jenkins clearly knew how to take a hint. “Mr McDowell, good to see you, and Jack, good to meet you. Let’s talk soon.”

Jack exhaled and smiled at Ernest as Jenkins backed away from the conversation. “Thanks for the intervention.”

Ernest patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t mention it. I didn’t invite you here to be a social piñata. How are you, Jack?”

Jack hesitated, unsure how to answer. “I’m out of there, thanks to you, that’s what counts. I wanted to say thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Jack leaned in closer. “I have a fair idea why I was tortured. What did they extract out of you to secure my release?”

Ernest’s eyes narrowed and he started to say something, but hesitated. “That’s not your concern, Jack. Relax and enjoy yourself. I need to find my daughter.”

***

Chen ceased his climb up the ladder and opened the access hatch as quietly as possible. He pulled himself through, closed the hatch carefully and locked it behind him. He had plenty of time to prepare. The day had gone to plan and he was slightly ahead of schedule with the game about to start.

He walked to the far side of the space. The walls were covered in dust and grime, as well as an amusing cartoon some tradesman had made years ago, presumably of his employer. He was glad to see the case he needed was on the concrete floor. He next looked to the small ventilation hatch on one wall and saw the key to the whole plan—the height and breadth of view the steel grate provided. It was as perfect as Michelle Dominique’s representative has promised.

Following the job at Anton Clark’s house, he’d agreed to her request for one more piece of wet work. In his head, he’d owed her one job for saving his family and another for saving him after the Shanghai attacks. If she’d wanted to, she could have hung them out to dry. Chen was an honorable man. He paid his debts. After this, they’d be square.

The space allowed one of the most breathtaking views in the entire stadium, from a location few knew about and even fewer visited. Importantly, it also gave a clear view to some of the corporate suites. He knew all of this thanks to the briefing pack that had been provided, along with his rifle and uniform. He thought again about his disguise. An amazing beast, the cleaner, often maligned, never considered. Invisible. He’d moved his way through the stadium and to his perch without being questioned. 

He moved to the case and opened it. He took in the beauty of one of the tools of his trade. It was pristine, cold and deadly, even disassembled into a half-dozen pieces. The long-barreled sniper rifle was as clean and beautiful as the day it had been manufactured. South African by design, it was light and portable, its sight able to zoom many times the magnification of the human eye. Most importantly, Chen had used it before and considered it suitable to cover the mission.

He assembled the weapon in silence and worked through all possible scenarios in his head. He mentally rehearsed the shot and how he’d escape from the scene. He could count on a few seconds of paralyzed fear that would grip the crowd and the authorities alike. If all went to plan, it should be a relatively easy job. In and out quickly.

If not, then all bets were off.

As he slid the gun onto its tripod, he didn’t think for a second about the life of the man about to be snuffed out. He’d done something to irritate the wrong people, and that was it. To Chen, it was a business transaction, as normal as ordering dinner. He owed Michele Dominique one more job, and this was her chosen payment.

With the gun in place he stripped off his janitor’s uniform and changed into some New York Yankees gear. All was now in place for the job to proceed. He slid up alongside the weapon, looked down the sight and touched his finger lightly on the trigger. He slowed his breathing and waited with well-practiced patience for the right time.

***

Ernest shook hands with Claire Paine and left the conversation. Paine was a political reporter he’d been trying to poach for a while, but since she’d won a Pulitzer the price had gone up. She’d declined Ernest’s latest offer, so Ernest saw no point in continuing to talk to her.

He walked to the bar and asked for a whisky. As it was poured, he mused darkly about the last phone call he’d shared with Michelle Dominique. She hadn’t been happy at his request to revise their deal, and it had been several days since he’d heard from her. His attempts to contact her had been fruitless.

He needed to think about something else. He scanned the room and smiled as he watched his daughter fend off the advances of the latest young suitor. Since Sarah had abruptly lost interest in the Wharton grad she’d been dating, word had reached every young, eligible bachelor on the East Coast. Even here, among friends, she was targeted.

While it would have been easy for him to march over and rain fire and brimstone down on the young, overly drunk EMCorp sales executive, he waited. He’d learned long ago that she could take care of herself, and there was no point in ruining a promising career unless it was absolutely necessary.

As her suitor leaned in to whisper something into her ear, he also placed his hand on the small of Sarah’s back. The hand then began to trend downward. Ernest recognized a grope when he saw one and felt a flash of anger. Sarah was wearing a conservative gray tunic dress, but that clearly wasn’t enough to dissuade those intending ill. As soon as the hand reached ground zero, Sarah took a step back and swung her small purse right into the exec’s face. He didn’t get his free hand up in time to defend the shot, but he did remove his other hand from her backside without delay. Sarah glowered at him and he backed away, mumbling some sort of apology.

Ernest chuckled and picked his whisky up from the bar. As he walked over to his daughter, he reflected on her fire and her focus—traits they shared. Despite this, he hadn’t managed to focus her in the same direction as he had taken. While he’d been driven to succeed in business, Sarah was interested in art and theater.

“You okay?” He leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. “I hope you’re not getting into too much mischief.”

Her eyebrows furrowed in mock contempt. “It’s your staff trying to get me into mischief. It’s like they see a big dollar sign above my head or something.”

He laughed. “Not quite. More likely they see a dollar sign above my head and a big green arrow pointing at me above yours. I’m an old man, after all. Won’t last forever.”

“Don’t be stupid.” She punched him softly on the arm. “Besides, you better last a few more years yet, because I sure as hell don’t want your company.”

He thought about saying something, but decided against it. They’d had that particular argument a few too many times. “Enjoying yourself?”

She shrugged and smiled. “Prefer Broadway.”

He laughed. Truth be told, he hadn’t really enjoyed the pre-game reception and the meal. His mind was on other things and he couldn’t escape the crushing knowledge that a reckoning was coming. He was playing with fire, and it was only a matter of time before he got burned.

His gloom was penetrated by the mighty roar in the stadium, which seeped through the glass windows of the suite. A few of his guests shushed others as the stadium announcer gave some cheesy tribute to the American troops currently battling the Chinese in the skies above Taiwan. Once the announcer was finished, the national anthem was sung.

A short while later the game started. Ernest watched the first Yankees hitter put one into the stands. The reaction on the field seemed subdued compared to the scenes in the crowd, as grown men jumped up and spilled their eight-dollar beers and cold burgers. A few of the guests in the EMCorp skybox cheered and one Red Sox fan groaned, but most gave it little thought, continuing to chat and enjoy the hospitality.

“Wow, that was awesome.” Sarah laughed.

He had a momentary pang of regret, and thought for a moment that he should have just taken his daughter to the game and jettisoned the freeloaders. The thought passed quickly. As much as he loved his daughter, it was commercial necessity that he use the box widely for events like this.

He turned to Sarah and smiled. “Plenty of time left for some more fireworks.”

***

Chen thought it would have been all too easy to pull the trigger the moment Ernest McDowell entered the crosshairs. The amateur—or immature—killer might have taken the shot, which was both simple and inviting. Even some professionals would have been hard pressed to turn down one of the easiest kills of their careers.

But those weren’t the instructions.

At the crux of it, he knew that despite the veneer of legitimacy and professional standards of the special forces, retired or not, he was paid to kill people and break stuff. The same colleagues who would have taken the shot, though, were thugs; they had no restraint, no appreciation for detail or the art of their trade.

He was different. He followed specifications exactly. It was the reason he’d kept vigil on Ernest McDowell for forty minutes, not taking the first shot, but waiting for the best one. A perfect shot that not only produced the desired result, but gave the best chance for escape from the scene with minimum fuss.

He’d watched McDowell enjoy the highs and suffer the lows of the game so far alongside his daughter. McDowell seemed to pay no attention to the hangers-on who were also in the box. One innings had passed, and then another, until finally the time to strike had come.

With little emotion, Chen made sure his breathing was slow and waited. He had a perfect understanding of his weapon and his finger pressed on the trigger as much as possible without firing. He applied slow pressure until the precise moment. He was a hair’s breadth away from his final squeeze when he aborted the shot.

McDowell’s daughter had wrapped her arms around him for a hug. He eased off on the trigger and readjusted his aim slightly. He inhaled deeply, and then exhaled. He took the new target profile into account, inhaled again, and as he exhaled he squeezed the trigger slowly. This time it was enough to fire the weapon.

He nearly screamed. The girl had fucked it up. He could see the small spray of fine red mist through his sight and knew the shot had hit. But even as the man fell limp a moment after the round struck home, and chaos and confusion erupted in the box, he knew the shot was off: the girl had punched McDowell on the arm just as Chen had fired.