The Gambit (73 page)

I didn’t care. It was my trophy.

I rounded the corner to see the ladies I saw earlier now cowering behind their cubicles as I passed. Natasha was gone. I spotted Megan in her office, and she smiled graciously when our eyes locked. I pressed the button to the elevator.

Ding
.

I stepped inside and tried to calm my breathing from the adrenaline-high I was on.

“R—Rachel,” the voice of Grey said, crackling through my ear piece.

“Yes?” I asked. “Can you hear me?”

“Barely. We—we are get—getting out of r—range. R—remember, put y—your hands…”

The elevator door slid open. I knew
exactly
what he meant.

Put your hands up.

Evelyn, the receptionist from earlier, let out a bloodcurdling scream as she saw me exit the elevator covered in blood. My heels clacked loudly, and I strode confidently across the marble floor with my hands held high. I dropped the gun I was carrying and walked towards the exit. The police officer who manned the metal detector was pointing his gun at me. The sounds of police sirens echoed from all directions, and I saw them swarming outside in the parking lot. I fell to my knees and kept my hands as high as I could.

The anger that filled me began to subside, and I felt just as I had before—numb—and that was perfectly fine with me. I knew killing Veronica wouldn’t bring them back. The people I loved were still dead, but perhaps something greater would become of my bold act. Like Viktor said,
‘Veronica has taken everyone’s eyes, and now they can’t see. If we take hers, perhaps we can restore the country’s vision. People’s memory of Owen will fade, they will forget about him.’

That was the truth of our fast-paced society. People would
forget
. They would go about their daily lives and then latch onto whatever was dangled in front of their faces next. All of this, though, would hit home. The Confinement still haunted every American who was put behind the walls of those Camps. Owen tried to lead them out, but his efforts were cut short. People would forget about their hero…but today…today, they would
remember
.

“Down on the ground! Get on the ground, now!”

I lay flat on the ground, and the cold marble felt refreshing against my cheek. I saw the black shoes of cops surrounding me, and I felt the metal cuffs clasp around my wrists.

“Rachel Flores, you are under arrest!”

Ring…Ring…Ring…

I struggled to pull the phone out of my pocket. I held the steering wheel steady with my left hand. It was my son.

“Hello?”

“Dad! You won’t believe what just happened.”

My stomach sank. The worst possible scenarios crossed my mind as he said that.

“Is Rachel okay?!”

“She’s alive…” He began, and I let out a huge sigh of relief. “She was just arrested at the EPA headquarters. She shot and killed Veronica Hall.”

My jaw dropped, and I had to be careful to pay attention to traffic as I got off the interstate.

“No fucking way,” I said. “She did it. She really did it…”

“Dad, it’s all over the news. I could only imagine what’s going on at your office right now.”

My office
…

He was right. It was probably pandemonium with a headliner like this for tomorrow.

“I bet,” I said. “I’ll have to call the office.”

“Yeah, I’d say so.”

“How is everything back at the house?” I asked.

“Good. I’ll head up to the office if you want, to see what I can do until you get back. Where are you anyway?”

“Remember the video on YouTube of Owen revealing the truth that went viral?”

“Of course,” Stefan answered.

“I’m about to interview him and his mother.”

“Do you think they will be willing to talk?” he questioned.

“I do,” I said. “They have nothing to worry about anymore. The truth will be out soon.”

“You’re right,” he chuckled. “The world will finally know.”

“Yes. Thank you for all of your contributions to that effort, Son. I love you.”

“I love you too, Pops.”

“I’ll talk to you later. I have to go.”

“All right, if I don’t see you when you get back, I’ll be down to visit soon. It’s time for me to go back to Boston.”

“Sounds good. Take care, Son.”

“You too, Dad.”

I ended the call and slowly navigated the suburban roads of Allentown. The son’s interrogation wasn’t publicized, but one of my sources informed me of the sudden removal of the video off the internet.
They
were trying to cover their tracks, and every little piece I could find would help Rachel compose a hard-hitting article. We had one week left until the election.

Images of Rachel shooting Veronica Hall point blank kept resurfacing in my mind. I knew she had a good heart, and it was hard to picture that she even did it…but it was reality. Somewhere in Washington, my goddaughter was sitting in a jail cell. I had so many phone calls to make.

Ring…Ring…

It was my office number calling.

“Hello?” I picked up.

“Ian,” Sharon began, her voice trembling with excitement.

“Yes?”

“You got a fax,” she breathed into the phone.

My heart pulsed from her words. Was it from them?

“From?”

“The number it was sent from is a 202 area code. It looks like it was sent from Washington. It’s everything, Ian. Everything you needed to confirm Stefan’s research. Everything they hid about Black Monday is there. I’m holding it in my hands right now.”

I almost slammed the brakes from the news. It was difficult to listen to Sharon while simultaneously trying to find this house I was headed to.

“Sharon,” I lowered my tone. “Take those files down to my storage safe in the basement and lock it up until I get back.”

“Got it. I’ll go now.”

“Also,” I said, “I’ll be back in around three hours. Book me the first flight after 3 o’clock from JFK to Dulles.”

“Will do, stay safe out there. Okay?”

“I will, thank you, Sharon. Take care of those files with your life.”

“Absolutely. See you in a few hours. Goodbye.”

“Bye.”

The call ended. I navigated down a neighborhood street and stopped at a stop sign. The green street sign on the corner read
Valley Dr.
I took a right and slowly crept down the street. I read each mailbox as I passed them. 437, 435—they were counting down by odd numbers. It must have been on the other side of the street. I struggled to see the numbers on the other side, but I saw a two-story brick house on the opposite side with the address above the door in gilded numbers.

428
—this was it. I pulled in the driveway and put the car in park. I hoped that someone was home. I got out of the car, stretching out after the two-hour drive from New York. I followed the pathway up to the porch. Dead leaves blew around the yard, and most of the trees had already lost their leaves. Winter was coming fast. When I reached the door, I rang the doorbell and combed through my hair with my fingers.

Twenty seconds—nothing.

I rang it again. I wasn’t going to leave after driving so far to get here. I purposely wore a pastel-colored button up and a simple tie. I figured, when the feds came, they were most likely dressed in black and were intimidating. I was not in a cop car, I drove my Tesla. I hoped I appeared harmless enough for someone to open the door.

Suddenly, the door barely cracked open. I saw the eye of a woman hiding behind the door. Her reddish-brown hair slipped down beside the half of her face she revealed.

“Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was shaky.

“Yes, actually. My name is Ian Westlake, and I am the Editor and Chief of the New York Times. I had a source tell me that he was quite certain that you and your son were interrogated by the federal government.”

She shut the door in my face. I banged my fist on the door in reaction. I was surprised that she didn’t even give me the time of day.

“I am not a cop!” I shouted. “I want to help you!”

Nothing.

“You know, if you don’t tell your story, they will do what they did to you to someone else!”

Nothing.

“Miss, you have to understand that you are no longer in danger! The people who took that video off the internet are about to be exposed for all the treason they have committed. They are terrorists, miss! We have proof they framed Owen, and if you don’t help us, the people of this country might be in danger! Please…” I pleaded.

The door swung fully open. On the other side of the storm door was a woman who looked to be in her late thirties. She pursed her lips and looked at me as if she was still distrusting. Her arms were crossed, and there were bags under her eyes.

“Why do you want to help us?” she asked.

“Because,” I began, “the only way we will stop them is to show the country what happened. You are a part of that story, unfortunately, and I know you wouldn’t want them to do that to anyone else. They had no right to come into your home. They had no right to scare your son. All I want to do is document what happened and let you tell your story.”

Her lower lip quivered, and I saw tears pooling up in the corners of her eyes.

“Come in,” she said, and opened the door for me.