Dark Victory - eARC (26 page)

I stand up and slug Captain Diaz in the face.

I wince and shake my hand from the punch, and he does me the favor of falling back in his chair. I take my chair and bring it down hard across his shoulders and the back of his head. He curses at me and I grab a wrist, snap one end of the handcuffs there, and fasten the other to a desk leg.

Blood is running down the back of his head. “Christ, Sergeant, smartest thing you’ve done all day! Now haul ass!”

“What’s the damn rush?”

He coughs. “The President says the war’s over. Looks like the surviving Creepers disagree and want to prove it. Something’s up and they’re on the move, sergeant. To the Capitol. Tonight.”

“My dad,” I say. “Where is he now?”

“North of the Capitol,” he says, touching his lips with his tongue. “Stockade at the Watervliet Arsenal. But forget him. Get out of here!”

I get out into the hallway, make sure the door is locked behind me. Should slow down the MPs some. I glance at the map, memorize the directions, and shove the paper in my pocket. I don’t want to raise suspicions and bumbling around the New White House with directions in hand would do just that.

I move down the wood-trimmed hallway, take a right, and descend a set of stairs. My right hand hurts like hell, joining the throbbing in my shoulder from my Creeper burn. Men and women pass me by, all wearing lanyards around their necks with photo identification. Some of them glance at me with some curiosity, but I just nod at them like I belong and keep on walking. I feel like I’m in one of those dreams where you go into battle with all of your gear and M-10 in hand, only to realize you’re not wearing pants and have no ammo.

Another set of stairs, a short hallway, and a door up ahead marked with a glowing red EXIT sign. According to the map, once I get through this door, I’ll be out in a small park. Go through a park, go to a side gate, and then I’m out on the streets of the Capitol.

I’m about five meters away from the door when a hand grabs my shoulder.

I whirl around and there’s a large, bulky man in a black suit with shiny areas on the knees and elbows, looking down at me. I recognize him right away. The second bodyguard who had accompanied Tess Conroy and Riley to my hospital room. Don’t know his name but he’s squatter and looks meaner than Riley. To get past him would take a pistol, an M-4 or a length of iron pipe, none of which I’m currently carrying.

“Sergeant Knox?” he asks, his voice a low-pitched growl.

I step back so his hand’s not on me. If I can’t fight, maybe I can flight. Dodge him and make a break for the exit.

“That’s right,” I say, evaluating, gauging, just seeing how I can get around this bulky armed man.

He moves his face muscles, revealing big yellow teeth. I suddenly realize he’s smiling at me. He shoves a hand out.

“Congratulations,” he says. “It’d be an honor to shake your hand.”

“Sure,” I say. My hand practically disappears into his and after a one-two pump, he reaches into his pocket, takes out a folded program from the day’s ceremony, and presents that with a pencil stub.

“Could you sign this for me? To my son? His name is Travis, and he’s enlisting next month.”

I take the offered items and scrawl with a shaking hand, “To Travis, good luck in your service. All best, Sergeant Randy Knox, 2nd N.H. R/R.”

I return the pencil and paper. “How old is he?”

“Twelve,” he replies softly, looking at the program.

“Of course,” I say, and he turns around, shoves the program back into his coat.

I walk by him, forcing myself to keep a slow pace, like I’m moving by without a care in the world, even though I’m expecting alarms to ring, lights to flash, or something to nail me between my shoulder blades if this bodyguard behind me gets the word that I’m not supposed to be out and about.

The door is in front of me. I push it open. Outside it’s pouring rain.

A beautiful night.

About a half-hour later, soaked through and with my right hand aching from punching Captain Diaz, I arrive at one of the service entrances of the Capitol Arms Hotel. I go through a kitchen area and after asking directions from a dishwasher, I get to the front desk. The same man as before is working there and I say, “Excuse me, I’m looking for my pack?”

He bustles about, his eyeglasses dangling down his chest, and I repeat myself, louder, knowing that when the MPs get into that locked room back at the New White House, they’ll be racing right here after me.

The clerk turns from his paperwork, and I repeat myself for the third time, and he shakes his head. “Sorry, sarge, not here.”

“Where did it go?”

A shrug. “Sorry. It’s gone. You wanna make a claim?”

The MPs probably got here earlier, I think, and I just give him a quick wave, and go to the rear set of stairs, taking them two at a time. No assault pack. Means no spare clothes, no weapon, and no journal, damn it.

Out in the corridor, I make my way to my door. Get my key out, open the door, and I’m looking at Serena, who’s standing there.

Holding my 9 mm Beretta.

Pointed at my head.

“Close the door,” she says.

So I do just that.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

With the door shut, I turn back to Serena, who’s holding the pistol with both hands, staring right at me. She has on BDU’s and so does her brother Buddy, who’s sitting on my made bed. My assault pack is on the floor near the bed, so it’s clear where her pistol came from.

“Randy, you’ve got to—”

I step forward quickly, grab the barrel of my pistol with both hands, shove it up hard. Startled, her hand moves with me and it’s easy enough to push and twist the weapon out of her hand. With pistol now in my grasp, I give her a firm shove so she falls back against the bed. Eyes still on her, making sure she’s not carrying any other weapon, I step back, now armed.

“Specialist, I don’t have to do a damn thing. What’s going to happen now is that you’re going to answer my questions, and if you hesitate, if you blow me off, if I think you’re dancing around, if you mention OPSEC, then I’m going to the telephone over there. I’ll call the front desk and then we’ll all be arrested together.”

Her voice is firm. “Randy, please . . .”

“Specialist.”

Her eyes are glaring at me. “Go ahead.”

“Let’s start simple. Thor. I told you to take care of him. What the hell happened?”

“The bus driver . . . he stopped at another checkpoint, a few minutes after we left. The door opened up and your damn dog ran out.”

“My damn dog ended up nearly getting killed by a Creeper,” I say sharply. “Lousy job, Specialist.”

She stays quiet, lips pursed and trembling. I go on. “Your dad?”

Her voice tinged with desperation, “He’s been arrested, Randy. I found out when I got here with Buddy. That’s why I never delivered the dispatch case. I knew I’d be arrested, too. I didn’t know what to do next.”

I say, “But you knew enough to contact Captain Diaz. It’s no coincidence he was on that train from Concord, was it. He was keeping an eye on you. When the train got attacked, I couldn’t see him in the crowds. That’s because while I was tracking down Mister Manson, he was getting you and your brother to someplace safe, away from the attacked train. Right?”

She nods. I go on, “That’s why you didn’t want to leave the next morning. You knew he was coming back to the rescue, along with the Quick Reaction Force.”

“Randy, we’re running out of time, and—”

“Yeah. And we’re supposed to meet up with your arrested Dad. He’s probably being kept at a stockade, up north of the Capitol, at the Watervliet Arsenal.”

She opens her mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. “How did you know that?”

“Because my dad’s been arrested as well. Another coincidence, eh? Both of our fathers arrested, both of them set to be transferred at the same time. My dad in Intelligence, your dad in Special Projects, up there at Jackson Labs.”

I step forward, point my pistol for a moment at Buddy. There’s an intake of breath from Serena. “Your brother’s carrying a message. One for your dad, maybe one for my dad and Captain Diaz. It’s something about a Creeper who’s been interrogated up in Bangor, right? A Creeper that was captured by Captain Diaz and his guys. Special Forces are the only ones who have the guts and skills to do something like that.”

Another reluctant nod from Serena. “What did they find out, Specialist? What’s going on with the Creepers? Why the hell did they come here?”

“I don’t know.”

I go to the telephone on the nightstand, pick up the receiver, and she quickly says, “I don’t know the details, Randy!”

The receiver goes back down on the phone. Serena says, “Your dad . . . he was part of the crew conducing the interrogation. Buddy recorded it, the way he does with his memory. The Creeper told him everything we’ve wanted to know for the past ten years: why they’re here, why they’re fighting us, and how we can end the war.”

I recall what Captain Diaz had said. “War’s not really over, is it.”

“Why ask me?” she protests. “How should I know?”

I gesture with the pistol. “Then why not ask him?”

Exasperated, she says, “I can’t! He’ll only say what he heard during the interrogation if he hears a code phrase. My dad has the code phrase . . . and now he’s in a stockade. Oh, Randy, what am I going to do?”

I go to my assault pack, quickly strip off my formal uniform, put on a set of BDU’s, not caring if Serena’s looking. When finished, I strap on my holster. My dad. In on this since the beginning. If he’s involved, it has to be right. I’m not sure who to trust but I’ve always trusted Dad. I put the Beretta in my holster, take out my knife as well, strap it in place in my right boot.

“We three are getting out of here, now,” I say.

Buddy is looking at the two of us, face impassive, and Serena goes around to the other side of the bed, picks up another familiar object.

“This . . . the dispatch case? What should we do with it?”

“Let’s take a look, why don’t we.”

“You mean . . . break it open?”

“Why the hell not?” I ask. “I’ve had plenty of experience back in the Boy Scouts, breaking into homes and locked cellars.” From my assault pack I take out the awl and screwdriver from the diner, and go to work. In a few seconds the plastic security strap is broken, and after that, so goes the lock.

Serena stands closer as I open up the case, me thinking about Mister Manson and how he had died so grotesquely to see it get delivered. Inside the case is a yellow cardboard folder. I take the folder out and it holds a sheet of thick creamy white paper, with the seal of the Governor of the State of New Hampshire at the top. Below is a handwritten message. I read it aloud.

“
’Tess. After our last phone conversation, it seemed the signal faded in and out at a convenient time for you. So I’m trusting my most valued aide to bring the message to your personal attention, so there is no misunderstanding
.’”

I pause, see Serena staring intently at me. I read more aloud. “
So let me make this is as clear as possible. If you want my support and that of my political organization for your boss in the first in the nation primary, I want out. Get it? I’ve been to the Capitol. I’m an old man. I’m tired of living here in Concord with little power, oil lamps, and crappy food. Get me in the Administration as a cabinet secretary, a special assistant, or czar. I don’t care. Get me to the Capitol and I’ll give your boss my state when the ballots come. My aide will wait for your answer, but don’t wait long. Jack.
’”

Serena says, bitterness in her voice, “Nice to see our political leaders putting the people first.”

I replace the paper in the folder, put it into the dispatch case. “Yeah. What a surprise.”

I pick up my assault pack and gesture to her brother. “Well, now we know why the train was attacked. It was your brother.
He
was the courier with the vital message. Not one political hack bringing a demand to another political hack. Buddy was the one that was going to get killed, from an apparent Creeper. Nice set-up. Who would question that? Which explains something else. Tess Conroy interrogated me a while ago. Most of her questions were about you and your brother. Not the dispatch case.”

Serena’s shocked. “But . . . but why? In God’s name, why? What Buddy has—”

I interrupt. “What Buddy has is something to screw up the official story, that by destroying the orbital battle station, the war was won. Maybe the Creepers don’t agree. Maybe there’s another damn stealth battle station up. I don’t know. But with the official story being the war’s been won by this President and his Administration, it clears the way for a third term for these folks. Maybe power is more important than a clear victory.”

“Randy . . .”

“No more,” I say. “Captain Diaz told me the Creepers might attack the Capitol tonight. We’ve got to go.
Now!
”

I open the door, look both ways. Corridor is empty.

I turn back and Serena is there, holding Buddy’s hand. Buddy looks as blank as ever. Serena’s face is pale.

Time to go.

We’re halfway down the back set of stairs when we hear sirens coming from outside.

We blunder through some rear corridors, past maids and hotel workers who are bustling around. We go through a large kitchen and the smells of the cooking food almost compel me to stop and grab something, but I keep on moving. I’m scanning, looking, thinking, and there’s a rise in conversation by the hotel’s employees as we pass through.

“. . . maybe it’s just a Civil Defense drill . . .”

“. . . my brother sent a courier over, told me to get the hell out of the Capitol . . .”

“. . . but it’s been safe here for years, why now? Oh God . . .”

There’s a short hallway up ahead, crates piled up on either side. The door there leads to the outside and a rear parking lot, and from there—

From behind the boxes, a pissed-off Riley emerges, steps forward, and punches me hard in the chest.

I fall back against some crates, choking, coughing, trying to breathe, trying to catch my breath, failing at everything, my legs spread out, my back hurting where a piece of broken wood is pressing against my spine. Riley strolls up, kicks me in the ribs, and I cry out, roll to my side, eyes closed, everything hurting and burning and throbbing. I can’t see Riley, but I hear him speak.

“Stupid boy,” he says. “Like I told you, once I was in the Afghan mountains, chasing and killing Pashtun tribesmen whose ancestors had fought off the Russians, the British, and the armies of Alexander the friggin’ Great himself. And you think you’d be able to get away?”

That earns me another swift kick in the ribs, but I hurt so much I can’t say anything else. His hands are on me, stripping my pistol away and my boot knife. “Don’t care how many medals you got or how many ribbons . . . you’re just a damn boy, pretending to do a real man’s job.”

I snap out with my right hand, with luck hitting his face, and he only laughs. “Once went hand-to-hand with two Taliban on a mountain trail. Their bones are still bleaching in the sun, and you think you can hurt me?”

I hear him get up and I roll over on my back, and he’s standing over me, grinning, holding my weapons in his hands. “So now I’m taking your girlfriend and her retarded brother to where they belong.”

I kick out and get him in the left shin, and even with the fog of pain and the tightness in my chest, I’m happy to see him bounce back, pulling up his left leg. A flash of pain across his face and he ignores me, stepping past. I turn my head and Serena is there, on her knees, going through my assault pack, probably looking for a weapon, and her brother Buddy is standing with his back against the hallway.

“Come on, princess,” Riley says, grabbing her shoulder. “Time to go meet your betters.”

Serena tries to pull away and he grabs her again, harder, and pulls her up to her feet. My ribs ache, my chest is still so tight I can hardly breathe, and I pull myself up on my hands and knees, and then push off and throw myself against Riley’s legs. I grab them and bite his rear thigh, and he curses and spins around, slamming a fist against my head, pain shooting out from my neck and shoulders. I’m back on the floor and Riley says, “Shit, kid, stay down or I’ll slit your damn throat.”

I hurt all over. The sharp tang of defeat is in my mouth. My dad worked with Serena’s dad to get Buddy somewhere important, to stop a war that had killed so many, and I was failing the mission. I was failing my dad. I was failing . . .

Serena screams. Riley curses again, “This way, little girl, get your retarded brother lined up or—”

Another scream. A thud. Another thud.

I open my eyes. Serena is sitting down with her back up against the wall. Riley is on the floor, on his face.

Buddy is standing over him, holding a bright red fire extinguisher in his hands.

Serena’s brother then leans down and smacks Riley once more time against his head.

His sister says, “Enough, Buddy. Enough.”

The fire extinguisher slips from his hands, clangs on the floor, bottom stained with blood and hair.

Sirens outside are sounding louder and I slowly get up, weaving, my breathing easing up. Serena comes to me, holding out my Beretta and knife. I replace them, woozy, a wave of nausea rolling through. “Your brother is full of surprises.”

She says, “He’s not retarded. He’s very, very smart. And loyal.”

“He sure is.”

I try to pick up my assault pack and it falls out of my hand. Serena grabs it and says, “I’ll help you out but you’re right, we’ve got to get moving.”

She takes her brother’s hand with her free hand, and we go down the hallway, pop open the exit door and we’re outside, in the rear lot of the hotel. The sirens are sharp in the night air and in the overcast sky, I see flares from other parts of the city rising up and disappearing into the clouds, brightening them briefly with flashes of orange, red and yellow.

The lot is nearly empty, save for abandoned cars that have been pushed to one side. Serena bumps into me, dropping my pack. “Oh, God, Randy . . .”

“The Capitol’s prepping for an attack,” I say. “It’s going to be hell out there on the streets.”

Serena says, “Randy, what are we—”

I grab my assault pack. “Let’s roll,” I say. “Follow me.”

The door behinds us slams open a couple of more times, as male and female employees of the hotel race out. I move quickly out from behind the hotel, looking around, trying to think things through, recalling my training: adapt, adjust, overcome. Nice words to use out in the field when you’re tracking a Creeper, but here, in an urban environment? Not many options. Not many avenues of escape. Plenty of places to hide, but we weren’t going to hide. Somehow we were going to get the hell out.

What to do?

Around the corner, we come to a street. A crowded two-horse carriage rattles by. Another set of sirens starts howling. More flares sputter up into the air, sending messages to Civil Defense cadres and Army or Marine detachments out there, prepping for an attack. From all of my training and experiences, I should be linking up with an Army or National Guard unit to do my part, but not this time. Outside forces are at work, are plotting, are making life and death decisions for the country and the whole damn planet, and this quiet boy and his beautiful sister are key to whatever those decisions are going to be.