At 10:45 P.M., Craig Lafferty tucked his shovel and bag under a nearby bush, then crawled in after it, as he had done for the past two nights. At 10:50, he heard the muffled footsteps of the night watchman on his latest trip around the cemetery. By 11:00, Craig would shimmy out once again, covered in dirt and with dry leaves stuck in his beard. He would have another two hours to dig around the base of the monument and plant more charges before he would have to do the whole hide-and-seek thing all over again, before slipping out in the morning to get some sleep.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a dirty sleeve, knocking his glasses askew. He envied the other marchers, who had nothing to do all day but take in the tourist attractions of the town. But they were not as important as he was. Any one of them would blow their finger off with a firecracker, never mind C4 charges.
Craig took out his smart phone, the compass app already pulled up. The charges had to be planted in just the right locations, and in just the right quantities, if the explosion was going to blow the monument out of the ground. It was still a lot of C4. Fortunately for Craig, every night he slipped in to work, he found another duffel bag of it, hidden exactly where he was told it would be. It was good to have friends in high places, the same friends who knew the routes of the night guards, and who paid for his room and meals. And lattes. Staying up all night to plant charges took a lot of soy lattes.
Craig’s fingers trembled from the lack of sleep and the overload of caffeine. I’m fine, he told himself. Shaky or not, he was too well-trained to mishandle explosives and accidentally set them off.
He dropped a packet of C4, gasped and caught it quickly, juggled it up into the air in a high arc, then gently caught it with both hands cupped to his chest. His heart pounded. He needed something to steady his nerves, and went back to his bush where he had stashed two drink carriers of “yumbo” soy lattes, a word that meant “extra large” in neither Italian nor English. They were cold, but that did not matter to a real man.
Draining the cup in one swig, Craig felt alertness flood his body once more. He flexed his fingers into fists repeatedly until he was sure the jitters had passed. Then he went back to digging and planting. Only one more night to go, he thought, pushing aside feelings of panic about how much was left to do.
Craig began humming a happy tune to himself, stopping himself after remembering he was supposed to be quiet. Music could wait for another night.
After this was over, they’d be writing songs to Craig Lafferty. He was going to be the American Guy Fawkes.
He might even get his own date on the calendar.
They’ll remember me for centuries, he told himself smugly. Craig Lafferty Day. Patriot Day. America’s (re)birthday. The day America became a free country again.
· · ·
“Can’t we all just get along?”
The hotel was fairly big, but once Ewe Johnson arrived it was nowhere nearly big enough. As the latest spate of visitors flowed through the doors into the hotel lobby, Ewe saw Remo through the windows and stiff-armed a middle-aged lady, as she plowed through the crowd, squealing his name.
Remo put away the phone and put on a smile. “Hey, you!”
“You remembered my name!” Ewe cried, jumping into his arms and wrapping her legs around his waist. “Oh my God, I missed you! I thought I’d never see you again! I was so lonely the whole trip!”
“Hey, I promised I’d be here, didn’t I?”
She pulled her face back from his neck and looked at him. “Did you? I thought you had abandoned me.”
“Never. I’m sure I told you,” he said.
“So you did, Mr. Lee.” Bob Janos strolled over to the reunion. “I hope your father is well?”
“Well enough to be here,” Remo replied. “He’s excited. We both are.”
“Great, great,” Bob replied cheerily, talking around the clinging girl. “I can’t want to chat with him some more — we have a big weekend ahead of us!”
Bob’s pocket buzzed, and he pulled out his phone.
“You’ll have to excuse me…I need to take this,” he said. “Glad you made it here, Remo.”
“Not as glad as I am,” Ewe giggled. Her legs clamped tightly about Remo’s waist, and she was grinding herself against his taut stomach.
“Okay, okay,” Remo said, taking her wrists and extricating himself from the limb pretzel. “Why don’t you get your room, and I’ll meet up with you later tonight, okay?”
She pouted. “I thought I’d just stay in your room,” she said.
“You don’t want that,” Remo said. “I’ve been here on my own for days already without any housekeeping. Towels all over the place, empty beer cans, the trash needs emptying.”
“Sounds like my mama’s trailer in Mississippi,” she said, grinning and biting her lip. “A little trash don’t bother me.”
“I know, honey,” Remo said. “But it bothers me, okay? You’ll have a nice, clean room all your own, and we can turn it into our own mess, right? Won’t that be fun?”
Ewe hugged herself and squealed. “I’ll get signed in!” she said excitedly, trotting to the front desk.
With Ewe temporarily out of the way, Remo focused his hearing on Bob Janos’s phone conversation across the dining area. Centering himself, he allowed his hearing to take in the seagull-like susurrus of the crowd, the clinking glassware, even the announcers of the ballgame on the television set playing in the lobby. Then, one at a time, he muted out each sound that was not Bob Janos’ voice.
First, the television went silent — one of the tricks he had mastered a long time ago to avoid going crazy having to listen to Chiun’s soap operas all the time. Next came the conversation at the nearest table, where three middle-aged ladies were laughing over glasses of white wine.
The room became more and more devoid of sound, until finally all Remo heard was Bob Janos and the thinner, electronically modified voice of his brother, Tom.
“Yeah,” Bob said into the phone. “I made sure everyone knew on the way here that we were going to meet up with another group.”
“Good,” Tom replied. “I told my group that we would have more allies coming in from across the country to join us. They bought it.”
“You going to be okay holed up in there for a while?” Bob asked.
“The channel selection sucks, and the wi-fi is crap,” Tom said. “Least you can do is bring up something to eat.”
“There’s one of those chicken places down the street.”
“Don’t tease.”
Bob laughed. “I’ll take care of you, little brother,” he said. “I’ll be up later to fill you in on everyone on my team, so you can take my place tomorrow.”
“Trust me,” Tom said. “A day locked away in this room, you’ll want to call The Hutch and tell him we need better accommodations next time. It’s not like he doesn’t have the money.”
The desk phone rang, the jangling noise slamming painfully into Remo’s eardrum. He winced, and didn’t catch what Bob was saying, but the expression on his face indicated that Tom had made him anxious. Whatever Tom said, Bob quickly disconnected the call right away and shoved his phone back into his pants pocket. He took a steadying breath and put his practiced, fake smile back on, stepping forward to work the room again.
Remo went around the corner, stepped through the side doors onto the patio, then followed the sidewalk to a volleyball court, illuminated by a single streetlight. Remo picked up a pebble and flicked it skyward, throwing the area into darkness before taking out his phone to call Smitty.
Smith answered on the first ring. “I hope you have good news,” he said.
“I don’t know,” Remo said. “Any chance a piece of furniture might be important in all this?”
“Remo, I should not have to remind you of the severe nature of what we are facing,” Smith said sourly.
“I’m not yanking your chain, Smitty,” Remo replied. “I heard one of the Janos boys talking about a ‘Hutch.’ Sounded like he might have bankrolled the hotel rooms.”
Remo could hear keys clicking as Smith entered this new bit of information into the CURE computer. When he returned to the phone, Remo could hear the tension in his voice.
“Hutch Pummel,” he said.
“Isn’t he the guy who moans and groans about paying less taxes than his butler?” Remo asked.
“He’s a billionaire,” Smith replied. “He’s also an opportunist. From the data I have been able to gather, he has been building a secret organization of high-profile agents, who are working together to steer the opinion of the country towards increasingly aggressive actions.”
“Sounds like our man, all right.” Remo felt the itch building up inside him — a chance to dispense his own brand of justice. “Do you know where he is?”
“Colorado,” Smith said. “He has an estate west of Denver.”
“I can be at the airport in thirty minutes,” Remo replied.
“Negative,” Smith said. “I need you on the ground in Arlington. The threat against the President is more immediate, and takes priority. Have you made any headway on that?”
“Not yet,” Remo said.
“Keep looking,” Smith replied. “Call me again in twelve hours with an update.”
“I’m not a bodyguard,” Remo grumbled, but Smith had already ended the call.
Remo ambled back inside, feeling an uncomfortable anxiousness. CURE had a target. He was the weapon. He was primed to be fired. But he knew Smitty was right. He was needed here first.
Pummel would have to wait.
“There you are!”
Remo looked up to see Mei Hernandez, dolled out in a flowing, sleeveless sundress. Along with the spikes, the blue had been washed out of her hair, which now tumbled down around her shoulders, exuding femininity.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” she purred, sidling up to him.
“I can be a hard guy to find,” Remo said dryly.
“A hard guy is good to find,” Mei replied, her eyes twinkling with mischief, her palm rubbing up the inside of Remo’s thigh.
“Let’s get a drink first,” Remo offered, taking her hand and leading her back into the dining area. He poured her a glass of wine and handed it to her. She sipped it and looked up at him seductively. As she did so, he reached over and stroked a nerve on the back side of her neck. Her eyes rolled upward, and the glass tumbled from her hand, spilling alcohol down her cleavage.
“Oh dear,” Remo said. “Let’s get you upstairs and cleaned up.” But as she barely held onto consciousness, the world swimming around her, Mei could not hear Remo’s voice. She was vaguely aware that she was walking, that Remo had his arm around her, and that they were going to their room, all of which made her happy and giggly. Anyone watching saw a man and his tipsy date making their way up to a hotel room where they could easily imagine what would happen next.
Upon entering the room, Remo laid Mei on the bed, then ran his thumb gently along the top of her left temple, putting the girl to sleep safely for the rest of the night.
Opening the bedroom window, Remo tapped the sides of the screen, popping it out of its frame so that he could step onto the sill, his head and shoulders outside. The rough brick made for easy purchase, and soon he had scaled the wall all the way up to the roof. This would be a good place to meditate, he thought. Collect himself, push down any urges, center himself.
He looked up at the full moon rising in the east, and had the strangest sensation that it was laughing at him. He dismissed the notion, and pressed his palms together, elbows out, eyes closed, and directed his focus inward.
He only opened his eyes once, an hour before sunrise, when a sweaty figure with a duffel bag used a key card to let himself into the side entrance.