His body shivered. Pain screamed in his head. His fingers and toes felt like blocks of ice. He swallowed hard to wet his parched throat. Every limb ached like he had the worst bout of the flu. Former (though he couldn’t really be certain if that was true or not) president Reynolds’ eyes flickered open, but everything was a blur. His back rested against a cold metal chair that had been bolted to the ground; his wrists and ankles were manacled to the arms and legs of the chair.
He gasped out a breath that fogged in the frigid air.
His mind raced to remember how in the hell he had ended up in this situation. The events came to him slowly. Leaving Camp David for a jog in the wooded hills of the Catoctin National Park along with five of his security detail. He thought it was overkill at the time. But the Z Train incident had taught him to take nothing for granted. So he thought he was safe.
He was wrong.
It happened in that clearing.
My God.
They had followed a trail through woodland. It was all pretty routine. Then rounds hissed through the air. Hundreds of them fired from suppressed weapons. The security detail went down fast, each man writhing as multiple shots tore through his body. The ambush had left Reynolds as the lone survivor, crouching behind a rock.
That was when the first dart embedded in his neck. The second dug into his shoulder. The third into his back. He attempted to run, but power had drained from his body. A heavy feeling quickly swamped him and he had slumped to his knees.
Reynolds shuddered as he relived his capture, and right now, he was at the mercy of someone.
But who? he asked himself. His memory was still hazy, so he replayed the attack in his mind to search for any clues. And the questions that he came upon most often were these:
Who would most benefit from kidnapping the president of the United States? Who would have the resources and audacity to pull off such an operation? Why would they risk it?
He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. More images slowly crystalized in his mind. Masked attackers had strapped him to the back of an ATV. He struggled with the memory now, because he had lost consciousness after that. Only small snapshots remained. Being in the back of a van when a doctor injected him with something. Sitting strapped to a seat in a small jet and getting the needle treatment again. Being rolled across a small airport’s tarmac, Hannibal Lecter–style. A hospital room with monitors all around him. They were all blurs, all without much detail.
Then he recalled a face.
Albert Van Ness.
The man looking down at him, peering with the same kind of relish as a snake looking into a bird’s nest.
Reynolds growled as he struggled against his restraints. He blinked hard, attempted to focus on his surroundings once again. Gradually, his vision cleared, and he gazed down at himself. They had dressed him in orange coveralls like the prisoners at Guantánamo Bay. His arms and legs were thinner. This made him wonder how long it had been since his capture, and what exactly they had put him through.
Are they starving me?
Keeping me alive for blackmail?
Where am I?
Reynolds searched for any visible markings to tell him where the Foundation had taken him. Company logos. Written language. Anything recognizable. But there was nothing.
His chair sat in the middle of a huge, empty warehouse on a smooth black floor. Rubber, perhaps, but he wasn’t sure. Whatever the material, it looked like it had been fitted in sections, and he was on a large circular one, roughly twenty yards across. All the walls were pristine white and appeared to be made of glass. Behind the left one, it sounded like a basketball was being tossed around—an odd sound for a warehouse. At the far end of the area was a single door.
Reynolds peered at the ceiling.
Two massive mechanical arms extended from either end and met in the middle, as if it could be opened like a bascule bridge. The whole place confused him. It seemed extravagant for a simple warehouse, but he had no idea about its purpose. Nothing gave away his possible location, though it had to be somewhere remote; otherwise someone would have noticed him.
Right?
Reynolds’ teeth started to chatter. He hunched, let out a breath through gritted teeth. It didn’t matter if they were attempting to starve him. The cold would take him first if they kept him here for much longer. His toes were ice white, matching the temperature. All the hairs on his arms and legs stood at attention.
As if on cue, the door at the far end flew open. Two guards wheeled in a large portable monitor and headed over to his chair. Their footsteps echoed inside the vast space, and neither of them acknowledged him when they spun the screen to face Reynolds. He tried talking to them, but it only came out as the grunts of a man with no saliva. They ignored him anyway.
A small HD webcam was attached to the top of the screen, so he assumed he was going to talk to somebody. He was fairly certain who that somebody would be. One of the men hit the power button; the other carried a cup of water to him and held it toward his lips.
Reynolds twisted his head to the side. Rasping, he somehow got out, “I’m not drinking more of your drugs.”
“It’s water,” the man said mechanically.
“Screw you.”
The guard simply shrugged and then joined his colleague at the side of the monitor. He made direct eye contact with Reynolds as he slowly poured the contents of the cup onto the floor. It spilled across the ground and washed against his shivering toes.
Assholes . . .
A blue pinhead light on the HD camera winked on.
A meeting room flashed onto the screen. Albert Van Ness sat at the head of the table in his wheelchair, elbows on the desk and hands steepled. The dark blue suit neatly fitted his frail body, and his black tie had been fastened in an immaculate knot. The man next to him looked gaunt and tired, top button of his shirt unfastened. Loose tie. He seemed like a two-pack-a-day smoker who had vodka for breakfast.
Is that Edwards?
“Good morning, former president Reynolds,” Van Ness said.
Hearing himself greeted as “former” confirmed Reynolds’ suspicion that he’d been a prisoner for quite some time. It also pissed him off.
“This is my colleague, Mr. Edwards,” Van Ness continued. “I’ll keep this brief because time is of the essence. Humanity is facing its greatest challenge. One that might lead to our species’ downfall. The Foundation for Human Advancement has prepared as best as we could, but unfortunately the coming apocalypse has arrived faster than even I anticipated. To that end, we require immediate resources.”
He leaned forward.
“And that’s where you come in.”
Reynolds simply glared at the screen. He remembered being led from the command center in New York City by the treasonous Agent Samuels, Van Ness’ inside man on his Secret Service security detail. They had planned the president’s death that day, but with the help of Diego Munoz, he had survived. Barely. There was no way he intended to help this terrorist hiding behind a supposedly benevolent organization.
“How long have I been a prisoner?” Reynolds asked, his throat raw.
“Ah. Yes. How rude of me,” Van Ness replied. “You deserve some answers. We’ve kept you in a medically induced coma for eleven months, give or take. You’ve been kept alive because I knew a day would come when you’d be useful. And here we are.”
Nearly a year. Reynolds could not believe it. He momentarily wondered what had happened in the world since his drugging.
Those thoughts quickly dissipated.
“Useful?” Reynolds spat, his cold breath continuing to cloud the air between himself and the screen. “What do you expect me to do for you?”
Edwards turned to Van Ness. “Perhaps we should raise the temperature and give him a hot meal. Make him a bit more comfortable.”
“You seem to be forgetting I was in the Marines.” Reynolds let out a bitter laugh. “Cut the bullshit. Tell me what you want.”
Van Ness gave a sage nod. “We intend to trade you for money. You will act as negotiator directly with President Brogan.”
A modicum of satisfaction ran through Reynolds’ shivering body. Brogan was aware of the Foundation. She had acted as a confidante when he went through the process of weeding out anyone in the administration with ties to Van Ness’ organization, and Reynolds knew America was in safe and steady hands—assuming the Foundation hadn’t turned her, too.
“The smugness on your face is unbecoming, Mr. President,” Van Ness continued. “You of all people know how real the threat is. How dangerous these creatures are. We’ll all perish if they are not stopped. I’ll be frank with you, John . . . May I call you John?”
“You can call me whatever you’d like, asshole. It won’t help.”
“In that case, let’s stick with former Mr. President,” Van Ness replied. He turned to face Edwards. “It has a nice defeated ring to it, don’t you think?”
Reynolds filled with anger but tried to remain defiant. “We both know the United States does not negotiate with terrorists.”
“Terrorist?” Van Ness grinned. “I’m humanity’s savior. Your protector. And a humble one at that—I won’t make you thank me.”
Reynolds used all of his strength to hold back his rage. He also attempted to stop his body from convulsing from the cold. If they were going to kill him, fine, but he wasn’t acting as Van Ness’ pawn. Not today, not ever. He’d been through too much in his life to pathetically appear worldwide on a hostage video, parroting outrageous demands. If he was going to die, he was going to face it like a man.
“All I require is two percent. Surely you can make that happen, former Mr. President.”
“Two percent of what?” Reynolds asked.
“Why, of everything, of course. Two percent of the United States’ gross domestic product.”
Reynolds quickly did the math and nearly choked on the outrageous demand. “Two percent. You want four hundred billion dollars?”
“A year. To start. But, of course, we will renegotiate next year. Economies are going to take a tumble, especially yours.”
“It’s a small price to pay for the ongoing survival of our species,” Edwards added. “Think of it like an insurance policy.”
Reynolds broke into laughter at the ridiculousness of the statement. He laughed hard. He laughed maniacally at the screen, enjoying the look of annoyance on the faces of the two men. “You’re insane,” he said.
“Am I?” Van Ness replied. “Maybe. Maybe. But the United States will pay, and you’ll make sure of it.”
“To hell I will,” Reynolds shouted in defiance. He stared into the camera and slowly repeated his earlier statement. “The United States does not negotiate with terrorists.”
“Perhaps . . . perhaps not. But here isn’t the time for this discussion. For now, you’ll relay our request or face the consequences.”
Reynolds shrugged. “Go ahead and kill me. I won’t do it.”
“Oh, John. I am not going to kill you. It’s not what I do to you that matters here. Not what I do to you at all.”
The oddness of the response unnerved him.
As did the look of triumph on the old man’s face.
Van Ness hit a button on his wheelchair arm. “Farewell, former Mr. President. Look to your left and let us know when you change your mind.”
The video feed cut abruptly.
The guards wheeled the monitor back toward the distant doorway, leaving him alone once again in the freezing cold.
Reynolds peered at the left wall, where he had previously heard those odd sounds. The middle section of it changed from white to transparent, revealing blood spatters and smears on the glass. Beyond it, in what looked like a bland prison cell, a creature gripped a man’s naked body in its claws. The corpse had multiple slashes across the chest, half of his face had been ripped off, and he was missing an arm. The creature threw the mangled man against the rear wall, bounded up to him, and thrashed its tail against his back, slicing his spine in half.
Bile rose in Reynolds’ throat. His pulse quickened as he watched the creature continue to throw the man around like a rag doll.
Then the creature noticed the section of now transparent wall. It approached, staring toward Reynolds through its soulless black eyes. The sight instantly brought back nightmares of escaping through the Jersey maintenance tunnel almost two years ago. Already hypothermic, he was still chilled to his core to be face-to-face with one of these monsters again.
The creature howled. It threw itself against the glass, but the wall held. That didn’t stop it from repeatedly attacking in an attempt to reach Reynolds.
He thought he heard a fracture, like ice cracking in a whiskey glass. It reminded him of when the creatures had attacked the command center blast door. If they got through that, this material seemed much less of a problem. It left him with a simple decision. He could either take the cowardly way out and negotiate for Van Ness, which he knew was doomed to failure and would likely lead to his death regardless, or he could face being torn to shreds by sharp claws, teeth, and tail.
On balance, he preferred the second option.
Death before dishonor.
“Semper fi.”