Raindrops pelted down, splashing into the puddles of the forest trail. Tom Cafferty’s running shoes pounded the dirt. A biting wind cut through his drenched T-shirt, but he drove on, sucking in deep breaths.
These moments alone allowed him time to think about the next steps in taking down Albert Van Ness and the Foundation, to formulate decisive plans that would finally end the German’s global reign of tyranny.
Exercise had also become an essential part of his routine. It had made him physically and mentally sharper. Fit body, fit mind. Blowing off steam, unlike the Z Train–obsessed mayor who had turned to booze and had caused everyone around him to suffer while he selfishly pursued his dream. This time his wife, Ellen, was an equal partner on their quest. And the two other people in his inner circle were as equally committed to seeing this through, whatever the cost.
Cafferty broke out of the forest and hit a narrow country lane. Hertfordshire’s lush green fields surrounded both sides, separated by hedgerows and fences. He quickened his stride, pushing himself against the driving rain, pushing himself to the limit. He knew he had to do that in every aspect of his life if he was to achieve his aim.
A crow burst from the branch of a naked oak tree. It cawed as it flew overhead. Fast. Black. Shrill. It immediately evoked images of creatures in Cafferty’s mind.
When the first one erupted out of the Jersey City subway tunnel . . .
Attacking the survivors on the train . . .
Facing them down in the nest . . .
Thousands swarming David North as he fought to the bitter end . . .
Cafferty pushed those memories to the back of his mind. Only the future was manageable. He had told himself to let go, again and again. But he couldn’t. This was his new obsession, and it was only partly a revenge mission for the likes of North, Arnolds, and Spear. Dealing with the Foundation meant dealing with two types of creatures: Van Ness and the subterranean ones. Globally exposing them. He just hoped the world was ready to deal with that.
He was confident, though, that it didn’t have a choice.
A small white cottage with a thatched roof came into view at the bottom of a shallow valley. Cafferty’s lungs were near bursting and his legs ached, though he maintained his speed. The house was in an ideal, discreet location for the team: within striking distance of Paris, but not too close. Diego Munoz, the team’s tech guru, had already arrived for the briefing and had parked his silver van next to Ellen’s Audi Q5.
Cafferty slowed to a walk as he neared. He rested his hands on his hips and took a minute to catch his breath. All the physical aches felt good.
Today was a big day, though. An afternoon meeting in London would potentially define the team’s future. Since President Reynolds had disappeared nearly a year ago, the funding for his team was running out. Reynolds’ newly sworn in successor, President Brogan, was yet to be convinced about the danger presented by Van Ness.
This cash flow problem had created a mental ache for the last few months. Running helped ease his anxiety, but it didn’t wipe away his concern. He needed to make the UK’s leading politician understand the importance of exactly what he faced on the other side of the English Channel. He needed a powerful partner. It frustrated him how most national governments either toed Van Ness’ line or didn’t take the threat seriously. Thankfully, Prime Minister Simpson had agreed to a meeting away from Downing Street, for obvious reasons. He didn’t want any of Van Ness’ team seeing him entertaining a man who was actively pursuing the Foundation.
The whine of a motorbike approached from a distance, Sarah Bowcut’s usual way of announcing her arrival. A former NYPD SWAT team member, she appeared more badass than ever.
Cafferty checked his watch. It was just before ten in the morning, the planned time for their briefing. He carried out a final few stretches, then entered the cottage. The mouthwatering scents of cooking bacon and brewing coffee hit him, making his stomach growl.
Munoz sat inside the cramped living room on the leather couch. He faced the cast-iron Victorian fireplace, looking every bit his usual self. Headphones planted against his ears while he focused on his laptop. Terrible T-shirt. This one had Darth Vader in a disco. Cafferty leaned against the doorway.
“What’s up, Tom?” Munoz said without peering up.
“Ready for this afternoon?”
“You bet.”
Cafferty gave him an appreciative nod, then continued along the hallway. The former head of the New York City MTA command center had done some great work over the past year. His van had everything they needed for surveillance and target acquisition, but even better, he had subcontracted the right people to allow them to reverse engineer the laser he had recovered while saving President Reynolds. The other laser had been requisitioned by DARPA.
Ellen stood by the stove in the farmhouse-style kitchen. She was dressed in sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt and had her hair in a loose bun. Her relaxed outfit reminded Cafferty that this was a long way from their spacious apartment in Manhattan. He knew she missed her previous lifestyle, but it was leaving their toddler, David, with her parents in West Virginia that had been a lot harder. There was so much they were still coming to grips with, from both before and after the Z Train opening, but one thing was clear: they were both committed to each other and the mission. They could have the life they wanted after they’d seen this through. Neither of them wanted little David dragged into a world of creatures and human monsters.
Neither of them wanted him growing up in a world where the Foundation even existed.
She flashed him a smile. “You’re getting quicker, Tom.”
Cafferty went to wrap his arms around her. The disaster in New York had brought them closer than ever before. It hadn’t healed everything, but he no longer looked at Ellen and saw the shared baggage of the last few years. The affairs. The drinking. The silent treatment. He now viewed her with all that stripped away. As the person who had initially stolen his heart.
Theirs was a bond forged in the darkness below the earth, and their love—and, more important, their respect—for each other was stronger than ever.
Ellen stepped away. “You can keep your sweaty paws off me, mister.”
“Not even a kiss?”
Through the kitchen window, Bowcut’s motorbike crunched over the gravel and came to a halt by the side of the van. She tugged off her helmet and nodded at Cafferty.
“Grab a shower, then we’ll eat,” Ellen said. “We don’t need you stinking up the kitchen.”
Cafferty let out a mock deep sigh, then headed for the bathroom. As he closed the door, though, that sigh became a shortness of breath. Because ever since that day in New York, the shower always brought back memories of other people’s blood falling from his body and swirling around his feet. Blackness rimmed the edge of his vision . . .
And then he was back in control.
That was something he’d managed to be able to do only recently: to put behind him the day-to-day reminders of the horror he’d witnessed. As with everything now, Ellen had helped, just as he helped her with the nightmares she’d lived through. The PTSD wasn’t gone—not by a long shot—but it was something he could put away now and not let overwhelm him.
He took his shower and was dressed and back out in ten minutes. Munoz, Ellen, and Bowcut, who had her hair in a tight ponytail and was wearing jeans and a SWAT T-shirt, all sat around the kitchen table.
Bowcut had spent the last year tracking the Foundation’s movements from Paris to various places around the globe. Its numbers were growing every month, and it appeared the Foundation was ramping up for something. She had worked on flipping a few of the staff, but the result had often been the same—that person would vanish off the face of the earth without any leads. All searches led to dead ends.
And, they assumed, the person was probably as equally dead.
“How you doing, Tom?” Bowcut asked.
“Not bad, all things considered. I’ll be feeling a lot better if this afternoon goes well.” Cafferty pulled out the spare chair with a scrape and took a seat. “Ready to go?”
“Yeah, we’re good, but we need to proceed with caution.”
“Caution?” Cafferty grabbed some toast and spooned on some scrambled egg. “Don’t we proceed with caution for everything?”
“I mean extra caution. I’ve tracked some of the Foundation guys back to London. Things are heating up in the capital.”
“Any idea what they’re planning?” Ellen asked.
Bowcut nodded, then spread a schematic of the London Underground on the table. “I’ve seen them slipping through the entrance of a disused Underground station, disguised as workers. Some carrying heavy equipment. We might be looking at an engineered version of New York.”
“Did you get pictorial evidence? Or anything else that we can use as leverage with the prime minister?”
“Of course. The photos are already uploaded to our secure server. But we need to go in tonight if they’re planning something imminent.”
“And that might be the case,” Munoz added. “I hacked into their shipping manifests last night. They use the shell company Everglade Line for their business. Plenty of stuff goes around the world, but a lot has gone to the U.S. and UK recently. And I mean a lot.”
“Any hints as to what it might be?” Cafferty asked.
Munoz shrugged. “It’s down as ‘technology.’ That’s all I know. It’s reasonable to assume they’re paying people off at the customs checks.”
“So that’s why we need to go in tonight,” Bowcut said. “If they’re creating an artificial breach, we need to stop it before creatures flood the tunnels.”
“Thank God the creatures can’t breathe oxygen . . . right?” Munoz said, half believing his words.
Cafferty’s thoughts drifted back to the creatures in the New York subway, slowly growing more tolerant of higher levels of O2 and less dependent on their methane-filled nests. He forked scrambled egg into his mouth. Ellen had done his just the way he liked it, with some milk and sharp cheddar, seasoned with salt and pepper. He savored the taste for a moment before getting back to the task at hand. “Okay, sounds like we’ve got little choice. Let’s strategize on our way to the meeting.”
The team finished brunch in silence. Cafferty knew today would tell him if they had a shot at carrying on the fight in a structured way, or if they would be forced into more drastic action through lack of support. He also realized the consequences of the latter wasn’t worth considering. Yet.
The Foundation agent lowered her parabolic microphone back inside her covered trench. At last, after two weeks of surveilling the cottage, she had gotten some tangible information from these deluded New Yorkers. She had initially come in the dead of night, dug the hole, then laid a ground sheet over it. Once covered by fallen leaves, leaving only a thin slit to observe, her position was almost invisible to the naked eye. And now it had paid off.
She typed in a message on her secure data-burst radio:
Command, this is UK Four. Prepare for a transmission.
Edwards would be on this fast. That’s the way he worked, and she liked that. Her arctic-condition sleeping bag had kept her warm at night, but the weather in England was a damp cold, rather than dry, and it chilled her to the bone.
Command:
Copy, send over.
UK Four:
Attached is a recording from the cottage. Tom Cafferty, Ellen Cafferty, Diego Munoz, and Sarah Bowcut in conversation.
She transmitted the burst. While waiting for a reply, she stared through the scope of her sniper rifle at the kitchen window. It was entirely possible that the kill order might come, which she had no qualms executing, as long as it got her out of this damned ditch.
Minutes later, the reply came.
Good work, UK Four. Your work there is done. Wait for them to leave, then head back to London to await further orders.
UK Four:
Roger, out.
She continued to observe for the next half an hour, willing the targets to leave the cottage. Eventually they did, Cafferty in a suit and his wife in business dress, the other two in casual clothing. They looked pleased with themselves, but she guessed they were in for a nasty surprise once in the capital.