Dan
The phone is light in my hand, but I’m gripping it like the thing is an anvil. My mind is tripping over itself. I knew it was possible. But I didn’t want to believe.
I must have missed signs.
Anger flushes through me, washing away the confusion. The bastard is one hell of a liar.
Mitchel. What the fuck?
I stand up, adrenaline shooting through me. Leaving my office, I race down the spiral steps and rush through the command center to the elevator. Waiting for it, I tap my toe, gritting my teeth, repressing the urge to punch at the metal doors.
They finally open, and I step into the empty space, flashes of my ride with Tom pinging through my mind. I assumed my enemy was a stranger. Should have known it was someone closer.
Once on Anita’s floor I break into a jog, headed to her room. My fist pounds on the door, louder than I mean it to be, my furious frustration needing an outlet.
Blood is rushing in my ears, and when there is no answer, I knock again, even harder this time. I need to hit something badly. The door swings open, and Anita, her usually silky hair mussed into a teased mess, stands on the other side, wearing a robe and a look of concern.
“It was Mitchel,” I say, my jaw clenched to keep from screaming it.
Anita’s eyes widen, and she glances over her shoulder toward the bedroom. It’s then I realize what I’ve interrupted. Shit. It’s the middle of the freaking day. Anger flares anew. Irrational this time, misplaced and tinged with the scent of jealousy. “We need to go,” I tell her.
Anita turns back to me and nods. “Yes. Give me a few to get myself together.”
“I’ll wait right out here.” I don’t need to be in there with that smell.
In the few minutes it takes her to get dressed, I call Tanya and tell her to locate Mitchel. It’s his day off, and he usually goes out paddleboarding in the morning then hangs in his rooms. This would all go much easier if we could confront him in private.
I must find out what he did to my systems.
As Anita steps into the hall, her hair brushed and pulled back into a ponytail, wearing jeans and a bright blue tunic, Tanya calls me back. “He’s in his room.”
“Meet us there,” I say. “Mitchel is the mole.”
Tanya’s intake of breath is the only hint of her surprise. “On my way.” Her voice is hard. Ready.
We convene outside his door, and I knock, my anger leashed. I've found my control now. With Tanya and Anita by my side, I am grounded. Supported.
But can I trust it?
Mitchel answers, and when he takes in my expression he steps back into the apartment, looking suddenly exhausted. "Why?" I say as I follow him, Anita and Tanya flanking me. "How could you?"
His tired eyes harden. "I had no choice."
"There is always a choice," Anita says, her voice steely.
"What did you do?" I ask.
"I haven't done anything yet." Mitchel is in the center of his living room now. He stops backing up, his spine straightening. "But if anything happens to me, the whole thing goes down." His eyes light with triumph. I recognize the spark in his gaze. The sense of power—it's a hacker’s drug, the power we take. We control the machines, and the machines control the world.
But Mitchel can’t beat me.
Anita steps forward. "Tell Dan what you did now, so he can fix it.”
His gaze falls on her. "No. I'm sorry, Anita." his voice drops low. "But I can't. If I don't follow through, they will kill my mother."
My own mother flashes across my mind's eye. Her voice over the Alexa stream fills my ears—the soft sound of her weeping. Would I betray all this to save her? No. I've betrayed her to create this.
To create justice.
And this asshole isn't going to take it all away.
Tanya moves forward with fluid strides and grabs him by the collar before Mitchel can backpedal. "If anything happens to me," he says quickly, “Joyful Justice will be destroyed. All our data—the names and locations of our operatives—everything will be sent to Interpol, the CIA—” His voice cuts off as Tanya punches him in the stomach, and he bends over, gasping for air.
Tanya gives a short laugh. "You cannot destroy Joyful Justice," she says, her accent thick but her words clear. "We are not our computer system. We are not individuals. We are a collective vision. We are justice."
"How could you do this?" I ask. "Why didn't you come to me?" The hurt in my voice is terrible. Anita looks over at me, and deep sympathy wells in her gaze. Shit. I sound pathetic.
Not taking her eyes off Mitchel, Tanya says, "He is a coward, Dan; that is how he can risk us all. This is a great act of cowardice." She lets him go but only long enough to step back and deliver another nasty blow to his stomach. "Give me your phone," she says. "I'm not fishing around in your pockets."
Mitchel stumbles back, both hands to his gut. His eyes are bulging. Mitchel is not used to physical confrontation.
"If you take my phone then the virus will go off. Only I can stop it."
Tanya steps forward and grabs his shirt, straightening him again. “Give me your phone.” Her voice is steely.
Mitchel looks over her shoulder to me. "You know, Dan. You know I've got you trapped."
"Give her your phone,” I say. We don't have much time.
Mitchel reaches into the pocket of his shorts and takes out the slim device, handing it to Tanya. She passes it to me. It’s warm and light. And dangerous. “What do you want me to do with him?" Tanya asks.
"Take him down to George's rooms. They can stay together." I've secured that room. There is no way for them to communicate with the outside. No escape.
She grabs Mitchel’s arm and starts to move him toward the door. "Dan!" Mitchel says, his eyes wide. “It will go off if I don't stop it. I have to manually extend the time every six hours."
"Why haven't you set it off yet?" I ask.
"They told me to wait for their communication, and they have not contacted me."
"Who?" I ask, needing to confirm what we already know.
"I don't know their real names." He says it like it's obvious.
"But they know yours." I shake my head. What an idiot. How did he let this happen? His face goes red at the implied insult. "We found them,” I say, my voice weary.
“Do you have my mother?" he asks.
Should I lie and say we do? Blackmail him into giving me the code to his bomb? "Yes, she is in our custody, so you can turn it off now.” It sounds like a lie even to my own ears. Shit, I should have thought this through before storming up here.
Mitchel’s lips tighten into a straight line. "You’re lying. I want to speak to her. Then I'll end it."
Tanya jerks him. "I'll kill her myself," she says, close to his ear. “She will die a painful death if you do not give Dan the information he needs.”
Mitchel shakes his head. "Threaten me all you want. I'm not risking her."
"You'll risk all of us, all the operatives in the field?” Anita asks.
"She gave me life,” Mitchel says, his voice almost a whine.
Anita lifts her chin to Tanya, indicating to get him out of here. Tanya pulls him forward and out the door. I watch them go down the hall, stunned into inaction for several seconds. "You okay?" Anita asks.
No.
"I have to go."
I leave, headed for my private rooms. I have a bomb to defuse. Fuck me.
Declan
The restaurant is almost full, and the view of the square—one of Savannah’s most beautiful—sparkles through the tall casement windows. The hostess seats me at a two-top with a clear view of the fountain at the park’s center.
Scented of butter and garlic, Amelia’s is bustling with brunch customers on this sunny Sunday. The worn wooden tables and Ball jar water glasses contrast with the elegant height of the ceiling and fine linen napkins. It’s the kind of dichotomy America loves at this moment: the old and new, the rustic and urban, the casual and formal all mixing together.
Below me on the square, a few guys are gathering around the statue of a Confederate leader known for his bravery on Civil War battlefields and dedication to his country: the Confederate States of America.
Organized by a blogger who calls himself Darth Vengeance, the Men’s Rights rally is set to begin in about thirty minutes. My contact within the movement, Troy Richardson, will be there. Troy agreed to meet when it’s over so I can talk to him about why the fuck Nathan Jenkins is following Sydney Rye.
Consuela Sanchez’s theory that the MR movement might be more organized than we think is niggling at the back of my mind. They seem like such a rag-tag team of losers. But with two mass killings and an assassination attempt under their belts, maybe what we’ve been seeing as lone actors is actually much more. Could they really have their shit together enough to organize—and raise money for—terrorist operations?
My waiter, a tall, slim African American man with a big smile, interrupts my train of thought. “How are you today?” he asks brightly. I glance back down at the all-white crowd of men swirling below us and suppress a sigh.
“I’m good, and you?”
“Very good, thanks for asking.” His accent is local, lyrical, and friendly. “Can I tell you our specials?”
“I’ll have the shrimp and grits; it’s my favorite.” I smile, letting him know I’m a returning customer.
“Wonderful. I love that too. Anything to drink?”
“Just coffee.”
He takes my menu and moves away, navigating the tightly packed tables as elegantly as a dancer sashaying through a crowded nightclub.
I pull out my phone, checking again to see if there is an ID on the woman Sydney took hostage. Almost thirty hours have passed since I sent the images to a friend at Interpol. He owed me one—but if he can tell me her name then I will be in his debt.
As my email loads, I glance at the crowd below. They have signs I can’t read from this angle, but the women who walk by react with wrinkled noses and dirty looks, which just make the protesters smile. Dickheads.
My phone pings with fresh messages, and I scroll through. Yes! My contact came through. I open the email and scroll past his gloating.
Petra Bokan:
38 years old, Czech-born but resides in Romania. Suspected of human trafficking—she has brothels all over the world.
My eyes narrow as I stare at the brief paragraph. Could she be connected to the McCain brothers? They are in the same business.
Nathan Jenkins attends a meeting with Ian McCain in Istanbul, then I see him in Miami…maybe he wasn’t following Sydney. Maybe he was following Petra.
The waiter appears with my coffee, and I thank him before sending a reply to my friend. Thanks so much, can you check if she has any connections to the McCain brothers—Ian, Michael, and Murphy, Irish Nationals involved in sex trafficking.
I reread the email and hit send. There has to be a connection. This is too big a coincidence. Putting my phone next to my plate, I sip my coffee, returning my attention to the gathering crowd below. There are about twenty or thirty protesters now. A stage has been erected next to a statue of the Confederate officer, and someone is making final adjustments to the microphone and loudspeakers.
My gaze scans the rest of the park. A perfect square in the center of this block of graceful mansions, it is planted with mature live oak trees—their gnarled branches dripping with silvery green Spanish moss. Hundreds of years old, the trees shading today’s rally stood here when the last slave ship to deliver human chattel to American shores docked in Savannah in 1859—a half century after the importation of slaves had been outlawed.
Sitting under the cool whisper of air-conditioning, listening to the clink of silverware and the soft rumble of conversation, a shiver passes over me as I think of the history haunting this city…this nation. My gold watch bumps against my wrist bone as I replace my coffee cup on its saucer.
An inheritance from my grandfather, the Rolex is nothing compared to the vast wealth left to me. Generations of freedom and privilege afford me the luxury to choose my own course. It is my duty to help foster freedom for all.
My eyes drift to the men below again—stirring now, as a speaker steps onto the stage. I lean forward. Is that a woman? Yes. About average height, wearing a power suit in burgundy, with long blonde hair that reaches to the middle of her back, she steps up to the microphone as the men cheer.
I can’t make out her words, but the men press closer to the stage as she begins to speak. Some of them are nodding along. Others clap and whistle.
Local people and tourists are avoiding the men now, taking any of the other shaded paths available to bypass the gathering. The rally is concentrated in the center of the square, the small crowd filling the space between the fountain and the statue.
I’m distracted as the waiter brings my food. The buttery scent of the grits and the brine of the shrimp bring a smile to my face. “Thank you.”
“Enjoy,” the waiter encourages. His eyes pass over the window as he turns to leave, and he pauses for a moment, looking down at the rally below.
I follow his gaze. A dark, draped figure is moving toward the men. It’s a woman in a burka. She is alone, walking slowly but purposefully toward the center of the park. My heart beats faster, and I tense to stand. Something is wrong.
As the covered figure reaches the edge of the crowd, the men she meets step back, surprise evident in their postures.
The waiter leaves me, moving on to another table. Riveted, I watch the woman as she pushes through the crowd. Finally reaching the front of the stage, she raises a hand as if to ask a question. The speaker looks down at her, eyebrows raised in question, her mouth turned up into a condescending smile.
A man in the back yells something, and the rest of the crowd cheers him. A sudden flash of light is followed by a loud bang, causing the casement windows to shudder in their wooden frames. Everything is happening so fast that I’m standing, my chair knocked over behind me, before I even fully realize what I’m seeing.
Men are lying on the ground, smoke is swirling, and the speaker is missing. As the air clears I see her—or rather, a part of her. Bile rises in my throat. Where the burka-clad woman stood in front of the stage is now just a wet, charred horror. A suicide bomber. The woman was a suicide bomber.
Other diners are crowding around me, staring down at the carnage. My heart hammers, and my palms are slick with sweat. Sirens begin to wail in the distance.
Is this the beginning of a war between the Men’s Rights activists and the Her Prophet followers?