“That doesn’t matter. Here’s what does: You need to stop your investigation.”
Or what? Emily almost asked, but she feared the answer had to do with the gun, so she said nothing.
Her investigation had drawn these agents to her. They hadn’t started this. She had. And her decision alone would determine how it ended. That gave her leverage.
Or it might get her killed.
“This is about national security,” the Major said. “I’m not asking you to drop it. I’m ordering you. Do you understand?”
“I hate guns,” Emily said, voice trembling. “The attack. Please.”
The gun pressed harder into her side.
“Understand?”
“On one condition.”
A scowl. “What condition?”
“Tell me what happened on July Fourth. Not for print. Say it’s off the record, if you like. It’s for me alone. I need the truth.”
The Major searched her eyes. Emily met her gaze unflinching, one of the hardest things she had ever done. Finally, the Major nodded.
“I see you do.”
“I’ll drop my investigation, I swear. I won’t print it.”
“I believe you,” she said, as though she knew something about Emily’s ethical code. How much did she know? She must have one hell of an information source. “You have until the SUV stops.”
The Major set the gun on her lap.
Emily dove in.
“Was there a hallucinogen?”
“No.”
Despite herself, Emily smiled, relieved. She wasn’t crazy. “Was there a pathogen in the darts, a bioweapon that turned people into—” She stopped.
“Zombies? Yes, there was.”
Holy crap.
“Was it contagious?”
The Major took a shuddering breath. “Very. Those who were infected were driven to infect others by any means.”
“Like a bite,” she said, thinking of Craig.
“Especially a bite.”
“That’s why you killed them.”
“They were already dead.” Her voice was steady but sad. “It was over the moment the pathogen entered their bodies. Our only option was to eliminate all the carriers right then. Otherwise, the pathogen would have spread, uncontrolled, across the Earth.”
That sank in. The human species would have been wiped out. But it hadn’t been, thanks to this woman and her fellow agents, while Emily had only cowered under Craig’s body and then drowned herself in a bottle of bourbon.
She had been weak.
Her face heated with shame.
“Who are you?” Emily asked. “What’s your name?”
The Major stared. Her expression softened.
The SUV stopped.
The door opened, letting in fresh air. An agent stood there. Emily blinked at the sudden invasion of sunlight.
“She’s free to go,” the Major said to the agent, then added to Emily, “Remember your promise. I’ll be watching.”
Emily didn’t doubt it.
The SUV had parked behind her Escort. They had gone around the block. As soon as Emily got out, blinking in the bright sun, both SUVs pulled out and drove off down the street. Gone. As though she had dreamed it. Except Emily knew the truth now and couldn’t tell a soul. She slid into her driver’s seat and imagined what devastation the pathogen would have caused had it spread. On this street alone: wrecked cars, broken windows, looting, gunfire, screams, and moans.
Then she imagined herself as one of the agents who had prevented that apocalypse, wrapped in Kevlar, a gun in each hand, picking off the infected with perfect shots like targets in a carnival game.
That just wasn’t her.
A pickup honked.
“Come on, lady, go!”
She wanted to yell back, Shut up, you’re lucky to be alive! Instead she flipped him off, turned on the ignition, and drove. Two blocks later, she made the vow. No more wallowing. No more drink. No more suspensions. She should have died on July Fourth, but she hadn’t. This was another chance to not screw up her life, and she wouldn’t waste it.
Only when she parked outside Mia’s day care did she remember that Major hadn’t said her name.
A month later, Emily listened to the police scanner in the newsroom while hunting through social media feeds for news. A murder or car wreck. She’d settle for a cat up a tree.
On one of the newsroom’s many televisions, set to CNN on mute, the words BREAKING NEWS and TERRORIST ATTACK FOILED blared across the screen in capital letters, bright red. The pretty blond anchor looked solemn as she talked into the camera.
“Hey, John,” Emily yelled. “Turn that up.”
John, who sat next to the TV, thumbed the volume.
“… not giving details on the attack,” the anchor said. “Again, here’s what we know at this time. The intended attack was global in nature, but halted at the last minute by an American strike team…”
Emily listened intently.
She didn’t jump at every car backfire anymore, not since she had learned the truth about the Liberty Center attack. She had feared she would never sleep soundly again, but that night, her insomnia had melted away and she had slept better than in weeks. She’d called her AA sponsor and attended meetings. She spent more time with Mia. She had even started yoga classes three mornings a week. Life got better.
But she still paid attention to any terrorist action anywhere in the world. “It’s an obsession,” Chuck said, and he was right.
No one could blame her, considering.
The CNN anchor put a hand to her earpiece. “We’re getting new information. I’m told the Defense Department is confirming a death. A British agent. This is the first we’ve heard about any nationality besides American involved in the action. The DOD has released a photo and a name.”
The photo flashed on the screen.
She wore a uniform, her hair pulled back.
Smiling. Happy.
Emily had never seen her happy.
She doubled over her trash can and vomited up the coffee and bagel she’d had for breakfast.
“Are you all right?” John asked.
“Fine,” she said.
“Not pregnant, are you?”
“Are you?” she snapped back.
That shut him up. She wiped off her mouth and walked to Chuck’s desk. Today’s tie sported stripes of deep green and silver — Philadelphia Eagles colors. He was typing an email.
“In a minute,” he said.
“It’s important.”
“So is this. We’re trying to find out if there’s any local connection to that.” He pointed at another TV, also tuned to coverage of the attack.
“There is,” Emily said.
He stopped typing. “Go on.”
“The British agent who died was at the Liberty Center. She was in charge of the agents who brought down the attackers.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re not having a relapse, are you? Because if this is another one of your delusions—”
Emily bristled. “Every survivor I interviewed talked about her. No one knew her name, but they all described a female British agent that the other agents called Major. That’s her. She was there.”
Chuck swiveled his chair to face her. “She’s the one who saved your life.”
“Yes.”
“Do you need to go home? Take the day off?”
That sounded attractive.
She couldn’t.
“I need to write this story, Chuck.”
“You’re too close to it.”
“That’s why it has to be me. I can’t bear the thought of anyone else doing it. I already have the contacts and interviews from before.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded.
“Then it’s yours. This isn’t the hard news. The wires will have that covered. You write the reaction from local survivors. That woman is a hero, twice over. That’s the story. I want you to do your best to answer one question.”