“Please, don’t,” said Poison, eyes large.
“Be grateful you aren’t there with them. I should kill you as well for betraying me. But I don’t have the emotional fortitude. You get to live because of my weakness. But not them. Not after what they’ve done.”
“I told you!” she cried. “It was all fake! They didn’t torture me!”
“Perhaps,” said Fawkes, “or perhaps this is some demented state of Stockholm Syndrome. Did they promise you amnesty? Immunity? Do you think any of that matters now?” The mask studied her coldly.
“No!”
He turned to the FBI team. “Even if it was all a ruse, it was a very painful ruse for me. Until I figured it out, before I realized that it was all too easy, perfectly engineered to elicit an emotional response, get me to put myself in terrible danger — before all that came into focus I really went through the agony of watching her suffer.” He extended his hand and received a gun from one of the soldiers. “And that will not be forgiven.”
“Stop, Fawkes!” cried Poison, moving toward him. A towering soldier grabbed her from behind and lifted her off the ground as she flailed.
Fawkes motioned to the warehouse floor. “Get her out of here. She doesn’t need to see this.”
Screaming, Poison was taken by two guards awkwardly down the ladder. Fawkes and the remaining guard stepped in front of the FBI team. The mask turned to Savas.
“It has been an interesting game, one still with several pieces in play. But here I have the King, and, I suppose, his Queen, even if by abilities I think the real Queen is lying in a pool of blood in a basement in New York City.”
“Just a video game to you, Fawkes?” spat Savas. “Our lives. The nation. The world. Millions, billions of people who will wake up tomorrow back in the Dark Ages. Most of them to die.”
There was a flash of lightning and a loud explosion. A deep rumble followed, shaking their bones.
“Fittingly dramatic. A sign from God do you think?” The masked man laughed. “Live free or die. I think New Hampshire’s motto? One of those tiny states. But a slogan that is central to the value of our short existence.”
He turned the weapon in his hands, removing the magazine, checking the chamber, and reinserting the box.
“Imagine a prison so intricately constructed that the inmates believe themselves free. The slaves cannot see their chains. When you’re one of the few to see through the deceptions to the heart of this darkness, most of the time you go mad, or cynical, or do something stupid and get the forces in control to erase you. That was nearly my fate.”
Cohen leaned against Savas and rested her head on his shoulder. Miller squirmed vainly in his restraints.
“But knowing what I know, it’s clear that the infection must be sterilized. Like cancer, the treatment will be horrific. It may kill the patient. Indeed, humanity may never rise again. And that might just be for the better, you know? Anyway, it won’t be for any of us to see, but for those a thousand years down the road. If any civilization rises from these ashes.” Fawkes motioned to the guard beside him, who stepped forward and raised his weapon. “Sorry for the pain, but it will all be over quickly.”
He raised his weapon and aimed at Savas. “Goodbye.”
There was another bright flash and deafening sound. But this wasn’t the storm.
The platform swayed from the force of a blast, the entire warehouse shuddering violently. Unlike thunder the rumbling was short lived, and debris rained across the interior, pieces of wood and metal thrown as far as the platform surface. The front of the warehouse had been torn apart, crates and other discarded elements shattered and burning. Black smoke filled the room, its turbulent structure illuminated by the raging flames.
Fawkes and the soldier were hurled to the floor of the platform. The soldier’s weapon discharged wildly as he fell, but his impact momentarily stunned him and he lost his grip. The gun skipped toward Miller and the back edge of the platform, plunging into darkness below.
Miller used the chaos and struck outward with a blinding kick, catching the man’s face full on. There was a cracking sound and the man screamed, rolling to his side as blood streamed into his hands.
Fawkes had stumbled forward and smashed into the railing beside Cohen, his mask shattered, jagged white pieces hanging loosely from the gas mask. Cohen grabbed his gun hand and brought it down onto the railing, the impact dislodging the weapon and sending it plummeting out of sight.
Fawkes leapt backward out of the grasping hands of Savas, stumbling into the railing on the other side of the platform. The soldier beside him pulled out a handgun and wiped blood from his broken nose.
“Kill them!” Fawkes cried.
But the soldier didn’t even raise his weapon. Two shots exploded from behind them, and the man’s head erupted in a soup of blood and flesh. His limp body dropped like a stone, shaking the platform.
A woman’s voice called from below. “Don’t twitch, masked-boy, or we’ll liquefy your big brain, too!”
“Houston!” Cohen cried.
Savas closed his eyes in relief.
There was a clattering from the ladder. A soot covered woman sprang upward, a pistol in one hand trained on Fawkes’ slumped form.
“Got you covered from two angles, asshole, so think before you act.” Her eyes darted from the shattered mask in front of her. “You three okay?”
“Yes!” Savas said angrily. “What about the other guards?”
“Killed in the explosion.”
The jigsaw face spun toward her. “And Poison?”
“She’s gone,” said Houston.
Fawkes screamed and lunged at her wildly, his hands a pair of claws aiming for her face. With a pivot, she sidestepped his motion and used her gun arm to bring the butt of the weapon viciously down on the back of his head. He collapsed and didn’t move.
Heavy steps sounded as Lopez awkwardly climbed the ladder with his one good arm. He landed roughly and glanced down at the two bodies. He exhaled slowly and smiled at the FBI team. “Better late than never, right?”
64
Armed men ushered President York down a dimly lit flight of stairs. On each side, soldiers took positions with weapons aimed upward, speaking quietly into headsets. Beside her was a lanky, gray-haired man, his face flushed, a sling around his arm. The group reached the bottom, the claustrophobic stairwell opening on a dank tunnel receding into darkness. Its opening was broad, wide enough for a vehicle to pass through. Water leaked out from it to pool at their feet.
“Madam President,” said one of the soldiers, “this shaft will take you to the helicopter. Sergeants Holmes and Nesic will accompany you.” Two uniformed men stepped beside the president. “We’re going to stay here and blow the tunnel if we have to.”
“And then what?” asked York.
“We’ll hide out. No one knows these emergency tunnels like we do. Everyone made fun of the upkeep. Well, who’s laughing now?”
“Be safe, Captain. And thank you. It’s good to know I have supporters even in the military.”
She grabbed her companion by his good arm and turned to the tunnel. The two other soldiers flanked the civilians and they moved forward, the neon green of glow sticks lighting their way.
“Elaine, how far do you think this is going to go?” asked Tooze.
“The coup?” she asked, pulling out a small handgun. “General Hastings isn’t a halfway kinda guy, George. Unless someone puts a stop to him — and I’m not going to dress up what that means — unless someone either arrests or kills the man, we’re heading for a full-blown military takeover.”