“Son of a bitch,” said Miller.
Fawkes continued. “You should thank me. You all should thank me for finally driving a stake into the world’s vampires. You—”
“Shut up!” yelled Savas. “I’m not in the mood for more of your crazy.”
“But I didn’t even tell you the best part,” said Fawkes, grin wide. “Paranoid? The best part is that I can show you.”
“Show us what?” asked Savas.
“The truth. The truth I discovered hacking through the financial systems. The truth that they couldn’t conceal from me. I know who they are. I know where they’re working from!”
Savas narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“Bilderberg.” Fawkes sighed.
Cohen spun around. “What did you say?”
“Bilderberg.”
Savas turned to Cohen. “What’s that?”
Cohen approached Fawkes, removing her glasses. “The Bilderberg Group. It’s a conspiracy theorist's wet dream. The biggest economic conference in the world. Center of Europe. Centuries old. Private. Secretive. No transcripts. No records. World leaders, industry magnates, academic powerhouses, media moguls. Bipartisan support in the nutcase-community that they are the real force running the world.”
“That’s the nexus,” said Fawkes, eyes alight. He pushed himself up and stood before them, postured stooped. “But it’s like an octopus. And it’s real. Let me show you! Take these cuffs off. The next part is what is really—”
There was a pop and tinkling of glass. Fawkes froze, the top half of his head blown apart, a crimson spray painting the wall behind him. His mouth hung ajar, his finger raised to make a point. Instead he dropped to the floor.
“Down! Everyone down!” yelled Savas.
Miller had moved alongside the wall, weapon held beside his head. He approached the window.
“Sniper round,” he said, examining the hole. “Long distance shot. A professional.” He lowered his gun. “He got his man.”
Houston came alongside him to get her own look, keeping her body away from the window. “Now I’m feeling a bit paranoid, myself.”
“He’s dead.” Cohen was bent down beside the body, sidestepping the blood seeping into the carpet. “You don’t think—?”
Lopez cut in. “That someone from a mysterious organization running the world killed him so he wouldn’t spill their secrets?”
She exhaled. “If you put it like that—”
Lightfoote stared at her laptop screen, speaking slowly. “No, you’d need enormous resources. You’d really have to be an octopus in every major corner of the civilized world. Perhaps eavesdropping on our conversations to know how close we had come. In the middle of all this chaos.”
Savas turned to his cybercrimes head. “Angel?”
“But maybe if you were a truly paranoid anarchist, you might do something strange. You might know this phantom group was after you. You might build in a contingency in case they got to you. Some kind of Armageddon fail-safe.”
“What are you talking about, Angel?” asked Cohen.
Lightfoote looked up from her computer. “Got an email as few seconds after the shot,” she said, glancing down at the body of Fawkes. “From him.”
Savas shook his head. “How could Fawkes send you an email? He’s dead.”
“Read it. You’ll see.”
Savas took the laptop and held it up to his face. He read out loud.
“Hi Angel baby, if you got this, well, I’m toast. Linked to my heart rate, so I must be dead. I hate it when that happens! Sorry for trying to kill you, but don’t take it personally: just the business of rebooting the world, you know? You’re one annoying bitch. That’s why this is for you. Things are much worse than you think. Only a few of us know the truth, and if you’re reading this, we’re all likely dead by now. Attached is an encrypted file: you might be able to crack it. If so, you’ve earned a shot at glory. Good luck. You’ll need it.”
Savas looked at Lightfoote. “Where’s the file?”
“Scroll down to the end of the email.”
Savas swiped his fingers on the trackpad.
“The Nash Criterion. What the hell does that mean?”
The office phone rang.
“I thought phones were down,” said Lopez, removing his gun.
“This is an internal line. From the front desk. I’ll put it on speaker.”
A loud rasping sounded from the phone. Someone on the other end wheezed and spoke with a death’s rattle: “They’re coming. The stairways. Get out. They’ve shot everyone.”
Explosions sounded and the line went dead.
“Let’s move!” cried Lopez. He and Houston sprang through the doorway.
They left the body of Fawkes behind, Lightfoote pulling a USB stick out of the computer but leaving the laptop on the desk. She pocketed the stick and drew a gun.
The six moved down the hallway, passing empty offices and abandoned desks, Cohen lumbering on her crutches. They reached the center of the floor just as the elevator doors opened. A group of men in combat gear stepped out.
“Behind the cubicles!” hissed Savas.
They crouched low, Miller and Savas pointing weapons forward, Cohen looking behind them with a puzzled expression on her face.
“Where—” she began, but was cut off by the blaring of a bullhorn.
“FBI Intel 1 division! We are United States forces here to apprehend you and the fugitives! Come out with your hands raised or we will be forced to engage!”
A deep stillness settled over the room. Miller touched Savas on the shoulder. “We’re not going to overpower these guys, John,” he whispered, his expression grave. “Whoever they really are, we’re outgunned and outnumbered.”
Thoughts racing, Savas considered his options. He was given little time.
“Last warning, Agent Savas. We know you have the terrorist. Hand him over, come out with your hands over your head and you might live!”
“He’s dead!” cried Savas. “The hacker is dead in my office. We’re coming out.” He placed his hands on the weapons of Cohen and Miller beside him. “Put the weapons down. We’ll figure a way out of this later.”
Lopez and Houston! He had to keep them calm, stop them from doing anything stupid. He spun around, but they were gone.
His eyes met Cohen’s. “Where?”
“Angel, too,” she whispered. “I don’t know where.”
“Agent Savas, come forward with your hands in the air!”
Savas placed his weapon on the ground and stood up facing a group of ten men. Miller and Cohen followed suit. The soldiers aimed weapons in their direction. One called out loudly as several approached them from the sides.
“Under the authority of Directive 51 and the Military Commissions Act, you are under arrest as unlawful combatants, subject to indefinite detention and a hearing before a tribunal. You are hereby stripped of your Constitutional rights and all rank and privilege. Follow all instructions precisely and rapidly or risk the use of force.”
They were cuffed and led into the elevators. Frantically, Savas scanned the room a last time, desperately trying to locate Lightfoote and the others. But it was empty. He saw no sign of them.
The doors closed.
SAVAS Final Deposition