Cooper perked up in her seat. “The brother was military? Where was he KIA?”

  “Well, that was what was taking so long. Alex’s file was listed as classified, and the only public information that I could find was what I just told you. So, I had to use the director’s clearance level to access the file, and found out that Alex was killed in a top secret assassination mission of Anwar Sadat.”

  “The Egyptian president?” The connected dot triggered another surge of adrenaline. “Perry would have had access to that file with his clearance level at Homeland.” Cooper jumped from her chair and ripped the manifest page out of the book, leaving the lantern where it stood in her rush. “I need you to get me Moringer, now.” Cooper tripped over boxes and pinballed her way to the front of the building, knocking into walls and doors until she was out in the parking lot fumbling with her car keys.

  “I can’t. The room is locked, and they’re not to be disturbed unless it’s an emergency. The Secret Service is here.”

  Cooper cranked the car’s engine to life and tossed the manifest page into the passenger seat. “I don’t care what you have to do! I need to speak with him.” The tires spun out as she slammed the engine into reverse, and she peeled out of the parking lot. “Tell him it’s about the missiles, tell him it’s about Perry, tell him whatever you need to, but get him on the phone!”

  ***

  Moringer had undone his tie and the collar of his shirt, rolled up his sleeves, untucked his shirt, and tousled his hair to the point of chaos. His eyes kept flitting back to the clock on the wall, as did everyone else’s. There was nothing more frustrating for an intelligence operation than having a lack of information. They wouldn’t know if Dylan had succeeded or failed for another thirty minutes. That was when the next two-hour mark would pass.

  Every government official in the room had calculated the odds, and the chances of Dylan being able to accomplish what they asked of him were slim to none. But what was more troubling than waiting was the knowledge of what would happen if Dylan failed.

  While they had never told Dylan about the alternative, they’d had it planned as a last resort since the beginning. Right now, off the Atlantic Coast, one of their nuclear submarines was poised to launch a nuclear strike, one that would decimate all three military bases now under Perry’s control via the Taipan.

  The calculated blasts would destroy what was left of the nuclear arsenal at Perry’s disposal. However, it would come at the cost of more American lives. The fallout in the areas around the bases would kill hundreds of thousands. And if the winds decided to act accordingly, they could carry fallout to millions of other Americans that could affect their health for years to come.

  Not to mention the riots in the streets from protestors once it was brought to light what had happened. There would be coup against the government, looting, plunging the country into further chaos than it already was. The thin thread of civilization and humanity that was still holding everything together would be cut, and the country would descend into insanity.

  The thought made Moringer sick to his stomach, and he fought once again to keep down the diet of coffee he’d been living on for the past forty-eight hours. He folded his forearms on the desk then rested his forehead on top of them, closing his eyes and trying to calm the flurry of fear and stress that plagued his mind.

  “We’ve just received word that the rest of our personnel on the ground around the bases have been evacuated,” the CIA director said. “And half of D.C. is on the move. All we have to worry about now is the fallout. Where are we at with a statement to the press?”

  Moringer tilted his head up at the news, and the FBI director chimed in. “The president will be addressing the nation as soon as it’s over. We’ve coordinated with local law enforcement in the major cities. We haven’t given them all the details, just that they should be on alert for another attack and that looters and riots should be dispersed at all costs.”

  Moringer let out a sigh, shaking his head and doing his best to try and rub the weariness out of his eyes. “Perry’s getting what he wanted after all.”

  “We’re not going to let that bastard have the last word.” The CIA director’s voice had an edge to it, and he smacked the table defiantly, like a child who had no other course of action but to lash out.

  “Perry put us between a rock and a hard place,” Moringer said. “He wins even if he loses. All he wanted was for us to cause more havoc, wreak more destruction, and look at what we’re doing.”

  “We’re saving lives.”

  “We’re launching a nuclear strike on our own country!” Moringer shot up from his chair. “We’ve descended to the level Perry wanted us to sink to. You’re just too stubborn and idiotic to see it for yourself!”

  The tempers in the room flailed, and before any of the other men could interject, the CIA director lunged across the table and tackled Moringer to the floor. Both men rolled over one another until Moringer finally had the upper hand and sent a hard right cross against the CIA director’s cheek. But before he could give him another welt, a rush of hands peeled him off the floor and separated the two of them.

  “You’re out of line!” The CIA director’s face turned red from both the hit and the anger rising up within him. “We are not like Perry! We will never be like him!”

  The brief burst of adrenaline was quickly fading from Moringer. His breathing was heavy, and his voice cracked when he spoke. “Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that.” Moringer shrugged the hands off him and walked over to the door, letting himself out.

  The Secret Service men posted outside were holding back someone who was waving his arms, trying to get inside. “You don’t understand! I need to see Director Moringer now! It has to do with the missile crisis!”

  “Jimmy?” Moringer pushed past the guards and made his way over to his secretary, his eyes distraught in hysteria. “What are you doing here?”

  The Secret Service agent finally let him past, and Jimmy gripped Moringer’s shoulders, digging his fingers hard into his flesh and trying to control his labored, excited breathing. “Cooper called me. She needs to speak with you. I have her on the line now.”

  Moringer snatched the phone out of Jimmy’s hand. “Cooper, what do you have?”

  “Perry’s half-brother was an Army Ranger and was killed in action during the late seventies.”

  Moringer wrinkled his face in frustration. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “The mission was a classified assassination attempt on former Egyptian president Anwar Sadat.”

  Moringer circled the facts in his mind, trying to put it all together. “Then why recruit them? Why try and help the same people that killed his brother?”

  “It’s a smokescreen. Think about it. Everything Perry has done has been for misdirection. From day one he’s been pulling the strings. The kill list for those former DCF workers, his father who was mysteriously murdered in prison. He brings his enemies close to keep an eye on them then kills them when he’s done. And if the only other people he needs to get rid of live in D.C., then the only other explanation for the other nukes would be—”

  “The Middle East.” Moringer almost dropped the phone from his ear right then and there. With all the attention focused on a domestic attack, none of the directors, intelligence officers, or advisors had even considered the possibility of Perry using the missiles on anyone else. If Perry launched any nuclear strike in the region, it would trigger an international conflict that could unravel the rest of the world. “Cooper, I need you to get your ass here, now! I don’t care how you do it, just make it fast.”

  Before Cooper could answer, Moringer hung up the phone and rushed back into the room, where the CIA director was nursing his chin. “We need to get on the phone with the UN.” Everyone in the room looked to each other, their faces squinting in confusion. “Perry’s going to start World War III.”

  Chapter 12

  It was the seventh unsuccessful attempt to rise from the ground in just as many minutes, but no matter how hard Dylan pushed, he couldn’t summon the energy to get up. His body continued to shake, and his breathing was reduced to shallow, sharp breaths.

  Dylan had checked the room for any access points for vents but came up empty. The door was sealed airtight. If he crushed the yellow pill now, he’d be the only one to die. He was locked in the room alone, with no way to get out and no more time. For all he knew, Perry had launched the nukes, and the entire country had been leveled.

  Dylan lifted his shirt, examining his ribs, and saw that the flesh had turned a light shade of green and red. When he picked at one of the ribs, it nearly crippled him to the point of vomiting, and it took a few minutes to regain his composure as he lay on the floor.

  This was what his life had become: a broken body, lying on the cold concrete, waiting for the end. Dylan had no control over any of this; he never did. He was nothing more than a buoy tossed out to sea and left to fight the currents of the ocean with no paddle, engine, or sails.

  Lying there on the floor, Dylan remembered the mornings when he’d wake up and be in a place with no recollection of how he got there. The long nighttime alcoholic binges that had been meant to dull the pain of losing his first-born son only added fuel to the fire. Of course, there had been moments where Dylan felt the release, the freedom of abandonment of his memories, but for the most part, it only heightened the sense of fear and pain in his nightmares.

  All that wasted time he spent getting drunk in bars, hotels, his car, the marina, anywhere he could have a drink, he could have been spending time with his family. He could have been with his wife, helping her through the same hurt he was going through. He could have played with his children, taking Sean fishing and catching butterflies with Mary in the yard. Could have, should have; those good-intention thoughts didn’t matter anymore. There wasn’t anything Dylan could do to change the past.

  Dylan picked at the heel of his shoe once more, trying to open the compartment of pills inside. He could end all his pain, his thoughts, his life in one swift stroke. It wouldn’t take anything more than the crush of a pill. He fingered the shoe more ferociously, his lip curling in frustration and anger.

  The thought of ending it all brought with it a sense of relief and shame. Relief that he wouldn’t have to suffer, shame in that he gave up at the very end, succumbing to the stressors that others had overcome and failing those who had needed and wanted him to succeed.

  Dylan tore off his shoe and smacked it violently against the wall. “Come on.” He gritted his teeth, repeatedly banging the shoe against the concrete, his knuckles turning white from his tight grip. Each blow fell harder than the one before it, trying to free the pills from the hidden compartment underneath. The muscles along his shoulder and arm burned, and the blows became faster, the loud banging in the room turning from separate thumps into almost a single, streaming noise. “Come on!”

  The heel of the shoe popped open, and all three pills spilled to the floor. The yellow, green, and white bounced to the far end of the room. He crawled to the other side, each movement causing a stab into his chest as he struggled for breath.

  He passed the yellow pill and the green and kept crawling until he hovered right above the white pill, the pill reserved for the loss of will, the one to end not just his life but the lives of millions of Americans—hundreds of millions—because of his failure.

  Dylan pinched the pill between his fingers gingerly as he picked it up and examined it. All he had to do was swallow, and it’d be over. His hand shook, the white pill vibrating back and forth in a quick blur. He brought the pill to his lips, and the moment they touched, two faces flashed in his mind. He saw Sean on his bike, circling Mary in the driveway of their home while she played with her dolls and laughed at the faces Sean made.

  Dylan dropped the pill and fell backward, his body shaking from the effort and pain of moving so quickly. He lay on his back, hyperventilating. His mind spun, and he couldn’t escape the thoughts of his children, his resolve. He couldn’t stop. Not now. They weren’t truly safe until Perry was dead, and that wasn’t going to happen with him slipping a pill down his own throat. He rolled to his side, moaning from the pain, and collected the yellow and green pills, which he stuffed into his pocket.

  There had to be another way out. There had to be something he could use. Dylan fumbled his hands along the wall, looking for any panels he could peel back, any hidden compartments that might lie underneath, but after exhausting every square inch of the walls he could reach, he found nothing.

  Suddenly gunshots echoed outside Dylan’s door. His heart jumped at the hope of rescue. Maybe Moringer had found another way in? Perhaps they’d found another way to disable the Taipan remotely? His thoughts were interrupted by the screams of the Egyptians on the other side of the door. The thunderous exchange of gunfire continued for several minutes until he heard what sounded like the muffled cries of surrender, cut short by another gunshot that left nothing but silence.

  The door handle to Dylan’s room turned, and whatever hope had filled his heart disappeared as quickly as it had entered when Perry stood in the doorway, holding a pistol in his hand aimed right at Dylan. “Hello, Captain.”

  Blood speckled Perry’s shirt, pants, face, and hands, with larger concentrations on his right hand, which held the pistol. His long fingers curled around the weapon, and he motioned for Dylan to exit. “It’s time.”

  Dylan pushed himself off the floor, each step forward slightly lopsided from the loss of his shoe. When he stepped out of the room and into the narrow hallway of the bunker, he saw that the floor was littered with bodies and blood.

  Most of the Egyptians had been shot in the head, leaving their faces unrecognizable. Dylan stepped over the collection of lifeless arms and legs that crowded the hallway, looking back at Perry, who had his eyes glued on him with his finger on the trigger.

  Dylan continued to walk until he made it into the main room. The Taipan still sat on the table, and the portly, black-bearded man who had looked like he was Perry’s number two was sprawled out on the floor with his neck cut open, covered in fresh blood, his eyes glued to the ceiling above.

  “Most of them tried to put up a fight,” Perry said, watching the expressions of fear and disgust wash over Dylan’s face. “Some of them surrendered. I’m sad to say that Ozier was one of them. Such a shame. I’d hoped he would have given more than what he did to stay alive.”

  Perry stepped around Dylan, sure of foot, with his eyes still glued on him. Dylan could barely stand, and it took all his strength not to keel over on the floor. The effort to keep his back straight created a constant pulse of pain that started at his ribs and rippled to his head and feet. He kept his hand close to his pocket, waiting for his moment for Perry to break his concentration so he could crush the pill.

  “You’ve waited a long time, Dylan.” Perry’s voice was soft, calm, which almost gave the dead bodies that surrounded them a moment of respect. “I’ve been watching you for a very long time. At least a decade, give or take a year. I looked you up when I first gained access to detailed records at Homeland.”

  It took Dylan a moment to summon the strength to speak. “Why did you pick me?”

  Perry leaned against the table, his muscles relaxing a bit but his eyes and pistol still aimed right at Dylan. He rolled up the sleeve above his right hand, which held the gun, revealing the disfiguring marks and scars. “My father was a troubled man. A wicked, evil man. Whatever demons tormented him unleashed their wrath on my mother and me. He’d hit us with whatever struck his fancy: beer bottles, hammers, his fists, wrenches, chairs, cans; anything and everything could be used as a weapon.” Perry tilted his head to the side. “Your father never struck you, did he?”

  “No.” Dylan took a step forward, trying to use the table as cover to retrieve the pills from his pocket. He moved slowly, watching Perry closely. His captor’s finger never moved from the trigger.

  “It’s a terrible way to grow up,” Perry replied. “Messes with the head. Stunts emotional growth and hinders attachment in relationships. A ‘cold and distant environment that triggers anxiety,’ if I remember the psychology reports correctly.” Perry paused, the tension in his body relaxing slightly and the barrel of the pistol dipping with it. “I did have one protector, though. My stepbrother. Whenever he was around, my stepfather never laid a hand on me or my mother. When he joined the army, he was commissioned to head overseas to the Middle East. He promised me that when he came back, he’d have a place for me to stay, so I’d never have to feel the harsh sting of punishment on my body again.”

  The stiffness returned, and Perry took an aggressive step forward. “Before he could come back, he was killed on some mission in Egypt. The administration in the seventies wanted a different leader in power, and my brother was killed because of this country’s intrusion! We think we have to police the world, and we do so at the sacrifice of everything we hold dear!”

  Dylan reached his hand into his pocket, his fingers slowly fumbling over both pills. He couldn’t see which was which, and if he crushed both, he’d die with Perry. “So that’s what this is about? Revenge?”

  Perry’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “Oh, it’s much more than revenge. When I was burned as a boy by my stepfather, I thought my life was over. And I wished for death. I prayed for it. The pain I felt went on for weeks, and to this day I can still feel the heat of the fire in my dreams. But I learned something from the fire. It left a very valuable lesson that I’ve never forgotten. Fire can cleanse you. It is the great equalizer, bringing everything back to zero.” Perry rested his hand on top of the Taipan and rubbed it lovingly. “All those souls in San Francisco, burned and brought back to the earth from which they came.” He looked back over to Dylan. “Including the two DCF workers who ignored the complaints against my stepfather. As will the three others living in Washington, DC.”

  “All this for two cities?” Dylan held both pills in his fist now, outside his pocket. All he had to do was separate the two, crush the yellow pill then swallow the green before the deadly effects of the poison kicked in.