Exiled: Sovereign Land

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Table of Contents

Exiled: Sovereign Land

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 1

The USS Ronald Reagan’s massive steel-gray hull rested in the open waters of San Diego Bay. Whitecaps rolled and crashed into the ship’s side, sending salty ocean spray into the air. Clouds from overhead shielded the water from the sun in oddly shaped patches. What sunlight did manage to escape the cloud cover illuminated the water in blues and greens, contrasting against the patches of dark where the sunlight was unable to penetrate the clouds.

The same shadows were cast in the distance, no more than one thousand yards away, where a fleet of Mexican warships waited ominously in the distance. From the deck of the USS Ronald Reagan, they looked small, weak, easily crushed. But the distance deceived the mounted guns and missile systems primed to follow orders.

Captain Howard’s watchful gaze had yet to leave the threat across the horizon. As far as he was concerned, this was still his ship. These were still his waters. And if the Mexicans chose to engage in deadly force, then he would answer in kind.

Captain Ford, who had come to Howard’s aid the day prior after an already successful bout of fending off the Mexican ships, walked up behind him. He stood a good six inches shorter than Howard but had the tenacity of a bulldog.

“More warships arrived during the night,” Howard said.

“What do you think Gallo will do?” Ford asked.

“Right now he’s a mad dog foaming at the mouth, and he knows that the rest of the Pacific Fleet has been deployed north to watch over the Alaskan fisheries. If I was him, I would make my move soon.”

Howard had met Gallo years ago, before he was a general, back when the United States and Mexico were beginning talks on how to deal with the water shortages that were then turning into a crisis. The United States had still had the upper hand in brute force, so the Mexican government had no choice but to “comply” with the American president’s course of action. He remembered seeing the revulsion on Gallo’s face. He knew Gallo would give the order. He just didn’t know when.

“What’s the word from the Pentagon?” Howard asked.

“Since California’s not our problem anymore, they don’t want me to stick around for much longer. But like I told you, we have to make sure this ship is seaworthy. It’s already seen a lot of action.”

“If they attack us while you’re here, we’ll have a full-scale war on our hands.”

Both men knew what that meant if it came to pass. Metal. Blood. Death. The two captains had an understanding of when to follow orders and when not too. Those same beliefs led Howard to commandeer the USS Ronald Reagan after he was relieved of duty for not abandoning the Southwest after the exile. Unlike most of the representatives of Congress, the two men standing on the deck of that air wing knew that a country was more than just lines on a map.

“Captain!” Pint yelled.

Both Howard and Ford turned around to see Sergeant Pint sprinting toward them across the flight deck. The sergeant was barely able to keep his glasses and hat on his head from his pace. He keeled over onto his knees after reaching Howard, heaving deep breaths.

“They’ve officially broken out of international waters. They’ve engaged, sir,” Pint said.

“Captain, this is still your show,” Ford said.

“Sergeant, prepare the flag bridge,” Howard replied.

The three of them marched toward the carrier’s island. The harsh shrill of sirens signaled all available soldiers to man their stations. The flight deck swarmed, alive with activity. Once the captains were inside the flag bridge, first class petty officer Kent stood to salute.

“Officers on deck!” Kent said.

“At ease,” Howard said.

The flag bridge of the USS Ronald Reagan would allow Howard and Ford to conduct the entire battle from one location. Radar, missile, communications, and defense systems were all integrated seamlessly. The aircraft carrier was more than just a runway strip for the Navy’s jets; it was the epicenter of every naval battle.

“How far out are Gallo’s ships?” Ford asked.

“Half a mile, sir,” Kent answered.

“Scramble the jets,” Howard ordered.

Plane directors, arresting gear officers, and catapult officers carried out their duties with efficient mastery. The system in place could launch an aircraft every thirty seconds.

“Confirmed enemy missile launch,” Kent said.

“Deploy defensive tactics,” Howard replied.

A stream of smoke and fire erupted from the missile systems of the two American warships escorting the USS Ronald Reagan. The coordinated launch set a deadly course to intercept the incoming missiles. The missiles twisted and whined through the air at hundreds of miles per hour. Upon their contact with the enemy strike, the sky erupted with fireworks of war. Vibrations from the blasts rippled through the air and into the chests of everyone aboard the ship.

“Launch counterstrike,” Howard said.

A larger, more lethal volley of missiles set course for the attacking Mexican ships. The enemy warships enacted their own countermeasures but became overwhelmed. Red-and-black explosions of heat and steel rocked the Mexican warships. Howard watched smoke plume from the enemy ships. With the majority of the Mexican warships now burning, the American-launched F-15 aircraft controlled the sky.

“Good effect,” Kent answered.

The blue western horizon became diluted with fires and smoke. The distress signals coming in from the Mexican ships began to fill airways. But there would be no response. Gallo had only attacked the lone USS Ronald Reagan because he thought the surrounding American ships would not engage. The cries for help over the radio waves would fall on deaf ears.

***

The president smashed the phone from his desk against the window of the Oval Office. The outburst was a result of the reports coming out of the Pacific and Texas. The president’s surrounding advisors remained silent, staring at the shattered phone on the carpet.

“How did this happen?” the president asked.

The joint chiefs, the personnel aides, the vice president, and everyone else who should have answered the president’s question turned their heads to Jones, who was alone in the back corner of the room. Jones needed to choose his next words very carefully.

“Mr. President, I think it’s first important to understand the motives behind these attacks. Perhaps Gallo’s men assumed the USS Ronald Reagan was still operating under the deserter Captain Howard’s command?” Jones asked.

“And I suppose Texas was an accident as well?”

The president’s tone was mocking, and a very noticeable twitch had formed in the corner of his eye. As much power as Jones had in Congress, he still didn’t have absolute control over the presidency. And upsetting the most powerful man in the world was not wise.

“I do not suppose in matters of war, Mr. President. That is not my area of expertise,” Jones said, attempting to sway focus back to the joint chiefs.

“Jones, I’ll be asking Congress for a declaration of war. I expect you to make sure it’s passed.”

“Sir, I understand the need for retaliation, but I would strongly encourage opening a line of dialogue between yourself and the Mexican president. I’m sure there could be some—”

The president slammed his fist onto the table. The loud, resonating thump caused half the room to jump. A red tinge filled the president’s cheeks. “There is no agreement to be reached! They have attacked us by land, sea, and air. I want them crushed!”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

Politicians, generals, and assistants all slithered out of the Oval Office. Amid the hasty retreat, Jones cornered Vice President Johnson out in the hallway.

“Mr. Vice President, I’m hoping this doesn’t change what we spoke about,” Jones said.

“Whatever conversations we may have had were completely off the record, Congressman. Understand?” Johnson said.

“Of course, sir, but don’t you agree that we now need diplomacy more than ever? This war will bankrupt us.”

“You really expect me to publicly front an alliance with the Mexican government after what they just did?”

“I’m not asking for anything, Mr. Vice President. Simply take some time to think about it.”

“I don’t need time, Congressman. This discussion is over, and do not bring it up again.”

Vice President Johnson jammed his finger in Jones’s face to accentuate his point. Before Jones could utter another word, Johnson was gone, and he was left alone in the hallway outside the Oval Office. He was now the most marked man in Washington. For the first time in his twenty-five-year career in Congress, he was weak.

Years of planning, of putting the right people in place, of establishing the pull and control needed to coordinate such a stunt, had been undone the moment the first shots were fired over the fields of Texas. Jones couldn’t believe Gallo’s actions. All of this over some lost war more than one hundred fifty years ago, during a time when the wetback wasn’t even alive.

Jones dialed Gallo on his cell while walking back to his office. “Pick up, dammit!”

He tried three more times, but each instance only lead to an endless series of rings in his ear. Jones shoved the phone back into his suit pocket and climbed into the black sedan waiting for him outside the White House. Jones’s chief of staff, Ken, was already in the car waiting for him. Jones harshly unbuttoned the three studs on the front of his jacket, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly.

“What kind of damage are we looking at?” Jones asked.

Ken answered by extending a brown envelope pinched between his bony, liver-spotted fingers. Jones snatched it from him and grabbed the contents inside. It was a single piece of paper with nothing more than a number to call and the time to do it.

“Have they reached out in a more official manner?” Jones asked.

“No. I’m assuming they want to keep this one off the books,” Ken answered.

For the past twenty years, Jones had had a very large benefactor making sure that he had the appropriate funds and contacts to stay efficient in Congress. His backer had also been responsible for the majority of his campaign funds and had blackmailed his opponents during reelection when necessary.

After a short drive, Jones’s driver came around to his door and opened it for him. Jones hurried up the steps to his office, with Ken lagging painfully behind him. Once behind closed doors, he rested the envelope on his desk and unlocked the bottom drawer. He pulled out a burner phone and dialed the number from the message. Two rings later, a voice answered.

“Hello, Jones.”

The voice on the other end of the line was hoarse. He’d never met the person on the other end of these calls, and he hoped he never would. Whatever creatures worked in the shadows for the Strydent Chemical Company only revealed themselves in dire circumstances. And Jones didn’t want to be the reason this particular creature emerged.

“You know I’m working on it,” Jones answered.

“We’re concerned, Congressman.”

“This has been a setback, nothing more. It can still be salvaged.”

“We have already invested considerable capital in Brazil. Without the muscle to back it up, we will lose every last penny.”

“Then I suggest you stop wasting my time with these phone calls so I can get back to work!”

Jones snapped the flip phone shut and threw it back into the drawer. He kicked it shut with the side of his dress shoe, and his pointed elbows thudded against the top of his desk as he collapsed into his chair.

His bony fingers rubbed the dark circles underneath his eyes. Those spots had become increasingly darker over the past twenty-four hours, like thunderclouds gathering before the beginning of a terrible storm.

***

The line of people at the Lubbock City Police Station in Texas stretched out the door. Dozens of armed Texans were holding the restraints of their Southwestern captives. Once inside the police doors, the former United States citizens fleeing from California, Arizona, and New Mexico were being readied to be sent back to the now exiled territories.

The officer working the front desk of the station was buried behind stacks of documents outlining the personal information of each immigrant trying to sneak across the Texas border, along with the accomplices helping them. Most of them were family members just trying to help get their kids, grandparents, cousins, uncles, or other loved ones out of the mess that was the Southwest.

The chaos of balancing the growing impatience of the line in front of her and the continued ringing of the phone was making her head spin.

“Chuck!” the officer called.

Her voice wasn’t able to penetrate the storm of voices from officers booking criminals, detectives interviewing suspects, and pleas of innocence from everyone who wasn’t wearing a badge. She stood up and cupped her hands around her mouth.

“CHUCK!”

A short-haired, mustached, pot-bellied detective with a mustard stain on his beige tie popped up from his desk with a piece of salami hanging out of his mouth.

“What?” Chuck asked.

“Got a bounty hunter here says he knows you.”

The bounty hunter wore a wide-brimmed black cowboy hat with a rattlesnake hide wrapped around the front. The heels of his alligator boots clicked against the laminate floor. He wore jeans with a knife sheath strapped to his right leg. A white t-shirt was hidden by his Rothco Soft Shell Tactical M-65 jacket.

The bounty hunter kept his head tilted low, only allowing the people around him to see the stubble running along his jawline and chin. The methodical clack of his boots ended once he arrived at Chuck’s desk.

“I want my money, Chuck.”

“Terry, listen. You got the reward money. It’s the same for everybody.”

With one fluid motion, Terry pulled a blade from the sheath on the side of his leg and slammed the tip into Chuck’s desk. The noise silenced the rest of the station and caused a few of the officers nearby to draw their pistols.

“Drop the knife!” the officers shouted.

Chuck started to tremble, and the fat under his chin wobbled along with the rest of him. He looked to his fellow officers and put his hands up. He gave a nervous grin.

“It’s okay, everyone. It’s just a joke. He’s joking,” Chuck said, laughing.

Terry released his grip on the knife, but the blade remained vertical. The officers around him slowly lowered their pistols. The conversation in the room started to pick back up.

“Keep your friend in line, Chuck,” one of the officers said.

“Yeah, sorry,” Chuck answered.

Chuck stood up, ushering Terry into an interrogation room where they could talk. The one-way glass wall was to the left of the entrance, and a small table with four chairs were the room’s only contents. Once Terry was inside, Chuck followed and closed the door behind him.

“Jesus H. Christ, are you crazy?” Chuck asked. “You can’t do that in the middle of a police station. Especially in a climate like this!”

“I brought in four illegals this morning. It’s one thousand dollars a head. The deposit in my account only registered two thousand. You’re two grand short, Chucky.”

“Look, since the Mexicans attacked the other day, funds are being shifted to military applications. They lowered the price of illegal bounties to five hundred this morning because of it. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t give me my money.”

Terry grabbed Chuck by the collar and slammed him against the wall. It was the first time Chuck got a good look at Terry’s eyes. They were dark green. More black than green.

“Look, I don’t have the money, but I did just get another notice for some fugitives that escaped border patrol during the Mexican attack,” Chuck said. “One of them was ex-military, which still gives a reward of five thousand, plus the extra five hundred from the girl he’s traveling with.”

Terry increased the pressure on Chuck’s throat until the cop’s cheeks turned a light shade of purple then released him. Chuck collapsed on all fours, gasping and hacking. Finally, after a few moments collecting himself on the ground, he rose and opened the door.

Chuck led Terry back to his desk and shuffled through the disorganized papers on top. He checked the drawers, then pulled out two sheets of paper and set them down for Terry to see.

“There. One female, aged thirty-seven, one male, aged thirty-three,” Chuck said.

Terry snatched the papers up and examined them with those dark-green eyes. He flipped through the pages, taking in every detail he could. Once finished, he tossed the papers back onto the desk and collected his knife.

Some of the officers kept eyeballing him on his way out, and once Terry was out the front door, Chuck practically fainted into his chair.

One of the other detectives leaned over to him. “Who the hell was that?”

“That was two hundred pounds of vicious, bloodhound, tracking terror,” Chuck answered.

“Bounty hunter?”

“Yeah.”

“God, those bastards have been coming out of the woodwork since the government started offering those rewards to catch folks trying to sneak over the border.”

“Yeah, well, this guy has been doing it for a long time. I feel sorry for these two.”

Chuck looked at Brooke and Eric’s pictures, provided by the DMV’s photos from their driver’s licenses.

“Terry always gets his mark,” Chuck said.

Chapter 2

The sunlight reflecting against the skyscrapers of Dallas beggared relief. A trail of footsteps followed Brooke in the Texas sand. Each step forward sank her boots a quarter inch deep. The weight of her backpack straps pressed hard against her shoulders. She could feel the heat of the sun baking her through the shemagh wrapped around her head.

Once she had awoken earlier that morning, she knew the closest town was Dallas. And if there were a good place to run out of fuel, this would be it. The drought had drained most of Texas’s economy. The cattle industry plummeted, and farmland become desolate fields of dust as the water levels slowly dissipated. However, the state of Texas had found riches in one of its oldest traditions: oil.

Oil reserves once hidden underneath pockets of fresh groundwater were now exposed. Since there was no longer the threat of damaging an underwater ecosystem that didn’t exist, Texas witnessed a massive resurgence in the oil drilling and refining industries.

Upon entering the streets of Dallas, Brooke made sure to adjust the shemagh concealing her face. She couldn’t be sure if the authorities were looking for her or how far their reach would go, but she wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

Lines of cars clogged the streets of downtown as Brooke weaved through the hordes of people walking along the suit-ridden sidewalks. With resources being shifted to protect the water supply, standards had dropped for air quality.

Before she started looking for fuel, she needed to make a call. She entered a small store and purchased a bottle of water with cash, giving her enough change to use the pay phone outside. She slid the coins into the slot and dialed her sister’s number. The phone rang, and Brooke prayed that Amy would pick up.

“Hello?” Amy asked.

“Amy! It’s Brooke.”

“Thank God. Are you okay? Where are you? What happened?”

“I’m fine. Me and the kids are fine. I’m in Dallas right now.”

“Dallas?”

“Yeah, we’re refueling, and then we’re going to head east.”

“Brooke, they’re arresting anyone that tries to come across. It’s been all over the news. Police officers, bounty hunters, people just trying to make a quick buck for the reward money are going nuts. It’s bad.”

“I know. I’m being careful. Look, can you talk to Daniel? See if there is anything he can do?”

“Of course. Should I call you?”

“No. If the authorities are watching things that closely, they’ll be looking at my phone records. I don’t want anything to get traced back to you. I’ll give you a call tomorrow, let you know where we’re at.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

Brooke set the receiver down, and the change inside the pay phone clunked to the bottom. She readjusted her shemagh and continued down the busy Dallas streets. It felt like the entire population of Texas was in the city, which was one of the reasons Brooke had come alone. She wanted to avoid bringing the cruiser here to fuel up. It was her best bet for staying below police radar. Now that she was in the largest fuel capital in the United States, the question wasn’t finding gas but how to bring enough of it back to the cruiser.

The din of jackhammers filled the air. Road construction had slowed the traffic to a crawl, and the massive tankers filled with fuel formed clusters from the east. One of the truckers became caught behind the slowing traffic and stopped adjacent to Brooke. She waved at him through his open passenger window. When she caught his attention, she only pulled the shemagh down to expose her mouth. Nothing more.

“Hey! Where do you guys fuel up?” Brooke asked.

“Forty-Ninth Street. Ten blocks behind me.”

If she could convince a trucker to drive out with one of those tankers, then not only would she be able to fill the cruiser, but she could get a free ride home. As she walked, a gust of wind blew pieces of a newspaper against her leg. Before she tossed it into the trash, her eye caught the front page. “The War with Mexico,” was the headline.

According to the article, Congress was planning an emergency session to prepare a declaration of war later that afternoon. The president would also be giving a speech to address the nation. Brooke crumpled the newspaper in her fist. She’d heard enough of the president’s speeches.

Just below the lead story on the war, another article caught her eye. It highlighted the problem of thieves hijacking tankers. More than twenty thefts had been reported in the last month.

The closer Brooke moved to Forty-Ninth Street, the thicker the soot became. Plumes of smoke poisoned the sky above and cast a light rain of black over the city. Tanker truck tires rolled their imprints across the roads, cutting paths along the black pollutants lining the asphalt. Each of those tankers carried fuel that would be shipped to every corner of the country.

Brooke wondered how long the oil boom in Texas would last. Once there was no more water to keep the rest of the country alive, the black sludge extracted from the earth would do little but seep back down into the depths from which it had come.

Brooke made it to the chain-link fence of the fueling station. Her fingers poked through the patterned diamond spaces between metal wires. She leaned forward, the fence bending as she took in the semi-trucks being loaded down with cylindrical tanks of fuel.

A group of truckers stood in front of their rigs. Most of them sipped coffee, each of their faces smudged in grease and dirt. Their clothes were soiled, and those that didn’t wear hats had tangled and matted hair, all the attributes of someone Brooke would have normally avoided.

Brooke pinched her fingers in her mouth and let out a whistle that broke up whatever trucker stories the men were telling. They all turned and stared at the woman with her face concealed standing on the other side of the fence.

The truckers pointed to each other, shrugged, trying to figure out what she wanted. Eventually, one of them meandered over. Brooke thought he looked too thin to be a trucker. The rest of them were a little wide around the midsection, but he looked like he hadn’t eaten in a week. He took one last drag of the cigarette in his mouth and flicked it to the ground.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I need fuel,” Brooke answered.

“There’s a station just down the road.”

“I know. But I need a lot of it and a way to transport it. My car broke down outside the city.”

“Then call a wrecker.” The trucker spat on the ground and turned on his heel to leave.

“I can pay you,” Brooke said.

The trucker stopped. He walked over to the fence. This time he came nose to nose with Brooke and poked his own fingers through. Dirt and grime consumed his nails both underneath and on top. He gave a grin, flashing his yellow-stained teeth.

“How much?” he asked.

“Three hundred now. Another three hundred when we get to the vehicle.”

“A grand.”

“What? I don’t have that much money.”

“Then you’re shit out of luck, sweetheart.”

The trucker pursed his lips and kissed the air between them. Brooke recoiled as the trucker’s weight buckled the metal back toward her. He laughed and then started to walk back. She could try another refinery, but she didn’t want to waste more time. Every second spent idling was one more for the police to catch up with her. She rubbed her hand nervously and then felt the small bump under her glove.

“Wait!” Brooke said. “I don’t have a thousand in cash, but I have this.”

Brooke poked her hand through the fence, pinching her wedding ring. The sunlight caught the diamond, and it shimmered. The trucker’s face changed as he walked back over to her. When his hand went out to grab the ring, she pulled it back through her side of the fence.

“Three hundred now, and then you get the ring once we’re there,” Brooke said.

“All right. I leave in twenty minutes. I’ll pick you up on that street corner there when I come out,” he said then disappeared.

A thin circle of pale flesh was now exposed on her left ring finger. The small, circular golden band resting in Brooke’s palm felt foreign to her. Of all the memories that could have flooded her mind—from her wedding day or when Jason had asked her to marry him to their first date together—the only one that came to mind was Jason’s funeral. The sound of the guns firing. The lowering of the casket. Emily and John crying. The finely pressed uniforms. All of it came rushing back to her, and she felt disgusted with herself. She felt disgusted with the trucker, with the city surrounding her, with everything. This was what the world would cost her now. She had to give up pieces of her life that she would never get back.

***

The barrel of Brooke’s 9mm Ruger LCR double-action revolver wobbled slightly on the hot metal hood of the cruiser. John squinted his left eye shut and peered through the gun’s sight. Orange plugs filled his ears, and Eric stood right behind him, hunched over and making sure John was on target.

“Keep it steady. Just line up the sight and squeeze the trigger,” Eric said.

John’s finger rested on the trigger and, in one quick motion, pulled it back. The pistol bucked upward, and the 9mm shell ejected and clinked against the cruiser’s roof. A spray of sand flew into the air next to an empty bean can. John let out a sigh, and Eric patted him on the back.

“It’s all right. Just try it again,” Eric said.

“Yeah, John! You can do it!” Emily said, watching from inside the cruiser. Pieces of two similar orange plugs filled her smaller ears. Her hair flopped up and down as she bounced on the front seat.

John realigned the bean can in the pistol’s sights. He tried to keep the revolver steady, but the sight would slowly waver back and forth from the target. He tightened his arms and shoulders, attempting to stabilize his stance. The bean can finally rested permanently along the tip of the revolver’s barrel. He pulled the trigger, and the bullet made contact, sending the can flying backward into the desert.

“Nice shot!” Eric said.

John smiled. He could feel the strain of his shoulders and arms from the recoil. He wiped the beads of sweat forming on his forehead and handed the gun back to Eric like he’d showed him, with the barrel pointed away from anyone and his finger off the trigger.

“Good job. You’ve got your dad’s eye for shooting,” Eric said.

“Really?” John asked.

“Yeah, just be thankful you didn’t get his back hair. Gross.”

John had always been told he looked like his dad. The similarities grew along with his age. He’d once seen a picture of his father in high school, and even he had to admit the resemblance was unmistakable. A sense of pride rushed through him whenever someone told him he did things like his father. It made him feel like his dad wasn’t completely gone.

“What was my dad like when he was younger? Back when he first joined the Marines?” John asked.

“He was one of the toughest… Emily do you still have your ear plugs in?” Eric asked.

“What?” Emily asked.

Eric turned back to John. “One of the toughest sons of bitches I’d ever seen. He’d be real proud of you for helping take care of the family and making it this far.”

The smile across John’s face started to fade. Proud of what? He hadn’t done anything to help. His mother was the one who had saved Emily. Eric was the one who had rescued his mom in Phoenix. All John had done was tag along for the ride.

“I haven’t done much,” John said.

“Whoa, hey. What are you talking about? You being here, watching over your sister, that’s a big job. One that I know your dad would be glad you’re doing.”

“You really think so?”

“I do.”

John desperately wanted to make his father proud. He’d heard the stories of how Jason had saved people, facing death fearlessly. He knew his dad had saved Eric in Iraq a long time ago. Would I be able to do that? Would I be able to face death and save the people around me?

“Is it scary?” John asked.

“Is what scary?” Eric replied.

“Knowing you might die.”

“Hey, that’s not something you have to worry about for a long time.”

***

The trucker picked Brooke up from the corner, and she climbed inside the cab. She handed him the three hundred in cash. He counted it and shoved the money into his back pocket, and the semi jolted forward as he shifted into first gear.

The road construction up ahead was still bad, and it took them thirty minutes just to move a few blocks. Once they made it past the construction site, the roads opened up a bit.

“So where am I heading?” the trucker asked.

“Get on I-20 and head west. I’ll let you know when we’re getting close,” Brooke answered.

The sound of the jackhammers faded behind them and was replaced by honking horns and rumbling engines. Brooke wiped the smudge from her window to get a better look at the city. A layer of smog filtered the sunlight that came down in broken rays.

“So what did you do?” the trucker asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, you’re willing to pay a lot of money to fill up one gas tank. You’re hiding from somebody.”

“Just drive.”

“I’m just trying to make conversation. What happened to your husband?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You leave him? That why you’re hiding? So he won’t find you.”

“He was killed in action in Afghanistan last year.”

The trucker was silent for a moment. Brooke crossed her arms and retreated farther into her seat.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the trucker said.

Brooke didn’t say anything. Of all the people she wanted to discuss her dead husband with, some greasy trucker was at the very bottom of her list.

“Marines?” the trucker asked.

“Yes.”

“I lost my brother in Iraq back in ’04. It’s funny, isn’t it? We go over there to stop the desert from spreading and then low and behold, our own goes and decides that it’s time to take over.”

“The war didn’t have anything to do with the drought.”

“I know. I’m just saying it’s ironic. You got kids?”

“Look. If you need conversation, then turn on the radio.”

“All right. Geesh.”

The radio scrambled as the trucker turned the dial, trying to find a station. He finally settled on a talk show that was discussing the issue of the United States declaring war on Mexico.

“Look, Tom. We did not declare war on Mexico. They did that themselves when they attacked our border. All we’re doing now is defending what’s ours.”

“You really think we can afford this war, Frank? Water has become so scarce that we exiled the entire Southwest to save ourselves. More farmland is drying up every year, and we have China knocking on our door demanding that we pay up our debt. Retaliating against the Mexican army isn’t just foolish. It’s suicide.”

“Oh, so you don’t think we can’t beat them? Is that it?”

“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying. The resources used in war are incredibly costly, and it’s just not a check we can afford to cash right now.”

The two men continued their debate over the radio waves. All of it seemed too surreal to Brooke. A week ago, she was at work, repairing solar panels. Her kids were in school, and she’d been wondering what she would be cooking for dinner. Could that be right? Only a week? It all seemed so long ago.

Signs for I-20 began to appear, and the trucker flicked his turn signal on and merged onto the east ramp. Traffic was flowing steadily now. Brooke figured it would take about thirty minutes to reach the cruiser. Once they were refueled, they’d keep along the desert until they made it out of Texas and into Louisiana. From there, her plan was to stay along back roads all the way to North Carolina. She knew it would take longer, but staying out of police custody was more important at the moment.

Once out of the city, the traffic began to lighten. Only a few cars surrounded them when another sign for road construction appeared ahead. Orange lights flashed on a barricade, which was only big enough for smaller vehicles to squeeze through. One of the workers flagged the trucker down, and he pulled over.

“I swear they’re never going to get this road fixed,” the trucker said.

The bustling noise that had accompanied the construction crew in the city wasn’t echoed here. Brooke placed her hands on the cab’s cracked dash, leaning to get a better look out the window. Aside from the signs and barricades, there was nothing else. Only a few of them had safety vests on, and almost none of them wore hard hats.

“Where’s the equipment?” Brooke asked.

The air brakes squeaked as the tanker came to a stop. Brooke checked the side mirror and saw two men walking up the side of the tanker, hands behind their backs.

“Drive,” Brooke said.

“Lady, I can’t. It’s a road block.”

“They’re hijackers!”

Brooke could see the trucker scan the area, putting two and two together. He shifted into first and powered forward. The semi crawled a few feet, and Brooke watched the two men on the side of the tanker run for her door, the pistols they had hidden behind their backs now out in the open.

“Do you have a gun?” Brooke asked.

“Glove box.”

The semi was still hovering below ten miles per hour. Inside the glove compartment was a 9mm Glock with a fully loaded magazine next to it. Brooke loaded the gun and pushed the door open. She aimed the Glock at the two men, who quickly fired at her before she could squeeze a round off.

Brooke ducked back inside the truck’s cabin. After a lull in gunfire, she swung her torso out and fired six shots. Bullets peppered the sand in front of the two men chasing after them, and they quickly backed off. Brooke slammed the door shut.

“Can’t this thing go any faster?” Brooke asked.

“It’s not a stock car!”

Gunshots rang out behind them. Bullets thumped into the metal tank, leaking fuel onto the road. The side mirror shattered into jagged shards as the bullets continued to rain down on them. Brooke could still see the figures running after them through the remaining broken glass on the mirror.

Brooke opened the door again and fired a few more rounds. The wind and sand whipped her face now that the tanker was gaining speed. She pulled the trigger until the thundering boom of gunshots was replaced by the quiet click of the firing pin. She pulled the door shut again. The force caused the rest of the mirror to fall to the ground, and Brooke set the emptied clip and gun on the floorboard.

“Holy shit!” the trucker said.

The trucker’s door suddenly opened, and one of the hijackers grabbed him. The hijacker aimed his gun, and Brooke leapt across the seat to intercept him. She grabbed hold of the man’s wrist, shoving the pistol into the ceiling and slamming the hijacker’s hand in the process.

In the struggle, the trucker’s foot came off the gas, and the semi slowed. Brooke continued to slam the hijacker’s hand into the ceiling until his grip went limp on the pistol. It dropped to the seat, and the moment Brooke aimed it at the hijacker, he jumped from the cabin.

The trucker slammed his door shut and slammed his foot back on the gas. Brooke checked outside her door and saw the same men from before regaining their ground. She took aim and squeezed the trigger, narrowly missing one of them, and again they backed off.

“You clear on your side?” Brooke asked, still scanning her side of the tanker.

“Yeah, I-I’m good.”

“You sure?”

The trucker nodded, panting. Brooke could see his arms shaking, his knuckles turned white from his tight grip on the steering wheel.

Brooke clicked the safety back on the pistol she had stolen from the hijacker, and her chest rose and fell as she drew in deep breaths. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest. The rapid beats started to slow in pace with her steady breathing. Her skin was coated in a sheen of sweat.

“Thanks, lady,” the trucker said.

The tanker made the rest of the trip without incident, although it did take a little longer than expected because they had to take back roads, away from the interstate. A leaking fuel tanker heading down the road was bound to raise some concerns, and Brooke couldn’t risk getting caught by the police.

Eric, John, and Emily waved enthusiastically as the tanker made its way onto the old desert road they were stuck on. The desert terrain was slowly turning into dried, rocky dirt, which allowed the tanker to make the journey. Brooke stepped down from the semi’s cab and wrapped Emily and John in a hug.

“Wow, when you get gas. You. Get. Gas,” Eric said, admiring the tanker. When he noticed the shattered side mirror and bullet-sized holes leaking fuel, he raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Brooke said.

The trucker hooked up the fuel line from the tanker to the cruiser and started pumping. After a few minutes, the pump clicked off, signaling a full tank. Brooke walked over, extending the rest of the cash and the wedding ring. The trucker waved her off.

“On the house,” the trucker said.

Brooke stuffed the money back into her pocket and put her ring back on. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Besides, I can just say that all the fuel leaked out on my way to the station,” the trucker said, winking.

The trucker climbed back into the cabin and returned to his journey to the highway. Brooke, Eric, John, and Emily piled into the cruiser. Brooke checked the map, her finger cutting a path from their location outside of Dallas to north Louisiana.

Chapter 3

Beth set her phone down and drew a small X over a town in Pennsylvania. It joined a cluster of other Xs that covered the northeast. A pop sounded in the corner of the room, followed by some light chewing. A few strands of blond hair had escaped Beth’s tight bun, and she rubbed her temples.

Beth turned back to her computer for the next listing of factory spaces for sale and clicked on a property in Maine. Another pop sounded. Beth winced. She clicked the link, and it expanded into details of the amenities and size of the land. It was big enough but too close to local police authorities. Another pop.

“Will you stop that?”

Dr. Carlson was leaned back in a chair with his feet propped up on an ottoman. He peeled away the pink piece of bubblegum that was plastered to his left cheek and stuffed it back into his mouth.

“Sorry,” he said.

Their small hotel room was starting to feel cramped. Beth didn’t like the fact that she couldn’t go home, and it was compounded by the fact that she was stuck with Dr. Carlson, whose personal habits had given her a strong dislike of the man.

“Find anything?” Dr. Carlson asked.

“No,” Beth answered.

She’d been at it for hours, calling, researching, and trying to find any piece of property that met Dr. Carlson’s needs to continue his work. It seemed the only factories that would have worked had already been seized by the authorities, and each of those places had the familiar fingerprints of Jones all over them.

“Why don’t we broaden our search?” Dr. Carlson asked.

“To where? The Northeast is the only place left with any type of solid infrastructure.”

“What about Canada?”

“Canada dislikes us almost as much as Mexico right now. I’m surprised they haven’t tried to declare war.”

“I’m serious. I have some colleagues in Halifax who could help. And I’m sure they’d be more than interested in learning about my designs.”

“Can you trust them?”

“Of course. They’re scientists, not politicians.”

“I’ll bring it up with Smith. Speaking of which, I have to go and meet with him.”

Beth gathered the papers on the desk and piled them into her briefcase. Before she reached the door, she turned back to Dr. Carlson. “Call your friends. See if they’d be willing to help. Make sure you do it on the cell I gave you. Jake will be by this evening to check on you.” She had one foot out the door before she turned back again. “And I counted the liquor bottles in the minibar.”

“Thanks, Warden,” Dr. Carlson replied.

***

The cell block buzzed, and Smith’s door opened. He stepped out, a ring of sweat around the collar of his state-issued orange jumpsuit. The correctional officer chained his wrists and ankles. Smith shuffled forward, struggling to keep up with the officer’s pace and tripping a few times. The physical restriction was what made prison the worst. The food was terrible, the crowd was a rough sort, but the limited mobility trumped everything else.

Fellow inmates, degenerates charged with murder and rape, watched Smith parade down the cellblock. The rumors had spread about the congressman charged with treason, a man from the body of government responsible for writing the very laws each of them were charged with. There wasn’t a single face that Smith passed that wasn’t smiling.

The correctional officer hit the buzzer. The iron gate rolled along its tracks and opened on a false pretense of freedom into the visitor’s area. Smith’s thoughts had been jumbled over the past twenty-four hours. But earlier this morning, he had finally managed to find his own light at the end of the tunnel. It gave him something to steady himself in the raging storm bellowing within. He found it comforting that the shape the light took was Jones.

Beth was already waiting for him when the officer dragged him into the tiny conference room reserved for inmates and their legal advisors. Smith landed in his chair with a forceful thud from the officer escorting him.

“That’ll be all, officer,” Beth said.

While the correctional officer’s grimace was different than those of his orange-jumpsuited peers, that was where the differences ended. Both inmates and guards offered their own unique form of cruelty. The door clicked shut as the officer left. Beth grabbed Smith’s hand.

“Treason doesn’t make you a lot of friends on either side of the aisle here,” Smith said.

“How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine. Where do we stand?”

“I found out today that the attorney general will be handling the prosecution himself.”

“Jones’s doing, no doubt.”

“It’s a long shot for the charges to stick. I think Jones is just trying to focus attention elsewhere to distract people from the war and exile, and you happen to be a big news story right now.”

Beth opened one of the manila folders containing the map she had used earlier. Smith flipped the paper over and took in each red X. The map looked like it was bleeding.

“No luck with finding a suitable location?” Smith asked.

“No. Any property that would work has already been seized by local authorities. Jones knows we’ll be looking for another spot. He’s giving us the full-court press.”

Smith slammed his fists against the table. Beth jumped. “Then we press back!” Smith felt like he could pull the chains around his wrists apart. Smokescreens, misdirection, and lies had tangled him in a web, thwarting any action he could take.

“David, there is another option,” Beth said. “Dr. Carlson mentioned to me that he has colleagues in Canada who would be willing to help.”

“You want us to take him across the border?”

“I know it’s a long shot, but I have tried searching for anything that would work, and there is nothing here. We don’t have a lot of other options.”

Smith closed his eyes. He searched for that light he had found earlier in the day, but his mind was so fogged and cluttered that he didn’t think it was there anymore. He could feel the icy grip of panic. He kept thinking, trying to push forward. What could he do?

“Where do we stand with Mexico?” Smith asked.

“The president will be asking for a declaration of war in a few hours.”

“And it’s a sure bet that Congress will give him what he wants. My trial starts in two days. If we can get Dr. Carlson out by then and into Canada for a head start, we might be able to pull it off. Jones won’t be able to touch the doctor if he’s out of the country. It could work.”

“You want me to proceed?”

“Yes. Grant the doctor’s request. And set up a meeting with the Canadian ambassador for the day after my trial.”

“That’s cutting it close. They could extend the hearings.”

“You said it yourself: the charges are thin. This is a smear campaign, and when it’s over, we need to be ready to smear back.”

Beth jotted her notes onto her legal pad then dropped the pen. She kept her head down, rubbing her hands together. “David, there’s something else we need to discuss. Worst-case scenario.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I was speaking with Edwards’s advisor and he has a plan to get him and his family out of the country. It’s going to be expensive, but I can start setting up the accounts and passports for the trip.”

“Do it. And make sure we have something in place for Daniel.”

“What? David, Daniel is a part of the reason why you’re here.”

“It’s not for him. It’s for his family. They didn’t ask for all of this, and I won’t have their innocent blood spilled for my mistakes!”

Beth exhaled. “Okay. I’ll set it up.”

Two different correctional officers entered the room. They were larger than Smith’s previous escort. They crossed their arms, muscles rippling from the movement. “Time’s up,” one of them said.

“I’ll contact you as soon as I know more,” Beth said.

Beth gathered up her papers and briefcase and walked out the door. Once she was gone, the officer that had spoken unchained Smith’s shackles from the floor. Before Smith could stand, the officer kicked the legs of the chair, causing it to slide from underneath Smith. Unable to brace himself against the fall, he smacked his shoulder on the concrete.

“Easy, Congressman,” the chair-kicking officer said. “You don’t want to hurt yourself walking around in those chains.”

“Remember what the warden said. Don’t hit him the face.”

“Right.”

The chains scraped across the concrete floor as Smith crawled on his belly to the other end of the room. Each move forward sent a sharp stab into his shoulder. He could hear the officers laughing at his attempts to escape.

“Where are you going? There aren’t any loopholes to pull you out of this one.”

The CO drove his heel into Smith’s left hamstring. Smith gritted his teeth, moaning at the impact and strain on his muscles. The CO twisted and dug his heel deeper until Smith could no longer move. Finally he removed it, offering a brief moment of reprieve before the other officer sent the toe of his boot into Smith’s side. Smith curled into himself, his brain diverting signals from his hamstring to his rib cage. Smith placed both palms flat on the floor. His face grew purple from the strain of trying to push himself up, the restraints around his wrists not allowing him to get very far.

Both COs pulled out their batons. They brought successive blows down on Smith’s back, each thud followed by a cry or scream. The bulky shoulders of each officer rotated to bring more force with each hit. The officers’ exertion caused drops of sweat to join in the barrage against Smith’s back.

After a few minutes, the noises coming from Smith’s body ceased. Each strike into his bones and flesh was answered with unconscious spasms of pain, Smith’s last piece of evidence signaling that while he might be blacked out, his brain was still alive. At last, one of the officers placed his baton back in his belt.

“All right. That’s enough,” he said.

But the other man didn’t stop. He brought the baton down harder, each clout fueled by a grunt of force.

“Frank, stop,” his partner said, grabbing Frank’s wrist before he could land another hit.

Frank yanked his wrist out of his partner’s grip and gave one last defiant whack.

“Jesus, man. We were hired to hurt him, not kill him. Take it easy.”

Frank hawked some phlegm, and the spit stained the orange spot on Smith’s back with a greenish blob. He put his baton back in his belt, breathing heavily after the assault. The medical ward was called, and Smith was picked up by a few nurses and put on a stretcher.

***

Daniel’s office felt quiet. His suit jacket hung on the back of the chair he was slumped in. He fiddled with the end of his tie, an act that had taken up most of his morning. There were piles of papers on his desk, beckoning to be read, but the half-empty bottle of whiskey hiding in his desk drawer drained any ambition to accomplish it. The familiar knock of his assistant hit the door, and Meghan poked her head inside, as she had done all morning, to check on him.

“Congressman, I’m heading to lunch. Can I get you anything?” Meghan asked.

Daniel gently shook his head and waved her off. She smiled politely, the hint of concern still etched on her face. The click of the door’s handle was the only thing Smith seemed to hear. Every once in a while, his eyes would find the windows. It was sunny outside, and despite him keeping the lights off, the office was still warmly illuminated. He could have risen to shut the curtains, but even that seemed like too much of a task.

The news of Smith’s arrest still lingered in the back of his mind. And no matter how much liquor he drank to try and drown it out, there it remained. It was Smith’s own fault. That’s what he kept telling himself. Both of them had danced with the devil. Daniel just so happened to have found the beat a little quicker.

I did it for my family. That was the other voice echoing in his head. That’s what he focused on to help rid himself of Smith’s voice. All he needed to do was make the list of justifications longer than his list of sins.

There was another knock on his door. Daniel didn’t respond. Another knock.

“Meghan, I told you I didn’t want anything,” Daniel said.

The door cracked open, and Daniel straightened himself in the chair when his wife stepped inside. She wore a light sundress with heels. Her cheeks were reddened from the sun outside.

“Amy, what are you doing here?”

Daniel had only seen his wife in his office a handful of times, most of which had been during his first term. Amy fiddled with her fingers, the tips of her manicured nails scraping against one another. She gave him a half smile.

“You didn’t return any of my calls,” she said.

Daniel squinted, trying to remember what he had done with his phone. He patted his shirt and pants pockets. He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and found the cell. It was still turned off.

“I’m sorry. I turned it off to save the battery. Is everything all right?”

“I heard from Brooke.”

“That’s great. Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. She made it to Dallas. She’s going to call me again tomorrow.”

“That’s great news.”

“Daniel, we have to help her. She’s a fugitive. There has to be something you can do.”

When Daniel stood up, he felt the room spin. He clutched the edge of the desk to steady himself. He focused on the pen on top of a stack of papers. He clung to it for dear life.

“Daniel?” Amy asked.

He waved it off. “I’m fine.” He let go of the desk, wobbled a bit more, but remained upright. He smiled, accentuating the dark circles under his eyes. “Just been sitting down all morning.” He walked over to her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Amy sniffed the air around him.

“Daniel, are you dru—”

The slam of the office doors finished the sentence for her. Jones stood at the office entrance. Distracted by the noise, Amy couldn’t see the twisted glare tearing across Daniel’s face.

“Mrs. Hunter, it’s wonderful to see you again,” Jones said, walking over and giving Amy a light kiss on the cheek. “Come to congratulate your husband?”

“Congratulate?”

“Daniel. You haven’t told her? So modest. Daniel has just received an appointment on the resource committee.”

Amy’s jaw dropped. She turned around, and Daniel forced a smile. “That’s great!” Amy threw her arms around Daniel’s neck, and Jones mouthed, “Get her out.”

“Thanks, honey. Look, why don’t we grab dinner tonight. I’m still swamped with work, but we can go over everything then,” Daniel said.

“Maybe Congressman Jones can help?” Amy asked.

Jones peaked his left eyebrow. “With what?”

“Nothing. I’ll handle it. Amy, we’ll talk about it later.”

“Oh. Well, all right then.”

Daniel gave her another kiss, and Amy closed the door behind her. The moment it clicked shut, Daniel grabbed Jones by the collar. “What the hell do you want?”

Jones pushed Daniel off him, and he stumbled backward. “Been having a drink, Daniel?”

Daniel staggered to his desk and loosened his tie. He reached for the bottle of whiskey and unscrewed the cap. “I’m celebrating. Remember?” He didn’t bother reaching for the glass, he just tipped the bottle back and took a few chugs.

Jones stomped over and ripped the bottle from Daniel’s lips. A stream of brown liquid splashed to the carpet. Daniel reached for the bottle again, but Jones kept it out of reach. “Pull yourself together.” Jones dumped the rest of the liquor into the trash and took a seat in one of Daniel’s chairs.

“Make yourself at home,” Daniel said.

“We still have work to do.”

“No. I’m done. You got what you wanted from me. Smith is in jail. The bill failed. I’m done.”

“You’re done when I say you are. The charges against Smith will be hard to stick, even for the attorney general. The damage to his credibility will be extensive, but we have other things to worry about. We have to repair the U.S. relations with Mexico.”

“And I thought I was the drunk one.”

“If that doesn’t happen, we are dead. And not just us but the country. We can’t afford the war with the Mexicans, and we need their help to obtain the rivers in South America.”

Water. Wars. Death. The words floated through Daniel’s mind like fiction. Imaginary concepts that weren’t supposed to be used together in this world. But they were. It was real.

“What do you expect me to do about it? The president will be making his address within the hour,” Daniel said, rubbing his face. The effects of the whiskey were beginning to take their toll.

“I’m thinking,” Jones said.

Chapter 4

It was the third fuel station Terry had checked. He stepped out of the building and into Dallas’s downtown. He could feel the city’s smog soaking through his pores. He hated the city. He popped a cigarette between his lips and torched the tip with his lighter then exhaled his own smog that circled his head.

The pictures of Brooke and Eric were still in his hand. Terry knew they had to be running low on fuel, and Dallas was the easiest place to find it without people asking a lot of questions. The traffic was busy, and he dashed across the road to his van parked on the other side of the street.

It was a rust bucket on the outside. It had no hubcaps, the covers on both side mirrors had fallen off, and there was no telling what the original paint job had looked like. But it was like his Sunday school teacher had always told him when he was a boy: it’s what’s on the inside that counts.

Terry pulled the handle, and the sliding door clanged open. He closed it just as quickly after stepping in and flicked on the overhead light. The only seat in the van was behind the driver’s-side wheel. The passenger seat had been ripped out to make room for storage bins that were anchored with an intricate crisscross of bungee cords. The driver’s side of the van had a small shelf that ran along the middle of the wall. On it rested maps, a laptop, a ham radio, a police scanner, a lamp, a filled ashtray, a hook to hang his hat, a whetstone, and a carton of cigarettes. In front of the makeshift shelf was a chair bolted to the metal floor. He sat down and added his nub of a cigarette to the overflowing ashtray.

The passenger side of the back of the van was lined with weapons. AR-15s, 12-guage shotguns, a 9mm Glock, .45 Colt, and a briefcase that held his DRD Tactical Paratus .308 rifle; perfect for any jobs where he needed to maneuver a rifle in a crowded area. An array of knives clung to a magnetic strip. Boxes of ammo for each weapon rested next to an assortment of fragmentation, chemical, offensive, and illuminating grenades.

Terry snatched a six-inch hunting knife off the strip and grabbed the whetstone. He tilted the blade at a twenty-degree angle and ran the edge along the stone. The metal scraped against the synthetic rock, each motion of the knife down the stone methodical. Terry counted twenty strokes on one side of the blade then flipped the knife for twenty strokes on the other side. He enjoyed the manual process of sharpening his knives. It took skill and precision to maintain the proper angle and force with the whetstone. Whenever he had to sink the blade into another man’s flesh, he wanted the knowledge that he created the razor edge that made it possible.

Once the knife’s edge was satisfactory, he placed the blade back on the strip and turned on his laptop. Using decoding software he had purchased, he hacked into the police database to pull up any other information he could on Brooke Fontanne. Her address in San Diego, along with her Social Security number and driving record, popped up. He wrote down the license plate number in case she had been dumb enough to keep it. He examined the specifications of the Toyota cruiser that was registered in her name and the modifications she had made to it. The tires, suspension, and engine type all suggested it was an off-road vehicle, which would allow her to take alternative routes most police vehicles would avoid.

Terry reached for the carton of cigarettes and pulled one from the package with his teeth. He flicked the lighter open again, and the rush of nicotine coursed through his veins. He took another look at Brooke’s picture and checked the database one more time. He pulled up a file on her late husband Jason. Military. Marines. KIA. He smothered the smoldering tip of his cigarette in Brooke’s forehead.

His stomach rumbled. A diner’s neon sign glowed through the front windshield. Terry shoved Brooke’s picture into his pocket and made his way back across the street, where the door chimed as he walked inside. The vacant booths and stools were dusted with the grime of black soot that a pregnant waitress tried halfheartedly to wipe down. Two men in trucker hats sat at the end of the diner’s bar. Terry took a seat on the opposite end. The waitress waddled over to Terry and handed him a menu.

“Anything to drink, darlin’?” she asked.

“Sweet tea.”

The waitress nodded and walked back around the other side of the counter. Terry looked over the menu. He gazed over the fifty-dollar burger and down to the chicken. The conversation of the two truckers broke his concentration.

“I swear to god,” the skinny trucker said.

“They really shot at you?” the fat trucker asked.

“Yeah. If that lady wasn’t with me, I might have died.”

Terry set the menu down as the waitress brought him his tea. He took a sip and focused on the two men at the end of the bar.

“I’ve got to get another job,” the fat trucker said.

Terry’s boots clicked against the worn floor tiles. His figure blocked the light coming from the door, and his shadow slowly grew over the two truckers sitting next to each other. He came up behind the two men and dropped Brooke’s picture in between them.

“This the woman you were with?” Terry asked.

“Who are you?” the skinny trucker asked.

Terry thumped his forefinger on the paper forcefully. “Is that the girl?”

“Look, pal. I don’t know you. So why don’t you back off,” the skinny trucker said.

Terry twisted the skinny trucker’s arm behind his back and slammed his face into the diner’s bar. The fat trucker reached for a pistol on his belt, but Terry pulled the blade from the sheath on his leg and placed the edge right along the man’s throat. The waitress stood frozen, holding a pot of coffee.

“Is. That. The. Girl,” Terry repeated, applying more pressure to the skinny trucker’s arm.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s the girl,” he said.

“Where was she headed?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where did you take her?”

“I dropped her off just outside the city by I-20. Then I left. That’s all I know. I swear.”

Terry released the skinny trucker’s arm and lowered his blade from the fat one’s throat. Both truckers were drenched in sweat. Terry sheathed his blade. He picked up Brooke’s picture and went back to his seat. The waitress was still frozen with the coffee pot in her hand. Terry finished the rest of his sweet tea, threw a five-dollar bill on the table, and left the diner.

***

The Mississippi air was thick with bugs and heat. Red maples and dogwood trees stuck into the air, bare of their colorful leaves. The cruiser’s tires crunched over sticks, dead grass, and mud. Brooke had followed the signs for the small motel, which lay just up ahead.

The motel was nestled in the depths of a drying swamp. A single light illuminated the front window next to the door. The shutters around the windows sagged. Chips of paint revealed the rotting wood underneath. Brooke brought the nose of the cruiser to a wooden log, which acted as a perimeter for a makeshift parking lot. The cruiser was the only car there.

“Wait here,” Brooke said.

She unbuckled her seat belt and headed inside. The door squeaked, and an old, wrinkly woman sat behind a small counter. A tiny fan blew her thin white strands of hair backward, and an old sitcom rerun played on a twelve-inch black-and-white television. Brooke had to hit the small bell on the counter to get the old woman’s attention.

“I was hoping to get a room?” Brooke asked.

The old woman led Brooke, Eric, John, and Emily around back, each of them carrying their packs. The old woman didn’t say anything when they passed the bullet-riddled cruiser on their way around. Brooke wasn’t sure if that was because the she just couldn’t see it or if she was too eager to get back to her show.

The room she gave them was small, damp, dirty, and hot. But all of that fell to the wayside at the sight of the two double beds against the walls.

“Awesome,” John said.

The sun set, and after a quick dinner of MREs, John and Emily passed out. Eric agreed to take the floor and give Brooke the remaining bed, but neither of them could fall asleep as quickly as the kids. They whispered to one another, trying not to wake either John or Emily.

“You know, I’ve always hated MREs,” Eric said. “But for some reason today they were incredibly delicious.”

“I’m just glad I was able to get Emily to wolf some down. She’s always been a picky eater.”

Brooke kept adjusting herself on the bed, looking for the cool part of the sheets. The heat was different here than in San Diego. It felt heavier, more humid. She had never sweated so much in her entire life.

“I can’t believe this heat,” Brooke said.

“Must be all of that sexual tension,” Eric said.

Brooke had to cover her mouth to stop the burst of laughter that erupted.

“It wasn’t that funny,” Eric said, sheepishly. “Besides. I don’t think Jason would approve.”

It was the first time Brooke had heard Eric mention her late husband. She knew the two of them had served together. She knew that Jason had saved his life, but she never understood how the two of them got along. They were polar opposites.

“Why didn’t you guys stay in touch?” Brooke asked.

“He had you guys, and I had my military career. There wasn’t much else I wanted to do besides fly. The tours in the Middle East were just a pit stop.”

“How did you know you wanted to be a pilot?”

“Top Gun.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“What? It was a great movie.”

“It’s got to be more than just that.”

Eric hesitated. He drummed his fingers on his chest. “Actually, it was my dad. He was a pilot. Commercial. Not military. He would take me up when I was little. When we were up that high, I didn’t feel so small. Everything else looked tiny except me for once. He smoked like a chimney, though. Lung cancer got him while I was in high school, and the flights stopped. I couldn’t think of anything else but getting back in a plane. A recruiter came to my school one day, and that was that. I enlisted the day after my high school graduation.”

“I’m sorry about your dad.”

“Thanks.

“Do you regret it?”

“Joining? No.”

“I never asked Jason why he joined.”

Brooke felt a stab of guilt over that. Of all the things she had learned about her husband, she’d never asked about what was probably the biggest decision of his life. She knew that he’d loved his job, that he found purpose and meaning in it.

One night after he came back from his second tour, he broke down while they were lying together in bed. She wasn’t sure if she should pry, but he ended up telling her about a house raid they had gone on. The father pulled a gun on them, and Jason had to take him down. It was his first kill.

His superiors told him not to dwell on it. He was on a mission with an objective, nothing else. If someone decided to try and stop that mission, it was his duty to eliminate the threat.

Eliminate the threat. Her mind went back to Phoenix and the two Mexicans she had gunned down. They were threatening her children. She eliminated them.

“It’s not something you can prepare for,” Brooke said.

“What isn’t?”

“Killing someone.”

Eric propped himself up on his elbow. Brooke wasn’t looking at him. She kept staring at the ceiling, her arms folded on her stomach and her hair spread out on the pillow underneath her head.

“What happened?” Eric asked.

“It doesn’t matter now. It’s over.”

Exhaustion started setting in. Brooke could fee her eyelids sagging. Her body felt heavy, and her mind was foggy. She rolled to her side and closed her eyes.

“Good night,” Brooke said.

“Night,” Eric replied.

***

The stars peppered the night sky, and the moon’s light struggled to break through the thick clouds hovering below it, making it hard to see the van hidden on the edge of the road forty yards from the cabin’s entrance.

Terry held a pair of binoculars and watched the light from the front window go out. His view shifted from the room to the Toyota Land Cruiser parked in the dirt lot. He looked down at his map. This was the only road for five miles. He knew they were heading east, and he would bet his last dollar that they’d be heading out in the morning. Terry pulled back a tarp, and the outline of an axe lay flat against the van’s floor. He picked it up, along with a small rectangular black box, slid the van door open, and closed it behind him.

His boots squished against the thick Mississippi mud, and to his surprise, he struggled a bit in the terrain. The head of the axe rested on his right shoulder, while the small black box was gripped in his left hand. He stepped into the ruts from the cruiser’s tire tracks, where the ground was more compact and easier to wade through.

Large swarms of bugs engulfed his face, and he smacked the pests away harshly with his free hand. Even with the sun gone, the humid heat was still prevalent in the night. Terry could feel the layer of sweat covering his body. He refused to take his jacket off even in the stifling heat. The fabric of the jacket used his body’s moisture to help cool him.

Terry flipped a switch on the black box, and a small red dot blinked silently. He reached under the back of the cruiser, and the magnetic side of the box smacked against the cruiser’s chassis.

The incessant buzz of the cicadas masked Terry’s steps as he walked right past the front office where Brooke’s cruiser was parked. The outline of his body and the extension of the axe disappeared down the winding road.

***

It was Emily who woke Brooke. When she opened her eyes she saw her daughter’s toothless grin staring back at her, she rubbed her eyes, attempting to wake up.

“Morning, Mom,” Emily said.

“Hey, baby.”

Brooke checked the clock. It read 9 a.m. She looked around for John and Eric, but it was only her and Emily in the room.

“Where’d your brother go?” Brooke asked.

“He went with Uncle Eric to get breakfast.”

“Uncle Eric. I didn’t realize you guys started calling him that.”

“Yup.”

Emily bounced up and down on the bed. The room’s door creaked open, and Eric and John stepped inside holding trays of eggs and fruit.

“Breakfast was complimentary,” Eric said.

Brooke and John pushed the beds together, and the four of them sat around the trays in the center. They dug in. Eric had even managed to get orange juice. After they were done, Emily fell backward onto the bed, holding her stomach.

“That was the best meal I’ve ever had,” Emily said.

“We should see if they can give us a to-go bag,” Eric replied.

“That has my vote,” John said. “I don’t know if I can go back to those MREs again.”

“We’re only another day or two from Aunty Amy’s place,” Brooke said.

“I’d rather eat the MREs,” John said.

Brooke smacked John’s arm, and Emily giggled. They grabbed their gear and loaded the cruiser. Brooke returned the room key to the old woman at the front desk. Eric, John, and Emily were already in the cruiser as Brooked walked down the few steps from the motel’s front porch. As she pulled open the door, she noticed a van, about a half mile away, sitting off the side of the road. She paused for a moment, taking the sight in. She found it odd that someone would have left it in the middle of nowhere, but this was a rural area, so it could’ve been from anyone.

She shrugged it off and climbed inside her cruiser. Eric had the map out, and they plotted a course that would continue their journey east along the Gulf Coast until they made it to the Atlantic. From there, they’d head north into Charlotte, where her sister was.

The cruiser pulled out of the parking lot and continued down the back road. Brooke kept it slow and steady, making sure to keep an eye on the terrain around her. Everything was different here, and the last thing she wanted to do was break down. Dragging the cruiser to a mechanic shop would raise too many questions given its current condition.

The muddy back road was surrounded by dead trees. The leafless branches jutted into the clouded gray sky. Brooke’s eyes found the rearview mirror, and a flash of rust through the trees behind her caught her eye. The cruiser hit a divot in the road, sending the reflection out of view.

Once the cruiser leveled out, Brooke frantically checked the mirror again. She turned around and looked out the back window, but there was nothing but the swamp behind her. She pressed the accelerator, pushing the cruiser farther down the road.

“Eric,” Brooke said. “Check the map for any other routes.”

“What? Why?” he asked.

“Just do it. John,” Brooke said, finding her son’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Grab a case of ammo out of the back.”

John didn’t ask any questions. Eric smoothed the creases of the map, running his finger along roads around the area. John pushed the ammo through the space between the two front seats.

“Open it up for me,” Brooke said, balancing the steering wheel with one hand and pulling the revolver from her waistband. “Start loading.”

The bullets clinked into the holes of the revolver’s chamber until all five slots were filled. John flicked the chamber shut and handed the gun back to Brooke, whose eyes continued to maneuver between the muddy road in front of her and the rearview mirror.

“Em, you have your seat belt on?” Brooke asked.

“Yeah,” she answered.

“John?”

John pulled the belt over his body, and the buckle clicked into place. “Got it,” he said.

“If you keep heading east, there’s another path that cuts north,” Eric said, studying the map.

“How far is it?” Brooke asked.

“Five miles.”

The dead trees behind her were still thick, blocking her view. Maybe she was being paranoid. There was no proof that the van she had seen outside the motel was the source of the flash she had noticed. It could have been anything. Wasting energy on what-ifs was too costly right now.

Still, Brooke kept her foot on the accelerator. The increased speed splashed mud across the cruiser’s side, wetting the dried sand already there. The streaks of speckled black highlighted the bottom panels underneath. The rusty van flashed in the rearview mirror again.

They were being followed. The van was closer now but having a harder time pushing through the mud. She pressed the accelerator down farther. Even though this wasn’t the cruiser’s terrain, Brooke knew she’d be able to outrun the van.

“Brooke!” Eric said, bracing his arms against the dashboard.

A massive tree rested on the mud, blocking their path. Brooke slammed on the brakes, and the cruiser skidded through the muck. The front bumper stopped inches from the log, and the four bodies in the cruiser strained against their seat belts from the forward motion then slammed backward into their seats.

Brooke looked for a way around, but the trees were too thick on either side. The only way through was the path the fallen tree had blocked. Brooke turned around. The rusty van was keeping its steady pace.

“John, Eric, see if we can push it out of the way,” Brooke said, opening her door.

Brooke’s foot sank into the mud, and each step felt like pulling suction cups off her feet. She kept the revolver gripped in her hand. The end of the tree was propped up by a cluster of trees on the other side of the road.

“We might be able to push it up and then roll it to the side,” Eric said.

“Hurry,” Brooke replied.

Eric and John shouldered the tree, and both of them pushed up. The lack of vegetation and thin trunk of the tree made it manageable to lift. Once they cleared the cluster of trees that it was propped up against, Eric and John tossed it to the side, and it crashed to the ground.

The van was only fifty yards away. Her finger found the trigger on the revolver. “Hurry!”

“What’s the ru—” Eric started, but then he saw the van heading for them. He double-timed it, and the log skidded over the mud. Eric and John’s hands rolled it all the way to the side, flipping up mud and dirt along with them that became caked in the tree trunk’s grooves.

“Clear,” Eric said.

Brooke waited for John and Eric to get back inside before she climbed into the cab herself. Despite the urgent need to floor it, Brooke pressed the accelerator softly.

The cruiser lurched forward, slowly gaining traction in the thick mud. The van was only twenty yards behind them and gaining. Brooke pushed the cruiser’s speed to twenty miles per hour, then thirty, but it was too slow. The van’s front bumper smacked into the cruiser’s backside, causing them to fishtail.

Brooke turned the steering wheel left, then right, then left to help compensate for the spin, but the mud was too slick. Just when she straightened it out, the van slammed them again. Everyone’s heads jolted forward like bobble-head dolls.

The van’s engine revved and then smacked the right back corner, spinning the cruiser ninety degrees. Brooke’s window was placed directly in front of the van’s windshield. The glare of the sun blocked her view of whoever was inside, but the moment the driver’s-side door opened, she raised the revolver, pressing the window down at the same time, and fired all five rounds. Each bullet pierced the windshield with holes and splintering cracks.

Brooke hit the gas and turned right hard, painting the van with a fishtail of Mississippi mud. Retaliatory shots were fired, shattering the cruiser’s rear windshield. Everyone ducked. The cruiser’s tires spun rapidly, trying to gain traction. For a moment, Brooke thought they were stuck, but the cruiser’s powerful four-wheel drive and sheer torque gave them enough traction to keep moving forward.

“You guys all right?” Brooke asked.

The ringing in Brooke’s ears from the gunshots was slowly replaced by Emily’s crying. Even though her daughter was upset, she appeared to be unharmed. John was also good.

“I hope you’re insured for bullet damage,” Eric said, clutching his left shoulder.

Before Brooke could laugh, she noticed the red stain spreading across Eric’s torn shirt. “Oh my god. John, grab the first aid kit!”

“Got it!” John said.

“Put some gauze on Eric’s shoulder. Press down hard.”

“Just not too hard,” Eric said, feigning a smile.

John hesitated. Eric’s blood poured through the hole in his shirt. John’s face went pale.

“Do it, John!” Brooke said.

John reached around and placed the wad of gauze against the wound. The blood slowly soaked the white gauze red and began to stain John’s fingers.

Brooke didn’t let up the gas. They flew down the back road. The cruiser’s shocks bounced violently with each dip and drop they passed over. Brooke could see Eric’s eyes fluttering open and closed. His face was slick with sweat. She could see his body start to shake.

“We need to go to a hospital,” John said.

“We can’t.”

“Mom, he’s shot!”

“No,” Eric said. “Your mom’s right. Hospitals mean questions. It’s too risky.”

“We have to do something!” John said.

“Mobile,” Eric muttered. “Alabama. I have a friend there who can help.”

“How far?” Brooke asked.

“Sixty miles,” Eric answered.

Chapter 5

Soldiers dressed in fatigues rushed through the war room, adjusting the multiple screens from their computer stations that projected maps of California, Arizona, and New Mexico. The chatter in the room was loud.

Gallo stood in the back, watching his men. The smoke from the tip of his cigar wafted through the air. He wrapped his lips around the layers of tobacco and inhaled deep and slow. Colonel Herrera stood at attention and saluted.

“General, we have just received word of the successful siege of Phoenix and Albuquerque,” Herrera said.

Gallo continued to watch the maps on the screen that tracked his men and other resources that were now stretching into the Southwest. But his eyes kept falling back to California.

“What about San Diego?” Gallo asked.

Herrera hesitated then answered, “Our ground forces that entered through the Baja Peninsula have made contact.”

“And?”

“The increased U.S. naval presence in the Pacific prevented us from—”

Gallo punched the wall behind him, creating a fist-sized crater. He tossed the cigar to the floor, and the room shook as he stamped it out with his boot. The noisy chatter stopped. The room’s gaze shifted to Gallo and Herrera in the back.

“Then bring more ships!” Gallo shouted.

“Yes, sir,” Herrera answered.

“Back to work!” Gallo snapped, and the soldiers went back to their duties. Gallo marched out of the room and headed down the hallway to his office. Once there, he collapsed in his chair. He felt his body sag, melting into the seat.

The past twenty-four hours had taken their toll. And now, with the moves made, the weight of a massive war rested on his shoulders. The 1840 map of Mexico had been removed from the wall and was placed on his desk.

During the battles the day before, he had let his colonels handle the execution. Gallo had spent his time during the engagements staring at the aging map. He traced his fingers up along the western coast of California all the way to east Texas.

Gallo’s eyes glazed over the longer he spent looking at the old borders of the Mexican nation. He would restore glory to his people. He would bring honor back to all of them. And his reward would be his name forever etched in the history books. Mexico would write the next great chapter, because he was going to win.

The cell in Gallo’s pocket rang. He didn’t bother checking it. He knew who it was. Jones had been trying to contact him since yesterday. There was no doubt what Jones wanted. Gallo just couldn’t believe the congressman’s persistence. The repeated attempts told him one very important detail: Jones was desperate.

Gallo knew how much Jones had riding on Mexico’s cooperation for his planned military strike against the South American countries. The Americans had spread themselves too thin, and the water shortages had only accelerated the United States’ decomposition. However, despite their dire condition, they still had their military prowess. He understood the risk.

A knock sounded at Gallo’s door, breaking his fixation on the map. “Yes,” he said.

Colonel Herrera entered. “General, President Castell requests your audience.”

Gallo scoffed. “Requests. I’ll be with him shortly.”

Herrera nodded and left. More politicians. More of the bureaucratic nonsense that he despised. Politicians failed to recognize that wars weren’t won with words. They were won with bullets.

***

A small, fenced-in gate guarded the entrance to a tunnel in the Colorado Rocky Mountains. Nestled just outside the city of Colorado Springs, the Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Station that surrounded the mountains was the epicenter of the intricate air and space defense for North America. NORAD had the capability to detect threats and help mobilize a response anywhere in the country.

Deep underneath the thousands of pounds of granite and rocks lay bunkers capable of withstanding nuclear attacks. Those operation rooms were reserved for times of nuclear crisis, but since the water shortage that had begun more than a decade ago, the rooms deep within the mountains now housed most of the base’s staff.

Display screens highlighting Gallo’s forces across the Southwest were etched on multiple surfaces around the main control room. United States Air Force officers sat behind their stations, coding and decrypting messages to units stationed along the borders of Oklahoma and Texas.

Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Mink’s eyes hadn’t left the screens in front of him. He maneuvered the thin wire microphone jutting across the side of his jaw from his ear and sipped from a mug of coffee. Steam rose from the cup, fogging his glasses.

A cadet entered with a sealed envelope, saluted, and then handed Mink the document. Mink set his coffee down, and the tearing of the envelope caused the heads in the room to turn.

“Calm down, everyone. We don’t know what the orders will be,” Mink said.

But even he felt his heart rate accelerate as he flipped the papers open. He scanned the document. The only sounds coming from the room were the beeps from the surrounding computers. Mink folded the orders up, tucked them under his arm, and adjusted the microphone in front of his mouth.

“We are go for operation Sum Zero,” Mink ordered.

The quiet in the room was replaced with the buzz of communications with American military units around the Southwest. The display screens at the front of the room lit up with movement. Planes scrambled in Colorado. Army regiments deployed from Texas. And the Pacific Fleet guarding the Alaskan fisheries was called back to San Diego.

Mink knew what the orders meant. Congress had made its declaration of war. The ink had barely dried, and now it was time to put that piece of legislation into action. Every word and letter on the declaration was pointed with the spears of soldiers, the bombs from planes, and the artillery of tanks.

But Mink also knew the damage it would wreak on the civilians still living in the Southwest. The air strikes wouldn’t just destroy the enemy in Phoenix and Albuquerque; they would hit the former American citizens still holding on to whatever hope they had left.

When the bombs dropped, those hopes and prayers would shatter. But Mink had his orders. There wasn’t any emotion in his actions or the actions of his soldiers. The only reactions were the fluid efficiencies of the coordination with which the orders were carried out.

Lieutenant Colonel Mink picked his coffee back up and watched the squares and triangles on the display screens move closer to their targets. The United States had officially entered the war.

***

President Castell checked his hair in the mirror outside the conference room before entering. The doors had already been opened by his security detail, and everyone inside was standing. Once each strand of his jet-black hair was subdued, he ventured inside.

“Please, gentlemen, sit down,” Castell said.

Castell joined Gallo and his other military advisors at the end of the table. He’d insisted on having a meeting to discuss the ongoing strategic mission to retake the Southwest. And it just so happened that he would be making a speech to the Mexican people an hour from now. Whatever news his advisor brought back from their first military campaign, he wanted to ensure he could spin it in a way that would be palatable for the Mexican people.

A member of Castell’s security detail pulled his chair back for him, and Gallo rolled his eyes. Castell caught the insubordination but let it slide. Of all his advisors, he feared Gallo the most.

“What do you have for me, General Gallo?” Castell asked.

“We have secured and established a presence in both Phoenix and Albuquerque. We’re in the process of tying up any loose ends with issues in the local population. Other than a few resisting citizens, most of the people were too weak to put up a fight,” Gallo answered.

“Excellent. When can we start harvesting resources?” Castell asked.

“Most of the area has dried out, but I’ve authorized scout teams to search the area for anything that might have been left behind.”

“So what do we have to show for our efforts? Other than more dried land?”

Everyone in the room knew that Castell had only approved the campaign in hopes of gaining access to what water resources the United States had left. Castell also knew that Gallo’s rage could blind him to the facts sitting in front of him. And Castell wasn’t going to be left with egg on his face if things turned south. Gallo was his scapegoat.

“I’m sure you know, Señor Presidente, that the sacking of these cities was purely strategic. We needed a base of operations in the area. Now that those are being established, we’ll be able to push farther north,” Gallo answered.

“And when can we expect that to happen?”

“Soon.”

“Soon?” Castell echoed. “Well, I don’t think our people can drink ‘soon.’ I don’t think ‘soon’ will grow their crops. We need water, General. And we need food and fertile land to grow it on. We need something better than ‘soon.’”

“Then perhaps you would like to lead your own campaign on the ground. I’m sure it would rally our troops to see their commander in chief perform acts of bravery in such a tremulous time.”

The plastered political face Castell prided himself on was replaced by one of indignation. He looked around the room and caught a few smirks before his advisors were able to wipe them off their faces. He was the president. He wouldn’t be spoken to like that.

“Don’t become confused about who’s in charge, General. This might be your war, but this is my country. And if this fails, then there won’t be a single man, woman, or child who doesn’t know your name. It will be you who will go down as the biggest fool in our country’s history,” Castell said.

Gallo rose from his seat, and the brief spate of courage Castell had felt the moment before disappeared as he cowered back in his chair. Gallo seemed too big for the room, and Castell’s chair felt much too confining.

“And when I am successful, it will be my name they chant. Not yours,” Gallo replied.

Castell’s eyes went to his security detail, who had their hands on their pistols. The sight restored the courage from earlier. “The people don’t remember tools, General. Only the men that wielded them.”

Before Gallo could retaliate, Colonel Herrera burst through the doors. His face was covered in sweat, and he bent over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

“General,” Herrera said. “The… Americans…”

Castell rose at the abruptness of his entrance. “Yes?” he asked. “What is it?”

“The Americans bombed Phoenix and Albuquerque,” the colonel answered. “We don’t know how many men we’ve lost.”

Castell collapsed into his chair. The room broke out in shouts and screams. Fingers were pointed. Accusations were made. Only Castell and Gallo remained silent. Amid the chaos of the room, Castell found Gallo’s eyes. The wheels started turning in Castell’s mind. Whoever took the fall for this would no longer have a career. He couldn’t afford that. He raised both hands into the air, attempting to quiet the room.

“Gentlemen. Gentlemen, please,” Castell said.

The conversations waned, and all heads slowly turned to Castell, who rose from his chair again. The other men took their seats, adjusting their suits and uniforms with the dignity of a two-year-old trying to hide the tantrums they had just thrown.

“General Gallo has been charged with the coordination of this war. Everyone can agree on that. General,” Castell said, turning to Gallo, “what is our next step?”

Castell’s insides were churning. He was banking on Gallo’s pride. He knew the general wanted to run the country, and the war with the Americans would act as a catalyst for that. Castell couldn’t contend with Gallo if it were to come to muscle. The soldiers were loyal to Gallo, not to him. But if he played his cards right and gave Gallo the nod to direct the next moves without acknowledging support, he might be able to retain his power through misdirection of the Mexican people.

Gallo’s face was a blank sheet of paper, unreadable until the moment he decided which words to write across it.

“The Americans aren’t the only ones with bombs, Señor Presidente,” Gallo said.

Chapter 6

Blood had soaked through the gauze John had applied to Eric’s gunshot wound. John’s fingers were now stained red and sticky with blood. His arms were shaking from the continued pressure. He watched Eric’s eyelids flutter open and closed. He pressed his hand to the side of Eric’s face.

“Mom, he’s really cold,” John said.

“He’s probably in shock,” Brooke answered.

Brooke jerked the wheel right and missed a massive pothole on the broken Alabama road. The salty sea air had eroded and worn most of the coastal pavement. John shifted his legs to relieve some of the pressure in his knees from kneeling on them. He could feel the numbness shoot through his legs and almost fell over from the loss of feeling.

“Are we close?” John asked.

“Eric,” Brooke said. “Eric, we’re almost in Mobile. Where does your friend live?”

Eric mumbled something.

“What did he say?” Brooke asked.

“I don’t know,” John answered.

John shook Eric, and his head wavered back and forth on his shoulders. The color had left Eric’s face, and the vibrant eyes that John had seen the day before seemed faded.

“Eric! Where does your friend live?” Brooke repeated.

Again, the only answer was mumbles. John brought his hand back and smacked Eric across the face. The sharp crack of John’s hand against Eric’s cheek startled Brooke but did its job of waking Eric up.

“Ouch,” Eric answered.

When John saw the look on his mother’s face, he shrugged. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

Eric’s eyes focused on the landscape outside the window. “Where are we?” he asked.

“Just outside Mobile, Alabama,” Brooke answered. “Now, where’s your friend?”

“Tillman’s Corner,” Eric muttered, then started to fade from consciousness again.

“John, check the map,” Brooke said.

“But, what about the wound?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

John peeled his fingers off the bullet hole. Some of the blood had dried, fusing the gauze to John’s skin. He peeled it off, and the dried blood fell off in flakes. He reached for the map and rolled it open. Emily was still buckled into the back seat. She’d cried herself out about twenty minutes ago and just looked tired now.

“Em, help me find Tillman’s Corner,” John said, trying to take her mind off things.

John found Mobile on the map, and his finger ran south. Emily tried searching but was distracted by the other cities located around the country.

“Found it!” John said. “We need to get on Highway 59 to get to it, though. And I have no idea where we’re at.”

“We’re on Coden Belt,” Brooke said. “And we just passed Bayou La Batre a few miles back.”

“We need to head north,” John answered.

“You’ll have to find a route for us. Make sure we stay off the main roads. Eric,” Brooke said. “Where exactly does your friend live? What’s his address in Tillman’s Corner?”

“4249 South Terrance Street,” Eric answered, his eyes still closed.

“Tell me where to go, John,” Brooke said.

The map crinkled under John’s fingers as he rubbed the edges of the paper. More bits of dried blood rolled into small, flaky balls off of his fingertips. His eyes were transfixed on those small concentrations of fluid. It all seemed too surreal to him. If John couldn’t help get Eric to his friend’s house, then he was going to die. Eric’s death would rest on his shoulders. He would be to blame. The thump in John’s chest beat harder. It felt like his heart would explode. Was this what his dad had felt like in Iraq?

“John!” Brooke yelled.

“Huh?”

“I need you to tell me where to go.”

“Right.”

The beating in his chest subsided slightly, but he focused his energy on finding a side street they could cross at. The faded-green street sign they had just passed read Barrett Road. He found that road on the map and looked for the next available crossing.

“Take a left on Clark Road. From there, we can follow the river north for a few miles before we have to get on any other main roads,” John said.

“Perfect. That’s great, John,” Brooke answered.

John traced his finger north, trying to find the street where Eric’s friend lived. He found it sitting on the bay side of the city.

Brooke made the left on Clark Road and passed a few pedestrians on the sidewalk. John watched them point at the cruiser. The bullet-riddled doors and smashed rear windshield didn’t make for the most inconspicuous mode of transportation. Lucky for them the area was sparsely populated. The fewer people they ran into, the better off they were. John was trying to figure out their next move when he felt the tug on his shirt sleeve.

“Em, not now,” he said.

The tugging continued, this time more violently than before. He pulled Emily’s hand off him and tossed it aside. It returned just seconds later.

“Emily, I said not n—”

It was small splashes of water against the rocks that cut him off. John joined Emily in pressing his face against the window. John had never seen anything like it before. The sheer size of the river made his jaw drop. He’d seen pictures and watched videos in his history class, but there was something different about actually seeing it.

“Wow,” he said.

All John could think about was ripping off his shirt and diving head first into the water, letting the cool liquid wash over him. At least he thought it would be cool. The humid Alabama heat made it hard to believe that anything could be cold.

“John?” Brooke asked, her voice calm.

“Yeah?” John answered.

His eyes remained glued on the water rushing downstream. He had read somewhere that people used to ride rapids like these in small rafts. Staring at the river rushing past them, he couldn’t help but have that same urge to travel the river the same way others had done before him.

“I need you to help me, John,” Brooke said.

John pulled his eyes from the splashing river and back to the tired, defeated face of Eric, whose head bobbed from side to side in a delirious haze. The river could wait.

***

Brooke squinted through the windshield at the house numbers on South Terrance Street. On her way there, she expected to see more of a residential neighborhood, but what she found the closer they moved to Eric’s friend’s house were large pieces of land, gated off with big houses sitting on them. In between the properties were clusters of thick trees and tall grass. It was the first time she’d seen the color green in a very long time.

The odd-numbered houses were on the left, and she kept counting in her head until she saw a half-bent, rusty mailbox with the numbers 4249 written on it in small, faded black letters. A locked gate guarded the driveway to the house.

Eric was completely passed out, and the wound was still bleeding. His face was ghost white, and he was no longer sweating. Brooke knew that was a bad sign. Brooke turned around to John and Emily in the back seat. “Hold on.”

Brooke shifted the cruiser into reverse and backed up, keeping the gate lined up directly in front of her. She reversed forty feet and slammed on the breaks. She jammed the shifter back into drive and floored the gas pedal. Dirt flew up from the tires, and the engine roared as all eight cylinders pounded furiously.

Brooke’s fingers tightened around the groves in the steering wheel. Her arms and shoulders stiffened, bracing for the impact. The speedometer soared from twenty to forty to sixty, and then the front grille of the cruiser smashed through the locked gate, crumpling the front bumper and cracking the headlights.

The chain and lock from the metal gate snapped in two and clanked against the concrete. They skidded to a stop just before hitting the bumper of a truck parked outside the house’s garage. Before Brooke could get out of the car, a tall, lanky man dressed in a dirty white shirt and holey jeans stepped out with a rifle aimed right at them.

“This is private property! This is your only warning before I sho—”

The man cut himself off. He lowered the rifle and squinted at Eric through the passenger window. “Holy shit.”

Brooke stepped out of the car, her hands in the air. “Are you Eric’s friend?”

“Well, that’s a strong word for it,” the man said rushing to the cruiser’s side. He opened the door and picked Eric up in his arms. Brooke was amazed that the man was able to lift Eric by himself. He looked no heavier than a buck fifty sopping wet. She watched the man disappear with Eric inside the house, and she worked on getting Emily out of the back seat. Before she could stop him, John was out of the cruiser and running after Eric.

“John!”

Despite Eric’s claim that this man was his friend, Brooke knew nothing else about him. She picked Emily up in her arms and ran after them.

The inside of the man’s house was simple, clean. Not exactly what she expected from someone living on a large piece of land like this. Of all the houses she passed, this was definitely the smallest. Brooke found John with the man and Eric in a bedroom on the side of the house. Eric’s shirt was ripped off, exposing the gunshot wound. John watched from a distance.

Brooke turned around and set Emily down in the living room on the couch. There was an old television in the corner. She found the remote and clicked it on. Despite its age, it still worked. She handed Emily the remote. “See if you can find anything good on TV, okay? I’ll be right in the other room. Just call for me if you need anything.”

Emily nodded, reaching for the remote out of some reflex of watching television for countless hours in the living room at their old house. But Brooke knew her daughter had seen things now well beyond her years. She just hoped that she’d still be okay.

Brooke ran into the bedroom, where the man was bent over Eric with what looked like a pair of tweezers in his hand. “How long has he been bleeding?”

“A little over an hour,” Brooke answered.

“Run into the garage. The door is just past the kitchen. Inside you’ll find a red medical bag. Next to it will be what looks like a coat rack, but for just one coat. Bring them both here.”

The man pierced Eric’s flesh with the tweezers, and Brooke cringed. The sound of the metal squishing against the exposed flesh distracted her.

“Hurry!” he said.

Brooke maneuvered through the foreign house as best she could. When she made it to the garage, it was completely dark. She ran her hands over the wall, feeling for a light switch. She flicked it on and immediately saw the red bag and coat rack he’d described.

When Brooke made it back into the room, the man held the bloodstained bullet pinched in the tweezers. He dropped the 9mm piece of lead on the table and snatched the red bag out of Brooke’s hand.

“Is he going to die?” John asked.

“Not sure yet. He’s lost a lot of blood. And the fact that he’s been unconscious so far with very light breathing isn’t boding well for him,” the man answered, whose bloodstained hands sifted through the bag and pulled out a plastic IV bag and attached it to the rack. He ran a tube from the bag and tipped the end with a needle that he placed in Eric’s arm. He then pulled out a sewing needle and thread from a case. “Keep an eye on him. I need to sterilize this.”

John and Brooke were on either side of the bed, staring at Eric’s unconscious body. She looked over to her son, who had tears welling up in his eyes. She walked over to him and wrapped him in a hug.

Brooke took John out to the living room to join his sister and let Eric’s friend finish patching him up. She knew John had become attached to Eric over the past few days. It’d been a while since he’d had any strong male presence around. She just wasn’t sure if he was crying tears of guilt or of fear.

***

The van’s tires spun wildly in the mud, sending a spray of brown and black flying behind it. Even though the wheels’ movement was rapid, Terry’s progress was slow. He let off the gas and slammed his fist onto the dash, causing an already large crack in the plastic to widen.

The thick Mississippi mud was proving to be too much for his two-wheel-drive van. It wasn’t built for this type of terrain. Terry stepped back out onto the mudded road and saw that his rear right tire was half sunk in the brown muck.

Terry grabbed the axe from the back of the van and proceeded to chop down branches. He chose ones that were sturdy but not too thick for the van’s tires to climb over. He figured three pieces of wood could do the job. He levered one end of each branch down between the mud and the tire. He used the back of the axe head to hammer each branch deep enough for the tire to gain traction on it.

The rough wooden handle of the axle glided through Terry’s hands with ease, but on the last blow, a splinter caught the palm of his hand, and he winced. The sharp edge of the thin piece of wood jutted out from his flesh. He pinched the end between his fingers and pulled, sliding the splinter out. A small trickle of blood followed, and Terry wiped his palm on the side of his jeans.

With the wood firmly in place, Terry jumped back in the driver’s seat. He slowly put his foot on the gas. The van’s tires slipped and crunched against the sticks underneath. Slowly, the van dug itself out of the muddy rut. Terry pulled over to the side of the road, where the ground was more compacted.

The front windshield was splintered and cracked from the bullets. The damage made it nearly impossible to see anything. Terry leaned back and brought the heel of his boot up to the windshield and smashed it against the already shattered glass. The glass bulged outward from the force of the impact. He crushed his heel against the windshield again, creating another balloon of broken glass.

Glass shards fell to the dash, and Terry reached for the axe. He stepped out of the van and swung the axe violently into the windshield, then pulled the axe backward with one strong yank. The force cut an opening large enough for the rest of the windshield to easily give way.

Terry repeated the violent blows until there was nothing left. The front of the van was completely open and exposed. He tossed the axe through the open space, and it crashed into the back of the van. He brushed the shards of glass off the driver’s seat and from the top of the dash.

He booted up his small laptop at the makeshift desk and waited for the screen to load. He glanced down at his fingers, stained with small bits of red from the cut along his palm and the tiny cuts the pieces of glass had inflicted.

Terry typed in his password, staining some of the keys with his blood. He opened a program, and a large map of the globe appeared in a three-dimensional graphic. There was a small search box in the top left corner with enough space for a seven-digit number. After the number was entered, the three-dimensional globe on the screen rotated and zoomed in on the United States. It buffered, then zoomed in on the Southeast, buffered again, and then revealed a small red dot traveling along the border of Alabama just outside Mobile.

***

Dave tossed the bloody needle and remaining thread into a biohazard bag and sealed it. The stiches in Eric’s shoulder stretched five across. It’d been a while since he’d sewn anything, or anyone, up, but he didn’t think Eric would mind the scar when he woke, as long as he was alive.

“What the hell did you get yourself into?” Dave asked.

It may have been the first time in his life that Eric didn’t have a smart-ass comment, which Dave discovered that he missed. That was also a first. Dave checked the IV bag, which was halfway through its drip, then took a seat at the foot of the bed. He knew the family that had brought Eric here was in the living room. He had heard the familiar sounds of cartoons from the television as he stitched Eric up. He just wasn’t sure how to approach them.

Dave grabbed the medical bag and stopped in the hallway bathroom before entering the living room. He figured it best to wash the blood off his hands since the little girl was with them. He figured she’d seen enough blood for one day.

When Dave walked out into the living room, Emily was on her stomach right in front of the television, and John was fast asleep on the couch.

“Where’s your mom?” Dave asked.

Emily didn’t say anything. She simply pointed to her left. Dave could see Brooke outside through his front window. She was walking around her car like she was looking for something. Dave turned back to Emily, unfamiliar with the needs of a child.

“Um, are you hungry or anything?” Dave asked.

Emily shook her head.

“All right then. I’m gonna go talk to your mom.”

Brooke stopped her inspection when Dave walked out. She rushed over to him.

“He’s all right for now. Just resting. We’ll have to keep an eye on him, but he should be fine in a day or two,” Dave said.

“Thank you,” Brooke said.

“So I don’t really know how to say this without sounding like an ass, but… Who are you?”

“Brooke. Those are my kids inside. Eric was a friend of my husband in the military.”

“What branch?”

“Marines.”

“Well, then. Oo-rah. I’m Dave.”

The two shook hands, and Dave walked over to the cruiser, examining the bullet holes that decorated the sides and back windshield. “Looks like you guys have been through it.”

“It’s been a long week,” Brooke said.

“Well, since it’s going to be a while before Captain America wakes up, why don’t we have some dinner. Judging by the condition of your vehicle, I’d say you could use a hot meal.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll open the garage, and you can pull your car in. I have some nosy neighbors.”

Dave pushed a barbeque grill from the middle of the garage to the side to make room. Brooke inched the cruiser forward, barely clearing the garage’s roof. Once it was fully inside, Dave shut the garage door and turned off the light.

“I hope you don’t mind chicken,” Dave said.

“That’s perfectly fine. Thank you,” Brooke said.

***

Dinner was quick. Eric even woke up halfway through but still wasn’t strong enough to join them. John and Emily didn’t say much. Once it was over, Emily stumbled back over to the floor in front of the television, and John lay on the couch.

“I guess you’ve been on the road for a while,” Dave said, taking the plates from the table.

“Yeah,” Brooke answered.

Brooke pulled her hair back and gathered it in a ponytail. She had thought the warm meal would energize her, but all it did was make her want to pass out. Her entire body felt like it was made of lead. She watched Dave wash off some of the plates and got up to help.

“No, you don’t have to do that,” Dave said.

“It’s fine. Really.”

Dave washed while Brooke dried. After the dishes, she helped wipe down the table and counters. She tossed the dirty rag into the sink and heard the distinctive crack of a beer opening. Frosty vapor escaped the brown bottle as Dave extended it to Brooke.

“Haven’t had one of these in a while,” Brooke said, taking a sip.

“I figured you could use one.”

The golden liquid washed down the back of Brooke’s throat, cooling the perpetual dryness that seemed to be stuck there no matter how much water she drank. The two of them sat at the kitchen table in silence. With each sip of beer, she could feel herself wake up a little bit. Her kids, however, ended up passing out right where they lay.

“I’ve got another bedroom they could sleep in,” Dave said.

Brooke carried Emily, and Dave scooped John off the couch. The second spare bedroom was at the opposite end from where Eric was resting. It was slightly smaller, and the two kids barely fit on the twin mattress, but it was better than the floor. Brooke closed the door behind her, and they walked back into the kitchen to finish their beers.

One by one, the empty bottles multiplied on the kitchen table. An hour later, thirteen long-neck soldiers joined their brothers, and both Dave and Brooke were rosy cheeked and trying to quiet their laughter.

“Wait. Wait. I’ve been wondering this since I met him. How the hell did he get that nickname?” Brooke asked, swaying back and forth slightly in her chair.

“Scratch?”

“Yeah.”

“It was right before we deployed for our first tour in Iraq. He must have been nineteen at the oldest. If you think he’s a smartass now, you wouldn’t believe what came out of his mouth at that age.”

“I can imagine.”

“Skinny as a toothpick with the energy of a cracked-up six-year-old. Anyway, the unit went out on the town. We drank, fought, drank, and then drank some more. I think you get the gist. Well, toward the end of the night, Eric sees this girl at the bar we were at. It was almost closing time, and the last-call bell had just rung. He could barely stand, let alone walk over to her, but he was determined to go home with somebody. So after some heartfelt chants from us egging him on, he eventually made it over to her and then disappeared out the back door with the woman pulling him by his shirt collar.”

“So why the nickname? He didn’t scratch or strike out.”

Dave’s body started shaking as soundless laughs escaped him. His face was all scrunched up and red, and just the sight of him caused Brooke to break out in a giggle fit. Dave attempted to tell the rest of the story through deep breaths between laughs.

“She was… a hooker… and he got crabs.”

Brooke wobbled and almost fell out of her chair. Her hand slapped against the kitchen table to help stabilize her.

“He scratched himself for weeks before he finally went to the medical unit. He didn’t know what it was,” Dave said, wheezing from laughter.

Tears formed in their eyes. Brooke’s cheeks started to feel sore from laughing so hard. She rubbed them to try and get the stiffness out. Her fingertips brushed the round edge of the bottle and missed, triggering another laughing fit from both of them.

“I can’t… grab it,” Brooke said, clutching her stomach.

It took a few minutes before the two of them settled down. Brooke could feel the heavy calmness wash over her after regaining her composure. Her nose was stuffy, and she had to keep wiping away the water still leaking from the corners of her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard.

Brooke tried to think back to when she felt happy. Not just good or content but having the genuine feeling of pure joy. She searched through her beer-soaked mind for memories that would have granted her such a release, but the only things she could find were the fright-filled moments of the past week: the president’s announcement, the desert marauders, the Mexican gangs, the police, the violence, the bullets, the blood, the vibrations from the explosions.

The brief moment of escape that the empty beer bottles had granted was merely that: brief. Once the ambrosia wore off, it was back to reality and the dangers that came with it. Brooke could feel the light expression of laughter on her face be replaced by the heavy burden of consequence.

“That’s all it is, isn’t it,” Brooke said.

“All what is?” Dave asked.

“Consequences. Life is about consequences. The choices we make, good or bad, right or wrong, there’s always a consequence on the other side of it. And that’s what this is. A consequence.”

The rim of the bottle found Brooke’s lips one more time as she took another sip. The choices of previous generations had led to the consequences that her family and millions of other families were now forced to bear. It all just seemed to be an endless cycle of debt owed to the next generation. And now both Emily and John were charged with the consequences of her debt.

“I should have gotten out sooner,” Brooke said.

Dave set his bottle down. Brooke could see the lines and creases of his face lose their joyful curves. His face now looked like Brooke’s felt: sad.

“You did what you could,” Dave said, reaching out and taking her hand. “Your family’s alive because of you. Eric’s alive because of you. You’re alive. And as long it stays that way, there’s always a chance to make it to the other side. I promise you that.”

“Thank you.”

Brooke wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that there was still hope for things to change for the better. But it seemed that every time she was close, every time she thought there was a light at the end of the tunnel, it was stamped out by acts of violent hate.

When Jason was alive, he had told her stories of some of the soldiers that were under his command and what they’d seen while on duty. The horrors of war were hard to forget. A lot of them never really came home. He had told her that a man can only compartmentalize so much before he forgets which box he’s supposed to be in, which box is real.

Brooke could feel her mind struggling to do the same thing, trying to compartmentalize everything. Home, family, water, survival, death, murder, blood, life, death, life, death. All of it circled round and round. She felt dizzy. She held her head in both arms, trying to stop the room from spinning.

“Oh, God,” Brooke said.

“Well, I think we’ve both had enough,” Dave said, finishing his beer.

Dave helped her up from her chair and guided her to the couch. Brooke felt herself fall backward onto a cushion and then the cool feeling of cotton being pulled over her body as she gripped the sheet and closed her eyes.

Chapter 7

The massive marble columns of the Justice building had withstood the test of time. The white and cloudy gray marble shimmered in the glare of the sunlight, and Smith couldn’t help but marvel at the architecture. The building was designed to last for centuries. It held the Romanesque feel of a great empire. But, just like the Romans’ country, his too was beginning to crack and crumble, just as those marble columns eventually would. Smith just didn’t believe it would happen in his lifetime.

And the reporters swarming the building diluted the allure that Smith felt when he would walk there on his own. He swatted away the flashes of cameras, the microphones stuck in his face, and the questions from reporters who swarmed like flies.

“Congressman! Congressman! How do you plan to defend yourself against such a heavy accusation?”

“Congressman Smith! Why did you commit these acts against your country?”

“Congressman! Do you have any comment about the strain this is putting on your family?”

The last question triggered the only noticeable grimace on Smith’s face. He turned to the reporter, but Beth jumped in front of him before he could say anything.

“The Congressman will have a statement after the hearing. But until that time, we will not be answering any questions. Thank you,” Beth said.

She grabbed his arm and plowed her way forward. The sentries at the door blocked the reporters from entering. The media wouldn’t be a part of this hearing. Barring them was a move by Jones to block out any potential sway that Smith may try and gain through the use of such a public forum.

“You need to focus, David,” Beth said, the click of her heels echoing in the large marble hall. “Until we come out of this with a not-guilty verdict, we can’t risk letting emotions get the better of us.”

“Always taking bullets for me,” Smith replied.

“Stop being so dramatic.”

The statues of past Supreme Court Justices watched over the halls of the Justice Department like stone sentries. Those great men and women of law had kept the country in balance since its creation. Smith knew that both he and Beth were prepared despite Jones’s hand in whatever case Attorney General Cobb had conjured up. But he couldn’t help but feel that the balance of justice had shifted recently. He just hoped that the judges were still above the influence of those that meant him and the country harm.

Smith and Beth took their places up front. The room was crowded with politicians, both representatives and senators alike. Smith was surprised by the turnout, but from the looks on the faces of his peers, he could tell they had just as much riding on this as he did. If the Supreme Court ruled in Jones’s favor, then it would set a dangerous precedent that could rapidly unravel the thin threads holding the rest of the country together.

Attorney General Marcus Cobb pushed his way through the room. He flopped his black briefcase on the table and popped the hinges.

“Beth, David. Good to see you.”

“Marcus,” Beth said.

Smith had only met Marcus a handful of times, most of them in casual settings such as parties or charity events. In those places, Smith always thought Marcus looked so confused, so clumsy. He wondered how the man could have ever been appointed to the position he held. But looking at the clean cut of his suit, the slick sheen of his hair, and the focus in his eyes, Smith felt a chill start to creep up his back.

The marshal of the court announced the entrance of the judges with booming enthusiasm. “The Honorable, the Chief Justice and the Associate Justices of the Supreme Court of the United States. Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All persons having business before the Honorable, the Supreme Court of the United States, are admonished to draw near and give their attention, for the Court is now sitting. God save the United States and this Honorable Court!”

The judges entered, their long black robes flowing behind them. Aside from two of them being women and the rest men, they all looked surprisingly alike. The creases and wrinkles along each of their sagging faces seemed unified in representation of the court’s seasoned expertise.

Chief Justice Ruden sat in the middle, with the associate justices balancing him on both sides. They sat down in unison, and then the rest of the room followed. Ruden banged the gavel, officially putting the court in session.

“Today’s trial involves David Smith vs. the United States. Before we begin, I would like to remind everyone in this room, including our attorneys, that each of you has sworn an oath. Any disparagement of that oath that defames this court will not be tolerated. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Beth said.

“Of course, Chief Justice,” Marcus replied.

“Good. Now, this session will run from 10 a.m. EST to 12 p.m. EST. During this time, each party will have their opportunity to speak, and the opinions of this court will be given. Attorney General Cobb, you have the floor.”

“Thank you, Chief Justice. The Honorable Court has been called today to address a most disturbing accusation. The highest form of deception. Treason. Congressman David Smith has forsaken the loyal oath to protect this country and its citizens with his own agenda. His collaboration with Dr. Edwin Carlson, whose water-purification process was denounced by the very Congress and people he represented, had the potential to put millions of Americans at risk to the health effects of Dr. Carlson’s work. I have here with me now signed petitions from multiple members of Congress, that outline meetings held place on federal property, along with government funds used to procure the materials for these acts.”

“Attorney General, we have reviewed these documents, and it is this court’s opinion that none of the affidavits signed places any clear accusations supporting your claims,” Ruden said.

“I do believe the breakdown of the funds provides the proper documentation for the affidavits interpretation, Your Honor.”

Associate Justice Thomas Dean leaned forward. The thin mustache penciled around his mouth accentuated his lips. Unlike his peers, he still retained streaks of black that peppered what was left of the white hair combed back over his head.

“The funds used for such an act are quite concerning. Does the defense have any case for this?” he asked.

“We do, Your Honor. In regard to the use of the funds for the purpose of purchasing the materials used, we are in fact guilty,” Beth said.

Smith could feel his muscles tightening as the room went into a collective groan. He looked over to see the smile on Cobb’s face waning. Ruden rapped his gavel, and the room silenced.

“So you admit to the charges?” Ruden asked.

“No, Your Honor,” Smith said. “There is no question that I am guilty of the improper use of political funds. However, these accusations hardly deserve the sentence of treason. An impeachment of office, perhaps, but not this.”

“And it is because of that evidence that we request the Honorable Court to dismiss these charges and allow the district courts to handle the financial allegations,” Beth added.

“I agree,” Associate Justice Thomas replied.

“Very well. All in favor of dismissing charges of treason against Congressman Smith?” Ruden asked.

Nine hands were raised across the bench.

“Done. Congressman Smith, you are free to go.”

It wasn’t until Smith exhaled that he realized he had been holding his breath. Cobb relocked the latches on his briefcase, and Smith grabbed his arm before he could escape.

“Why do this, Marcus? What is Jones trying to accomplish?” Smith asked.

“Smoke and mirrors, Smith. I don’t know what he was planning on doing, but it bought him enough time to accomplish it.”

Cobb jerked his arm out of Smith’s grip and left. The audience was already dispersing quickly. Smith couldn’t tell whether they were happy or disappointed with the Justices’ decisions. The next group was already entering for their case to be heard. When the Supreme Court was in session, it was extremely busy.

“Did you set up the meeting with the Canadian ambassador?” Smith asked.

“You have a meeting with him at one p.m.,” Beth answered.

“Good.”

Beth handed Smith his statement to present to the press waiting for him outside. Beth helped guide him down the hallway and kept him from running into anything as he read the statement over and over. As usual, it contained Beth’s keen sense of purpose and lack of any incriminating detail for the reporters to twist into headlines on the front page.

The reporters shifted from Cobb over to Smith as he left the Justice building. For the second time that day, he was met with the flurry of camera flashes, microphones, and questions.

“Smith! Why did you admit to the embezzling of funds?”

“Congressman, how does it feel to have escaped the cold grip of treason?”

“Congressman! Congressman! How do you expect the judicial system to handle the financial charges you admitted to this morning?”

“Ladies and gentlemen, please,” Smith said. “I understand your tenacity, but there was never any doubt in my mind that the charges of treason leveraged against me would never stick. As to the financial charges, I will leave that to my legal team to discuss.”

Smith turned to leave but stopped. The reporters continued to hound him with questions, but that wasn’t the cause of his hesitation. His mind went back to what Cobb had told him about Jones giving himself more time. But time for what?

“And I would also like to make something else very clear. I have no regrets regarding the choices made to bring an alternative solution to our water crisis. The exiling of the southwestern states was nothing short of cowardly, and I will continue to fight that until my last breath. It’s no secret that Congressman Jones was the mastermind behind the bill that made the exile legal, and you can put me on record right here and now that I would like the opportunity to publicly debate Jones and his position on our water crisis. Thank you.”

The reporters erupted with questions. Beth gave him a look that would have normally caused him worry, but he was too focused. If Jones needed more time for something, then Smith wasn’t going to lie down and let him stroll by without a fight.

***

The air had a slight nip to it, which Dr. Carlson enjoyed. He began to wonder why he hadn’t moved to Canada years ago, especially since the view from the balcony of the hotel allowed him to see up and down the entire Halifax coast.

The coastal waterways were thick with traffic, ranging from massive tanker ships to small fishing boats. The water was unusually calm in the bay, with the only ripples coming from the wakes of the ships that cut through it. Dr. Carlson closed his eyes and listened to the birds, the ships’ horns, and the sound of light traffic coming from below.

The people on the sandy beaches below looked no larger than pencil-sized dots. He studied their scurried movements up and down the beach. Each of them had their own worries, their own troubles, but none of them could fathom the scope of responsibility that rested on his shoulders.

He walked back into his room and eyed the minibar. It had remained unopened despite his grasping the handle a few times. He didn’t need to look inside. He already knew what was there, and he was afraid that if he looked, he wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation. Even though the alcohol was in the room, he felt better knowing that it was behind closed doors. It gave him a barrier.

Dr. Carlson flopped down on the bed and moaned at the release of pressure from his lower back. It was something that had plagued him since he’d stopped drinking. In fact, a lot of pains had plagued him since he’d stopped drinking, pains that had never bothered him while he was still drinking. He lifted his head to glance at the minibar one more time.

No. He rested his head back on the comforter and closed his eyes. His hands twitched nervously at his sides until he found his phone. He checked the screen. No missed calls. No texts. Nothing.

The bed squeaked slightly from Dr. Carlson’s roll onto his feet. He started calculating the time difference between DC and Halifax until he remembered they were both in the same time zone. He wondered what was taking so long. If Smith didn’t get off on his treason charges, which Dr. Carlson was ninety-nine percent sure would happen, then he would be stuck in Canada with no way of getting back home. Not that he was in any particular hurry.

Dr. Carlson took a seat over by the small, round table in the corner of the room. Sketches of his designs were etched on different-colored papers spread out over the table’s surface. He shuffled through them until he found a white napkin with blue phone numbers written on it. He walked over to the hotel phone and began dialing the first on the list.

“Hello, Craig? Yes, it’s Edwin. How are you? Good, good. Listen, I’m in town and I was hoping we could grab lunch. Two p.m.? Perfect. Uh-huh. Okay. Got it. I’ll see you there.”

The line went dead, and Dr. Carlson moved down to the next number. There were twenty phone numbers listed on the napkin. The ones at the bottom were all scrunched together, as he had ran out of space to write them.

Most of the scientists he called picked up, and the majority that picked up agreed to meet with him, but the ones that he wished the most would come turned him down. However, the last number on his list could redeem all the rest. He considered Dr. Frank Turney the only mind on this continent equal to his own when it came to the world of chemistry and physics. He had completed his doctorate at MIT with Frank, who also happened to be the only other person who could keep up with him at the bar.

But they’d had a bit of a falling out once Frank sobered up. Harsh words were exchanged. Objects were thrown. Doors were slammed. And Dr. Carlson vaguely remembered something about sixteen stitches after he came down from his four-day binge. His finger slipped off the last digit from the sweat collecting on his palms. He wiped them on the sides of his pants. The phone rang twice, and then a husky voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Frank?”

“Who is this?”

Dr. Carlson paused.

“It’s Edwin.”

The line was silent for almost a minute. Dr. Carlson thought Frank had hung up. It wasn’t until he heard Frank clear his throat on the other end that he realized that he was still on the line.

“What do you want?” Frank asked.

“I’m in Halifax.”

“Why?”

“I was hoping we could talk.”

“Then talk.”

Dr. Carlson rolled his eyes. He had always preferred Frank when he was drunk. He was much more laid back after he’d had a few.

“I’m looking for a partner to help start up my work again,” Dr. Carlson said.

He hoped the positive words like “partner” and “help” would tug on Frank’s heartstrings.

“I’m not interested.”

It didn’t work.

“Frank, listen. I’m sorry about my behavior in the past. I should have listened to you and gotten help when you told me to,” Dr. Carlson said.

“And you shouldn’t have thrown that coffee pot at my head.”

“Is that what it was? I thought it was a remote.”

“A remote wouldn’t have given me nine stitches.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. I was remembering sixteen stitches for some reason. Where should I meet you?”

***

Plates of fresh salmon, mixed vegetables, and tomato soup covered the table. The steam from the dishes rose through the air, accompanied by the mixture of smells from each. Smith closed his eyes and inhaled, taking in the scent of the fresh food.

“It’s good to be on the outside,” he said.

“I wasn’t aware you were locked up for that long, Congressman,” Lucas replied.

Ambassador Lucas William sat on the opposite end of the table. He was a younger man, appointed by the Canadian president for his “vigor and brains,” according to Lucas. There was a reddish tinge to his hair, which contrasted against his tan skin.

“Well, it felt like a very long time, Ambassador,” Smith said. “I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Your chief of staff made the appointment with me while you were still in prison. I admired the confidence that you would be able to make it today. I actually lost quite a bit of money betting against you in our office pool.”

“How were the odds for not guilty?”

“Fifty to one.”

Smith grimaced. “Ouch.”

“You’ve caused quite a stir in the country by calling out Congressman Jones in a debate. That’s all the media is talking about. Do you think he’ll agree to it?”

“If he doesn’t then he’s not just a lunatic, he’s a coward.”

The table was long, and Ambassador William felt incredibly far away. The dining room of the Canadian Embassy was surprisingly decadent—although, with the amount of snow Canada still received in the north, which they converted to water, they didn’t rely as heavily on water imports as the United States did.

The tension between the United States and Canada hadn’t been nearly as volatile as it was with Mexico, although it should have been after the United States commandeered all of the Great Lakes once things started to get really bad five years ago. Canada didn’t have the military to stop them, and with their snow in the north, they weren’t in a hurry to try.

“My debate is one of the reasons I wanted to meet with you, Ambassador. I was hoping we could talk about a mutually beneficial arrangement,” Smith said.

“And what type of arrangement did you have in mind?”

Smith’s fork clanged against the porcelain plates. He wiped his mouth with the edge of his napkin and rose from his chair. The Ambassador was caught mid-chew as Smith sat down next to him.

“It’s no secret that we’re drying up, Ambassador. If it isn’t obvious by the weather report, then it is by the extreme actions our government has taken. The drought will spread. The deserts are growing, and it won’t be long before the shaky alliance between our two nations dwindles and comes to another military conflict. And I don’t believe that’s what either of us wants.”

Lucas swallowed. “No, it’s not.”

“The scientist who designed the filtration process that can create clean, drinkable water from any liquid source in cheap, massive quantities is in Halifax. I need your help in acquiring the permits needed for him to build a station on Canadian soil.”

Lucas dabbed the corners of his mouth. He rested his back on the velvet-cushioned seat behind him. The food-stained napkin hung limp in his hand. He tossed it on the table next to his half-finished salmon.

“If I do this, then the Great Lakes debt is forgiven. All of it. And immediately,” Lucas said.

“Done.”

“Then I better get on the phone. Once I see the paperwork with our deal laid out, your scientist can begin his work.”

Smith and Lucas shook hands. Smith turned to leave, but Lucas stopped him. “Congressman, if your government doesn’t approve the debt forgiveness, then I’ll have Dr. Carlson detained in a Canadian prison. He’ll never set foot on American soil again.”

The boldness of youth was something Smith had always admired. He still liked to consider himself bold, although he found that the older he became, phrases such as “time tested” and “battle proven” seemed to replace it. Smith simply nodded and smiled.

Smith buttoned his suit jacket on his way out of the embassy. Beth was waiting for him in the front offices. She snapped her laptop shut and joined him walking out of the building, falling right into stride with him.

“We need to get in touch with Senator Harris,” Smith said.

“What? Why?”

“He’s chair of the budgetary committee that handles all balances owed to the U.S. government. We’re going to need him to sign off on something.”

“You know he doesn’t like you, right?”

“Yes, Beth. I’m aware. Has Jones reached out to us yet?”

“No. Nothing.”

“What about Dr. Carlson? Where’s he at with assembling his team?”

“He’s setting up some meetings with colleagues.”

Dr. Carlson was the final result of a chain reaction, but it all started with Jones. If Smith couldn’t get Jones in front of a camera, then he’d lose momentum. And if he lost momentum, then so would the cause. He needed to strike while the media was still buzzing. It wouldn’t be long before attention would be pulled back to the war with Mexico. And now with the Canadian ambassador’s request, the spinning plates Smith was holding up seemed to keep multiplying. He wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to keep them going.

Chapter 8

The familiar buzz of the alarm chirped in Dave’s ear. The room was still dark, as the sun was still sleeping. Dave smacked his palm against the button, silencing the din that woke him. He lay in bed for a moment and rubbed his face, which started his morning routine.

Get up. Get dressed. Put your pants on. Eat breakfast. Clean the dishes. Check the water gauge. Check the weather. Head into the garage. Check the supplies.

It wasn’t necessarily the routine that Dave enjoyed, but the discipline of it. Each day he forced himself to get things done more quickly and efficiently than the day before.

Before he left the garage, he grabbed another IV from his medical bag. When he checked on Eric, he was still asleep. Dave replaced the empty IV bag with the fresh one and closed Eric’s door quietly behind him.

The sun was starting to peek over the horizon, and the first colors of morning shone through the windows. Brooke was still passed out on the couch. Dave set a glass of water and two aspirin on the small coffee table next to her. He figured she’d probably need them.

With everyone still sleeping for what seemed like the foreseeable future, Dave grabbed his rifle and headed out the front door. He nestled the Winchester Model 70 Alaskan over his right shoulder as he made his way out to the side of his fenced yard that separated his property from the surrounding woods.

Dave peered through his scope and into the forest. Every few yards, he had set trip wires loaded with shotgun shells to alert him to danger. Part of his morning routine was making sure that none of them had been disabled.

Dave stepped over the vegetation carefully, making sure not to stumble. Each wire he checked remained untampered with. Satisfied with the outcome, he retraced his steps and headed out of the woods the same way he’d come in.

Brooke was sitting up with her head hung low between her shoulders when Dave walked back inside the living room. She had both hands cradling her face.

“What did I drink last night?” she asked.

“It wasn’t so much what you drank, but the amount,” Dave said.

The two aspirin were gone and the glass of water was half empty. Brooke’s hair puffed out in all different directions.

“You look terrible.” Eric was standing in the hallway entrance to the living room holding his IV stand. “And that’s coming from a guy who has a bullet hole in him.”

“Leave the woman alone, Eric. The only reason she was drinking was to forget she ever met your sorry ass,” Dave replied.

“Alas, another female casualty in my history of torrid romance.”

Brooke grabbed one of the pillows from the couch and slung it at Eric’s head. He ducked, the pillow narrowly missing his face, and almost knocking his IV over.

“Don’t worry. You’ll find someone else,” Eric replied. “What’s for breakfast?”

After finishing the glass of water, Brooke managed to stand up and took a stroll to wake up the kids. Dave fired up the stove, and Eric sat down, still taking advantage of the fact that he was recovering.

“How long do you plan on milking that?” Dave asked.

“Are you kidding me? Free room, staying hydrated, decent food. I don’t plan on leaving. Besides, I know you could use the company,” Eric answered.

“You use the word ‘free’ like I haven’t been keeping track of everything I’ve had to use for you. You can expect an invoice next week.”

Dave cracked a few eggs over the skillet and dropped a few pieces of bacon on it as well. The sizzling pops of grease, bacon, and eggs sent delicious aromas into the air.

“Hey,” Eric said. “Thank you.”

Dave almost dropped the spatula in the pan. “What was that?”

“You heard me.”

Dave slid the bacon and eggs onto the plate and smiled.

John and Emily came down the hall, accompanied by Brooke.

“That smells amazing,” John said.

“I hope you like your eggs sunny side up,” Dave said, setting the plate down and pushing the empty beers from last night aside. The movement caught John’s eye as he made the connection between his mother’s groggy state and the clinking bottles.

“Dang, Mom,” John said.

“Not so loud,” Brooke replied.

“And that, kids, is what a hangover looks like,” Eric said.

Brooke, John, Emily, and Eric inhaled their breakfast, and Dave picked up their plates almost as fast as he put them down. John helped grab some of the dishes and joined Dave in washing them in the sink.

“Oh, Brooke. I have a friend up in Mobile that might be able to take a look at your car. He could probably replace your windshield and do something about the bullet holes,” Dave said.

“I don’t know if we have that kind of time,” Brooke said.

“It wouldn’t take long. He used to do wrap jobs on boats and cars before the economy started to go bad. I think he still has some of the materials left. I’ll give him a call.”

“Thanks, Dave.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“So how about seconds?” Eric asked.

Before Dave could fry up another egg, a gunshot echoed outside. Dave immediately went to the rifle still propped up by the front door. Brooke was close behind him.

“Where did it come from?” Brooke asked.

“East. It’s from a trip wire I have set in the woods,” Dave answered.

Brooke nudged past him, looking down the roads.

“What it is?” Dave asked.

“Someone’s been following us,” Brooke said, still looking around. “The guy who shot Eric. I think it’s him.”

“How would he even know you’re here?”

“I don’t know. He just…”

Brooke trailed off and then sprinted to the garage. Dave followed her through the house, rifle in hand, trying to keep up with her. John and Emily had joined him in pursuit of their mother, and Eric tried to keep up while dragging his IV behind him.

The light in the garage was already on when Dave turned the corner. Brooke was bent over, roaming around the cruiser. She checked the tire wells and the undercarriage of the front, sides, and back. The backs of her arms, legs, and shirt were covered in dirt, but when she came up from the back, she held a small, black, rectangular device with a blinking red dot.

“It’s him,” Brooke said.

The crash of broken glass sounded in the back of the house. Dave stepped forward, aiming his rifle down the hallway. The slight thump of footsteps grew louder until the tip of a boot and the rim of a black cowboy hat edged around the corner.

Dave fired a round down the hallway that echoed a deafening roar in the garage but sent the bounty hunter recoiling behind the safety of the wall.

“Go! I’ll hold him off,” Dave said.

Brooke helped Eric into the car and removed his IV, and John buckled Emily into her seat. Dave hit the garage door opener, and as the door lifted, the morning sunlight slowly seeped inside. Dave backed out of the garage, keeping his rifle aimed down the hallway.

The cruiser’s engine cranked to life, and the vehicle peeled out of the garage. Dave heard the sound of broken glass and gunshots again and realized that the bounty hunter was shooting from the front window. He turned the corner and fired a few rounds into his own house.

Dave slammed his back against the hard concrete pillar for cover and tried to squint through the shards of glass to get a better look. The black cowboy hat was the first thing Dave saw before the bounty hunter sent three more rounds from his shotgun that sprayed concrete over his right shoulder.

“Shit.” He knew he was in a bad position. And he’d be damned if he was going to let this guy run through his house. Dave sprinted back into the garage and down the hallway. He paused before entering the kitchen, listening for any signs the bounty hunter had moved or opened the front door. After a few seconds of silence, he crept around the corner and edged along the tile that ran up against the living room carpet. He followed that line until he made it to the wall that separated the front hallway down to the living room by the front door.

“This is your last chance! Put your gun down and I won’t kill you,” Dave said.

The answer Dave received came in the form of a canister that exploded in a flash of light. Dave dropped his rifle, and all he could see was white. Before his eyes could adjust, he felt a hard thump on the back of his head and collapsed to the carpet.

***

For the first few miles, Brooke had no idea where to go. She drove blindly and without purpose. Eric kept his hand clutched over the hole from his hastily removed IV, and Emily wouldn’t stop crying. All Brooke could think about was moving forward, getting out, staying alive.

Before she realized it, she was coming up to a major highway. She hit the brakes, thinking about the condition of her car, and the cruiser skidded to a stop.

“Everyone all right?” Brooke asked.

Emily still had her ears covered from the gunshots and was curled up next to John, who stroked her hair. Brooke reached back and held onto her daughter’s leg. “It’s going to be all right, Em.”

“I can’t believe he put a bug on us,” Eric said.

“I know,” Brooke replied. “How’s the shoulder?”

“It’s better. Still sore. Although I’m going to need another round of antibiotics soon to keep fighting off the infection.”

“Right.”

There. Something to focus on. Hospitals were still out of the question, so their next stop would have to be North Carolina. They were still about a full day’s drive away, and that was if she kept to the main roads, which she knew she couldn’t.

“You think he’ll be all right?” Brooke asked, thinking of Dave.

“Yeah. He’s one tough bastard. I doubt he’ll let some mercenary get the best of him.”

Brooke thought about phoning in an anonymous tip to the police, but the police meant questions for both Dave and the man following them, and the authorities wouldn’t stop until they had answers, one way or the other.

She pulled the cruiser deeper into a wooded area for cover and decided to take a quick inventory. She knew they were running low on water. She had been hoping they could stock up with some of Dave’s supplies, but that opportunity had come and gone.

They were down to their last gallon of water. It was only enough to last the four of them the next couple of hours. They still had a few MREs left, enough for one more day, but they didn’t have any spare fuel. The tankful they’d managed to get in Dallas was almost gone.

Water and food would be easy enough to get with the cash they had on hand, but pulling into the gas station with the condition the cruiser was in was bound to raise suspicions. Brooke needed to find a remote location that wouldn’t think twice about allowing a bullet-riddled car the chance to fuel up with no questions asked.

Brooke sprawled the map out on her car seat and tried looking for any small towns in the area where she could fuel up. She could squeeze another forty miles out of what she had, but after that, they’d be hoofing it.

There were a few back roads north of Mobile if she kept along the outskirts. It was within her range and probably her best bet to remain unseen by local authorities. She did another quick scan of the cruiser’s undercarriage in case the bounty hunter had managed to sneak two tracking beacons on but came up empty. She couldn’t afford another mistake.

***

Terry zip-tied Dave’s hands behind his back and did the same to his feet. He then wrapped a few layers of duct tape around his torso and chair to make sure he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere if he woke up. Once Dave was securely immobilized, Terry checked the rest of the house.

He picked up one of the beer bottles on the counter. The dishes were thrown hastily in the sink, other bottles were knocked over, and the water was still running from the faucet.

Terry pulled the laptop out of his bag and entered the tracking device’s code in the software. The beacon showed his current location. He slammed the laptop shut, cursing under his breath. He looked back over to Dave, who had a welt forming on the back of his head.

***

The throbbing pain in Dave’s head was what woke him. Then, between the pulses of ache, he slowly became aware of the restraints on his legs and hands. His eyes adjusted to the brightness of the room. He could hear scraping, the drip of water, and the thump of boots. Then, before he could see it coming, he felt the rush of icy water wash over him.

Dave’s heart rate accelerated. He could feel the wetness covering his shirt. The water rolled off his face. He blinked repeatedly, trying to focus on the figure appearing in front of him. All he could see was a blur at first, but then an outline formed. The first thing he noticed was the wide brim of a cowboy hat.

“Time to wake up,” the cowboy said.

The frigid water made it feel like his skin was being poked with thousands of tiny needles. He could feel his body shivering, convulsing from the drastic change in temperature. Dave squinted his eyes shut hard, trying to push the pain aside.

“Smart with the trip wires. I didn’t see them,” Terry added.

Then the sting of a blow across Dave’s right cheek sent another stab of sharp ache rippling through him. He heard himself let out a cry, and a warming sensation started to replace the coldness in the cheek that was struck. When Dave opened his eyes, he could see the blood on the cowboy’s hand and the stain left on the ring he wore.

“Pain in my ass. You know how far I’ve traveled to get those two? Farther than I’ve ever had to go before. Fucking pricks,” Terry said.

Dave started to take in his surroundings. The shelves lining the walls, the speckled concrete floor, the light above, the empty ten-gallon bucket next to Terry’s legs. He was held captive in his own garage.

The cowboy grabbed the tuft of hair on Dave’s head and pulled hard, exposing Dave’s jugular. The steel of the blade pressed against his throat felt as cold as the ice water.

“Where’d they go?” the cowboy asked.

Dave swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple rose from the base of the blade’s edge, then sank back down. His eyes roamed the ceiling, trying to avoid the incandescent lighting from the bulbs above. The brightness only brought more pain.

“I don’t know,” Dave answered.

The cowboy let go of Dave’s hair and removed the blade from his neck. But the swift action was followed by a blow to the side of Dave’s head, knocking both him and the chair over. A loud crack of bone greeted him when he hit the floor.

“AAGH!”

Dave’s body trembled. The snap had felt like it was his collarbone. The pain was slowly replaced by numbness. He started to feel tired until the cowboy lifted him back up, causing the broken bone to shift underneath his skin.

The cowboy placed his finger on Dave’s broken bone and pushed. Pop and cracks sounded from the pressure as the break in Dave’s bone worsened.

“Think hard,” the cowboy said.

Dave’s answer was a shot of spit on the cowboy’s forehead. The pressure against Dave’s shoulder stopped. The cowboy wiped the saliva off his face. Dave gasped for breath. Even with the pressure gone, the pain remained.

The cowboy punched Dave in the nose. Another crunch accompanied by a spray of blood. His head flew backward. Another blow hit him. Then another. Each thump of pain caused the room to blur and spin until everything finally went black.

***

The gas station Brooke found was deep in the Alabama back country. She hadn’t seen a single soul for almost fifteen miles, and the tank was running dangerously low. She didn’t want to risk pushing it much farther.

Both John and Emily had passed out from the rush of excitement from earlier. She wrapped her shemagh around her head, barely exposing her face. The gas attendant inside gave her an odd look but didn’t hesitate in taking the cash for her to fill up.

Brooke unscrewed the gas cap and shoved the nozzle inside and squeezed the trigger. The chug of the gas pump filled the air, and Brooke leaned back against the car’s side. She looked through the side window into the back seat and watched the steady rise and fall of her children’s chests.

A smile crept onto her face through the shemagh, but her attention was soon turned to a pair of headlights coming down the road. She eyed the fuel gauge, which was only half full. As the car moved closer, she noticed the red-and-blue lights on the top and the familiar black-and-white paint of a police vehicle.

Brooke immediately turned her back to the cop car. She closed her eyes. “Just pass by. Just pass by. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

The police car’s engine grew louder. Brooke’s hand started aching, and when she looked down, she realized the pressure she was applying might crush the pump with her bare hand. She loosened her grip.

The crunch of the police car’s wheels on the fuel station’s gravel caused her heart to skip a beat. The squeak of the brakes brought the policeman to a stop. The gas tank was three quarters full now. She turned her head to see the police officer step out of the vehicle.

The officer eyed the car, taking in the bullet holes and broken rear window. The fuel pump continued to chug. The officer pulled his radio to his mouth.

“Can I get a check on a blue Toyota Land Cruiser? License plate number Echo, Foxtrot, Charlie, Niner, X-ray, Seven.”

The pump clicked off, signaling that the tank was full. Brooke quickly set the pump back on its holder and jumped back into the driver’s seat. She looked over to see Eric with the revolver in his hand. Brooke shook her head at him, and he set it down.

Brooke looked into the rearview mirror and checked for the officer, who made eye contact with her as she peeled out of the gas station. She kept the cruiser at a normal speed until the curve of the road caused the station to disappear. Then she floored it.

“You think he’ll follow us?” Eric asked.

“He radioed the plate. Once it comes back that it was stolen, he’ll be on us fast. Stay on the lookout for any paths we can jump off on,” Brooke answered.

The cruiser fishtailed a bit as Brooke increased the speed. She kept checking the rearview mirror for the police cruiser. Maybe he would let her go. Maybe he was off duty. But the flash of red-and-blue lights that appeared a few hundred yards behind them dashed those hopes just as quickly as they had arisen. The police officer’s sirens wailed as the car gained on them.

“I need a path, Eric!” Brooke yelled.

John and Emily awoke in the back seat. Both of them had the groggy-eyed look of panic. “Mom?” Emily asked.

“It’s all right, honey,” Brooke answered.

“There!” Eric yelled.

A narrow dirt road opened up thirty yards ahead on the right. Brooke veered to the left for the turn, and just before they came up to the road access, she turned right sharply. The tires kicked up a spray of gravel behind them.

The road was in bad shape. The cruiser bounced over the terrain, its shocks absorbing the violent dips and mounds along the way.

The police car made the same sharp turn onto the road, but it wasn’t designed to handle the harsh terrain like Brooke’s cruiser was. After the first major bump it came across, the front bumper bent upward and crumpled the hood. Once that happened, the officer ceased his pursuit, but Brooke didn’t let up on the gas.

“Where’s this thing take us?” Brooke asked.

Eric was scanning the map frantically, running his fingers up and down, trying to find out where they were.

“Eric!” Brooke repeated.

“I’m trying!” Eric’s finger landed harshly on the portion of the map. “It turns into some farmland about a mile from here. After that it’s nothing but fields.”

“Are there any other major roads that lead into that area?”

“No.”

“They’ll have to call the choppers out if they want to catch us, then.”

Brooke wasn’t sure if the police would waste the resources of putting a bird in the air to find them. She was leaning toward no, but then again, catching an illegal who had made it as far as she had would make someone’s career look very good and help establish the precedent that the authorities had a hold on the border. That would be some positive press she knew Congress could use.

Eric was right about the path. One mile later, they were in farm country. Nothing but open fields and barns. The last time she had been in Alabama, she was just a little girl. A tractor plowed one of the fields in the distance, but Brooke didn’t think any of the farmers around here would be trouble. As long as she didn’t mess with any of their crops, they would most likely be able to pass through untouched.

Once they were past the farms, the terrain before them just opened up into grass fields. Brooke waited in the cover of the trees for a minute while they could still use it. She listened for the hum of any helicopters or planes overhead that the police might have sent out, but the only sound she heard was the tractor at the farm behind them.

Brooke pulled the cruiser into the open fields, and the grass flattened under the tires. They’d continue until it was dark and then camp for the night. She knew they’d still have to stop for gas at least one more time, but until then they’d be staying off the roads. The police might not have wanted to pursue her enough to put a plane in the air, but there was no doubt the officer who had called them in had alerted the authorities in the neighboring states. Brooke’s picture was now in front of every police officer in a two-hundred-mile radius.

Chapter 9

The phone in Jones’s office wouldn’t stop ringing. Ever since the speech Smith made after his trial, the media wanted a comment on whether Jones would accept the debate. After the first hour, he just told his secretary not to disturb him for the rest of the afternoon. He even had lunch delivered so he wouldn’t have to face the hordes of reporters waiting for him on the steps of his office building.

Jones gave a smug smile, cutting into the grilled fish filet. He knew Smith was just baiting him, trying to lure him out, but Jones was patient. The media frenzy would peter out. He just had to keep himself busy with other matters, which, in the current climate, weren’t hard to find.

A knock on the door broke Jones’s faint concentration on his lunch, and Cindy poked her head inside the office, breaking the seal of quiet from the noisy anteroom where her desk sat.

“Cindy, I told you I did not want to be disturbed,” Smith said.

“I’m sorry, Congressman, but there’s a man here who has been incredibly insistent to see you.”

“Then call security and escort him out.”

“I did, sir… They wouldn’t move him.”

The piece of filet that Jones was cutting through hung open and exposed as steam escaped. Jones set the fork down. “Send him in.”

Cindy nodded, and a few moments later, a man, completely bald and wearing a fine tailored suit, stepped inside. He wore no flag pin on his lapel, but Jones already knew he wasn’t a politician. There was only one reason security hadn’t escorted him out when Cindy called them. This man was from Strydent.

“We need an update,” the man said.

“You need to leave. Now,” Jones answered.

“My client wants progress. They’re not seeing it.”

“You have the audacity to come here? To my office! You tell your client that I will contact them when I am ready. Understand?”

The distance between himself and the man was what prompted the courage, but after the first few steps the unwanted guest took, Jones found the foundation of courage shrinking in proportion to his proximity.

“Do you know who I am?” Jones asked. “Did they even tell you?”

The man reached into an inside jacket pocket, and Jones flinched as he pulled out an envelope. He dropped it on Jones’s desk on top of the plate of fish.

“What is this?” Jones asked.

“A push. If my client doesn’t have an update by the end of the week, then I’ll be back. And the next time, it won’t be an envelope I give you.”

Finally, after it seemed that the fish under the envelope had gone cold, the man disappeared, closing the door behind him. The envelope felt thin. Jones tore the top open, and a plane ticket slid out. It bore a departure time of this afternoon to Mexico City.

“Christ.”

Jones tucked the ticket inside his jacket and picked up his phone. “Cindy, I need to speak with the president immediately. Don’t take no for an answer.”

Before Cindy could respond, he hung up. He fell back into his chair and looked at the half-covered salmon on his plate. The knife still rested in the fillet, splitting it in half. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk, staring at his uneaten lunch.

The flight was in three hours. Jones knew that he wouldn’t be able to accomplish anything without the president’s support now. The country was screaming for justice for the attacks by Mexico, and the president had inked the declaration of war to appease its appetite.

Jones caught his knee bouncing nervously. He chewed the nail on the end of his thumb. If he were to make the flight by four, then he would have to meet with the president within the hour.

He reached for the receiver hastily and dialed Cindy again. “Cindy… Well, keep trying. I know he’s in town this week for the war meetings…. Good, well, keep me updated. And I also need to speak with Congressman Hunter. Get him on the line for me immediately, but if the president’s office calls back, that takes priority.”

His thumbnail found his teeth once more. A few moments later, the phone rang, and the haggard voice of Congressman Hunter sounded on the other end of the line.

“What is it?” Daniel asked.

“I need you to come with me to Mexico this afternoon. Our flight leaves at four p.m. Be ready. I’ll have a car come and pick you up.”

“I told you we’re done.”

“Listen to me, you sniveling hypocrite. You will be on that plane!”

Jones slammed the receiver back onto its cradle. The ruckus made Cindy peek inside. “Sir?”

“Don’t bother me unless it’s about the president!” Jones said.

Cindy sheepishly closed the door. Jones picked up the plate of fish and flung it across the room, where it splattered on his bookcase. All Jones wanted to do at that moment was rip everything apart. But then he closed his eyes. He drew in three deep, heavy breaths. Now wasn’t the time to fall apart. There was still a chance. He wasn’t done yet. The phone on his desk rang. “Yes?”

“Sir, the president can meet with you in one hour.”

Jones said nothing. He hung up the phone and walked to the office door but stopped with his hand around the doorknob. The press was still waiting for him outside, and there was no way he could get past the media without any comment.

When he showed his face on the other side of his office door, all of the interns grew quiet. He buttoned the jacket of his suit and brushed past them without a word.

The rush of reporters that swarmed him the moment he stepped out of the building stopped him dead in his tracks. They weren’t going to let him pass without something.

“Congressman! What are you going to do about the debate?”

“Do you have any comment?”

“There has been strong speculation about your relationship with Strydent Chemical. What do you have to say about that?”

Jones raised his hands. “Please, ladies and gentlemen. The comments made by Congressman Smith are nothing more than wounded lashes from someone trying to salvage his career. However, the notion that any of my actions have not been in the best interest of the country are outrageous, and I would happily defend them in any platform that Congressman Smith would like.”

Another explosion of questions bombarded him, but Jones’s comment was enough to grant him passage through the blockade of bodies. He ignored the microphones and cameras jammed in his face and headed straight for his car, which his driver had ready on the side of the road.

Jones knew that the airwaves and social media outlets were going wild with his comments. He just hoped that the president would see them before Jones made it to the White House to meet him. It could buy him some credibility—and some leverage to try and pull the president out of the war.

***

The dark circles under the president’s eyes were a product of his sleepless week. Jones could feel his weariness. The president sat behind the desk with a slight hunch.

“They made the first move, Jones,” the president said.

“I understand, sir. And no one doubts your retaliation.”

“They left me no choice.”

Jones noticed the president seemed to be talking to himself more than to anyone else. If the president was this war weary, then now was the time to strike.

“Sir, perhaps I could help,” Jones said.

The president’s eyes found him on the couch. He was broken, a wounded animal looking for an escape. The president might as well just have broken down and begged on his hands and knees right then and there.

“Let me go to Mexico. Before all of this happened, I had been in talks with General Gallo for the purposes of establishing an alliance,” Jones said.

“Well, it didn’t work.” The words were harsh. The president’s face twisted in anger and doubt.

“I know, Mr. President. However, both we and the Mexican government know that this war isn’t one either side can afford. Let me finish what I started.”

“And what if the outcome isn’t desirable?”

“Then the blame is on me, Mr. President. I will take full responsibility for what happened. You’ll have your scapegoat if I fail.”

It was all on the line now. This was the only way Jones could convince the president to back his visit. And if he had the power of the Oval Office behind him for his talk with Gallo, it could shift the weight of negotiations back in his favor.

“It’s on you, Jones. Everything.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“I’ll phone the Mexican president that you’ll be there this evening.”

Jones said nothing else. He was hanging on by a thread. There wasn’t any room for error now. Everything was riding on this trip. The execution had to be flawless. Mistakes wouldn’t just mean the end of his career, they meant the end of his life.

***

Daniel slammed the empty liquor bottle down next to its peers and almost slid out of the airline chair. Jones kept yelling something at him, but he just ignored him. If Jones wanted him here, then there wasn’t any way he was going sober.

“Don’t let him have any more,” Jones said, motioning to one of his security detail.

“I don’t think you have the majority vote for that proposition, Congressman,” Daniel replied.

“And get him some coffee.”

The guard cleared off Daniel’s tray, and when he went to remove the rest of the unopened bottles, Daniel grabbed the guard’s wrist.

“Don’t. Touch. It,” Daniel said.

His teeth were gritted, the liquid courage the four tiny bottles of whiskey had given him on prime display. The security guard looked over to Jones, who shook his head. Daniel felt the guard pull back his arm slightly, and he released him.

“Run along now, little doggy,” Daniel said.

“It’s easy to act brave when you don’t have the coherence to zip up your fly,” Jones said.

Daniel twisted the cap off another one of the whiskeys but paused before putting it to his lips. The smell was starting to get to him. He’d never been much of a drinker, but the past few days had caused him to swim in it.

“What the hell happened to you?” Jones asked.

“What? Don’t like your handiwork?”

“I didn’t do this to you, Daniel. You did.”

Daniel snatched the rest of the whiskey bottles and moved to the back of the plane, away from Jones. He didn’t have to sit there and listen to Jones, of all people, berate him about morals. Who was he to judge? Jones had done more backstabbing vile actions in one year than Daniel had done in his entire life. And if drinking was what Daniel needed to do in order to get past all the shit pilling up around him, then so be it.

But when Daniel twisted off the cap to the next bottle of whiskey he was about to down, it stopped abruptly a few inches before reaching his lips. The sharp, oaky smell flew into his nostrils, beckoning him to drink it, but he couldn’t. Not now. Because for some reason, his son popped into his mind, and in his liquor-soaked state, he couldn’t remember the boy’s birthday.

He squinted his eyes shut, trying hard to sort through the corrupted files of data still stored in his mind. He knew it was in May, but he couldn’t remember the date. It was toward the end of the month. The twenty-fifth? No, that wasn’t it. What was it? What was it? What was it?

The tiny whiskey bottle wobbled in his hand. Some of the brown liquid spilled over on to his pant leg, but Daniel didn’t notice. All he could feel was the swelling of tears in his eyes and the lump growing in his throat. He dropped the bottle, and it spilled onto the carpet.

All of the things he’d done were for his family. That’s what he had told himself during every decision he made. But for the past few weeks, his family had been the scapegoat for his cowardice, not the foundation of courage. And now he was drinking away the memories of the same family he’d vowed to protect, to keep safe.

Daniel clutched his arms around his body, hugging himself as the waves of sobs left him. He didn’t bother keeping them quiet. He didn’t care if Jones heard him. He didn’t care what the security detail would think. It didn’t matter that he would have puffy eyes when standing face to face with the Mexican president and his vicious dog of a general. He couldn’t remember his own son’s birthday.

***

The plane touched down in Mexico City just before 4 p.m. Central Time. Jones managed to get enough coffee and water into Daniel to make him presentable. He wasn’t planning on having him speak anyway. Daniel was there strictly for show.

The Mexico City heat and smog made for a terribly uncomfortable combination. All Jones wanted to do was get the meeting over with as quickly as possible. The sooner the meeting was over, the sooner he could start preparing for his debate with Smith. Despite his confidence, he knew Smith would go into the debate with guns blazing. He needed as much time to prepare for it as he could get.

The drivers of the sedans that arrived at the airport to pick both Smith and Daniel up avoided the slums of the city, but Jones could still see them on the outskirts. Tens of thousands of people living in trash and filth. Jones gave a slight shudder.

This would be the fate of his country if he didn’t act. The people that were left would be pushed into the trash, and he’d be one of them. He refused to let that happen.

Most of the faces he passed on the busier city streets looked clean and healthy, but Jones knew that this was an orchestrated route. The Mexican president wanted to be sure to show his American visitors that Mexico was strong, but Jones knew the country was rotting from the inside out.

The sedans pulled into Los Pinos, the official residence of the Mexican president, which was a part of the Chapultepec Forest, now nothing but barren trees. Much like Washington’s National Mall, the dire times had left little for the ceremony of well kept grounds and pedigree.

The white stone buildings in Los Pinos had a beige hint of dust to them. And when Jones stepped out of the air-conditioned vehicle, he found that the Mexican president’s residence was not immune to the effects of the terrible smog and heat that plagued the rest of his city.

President Castell greeted Jones and Daniel with open arms once they were inside.

“Welcome, Congressmen. It’s an honor to have you here in our country. I trust the flight went well?” Castell asked.

“Yes, thank you, Señor Presidente,” Jones answered.

The rumors about Castell seemed to be true. The man had showmanship. If Jones didn’t need to desperately end this war, he could see himself learning something from him.

“Please, gentlemen. This way,” Castell said.

Castell lead them through the large halls and into a conference room already set up with refreshments. One of the staff members handed Jones a glass of water. Jones let the glass linger in his hand just a moment too long. Castell noticed.

“I can assure you it’s clean, Congressman,” Castell said, raising his left eyebrow.

“Of course, Señor Presidente. I didn’t mean to insult you,” Jones replied. “It’s a nasty habit I’ve developed in our current climate. I find myself doing this at my own home.”

“Well, I suppose that’s why we’re here. Have a seat.”

Before Jones could sit down, General Gallo stomped into the room.

“General,” Jones said. “Good to see you.”

“Congressman.”

There was no shaking of hands, no other formal greeting than the acknowledgement that both men were in the room. Judging by his entrance and lateness, Jones determined that Gallo had not shown up of his own accord.

“Shall we get started?” Jones asked.

“We can start with the surrender of your men in California, New Mexico, and Arizona,” Gallo answered.

“General!” Castell said.

Gallo didn’t sit, and Jones was stuck halfway between bracing himself on the chair’s armrests and standing. Jones let gravity take over and finally sat down.

“It’s all right, sir,” Jones said. “The general is a proud warrior. Nothing but victory will satisfy him.”

“General, we are here to discuss peace. Surrender implies—”

“I’m well aware of what it implies, Presidente,” Gallo answered.

The power struggle Jones was caught between could work in his favor. It was evident Castell wanted the war to stop. All he had to do was get Gallo to sign off on it.

“Gentlemen, I believe there is a way for all of us to get what we want,” Jones said.

The tension between Castell and Gallo eased as they both sat down. Jones continued. “Now, before we start, both of you should know that I come here backed with the full power and authority of the American president. He’s trusted me with securing a reasonable agreement between our two great nations.”

“Which is something we would like to pursue as well,” Castell said, looking at Gallo.

“Excellent. Now, as far as the southwest territories go, they are still not under United States protection, and our government has no tie to them whatsoever,” Jones continued.

“The United States’ recognition of the Mexican government’s right of ownership of the California, Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, and Nevada territories,” Gallo cut in.

“I’m sorry?” Jones asked.

“That’s what I want. I want the United States government to recognize Mexico’s authority over those territories to set an international precedent with the other countries around the globe.”

“General, perhaps that’s something we should discuss privately,” Castell said.

“It’s up for discussion,” Gallo responded.

“You think we’re just going to give it up?” Daniel asked.

“You gave it up weeks ago. I’m just here to collect,” Gallo answered.

Gallo’s face was a block of stone. Jones grabbed the glass of water on the table. He held it up to the light above and examined it more thoroughly than before.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” Jones asked.

“What?” Castell asked.

“All of this… war, famine, drought, brought on by a simple combination of particles arranged in a specific way. Life giving.”

Jones twirled the glass around. The light refracted through the water, causing the images Jones saw on the other side to appear distorted and misshapen.

“We need water, gentlemen. Not land. The United States will recognize the Southwest as under Mexican rule. No further attacks will commence unless provoked,” Jones said, taking his gaze off the water and moving it onto Gallo’s face. “And in exchange, you will help us march south and engage in a coordinated military strike against Brazil.”

“They have the support of Europe!” Castell exclaimed. “And the Russians! If we march down there, we will be igniting war!”

“The Europeans don’t have the resources for a fight, and as for the Russians, what military they have left is old and tired. The only arsenal they have is nuclear, and they wouldn’t risk destroying one of the last strongholds of fresh water left on the planet. They’ll threaten force, but they won’t be able to back it up. Aside from China, we’re all that’s left of any military presence.”

“And you think our men will suddenly fight side by side after what’s happened?” Gallo asked.

“I would expect our soldiers to follow orders, General,” Jones answered. He took a sip then set the water down. “Of course, we’ll need to pull resources for the journey south. What water is left in North California will be provided by your government, and our representative here from North Carolina will be graciously offering his state’s natural resources for the cause.”

“What?” Daniel asked, rising from his seat, wobbling a bit. “That is not in part of the deal.”

“What’s wrong, Congressman?” Gallo asked. “Afraid you’ll get thirsty after walking around in those expensive suits?”

“We’ll draw up the treaty and send a copy for your approval by tonight,” Jones said, rising and shaking Castell’s hand.

“I’m glad we were able to come to a reasonable solution,” Castell replied, understanding the political cue that the meeting was over.

Jones went to shake Gallo’s hand, who hesitated before accepting the gesture. Gallo’s grip was firm, and Jones could feel the increased pressure until a slight tinge of pain caused him to tremble.

“You know, Jones,” Gallo said, “I, like my people, was born in the desert. Our nation is already hardened from the epidemic the rest of the world is experiencing. The dry tongues of your people seem to have made you weak.”

“We’re Americans, General. We adapt,” Jones answered.

The pressure from Gallo’s grip loosened, and Jones was released. He massaged his hand, attempting to get the blood flowing again.

Before Daniel could protest, Jones grabbed him by the arm, and the two men were out the door and back in the sedan that had driven them here.

“The airport. Quickly,” Jones said.

“Are you insane?” Daniel asked. “The reason you exiled the Southwest was to prevent water sources from being drained from the rest of the country.”

“I know what I said.”

“And now you’re just going to give it to a country that attacked us! I won’t let this happen. You hear me! I won—”

Jones wrapped his bony hands around Daniel’s throat and slammed his head back against the car window. Lack of food and sleep, combined with the booze still coursing through his veins, made Daniel too weak to peel the vise grip off.

“Who do you think controls our country? Hmm? Do you think it’s me? The president? Congress? The people? No, it’s whoever has the most money and the biggest guns. Everyone has someone to answer too. And I’m not going to explain my actions to the likes of a drunk.”

Jones pushed off of Daniel’s neck, who clutched his throat, gasping for breath. The driver of the car rolled up the partition after the thousand-yard stare Jones gave him.

“We’ll force Mexico to drain the rest of Northern California, and by then, we’ll have made a breakthrough in Brazil,” Jones finished. “That’s why we need to move quickly.”

The rest of the ride back to the airport was in silence. Daniel stared impotently out the window, and Jones focused on the headrest in front of him. He just had to keep moving. It was almost done. Just a little bit farther.

***

Once Jones and Daniel were gone, Gallo closed the doors to the conference room and ordered the staff to leave. He was left alone with Castell, who had a nervous twitch in his eye and leg.

“What is it, General?” Castell asked, his voice slightly higher than normal.

Castell was still seated in his chair at the end of the table. From what Gallo could see of him, it seemed like he wanted to evaporate through the back of the chair and disappear.

“After you sign the treaty, my men will attack the United States Pacific Fleet and make our way north to the Washington and Oregon Coast, where we will invade and establish a forward operating base,” Gallo answered.

“General, this is mad—”

Gallo held up his hand. Castell went mute.

“The Americans are bleeding from the inside out. That’s the only reason they’re here,” Gallo answered.

“And are we not, General? Are our men not bloodied? Is our country not dry? Are our people not hungry?” Castell asked.

“Yes. But if we make this agreement with the Americans, we will stay that way,” Gallo answered. “I know you’re not a man with much of a spine, Castell, so I’ll explain it in a way I think a politician would understand.”

Gallo slid to the edge of his seat, his face inching closer to Castell’s until the president could smell the lingering cigar smoke on Gallo’s uniform.

“You’ll put on your political smile. Make your unnecessary speeches. You will be the puppet that you have acted like since your birth, and I will execute what needs to be done. If you don’t do this, then I will still have my men attack, and there won’t be a hole on this earth deep enough for you to crawl down and hide where I can’t find you. Do you understand me?”

Castell quickly nodded.

“Good,” Gallo said.

Gallo turned to leave, and Castell exhaled. Before Gallo made it to the door, he called out to Castell without turning around. “Do your job, Presidente, and I’ll do mine.”

Chapter 10

Brooke stood on the corner of Fifteenth Avenue and Bakers Street. Despite the dangerous situation, she found herself in she couldn’t take her eyes off of a sprinkler in the front yard of some very large, expensive home.

There wasn’t anything extraordinary about the sprinkler. It performed its function to the mediocre standard that was set forth by its manufacturer. But with each drop of water that landed on the green, freshly cut grass of that lawn, she could feel rage swelling up inside her.

The movement of a passing car broke her concentration. Brooke shook her head and continued down Fifteenth Avenue. All the houses she had passed on her walk had nowhere near the decadence of this neighborhood. The rest of Charlotte looked more like what she had seen in other cities on her way here: barely getting by, but still alive.

The well-kempt lawns, expensive cars, and large homes made her think back to when she was a child. But now watering a lawn was the essence of extravagance. Brooke tried to count in her mind all of the ration cards she would have needed to accumulate over a three-year span to water that lawn for one day.

Amy’s car was in the drive, and she hurried up the walkway to the front door and knocked. Brooke looked around her, afraid that the place may be under surveillance, but there didn’t seem to be anyone around. Nobody answered. She knocked again, this time harder.

“Coming!”

Brooke almost broke down at the sound of her sister’s voice, and when Amy opened the door, she didn’t even have time to gasp before she wrapped her arms around her sister.

“Brooke. Oh my god. Are you okay?” Amy said, pulling her inside and shutting the door.

Brooke pulled back slightly, enough to see Amy’s face and the reflection of the tears the two of them shared. She wiped her nose and laughed.

“It’s really good to see you,” Brooke said.

Amy pulled her in for another hug and then led her into the living room for the two of them to sit down.

“Where’s John and Emily?” Amy asked.

“They’re fine. I had them stay with the car. It’s not exactly road safe around here,” Brooke answered.

“Did you just get into town?”

“This morning. I walked here from the outskirts near the forest on Highway 49, in the nature preserve.”

“Why didn’t you call?”

“I wasn’t sure if your phone had been tapped.”

“Jesus, Brooke. We’re not being watched.”

“You could be.”

“Are you hurt? Hungry? Thirsty? What do you need?”

“We need to go and grab the kids and Eric. Is Daniel home?”

“No, he’s in DC for work.”

“What about Gabby and Kevin? Are they home?”

“No, they’re at school. They won’t be home for another two hours.”

“Then let’s go now. We’ll need to wait until night to bring the cruiser back though. Do you have room in your garage for me to store it?”

“Yeah, Daniel and I can just park in the driveway.”

***

After Amy and Brooke had Eric set up in the guest bedroom and given him some more fluids, they let him rest. As much as he protested, he fell asleep very quickly.

Once Amy handed Emily the remote, Brooke knew she wouldn’t see her daughter’s eyes again for the next few hours. John had glued himself to the kitchen stool and feasted on whatever he could find in the freezer.

Amy caught Brooke up on what she’d missed. The trial with Smith, the debate scheduled between Smith and Jones, and Daniel’s constant presence in DC.

“What about the scientist?” Brooke asked. “Doesn’t he have the solution that’ll get us out of all this?”

“That’s what I thought Daniel was working with Smith on, but after Smith was arrested, Daniel… he…”

“What?”

“He’s been drinking a lot. His secretary’s given me a few calls, and when I went to go and see him the other day, he was drunk in his office. He tried to play it off, but I could smell it on him. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He has me worried.”

“I’m sure it’s been stressful.”

“He tried, Brooke. He really did. But whatever it was it caused everything to fall to pieces. Daniel was so sure their bill would pass.”

“The one that had to do with the scientist?” Brooke asked.

“Yes.”

“Where is he now?”

“I’m not sure.”

It all seemed so simple to Brooke. All they had to do was get Dr. Carlson working again, and all of the country’s problems would be solved. The drought would end. The necessity for exiling the Southwest would be null and void. But politics and hidden agendas were holding it back.

“I can’t believe this,” Brooke said.

“I know. It’s been insane.”

Brooke’s brother-in-law’s actions seemed out of character, though she would never say that aloud to Amy. Not that Daniel was a bad man, but he had never struck her as the type to stick his neck out for something like this. But maybe that’s why he’d been in DC so much lately. He had to patch up the mess everyone had made.

The front door opened, and Brooke saw the faces of her niece and nephew light up.

“Aunt Brooke?” Gabby asked.

“Hey, guys!” Brooke answered.

She walked over and gave each of them a hug.

“What are you doing here?” Kevin asked.

“Your aunt and cousins are going to be staying with us a while,” Amy answered.

“John’s here?” Kevin asked.

“He’s in the kitchen,” Brooke said.

Kevin smiled and sprinted to the kitchen. “And Emily’s in the living room watching television,” Brooke added.

“Yaaaay!” Gabby said, and the only thing Brooke could see after that was the bounce of her Barbie backpack as Gabby went to play with her cousin.

“It’s good to have you guys here,” Amy said, smiling. “I haven’t heard a whole lot of laughter the past week.”

“Amy,” Brooke said, gently holding her sister’s arm, “You need to speak with Kevin and Gabby. No one can know we’re here. It has to be kept secret.”

“I know. I’ll talk to them tonight after dinner.”

“Do you know when Daniel’s going to be home?”

“Tomorrow, I think. I’m going to get supper started.”

Amy left Brooke alone in the foyer. The giggles of Emily and Gabby combined with cracking voices of two teenage boys felt a lot like watching the sprinkler on the lawn. It was a magnificent sound to be heard, but the feeling somehow felt odd after everything that had happened.

The feeling made her shiver. She stepped into the living room. She became aware of the cushioned couches, the soft fabric that lined the pillows, the clean carpet, and the fine wooden furniture that surrounded her. Much like her sister, everything in the room represented elegance.

None of it seemed real. She’d thought that when she made it here, the sense of normalcy would reappear, that there would be some noticeable change, but nothing happened. There was no sense of relief, no increase of hope, and the anxiety that she’d felt during the entire trip had only intensified. It didn’t feel over.

***

The plane landed back in DC at 6 p.m. EST. Daniel had stared at the mini bottles of whiskey the entire trip back. He sat by himself on the plane, away from Jones and his henchmen. They didn’t bother him, and he didn’t cause a fuss. It was a nonverbal agreement they’d entered upon boarding the plane. Once they’d taxied down the runway after landing, the door to Jones’s private jet opened, but Daniel remained in his seat.

“Daniel, we’re leaving,” Jones said.

He was hunched low in his seat with his back turned to the group, so they couldn’t see him. He was playing with the end of his tie. “I need to go and visit my family.”

“We don’t have time for that,” Jones replied.

Daniel’s hand found his neck. The red marks from where Jones had choked him still lingered. He ran his fingers over the raised bumps. “Make time.”

“Fine. But I need you back by tomorrow,” Jones said. “I’ll have the pilot take you to Charlotte.”

The whine of the jet engines filled the cabin. Daniel remained motionless as the pilot and crew went about their preflight duties. The captain came over to him at one point and mouthed something about refueling and taking off in thirty minutes, but Daniel wasn’t paying attention. He stayed in the same position until they finally landed in Charlotte.

Daniel grabbed a taxi and gave the driver his address. The sun had gone down, but the sky still glowed with faint oranges and pinks, the last push of dying light until the night finally took over. He rested his head on the windshield, feeling the vibrations of the cab as it drove him home.

The yellow lights from inside Daniel’s house glowed from the windows. He knew Amy wasn’t expecting him until tomorrow, but something was compelling him to come home. He couldn’t explain it. All he could feel was the burning urge to see his family. Like a horse driven to water to drink, he needed to replenish himself with the people he was doing all of this for. He needed to go back to the source.

When Daniel walked inside, his jaw dropped. Additional chairs had been added to fit everyone at the kitchen table. Amy was the first to see him.

“Daniel?” she asked.

Everyone turned to face him. He was standing in the living room, still dressed in his suit and reeking of booze. “Hey.” He couldn’t take his eyes off Brooke. “How did you get here?”

Amy got up from the table and walked over to him. “Honey, I didn’t think you were coming home until tomorrow.”

“I was… I mean I did. I just… wanted to come home,” Daniel said.

Brooke got up from her seat and walked over and gave him a hug. He kept his arms at his sides as Brooke squeezed. “It’s good to see you, Daniel.”

“Yeah.”

“Hi, Uncle Dan,” John said.

“Hey, John. Emily.” Daniel turned to Amy and whispered in her ear. “Can I talk to you?” he asked, motioning to the other room.

“Sure.”

Daniel led her upstairs to their room. He shut the door behind him and turned on this wife. “What is your sister doing here?”

“I told you she was trying to get out. She made it. She’s staying with us until this thing blows over.”

“Blows over? This thing isn’t going to blow over, Amy. This isn’t a temporary problem, it’s a permanent one!”

Amy sat on the edge of the bed. Daniel could feel himself getting hot. He hastily removed his tie and tossed it on the ground.

“Daniel, she’s family. You said yourself that she had to get out. And now she has. What do you expect me to do? Just throw her and the kids back out onto the streets?”

“And who was that man she was with? You didn’t tell me she was seeing anyone.”

“They’re not together. He was a friend of Jason’s who is helping them out.”

“We don’t know anything about him.”

“Brooke trusts him.”

“Are you stupid?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you fucking stupid?”

Amy jumped from the bed and got right in her husband’s face. “Are you drunk again?” she asked, the hint of disgust creeping into her voice.

“Order is hanging on by a thread. People are turning in any illegals left and right for the reward, and anyone helping them is being thrown into jail alongside the people they help. I can’t protect us from this, Amy, if we get caught. Do you understand? Your sister put our family at risk.”

“She’s staying, Daniel,” Amy said. Then, inching closer and clenching her jaw, she shoved her finger into his chest. “And if you ever speak to me like that again, I will throw you out of this house.”

She turned the door handle angrily and stomped down the stairs. Daniel turned to try and say something, but she was already gone. He stumbled backward until the backs of his knees hit the bed, and he collapsed on top of it.

The ceiling above started to spin. He closed his eyes, afraid that opening them would make the spinning worse and he would fly off the bed. Then, after a few minutes, he felt the heaviness of his chest pin him down, sinking him lower. His mind grew foggy, and after a few minutes, he fell fast asleep.

***

Daniel rolled to his side and opened his bloodshot eyes. He felt exhausted. The furniture, walls, and floor looked like they were covered in a fuzzy haze. He blinked and rubbed his eyes until his surroundings came into focus. He was still in his suit, lying on top of the bed. Even his shoes were still on.

The clock on the nightstand read eight o’clock. A few thumps sounded downstairs, and he pushed himself up from the bed, his arms shaking as he did. He cradled his head in his hands, trying to support the ten thousand pounds of crushing pressure that seemed to be working against him.

A quick shower. That’s what he needed. He stumbled to the bathroom, clumsily disrobing himself, until his hands found the shower handle and turned it to the left on its warmer setting. Daniel stepped inside, letting the warm water cleanse him of the dirt and filth from the previous day. He stood there, watching the gauge tick off gallon after gallon. He could stay in the shower all day if he desired. There were no restrictions for him. Not for a United States congressman.

After thirty minutes, he shut the water off and stepped out, dripping onto the tiled floor. He dried himself, then put on a fresh pair of jeans and a shirt. He passed his son’s room and could see both Kevin and John on the floor, playing video games.

“Hey, Uncle Dan,” John said. “Feeling better?”

“Huh?” Daniel asked.

“Last night mom said you weren’t feeling well,” Kevin answered.

“Oh. Yeah. I’m better. Why aren’t you at school?”

“Mom said we didn’t have to go since Brooke and everyone was here.”

“I see you’re making good use of your time,” Daniel said, pointing at the game.

“It’s actually harder than it looks, Uncle Dan,” John said.

“Right.”

When Daniel made it to the bottom of the stairs, he saw Eric propped up on some pillows watching television. Gabby and Emily were on the floor, playing with some dolls. He stood there a while before Eric noticed him.

“Congressman Hunter,” Eric said, trying to get up from the couch while nursing his left shoulder, which was wrapped in a bandage.

“No, please, you don’t have to get up.”

Eric flopped back down onto the couch with exaggerated relief. “Well, it’s good to know that not every congressman is full of himself. Right, girls?”

Emily and Gabby giggled.

“Call me Daniel.”

“Well, Daniel, I’m Eric Stephenson,” he said, extending his right hand. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done.”

“I, uh… I’m glad.”

Daniel didn’t want to try and cut the man off, but he wasn’t going to fight the compliment. He’d learned long ago that compliments held just as much meaning for the person giving them as the person on the receiving end. Sometimes more.

“Have you seen Brooke and my wife?” Daniel asked.

“They headed to the pharmacy to pick up some medicine for my arm. They left first thing this morning, so they should be back soon.”

“Thanks.”

Daniel walked to the garage to grab something out of his car, but when he opened the door and flicked the light on, a banged-up Toyota Land Cruiser was in its place. He recognized it as Brooke’s car then shut the door and headed to the kitchen. He poured himself a bowl of cereal. Before he could shovel the first spoonful into his mouth, he heard the front door open, and his heart skipped a beat.

“Kids! Donuts!”

The thunder of John and Kevin’s feet from upstairs roared as they hurried down the staircase. They came running into the kitchen, attacked the box of fried dough, and shoved the donuts into their faces like they hadn’t eaten in weeks.

Brooke came around the corner after them, observing the carnage. “I wish my metabolism still worked like that. Hey, Dan. You look better.”

“Thanks. I feel better.”

When Amy walked into the kitchen, she didn’t acknowledge his presence. She opened the top cupboard and grabbed a glass then filled it with water. She walked back out into the living room with the glass and a bottle of pills.

“You need to take these twice a day until they run out,” Amy said, handing the water and pills to Eric.

“Your cereal’s getting soggy, Uncle Dan,” John said.

“What? Oh.”

Daniel looked down at the bloated bits of shredded wheat floating in his bowl. When he looked back up, Amy was gone. He set the spoon down and headed back upstairs.

Amy was taking off her earrings at the dresser. She eyed his reflection in the mirror when he entered.

“Amy, about last night. We need to talk.”

“We do, but not now.”

“Honey, this is important.”

Amy slammed her hands on the dresser, and Daniel froze. He could see the strain on her face as she tried to control the anger welling up inside her. She spun around to face him, and he could see the tears in her eyes.

“Do you remember what you said last night?” her voice was shaking.

Daniel kept his head down. “I’m sorry.”

“She is my sister. They are family. And we take care of our family. So whatever you need to do to make sure that happens… do it.”

“I will.”

Amy wiped the tears from her eyes and walked over to him. Her smooth fingers slid through the spaces of his own, and they held on to each other.

“There’s something I do need to talk to you and Brooke about, though. Together,” Daniel said. “And it has to be today.”

***

Daniel told Brooke and Amy everything. He spared no detail in his confession. There were times he wanted too, but despite the look on his wife’s face, he kept pushing through.

“I used the excuse that I did it for my family, but I know that doesn’t justify what I did,” Daniel finished.

“And you haven’t heard anything from this Congressman Smith?” Brooke asked.

“No, not since he was locked up,” Daniel answered.

He kept waiting for Amy to say something, but she remained silent. The only thing worse than condemning him was her silence. His gut twisted and turned. His body felt like it would disappear right then and there, and at that moment he wished he could. Finally, Amy got up from the bed and walked over to him. She cupped her hands around his face and kissed him, softly.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you, too.”

“Daniel, do you think you can get in contact with this Smith character again?” Brooke asked.

“I don’t know. We didn’t leave on the best of terms,” Daniel answered.

“Try. He might be our ticket home.”

***

Smith dropped the pen in his hands and rubbed his eyes. Beth flipped through the next few pages, crossing words out and adding others as she went.

“I think I need a break,” Smith said.

“Okay,” Beth replied, still lost in the work.

“Getting hungry?”

Beth didn’t respond. She kept going through the documents, her pen busy with notations. She was in her own world.

“Beth,” Smith said, a little louder.

“Yeah?”

“Are. You. Hungry?” Smith asked, adding in some dramatic hand movements to act out the definition of his words.

“Dr. Carlson is rubbing off on you,” Beth said.

“And why do you say that?”

“Because you’re starting to annoy me.”

Smith’s phone rang. He paused when he saw the number, but he answered it.

“Hello?” Smith asked.

“Hello,” Daniel answered.

“And to what do I owe this pleasure? Giving me a warning this time before the authorities come to arrest me?”

“David, I’m sor—”

“What do you want, Daniel? If it’s about Jones, I can’t help you with that anymore. You’re too far down the rabbit hole.”

“No, it’s not about Jones. I wanted to see if there was anything I can do. To help.”

Smith covered the phone with his hand and grabbed Beth’s attention. “It’s Daniel,” he said quietly. Beth simply shook her head.

“No, I’m afraid there isn’t, Daniel. But I appreciate the call.”

“Well, then maybe there’s something I can give you.”

“Such as?”

“I recently took a flight to Mexico with Congressman Jones to discuss a cease-fire with the Mexican government. The paperwork has probably already been drawn up, and I would think Jones will use it in the debate against you.”

Smith knew that Jones couldn’t have orchestrated that without the help of the president, and if he was going to the president for help, then he was desperate.

“Was there anyone else with you on the trip?” Smith asked.

“Just security.”

“Thank you, Daniel.”

“David,” Daniel paused on the other end of the line. Smith knew what he was going through. There was nothing harder than asking for forgiveness after a betrayal of trust.

“It’s fine,” Smith said. “Really. I think we’ve both done enough distasteful deeds for one term. Actually, there is something I could use you for.”

“Of course.”

“I have Dr. Carlson in the process of setting up a new lab. I could use a pair of eyes at the location if you’re interested?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. I hope your passport is still valid.”

Before Daniel could ask any more questions, Smith hung up the phone. Beth had stopped her work and stared at him.

“What?” Smith asked.

“You really think it’s a good idea to involve him again?” Beth countered.

“He’s not going to make the same mistake twice, Beth.”

“You don’t know if he’s still working for Jones.”

“Even if he was, it wouldn’t do any good. Jones doesn’t have any connection or pull with the Canadian government. And the Canadian ambassador isn’t going to forgo the opportunity for a free pass on their water debt.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“Where are we with the meeting with Senator Harris?”

“He hasn’t gotten back in touch with me yet.”

“Keep trying. This isn’t going to work without him.”

Chapter 11

The police officers from the precinct that had called in Brooke’s car were about as useful as tits on a bull. Terry slammed the door to his van shut, and the vehicle rocked back and forth from his violent entrance. He reached around for his laptop and set it on the dashboard. He lit a cigarette waiting for it to boot up, and when it did, he entered Brooke’s information.

He knew exactly where she was going: her sister’s house in North Carolina. That’s the trajectory she’d been on since she left Dallas, and by now she was already there. He entered her sister’s married name into Google, and Daniel’s name popped up. Terry clicked on the link to his congressional page and scrolled down.

The cloud of smoke filled the van’s cabin, giving everything around Terry a gray haze. He gently squeezed his hand. His knuckles were still bruised from the beating he had given Brooke’s friend Dave.

“Stupid bitch,” Terry mumbled.

The open cuts along his hands stung, but another puff of the cigarette, and he could feel the pain recede. He rested his head back and closed his eyes.

“So your sister’s husband is a Congressman. That’s what you’re hoping for. A little political favor.”

Terry spent the next twenty minutes reading the congressman’s political views, his background, campaign funds, committees served on, and education background. From what Terry could gather based off of his own findings, the man was clean—or just good at covering up his tracks.

If this woman was planning on using family, then there wasn’t a high probability that the family would turn her in. Family was loyal, protective… stupid. All he had to do was find a pressure point, and someone would cave. His money was on the husband. Terry just needed to find something on him.

The phone Terry carried was an old brick. Nothing like the smart phones used today, but he only needed it for one thing: to make calls. He scrolled down and dialed the number of a man he knew in DC. If anyone would have any dirt on a congressman, it would be this guy.

Terry’s relationship with his contact wasn’t a cheerful one. It wasn’t even professional. He’d only done a handful of transactions with him. The price was always steep, but the last job Terry did gained him some favor.

The phone continued to ring until the voicemail picked up. Terry snapped his phone shut and tossed it on the dash. That’s the way it normally went. His contact never picked up on the first call. He’d always have to wait until the call back before anything happened.

The dash vibrated as the phone buzzed. Terry reached for the phone and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray.

“I need some information,” Terry said, ignoring the pleasantries.

“Now’s not a good time.”

“It’s never a good time when one of us calls the other. That’s part of the relationship.”

“What is it?”

“I need some dirt on a congressman.”

“Which one?”

“Daniel Hunter.”

The other end of the line went silent. Terry waited, wondering if the call had been disconnected.

“Hello?” Terry asked.

“What business do you have with him?”

“He’s not the mark, but he’s harboring an illegal.”

“Who?”

“Santa Claus. What does it matter who it is? Just send me the info. Consider it back pay for the last job.”

Terry ended the call and looked back at the picture of Congressman Hunter on his laptop. He brought his massive index finger up and tapped the screen.

“You’re about to have a very bad day.”

***

The beep in Jones’s ear signaled that the call had ended. He kept the phone pressed to his ear, his jaw slack. His brain was wild with activity, trying to process everything he’d just heard.

The phone eventually slipped from the side of his head and landed on the pile of papers Jones was sifting through to prepare for his debate with Smith.

Jones wasn’t sure what Daniel had gotten himself into, but if Terry was after him for something, then it would put Jones at risk. Daniel knew too much about the visit to Mexico. He couldn’t risk leaking that until the treaty was signed, and he still hadn’t received word that it had been finalized. He hit the button on the intercom that signaled for his secretary.

“Cindy, get me Congressman Hunter on the line. Immediately,” Jones said.

Before Cindy could answer, he clicked the intercom off and leaned back into his chair. His jacket was off, his tie undone, the top button of his shirt open, exposing his white undershirt. The skin on his face looked more flaccid than it had in days prior. He rubbed his eyes and smacked his cheeks, the skin under his neck wobbling slightly. For the first time since his very first term in office, he could feel the disgusting beast of doubt closing in on him.

Doubt was the one emotional response that could unravel a man in his position. He’d seen it happen so many times before, even using it to his advantage. He couldn’t risk exposing himself before the debate. If that happened, then there was the potential for the American people to turn against him. And despite how much he loathed the illusion the citizens of this country still controlled it, now was not the time to pull back the curtain.

The intercom buzzed. “Congressman Hunter on the line for you, sir.”

“Put him through.”

Jones kept the phone on speaker, and when Cindy put the call through, the crackling sound of static and wind sounded on the other line.

“Daniel?” Jones asked.

“What do you want, Jones?”

Jones rose from his chair. He placed both hands on the desk to brace himself and leaned over the speaker to make sure Daniel could hear him properly over whatever noise was in the background.

“Are you alone?” Jones asked.

“Not really.”

“Can you find a quieter place? This is important.”

“Jones, whatever it is you’re trying to sell, I’m not buying. Take whatever steps you think you need to, but know that if you go near my family, there won’t be a rock or hole in the ground that you can hide in to keep me from finding you.”

The call went dead, and the loud background noise disappeared with it. Jones fell back into his chair, his hands rubbing his throat. He felt hot. His laptop sat closed on the corner of his desk, and he grabbed it. He powered it on, opened a file, then started composing an email.

Jones dragged one of the files labeled “Hunter” and attached it to the email. The subject was always the same: “CLICK HERE FOR PRIZE!”

The body of the email was disguised as nothing more than spam. The email address Jones used was run off of some hacker server halfway around the world. It was used by individuals who had harmful or illegal intentions. He’d only used it a handful of times before, but Terry preferred this method of transaction.

Once the file finished encrypting itself, Jones moved the mouse over the send button, but he hesitated. His right index finger was raised to click the button. Jones moved the mouse away from send and moved it back toward the subject line.

He started typing, changing the message he’d written earlier to something different. Once he was done, he clicked send, and off it went. Daniel was too much of a loose end. Jones couldn’t risk it. He slammed the lid of the laptop down and removed it from the pile of papers he had been working on before the call. He picked up where he’d left off, but his eyes kept looking back over to the computer.

It wasn’t regret that Jones felt. It wasn’t any feeling of attachment that he had developed toward Daniel. It was simply the acknowledgement of a decision. One that he couldn’t take back now. The wheels were in motion. Jones just hoped that it would happen soon.

***

Terry reclined the driver’s seat, his cowboy hat was tilted over his forehead, blocking out the afternoon sun beating down through the windshield. Despite the shade, the beads of sweat continued to collect around his neck.

A ping sounded from his laptop, letting him know the email had arrived. He removed his hat and immediately opened the attached file. Terry scrolled through, examining the information Jones had sent him.

Jones didn’t disappoint. The files were extensive, but most of the offenses were minor, nothing headline worthy, until he came to the very last page. What he found there wasn’t just enough to end the congressman’s career but to land him in jail for the rest of his life. He had what he needed.

Then, just before Terry closed out the email, he noticed the subject line in bold, capital letters. He had to reread it a few times just to make sure he was looking at it correctly. Each subject line that he and Jones corresponded with had a different meaning. Depending on the job, it could read “YOU’RE A WINNER!”, which signaled that the individual in the attached file would need to be roughed up. Or it could say “JUST ONE CLICK AWAY FROM YOUR PRIZE!”, which meant that the item in the description attached needed to be recovered.

But what Terry saw in this subject line baffled him a bit. He realized that Jones had acted a little weird when Terry brought up Hunter’s name, but that was because Terry thought he knew the guy well. What this subject line represented wasn’t something you would do to a friend but to someone you wanted gone.

Terry didn’t question it. A job was a job, and it would pay triple the bounty on Brooke and Eric. He knew Jones would pony up the dough once the deed was done. He shut the laptop and stuffed it into the seat cover behind his driver’s seat.

Chapter 12

The seagulls hovering around the ship squawked as Captain Howard walked along the flight deck with the rest of the crew. All eyes were on the ground, searching for any foreign debris that could damage the jets during takeoff. With the force and speed with which the jets accelerated during takeoff, even the smallest object could cause problems.

Once the inspection of the runway was over, Captain Howard made his way back over to the flag bridge. As he made his way up the steps, he looked south to what was left of the Mexican warships. It’d been quiet since their attack, and Captain Ford had debriefed him earlier in the day about a possible treaty that was being worked on.

Howard felt that something was off. Yes, they’d managed to beat the Mexican navy back to the coast of the Baja Peninsula, but their army still had inroads in Arizona and New Mexico. And if Gallo was bold enough to attack the Texas border like he had, Howard had a hard time believing he would give up just like that.

The attack on Texas wasn’t a strategic one, it was a battle of passion. Texas represented something to Gallo, and until he got it, Howard knew the fight was far from over.

“Officer on deck!” Sergeant Pint announced.

“At ease, gentlemen,” Howard replied. “Any new movement out there?”

“No, sir. We haven’t picked anything up on our radar, and our scouts have confirmed that most of the Mexican warships are still stationed in their ports on the peninsula.”

“Good. Where are we with our repairs?”

“Sir, before we go over that, I was hoping I could speak with you privately.”

“Of course, Sergeant. We can use my quarters.”

The captain’s office was large by aircraft carrier standards but still small compared to a normal room. Howard took a seat, but Pint remained standing.

“You can sit down, Sergeant,” Howard said.

“Thank you, sir.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Sir, once our communications were operational again, the first call I made was to my wife.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes, sir. It’s nothing like that. She’s fine. But I was curious about what’s happening back home. There’s a lot of politics in the news.”

“Congress declared war. There’s bound to be a few news articles about it.”

“It’s not just that, sir. There seems to be growing support for the Southwest. People are talking. There’s a debate happening tomorrow about what’s been going on.”

“What’s your point, sergeant?”

“I guess I’m just trying to make sense of it, sir. Everything that those politicians have done brought this war on us. Each time there is a viable solution available to fix our problems, they shoot it down. That’s what we’ve been fighting to protect? That’s what our nation has come to?”

“Our job is not to make or interpret the laws, Sergeant. We just protect the citizens that they impact.”

“I know, sir. But I think that when the debate is scheduled, we should have our men watch it. They deserve to know and see what they’re fighting for and who they’re trying to protect.”

“I see.”

“I understand the need to remain neutral in situations like this, but—”

“Sergeant,” Howard interrupted, holding his hand up. “The moment I was discharged before the announcement of the exile was the moment I stopped remaining neutral.”

Pint broke his usual formal composure and allowed a smile to stretch across his face.

“I think the hangar bay would provide enough room for everyone to gather for the event,” Howard said.

“I think that would work as well.”

“Go ahead and set it up, Sergeant.”

Pint saluted then exited. The clang of the door rumbled through the room as Howard was left alone. He knew Pint was right about the situation, but even so, it wasn’t one he wished he was in.

Howard knew the political factions involved in everything that was happening had more to lose than just votes. He’d been to enough fundraiser parties over the past decade to know that many of the congressmen had deep roots with big businesses. It had gotten so bad over the past few years that most of the congressmen didn’t even bother to hide it.

The actions of the men in Washington and the citizens that supported them were finally coming to a head. For years people had cried that it was just words, just pieces of paper, and that those words and pieces of paper couldn’t do anything really bad.

It was ludicrous thinking. The politicians and people that voted for them thought that their troubles were thousands of miles away in some foreign land. They thought that their military would always remain the best, even though the money that kept it running was drying up.

Yes, they were still the most powerful military might in the world, but the effects of the drought and lack of effort to fix the problems that came with it had chipped away the resources the military used to protect its country.

No longer could they ignore the problem. Now it was in their states, their cities, their homes. It was in their schools and their news. It was no longer in some far-off land. It was in their own backyard.

***

Despite the promises of peace, Gallo’s war room was busy. Empty coffee pots and mugs, combined with the mountains of cigarettes in the ashtray, were the results of a very long night.

The sunken eyes of Gallo’s officers looked over the maps and computer screens, which tracked the assets they still had in place. Thousands of men represented by a single dot peppered the maps and screens like chicken pox. Each of them were itching, yearning to move, to spread.

The chatter and talk ended as Gallo entered. Every soldier stood at attention. There were more than a dozen of his best officers saluting him, and Gallo took in the realization that this could be the last time he received such respect.

“Where are we with our progress?” Gallo asked, saluting his men and turning them back to their work.

“Sir, our Atlantic warships are only five hundred miles from the Mexican Pacific coastline heading north from the Panama Canal,” Colonel Herrera answered. “They will arrive at the Baja Peninsula by tomorrow morning.”

“Excellent work, Colonel. Have we heard from Presidente Castell?”

“No. Still nothing on the treaty, sir.”

“Regardless, I want all our men stationed on the borders.”

“Yes, General.”

Everything was almost in place. This would be his last push, and in less than forty-eight hours, he would be either the biggest fool in Mexican history or its greatest champion. Despite the hesitancy of a few of his advisors, Gallo knew he was making the right decision.

There was no doubt the Americans were making similar moves to prepare for a coordinated strike if the talking failed. The only difference would be that if the American president signed off on the treaty, then his soldiers would strike.

Gallo stared at his chair. He was afraid that sitting down would cause him to lose the momentum he had. His feet were aching, his back and legs were tired. He could feel his eyelids struggling to remain open. Rest would come soon. It was almost done.

***

Dr. Carlson was just how Daniel remembered him: undeniably obnoxious. The two of them had spent the last three hours in a car together on their way through rush-hour traffic to meet with one of Dr. Carlson’s colleagues.

Daniel did have to admit he was slightly impressed that Dr. Carlson had managed to secure a facility to restart his work. Which was primarily why Daniel was there in the first place.

Smith had exhausted all of his funds for the first venture and was being watched like a hawk by the authorities for any unfavorable conduct. Daniel agreed to provide funding for Dr. Carlson’s work through one of his old companies he still held stock in. It was enough capital for the first few months, renovations, and a down payment on the property until the plant was operational and self-sustaining enough to start drawing a profit. He was hoping that it would be a good investment in more ways than one.

“So you’ve already met with him?” Daniel asked.

“Yes. It was… productive,” Dr. Carlson answered.

“And you trust him?”

“I trust him to do what’s right for science.”

“That’s all we are to you people, aren’t we? Just lab rats.”

“Oh, no. Of course not. Lab rats are much easier to control. You’re more like a less-sophisticated chimpanzee that stumbled across a fancy suit.”

The rest of the trip was in silence. Whatever Smith saw in that man was beyond Daniel’s patience. Everything was riding on Dr. Carlson’s ability to produce fresh water. If he couldn’t do that, then Daniel’s money, Smith’s influence, and the surviving American citizens’ struggle in the Southwest would be for nothing. He didn’t appreciate Dr. Carlson’s lackadaisical attitude toward their efforts.

The driver came to a stop just outside a gate that surrounded a small building with docks stretched out into the bay.

“What is this, a marina?” Daniel asked.

“Used to be. Hopefully this is where we’ll be setting up shop. As long as you can close the deal,” Dr. Carlson answered.

The ground was covered in bird droppings, and the smell that rose from the effects of guano having been baked in the sun for the past several weeks stung Daniel’s nostrils. Most of the building’s windows were broken, and he couldn’t help but think of the number of birds that might have gotten inside and the presents they’d left behind. Another car pulled up beside them, and Dr. Carlson went over to greet the new arrivals. Two men stepped out, one of them more excited to see Dr. Carlson than the other.

“Craig!” Dr. Carlson said, wrapping the man in a hug. “Thanks for coming, old friend.”

“Happy to be here.”

“Daniel, this is Dr. Craig Barley. One of the best structural engineers I’ve ever met. Craig, this is Congressman Daniel Hunter.”

Craig was a small man. Daniel had known shorter guys in college, but they had been fairly well-built men. Craig looked like a slight wind would knock him over.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Congressman,” Craig said, shaking Daniel’s hand enthusiastically.

“Likewise.”

The other man that got out of the car with Craig was the polar opposite. He was tall, wide around the waist, and sported a thick red beard and a pair of dark eyes that looked like they would set Dr. Carlson on fire if they could.

“And this is Dr. Frank Turney,” Dr. Carlson said. “One of the brightest physicists of the century.”

“Except for you. Right, Edwin?” Frank replied, deadpan.

“Too kind, Frank. You’re… too kind.”

Daniel didn’t bother extending his hand to Frank, who wore an expression that suggested he might not get it back if he did. Frank simply walked up to the gate and unlocked it.

“Are you the owner?” Daniel asked.

“No, but I know him. He’s willing to sell if the price is right,” Frank answered.

“Well, I hope he’s reasonable.”

The gate scraped across the bird shit, and Daniel took a hesitant first step onto the property. Frank took the lead, with the rest of them in tow.

Just as Daniel had predicted, the inside of the building was just as bad as the outside. The birds had had their way with everything, and most of the walls were stained with mold and mildew.

“I know it looks bad, but it meets all the requirements on our checklist. Size, structure, proximity to the ocean, and surrounding infrastructure,” Dr. Carlson said.

“And how much is this picture-perfect real estate going for?” Daniel asked.

“Well, that’s where it gets a little—”

“Four million,” Frank answered, cutting Dr. Carlson off.

“Excuse me?” Daniel asked.

“That’s the asking price,” Frank answered.

“No. I’m not pouring four million into this dump. I’d be willing to pay a tenth of that.”

“I’m afraid the price is nonnegotiable.”

“Then I’m afraid we’re going to look elsewhere.”

“Daniel, wait!” Dr. Carlson said running after him. Dr. Carlson grabbed his arm and jumped in front of him. “Listen. We need this spot.”

“Carlson, I don’t have that kind of money. And even if I did, we would be getting ripped off. And we would still need enough funds for materials. This just doesn’t make sense. We’ll find something else.”

“There isn’t anything else. I’ve looked. Every other spot either doesn’t have what we need, or they’re already running a lucrative business that they wouldn’t sell. We don’t have any other choices.”

“Then you better have your friend talk the owner down, because I can’t afford the asking price.”

“Frank! Could you come over here?”

The old factory’s smell was starting to make Daniel feel light-headed. If they were in there long enough, they might get high enough to strike a deal, although he wasn’t sure whose favor it would be in.

“Frank, the price is too much. I mean look at this place,” Dr. Carlson said.

“That’s the asking price,” Frank replied.

“Couldn’t you just try and talk to the owner? See if he’d be willing to come down at all?”

“No.”

It could have been the heat or the smell or the fact that his body was going through alcohol withdrawal after being soaked in whiskey for the past few days, but Daniel was losing his patience.

“Do you know what we’re trying to do? Did Dr. Carlson fill you in at all?” Daniel asked, taking over the conversation.

“I’m aware of the situation,” Frank answered.

“Then you know that if we don’t get this place up and running, this continent will dry up. Even your ice lakes will disappear. We’re running out of water, Dr. Turney, and there won’t be a soul left on this planet to purchase this shitty property if that happens. So why don’t you get on the phone with the owner, and tell him that if he wants to live, then he should bring down the asking price!”

Daniel was panting heavily and out of breath. The deep breaths he drew in just brought in more of the rancid fumes. He started to feel sick. He bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to calm his stomach and clear his head, but it did nothing. He ran out of the factory and moved as far away from it as he could. The more he separated himself from the stench of the factory, the better he felt. He looked behind him, and the factory was a few hundred yards in the distance. He closed his eyes, breathing in and out slowly through his nose and mouth.

This is too much. We can’t do this. Not here. This is too much.

A slight brush of sea air came over him, cooling the beads of sweat on his forehead. For a moment, he forgot where he was. The cool breeze brought him back to his childhood, when his parents would take him to the Carolina coast during the summer. He remembered the heat, the sand, the caked-on sunblock his mother would douse him with. It was the smell of the salt air that he remembered most. He loved that smell.

“Daniel?” Dr. Carlson asked, wheezing from his jog over.

Both Dr. Carlson and Frank had followed him. The two men wore faces of concern.

“I’m sorry, I just… the smell,” Daniel answered.

“You really think this will save us,” Frank said.

“Ask him,” Daniel said, motioning to Dr. Carlson.

“It will work, Frank.”

Frank paused. He took a moment to look back at the factory and then back to Daniel. “All right. Four hundred thousand. But I want profit sharing once everything’s operational.”

“Deal,” Daniel said.

Chapter 13

The television in the living room had been on the same channel for the past three hours. The images that flashed on the screen alternated between the two empty podiums and the news anchors filling in the time with their own predictions of how the debate would occur.

Two men and two women, with enough makeup on to hide any sign of age or blemish, went back and forth on the issues at hand. A blonde woman whose hair remained in place no matter how she moved was arguing with an older gentleman whose teeth were as white as his hair.

“You really think that we can sustain a war right now on our own turf against an enemy that has nothing to lose?”

“We have to play to our strengths, and despite the decline in our military, we still have the best fighters in the world.”

“What about Brazil? Their water supplies have made them incredibly wealthy. They could start investing that money in weapons. And China has been a threat for years.”

“China’s massive population is causing too much of a problem for them to be able to focus on us. Their people are turning on them, and Brazil is a decade away from posing any kind of military threat. It would do us well to set up an alliance with the Brazilians now.”

The other male on the program chimed in. “You mentioned China’s population turning on its government. What’s to say that can’t happen here?”

The old man smiled. “Hasn’t it already? Have you not seen the news? The rioting about the exile of the Southwest? The water shortages? The war with Mexico? I would say we’re already on the verge of that.”

The blonde woman shook her head. “Those are symptoms. Symptoms of a much larger problem. This debate tonight is not about water or the war or the exile. It’s about the fundamental process of what our country was built on and the preservation of that. Congressman Smith has done everything to try and bring us back from the edge, and all he’s gotten in return are ludicrous allegations of treason, which he was of course cleared of.”

The other woman on the program raised her hands, trying to bring the tension down. “All right, guys. We’re approaching the beginning of the debate. It’s time for predictions. Bob?”

The old man clapped his hands together and rubbed them thoroughly. “I think Smith has an uphill battle. The treason charges really worked against him, and I don’t know if the American people trust him anymore. I’m going Jones.”

“Tim?”

“Jones is too much of a seasoned veteran. He’s been around Washington for a very long time. This guy doesn’t lose.”

“Kathy?”

“Smith. I think he’ll be prepared, and the American people will forgive him once they see the type of plan he has laid out. Jones doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Well, there you have it. No matter who our experts are rooting for, it’s going to be a heated debate, and from what I’ve heard so far, it’s going to be close.”

The panel of experts was replaced by an advertisement that pictured a family picnicking in a green field of grass. The scene was sunny, with blue skies, and each face was smiling. In the center of the picnic sat a jug of water, from which the son of the make-believe family poured himself a crystal-clear glass. The boy took a sip and smiled. Then the words “Keeping your family’s water safe for over one hundred years” appeared on the screen. The logo of the Strydent Chemical Company flashed on the screen, then the television switched to another commercial.

All of the color from Amy’s face had drained away. Her hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting in her lap. Her eyes were glued to the television. Brooke took her hand and placed it over her sister’s. Amy looked up at her and tried to smile.

“Have you heard from Daniel?” Brooke asked.

“No.”

Amy spoke softly. Brooke thought that her sister’s voice would break if she spoke too loud. Brooke squeezed Amy’s hand.

“It’s going to be okay,” Brooke said. “Smith is going to wipe the floor with this guy, and afterward, everyone will see what this Jones character really is.”

“Right.”

A few thumps sounded from above, followed by laughs and giggles.

“Hey, be careful up there,” Brooke yelled.

A unified “sorry” echoed from Brooke and Amy’s daughters. Amy continued to watch the commercials with focused concentration.

“I’m going to check on the boys,” Brooke said.

Amy nodded, and Brooke gave her sister a kiss on the side of her head. “I love you.” The only response Brooke received was a faint sniffle. She walked toward the back of the house, where John and Kevin had disappeared. Through the back-door window, she could see the two of them in the yard with their backs turned to her. Both their heads were down, looking at something.

“Hey,” Brooke said, opening the door. “What are you two doing?”

John and Kevin turned around a little too quickly. John kept his hands behind his back.

“Nothing,” John answered.

“What do you have, John?” Brooke asked. The two of them looked like deer frozen in headlights. “C’mon. Give it here,” Brooke said.

John pulled his hand from behind his back and opened his palm, which held Brooke’s loaded revolver. Brooke stepped forward and grabbed the pistol carefully out of John’s hand.

“What are you doing with this?” Brooke asked harshly. “This isn’t a toy!”

“Kevin had never seen one. We weren’t going to shoot it,” John answered.

“Don’t tell my mom,” Kevin said, quickly.

“Your mother has enough on her plate without having to worry about this. Now go back inside and check on her. The debate’s starting soon anyway,” Brooke said.

Kevin headed back inside with his head down, shuffling his feet. John attempted to sneak away with him, but Brooke grabbed his arm. “You hold up a minute.”

“Mom, look, I’m sorry, okay? I told you we weren’t going to shoot it.”

“John, you shouldn’t have shown your cousin this.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s younger than you are, and he’s never had any firearm training. And you’re no expert yourself, either.”

“I know how to use it. You don’t think I can handle it? What have I been doing for the past week, Mom? Have I not been able to keep it together?”

John’s voice rose. His face flushed red. He seemed taller to Brooke. She hadn’t noticed it until now, but it seemed like he’d shot up a few inches out of nowhere. She felt like she was looking up at him.

“You’re right,” Brooke answered. “I’m sorry. It’s just… with everything that’s happened, I don’t want you to lose the part of yourself that is most important. You’ve grown up a lot, and I just don’t want it to happen too fast. You’ve got a lot ahead of you, so just cool it with the guns. Try talking about girls for a bit.”

“Mom,” John responded, a little exasperated.

Brooke laughed. “Go inside. Make sure Eric’s still alive.”

Brooke gave John a push as he headed back inside. She watched him disappear down the hallway through the back-door window and then turn to climb the stairs. Once John was out of sight, she looked back down at the revolver in her hand. Brooke knew things would be different moving forward, regardless of what happened with everything else. No matter what road they traveled down, she couldn’t make John unsee everything that had happened.

One of her biggest fears would be to have John experience the same foreign feeling that Brooke felt in that house. She didn’t want him to be like her. She didn’t want him to feel like there wasn’t any safe place left. She didn’t want him to have his guard up all the time. He needed to be a teenager, not a fugitive in hiding. Brooke just wasn’t sure if she’d be able to join her family in that normalcy.

***

Smith adjusted his tie in the mirror. He was clean, shaved, and dressed to the nines. The dressing room where he waited for the final call from the producers was small. The only other objects that joined him were the mirror, a desk, a chair, and a small couch behind him. He pulled his sleeve up to check his watch. The second hand seemed to stand still.

Beth had left him thirty minutes ago so he could be alone. It was their ritual before every debate he’d had. Beth would spend the morning quizzing him, testing him on the subject matter that could be brought up and any curve balls that would be thrown at him from either the moderator or his opponent.

Then, after he’d passed through the final gauntlet Beth made him run, he’d lock himself in solitude. He needed to be alone with his thoughts, undisturbed. He enjoyed the quiet before all the noise, the lights, and the tension. It was during these moments that he could see everything clearly.

But this time felt different. Smith wasn’t sure if he would get another chance like this. There was too much at stake. This would be the turning point of the country, where it would either continue down its path of destruction or begin heading down the road of recovery. Smith knew both roads were one-way streets.

“Congressman? We’re ready for you,” one of the producers came into say.

Smith nodded and followed the young man through the halls of the studio. Every person he passed stopped what they were doing to watch him walk by. Smith wasn’t the only one who knew the gravity of this debate.

The lights nearly blinded him when he stepped out on stage. Jones was already at his podium, looking over some of his notes. The moderator was in place, and the cameras were set. Behind the cameras, there was no audience, just a few other producers and stagehands.

“You can take your place right here, Congressman. And if you can put this mic on, we’ll get started.”

“Thank you,” Smith said, pinning the mic on his lapel.

“Congressmen,” the moderator said. “When I get the green light, the cameras will open up on me, and as I introduce you, the cameras will move to you. I know this isn’t the first time for either of you, so I’m sure this will go smoothly.”

The producer gave a thumbs up and started the countdown.

“Okay, and we’re on in five, four, three,” the producer held up his hands signaling two then one and pointed to the moderator as the lights flashed on.

“Good evening. Welcome to tonight’s debate between Congressman David Smith and Congressman Raymond Jones. Gentlemen, answers will be limited to two minutes, and rebuttals will be one minute. The timer will begin after the end of my questions. Congressman Jones, you will be receiving the first question. What does the United States have to gain with the war against Mexico?”

“Nothing. We have absolutely nothing to gain. It’s a waste of resources and we’re putting our soldiers at unnecessary risk. And I would dare to say that the president agrees with me. Just the other day, I was sent to Mexico City to discuss the terms of a cease-fire. I believe a final draft was just drawn up,” Jones answered.

The moderator turned to Smith, who was meticulously taking notes. “Congressman Smith, same question.”

“I would have to say I agree with Congressman Jones, but what Jones failed to mention was his prior involvement with the Mexican government in the first place. Congressman Jones has been back-channeling with Mexican officials to work on a military strike against the Brazilians. I think we would all like to know why Congressman Jones is trading one war for another—one that could put us at odds with the Chinese, who have developed a strong relationship with Brazil.”

“That’s quite a statement, Congressman Smith. What do you have to say to those allegations, Congressman Jones?”

“Well, Congressman Smith, yes, I have been doing some back-channeling, but it’s been to prevent war, not engage in it. All of my talks with the Mexican officials have been to help us come to an understanding of where our two nations exist. Talks of Brazil may have been brought up, but I think we would all agree that Brazil as an ally would be far better than an enemy.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” Smith said.

“Congressmen, please,” the moderator cut in. “Moving on to the next question. Congressman Smith, your involvement with Bill HR 285016 was widely publicized three years ago and then again several weeks ago. Why do you think that this bill is the answer?”

“The bill isn’t the answer. The only thing the bill offers is the chance for the answer to work. Dr. Carlson’s filtration system is foolproof. The bill would allow him to build a factory and make it legal to sell and distribute the water purified by his process. This would alleviate our water problems, boost the economy, and save our way of life.”

“Congressman Jones, same question.”

“I remember the hearings on Bill HR 285016, and from what I recall, third-party scientists debunked Dr. Carlson’s method stating, and I quote, ‘inconclusive results from our tests lead us in a direction where we cannot endorse this method due to health concerns’ end quote. And if scientific evidence wasn’t enough, then what about the voice of the people? Public support for the bill plummeted once this research was published. I still don’t understand why Congressman Smith insists on trying to overturn our citizens’ clear statement that they don’t want anything to do with Dr. Carlson’s filtration process.”

Jones had always been slippery. It was how he’d survived in politics for as long as he had. Smith looked down at his notes, more out of habit than need. He knew every syllable on those cards like the hairs on the back of his hand. He needed something more. He needed to drive the point home.

“Congressman Smith, rebuttal?”

“You know, in my political career, which has spanned almost two decades, I’ve come across a lot of questionable decisions. I’ve been involved in some of them myself. The choices we face as congressmen are supposed to be simple. The people guide our decisions… but the truth is that’s not always the case. Sometimes we choose to go off the beaten path and forge our own agendas. Every congressman has done it, myself included. However, I’ve found that there are two types of paths that a congressman will go down when faced with that crossroads. The first is to go the way of self-indulgence to ascend in his or her career. This road is filled with bribes and lies. This path in no way helps the people or the country, no matter what lies politicians tell themselves. The second is much harder. It takes you down a path that serves the people but, at times, can conflict with your own self-interest. I’d like to say that I’ve chosen this path more times than the other, although I know that wouldn’t be entirely true. But that’s what I’ve done in this case. In fact, right now, off the coast of Canada in the city of Halifax, I have a team working with Dr. Carlson to continue his work. I acted alone in this, but I did so with only the best of intentions for my country and the citizens I serve.”

“Congressman Smith, are saying that you’ve set up an illegal water operation on foreign soil?” the moderator asked.

“Yes. In fact, I had a meeting earlier today with Senator Harris about establishing a new relationship with the Canadians to allow Dr. Carlson to continue his work in exchange for debt forgiveness on the Great Lakes loans.”

The producer behind the moderator was motioning for him to cut to commercial.

“Well, we’re getting word we need to take a quick break, but I think I know where we’ll pick up when we return,” the moderator said.

The camera stayed on the moderator’s smile for a few seconds, then the lights faded to black.

“Call the authorities. This man has gone behind the backs of every government official and put not just our country at risk but the lives of the Canadians!” Jones said.

“Actually, I had a meeting with the Canadian ambassador a few days ago,” Smith said. “The Canadian government is very excited for the opportunity.”

Jones’s jaw went slack. He moved his mouth, but no words would form. Jones disappeared backstage and didn’t return.

***

There wasn’t a face in the living room that wasn’t smiling. Amy was so happy she was crying. John and Kevin were fist pumping, Gabby and Emily were running around the couches, and the noise had woken Eric from his painkiller slumber.

When the moderator came back on and announced that Jones had left the debate, Brooke was in shock. The fact that he just disappeared like that without explanation said everything she needed to hear. She just hoped that the rest of the country heard it as well.

The news anchors from earlier reappeared on the screen to help fill the dead air. The two men were in shock, and the blonde woman who’d chosen Smith to win the debate was all smiles.

“That was the strangest ending to a debate I have ever seen,” the older man said.

“We’re receiving analytics from our online polls in regard to the debate, which had more than ninety million viewers. It is the highest-rated debate in history. We had a few questions on our polls tonight to see how the American people felt each of their congressmen performed. The first question was, ‘Which congressman aligned with your personal views?’ And the results are a staggering eighty-three percent for Congressman Smith.”

“Wow. That’s unbelievable.”

“The next question we polled with our viewers was, ‘Do you agree on the war with Mexico?’ The results here are a little more even. Sixty-one percent say ‘no’ while thirty-nine percent say ‘yes’. And our final question in the polls was ‘Given the chance to support Bill HR 285016, would you?’ This is by far the most interesting statistic: eighty-nine percent of viewers said they would. Eighty-nine.”

Another roar of cheers filled the living room. This was it. This was the beginning of going home. If people were willing to give Dr. Carlson’s method a try, then there was no reason the Southwest couldn’t rejoin the Union. There would be enough fresh water to last for generations to come.

Emily came up next to Brooke on the couch and gave her a big kiss on the cheek. Brooke picked up her daughter and lifted her into the air, twirling them both in circles. She pulled Emily in and squeezed her like she would never be able to let her go. Brooke just might be able to go home after all.

***

Once the announcement was made that Jones had left the debate, Terry turned his radio off. He could hear the honking of car horns and the cheers coming from the people in the houses of the neighborhood around him.

But Terry was only focused on one house. He pulled his binoculars to his eyes and glanced through the windows of the house he was casing. There, in the middle of the living room, twirling her daughter around in the air, was the woman he’d been chasing.

Chapter 14

Once Amy regained some semblance of composure, the first call she made was to Daniel. She could hear the relief in his voice from the debate results. With the rest of the country finally on their side, change would happen. If nothing was done, then civil war would break out, and they both knew that would do much more harm than good.

Brooke reached for the phone before Amy hung up. “Let me talk to him,” she said. Brooke had to cover her other ear to block out the raging noise the kids were still making. “Daniel, it’s Brooke.”

“That’s some pretty good news,” Daniel said.

“I know. It’s definitely a step in the right direction. Listen, I know it’s going to be a while before everything gets straightened out, but I was hoping you could make some calls to see if we could stay here for a while—legally, of course.”

“Sure. I don’t think it should be a problem now.”

“Thank you.”

Brooke handed the phone back to Amy, who began to smile and cry all at the same time again. John rushed over to Brooke. “Mom, can I go with Kevin to his friend’s house next door?”

“John, I don’t think it’s a good idea. Technically we’re still not supposed to be here.”

“C’mon. They don’t even know me. We’ll just tell them I’m visiting from Maine or something. Mom, please.”

She had a hard time trying to come up with a reason to say no. With the landslide victory that Smith had been able to land, the stresses of the past week began to ease. “All right, but do not go anywhere else.”

“Thanks, Mom!”

John gave her a hug and then disappeared with Kevin out the front door. Emily came running up to her, smiling. “I suppose you want to leave me, too?” Brooke asked.

“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll stay with you.”

“Thanks, baby. Hey, Amy,” Brooke said, calling over to her sister. “What do we want to do for dinner?”

Before Amy answered, the entire house went dark. The TV shut off, the lights went out, and the hum of the A/C through the vents went silent. Brooke walked over to one of the light switches and flicked it on and off.

“Where’s your breaker box?” Brooke asked.

“It’s down in the basement.”

“You have any flashlights?”

After fumbling around in the kitchen, Amy managed to find one of the flashlights she kept for emergencies rolling around next to some of her old Tupperware.

“You really should have a better-organized and stockpiled emergency stash, Amy.”

“I know. It’s just I never have time for it.”

The circle of light from the flashlight grew and shrank as Brooke moved it over the wooden floorboards and walls until she came across the basement door along the side of the staircase.

Brooke sniffed the air. It was musty. The old wooden staircase creaked with each added step of pressure she gave on her way down. The beam of the flashlight caught the circling dust floating through the air in the realm of its watchful eye. Once she made it to the bottom of the staircase, she saw the gray box that encased the breakers.

She swung the metal door open and flipped the breakers off then on again, but the darkness remained.

“Did you find it?” Amy asked, yelling from the top of the stairs.

“Yeah, I flipped the switches, but nothing happened.”

“Try it again.”

Brooke flipped the switches off one more time then pushed them on. Aside from the clunk of the breakers switching back and forth, nothing happened. Brooke closed the breaker box and stomped back up the stairs.

“You might want to call the power company. See if a transformer went bad,” Brooke said, walking back into the house. When she looked out the window of the back door, she could see that the lights in the house behind them were still on.

Brooke then rushed over to the front living room, checking the other surrounding houses. All of them still had power. “Amy, check the landline.”

Amy picked up the phone on the kitchen counter and shook her head. “It’s dead.”

Brooke started to feel the rapid beat of her pulse. Her body flushed hot, and she immediately pulled the revolver from her pocket. “Use your cell and call the police,” Brooke said.

“Brooke, what’s going on?”

“Now!”

She went back into the living room to grab Emily and Gabby. She pulled the girls close and led them back over to the basement. Amy had her phone to her ear, waiting for someone to pick up, “Yes, I need a police car to my address.”

Brooke knelt down to the girls, both of whom wore looks of terror on their faces. “I need you guys to play a game for me, okay? Whoever is the quietest and bravest gets a big bowl of ice cream. Sound good?”

Both of the girls nodded sheepishly.

“Okay, so I’m going to have you go downstairs with Aunt Amy, and you guys stay there until I come back down to grab you.”

“You don’t think it’s him, do you?” Eric asked, cutting in. Brooke nodded.

“Thank you. We’ll be here,” Amy finished, then hung up the call. “They’ll have someone here in ten minutes.”

“Ten?” Brooke asked.

It was too long. But then again, if it was who she thought it was, then he was only after her. Keeping Amy and the girls downstairs and away from any conflict was the safest option for them.

“Is there a cellar door that leads into the basement from the outside?” Brooke asked.

“No,” Amy answered, shaking her head. “There aren’t even any windows.”

“Eric, take the girls downstairs and stay there until either myself or a police officer shows up. Make them show you their badges before you open the door. Got it?”

“Brooke, what’s happening?” Amy asked.

“I should be the one staying up here,” Eric said.

“You can barely walk, let alone shoot a gun. Now go!”

A crash sounded from upstairs.

“Hurry!” Brooke said.

Eric escorted Amy and the girls into the basement. Brooke raised the revolver to the second floor of the house. She turned the flashlight off, trying to use the darkness as a form of cover. The revolver shook slightly in her hand. She pressed her feet lightly and methodically around to the front of the staircase to get a better look.

Brooke tried to control her breathing, avoiding being too loud. She waited at the end of the staircase, the revolver aimed at the second floor. Her entire body felt like it was on fire. She kept having to close her eyes, shaking the flashes of the last time she’d pulled the trigger out of her head. The memories insisted on inserting themselves into her conscious mind. The squeeze of the trigger. The bullets. The shattered bones. The blood. Brooke’s heart raced. She couldn’t control her breathing anymore. A tightness formed in her chest that felt like it would choke her.

Then the crash of the back door being broken down brought her back from the memories. Brooke turned the corner to see Terry bolt inside and duck behind one of the counters. She squeezed the trigger, and a bullet pierced one of the cabinets. She cursed under her breath. A wasted shot. She was being too reactive. She took a deep breath and crouched behind a table by the front door. It gave her a clear line of sight from the entrances to the kitchen from the hallway and the living room.

“Brooke, this isn’t a good idea,” Terry said, his voice booming, making sure that Brooke could hear him no matter where she was.

“The police are on their way,” Brooke replied. “You’ll have to answer to them before you try anything.”

Brooke’s eyes darted between each of the kitchen’s entrances. She knew he could come at her at any moment. She just had to keep him busy long enough for the cops to show up.

Terry darted into the living room. Brooke drew a bead on him and fired but missed as he ducked behind the sofa. “Shit.”

“How many you have left? Probably three, right? Looks like a five shooter,” Terry yelled. “Put the gun down, Brooke. You’re worth more alive than dead.”

By now the neighbors would have heard the shots and called the police, only quickening the response time. Brooke was just glad at least John and Kevin were safe.

But then, as Brooke was eyeing the couch intensely, she saw movement at the back door. It gently swung open, and her heart dropped as John’s foot crunched on a piece of glass. “Mom?”

Brooke sprinted down the hallway. John just kept standing there looking at Terry, his mouth open, speechless. His figure grew closer. Brooke reached out her hand. She was so close to him. Then, just before she reached him, she watched Terry’s gloved hand touch John’s arm and grab him.

Brooke stopped. The muscles in her arm spasmed from the grip she had on the revolver. “Let him go!” Spit flew from Brooke’s mouth as she barked the order. She looked for a clear shot, but Terry had pulled her son close. She didn’t trust her aim enough to pull the trigger.

“Put the gun down, Brooke,” Terry said, holding the knife to John’s throat. “Put it down, and your son lives.”

John’s body was rigid and awkward from the hold Terry had him in. Her son. Her first born. The barrel of the revolver dipped slightly, then she lowered it to her side.

“Put it on the ground, and kick it over to me. Keep your hands in the air,” Terry said.

Brooke slowly placed the revolver on the tile floor then kicked it over as instructed.

“Living room. Walk,” Terry said.

Whatever happened to her family was on her. And if the outcome wasn’t the one she wanted, she wasn’t sure if she would be able to live with herself.

***

Once the announcement was made that Jones had walked off the set, Gallo knew that it was over. There would be no treaty. The United States would not honor the land that rightfully belonged to Mexico.

Just as the American news anchors were beginning their analysis of the debate, Gallo turned it off. The room was silent. He turned to his advisors, all waiting for the order to be given. But Gallo said nothing. He simply walked over to the ancient map he kept in his office.

It was old. Almost two centuries old. The paper the map was printed on was fragile. The print was worn, and the border lines were barely visible. Gallo reached up and grabbed the map’s frame, taking it down from the wall. He turned around, looking down at the map.

“You know that during the Mexican-American war in the middle of the 1800s, a famous Mexican general by the name of Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna was living in Cuba, exiled from the very nation he loved. During the war, he convinced the American president to let him negotiate a peace with the Mexican government that would end the war on favorable terms for the Americans. But once General Santa Anna was in his own country, he rallied his men and engaged in a full attack against the Americans. Despite the move, we still lost the war.”

Colonel Herrera stepped forward, separating himself from Gallo’s other advisors. “General, all of our men and resources are in place. What is your order?”

Gallo could see his reflection in the clean glass surface the map was encased in. Gallo lifted the frame high above his head and smashed it on the floor. The glass shattered, exposing the map. Gallo reached down and picked up the old parchment and clutched it in a fist.

“This is our land! It belongs to us! Bring us back our glory!”

***

The Rocky Mountain range in Cheyenne, Colorado, remained quiet and majestic on the surface, but deep within its belly was a hurricane of coordinated countermeasures.

Lieutenant Colonel Mink was at the helm, guiding the resources to their destinations to engage the Mexican threat. The tiny blips and beeps on each of the screens in the command room represented the lives of tens of thousands of American soldiers.

The noise level of the room never reached above more than a dull roar. Lieutenant Colonel Mink maintained order in the face of chaos. But he knew what was happening on the ground. Bullets pierced flesh. Explosions rocked the earth. The screams of men couldn’t be heard from their command post, but Mink knew they were there.

The Mexican strike was quick. Gallo’s forces were hoping to catch them off guard, but they were ready. The only advantage the Mexican army had was the ground they had managed to gain in Arizona and New Mexico from their previous push.

“Sir,” one of the officers said, grabbing Mink’s attention. “We have a lot of movement in the Pacific.”

“What do we have?” Mink asked, looking at his officer’s screen.

“Multiple enemy warships have entered the area. I count twelve heading north.”

“Alert Captain Ford. What’s the status of the USS Carl Vinson?”

“They’re still caught up in the Alaskan fisheries, sir. The president didn’t pull it in time.”

***

The cheers in the flight hangar of the USS Ronald Reagan were deafening. There wasn’t a single soldier sitting down. Everyone knew what it meant. The water shortages would end, the states exiled would be reinstated, and the economy would recover. That debate was the start of a chain reaction that would ripple through the rest of the country like an antidote to a poison.

But the cheers were quelled by the carrier’s sirens. Every soldier in the hangar scrambled to her or his station in an organized chaos that could only occur through the discipline of control and habit.

Captain Howard stormed up to the flight deck, and the boom of F-15s echoed through the air. Once on the flight deck, Howard could see the approaching Mexican fleet in the distance. Once on the command deck, Howard had a full view of the battle around him.

Explosions rocked the evening sky as jets were pinned against one another in dogfights. Puffs of smoke burst from the cannons of the warships. The horizon resembled a deadlier version of fireworks on the Fourth of July.

“Sergeant Pint, what’s our status?” Howard asked.

“Sixty bogeys in our airspace, sir. Four of the Mexican warships are attempting to flank us from the west.”

“Alert Captain Ford.”

“Yes, sir.”

The ignition of the jet engines rotating through their preflight had overtaken the carrier’s wailing sirens. Each boom from the flight deck signaling another takeoff was single beat of a war drum. And Howard could feel every vibration of war ripple through his chest.

“Missiles incoming, Captain. Deploying countermeasures,” Pint said.

The sophisticated defense system of the carrier had the ability to deflect a barrage of direct attacks. The system calculated velocity, trajectory, and Coriolis effect from the earth’s curvature, all within seconds. The results were sixteen RIM-7 Sea Sparrow missiles launched from the USS Ronald Reagan, intercepting the attacking Mexican missiles.

Each missile collided with its target seamlessly and decorated the sky with the ramifications of war. High above the explosions, dogfights between the Mexican and American fighters rocked the atmosphere. The swarm of jets resembled hornets, angered by the violent disturbance of their home.

“Countermeasures effective,” Pint said.

The massive show of force from the Mexican military was Gallo throwing everything he had at them, and Howard knew it. Gallo thought he could overwhelm them. He might have stood a chance if Ford hadn’t shown up, but not now. The Mexican general had just sentenced his men to a death sentence.

“Sir, we have enemy submarines on radar!” Pint yelled.

“Order the USS Albuquerque to engage. Change course to east.”

“Yes, sir.”

Howard knew that exposing the USS Albuquerque so early in the battle might have posed a strategic threat, but Gallo had been the first to show his cards. And Howard couldn’t afford to lose the USS Ronald Reagan.

“USS Albuquerque, engage enemy submarine, heading Alpha, Foxtrot, Niner, Seven,” Pint ordered.

The radar detecting the enemy sub continued to track its location. Any torpedoes fired would trigger the defense systems, but the USS Albuquerque was much better equipped to handle such an offensive.

“Enemy sub twenty five hundred yards due south, Captain,” Pint said.

The USS Albuquerque inched closer to the enemy sub. The two shapes on the display screen were on a collision course, with the USS Albuquerque having the edge. There wasn’t a faster attack sub in the Pacific Fleet.

The shift of the massive aircraft carrier began its own change of heading. The USS Ronald Reagan was big, but Howard wasn’t going to let it be a sitting duck.

“Torpedoes launched!” Pint said.

Before Howard could respond, the USS Albuquerque did it for him. Two foreign objects were on trajectory right for the carrier. The USS Albuquerque’s own torpedoes sped along the radar to intercept. The entire bridge drew in a breath as the two elongated dots grew closer until they disappeared on radar, which failed to exemplify the explosion of contact underneath the ocean’s surface less than fifty yards from the carrier’s hull.

“We have good effect,” Pint said, wiping the sweat off his forehead as the enemy sub faded from radar.

***

Terry ordered everyone out of the basement and gathered them in the living room. Emily and Gabby huddled behind Brooke and Amy, while Terry and John sat on Brooke’s left and Eric on Amy’s right. The barrel of Terry’s pistol aimed right at them.

“Where’s your husband?” Terry asked, pointing the gun at Amy.

“I-I don’t know. He’s on business.”

“Business where?”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“Where’s your phone?”

“My pocket.”

“Reach for it. Slowly.”

Each of Terry’s hands gripped pistols, one his own and the other the revolver Brooke had kicked to him when John was held hostage. “Call him. Tell him to come home. That his daughter is sick.”

“P-please, you don’t have t-to d-do this. If you want money, we can p-pay you,” Amy replied.

“I’m already getting paid,” Terry answered.

Tears were flowing from Amy’s face. She wiped her nose and scrolled through her phone, looking for Daniel’s number. Eric kept close. His face was stone. The playful face Brooke had grown accustomed to was gone.

“Drop the thousand-yard stare,” Terry said.

“I’m surprised you can count that high,” Eric answered.

“Funny,” Terry replied. “Military, right? Tall, clean shaven, cocky… Air Force?”

Eric remained silent.

“Figures. How’s the shoulder?” Terry motioned with the barrel of his pistol, smiling and admiring his handiwork. Terry stepped forward until he was hovering right above Eric. He pressed the end of the barrel on the wound. Eric started shaking but didn’t break eye contact.

“You know that friend of yours acted tough in the beginning, too, but in the end he cracked like a little bitch,” Terry said.

Eric sprang from his seat, but Terry brought the side of his pistol across Eric’s face quickly, knocking him down. Eric groaned, rocking back and forth on his back on the couch. Terry brought the pistol down on Eric again, this time striking the other side of his face. The crack of metal against bone made each of them jump. Terry brought his arm up again for another blow.

“Stop!” Brooke said.

Before Brooke could take another step forward, the barrel of Terry’s pistol was aimed at her, with his finger on the trigger.

“Now’s not the time to get fresh, sweetheart,” Terry said.

Brooke slowly lowered herself back to the floor. Eric, still disoriented, pushed himself up on his elbow. Blood from his wounds dripped against the carpet and seat cushions. Bits of jagged flesh dangled from his cheek. The cut was at least two inches long.

Terry turned the pistol back on Amy, who jumped at the sudden movement. “Dial. Now.”

Amy pressed the phone to her ear like a kid trying to cover her ears to protect herself from the situation around her. Everyone else was quiet. Brooke could hear the faint ringing from the phone. After three rings, a muffled voice picked up.

“Daniel?” Amy asked, her voice shaking. “Daniel, you need to come home... Gabby’s sick and the doctors don’t know what’s wrong… No, they won’t let me see her. Daniel, it’s bad. Please, com— Okay. We’re at Charlotte General.” Amy set the phone down, her hand still trembling. “He’s on his way.”

“Good. Now, this is what’s going to happen next. You and your daughter are going to take a little trip with me to the hospital, where we’re going to wait for him,” Terry said.

“Please! I don’t even know what this is about! What do you want?” Amy pleaded.

“Your husband pissed off the wrong people,” Terry answered.

Bounty hunter. Brooke should have known. Guns for hire had become a booming business over the past few years. Corporations wanting to protect resources and assets would hire certain unfavorable individuals to ensure their continued survival. The targets could be anyone: workers, politicians… illegals. But what haunted Brooke was worrying whether she had brought this on Daniel. Did he try and ask for favors to allow Brooke and her children to stay here permanently? Did he have to break the law to make it happen?

“What are you going to do to him?” Brooke asked.

“You need to be worrying about yourself, sweetheart,” Terry answered. “Now, everyone, up!”

John helped Eric limp to the basement. Brooke kept Emily in her arms, and Gabby walked sheepishly behind Amy. All the while, Terry kept both pistols aimed at their heads in case anyone decided to get brave.

Once downstairs, Terry instructed Amy to zip-tie their hands behind their backs, even Emily’s, then did the same to their feet. While Amy was busying tying them up, Brooke was scanning the shelves in the basement, looking for anything she could use to free herself once Terry was gone. All she could see were blankets, old storage bins, and two medium-sized cardboard boxes labeled “mason jars.”

Terry checked the restraints to make sure they were secure. “All right, so here’s the deal. If anyone isn’t here when I get back, I kill these two,” pointing at Gabby and Amy, who were quivering and clinging to each other. “So if you try and escape, you’ll have their blood on your hands.” Terry locked them inside, casting Brooke, Eric, and John into total darkness.

“John, are you okay?” Brooke asked.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” John answered.

“Eric?” Brooke asked.

Brooke heard a moan, then a soft, “yes.” The zip ties around her wrists and ankles were tight. She could feel the blood struggling to circulate and the swelling it caused. She had no idea how far away the hospital was, but she knew that it had to be at least a five-hour flight from Canada to Charlotte. Brooke was just glad Amy had been smart enough not to tell the bounty hunter where Daniel was. It at least bought them some time.

“John, can you scoot over to where my back is?” Brooke asked.

“I’ll try.”

“Just keep following my voice.”

Brooke’s eyes began to adjust to the darkness. She could see the shapes of shelves and boxes forming. She felt John’s hand grab her arm.

“Perfect, now, keep your wrists up,” Brooke said. She wiggled her fingers until she could feel the zip tie around John’s wrist. She ran her fingertips over the edge until she found the tiny covering that concealed the zip tie’s locking bar. She picked at it, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Mom, what are you doing?” John asked.

“I’m trying,” Brooke said, continuing to pick at the locking bar, “to get us,” she could hear the tick of her fingernail getting close, “out of here.”

The muscles in Brooke’s back tightened, and she could feel her hands going numb. She wasn’t sure how much longer she’d have the feeling in her fingertips to do this. Her frustration grew with each small “click” and “tick” she heard from her laborious efforts.

Finally, after a few more minutes of trying, she heard the distinct slide of the zip tie loosening, giving John enough room to wiggle his hands free.

“I’m out!” John said.

“That’s great! Now, get your feet free and then undo my hands,” Brooke said.

Brooke coached John through it. It took him a little longer than it had taken Brooke, even with both of his hands free, but eventually John managed to undo the zip ties on his feet. Once he was done, he untied Brooke, who then quickly freed Emily and Eric.

With John helping Eric, Brooke rushed up the staircase, but when her hand landed on the doorknob, it was locked. The door buckled a bit when she shoulder-checked it. She hit it again, repeatedly trying to break the door down, but she just didn’t have enough weight behind her.

“John! Come up here,” Brooke shouted. Her son joined her at the top of the staircase. “We hit it on three. One, two, three!” Brooke and John sent their collective weight into the door. A noticeable crack formed along the edges. “Again. One, two, three!” They swung their shoulders into the door and tumbled into the hallway outside.

Brooke immediately rushed to the front of the house and checked the driveway. Amy’s car was gone. Brooke walked in circles, trying to determine her next move. Whoever had hired the hit on Daniel would most likely have political pull that stretched into the authorities, so the police were out.

“John!” Brooke said.

He came into the living room, propping Eric up under his shoulder with Emily in tow. Eric collapsed onto the couch, holding his face and exhausted from the effort of climbing the stairs.

“Let me see your phone,” Brooke said.

John tossed her his mobile, and she connected to the Internet. Charlotte General was twelve miles north. With Amy’s car gone, the only other mode of transportation was the cruiser parked in the garage, which still wasn’t presentable for the road.

“Kevin,” Brooke whispered. “John, which house did you and Kevin go too?”

“Next door.”

Brooke headed for the front door, but before she reached the handle, John pulled her back.

“Mom, wait.”

“What?”

“Their parents aren’t home. It’s a party. Don’t be mad when you go over there, okay?”

“John, teenage drinking is the least of my worries right now.”

Brooke dashed across the lawn. The faint thump of bass grew louder the closer she moved to the neighbor’s house. Down the street, she could see the collection of cars that the kids tried hiding to avoid suspicion. The front door was open, and Brooke walked right inside.

The music was so loud that Brooke could feel her body vibrate. The house was wall-to-wall high school kids. Most of the hands she saw were holding either red cups or someone of the opposite sex. Because of the music, no one had heard her entrance, and it took a few minutes before people realized there was an adult in the house. It wasn’t long afterward that kids started bolting for the exit, assuming that it was the parent of whoever lived here.

Brooke scanned the faces of the kids inside, trying to locate her nephew. Finally, she found Kevin in the back talking to a girl, one of the red cups in his hand. It was the girl he was talking to that saw Brooke first. Kevin chucked the drink in his hand as Brooke walked up to him.

“Please, Aunt Brooke, don’t tell my mom.”

“I need your phone, Kevin.”

“What?”

“Quickly!”

Kevin fumbled in his jeans pocket, then handed Brooke his cell. She scrolled through the phone vigorously. She could see Kevin try to sneak off out of the corner of her eye, but she snatched him up as she pressed the phone to her ear.

“Aunt Brooke, please don’t call my mom. She’s going to kill me.”

“Hush!”

The phone rang four times before Daniel finally picked up.

“Kevin, what’s wrong? Did you guys hear something from the doctors?” Daniel asked, his voice frantic.

“Daniel, it’s Brooke. The call Amy made was a setup. Some bounty hunter has them and is using both her and Gabby as bait.”

While Daniel remained silent on the phone, she watched Kevin’s guilt-ridden face morph into one of concern. “Aunt Brooke, what’s going on?”

“What about Kevin? Is he all right? Where are they?” Daniel asked.

“He’s fine. He’s with me. They’re on their way to Charlotte General now. I didn’t think the police could help in this situation, but I was hoping you knew of someone that might,” Brooke answered.

“Yes, I do. I’m on my way to the airport now. Are they in Amy’s car?”

“Yeah.”

“Listen, you guys need to leave the house. It’s not safe there anymore. I have some cash stored in my nightstand upstairs. It’s upwards of one thousand dollars. Take it and get a hotel room. Stay there until you here from me. I’ll call Kevin’s phone.”

“All right. Wait! Daniel, do you have a firearm in the house?”

“Yes, it’s in a safe in the nightstand next to my bed.”

“Text the combination to Kevin’s phone.”

Brooke hung up and stuffed the phone into her pocket. She grabbed Kevin by the scruff of his neck and headed back to his house, where she had Eric take care of the kids. Kevin’s phone pinged, signaling a text and Brooke rushed up the stairs to the second floor.

***

“Can’t you go any faster?” Daniel asked.

The cab driver simply shrugged and gestured to the red brake lights in front of him. The thick Halifax traffic was at a standstill. Daniel’s body wouldn’t stop shaking. He wasn’t sure whether it was because of fear or anger. The fact that Jones had actually gone through with his threat shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but the lingering shock wouldn’t go away. Daniel dialed the only number he could think of. He just prayed that he would pick up.

“Daniel, is everything all right?” Smith asked.

“David! My family’s in trouble!”

“Whoa, slow down.”

“Jones put a hit on me, and he’s using my family as bait. I need your help. You have to help me.”

“Okay, just calm down. Where is your family?”

“Charlotte General. They’re in my wife’s car. It’s a blue Audi A4. Please, David, don’t let him hurt them.”

“I won’t. Where are you?”

“I’m stuck in traffic on my way to the airport.”

“The plane I had bring you to Halifax should still be there. I’ll have the pilot start getting things ready for takeoff.”

“Thank you.”

Daniel ended the call and closed his eyes. The cab started to feel hot. He loosened his tie. His breathing accelerated. This can’t be happening. This isn’t real. Everything started to spin. Get a grip. You need to get a grip. Control it! All of the rage running through him funneled into his fist as he pounded the ceiling of the taxicab repeatedly.

All of this was because of him. Jones might have his finger on the trigger, but Daniel was the one who had put his family in the crosshairs. He’d let his ego get the better of him. And now his family was paying the price for his mistakes. The fate of his family’s future rested solely on his shoulders. Daniel prayed that that he’d be able to bear it.

***

Gallo’s plane landed on a small landing strip near the California border just east of Tijuana. He was no more than forty miles from the fighting. Normally it was unconventional for an officer of his stature to be this close to the front lines, but he refused to sit behind a desk while his men fought one of the biggest conflicts in Mexican history.

The soldiers on the tarmac saluted, and Gallo sniffed the air. The faintest hint of smoke and hot lead filled his nostrils. He’d stayed abreast of all the reports coming in, along with his officers’ pleas for retreat, but he wouldn’t let them waiver. If this was to be their end, then he would make it the bloodiest in the history of war.

Colonel Herrera met him outside a makeshift tent beside a jet hangar. “General, it is an honor to have you on the field of battle with us today.”

“Field of battle? And where do you see a battle happening, Colonel?”

“General, we wanted to ensure your safety. It would be unwise to have you so close to the enemy.”

“For my safety or yours, Colonel?”

Herrera stood slack jawed, unable to speak. Gallo brushed past him and flung open the tent flap. All the officers stood and saluted. He stepped slowly around the men, refusing to allow them to lower their salutes. His eyes roamed over the map in the center of the room. His forces were being pushed back on all fronts: California, Phoenix, and Albuquerque. His fleet off the coast of San Diego was in shambles, and his planes were falling from the skies.

“Is this how you represent your country? Your heritage?” Gallo asked.

The officers remained silent, their arms still rigid in salute.

“Is this how you win a war?” Gallo bellowed, slamming his fist into the table and disrupting the positions of the figurines.

Herrera entered upon hearing the noise. His face was ghost white. He opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to form words that just wouldn’t come.

“What is it, Colonel?” Gallo asked.

“S-sir… The Americans… Our men… They’re surrounded.”

“What?”

The colonel didn’t repeat himself, but he didn’t need to. Gallo turned to one of the officers next to him, yanking his hand down from the salute. “How many men do you have stationed here?”

“Twelve hundred, General.”

“I want every soldier, officer, and able-bodied man in the area armed and mobilized within thirty minutes. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Gallo turned to the rest of the officers. The red tint of rage covered his face. A vein throbbed on the side of his neck, exacerbated by the pinch of his collar. He repeated himself. “Do I make myself clear?!”

All of the officers responded with a clear and resonating “Yes, sir!”

***

Captain Howard surveyed the aftermath of the battle from the USS Ronald Reagan. The pillars of smoke coming from the Mexican warships multiplied, and the rest had surrendered. Sergeant Pint came up behind him when a call came through.

“Captain, Captain Ford is radioing in.”

Howard picked up the line immediately. “What do we have, Ford?”

“The bastards are dropping their guns. We have confirmed reports of surrender in Phoenix and Albuquerque.”

Howard let out a silent sigh of relief. “That’s good to hear, Captain.”

“Gallo himself is heading to San Diego now for the official surrender.”

“He is?”

“Yes, and I thought you’d like to be there to watch.”

“It would be an honor, Captain.”

“Chopper leaves in twenty.”

An uproar of applause filled the ocean air as Captain Howard descended the island staircase and stepped onto the flight deck. But unlike the soldiers around him, he wouldn’t let himself feel this win until it was officially over. When he saw Gallo surrender his men, that’s when the war would be over for him.

***

The helicopter ride to San Diego was short. They were only ten miles from shore. Howard and Ford stepped onto the tarmac of the San Diego Naval Base. A line of armored trucks greeted their arrival, and both Ford and Howard climbed into the back seat of a Hummer in the middle of the pack.

The gentle rumble of the Hummer’s tires on the desert roads was the only sound that filled the cabin. The caravan escorting the two captains stretched for more than one hundred yards and was joined by four Black Hawk helicopters on either side of them.

Being back in the mix with his fellow officers in a formal capacity felt different. He just needed to figure out what kind of different it was. As Howard looked through the front windshield, he could see the Hummers and armored vehicles in front of them begin to veer off the road and slow down.

“We’re here,” Ford said.

The Hummer’s brakes squealed to a stop. Howard stepped out onto the orange, dust-covered earth. The sun was dipping into the Pacific, but the heat was still scorching. He stepped in rhythm with Ford, and when they made it up to the front, they were greeted by the sight of hundreds of Mexican soldiers, with General Gallo standing at the head.

“That’s a lot of men for a surrender,” Ford said.

“Yes, it is,” Howard replied.

The thumping of helicopter blades grew loud in the air, then dissipated in the distance as the Black Hawks continued their vigilant watch. A group of Marines escorted Howard and Ford to meet Gallo.

“Hello, General Gallo,” Ford said.

The only response from Gallo was the dust kicking up from the hot breeze. Despite the hundreds of soldiers at his back, Gallo only had two men by his side, both of whom echoed Gallo’s silence. The small table that was set up to sign the terms of the surrender had a box on it. The general reached for it and the marines escorting the captains drew their weapons.

“You may check it if you like,” Gallo said.

Ford nodded, and one of the Marines opened the box. Inside was an old pistol, most likely from the 1800’s. The decorative flowers etched into the handle were made of silver, and similar vines twirled around the pistol’s barrel.

“This was the same gun that General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna Gave upon his surrender to the Texan Army. I thought it fitting to give it to you here, in this place,” Gallo said.

The marine handed the gun over to Ford who examined it. “It’s a fine piece of art, General.”

Gallo extended his hand. “May I?”

Ford handed the gun over and Gallo gently held the pistol in both hands. He looked at it like a father would smile at a child, cradling with great care and love. “This pistol represents over one hundred fifty years of embarrassment.” Gallo looked to Howard. “And it ends today.”

The moment Gallo aimed the pistol at Howard the marines opened fired. The sent a volley of bullets into his chest, causing the general to collapse. On his way down the pistol fired randomly in the air, and the two escorts by Gallo immediately opened fired on the surrounding marines.

Howard reached for one of his escorts’ firearms as they drew their own rifles to aim and fire. One of the colonels at Gallo’s side drew on Howard, but he was too slow. A bullet sliced through the colonel’s head before he could aim his gun.

The other colonel came barreling at Howard before the marines could take him down, knocking the both of them to the ground. The force of the blow caused Howard to lose his grip on the pistol, which bounced into the desert sand. The hail of gunfire was deafening. Both sides blasted each other savagely. Howard crawled through sand to retrieve his firearm but was stopped short by the hands of the colonel choking him from behind.

Howard jammed his elbow into the colonel’s side repeatedly until the hold around his neck loosened. Howard jumped for the gun, turned, aimed, and fired three rounds into the colonel’s chest. The colonel stayed on his knees, looking down at the blood pouring out of the gaping holes in his uniform. He shuffled forward a few inches then collapsed in the sand.

The Black Hawks flying above rained their fifty-caliber GAU-19/A Gatling guns on the advancing Mexican soldiers. Each bullet was five and a half inches in length. The GAU-19/A fired two thousand rounds per minute. With the Mexican soldiers exposed in the open desert, it was like shooting fish in a barrel.

Gunfire was followed by screams. Screams were followed by blood. And blood was followed by silence. Once the Black Hawks had emptied their rounds, the rapid succession of machine gun fire ceased, and Gallo, bleeding to death, lie on the ground.

Howard pushed himself off the sand, splatters of red mixed with the orange dust covering his uniform. The pistol hung at his side. Howard hovered over Gallo, who was coughing up blood, spilling it over his face and neck.

The general was dying. Howard kept glancing at the pistol in his hand. There were still bullets left in the magazine.

“Do it,” Gallo said.

The general’s head was shaking from the strained effort of keeping it tilted up. Gallo’s eyes seemed to hold the light from the sun hostage underneath his dark pupils. Howard raised the pistol, aiming it at Gallo’s head. All of the bloodshed, all of the soldiers who had died fighting this fruitless war were because of Gallo. One man’s lust for glory and war had brought this upon the men and women under Howard’s command.

“Do it,” Gallo repeated, blood coughing up from his mouth and spilling onto his neck and chest.

The pistol in Howard’s hand shook. His face tensed. He could feel the small sliver of steel on the trigger. Sweat rolled down the sides of his face. Every cell in his body was on fire.

“No,” Howard said. “You’re not getting anything you want today.”

Howard lowered the weapon just as the medics arrived, but after a fit of coughing the general’s heartbeat finally gave out. The medics pronounced the death after a failed resuscitation.

“Captain, are you all right?” one of the medic’s asked.

Both Ford and Howard watched the slow pooling of blood behind Gallo’s head. The metallic red pushed its way across the tiny rocks and granules of sand, beginning its aimless journey until the fluids ran dry.

“I’m done,” Howard said.

One of the medics bent down and covered Gallo’s face with a tarp. The war was over.

***

The hallways of the Capitol building buzzed with the news coming out of the Southwest. Gallo’s last stand would be front-page headlines for the next week. But Smith could only focus on getting to his office, brushing off the congratulations still lingering from his debate win over Jones.

Smith found Edwards talking with a pair of senators from across the aisle. Edwards had a drink in his hand, waving it around and spilling some of it on the floor.

“I did it because it was the right thing to do,” Edwards said, his words slow, lazy. “And I’d do it again.” He took a sip from his drink, missing his mouth on the first attempt.

“Benjamin,” Smith said, panting and out of breath. “I’ve been trying to contact you. Where have you been?”

“David!” Edwards said, throwing his arm around Smith’s shoulder. “We won!”

“Yes, I know,” Smith answered, peeling Edwards’s arm off him. “If you’ll excuse us, Senators, I need the congressman for just one moment.” Smith pulled Edwards over to an area not populated with drunk politicians.

“David, what’s wrong?” Edwards asked, swaying on his feet. “We don’t have to worry about anything anymore. We did it!” Edwards thrust his hands in the air, sending a rain of gin and tonic down on the two of them.

“Benjamin, I need the number of the man that was putting together our contingency plan,” Smith said. “I need that number now.”

Edwards furrowed his brow, straining to understand what Smith was talking about.

“The number, Benjamin,” Smith repeated.

Edward shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “Um, I have the number in my office.”

Smith grabbed Edwards’s arm and pulled him through the thick crowd of politicians, all of them reeking of booze and self-indulgence.

Beth was in the car, waiting for them. Once she spotted them coming down the steps she got out of the car and immediately dialed a number. She caught up with Smith, who was dragging Edwards at this point.

“What’s going on, David?” Edwards asked, stumbling on the road to his office.

“Daniel’s in trouble,” Smith answered.

Edwards yanked his arm away forcefully, stopping abruptly. “And why on Earth would I want to help him?”

“Because he helped save us,” Smith answered, his tone sharp and slow.

“He also helped Jones put us behind bars.”

“They had something on him. It wasn’t his fault.”

“Jones has something on everybody, David! That’s what he does! That’s who he is!”

“His entire family is in trouble! Do you want their blood on your hands? Because that’s exactly what will happen if you don’t give me that number!”

The two men were nose to nose. Beth hung up her phone and stepped between them. “Congressmen, I think we should continue this conversation in a more private location.”

Smith glanced around at the pedestrians who had stopped to watch and listen to what he and Edwards were yelling about. “I think that’s a good idea. Wouldn’t want to stop the celebrations and end up on the news during all of this. Would we, Edwards?”

Even in his inebriated state, Edwards was smart enough to know that he wouldn’t be doing himself any favors by making the headlines in his current condition. “No, we would not,” he answered.

The three of them pushed through the celebrating crowds on the sidewalk and headed up the steps to the building to Edwards’s office. Inside, most of the offices were empty. Congressmen and their staff members were out enjoying the atmosphere of good news, which the capitol had been lacking for the past decade. The three of them piled into Edwards’s office, and Beth shut the door behind her.

“Where is it?” Smith asked.

Edwards pulled open one of his desk drawers. He shuffled through papers, then slammed the drawer shut. He opened another, and the shuffling of papers intensified. “It’s not here.”

“What?” Smith asked, rushing over to the desk.

“It’s not here!” Edwards repeated.

“Who’s been in your office?” Smith asked.

“I haven’t been here all day. Anyone from my staff or the building’s staff could have come in.”

If Smith couldn’t enact their contingency plan, then they wouldn’t be able to get to Daniel in time to save him. There was only one person who could undo what had happened. Jones.

***

Jones’s laptop sat open on his desk. A piece of software was running on the screen. A loading bar rested at fifty-six percent. The grind of a paper shredder chewed up documents as Jones tore apart papers from his personal files.

In between the shredder’s humming and grinding, the celebrations beyond his office walls crept inside. Jones had let his staff members go so he could be left alone to finish his final preparations. With Gallo defeated, he wouldn’t be able to deliver on his promise to Strydent about United States assistance in taking over Brazil. He knew Smith would resubmit bill HR 285016, and with the support of the American people now behind him, it would pass.

Jones just needed to get out before any of the blowback landed on him. There would be a bloodletting of politicians in Congress, and he would be a vessel in the hemorrhaging, but that was not why he was leaving.

Strydent would send someone to kill him, who was probably already on his way. The company wouldn’t risk letting him get away; he knew too much. And there was also the fact that they would now lose billions of dollars because of Dr. Carlson’s research. Strydent was a sinking ship, and it was going to take as many people down with it as it could.

Jones’s office door creaked open, and his hand went for the pistol on the chair, concealed underneath his jacket. His heart raced. He tore the jacket off, and the gun flipped to the carpet. He picked it up just as his secretary Cindy poked her head through.

“Congressman Jones?” she asked.

Jones immediately hid the gun behind his back. “Cindy, I’m busy.”

Cindy surveyed the condition of Jones’s office. Boxes were packed. Papers were spread over the floor and stacked on chairs. And the paper shredder that Jones hovered over was packed full with different-colored bits of paper.

“Um, sorry. I just didn’t know if you wanted something from the party?” Cindy asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Congressman.”

Cindy backed out and closed the door. Jones rested the gun back on the top of his jacket and picked up the next document in the folder he was working through. He still had more than half of his stock to go through. He checked his phone. Ken still hadn’t called. Jones needed him here to finish this. He couldn’t waste much more of his time with these trivial tasks.

There was already enough evidence to impeach Jones just with what Smith and Daniel knew, but what was contained in these files was much worse. The secrets of a career lay within the documents he shredded, and while he couldn’t prove his innocence in recent events, he wasn’t going to give authorities any additional incentive to come and find him once he was gone. The evidence in these documents was enough for the government to use a considerable amount of resources to find him, interrogate him, then kill him.

The door creaked open again. Jones kept his head down, feeding the shredder another document. “Cindy, I told you I don’t want to be disturbed.”

When Jones looked up, he was staring down the barrel of a .45 Smith and Wesson, complete with a suppressor. It was the same man that visited him before, the one that delivered Strydent’s “message.”

The man was dressed in similar clothes; his only additions were two jet-black gloves, allowing him the luxury of avoiding leaving fingerprints.

Jones’s eyes locked on the gun. The only sound the room offered was the shredder finishing its work on the document Jones had just given it. Once the paper was destroyed, the room went silent.

The man was as still as a statue. He didn’t even look like he was breathing. Jones eyeballed the pistol still lying on the jacket. It was within an arm’s reach.

“They don’t think they can trust me? Look,” he said pointing to the shredder and the papers around him. “Nothing will get traced back to them.”

“They know.”

“How much are they paying you? Hmm? You think this won’t come back on you? Killing a United States Congressman? You think that just because people will hate me they won’t want to find out what happened?”

Jones found himself unable to control his arms, which were flailing at his sides. The confidence and composure he had displayed in so many speeches, rallies, events, and political sessions slowly slipped away. The assassin in front of him couldn’t be swayed with his talented tongue or the stroke of a pen. Jones was now facing the ultimate invoice to all of the charges he’d made during his tenure in politics.

“Well?” Jones asked.

“Pick up the gun.”

“What?”

“The gun. Pick. It. Up.”

Jones’s left hand twitched, knowing full well what fate greeted him once the gun was in his hand. “No.”

The man took a few steps forward, the barrel of his pistol inching closer. “Do it.”

Jones reached his left arm, slowly, over to the gun. His bony fingers curled around the gun’s handle, and he lifted it from the chair.

“Shoot the wall behind me,” the man said.

The pistol shook in Jones’s hand as he reluctantly raised his arm. The man didn’t move. Jones couldn’t believe, he was actually letting him aim the pistol at him. Did the man think Jones wouldn’t shoot him? Did he think Jones was too frightened? Intimidated?

“I could kill you,” Jones said.

“You could, but you won’t.”

“Why not? I have the gun. You entered my office threatening to kill me. I could use it against Strydent. I could use your death to turn everything around. I could still win. Why couldn’t I do this?”

“Because you don’t pull the trigger, Congressman.”

Two quick thumps and two bullets sliced through Jones, one hitting his chest, the other hitting his shoulder. He collapsed to the floor, the gun falling with him. Jones lay there on the carpet, moving his arms, unable to feel the papers scraping up against him.

Jones stared at the ceiling of his office, feeling cold. His eyelids started to feel heavy. The crushing weight, which he struggled to fight, drew them down. He suddenly felt thirsty. His mouth was dry, and he could feel his body screaming for water. But it didn’t come. The last bits of life left him, and the final feeling of his life was the want and need for water.

***

Fire trucks, ambulances, and police vehicles were all crowded outside Jones’s office when Smith showed up. Smoke broke through the windows of the building as politicians, aides, and interns who had escaped the fire stood looking back at their ruined offices. All of them were dripping wet and stinking of sulfur. The water from the sprinkler systems was treated water from the sewage plant.

Smith grabbed the attention of one of the officers. “What happened here?”

“A fire started in one of the office buildings. My guess is one of these big-shot congressmen had a little too much to drink and passed out with a cigar in his hand. But we won’t know for sure until the report comes out. That could take a while.”

“What office was it?”

The officer called over to his partner a few police cars over. “Hey, Dom! Whose office did we think started the fire?”

“Jones!”

The officer turned back to Smith, “Yeah. Jones. The fire department said that the scorch burns in his office definitely pointed toward that location as the source.”

Smith was caught in the spectacle, looking at the massive plumes of smoke rising into the night sky and feeling the shock from the words coming out of the officer’s mouth. “Did they… find a body?”

“I don’t know if you could call it a body, but yeah, we found a piece of charred meat. Hey, you’re Congressman Smith, aren’t you? You’re the guy that’s getting the fresh-water projects started. Sir, it’s an honor to meet you.”

The officer stuck out his hand, and Smith shook it halfheartedly, still processing everything that was happening. “Thank-thank you.”

If Jones was dead, then there wasn’t any way for him to stop the hit on Daniel and save his family. Whatever Jones had put in motion was going to stay that way until it was done.

***

Brooke blew past the speed limit sign well over its suggested speed. She wove in and out of the congested Charlotte traffic at dangerously high speeds. Every once in a while, she would glance down at the phone giving her directions.

Brooke turned a hard left at one of the traffic lights just as it flashed red. She narrowly missed scraping against another car, whose driver responded by a long wail of the horn and shouts from the window.

Brooke didn’t let up on the gas. Charlotte General was only a few more miles down the road. She kept waiting for a policeman to pull her over, but the officers she passed had their hands full with growing crowds outside restaurants, bars, and other buildings. People were screaming, cheering in the streets. For what, she didn’t know.

All Brooke could think about was her sister and niece in the hands of that maniac that had taken them. She knew both of them were scared. The world of life and death was new to Amy. She hadn’t experienced anything like this in her entire life. She was sheltered. Safe. Comfortable.

Brooke knew about this world. She had known about it long before the exile. She had gone through it months at a time, watching the news, hearing about all the carnage happening in the Middle East. Even when Jason was home, she still felt it, lingering, gnawing at her like an itch she could never scratch.

Signs for Charlotte General glowed up ahead, and she turned the navigation on the phone off. She checked the messages to make sure she hadn’t missed any calls. She hadn’t. She set the phone to silent, then shoved it into her pocket in exchange for the revolver.

Brooke stopped the cruiser on the side of the road at some empty street parking just before the hospital entrance. She squinted into the parking lot, trying to find Amy’s car, but the lot was too big. She’d have to get out and search on foot.

The sidewalks were busy. The big crowds Brooke had seen on her way here weren’t as prevalent by the hospital, but the scene was busy enough to cause her to conceal the gun in her pocket. Her shoulder bumped against the pedestrians too drunk to get out of her way.

The hospital parking lot was packed. Rows of cars stretched for at least two hundred yards, then continued to layer on the different floors of a parking garage.

Brooke figured the bounty hunter would wait for Daniel in the lot. She didn’t think he’d risk trying to bring Amy and Gabby into the hospital, but then again, there wasn’t a better place to hide than in plain sight. She scoured the lot, keeping her body low, hand in her pocket, clutching the gun.

Then, next to a white van, Brooke could see Amy’s car. The seats were empty. The hood’s engine was still warm. They had to be close. She eyed the sliding glass doors of the hospital entrance then looked up at the massive building. The bounty hunter could have taken them anywhere in there, but why would he? Why would he risk exposing himself in a crowded hospital?

He wouldn’t. Brooke looked at the buildings next to the hospital. On the left was a hotel, and on the right was a convenience store. Again, crowded areas. She looked across the street, and there she saw an old two-story building. It was dark, abandoned, and provided an excellent view of the hospital for anyone who wanted to take a shot with a rifle.

***

Terry flipped the latches of the suitcase he had brought with him and started assembling the rifle. Both Amy and Gabby were tied up by their wrists and ankles, with duct tape over their mouths. They were sweating and shaking, but Terry paid them no mind. He had a job to do.

The pieces of the DRD Tactical Paratus .308 rifle lay encased in their foam slots. Terry pulled each piece out with precision and efficiency. He was able to assemble the rifle with no tools in less than a minute.

Terry released the lever to assemble the barrel along with the gas tube and gas regulator, unfolded the stock, then tightened the barrel nut into place. One final twist and the barrel was connected. He then pulled the assembly over the barrel and made sure to push the takedown pin to lock it into place. He twisted the suppressor on and loaded the magazine.

Terry carefully opened the dusty window on the second floor that gave him a good view of the hospital’s entrance. The Paratus originally hadn’t come with a scope, but the Nikon ProStaff 3-9 x 40 he purchased to accent the rifle fit easily on top after assembly.

The crosshairs scanned the hospital parking lot. Terry pulled his eye off the scope and checked the photograph of Daniel that Jones had given him. It looked like the picture had been taken from his recent congressional profile. Daniel wore a fine jacket, shirt, and tie, all neatly pressed. The signature American flag pin on his lapel, which so many politicians wore, completed the outfit.

Terry tossed the piece of paper back down and then pressed his eye into the scope again. He kept his breathing slow, steady. His finger remained off the trigger as he waited for his target to arrive.

Every once in a while, Amy or Gabby would moan and shuffle, causing Terry’s concentration to break. After the third disturbance, he rested the rifle against the wall and walked over to Amy. He pulled a knife from his belt and held it against the soft flesh of her neck. Amy shut her eyes. Her nostrils flared quickly from her accelerated breathing. Gabby’s cries grew louder from the scene unfolding before her. Terry held up his index finger to his lips. “Quiet.”

Their movements ceased. Terry withdrew the blade from Amy’s throat. He brought his hand to Amy’s forehead and gently stroked her hair away. Amy shuddered. Terry continued to caress the side of her face, and with each touch, Amy tried to turn away, until Terry finally pulled his hand back. He let out a sigh.

“Your husband was a lucky man. Stupid,” he said. “But lucky.”

Terry picked the rifle back up and rested the pronged legs on the windowsill. He had the scope’s crosshairs targeted at the hospital’s entrance when he heard a crash from downstairs.

He immediately spun around, aiming the rifle at the top of the staircase. He waited. Listened. But no further sound echoed from downstairs. Terry took one soft step across the floor, then another, and another, all the while keeping his ears open and finger on the trigger, until he made it to the railings of the staircase.

Amy and Gabby were both watching him from the corner of the room. Their eyes darted from Terry to the staircase. Terry peeked over the side, glancing down into the first floor.

Terry knew someone was down there. The police? No. More than likely, it was a drunk stumbling in from one of the bars, either looking for something to steal or a place to piss. Going down would give away whatever element of surprise he had. If whoever was down there saw him, he would be forced to kill them, and on jobs like these, the fewer dead bodies you had to deal with, the better. He already had his hands full. Terry moved his glance back over to Gabby and Amy. There couldn’t be any loose ends.

***

Brooke did a quick check around the abandoned building’s perimeter, looking for any signs that her sister might be inside, but it was too dark, and there were too many objects that obstructed her view. They could be in there, they might not. But she wasn’t leaving until she was absolutely sure.

There were only two points of entrance on the first floor that Brooke could see: the front door and the back door. She wrapped her hand around the knob and slowly twisted. She opened the door slowly, wedging her face into the sliver of space to peek inside.

What she couldn’t see was the gingerly stacked boxes that almost touched the ceiling just behind the door. She nudged the box of materials, and they crashed to the floor. She jumped from the noise and rushed into the building, aiming her gun at the mess she’d made, then quickly ducked for cover. If the bounty hunter was here, then she had just given away her position. She scooted across the dust-covered floor, scraping her knees and palms against the worn wooden floors.

Brooke kept the revolver in her hand, maneuvering around the boxes and pieces of furniture littered on the floor. Her breaths were short, slow, and quiet. She made sure to take extra care with the placement of her arms and legs. She became more aware of the motions of her body. She didn’t want to give herself away again.

Finally, in the center of the building, behind a counter, was a staircase. If the bounty hunter was here, then Brooke knew that the upstairs window would be the perfect position to scout who was coming and going into the hospital’s entrance. But with the noise she’d made and the narrowness of the staircase, she’d be a sitting duck trudging up that thing, and a bullet in her head wouldn’t do her family any good.

Brooke needed to draw him out, but how? The bounty hunter had the high ground, he had the hostages, and most likely he had some very precise weapons, along with the skill to use them very effectively.

The cruiser.

Brooke reached into her pocket and pulled out her keychain. From the bottom of the staircase she could see her cruiser through the building’s front windows. She aimed the key chain and hit the alarm button. The horn hocked, and the lights flashed, causing the people walking by on the sidewalk to jump. Brooke kept the pistol aimed at the top of the stair and she made her ascent.

Each step upwards was swift and quiet, and with the clamor the cruiser was making it was enough to give her some noise pollution to hurry up the steps. Toward the top she could see Amy and Gabby tied up in the corner. And as she looked to the right she could see the bounty hunter staring out the window looking down into the street.

Before he could turn around Brooke squeezed the trigger and the bullet entered the bounty hunter’s left shoulder. He instinctively spun around, clutching the rifle in his hands and recklessly fired a few rounds in Brooke’s direction. The force from the gun, and the weight of the man’s body sent him flying backwards through the thin single-paned glass. Two distinct thumps sounded from the bounty hunter hitting the overhang from the first floor, then the ground.

Brooke rushed over and peered through the broken glass to see him limping away toward the parking lot. She then turned her attention to her sister and niece. “Are you guys okay?” Both of them were crying, too hysterical to form any words. Brooke ripped the duct tape off the two of them and brought them to their feet. “C’mon. We need to get out of here.”

Amy held onto Gabby tight as Brooke descended the staircase first, still aiming the pistol downstairs just in case he decided to come back. She came down slowly, signaling Amy and Gabby to hold at the top until she saw that it was clear. When she looked out the front door the bounty hunter was no longer in the street.

“Okay, it’s safe,” Brooke said.

But once the girls were halfway down the steps two high-beam lights from an Audi A4 lit up the dark building as it came speeding toward them. “Run!” Brooke motioned for the girls to head back upstairs. The rev of the car’s engine roared louder as it barreled down upon them. Brooke tried following the girls up the staircase, but the car crashed through the front entrance before she had a chance to make it all the way to the top.

Brooke’s body slammed against the wall next to the staircase as the Audi cut through the wooden pillars holding the second floor up. Wood, glass, and metal exploded as portions of the second floor collapsed, coating the first floor in a thick layer of dust and debris.

A steady, high-pitched din filled her ears. She groaned, absentmindedly touching her head with her fingers. She winced from the touch. She felt disoriented. The headlights from the car were still on, illuminating the damage to the entire store. Her hand was empty. She looked around for the gun, but couldn’t find it. She crawled around on her hands and knees, swaying a bit. The room felt like it was spinning. The sharp, throbbing pain in her face continued its assault on her senses.

The ringing in her ears was slowly replaced by the sound of a voice. It was a girl’s voice, and she was crying for help. Gabby. Brooke forced her left foot forward, then her right, and repeated the simple process in her mind with all the willpower she had. She followed Gabby’s growing cries up what was left of the staircase.

She traced the cries to a large piece of wood covering a corner of the second floor that had remained intact. She lifted the wood up and pushed it to the side. Gabby was covered in dust. Next to her was Amy, who was unconscious.

“You all right?” Brooke asked, holding the young girl’s tear-streaked face. Gabby nodded, and Brooke turned her attention to her sister. She pressed two fingers into Amy’s neck, checking her pulse. She felt the slight thumps lift her fingertips then made sure she was breathing. Amy had a few cuts on her face and arms, but other than the fact that she was unconscious, she seemed fine.

Brooke had stretched out her arms to pick Gabby up when the thunder of a gunshot exploded behind her and she felt a stinging, numbing pain strike the back of her left shoulder. The force of the bullet and the pain that followed sent her tumbling back down the stairs.

Her head, shoulders, back, legs, and arms all struck the edges of the stairs with wild force and uncoordinated rhythm. She rolled onto the floor at the bottom, leaving a trail of splattered blood behind her. Brooke flipped herself onto her back and cried out from the sharp, piercing pain from the gaping wound on her shoulder. The spot where the bullet had entered felt warm as the blood spilled from her body onto the floor.

“You. Fucking. Bitch!” Terry said.

Brooke tilted her head up to see Terry with his left arm slack, blood pouring from his forehead, gripping the revolver he’d stolen from Brooke at the house with his good arm. He was covered in dust and debris. A bloodstain sopped his shirt. He stepped forward, limping from a twisted ankle.

Brooke forced herself to crawl forward as Terry pursued her. The thump of his boots grew louder until she felt the toe of a boot ram into her rib cage. Her body buckled from the blow. He repeated the vicious blows over and over until he became winded. Through her gasps of breath she could see the pistol hidden under a piece of the second-floor debris.

Get the gun.

Brooke continued to claw across the ground as Terry towered over her, spitting his curses and continuing the brutal assault on her body. A streak of blood trailed her with every inch she dragged herself forward.

“You think you’re going to get out of this alive?” Terry asked then smashed the heel of his boot into Brooke’s right ankle. The loud crack of bone sent a jolt through her body, stopping her dead in her tracks.

She lay there, body shaking, bleeding, with every cell in her being screaming from pain. Her arm slowly slid forward with her fingers trembling. She clawed into the floor, scraping her nails against the wood in her tireless pursuit to the pistol.

“You sniveling, whining BITCH!” Terry yelled, stomping on Brooke’s ankle again.

Brooke screamed. Every blood-curdling octave that left her throat was a condemnation of every moment since the exile. All the pain, loss, and suffering culminated in one piercing howl. It was more than just a cry of pain; it was one of determination, anger, and finality.

Terry ground his heel into Brooke’s ankle. The crunching of bone against bone and tissue was unbearable, but the moment he let his foot up, Brooke made one last drive toward the pistol.

“You’re dead. Your family’s dead. Everything you love is dead!” Terry said.

Brooke snatched the pistol, turned, and before Terry could raise his own gun, she emptied the magazine into his chest. Terry’s grip on the gun loosened and it hit the floor with a thud. He stumbled backward then collapsed.

What energy remained in Brooke immediately vaporized. Her head and arm hit the ground, her hand releasing her own grip on the pistol. The warm sensation the gunshot wound had given off earlier was being replaced by cold. Her whole body felt cold. She felt her eyelids become heavier. And in the night air, she could hear the faint wail of sirens.

Chapter 15

Smith’s knee bounced nervously. He couldn’t stop fidgeting in his chair. The president’s secretary kept giving him a kind smile, which he returned. He checked his watch for the twelfth time.

“I’m sure he’ll see you any minute, Congressman.”

Smith smiled. “Yes, I know he’s been busy lately.”

“And he’s not the only one,” she said, looking at him. “You’ve been in the headlines all week. You’re all anyone can talk about.”

“Yes, it’s all very flattering.”

The past week had gone by in a blur. All the meetings, news conferences, and interviews seemed to be one collective rush. But this meeting would be one he remembered.

“Congressman Smith?” the secretary asked. “The president will see you now.”

“Thank you.”

Smith buttoned the jacket of his suit, exhaled, and pushed through the door of the Oval Office. The president was alone, sitting behind his desk.

“Congressman Smith,” the president said. “So good to have you here.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Please, have a seat.”

Even with everything that had happened, the corrupt democracy, treason charges, and the negative media assault, Smith still couldn’t help but feel awed by the history that filled the room. Countless ambassadors and presidents had sat on the very same couch he sat on now.

“I have to say that your persistence has been admirable, Congressman. It’s good to know that we have politicians out there that will hold firm to the bedrock of our democracy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now, as you know, I’ll be signing your water bill into law this afternoon, but I wanted to speak with you privately before the media circus exploded. I’m sure you’re aware of the investigation of Congressman Jones?”

“Yes, although all that I know is from what I’ve seen on the news.”

“Ah, well, you know how the media is. Their business is just as much speculation as it is reporting the facts.”

The president gave a good-hearted laugh, which Smith didn’t return. Smith knew the president had a connection to Jones, and this was the president’s way of vetting him.

“Mr. President, I try not to speculate, so I’ll stick with the facts of what I know. Jones had deep financial ties with Strydent Chemical, which is now going to lose billions because of Dr. Carlson’s designs. I know that he had dirt and leverage on almost every official in government. And I know he was an avid supporter of your election two years ago,” Smith said.

The president dropped the pleasantries. “That sounds like speculation to me, Congressman.”

“Perhaps. But the good news is that the investigations across all branches of government will bring the facts to light soon enough.”

A pause lingered between the two of them before the president finally rose and extended his hand. “Thank you for stopping by, Congressman. I look forward to seeing you at the signing this evening. And I hope to see you at the National Mall for the Navy’s award ceremony after lunch.”

Smith shook his hand as the president quickly ushered him out of the Oval Office.

***

The National Mall hadn’t been this crowded in years. It’d been a while since the city had had anything to be proud of. Eager faces kept looking forward, trying to get a glimpse of the war heroes who had risked their lives to save the very country that had abandoned them.

A long line of Navy officers and seamen lined a makeshift stage, where the Secretary of the Navy was delivering a speech.

“In times of great danger, and despite the adversity and odds stacked against them, the men and women on this stage today represented the fighting spirit of the Navy. They proudly served their country with honor, courage, and commitment. And it is my honor to provide them with the Navy Cross.”

Captain Howard stood at attention toward the end of the line, and, standing next to him, his arm still in a sling and a shit-eating grin on his face, was Eric.

“I suppose flashing the Navy Cross is almost like a get-out-of-jail-free card to the brass,” Eric said.

“No, Lieutenant. That’s not what it’s for.”

“Well, I know that’s not its intended purpose. I’m just saying that it could be an alternative use.”

Howard shook his head, the lines on his face exuding the lack of excitement of being positioned next to the lieutenant.

“Does this come with any type of prize money?” Eric asked.

The Secretary of the Navy finally made it to Howard. He picked up the bronze piece of metal and pinned it to Captain Howard’s uniform.

“Herold, your fortitude and commitment to the Navy was exemplary. Congratulations,” the Secretary of the Navy said.

Howard saluted. “Thank you, sir.”

“And you, Lieutenant,” the Secretary of the Navy said, “your skill in combat saved the lives of thousands of Americans.”

“I guess that means I get a free pass on the jet I wrecked then, huh?” Eric said, saluting.

“I suppose it does,” the secretary answered.

Eric and Captain Howard stood side by side as the secretary continued his steady march down the line of soldiers who were receiving medals. Eric leaned into Captain Howard’s shoulder a bit.

“Your name is Herold Howard?”

“Shut up, Scratch.”

“Ouch. Low blow, Captain.”

***

A crowd of workers stood behind Dr. Carlson, who stood at the control panel of the factory. Buttons, switches, and gauges lined the platform. Dr. Carlson paused before entering the final sequence to start the machine.

“Here we go.”

The turbines and engines inside the factory roared to life, and the massive pumps digging into the Atlantic Ocean began extracting the saltwater for purification.

“Gauges holding steady,” Dr. Carlson said. “We’re live.”

Claps and whistles erupted from the workers. Dr. Carlson let out a slight sigh of relief and then made his way past the engineers heading to their posts to ensure the rest of the process ran smoothly. He’d done everything he could. Now all that was left was to wait for the final product: fresh water.

“Well, I think the bet was ten days. I did it in nine,” Dr. Carlson said.

Beth didn’t look up from her phone. “I suppose that’s correct.”

“So?”

Beth lowered her phone with an exasperated sigh. “Fine. Friday evening works best for me.”

“I’ll pick you up at eight,” Dr. Carlson replied.

***

The first things Brooke saw when she opened her eyes were the smiling faces of John and Emily. Both of them rushed toward her, and Emily slammed her tiny body into Brooke’s side. Brooke winced.

“Whoa, easy, Em. Mom’s still recovering,” John said.

Brooke rubbed her side but immediately smiled. She held out her arm and pulled Emily close. “That’s okay. I’ll take that kind of beating any day.”

Her left arm was encased in a sling, and her ankle was wrapped in a large boot. Lines of tubing ran from her body to an array of machines watching her vitals and feeding her fluids.

“Are you guys okay?” Brooke asked.

“We’re fine, Mom,” John answered.

“Amy,” Brooke said, her eyes widening, “What about Amy and Gabby?”

“They’re safe. You did it, Mom,” John said.

“Yeah, Mom. You saved everyone!” Emily echoed.

“Let’s see… Reckless driving. Lethal discharge of a firearm. And enough property damage to make an insurance adjuster crap his pants. Yeah, I’d say you’ve graduated from the school of badass moms.”

Brooke looked over to see Eric in the doorway holding a batch of “Get well soon” balloons.

“Those for me?” Brooke asked.

“No, these are my balloons. I don’t know what happened to yours,” Eric answered.

“Eric!” Emily yelled.

“What? Don’t look at me, kid. It’s your fault you put me on balloon patrol,” Eric replied.

“Seems like you’re feeling better,” Brooke said.

Eric tied the balloon strings to the railing of Brooke’s hospital bed. He examined his arm and then pointed to Brooke’s shoulder. “Looks like we have matching injuries.”

“I couldn’t let you have all the fun,” Brooke said.

Before Eric had a chance to answer, Amy and Daniel rushed into her room. Amy practically shoved Eric into the wall then wrapped her sister in a hug.

“Thank God you’re all right,” Amy said. “How are you feeling? Oh, that’s a stupid question. You were shot, for Christ’s sake.”

“Amy, I’m fine.”

Daniel came to his wife’s side and rested his hand on Brooke’s leg. “Brooke, I can’t thank you enough.”

Amy clasped her hands together in excitement. “Well, should you tell her or should I?”

Everyone in the room kept glancing at one another. Brooke rotated her head around, waiting for someone to speak up. “Tell me what?” Brooke asked.

Emily jumped on the side of her hospital bed. “We get to go home!”

“The Senate is voting on reinstating the exiled states this afternoon. It’s a little premature, but with everything that’s happened, we know it’ll pass,” Daniel said.

“And?” Amy asked, nudging Daniel with her elbow to get him to continue.

“And the fresh-water bill passed, allowing Dr. Carlson’s designs to be used. The first shipments should be arriving in the Southwest next week. Utility sites are already being scouted on the West Coast for more stations.”

“Then that means…” Brooke said.

“The drought’s over,” John replied.

Every face in the room was smiling. Brooke rested her head back on her pillow and closed her eyes. She felt lighter. The pain in her shoulder eased, and the faintest hint of life began to well up inside her. It started small and distant, but the longer she kept her eyes closed, the more she felt it grow. Her cheeks grew tight and red. She could feel her chest shaking, and when she opened her eyes and saw the reflection of the same laughter and joy that she was feeling, she thought it was a dream.

Amy squeezed her left hand, then John found her right, while Emily giggled around Brooke’s legs. Her family was alive. She was alive. And now they would get to go home.

“Guys, we should let her rest,” Amy said. “C’mon.”

John and Emily gave Brooke another hug each, followed by Daniel, then Amy. They left the room until Eric and Brooke were alone together.

“Well, you sure know how to show a guy a good time, Mrs. Fontanne,” Eric said.

“Thank you, Eric. For everything.”

“You’re welcome. And I guess I should just send all of my medical bills to you, then? Yeah?”

Brooke laughed. “How’s your friend doing?”

“Dave? Oh, he’s fine. Pissed and angry as hell at me, but he’s fine.”

“You know, he told me how you got your nickname.”

“Ah, shit. Look, I was a kid. I didn’t know any better.”

“I still don’t think you know any better.”

“I don’t.” Eric paused. “Well, I’ll let you rest.” He tapped the railing lightly with his knuckle and turned for the door.

“Jason would have been glad you helped,” Brooke called out. “And he wouldn’t want any type of debt hanging over your head. He wasn’t that type of man.”

Eric leaned up against the doorframe. “I know.” He smiled then disappeared.

***

News anchors filled the television screen in the living room. “Reports coming in today that two new water plants will be opening in Los Angeles and San Diego later this year.”

“That’s good news, Diane. Congress will be holding their final hearings on the impeachment of the president. The investigations from three months ago into the death of Congressman Jones lead to widespread allegations about the White House’s involvement with the passing of Jones’s bill, which exiled the southwestern United States from the rest of the union. Jones was also linked to providing the Mexican government with weapons through the diversion of secret funds in his role as chairman of the resource committee that didn’t have the approval of Congress. Experts are saying that while the president may continue to deny an association to those accusations, he will most likely not be in the Oval Office for much longer.”

“In financial news, the Strydent Chemical Company has declared bankruptcy in the wake of the Securities and Exchange Commission—”

The television screen went black, and Brooke tossed the remote on the couch. She opened the front door to the house and stepped onto the porch. The yard of dust and sand had been replaced by small tufts of green sprouting up from the dirt.

“John! Emily! Dinnertime!”

John scooped up the basketball he was dribbling, and Emily parked her bike. The two of them ran past Brooke into the house.

“Wash your hands before you sit down!” Brooke called after them.

The cool rush of air conditioning coming from the house clashed against the hot air outside. Brooke lingered there for a moment, listening to the sound of her children’s voices. A smile crept over her face, and she took a look at the construction crews working on the homes around her. The veins of life had made their way back to the area.

Brooke was home.

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