Samara had done her research. The Springfield Community College put on a Thanksgiving Day parade every year, led by their marching band and following a circuitous two-mile route that started from a local park, wound through the town, and doubled back to the origin. At the forefront of the parade was a young male drum major, wearing a ridiculously tall hat and heartily pumping a baton in one fist. Following them was the tiny college’s winless football team, and then their cheerleading squad. After that would be a convertible containing Springfield’s mayor and his wife, and after them the local fire department. Bringing up the rear were faculty members and the athletic association.
It was all just so sickeningly American.
“Mischa,” Samara said again. The girl nodded curtly and stuck the electronic earplugs into her ears. She rose from the curb and took a position near the cab of the truck, leaning against the driver’s side door to avoid the range of the frequency.
Samara unclipped a radio at her belt. “Two minutes,” she said into it in Russian. “Power it up.” She had taught the team Russian herself, insisted that it was the only language they spoke in public.
An old man in a fleece sweater frowned as he passed by her; hearing someone speak Russian in Springfield, Kansas, was about as strange as hearing a Shar-Pei speak Cantonese. Samara scowled at him and he hurried along on his way, pausing when he reached the corner to watch the parade.
It seemed like the entire town had come out for the event, lawn chairs lined up for several blocks, children eagerly waiting to catch the candy that would be thrown by the handful from buckets.
Samara glanced over her shoulder at the girl. Sometimes she wondered if there was any remnant of childhood left within her; if she observed the other children with longing for what might have been, or if they were alien to her. But Mischa’s gaze remained cold and distant. If there was any doubt behind those eyes, she had become an expert at hiding it.
The marching band rounded the corner, horns blaring and drums thrumming, their backs to Samara and the box truck as they marched onward down the block. Young men in jerseys followed on foot—the college’s football team, tossing candy into the crowds, kids darting forward and crouching in clusters to snatch it up like carrion birds on a carcass.
A tiny object sailed toward Samara and landed near her feet. She picked it up gingerly between two fingers. It was a Tootsie Roll. She couldn’t help but smirk. What an incredibly bizarre tradition this was, the youths of the wealthiest country in the world scrambling over one another to fetch the cheapest of treats tossed idly onto the pavement.
Samara joined Mischa near the cab of the truck, the end facing away from the parade and its patrons. She held out the candy. A flicker of curiosity passed over Mischa’s young, passive face as she took it.
“Spasiba,” the girl murmured. Thank you. But rather than unwrapping and eating it, she stuck it in the pocket of her jeans. Samara had trained her well; she would get a reward when she deserved one.
Samara lifted the radio to her lips again. “Initiate in thirty seconds.” She did not wait for a reply; instead she put in her earplugs, a soft but high-pitched tone whining in her ears. The four men in the cargo space of the truck would take it from there. They did not have to expose the weapon; they did not even have to lift the rolling gate at the rear of the truck. The ultrasonic frequency was capable of traveling through steel, through glass, even through brick with little hindrance to its efficacy.
Samara clasped her hands in front of her and stood beside Mischa, silently counting down. She could no longer hear the marching band, or the applause of the parade-goers; she heard only the electronic whining tone of the earplugs. It was strange, seeing so many sights but hearing nothing, like a television on mute. For a moment she thought of that ridiculous adage: If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Their weapon did not make a sound. The frequency was too low to register on a human’s auditory spectrum. But there would still be falling.
Samara did not hear the music or the general din of the crowd, and she did not hear the screams when they began either. But mere moments after her countdown reached zero, she saw the bodies falling to the asphalt. She saw the citizens of Springfield, Kansas, panicking, running, trampling one another like so many children clambering for candy. Some of them writhed; several vomited. Instruments clattered to the street and buckets of treats spilled. Not twenty-five yards from her, a football player fell to his hands and knees and spat a mouthful of blood.
There was such beauty in chaos. Samara’s entire existence had been based on regime, on protocol, on practice—and yet few knew as well as she did how unreliable all of that could be when mayhem reared its unpredictable head. In those situations, only instincts mattered. It was then that one truly became aware of the self, of what one was capable of. In the chaos that unfolded silently before her eyes, families trampled over their own loved ones. Husbands and wives abandoned their partners in the interest of self-preservation. Confusion reigned; bodies toppled. The crowd would end up doing more damage to each other than the weapon would do to them.
But they could not linger. She nodded to Mischa, who rounded the cab and climbed into the passenger seat as Samara got behind the wheel and put the key in the ignition. But she didn’t turn the engine over just yet. They would give it one more minute—long enough for the fallout of the attack to be considered truly devastating, and leave those who would be pursuing them utterly perplexed by the significance of Springfield, Kansas.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Zero entered the George Bush Center for Intelligence, the headquarters of the CIA, in the unincorporated community of Langley, Virginia. He strode across the expansive marble floor, footsteps echoing as he trod over the large circular emblem, a shield and eagle in gray and white, surrounded by the words “Central Intelligence Agency, United States of America,” and headed straight for the elevators.
There was hardly anyone there, a skeleton crew of security guards and a few administrative assistants toiling on paperwork. He was still pretty sour about being called in, being called away from his girls on a holiday, and hoped that the briefing, as its name suggested, would be brief.
But he wasn’t about to bet on it.
“Hold the door,” called a familiar voice as Zero pressed the button for the sublevel on which the meeting was being held. He stuck out a hand to keep the doors from closing, and a moment later Agent Todd Strickland trotted in beside him. “Thanks, Zero.”
“They called you in too, huh?”
“Yup.” Strickland shook his head. “Just as I got to the VA hospital, too.”
“You spend Thanksgiving with veterans?”
Strickland nodded once, casually, which Zero took as an indication that it wasn’t something he wanted to discuss. Todd Strickland was just shy of thirty, thick-necked and well-muscled, still favoring the military fade style of haircut that he’d worn during his time with the Army. His bright eyes, boyish features, and clean-shaven cheeks gave him a youthful and approachable aspect, but Zero knew that behind the façade was a force to be reckoned with, one of the best the Rangers had ever seen. Todd had spent almost four years of his young life tracking insurgents through Middle Eastern deserts, sleeping in sand, climbing through caves, and raiding compounds. He was a fighter, through and through, and yet he’d managed to maintain a compassion that was just as strong as his sense of duty.
“Any idea what this is about?” Zero asked as the elevator doors slid open.
“If I had to guess? Probably the attack on Havana last night.”
“There was an attack on Havana last night?”
Strickland chuckled lightly. “You really don’t watch the news, do you?” He led the way down an empty corridor. It seemed that just about all of Langley was enjoying the holiday at home with their families—except for them, of course.
“I’ve been a bit busy,” Zero admitted.
“Speaking of, how are the girls?” Strickland was no stranger to Maya or Sara; when the girls’ lives were threatened by a psychopathic assassin, the young agent had made a vow that he would keep an eye out for them, regardless of whether Zero was around or not. So far he had stuck to his word.
“They’re…” He was about to simply say “they’re good,” but he stopped himself. “They’re growing up. Hell, maybe grown up already.” Zero sighed. “I gotta be honest. If we get sent out somewhere today, I’m not sure what I’m going to do about Sara. I don’t think she’s well enough to be left on her own.”
Strickland paused as they reached the closed conference room door, beyond which the briefing would be held. But he lingered, and reached into his back pocket. “I was kind of thinking the same thing.” He handed Zero a business card.
He frowned. “What’s this?” The card was simple, ivory, embossed with a website and phone number and the name “Seaside House Recovery Center.”
“It’s a place in Virginia Beach,” Strickland explained, “where people like her can go to… recuperate. I spent a few weeks there myself, once upon a time. They’re good people. They can help.”
Zero nodded slowly, a little taken aback by how everyone seemed to see it but him. Maya had already told him that Sara needed professional help, and evidently it was plain to Todd as well. He knew precisely why he’d been blind to it; he wanted to be able to help her. He wanted to be the one who pulled her through it. But he had already known, deep down, that she needed more than he could offer her.
“I hope this wasn’t overstepping any boundaries,” Todd continued. “But, uh… I gave them a call to make sure they had space. There’s a spot for her, anytime she wants.”
“Thank you,” Zero murmured. He didn’t know what else to say; it certainly wasn’t overstepping any boundaries to do something that Zero probably wouldn’t have brought himself to do. He stuck the card in his pocket and gestured toward the door. “After you.”
He had attended scores of briefings in his time as a CIA agent, and no two were alike. Sometimes they were populated and chaotic, with representatives from cooperating agencies and video conferences with subject-matter experts. Other times they were small, quiet, and confidential. And even though he was certain that this one was going to be the latter, he was still quite surprised to enter the conference room and find only one person seated at the table, a single tablet in front of her.
Strickland seemed equally puzzled, because he asked, “Are we early or something?”
“No,” said Maria as she stood. “Right on time. Have a seat.”
Zero and Todd exchanged a glance and took seats on either side of Maria, who was at the far head of the long table.
“Well,” the younger agent muttered, “isn’t this cozy.”
“I’m sorry for taking you away from the holiday,” she began. “You know I wouldn’t if I had a choice.” She said it as if it was meant more for Zero; Maria knew precisely who and what was waiting for him at home. After all, she’d been invited as well. “I’ll get right into it,” she continued. “Last night, an incident occurred on the northern waterfront of Havana, and we have strong reason to believe that it was a calculated terror attack.”
She told them everything they knew; that more than one hundred people experienced a wide range of symptoms, and that the proximity of those impacted the worst suggested the use of an ultrasonic weapon positioned near the water’s edge. As she explained, her fingertips slid across the tablet’s touch-screen, navigating through photos of emergency services in Cuba aiding the victims. Some of them needed support just to stand; others had thin trails of blood running from their ears. A few were carried off on stretchers.
“There was only one casualty,” Maria concluded, “a young American woman on vacation. And the weapon was not found, hence our involvement.”
Zero had heard of this kind of ultrasonic weapon before, at least something like it, but aside from the tiny sonic grenades that Bixby had cooked up, he didn’t have any experience with them. But he had to acknowledge that despite the lack of any visual on a weapon or perpetrators, it did sound very much like a terrorist attack—which only made it more confusing.
“Kent?” Maria prodded. “Penny for your thoughts?”
He shook his head. “Honestly, I’m a little perplexed. Why go through the trouble of building or buying this kind of weapon when a single assault rifle and a few magazines would have done a lot more damage?”
“Maybe it wasn’t about the damage,” Strickland suggested. “Maybe it was a message. For all we know, the perps could have been Cuban. They targeted a touristy area; maybe they’re nationalists, and this was some sort of violent protest.”
“It’s possible,” Maria admitted. “But we need to work on facts—and the only facts we have right now are that American citizens were part of this, one of them is now dead, and this weapon is still out there… which is where you two come in.”
Zero and Strickland glanced at each other, and then Maria. For a minute there, he had started to think that this might have just been an intelligence briefing, keeping them abreast of what had happened in Cuba, but with those few words he now understood what it really meant.
There was no doubt about it; he was being sent back into the field.
“Hang on,” said Strickland. “You’re saying that someone, somewhere in the world, has a fairly portable and powerful sonic weapon, and you want us to what? Just go find it?”
“I understand it’s not much to go on…” Maria started.
“It’s not anything to go on.”
Zero was a little surprised by Strickland’s attitude; at heart he was still a soldier, and never spoke that way to a superior, not even Maria. But he understood, because while Strickland expressed indignation, Zero felt a wave of anger. This was why he was pulled away from Thanksgiving, from reuniting his family? He felt for the victims of the Havana attack, but his skills were typically put to use stopping nuclear wars and avoiding mass casualties, not to go off on a wild goose chase for a weapon that had claimed a single life.
“We do have something,” Maria told Strickland. “A handful of eyewitnesses at the harbor claim to have seen a group of men, four or five of them, wearing some sort of protective mask or helmet, and loading a ‘strange-looking object’ onto a boat immediately following the attack. The details are sketchy at best, but a few people also reported seeing a woman with bright red hair, possibly Caucasian, among them.”
“All right, that’s something,” Strickland agreed, appearing to shove down any further protests he might have voiced. “So we go to Havana, find out about the boat, who owns it, where it was going, where it is now, and follow the trail.”
Maria nodded. “That’s the long and short of it. Bixby is working up some tech that should help. And I don’t mean to be pushy, but President Rutledge did use the words ‘as soon as possible’ on this order, so—”
“Can we talk?” Zero blurted suddenly, before Maria could give the official go-ahead for them to act. “Privately?”
“No,” she said simply.
“No?” Zero blinked.
She sighed. “I’m sorry, Kent. But I know what you want to say, and I know that if you do I’ll likely give in and try to get you off the hook. But this came from the president. Not from me, not from Director Shaw—”