HL 04-The Final Hour (17 page)

“What do you mean, everything is in place?” Sherman asked.

“It will be.”

“What about the C.O. device?”

“It’s being acquired from the Russians. The arrangements are progressing.”

“When? When will we have it?”

“Soon.”

“How much?”

“Six canisters.”

“Six . . .”

“It’s more than enough. Six canisters can be carried by a single man. So nothing will stop it, even if it comes down to me alone.”

I heard Waylon let out what sounded like a curse in a foreign language.

But I was out of time. I had to get back to my barracks. Back into my bed before the guard reached me, before Prince knew I had slipped out to spy on him.

I turned to move away from the building. But before I could, a hand grabbed me by the shoulder.

My head came around fast. It was the guard. He must’ve spotted me, hurried quietly over the final distance. All at once, he was standing over me, clutching me hard.

He was a large man with dark olive skin. His sunken eyes burned brightly with excitement and rage under his black beret. I saw his teeth flash as his mouth opened to shout for help.

But before he could, my hand shot out and clutched his throat, cutting off the shout before it could escape him. He moved to tear my hand away, but I was too quick for him. I grabbed him by the shoulder, kicked my leg up in back of him and then swiftly swept it in toward myself, knocking his leg out from under him as it came. At the same time, I put my weight behind the hand on his throat, pushing him so that when he lost the prop of his leg he went flying backward. He dropped down to the ground hard and I went down on top of him, still choking off his cry.

My karate training had taught me where to apply the pressure to cut off the blood supply to his brain. He struggled for only a moment, then he was unconscious. He had never made a sound.

He wouldn’t be out long, though. In a few seconds, a minute at most, he would be awake again. I had to get out of here. But where? Should I run for it? Try to get out of the compound? Or should I go back to my barracks? The guard would find me, accuse me. I would have to call him a liar. I’d already heard that Prince didn’t trust me. Could I convince him to believe me instead of his own guard?

As I hesitated, trying to think what to do, I heard the voices inside again.

“Did you hear something?” That was Waylon.

Then Sherman: “No. Not a thing.”

“What was it?” said Prince.

“I thought . . . ,” Waylon began.

Quickly, I dragged the unconscious guard toward the building. I managed to get into the darkness under the wall, out of sight, just as Waylon’s figure appeared above me at the window. The light from the building threw his shadow onto the ground in front of me. I looked up and saw him, peering out, searching for any disturbance.

I heard Prince speak from inside the room, “Do you see anything?”

A long pause as Waylon surveyed the compound. “No,” he said, drawing out the word uncertainly. “No, it was probably nothing.”

But he didn’t move. He stayed where he was at the window, looking out. So there I was, pinned against the wall of the barracks. If I tried to break away and get back to my own barracks now, Waylon would spot me at once.

I crouched down, holding the guard by his shirtfront, hoping he wouldn’t revive too quickly.

“As I was saying,” Prince went on. “The point is this. You can see here. The route is set. We have agents at the entrances and exits to ensure everything goes smoothly. This is the great and final mission of the Homelanders.”

“But then, why jeopardize it with all these smaller attacks?” I heard Sherman ask. “I mean, this assassination— won’t it make them tighten security?”

“Let them,” said Prince. I could almost hear him shrug. “The more they try to defend themselves, the more terrified they’ll be when they find we can move anywhere, strike anywhere we choose.”

The unconscious guard stirred under my hand. He let out a low groan. I glanced down at him, but his eyes were still closed, his mouth still hanging open.

I looked up. Waylon was still there above me, watchful, at the window.

Now Prince spoke again. I could hear the smile in his voice. I could picture it: that self-satisfied smile. I could hear the self-satisfied arrogance in his voice too. “America is a soft country, ripe for destruction. They are rich and isolated and they think the world is all like them, concerned with nothing but supermarkets and electronics and television shows. They think there is nothing that can’t be talked out, that can’t be solved peacefully or by passing a few dollars back and forth.”

“Freedom makes people decadent,” said Waylon scornfully. He still hadn’t moved from his place at the window.

“Exactly,” Prince went on. “When you attack Americans, they don’t make themselves stronger, they make themselves weaker. They say to themselves, ‘Oh, if only we are nicer to our enemies, they will see how wonderful we are and come to love us. They will stop being angry at us. They will be nice, too, and watch TV with us and go to the mall and leave us alone.’ They don’t understand that this is warfare in the name of God, warfare to the death. Two ways of life, two ways of looking at the world that can’t be reconciled. One must live and the other must perish.”

Now the unconscious guard shifted on the ground. His eyes remained closed, but he lifted his hand and rubbed at his face as if to bring himself around. I had to do something. Now. Fast. But what?

Prince said, “They are weary of war, but war is what we live for. They are afraid of death, but death is what we love.” I heard a chair move as if someone had stood up. “When we hit them again, so hard, right there, right where we hit them so hard before . . . I promise you, what is left of their will to fight will collapse utterly.”

What did he mean,
right there
? Right where? I had to find out.

Just then, Waylon turned away from the window. He moved back into the room, out of sight.

It was my chance, my only chance to find out more. Without even thinking, I let go of the guard. I grabbed hold of the windowsill. I pulled myself up until I could peer over the edge and into the room.

I caught a glimpse—a single glimpse of the scene inside. The three men in the cramped office. Prince sitting at the desk with the laptop on it. Sherman across from him. Waylon standing over him, with his hands clasped behind his back.

Just a glimpse. I hardly had a chance to take in what I was seeing. Then . . .

“Help me! Help!”

The guard had regained consciousness! He was sitting up. He was shouting.

“Help me! Help!”

I let go of the windowsill. I dropped down to the earth. I leapt on top of the screaming guard, punched him once, hard, fast, to daze him again. I stripped his automatic weapon off his shoulder.

And I took off, gun in hand, sprinting away from the building.

I didn’t get far.

Two things happened at once. I heard Waylon shout behind me: “West!”

Then I was blinded with bright light. The guards in the towers had turned their spotlights on me. The next moment, the ground around me was riddled with gunfire, the bullets breaking up the hard-packed dirt of the compound, sending up a cloud of dust. They weren’t trying to hit me. If they had, I would’ve been dead then and there. But the gunfire pinned me to the spot, so that I couldn’t run forward. And when I turned to run back, I saw three guards charging at me, their guns lowered.

They were shouting:

“Drop the gun!”

“Put the gun down or you’re dead!”

“Put it down! Put your hands up!”

Their voices overlapped in a threatening jumble.

I turned this way and that, looking for a way to escape. I saw Waylon—he was in the doorway of the barracks now. His figure was turned to a black shape by the light shining in back of him.

Guards were charging at me from every side. Guards—and my fellow trainees as well. Alerted by the shouts and the gunfire, they came rushing out of their barracks, too, surrounding me.

For a moment, the guards stopped shouting, and there was a strange silence as if everyone was waiting to find out what would happen next. Pinned in the spotlight beams from the tower, I looked from one guard to another, clutching my gun.

“I would put the weapon down if I were you, Mr. West.” This was Prince. He was in the doorway now too. He had pushed past Waylon and stood in front of him. His voice was soft and calm. “You have only a second to decide, you know. Then I’ll give the order to kill you. I’ll count to one,” he said. “One.”

I had no choice. I threw the AK to the earth. I put my hands up. I was caught.

One of the guards rushed forward to confiscate the weapon.

Prince came walking toward me, casually, in no hurry. Waylon came behind him and Sherman came out of the barracks now as well and joined them. Another moment, and Prince stood directly in front of me with Waylon on one side of him and Sherman on the other. I had a moment to feel how strange it was to see Sherman there, my high school history teacher, out in the middle of this murderous place. It was as if my two lives—my normal everyday past and this insane nightmare of a present— had come crashing together. Sherman was the link between them.

Prince smiled at me, his bright, ferocious, and intelligent eyes gleaming with the glow of the spotlights. Every slick black hair was in place, his goatee neatly trimmed. He was wearing a dark suit and a white shirt open at the neck, as if he’d just come home from working at the bank and was relaxing after a long day.

“I caught him outside your window.” This was the guard I had knocked out. He emerged from the shadows of the barracks, rubbing his throat.

Prince glanced at him, then back at me. “Outside my window,” he repeated softly.

“He was listening,” said the guard.

“I was just . . . ,” I started, but I fell silent when Prince lifted his hand.

“Don’t insult my intelligence, please, Mr. West.” He studied me a moment. “I don’t suppose you care to tell me who you’re working for.”

“I’m working for you,” I insisted. “I came here to work for you. I was just coming to talk to Waylon about . . .”

But again, he lifted his hand and I stopped talking. What was the use? I didn’t sound convincing even to myself.

Prince examined me for a long quiet moment. Then he glanced at Waylon—casually, as if he were about to tell him to send out for a pizza so we could all share a late-night snack.

Instead he said, “Torture him until he tells you everything. Then kill him.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Final Piece

When I woke up, the rain had stopped. It was almost dusk.

Blinking, confused, I sat up on the Jeep’s passenger seat. I looked out through the windshield.

A long highway ran before us through grassy hills to a darkening sky. There were a few cars and trucks ahead of us and behind us, but not many. Traffic was light and we were moving quickly. There were still lots of clouds in the sky, but they were drifting apart now. Patches of blue and rays of slanting sunlight were appearing between them. There was nothing left of the great storm.

For a dazed moment, I couldn’t remember where I was or how I had gotten here. Then the violence of the storm—the rain, the lightning, the thunder—and the danger of the day—the mad escape, the guards, the prisoners, the cops—slowly came back to me, broken pieces that fit themselves together inside my head like some kind of automated jigsaw.

I turned and saw Mike behind the wheel. I remembered how he had come to find me in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the rain.

Mike glanced over at me, his faint ironic smile hidden by the big black mustache. “Rise and shine, chucklehead,” he said.

My mouth was dry. I swallowed hard. “Mike . . . I remember . . .”

He turned serious right away. “Remember what?”

“Everything,” I said slowly. “Or most of it . . .” It was still like a dream, still putting itself together out of half-remembered fragments. “I was in the Homelander compound. I snuck out of my room in the middle of the night. I was eavesdropping outside a barracks, trying to hear Prince’s plans. That’s when they caught me, strapped me to that chair. They had a couple of their goons torture me for information, to find out who I was working for . . .” I looked over at Mike as the whole memory came to me. He looked out the windshield at the road, his face expressionless, his thoughts impossible to read. “I knew I couldn’t stand the pain forever. I was going to tell them—about Waterman and the others, our plan to stop them. So I cracked the implant Waterman had had put inside my mouth. It released a drug that erased my memory, everything about the year before. Maybe I shouldn’t have done it, but the pain was terrible and I just didn’t think . . .”