The Inner Circle (51 page)

Augustus held up his black-gloved hands, the palms open to the ceiling.
 

“Please, can either of you answer me? I have been trying to understand this for over thirty years, trying to piece together the exact point where the world went wrong. All I could do was look back through history, because they say history repeats itself, and they say that the only way you can learn is by fixing the mistakes of the past. It didn’t take long, really, learning that the Roman Empire was the greatest empire that ever ruled this earth. Certainly, they stole much from the Greeks, but they stole it and made it better. They, too, were viewed as barbarians, but maybe that was what made them so great. You both believe murder is wrong, I’m sure, but murder is what captivates the world. And a real life murder? People would love to witness that, no matter how much they might claim otherwise. And so I thought about the state of the world, about how it was all falling apart, and I asked myself, What do we have to lose?”
 

There was silence then, deep and heavy silence, where Augustus’s gaze searched our faces, where Congresswoman Houser beamed proudly at her brother.
 

Then Carver said to me, “Wow.”
 

I nodded. “Wow indeed.”
 

“He makes a very convincing argument.”
 

“That he does.”
 

“The only problem is,” Carver said, “his breath doesn’t smell too good.”
 

“No, it doesn’t.”
 

“What do you think it could be?”
 

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe it’s all the bullshit spewing out of his mouth.”
 

To Augustus’s credit, his face remained impassive. He simply shook his head and said, “I’m sorry you both feel this way. But at least I tried.” He turned to his sister. “Let’s go.”
 

They rose to their feet, started to put back on their masks.
 

I said, “Wait.”
 

They paused, watching me.
 

“What about the Pax Romana?”
 

“What about it?”
 

“Aren’t you going to tell us what it is?”
 

Augustus smiled. “You will hear all about it before you die.”
 

“Don’t we at least get a hint?”
 

“All right, then. Your hint, however, is a question. What is the greatest thing the Roman Empire gave to the world?”
 

Augustus didn’t wait for a reply. He put back on his mask, as did the congresswoman. They headed toward the door, which the black mask opened for them. Congresswoman Houser stepped through, but Augustus paused in the doorway and turned back.
 

“Soon, gentlemen,” he said. “Soon the game of your life will come to an end. Enjoy what few moments you have left.”

70

Carver and I didn’t talk much after that. There really wasn’t much more to say. I tried making some more small talk, but Carver wasn’t having any of it. I even asked the black mask by the door to give us a few seconds to talk in private, but of course there was no response. And so we sat in silence for a long time—minutes, what may have been an hour—before a radio squawked from beneath the black mask’s robe. The black mask brought it out, spoke softly, listened to another squawk, then moved to the door and opened it.
 

Ten seconds later several black masks swarmed into the room. Half of them went to Carver, the other half came to me. A few others stood off to the side, Uzis in their hands, a friendly reminder of what could happen if either of us got unruly.
 

I considered it, I really did. When the black masks came and began cutting the zip ties holding me in place, I considered making a move. What move that would be, however, was the biggest question. Whoever these men and women were behind the black masks, they were pros. They were well trained. They were killers. They wouldn’t think twice putting a bullet in my head. Carver, on the other hand, was different. He still had a purpose. The members of the Inner Circle were waiting to watch him die.
 

But what could I possibly do now with over a dozen black masks surrounding us? Even if I managed to do something and incapacitate one or two of them—or hell, if we’re daydreaming,
all
of them—Carver was too weak to move on his own. He’d already told me as much, and I knew he wasn’t lying. He might manage to climb out of the wheelchair, but he would take only a few steps before falling back down.
 

So I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even give up the slightest struggle. Everything in my body told me I was a coward for letting it happen, but there wasn’t much more I could do besides tire myself out. I still had hope the Kid and everyone else might have a chance to save us. And if not them, then maybe Bae and his crew. And if not them, well, I had led an interesting life. I could at least go out knowing that.
 

They wheeled Carver out of the room first. Two of them grabbed me by both arms and pulled me to my feet and marched me out after him. Another black mask stayed directly behind me, covering me with a weapon. I knew that for certain, because the steel barrel kept digging into my back.
 

We went down a hallway and turned a corner to a set of stairs. Four of the black masks picked up Carver’s wheelchair and carried him down the stairs. The black masks gripping my arms pushed me forward.
 

I said, “What, I don’t get carried too?”
 

None of them answered, unless you wanted to count the gun barrel pressed even harder into my back.
 

Down the stairs then to another hallway, which was darker. I thought about the pictures I’d seen of the Fillmore, about the floor plans the Kid had managed to secure, and knew we were behind stage. This was confirmed a few seconds later after a black mask stepped forward with a roll of duct tape, cut off two ends, placed one strip over Carver’s mouth, another over mine, and then we were rushed through a door into near-darkness.
 

Several more black masks were waiting behind the curtain. One of them stepped away from the others and approached us. A gloved hand tilted the mask up onto the top of the head, and Clark smiled at me.
 

“That secret I mentioned earlier? It’s coming soon.”
 

He stepped back as the black masks took me to a folding chair. Just like they did back in the previous room, they pushed me down into the chair and began securing my wrists and ankles with zip ties. It took three of them to do my legs, one to hold each foot (I guess they worried I would kick out, though I couldn’t imagine where they would ever get that idea), the third to tighten the zip tie around the chair legs and my ankles.
 

One of them had a radio and set it aside on the floor to do this. I didn’t give it much thought until the radio made a strange noise. The volume was turned low, so it could just barely be heard, but it was quiet enough back here that it was momentarily the loudest thing. The noise wasn’t a squawk so much as a ballooning sort of noise, first low and then high and then low again. I don’t think the black mask noticed it at all—like I said, I barely did myself—but Clark was standing nearby, and he noticed it.
 

“What was that?” he whispered.
 

The three black masks paused long enough to glance up at him.
 

Clark crouched down in front of me. The black masks had already tightened the zip ties around my ankles, so he clearly wasn’t worried about being kicked in the head. The three black masks moved away, the one even reaching for the radio.
 

“Leave it,” Clark said.
 

The black mask left the radio where it was.
 

Clark gave me a look before picking up the radio. He moved it around my left foot first, slowly, but got no strange response. Then he moved it around my right foot, slowly, and yep, that strange response happened again, that low and then high and then low noise.
 

Another black mask stepped up next to us and whispered, “What’s wrong?”
 

Clark didn’t answer. He moved the radio around my right foot again, even slower this time. When the noise came again, he grabbed my shoe and pulled it up far enough so he could move the radio underneath.
 

The low and high and low noise came again, this time even louder.
 

“What’s wrong?” the black mask asked again.
 

Clark shot me a glare. I just stared back at him. Even if the duct tape wasn’t over my mouth, I wasn’t sure what I would say. Probably
Oh shit
. Most definitely
Oh shit
.
 

Clark tugged the shoe off my foot, then held the radio up to the heel. Again, that strange warbling noise, much stronger now.
 

He handed the radio to the black mask and then began to twist the heel back and forth. It didn’t take long before the damned thing popped off. It didn’t take much longer before Clark pulled the transmitter out of the hollow space it had been hiding in. It took even less time for Clark to drop it on the floor and smash it with the heel of his own shoe.
 

“Notify Caesar,” he said to the black mask. “Tell him they’ve been bugged the entire time. Tell him I recommend putting off the Pax Romana presentation to the very end. Tell him I recommend killing these motherfuckers first.”

71

“Shit,” the Kid said. “Shit, shit, shit,
shit!
”
 

The second communication feed from Ben had just gone dead. They’d found it—how, the Kid wasn’t exactly sure—and they had destroyed it—the Kid had a pretty good idea how they did that—and now he didn’t know what was going on inside. The Fillmore had a limited security feed, but the entire thing had been shut down for tonight, so he had no eyes inside either.
 

Ronny said, “What’s wrong?”
 

Only the Kid had been listening in on Ben’s second feed. Only he had heard about Ian being a backstabbing motherfucker—he had already called Graham and told him to split ASAP—and only he had heard Congresswoman “Frank” Houser and Caesar. And now only he had heard that Ben and Carver were headed toward their execution.
 

“They found the second transmitter,” the Kid said.
 

“Who found it?” Maya asked.
 

“One of Caesar’s people. They destroyed it. I have no idea what’s happening inside right now. Drew, you notice anything happening from your position?”
 

“Negative.”
 

“What about you, Mason?”
 

“No.”
 

Ronny said, “Any word on the Koreans?”
 

“We don’t even know if they’ve made it in,” the Kid said. “And if they have, it doesn’t matter. We can’t wait any longer. It’s time to crash the party.”

72

Augustus apparently approved of every one of Clark’s recommendations, and the black masks went into overdrive making sure everything fell into place.
 

Clear plastic tarps—seriously, they must have bought them in bulk from some clear plastic tarp megastore—were laid out on the stage. Carver was wheeled toward the center, right behind the curtain. Several black masks picked up my chair and moved me next to him. They did this all as quickly and as quietly as possible. Then, just as quickly and as quietly, the black masks disappeared.
 

A minute passed. We could hear the members of the Inner Circle on the other side of the curtain. Like before, there were no murmurs or whispers circulating around the auditorium, but the soft shushing of their robes as black masks escorted them to their seats.
 

Augustus appeared off stage. The faint light was just enough to glimmer off the gold mask. He spoke briefly with Clark. He waited several seconds before the spotlight came on. Then he stepped out onto stage. The auditorium erupted into to an uproarious applause.
 

Through the curtain we watched him walking in his slow, measured pace toward center stage. He held up his arms, signaling for silence. That silence soon came, and then he spoke.
 

“Friends, Romans, countrymen, again lend me your ears!”
 

Again, the audience ate it up, and the applause swelled like a tumor just waiting to burst.

•
   
•
   
•

D
REW
STARED
THROUGH
the scope of his rifle at the front of the Fillmore. A few people walked back and forth—clearly civilians—but that was it. Beverly squatted beside him. She had the night vision binoculars propped up on the ledge. Neither of them had spoken much since they came up here and assembled his rifle and tripod mount and got everything ready. He had made himself so small that none of Caesar’s people—and he had to assume Caesar’s people were out here somewhere, watching for someone like him—could see him. Beverly was to be his spotter, but she was also supposed to help keep his ammunition full. It was a lot to ask of her—she didn’t care for weapons of any kind and she had next to no field experience—but she hadn’t complained once. She hadn’t said much, either. Again, neither of them had. They just waited up here on the top of the building, a block away from the Fillmore, twenty-eight stories up from the street. Just waiting for something to happen. Soon it would, because the Kid had told them about losing communication, and Ronny had confirmed they were on their way. And now, in Drew’s earpiece (just as in Beverly’s earpiece), Ronny’s voice came through: “Three blocks away.”