Threshold (16 page)

He sat back and looked at a clipboard. A long list of communications gear—satellite dishes, servers, routers, miles of cable, and enough computing power to handle a worldwide network—ran down the page and onto two more following it. The writing was in Russian, but after forming an alliance with factions of the Russian military, he had taken the time to learn the language. They were supplying him with the means to change the world, while he supplied them with technological advances. The least he could do was learn the language. It would soon be extinct.

Once he had the missing pieces of the ancient language and the equipment from the Russians was connected, he would access the world’s media—TV, Internet, radio, everything—and undo the damage done to mankind so many millennia ago. The world had been fractured. The original code had been rewritten.

It
could
be rewritten.

He would remake mankind.

In
his
image.

He turned to the collection of insects caged on the table behind him and leaned down to them. “But first, let’s see what can be done with you.”

TWENTY-ONE

Rome, Italy

AFTER A FIVE-HOUR
flight that ended on the USS
Enterprise
aircraft carrier deployed to the Mediterranean Sea, a two-hour boat trip, undercover, to Porto Cesareo, followed by a six-hour drive to Rome, King found himself exhausted. To wake himself up and help him fit in with the nighttime tourists, he helped himself to a large cioccolato fondente gelato that Rook had raved about since Queen made him try it during their second trip to Gibraltar. The dark chocolate snack not only tasted good, but was packed with caffeine and sugar that King could already feel opening his eyes.

Working his way through the crowds of locals and tourists mingling by the shops and cafés of the Piazza d’Aracoeli, he paused to watch a family snap photos in front of a Renaissance fountain. The mother and son stood in front of the father, who held a second son on his shoulders. They smiled as a college student used their camera to snap a photo. The flash lit the street and snapped King out of his thoughts. He turned away and quickened his pace.

The street rose up and merged with the Piazzo Venezia, which he crossed and then stopped, looking up. Before him was a staggered ramp of short and deep stairs that led up the Capitoline Hill. Two statues of caped men standing with horses known collectively as the Dioscuri—Castor and Pollux, the sons of Zeus—stood at the top of the hill. Behind them was a large, open plaza designed by Michelangelo with a bronze statue of Marcus Aurelius on horseback. The plaza was surrounded by large buildings built during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, but the one that interested King lay straight ahead—the Palazzo Senatorio, or Senatorial Palace, now used as city hall. He headed up the steps of the bell tower–topped building, past a fountain featuring several river guards, and approached the front door.

Despite being closed for business and to visitors, it was the building through which he would gain access to the Roman Forum’s ruins. The door inched open at his approach. After making sure no one was watching, he slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

The main hall inside the palace was dark, lit only by a single flashlight, but King could see the face of George Pierce smiling at him. They had connected by phone during King’s long drive to Rome and he had explained everything as best he could and, hopefully, got Pierce’s mind working on solving the problem of locating a second Herculean Society getaway.

Having seen each other at Lynn’s funeral, which Pierce now knew was bunk, and after speaking for an hour on the phone, the two had no pleasantries to exchange. Pierce motioned down the hall with his head and said, “Follow me.”

They wound their way through the hallways, heading for the back door that led directly into the ruins of the Roman Forum.

“So how did you manage to get an all-access, after-hours pass to the ruins?” King asked as they descended a staircase.

“Actually, it wasn’t me. Mayor Alemanno owed Augustina a favor.” Augustina Gallo, a friend and colleague of Pierce, had been central to uncovering the location of the Herculean Society hideout beneath Gibraltar. In doing so she had saved the team’s lives and provided the means to restore Pierce back to his fully human self after Manifold Genetics had modified his genetic code using the legendary Hydra’s DNA. “So the doors were left unlocked while the guards looked the other way. In fifteen minutes we wouldn’t be able to get in.”

“How are we going to get out?”

Pierce paused at the exit and looked back at King. “I have no idea, but if we get arrested your bosses can pull a few strings, yes?”

“A few,” King said.

The door swung open revealing the darkness of night beyond. The warm air outside carried the smells of the city, but the streetlights ringing the acres of land did little to light the ruins. With the moon covered by clouds, Pierce’s flashlight shone like a beacon. It would make them easy to spot, but Pierce didn’t seem to notice as he took out a second flashlight, clicked it on, and handed it to King. He didn’t like being exposed, but had little choice. Time, as usual, was not on his side, and a daylight search in the midst of tourist throngs would draw unwanted attention.

As he stepped out into the ruins and moved his flashlight side to side he realized what an impossible task this could be. The ancient site included several temples, basilicas, and atriums, some built on top of one another, forming layers of history. On the far side of the space was the Coliseum, which was brightly lit in the distance. That seemed as fitting a place as any for Hercules and his wraiths to hide out, but impossible to search in solitude. King sighed, not knowing where to begin.

Pierce clapped him on the shoulder. “Have no fear, George is here. This way. I have an idea.”

King followed Pierce into the ruins, descending a path of large flat stones spaced out just enough for tufts of grass to grow—the remains of an ancient roadway. The path was fenced in on both sides by short black metal fences that seemed more like a reminder to stay off the ruins than an actual deterrent. During the day the site might inspire awe, at night King felt the ruins looked more like some eerie underworld that housed creatures of the night. The truth, he knew, might not be far from that. But despite what he thought might be waiting for them under the earth, it was their exposure to onlookers that had him on edge. He couldn’t help but feel they were being watched. There was no evidence of it. Just his instincts.

Instincts he had come to rely on.

He drew his Sig Sauer pistol and held it in line with his flashlight. It wasn’t always effective against regenerating capybara, Hydras, Neanderthals, or giant rock monsters, but it almost always gave him a head start, and that could save his life, and Pierce’s.

TWENTY-TWO

Washington, D.C.

PRESIDENT DUNCAN SAT
in the backseat of The Beast, a black stretched Cadillac with five-inch-thick military armor, run-flat tires, and bulletproof glass. The car could protect him from almost any enemy, except one: the press.

The assassination attempt on his life a year earlier, which almost led to a global pandemic, coupled with the fourth major attack on U.S. soil in the nation’s history, had the press swirling like vultures. This wasn’t a terrorist attack on civilians like the World Trade Center or Siletz Reservation, which rallied the nation together. It was an assault on the country’s most elite military facility. An act of war. Worse, it was a successful attack.

Thanks to the earlier successes of his presidential career, stamping out terrorist organizations around the world, the press saw this as retribution. To the world it looked like he’d picked fights with the world’s terrorist organizations and grossly underestimated their resources. Speaking volumes to this were the number of American dead and injured, not to mention the complete lack of enemy casualties.

Duncan and many of the soldiers at Bragg knew that was because the enemy had simply fallen to pieces, but he couldn’t very well say that on television. The American public would think him insane and incompetent.

Instead, he would do something he loathed. Something he had done only once before as president.

He would lie.

When the attack on the Siletz Reservation had gone public it was declared a terrorist attack. But with no one claiming responsibility and their investigations turning up no leads, the country’s anger had been swallowed and contained, but not forgotten. The country’s rage simply lay in wait for a target.

Once again, without an enemy to point his finger at, without a clear target of the nation’s wrath, not to mention the military’s, the American people would have no outlet for their anger. Unfortunately, there was always someone who would attempt to turn that anger toward his office. Presidents were blamed for scores of the world’s problems, especially when someone was gunning for the job. With an election year coming up, the political wolves smelled blood. Lance Marrs, a senator from Utah and the man who ran against Duncan in the last election (and lost), had come out with guns blazing. The man hit every media outlet that would have him, blasting Duncan for not only failing to prevent the attacks, but inviting them. It was the same old shtick from Marrs, but people were buying into it this time.

A small flat-screen TV that swung down from the car’s ceiling played his latest news conference. The man was doing his best to look presidential. Hair slicked back. Trophy wife waiting off to the side with a candy smile. Flag pin prominently on his chest. “Tom Duncan has failed the American people, not once, not twice, but three times now. When the good people of this nation elected him president, I accepted the decision. The people had spoken, and as one of the people, I accepted my defeat.”

“Horseshit,” Duncan murmured. The man had accused Duncan of fixing the election, called for recounts, and had even talked of a lawsuit. But with Duncan claiming nearly sixty percent of the vote, no one believed the results could have changed enough for Marrs to win.

“When Duncan put his hand on that Bible and was sworn in, he became the landlord for our nation. When something breaks, he’s supposed to fix it. And if our house is broken into, not once, but twice, installing a little security seems like an obvious step to take!” The statement was followed by cheers. “But he clearly neglected his duties to the people of this country. I used to think highly of President Duncan. I thought he was a good man. A man of character. But now I realize he is nothing more than a slum landlord!”

More cheers. Duncan was sure the crowd was stacked with former “Marrs for President” supporters, but it was still disturbing to see. In a time of crisis, when people are afraid, they tend to listen to the loudest voice. And right now that was Marrs.

And the results showed in the latest polls. A growing percentage of the population now thought Duncan was at least partially to blame for the attacks. Duncan turned off the TV and reminded himself that he’d suffered through worse, both in combat as an Army Ranger and on the campaign trail. Putting Marrs out of his mind, he took one last look at the speech in his hands and exited the vehicle.

The path from the car to the podium was clear of people save for his Secret Service escorts. Four of them waited, faces grim, hands ready to draw weapons if need be. They received or uncovered more than two hundred threats on his life in the last twenty-four hours and no one was taking chances. He scanned the roofs of the Fort Bragg barracks surrounding the quad and counted ten snipers. His eyes fell to the base of the buildings where a hurried reconstruction effort was under way. There would be no delay like at the World Trade Center. The military was in charge of the cleanup and repair and expected the base to not just be fully functional within the month, but also much more heavily fortified.

Duncan’s practiced confident stride didn’t falter when he saw the press, who had been allowed back on base for this press conference, turn and face him. Photographers snapped photos and Duncan met them with his handsome face held high. His eyes were set and serious. His shaved head and rigid posture letting the watching world know that this former man of action would take action. But while his body language spoke of a man ready to wage a war, his mind fought with the fact that the words he would offer were ultimately hollow.

General Keasling and Dominick Boucher, head of the CIA, waited for him at the podium that had been erected at the center of the quad. Construction vehicles were hard at work in the background, a strategic view to let the people know that recovery was already under way. The two men were his closest advisors on the subject of war. He nodded to them as he passed and ascended the podium steps.