DAYBREAK: a gripping thriller full of suspense (Titan Trilogy Book 3) (22 page)

Brendan saw Hermes’ gun come up, he felt Persephone’s grip cinch around his wrist, he could even sense the heat of the third agent, coming up behind him. It was like something from a dream, the underwater kind, everything slowed down. Only, he felt he had complete control over his body. It was as if they were the ones lagging. He could see it all: the third agent would try to get him in a hold around the neck. Persephone would hold fast to his arm so he couldn’t punch or claw at the headlock. And Hermes would step forward and, keeping his gun low, dig it into Brendan’s stomach. If he resisted, the third agent would choke him until he passed out. And if the brief struggle caused a scene (even in New York, where people were conditioned to mind their business, someone might get involved) it wouldn’t matter to the agents.

The agents could do anything they wanted to do.

As the heat closed in on him, he dropped low to the ground. Persephone had a vice-like hold on his arm, so he used this to his advantage, and took her wrist in his own hand, and bent her over as he dropped. Agent three ended up connecting with her above Brendan’s head, a tangle that caused Persephone to cry out and release her grip.

Having evaded the headlock and free from Persephone, Brendan sprang forward, driving into Hermes like a linebacker, knocking him back against the tile wall. Brendan shoved with everything he had, and Hermes’ skull hit the wall with a crunch.

Brendan leapt away as the third agent and Persephone were recovering. A few unsteady footfalls and he broke into a run, then a sprint, cutting through the throng of people — who all scattered, rearranging into a lane for him. He ran fast enough that the people around him just blurred together.

Shots rang out. His head reverberated with the noise; he hadn’t been sure if they were going to fire or not; part of him had thought that they still would have limits.

They can do anything they want
.

The idea became a mantra, a code for him to live by as he ran.
They can do anything.

Another shot, and he felt a tug of air as the bullet tore past his face. People were screaming now, getting as far away from him as possible. They were high-pitched screams, the truly horrified kind, devoid of indignation or surprise, but sirens of terror.

He started down some stairs, taking two at a time. Another announcement boomed — last call for the Adirondacker.

Just like an addict
, some untethered part of him observed, as if this was all just some sort of game, and happening to someone else.
Just like an addict, always last-minute, always late.

Tick-tock.

At the bottom of the stairs, two cops, navy blue uniforms, worried but with determined looks on their sweaty faces. Brendan felt like his mind was running on high octane-fuel. He could see everything, hear everything, feel everything.

“Don’t!” He called out to them halfway down the stairs.

The Irish cop on the left seemed to get it. He stopped.
Fuck this
his expression said, and then his eyelids flew back. The younger cop took out his gun and aimed it, but then his mouth fell open.

Two more shots, bap bap, and this time Brendan felt a searing burn as the bullet grazed his arm. The people on the stairs were crushing themselves against the sides of the stairwell, trying to get as far away as possible, but people still reaching the bottom aiming to come up, just a few, one kid plugged into his iPad, he wasn’t aware of the commotion, and he dropped when the stray bullet found a mark.

Both cops hit the deck. Brendan reached the bottom and leapt over the younger cop who was reaching for the kid.

I’m sorry I’m so sorry I’m sorry I’m

He hooked right to get out from the line of fire and tossed a look behind him as two more bullets bit into the floor at the bottom of the stairs, chips of concrete flying. Everyone was on the ground, but at least no one else seemed to have been shot. The last thing Brendan saw before he made the next turn towards the loading deck for the train was the kid with iPad rolling himself over.

Alive. Thank God.

And then he was rushing down the concourse towards the train, into the stuffy, ammonia stink of it, the hissing as the brakes were released, towards the one conductor standing in the doorway, who was waving Brendan along, oblivious to the wreckage in his wake.

Oh, I’m coming
.

I’m coming.

* * *

On the train, wet with sweat, he worked to control his breathing, to calm down — drawing stares. Waiting. Waiting for the station to contact the driver and for the conductor to come into the car with a worried look on his face as he approached cautiously thinking
I don’t get paid enough for this shit
and tell Brendan he had to get off at the next stop. Or maybe no conductor at all, just no one coming anywhere near him, instructed to stay put, to steer clear of him, to not raise any alarm, stop the train at the next station and that’s where they’d get him.

But it was an express train. The next stop was Albany, two hours away. If in two hours, no conductor came, he would know.

Of course, there was a third option, too, that his plan would actually work. He just needed to remain calm, and have faith that he would be able to pull it off. He needed to get moving.

Now that he had his breathing regulated and the sweat from his brow was evaporating under the cool air-conditioning vents of the train, he felt a little more stable. He stood up in his seat near the front. The train car wasn’t full. A man with gray hair in a suit engrossed in a newspaper. Two older women sitting side by side, chatting quietly; one gave him a glance and then looked away. A kid with a large set of colorful headphones dolefully looking out the window at the city rolling by. Brendan glanced outside too; they were near 125
th
street.

He started towards the back of the car with his bag in his hand. He reached the back where the lavatory was and found it unoccupied. He slipped inside. In the cramped space, he set the bag on the toilet and unzipped it. He pulled out the electric shaver. He felt a quick trill of panic as he considered that the shaver wasn’t charged. But once he got it out of the frustratingly tight plastic packaging, tearing it open with his teeth, he thumbed the button and it buzzed to life. He took it to his head and began making sweeping motions along his skull, hair falling away in clumps. He worked fast but meticulously, careful to make it look like a professional job.

He heard a clicking sound. He froze, feeling like an animal in the woods might, detecting the snap of a twig beneath a hunter’s foot, his heart pounding.

Easy. Easy.

It was the conductor, punching the passenger’s tickets as he made his way down the train car.

Brendan resumed the task at hand. His dirtied suit now covered in hair, and spotted with blood along one sleeve, he shuffled out of the clothes in the tight space. He examined the bullet wound, which had torn a shallow rut through his flesh. Incredibly lucky. There was just a minor welting of blood there. He washed it off, patted it dry, and then added a fresh paper towel as a compress. He pulled on the blue jeans and hooded sweatshirt he had bought in Midtown. They were a tighter fit than he’d expected. He realized he’d bought himself clothes the size he’d been wearing since he was eighteen. The sweatshirt fabric pulled taut against his bulkier body, the jeans skinnier than he was used to — he didn’t even need the belt, but he looped it through anyway. He then stuffed the hair-strewn clothes into the bag and wiped up the rest with his hands. He wadded it all up and jammed it in the trash.

He unzipped the front pocket of the duffel bag and put on the tinted glasses he’d bought, and his new wallet. He reviewed the contents for a third time since he’d procured them. He riffled through the new driver’s license and the fake credit cards. He’d even instructed Tony Laruso to have Bosco add in a couple of other personal effects, a gym membership card, a Subway card with a few holes punched in, a couple of phony receipts for purchases made over the past few days, dated before he’d actually gotten out of Rikers, and a picture of some people he’d never seen before — a woman and a little girl smiling, by a swing set. Too cheesy, he thought — if he’d been able to handpick the items himself, he would have opted for something a little less Hallmark. Plus, the woman was too old. So he built it into the story he had for his new identity. This was his mother, and the child was his niece, and his sister — not pictured — was sick — cancer.

The conductor was very close — he could hear murmured talk that sounded serious. He stood frozen for a minute, looking down at the last item in the bag. It seemed crazy now, a lunatic idea, to wear bicycling gloves with a prosthetic finger attached. The get-up was meant to be seen at a distance, not this up-close and personal. He stared at them, debating whether or not to pull them on, or if he should step out of the bathroom now. People in the car had seen him as he made his way to the bathroom. If he came out looking completely different, it might draw attention, make them wonder, make him memorable. If he waited until the conductor passed, he could follow him into the next car and take a seat there.

He heard a burst of static, and then a voice too distorted to understand. It was the conductor’s radio. The conductor spoke back into it. Just one word. “Alright.” He was just on the other side of the door.

Brendan held his breath.
Easy
.

He waited and listened for the heavy doors to rattle open and close as the conductor went between train cars.

Knock knock
. No such luck. Brendan zipped up the bag, forgoing the gloves.

“Hello?”

Brendan had locked the door. The little sign by the knob on the outside should have read
occupied
. Did conductors really do this? Interrupt someone in the bathroom in order to make sure they had a ticket? Probably. Probably, when Penn Station was the scene of frantic chases and gunfire.

“Yeah,” Brendan said. “Someone’s in here.” He was careful to paint his voice with that mild annoyance people expressed when their privacy was invaded.

“Sir, I need you to come out of there, please.”

There was no mistaking the seriousness of the conductor’s tone. This wasn’t just punching tickets or checking for stowaways. This was because he’d been told that there was someone aboard the train who was wanted by the police and would be removed at the next stop. It would no longer be an express — Brendan could bet that once they got to 125
th
street, the train would squeal to a halt.

“Okay,” Brendan said, and immediately felt a nerve firing in his neck, a twitch signaling alarm. He’d left the ticket in the pocket of the suit pants now covered in hair and balled up inside the duffel bag. Hadn’t he? He reached into the front pocket of the hooded sweatshirt. The ticket was there. He pulled it out and unlocked the door.

The conductor, an older man, rotund, with a bright orange Irish beard and freckles high on his cheeks, regarded Brendan with wary eyes. “Sir,” he began, “I need to see your ticket.”

Brendan slouched. “I’m sorry, man. Sorry about that.”

The conductor looked him up and down as Brendan continued. “My sister . . . she’s not doing so hot, you know? It’s been a tough week.” He handed the ticket over to the conductor who took it, still looking Brendan over, deciding something. “I’m going to see her and my mom,” Brendan told him. “Get to see my niece, Chloe, too.”

The conductor changed from authoritative to bored. His eyelids drooped as he clipped the ticket and handed it back. “That’s great.”

“Thanks,” said Brendan. “Sorry,” he repeated.

The round man in his blue suit tossed a glance through the window into the next car, as if he’d already moved on in his mind. He started to leave the car. He then stopped and looked at Brendan one last time.

“Ah, hey; good luck,” he said.

Jennifer looked at the trays of pineapple and oranges, piles of croissants and individually wrapped packets of butter. There were several coffee urns on the large table at Camp Edwards, cups, creamers, jugs of milk, and pitchers of juice. There was even a box of powdered donuts. No one, so far, had taken a single bite of anything.

When Brigadier General Allen Wick sat down at the long table, he leaned forward and poured himself a glass of cranberry juice. Wick had flown up from Fort George G. Meade in Maryland. He was not what Jennifer expected. Rather than the severe man with the hardened, clipped speech of the army and a painful-looking brush cut, Wick was soft spoken, smoother than the stereotypical commander, with limp blond hair. He had a focused attention that could cut glass, however, and when he looked her up and down with a flick of his eyes, she suddenly felt like the only person in the room.

She wasn’t. Along with her in the sparsely furnished conference room were John Rascher, Omar T. Porter — from Company B, First Battalion, William Spalding, 45
th
Division — and the US Attorney General. They faded into the background as Wick sipped his juice and settled back into his chair. Despite his unconventional appearance, his presence filled the room. He set down his empty glass.

“Pleasure to meet you, Special Prosecutor Aiken.”

“And you, General Wick.” Formality always made her feel self-conscious. Their host, commander of Camp Edwards, Sainathan Agrawal, stood up at the end of the conference table. A young soldier appeared and engaged Agrawal in a brief conversation too low for Jennifer to overhear.

“I’m glad to have this chance to thank you in person,” Wick said, “for all you’ve done.”

Jennifer smiled graciously. “Fort G. Meade,” she said. “US Army installation at the top of intelligence, internet and cyber operations.”

“Affirmative, ma’am,” Wick answered, shifting to get more comfortable in his chair. She wondered to what extent he had calculated sitting in that spot. She decided he had chosen it precisely. He wanted to face her directly; that high-powered focus was not going to leave her. He had arranged this meeting; he’d been the one to ask her here. She could feel Rascher, two seats to her right, fulminating with resentment, but his hands were clearly tied. Wick wanted to find out where she was at, mentally, before the Senate Intelligence Committee gathered the following Monday. This was more damage control.

“The installation includes a defense information school, and the United States Army Field band.” He said the last part with a touch of pride.

She smiled. “You must get your share of trumpets warbling.”

He laughed. It was an easy laugh, but practiced. As if Wick had a wife somewhere coaching him from behind the scenes.
Show them your teeth. No civilian is comfortable around a churlish commander
.

She crossed her legs. “It’s also the headquarters for the United States Cyber Command.”

“Correct,” he said. “You know your US Army.”

Jennifer nodded. So far, she thought she was doing ok. But there was tension in the air, she could feel the hairs on her arms standing up. At least her aches and pains seemed to have subsided.

Wick turned and looked at the others. She sensed that he was already done with her. She was inconsequential. Whatever she had seen, or thought she had seen, she would be loyal to the Justice Department. She would toe the line and do her job. Before long, Rascher would politely thank her for the tenth time, wearing that fake smile, and ask her to leave the room. Then they would get down to business without her.

The soldier moved away from Agrawal, who turned to the group seated around the table, as if he was about to make an announcement.

“General Wick,” she said quickly. “As lovely as it has been to meet you, I wonder why the Central Security Service has sent
you
regarding this matter.”

Rascher, listening in, opened his mouth to intervene. But Wick, light on his feet and without a wisp of defensiveness turned his attention back to her and said, “I am the Deputy Chief to the CSS and the NSA. I assist the Chief directly, who also serves as the Commander of the US Cyber Command and the Director of the National Security Agency.”

“I’m familiar with your status. What I mean is—”

He ran over her like a speed bump. “I received my commission in 1995 through Officer Training School. I served on the Air Staff as the command briefer for the Chief Staff of the Air Force. I am a skilled and experienced advisor.” He raised a silver eyebrow, thin as a blade’s edge. “As surprising as I may be to you, you’re also a surprise to me. A special prosecutor with the Human Trafficking Task Force Unit out here at Camp Edwards with quite a story.”

Agrawal watched the exchange. Rascher leaned forward and turned to Wick. “We decided that Agent Aiken, already in the field investigating—”

Wick held up a hand, and gave Rascher a quick turn of his head and a flashy smile that said,
please, thank you, I don’t need to hear from you yet
before turning the high beams of his eyes back on Jennifer.

She glanced at Rascher, who seemed to shrink back into his seat, his mouth closing with a click if his jaw, and then to Wick. “You’re right,” she said. “This is not my usual territory.”

“Indeed. This case with XList was your first time in the field?”

“Yes.”

Wick nodded, maintaining eye contact. “So you can understand my own incredulity when I’m told there’s a matter of national security at stake, and counter-allegations by a group of cyber-terrorists about a false-flag scenario, by an agent of the Justice Department who has previous spent all of her time in academia — co-authoring the training manual for the HTPU, of course — but nevertheless at a desk before this XList affair.”

“You’re right,” Jennifer said. “I am out of my depth, sir.”

He leaned his head to the side and scowled as if it pained him deeply to be so misinterpreted. “That’s not what I meant at all. What I meant was that we’re both a surprise to each other. I’m an advisor, really, and you’re an academic. Isn’t that fair to say? I initiate policy, you criticize it.”

The attorney general cleared his throat from the head of the table. She could feel the tractive force of him, wanting her to look at him, to defer to him. Jennifer ignored it. Agrawal had sat down at the head of the table, seemingly resigned to the fact that the meeting had begun without his inauguration.

Wick’s eyes never wavered. “So, when your superiors tell me you have some sort of sympathies for the terrorists we’ve just captured, I can take it with that measure. You’re uninitiated, Agent Aiken.”

“Fair enough. Then can you explain to me, General Wick, what the Central Security Service actually
does
?”

“Agent Aiken . . .” said the US Attorney General.

Wick smiled. “Of course. The CSS promotes full partnership between the NSA and the cryptologic elements of the Armed Forces. We team up with senior military and civilian leaders to address and act on critical military-related issues in support of . . .”

She broke him off. “You said ‘civilian?’”

“Yes.”

“Can you give me a for-instance?”

He continued to keep eye contact with her, but now the charm was draining away. “The Central Security Service was established by presidential directive in ‘72 to promote full partnership between NSA and the Service Cryptologic Components of the US Armed Forces. By combining the NSA and CSS, we created a more unified cryptologic effort. Which is why the Director of the NSA is dual-hatted as the Chief of the CSS.”

“That’s not answering my question.”

“
Jennifer . . .”

“I am the principal advisor on military cryptologic issues and oversee the function of the military cryptology system. I manage and cultivate the partnerships, and I ensure military capabilities to fulfill the National Cryptologic Strategy.”

“Which is?”

Wick moved his folded hands to his lap. “Can I tell you a story?”

Everyone else in the room was fuming. But as long as Wick seemed flexible and cooperative, what could they do? Jennifer felt a satisfaction in the way her superiors had been so easily dispatched. CSS had them by their balls. A story? Let’s have it.

“Of course,” she said.

“In 1996, a year after I was commissioned, the Director-Chief requested an insignia be created to represent both the National Security Agency and Central Security Service. As a result, a CSS seal was designed and adopted that year.”

He turned his shoulder to her and tapped the round patch sewn into the clothing. Five different symbols balanced around a five point star.

The Cyber Command symbol was a heraldic lion. The same insignia as Titan Construction, LLC. Something few people would ever notice.

“This was ultimately the design chosen to represent the CSS,” Wick said, feathering his fingertips over the patch to indicate its entirety. “The CSS provides the funding, direction, and guidance to all of America's Signal Intelligence activities, and fosters the fluidity of information between the branches.” He rotated his shoulder back so his chest faced her once more. He sat primly, his gaze direct, looking more wooden by the second.

“Funding,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“You tap civilians for funding.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way. There are many aspects of government where the bulk of underwriting is from private individuals. That’s obvious, I’m sure. In fact, the RAND corporation—”

“General, have you ever heard of Jeremy Staryles?”

“Agent Aiken, this is not a deposition of the Brigadier General.” The attorney general grunted from the head of the table. “This will all be addressed in the proper forum at the Senate Select Intelligence Committee hearing in two days.”

Wick barely gave him a sideways look. “It’s quite alright. She’s just doing her job. No, there is no Staryles, nor Ewon Parnell, nor Ursula Galloway. There may be terrorists who assume those identities, but as far as the Defense Depar—”

“Because I’ve been looking into this since I encountered Alexander Heilshorn during the investigation leading to XList.”

A flicker — something registering in those cold eyes when she said the name Heilshorn.

She hurried on. “Is he one of the civilian leaders you speak of? Maybe involved in the funding? Maybe someone you met when you both served — as advisors, the way you describe yourself today — on a committee called The Foundation?” She turned her head the other way. “Is it possible someone like Heilshorn could be granted . . . oh say, certain powers, given a team of men and women to help him carry out his objectives — in the interest of national security, or, maybe, funding national security?”

She waited. She was aware she’d laid it on thick. She was aware that this might be her last hour as an agent for the federal government. And she was aware she had just insinuated that the CSS was paying for itself with prostitutes and sex slaves, among other things. She wondered, almost giddy now, if she should add anything else. Such as dead escorts, entrapped politicians, or illegitimate children as collateral.

Wick gave her a thoughtful look, some life returning to his eyes.
Amp up the charm. Blast another smile at them
.

“Alexander Heilshorn?”

“Correct. And his private equity firm, Titan.”

“Titan.”

“With subsidiaries in construction, medical technology, and defense contracting. Building schools and hospitals overseas. And doing a little business right here on American soil. Constructing a new college building that includes a data center, made to house colocation units; a massive fiber-optic junction for a new, government-controlled internet called Altnet.”

“Do you consider yourself a patriot, Ms. Aiken?”

“Absolutely. I love my country and haven’t a single doubt that we are a nation filled with good people.”

“I see.”

“Well-meaning people, guardians who want to protect the innocent, serve democracy, enable the market to work for everyone. I believe in justice, that’s why I am here, and I believe to serve justice, and equality, you must be vigilant. Because corruption and evil can find its way in anywhere. And I mean anywhere. Even in our own military. And we are precisely at the point in our nation’s history that we have to be more vigilant than ever.”

“You’re well-spoken, Agent Aiken.”

“Thank you.”

He leaned back slightly. “If I may be frank, you’re conflating vigilance with lending credence to these ideas of a false-flag event perpetrated by our great nation. Keeping an open mind does not mean a wind-tunnel. I find this sad. Sad that you have allowed yourself to be taken in — to sympathize with a group of terrorists — misled children, really — who themselves are the threat we are facing. It’s this kind of infectious, poisonous thinking, the same kind of outlandish ideas you’re espousing now, that are the most corrosive and deleterious to an American way of life. We are a nation of principles. Of laws. And of leadership.”

She was undeterred. “You and Alexander Heilshorn sat on The Foundation together.”
I’ve seen records to prove it
, she thought, and then glanced at Rascher.
And he took them.
Just like the FBI had absconded with Heilshorn’s financials, so now they were going to bury records that, among other things, linked the CSS to Heilshorn and Titan.