Dying Day Page 9

  Michael smirks, his blond hair whipping around his head in the relentless sea breeze. He takes a moment to tuck it behind his ear and grins. “No matter. I have what I wanted.”

  “If you want to kill me, you’re going to have to try harder than that,” I say, full of piss and bravado as usual—except my words start to slur at the end. My eyelids are suddenly intensely heavy.

  Michael grins. “Am I?”

  I slump into Gabriel’s arms.

  Hold on, Gabriel pleads. His voice is sweet and soothing in my mind. Hold on.

  To what? I think. Because there’s nothing here anymore. I’m going to black out after all. And here I go, falling through an endless night, into Gabriel’s soft wings as they envelop me.

  Chapter 7

  Ally

  Plane after plane arrives on Jeremiah’s tarmac. Aircrafts bearing nearly every recognizable flag clutter the runway, having accepted Jeremiah’s invitation to discuss Jesse—or as they’re calling her—the greatest current threat to the world.

  “Do you have more bunkers hidden in the world? Otherwise, the shower line will be very long.” My heart thumps away in my throat. It’s meant to be a light-hearted joke, but the words stick.

  “They aren’t here for shelter. Jeremiah only wants to inform them of the situation and gauge their intentions.”

  The fact that Nikki’s reply is thoughtful, articulate, and completely serious only makes me more nervous.

  “Any chance we can listen in on this conversation? I’d also like to gauge their intentions.” I expect a flat-out refusal.

  The crew and team members with armfuls of equipment wander past us. “Actually,” she says and gives me a devilish wink. “Come on.”

  She pulls me away from the main entrance and tarmac, leading me toward a gray building on the left. A silver handle glints in the sun before she yanks it up. The door rolls skyward, much like a garage door, and we duck inside the darkness. White-blue fluorescents blink on overhead as we creep toward the back wall. It’s a hangar of some kind, but whichever aircraft it’s meant to hold is gone.

  As far from the entrance as we can possibly get, we find an elevator large enough to hold at least twenty people. We step inside, and Nik pushes a button that will take us to level 17.

  “I thought there were only sixteen levels,” I ask.

  “Did I say that?” she asks with a smirk. She adds a nose crinkle as if this is apology enough.

  Of course, I’m not surprised. If anyone has nooks and crannies in his secret base, it would be Jeremiah. I do not pretend to know all the inner workings of this man, but I’ve worked with him enough to know he likes to be prepared, and he likes to play his cards close to the vest. So in no way would this base be all that it seems on the surface.

  The elevator is so smooth that when it opens again, I’m surprised to see we’ve moved at all. I didn’t feel the expected lurch or hiss of elevator cables humming and stretching somewhere out of sight. I step into a pristine and bright hallway. There are closed wooden doors on each side and one at the end.

  We choose the door at the end.

  It is an enormous conference room. Jeremiah sits on one side of the rounded conference table, speaking into a tabletop microphone resting in front of him—little more than a wisp of black foam hovering in front of his thin, moving lips.

  Men—perhaps a hundred with the exception of twenty women at most—circle the table, each with their own microphones in front of them. Black suits and white shirts seem to be the order of the day, and I realize I must stick out like an eyesore with my wild, helicopter blown hair and my open, red coat and rumpled clothes.

  Jeremiah was speaking when we entered. Upon seeing us, he pauses, takes a drink from the water shimmering in the clear glass at his left elbow, and proceeds. If he hadn’t been staring me down the whole time, I would have thought this gesture was unintentional, not an obvious cover for his surprise.

  We slide to a stop along the wall in a line of other spectators who seem to be part of, yet excluded from, the discussion.

  I want to lean over and ask Nikki why? Why challenge Jeremiah? Why bring me here and let me listen in if it will get her into trouble?

  But I think I know why. Jeremiah depends on Nikki. No one knows more of his secrets or does his bidding more willingly. He’s relied on her for years as his second-in-command. What could he possibly say or do? And whatever that retaliation may be, it certainly wouldn’t be here in the company of so many outsiders, even if he disapproves of his second-in-command’s weakness. In this case: me.

  And you have no qualms exploiting that weakness if it gives Jesse the upper hand, do you? My conscience chides.

  “Therefore, sending a team to confront the suspect will only result in more casualties,” Jeremiah says, obviously picking up and flawlessly finishing whatever thread we interrupted.

  A man, perhaps sixty with thinning gray hair and glasses, laughs across the table. It’s a sharp and bitter sound. “My apologies, Dr. Tate, but I have never met a suspect that did not succumb to enough firepower.”

  “There is a first for everything,” Jeremiah says, calmly twining his fingers together on the tabletop and leveling the man with a steady gaze.

  The man looks around at the others and laughs all the harder. “Please, do not tell me that every single one of you believes the story he is selling us? That one girl, a single girl has in her possession a bomb so great that she could detonate it and initiate an extinction event.”

  One of the women with a brightly colored orange sari leans forward and speaks into her microphone. “Even atomic bombs have their limitation,” she says, eyeing Jeremiah with much more patience than the other man. “And you say there is only one bomb, not a hundred.”

  “I have tried to make it clear that the weapon she has is unlike any you’ve ever seen,” Jeremiah says. “It is true that she is isolated in Antarctica, but her reach is great.”

  Isolated. Jesse isn’t isolated. She has the ability to go anywhere she wants at a moment’s notice. Why would Jeremiah deliberately mislead the diplomats?

  “This begs the question of how she came by such a weapon, doesn’t it?” says another.

  A weapon. I reconsider what has been said so far and reexamine the words Jeremiah is using. Then I realize what is going on. He is sticking to the story fabricated by the press, the one in which Jesse is a terrorist. He hasn’t said anything about her special abilities or the angels. Instead, he is using only real-world scenarios that they will accept and understand.

  She is in possession of a weapon of mass destruction and intends to use it.

  Only some do not seem convinced at all.

  I lock eyes with a man at the table who starts to give me only a cursory glance, and then looks back for a double-take. My face heats.

  “Isn’t that one of the terrorists?” the wide-eyed man says from some country with a flag I don’t recognize.

  Nikki’s hand closes over mine.

  Jeremiah speaks in the same calm and perfectly inflected tone. “Yes, you may recognize Ms. Gallagher. She was a hostage for a time and is now under our protection. We need to remain focused on the problem at hand.”

  I open my mouth to contradict him. How dare he paint Jesse as some kidnapper? Does he want the whole world to go after her? Is he trying to get her killed?

  Nikki’s hand squeezes mine so hard that I yelp instead of launching my counterargument against Jeremiah’s slander.

  I rip my hand from her grip the same moment she bends down to whisper in my ear.

  “He’s protecting you.”

  “He’s throwing her under the bus!” I hiss back and several members of the round table closest to me turn, casting curious and annoyed glances.

  The sight of a man shouldering his way through the standing spectators lining the walls catches my attention. He’s short, perhaps only reaching my shoulders, and so familiar. It isn’t until he’s almost upon me that I recognize who he is.

  Agent Ga
rrison. A squat man who almost threw Jesse in prison before we were able to prove her innocence. He later served as her temporary handler after Brinkley faked his own death. What in the world is he doing here?

  “Ms. Gallagher,” he says with a pert nod. “Can I speak with you?”

  Nikki shifts uncomfortably beside me.

  “Sure. Let’s step into the hall.” I slip away from Nikki, weaving past the others standing and watching the ongoing negotiations over what to do about Jesse.

  Jesse. I want to stay. I want to argue and deliberate with these people, but what can I say? No, she isn’t a terrorist, of course. But after that, they will want explanations for what they’ve seen on the television. They’ll want to know what I saw with my own eyes. And there is the fact that Jesse has killed people. To protect us, true, but that may not be enough to justify the loss of life. Nor will any explanations of Caldwell’s mind control hold sway.

  Garrison holds open the door, and I step into the hallway first. As the door swings shut behind us, we step over to the side, to a little nook beside one of the closed doors.

  “For the sake of time, let’s state openly that I know Jesse is not a terrorist, and she does not have a bomb. I know that what she’s doing, she’s doing of her own—volition—and that it is not an isolated event.”

  My chest loosens. At least we can get to business now instead of using doublespeak.

  “The FBRD has been made aware of the situation because it involves several of their agents. Liza Miller, Rachel Wright, Cindy St. Clair. You know these agents?”

  “Yes.”

  He confirms with a sharp nod. “So let us say that these events have superseded our understanding of NRD as a neurological idea, and that perhaps something else is happening. Would you say the FBRD could expect this to happen to all agents or simply to a select few?”

  “It’s only Jesse now,” I say, and I leave it at that.

  Garrison searches my face and then nods again. “The FBRD is struggling to curtail this publicity. First the story about the murdered agents broke and now Jesse’s…story. They are questioning whether or not the bureau should be disbanded and death replacing abolished, because an agent has radicalized—”

  “She hasn’t!” I hiss.

  “I know,” he says. His face folds with sympathy. “I know. But several people who’ve always looked for a way to shut down the FBRD are using her as the posterchild for their campaign. They claim this is why the agency should not exist and death replacing should not be an option. That repeat replacements only serve to create mentally unstable murderers, who are rather difficult to kill.”

  I look through the glass at all the people inside the room discussing Jesse and what to do about her. So many enemies. So many threats.

  There is nowhere in the world Jesse could hide now—even if somehow we survived Gabriel’s plan, where could she live and not be hunted? She would always be in danger.

  If that was her life, I would follow her, without hesitation. But that is no life.

  “You must be very worried for her safety,” Garrison says.

  I realize he’s been watching my face very carefully.

  “You have no idea,” I admit. “But let me be clear, Agent Garrison, everything Jesse has done has only been done in self-defense. The casualties are the result of Caldwell’s attempts to capture and kill her. And now he’s dead.”

  Garrison’s eyes widen ever so slightly, telling me all I need to know. So word hasn’t reached all corners of Earth yet. Caldwell’s death is still somewhat a secret.

  “I pulled you out here, because I wanted you to know that the upper ranks within the FBRD are aware of the situation, and to learn how serious the situation with Jesse is. I cannot guarantee that they will present her side of the story fairly once the story fully breaks.”

  “I understand. But try not to paint her as the villain when you report back.” The door behind me opens, and people begin filing out. A sea of black suits and nervous chatter. People are already lifting their phones from pockets and making calls. Orders are being issued all over the world and I need to know what’s been decided. I’d better corner Jeremiah before he can escape.

  Garrison looks ready to join the flood of people. “I’ll try to keep you in the loop if you promise to do the same?” He recites my email from memory. “Is that still a working address?”

  “Yes,” I nod.

  “I hope the next time we meet it’s under better circumstances, Ms. Gallagher.” He turns and hurries down the hall to catch the elevator before it closes on all the bodies huddled inside.

  “Just do what you can!” I call after him.

  “I promise,” he calls back before the doors close.

  I slip back into the conference room. It looks so much bigger now without all the people crammed inside. Jeremiah stands behind his seat while the people scurrying around him pester him for answers or make themselves busy rearranging the room: pushing in chairs, gathering up microphones, ducking under desks for forgotten pen caps and notes abandoned in haste.

  Jeremiah has his hands on the hips of his brown dress slacks. He’s arguing with Nikki whose face is red from the effort. I have a sinking feeling it is about me.

  I make my way around the desks and join them, unable to suppress my own irritation.

  “You’re making this worse for her,” I say, unclenching my teeth.

  “She did this to herself,” he says. He barely looks up.

  I stop, stunned. I feel as if I’ve been slapped. “Excuse me?”

  “The world views Jesse as a monster, because she’s used her power recklessly. Do you know how much footage the world has of her burning people alive? Hours. Hours that we’ve had to confiscate, doctor, and reintroduce into the media circuit. If she were more careful—”

  “Caldwell hunted her. Caldwell killed her,” I say. Only I’m not saying it. I’m screaming it. And I can’t remember the last time I’ve screamed at anyone. Except that this time I’m afraid for Jesse, and I have no way to get to her, no way to help her.

  “Al—?” Nikki asks.

  I take a breath. “Telling them that she is a terrorist is only going to make her a target. Do you want to get more people killed? Because it isn’t like she is going to roll over and take it. Every person they send after her is going to die!”

  “They already have,” he says, flicking his eyes up to meet mine. “And they want to send another wave.”

  Another wave. My god, another wave. I take a breath.

  “And what is going to happen when you tell them she killed Timothy Caldwell? He might have been her father, and it might have been self-defense, but they don’t care about that. They’re only going to say that she killed the leader of The Unified Church. A terrorist killed a respected religious leader.”

  Nikki and Jeremiah exchange a look.

  A stone sinks in the pit of my stomach. “You’ve already told them.”

  “I said—” Jeremiah begins defensively, raising his palms toward me. “That Caldwell was killed in the attack, not that he was murdered. I said he entered the situation and was trying to help, but was caught in the crossfire. I painted as neutral a picture as possible.”

  “Not neutral. If you can paint me as a hostage, you could have painted her as one as well. But you didn’t, because you want to keep her running. You want to force her to ask for your help when the whole world turns against her.”

  Something flashes in Jeremiah’s eyes.

  “But she won’t,” I say. “She’ll never be some toy that you let out of a coma when you decide you’re ready to use her.”

  I whirl, ready to run from the room. I have a sudden and desperate urge to check on Maisie and Gloria. Nikki may be one of the only allies I have left, but she’s affiliated with this man with his dark machinations. Not evil, no. But people who want what they want and will hurt others to get it—they’re dangerous all the same. I should have never let them bring Maisie and Gloria here. So what if I was outnumbered, I
should have fought back.

  Jeremiah reaches for me—to do what, I don’t even know. Seize my arm? Shackle me? But his hand slams into a bright purple shield.

  He pulls his hand back as if it’s been burned. Nikki, too, looks shocked and surprised. When I see the dark shape take form in the corner of my eye, I expect to see Jesse there. It’s always been Jesse who’s thrown a protective shield around me.

  But it isn’t Jesse standing there. It’s Gabriel.

  He’s forced me out. That large mouth moves out of sync with the words in my head. Hurry.

  “How are you using the shield?” Jeremiah asks. He sounds both interested and hateful.

  “I’m not.” I stop short of saying Gabriel is.

  Jeremiah is as good at reading people as I am. He knows I’m not lying. He looks around, but Jesse isn’t here.

  “She isn’t here. She can’t possibly be shielding you,” he says. His voice thins to a high, strident tone. Is he jealous? If I didn’t know better, I’d say Jeremiah Tate is jealous of this power.

  “I need a ride to Antarctica.”

  Nikki gives him a furious glare before he even has a chance to respond.

  In a very even tone he says, “No. I don’t have the resources for that.”

  I laugh, bitterly. “Yes, you do. But you’re steering clear of the gate, because you’re afraid of what will happen when the gate opens.”

  I search his face, and see the recognition in his eyes. So he’s heard of the gate.

  He licks his lips and pushes his glasses up onto his nose again. “So the angels have told you that much, have they? Who told you about the gate?”

  I neither confirm nor deny. Instead, I counter. “Who told you about the gate?”

  Nikki’s jaw is working again.

  Jeremiah notes her discomfort and huffs. “Very well. I suppose we all have our secrets.”

  He tugs at the end of his sweater vest and steps around me. His exit from the room leaves me and Nikki alone.

  As soon as the door closes shut behind him, the shield sputters and disappears. The shadow in the corner of my eye does, too. I turn anyway just to be sure, but no Gabriel. The white wall with its gray specks stands empty. He’s forced me out. What did he mean? Another angel? Someone worse?