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  The vague disgust in the Arab’s expression surprised Alton, but then he remembered all the Muslim food phobias. It was one of their problems, really. All that austerity. Take away pork, booze, and casual sex, and you produced a lot of angry young men.

  “When will—” Ibrahim started, but then fell silent when a ringtone began emanating from the speakers behind Alton. After his voice mail message, Janice Crane came on. It must have been the twentieth time, but it still brought a smile to his face.

  “Hi, John. You haven’t responded to any of my messages and I hope you’re okay. Obviously, we could really use your help. And we’ll make it worth your while, of course. Not only with money, but with shelter, food, medical attention… Whatever you need. Call me as soon as you can. Your phone’s been added to the system as critical, so you’ll be able to get on any remaining networks with no problem. Anyway, again, I hope you’re okay.”

  She hung up and Alton’s grin widened. How fun would it be to pick up? Maybe even go in and fix a few things. Get a close-up view of the government’s desperation while making himself a hero. Of course, there was no way. Too risky. But a kick in the ass to fantasize about.

  “Why is your phone still turned on?” Ibrahim said, sounding a little alarmed.

  “So I can get calls just like that one. Listening to the radio and looking at computer readouts is great. But hearing them beg… That’s just priceless.”

  “What if they track you here?”

  “Impossible. I’ve forgotten more about their communications systems than they’ll ever know. Relax, Feisal. Allah’s happy. Life is good. And the show’s just starting.”

  * * *

  Alton didn’t realize he’d dozed off until the speakers around him sounded again. At first, he thought it was that idiot Janice Crane refusing to give up, but then he registered the different tone.

  The perimeter alarm.

  He’d shut down much of the exterior surveillance equipment to save power but now brought them back online. Various feeds from hidden exterior cameras appeared on his monitors and the hiss of wind in microphones filled the room.

  The sun was approaching the cloud-covered western horizon, throwing long, poorly defined shadows over the landscape. Alton switched between cameras, but already knew that this wasn’t another deer herd or feral dog. The mikes were enough to tell him that.

  “Mr. Alton!”

  He used a sound processor to filter out the wind and then zoomed a camera hidden in the burned-out house above him. The approaching figure was only an outline at first, but soon gathered detail. Brown work pants, heavy canvas jacket, baseball cap. His dilapidated pickup was just barely visible near the tree line.

  “You put way too much steel into that old bomb shelter, Mr. Alton. And I saw the plumbing and electrical you were roughing in. I’m not stupid. That ain’t no normal basement like you said.”

  The man finally got close enough for Alton to place him. He was the one who had done the structural reinforcements to the shelter. And what he was saying was exactly right. They’d been purposefully overbuilt to survive the collapse of the house when it burned.

  Alton watched as he began picking through the ruins above the shelter, trying to find the entrance.

  “Come on, Mr. Alton. I haven’t told nobody.” He motioned back in the direction of his pickup. “I have my wife and my son with me, but that’s it. They’re the only ones I said anything to. I know you can’t afford to have a bunch of people up here. But we just need a little help. You know? Just a little.”

  CHAPTER 29

  WASHINGTON, DC

  USA

  FRED Mason banked the chopper left and began to descend. “We’re coming into position, Mitch. Thirty seconds.”

  Rapp slid the side door open and felt a blast of frozen air. He’d left his tactical clothing in the closet, opting for a pair of jeans, a Carhartt parka, and stocking cap. Not ideal, but they were casual enough to let him blend in during the day and dark enough in color to let him blend into the night. Keeping his sweater from getting caught in his rappelling gear, though, was proving to be a challenge.

  The darkness that blanketed the nation’s capital was broken only by the glow of a few isolated fires, likely started by people trying to stay warm. It was an increasingly common story and one that had played out two days ago in the neighborhood below him. Six city blocks had burned to the ground before being put out by an overtaxed and undersupplied fire department. A few sections were still smoldering beneath the light rain, but they’d been deemed safe enough for the fire suppression teams to move on. A perfect insertion site.

  “All right, Mitch,” he heard over his earpiece. “This is as good as it gets. Go!”

  Rapp threw himself from the chopper’s door, sliding down the rope as the rotors enveloped him in a swirl of ash and embers. By the time he hit the ground, his right boot was on fire, but it was easily smothered by a gloved hand.

  “I’m clear, Fred.”

  “Good hunting.”

  Rapp covered his mouth and nose against the debris in the air and listened to the sound of the aircraft fade. The hope was that no one would notice that it had paused over the abandoned site or that a lone human figure had been briefly suspended beneath. Technically, the city was under a curfew but, without enforcement resources, it didn’t mean much. The cold rain was more effective than troops, but that effectiveness was starting to wane as the situation got more dire.

  Rapp began picking his way east through the rubble, pausing for a moment when he heard gunfire, but then determining that it was a long way off. When he reached the sidewalk, he put his head down and thrust his hands in his pockets. There was barely enough light to keep him on track, so it was unlikely anyone would spot him. And if they did, he’d just look like another desperate citizen trying to figure out how to get by.

  He had a functioning phone in his pocket, but didn’t pull it out to use the GPS. The light from even that tiny screen had the potential to draw unwanted attention. Instead, he’d memorized the route to Sonya Voronova’s basement apartment and would be navigating by that mental map.

  There was no guarantee she would still be there, of course. With the advantage of advance warning, she might have fled the city weeks ago. There was also no guarantee that she even existed. It could be that Boris Utkin didn’t like the idea of Rapp slipping into Russia to put a bullet in his head and was leading him into a Spetsnaz ambush. Not that there was much he could do about it at this point. Ironically, it’s why he’d ordered Scott Coleman to stay home. Rapp figured that if he got taken out, he could at least bleed to death knowing that the former SEAL wouldn’t stop until he saw Utkin do the same.

  Washington had the feeling of a war zone between bombing runs, but it was apparently in better shape than most of America’s other cities. President Alexander was trying not to play favorites, but there was no way he couldn’t tilt the playing field in DC’s direction. A number of critical government agencies were still functioning there, and the president-elect had taken refuge in the White House in anticipation of the impending transfer of power.

  Whether that would actually happen, though, was far from certain. As was whether it even mattered. The government and power companies were still in the preliminary stages of trying to figure out what had happened. The logistics of inspecting the damage that would have been complex under ideal circumstances were being further hampered by a lack of personnel, raging forest fires, and access roads turned to mud and ice.

  According to Janice Crane, the best-case scenario was that they could start getting a few small power networks online in a few months. The worst-case scenario was that everything descended into chaos before repair efforts even got off the ground. If that happened, the lights that finally came on would cast their glow over a very different country.

  CHAPTER 30

  SONYA Voronova peeled the tape back from the edge of her window and peeked out, scanning the night for the source of the shouts she’d heard. The forec
ast was for mostly sunny skies by morning and there was already enough starlight to make out vague shapes. Unfortunately, the sight line up her stairs was pretty limited and largely dominated by her car parked at the curb. Getting that optimal spot right in front of her flat was a rare event that usually gave her a pathetic sense of victory. Now all it gave her was an unobstructed view of her shattered windows and crowbarred gas tank filler.

  Her Realtor had called the neighborhood up and coming, which was just a euphemism for fringe. It was all she could afford in the city, though, so she’d closed her eyes and jumped. And it hadn’t been so bad. Sure, you had to be careful coming home late at night and owning a nice car wouldn’t have been a good idea, but otherwise things had gone pretty well.

  Until now.

  More and more, the nighttime streets were controlled by groups of young men looking for whatever they could find. And it didn’t seem like the government had any interest in stopping them. There hadn’t been so much as a hint of a patrol in days. The military was probably too busy making sure the wealthy residents of Chevy Chase didn’t suffer a delay in their garbage pickup.

  She spotted them a few minutes later. Five, maybe six, walking up the middle of the street in a tight, animated group. They seemed to be unaffected by the cold and all looked well fed—likely at the expense of others. The one in the lead broke off and entered the open door of a brick house across the street while the others waited. He reappeared less than a minute later after having discovered what she already knew—it had been ransacked two nights ago.

  Voronova rubbed the tape back in place and walked to her fireplace, turning the flame on low and holding her hands up to it. They still felt stiff from her excursion into the outside world two days before. It had taken a while, but she’d finally managed to find an operating pay phone. Not that it had done her any good. The lines had all been jammed.

  Unwilling to give up so easily, she’d gone back to the J. Edgar Hoover Building and tried to fight her way to the barriers. It had been a worthy effort but, in the end, all she had to show for it was a black eye.

  So, with the complete failure of Plan A, Plan B, Plan A again, and Plan C, it was time to dive headlong into Plan D.

  She’d spent the last few hours putting together everything she could remember about her Russian past. Her recruitment, where and how she’d been she’d been trained, the parameters of her mission. Whatever she could use to convince people that she was who she said she was. Now it was time to blast that, along with everything she knew about John Alton, out over her wimpy little ham radio. Hopefully someone in the government would hear her before the Russian embassy sent an errand boy to put a bullet in her head.

  A loud, metallic clang resonated through her apartment and she leapt to her feet. The unmistakable sound of a fist on her door. She stood frozen as it came again, this time louder. The source was almost certainly a member of the gang she’d seen outside earlier. So far, the young men roaming the neighborhood seemed satisfied with stripping cars and breaking into unoccupied homes. Had things gotten desperate enough that that was changing?

  The next sound wasn’t a fist, but probably a foot. They were trying to kick in the door.

  Her mouth had gone dry but she finally managed to get it working. “Go away!”

  The kicking stopped and was replaced with a male voice. “Oh, come on, baby. Wouldn’t you like some company in there?”

  Laughter.

  “No. Go away! I’m warning you, I have a gun!”

  “Fuck your gun.”

  More laughter, but it was followed by retreating footsteps. Her racing heart began to slow. They were leaving. She was going to be okay. For now.

  A moment later, something hit the window, shattering the glass and ripping down the thick material taped over it. She recognized one of the bricks used to elevate the flower pot on her porch as it sailed across the room and crashed into her kitchen island.

  She dove for the fireplace control to turn off the flames illuminating the room and, more important, the food she’d piled on the counters. Her hand hit the edge of the plastic thermostat hard enough that it separated from the wall and was left hanging by wires. Despite her jabbing desperately at the button on the front, it wouldn’t respond.

  “Oh, shit, man! Come back! And bring the flashlight!”

  She ran through the gloom toward the hall, as a powerful beam began wandering over her meager supplies. Excited shouts followed her as she slipped into the bedroom.

  “Go away!” she shouted again, retrieving her Beretta. “I told you! I have a gun!”

  “So do we, bitch!”

  The light beam disappeared and the hammering on the door started again, but this time it wasn’t flesh or shoe leather. It was some kind of tool.

  During her time in Russia she’d been taught countless ways to kill but it had never seemed real, even at the height of her training. More like an academic exercise. Like watching flight attendants tell you what to do if your plane crashed.

  She aimed around the jamb but couldn’t immediately conjure the resolve to pull the trigger. Finally, she managed to squeeze off a round in the general direction of the rug in front of the threshold. The noise was deafening. Terrifying. Anyone in their right mind would run.

  Unfortunately, no one in America—especially these men—was even remotely in their right mind. Instead of scaring them off, the gunshot whipped them into a frenzy. Voronova dropped to the floor and covered her head as they started returning fire through her shattered window. Flashes lit up the shadowy interior of the apartment as bullets crashed into kitchen cabinets, walls, and furniture. And somewhere beneath the sound of shattering wood and crumbling drywall was the low drone of inevitability. Her life as she knew it was over. No, that was too optimistic. Strike the “as she knew it” part. Her life was over. She might survive out in the world for a week. Maybe two. But after that, she’d be buried in America’s collapse just like everyone else. Starvation. Cold. Violence. Take your pick. But it would be one of them.

  She undressed quickly, replacing her sweats with a change of tactical clothing folded near the door leading to the courtyard. By the time she’d outfitted herself in cargo pants, boots, and down jacket, they’d started in on the door again. She snaked the gun around the jamb and let loose an unaimed round, but this time got no reaction at all. They just kept hammering on her door.

  There was a six-pack of chocolate pudding on her desk and she used a finger to scoop the contents of all six into her mouth then slipped on a backpack prepared for just this kind of disaster. At the front of the flat, it sounded like the door was starting to give way. It wouldn’t be long before they would be inside. And then it would be too late.

  Starlight and memory provided enough illumination to get her across her courtyard to the drainpipe she’d climbed days before. It had connectors holding it to the wall every few feet, making the ascent fairly easy for anyone who took their time and wasn’t wearing a fifty-pound pack. No longer her situation, unfortunately.

  She was barely a couple feet off the ground when the sound of the door failing reached her. The men didn’t show any caution at all, pounding across her floor amid excited, unintelligible shouts. Over them, she could hear her least favorite instructor’s voice.

  Move that sweet little ass of yours, Voronova!

  The metal connectors cut her hands as she climbed, making an effort to put her backpack between her and anyone coming into the courtyard. Would it be enough to absorb the impact of small arms fire? She had no idea. But it would be better than nothing.

  The sound of shattering glass became audible as the door that led from the bedroom was thrown open. Then running footsteps on flagstone accompanied by a stream of shouted taunts and insults.

  She was still only about six feet up the pipe. Well within the reach of pretty much anyone.

  Voronova looked back and was shocked to see fate finally cut her a little slack. The flagstones that made up her shadowy courtyard took forever
to thaw and the man running across them found that out the same way she had. His feet went out from under him and he went down hard, cracking the back of his head on the unforgiving rock. Finding himself unable to stand, he instead rolled on his stomach and tried to push himself to his knees.

  She continued to climb as a second man appeared in the shattered doorway. He was smarter, keeping a more cautious pace as he crossed the slick surface and leapt for her. His hand brushed her boot and then fell away. He managed to stay upright when he landed and immediately started coming after her. The darkness and his unfamiliarity with the drainpipe attachments worked against him, though.

  She got a hand on the edge of the roof and used it to swing herself up onto it. A quick look around suggested there was nothing particularly weighty to throw down at the man pursuing her. The use of her gun was an obvious option but her ammunition was limited. So, instead, she just raked a thick layer of frozen leaves off the edge.

  It landed right on top of his head and turned out to be enough. Whether it was the weight or just the surprise, he lost his grip and he fell five feet to the ground.