The Coming Storm Read online

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  They weren’t alone here. Because the Stillwell Avenue Station was so well-protected from the weather, other refugees from the storm had sneaked into the terminal.

  There were cardboard boxes on the platform and homeless people sleeping inside them. Jenna couldn’t see their faces, only the parts that stuck out of the boxes, the legs and torsos wrapped in rags and soiled blankets. What surprised her the most was that the storm hadn’t woken anyone. The city all around them was drowning, but this station’s platform was safe and dry, so the people here slept right through the catastrophe. They were so exhausted, they hadn’t even noticed it.

  Derek dragged her to the far end of the platform, where the elevated tracks ran north to Gravesend and Bensonhurst. There were two more cardboard boxes at this end, and the smaller one was occupied—a pair of long legs in filthy jeans and muddy sneakers poked out of it. But Derek ignored the sleeper and led Jenna to the larger box. She sat down on the platform while he reached inside the box and pulled out a canvas duffel, an olive-green bag with the words “U.S. Army” stenciled on it. This was Derek’s box, she realized. He’d brought her to his makeshift home.

  Then, to Jenna’s dismay, he grabbed one of her bare feet and examined its sole.

  She tried to pull her foot away from him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “It’s all cut up.” He let go of her foot, grabbed the other one, and pointed at the lacerations on the heel and arch. They were bleeding freely. “This one too.”

  Jenna hadn’t noticed the bleeding, hadn’t even felt any pain until he pointed it out to her. Her terror had been so strong, it had overwhelmed everything else.

  Derek opened his duffel bag and pulled out something that looked like a red Q-tip. He started swabbing the thing against the wounds on her feet. “This is an iodine swab. It’s gonna sting a little.”

  It stung a lot. Jenna tried to take her mind off the pain by staring at Derek, who squinted and beetled his brows as he swabbed her cuts. She knew she shouldn’t change her attitude toward this kidnapper just because he was giving her first aid. It was in his own interest to make sure she didn’t bleed to death. And yet the cuts on her feet really weren’t that bad. He could’ve ignored them and let her suffer.

  After Derek finished disinfecting her, he removed a gauze pad and a roll of tape from his bag and dressed her wounds, one foot at a time. He did it so deftly, she wondered if he’d served as a medic in the army. Once her feet were taped up, he put his first-aid supplies back into the bag and reached into his box again. He removed a pair of gray sweatpants and a rolled-up ball of socks and tossed them at Jenna.

  “They’re clean. Mostly.” He dug inside the box once more and pulled out a pair of old black sneakers. “I got these at a men’s shelter where I was staying. Not sure if they’ll fit you, but they’re better than nothing.”

  She kept silent as she took the clothes from him, but her mind was churning. It was disturbing to see how meticulously Derek had planned this, how carefully he’d targeted her. He could’ve abducted any doctor or surgeon in New York, but instead he’d chosen a biomedical researcher to help him. He’d probably gone to the library and looked up her credentials and checked out her lab’s website, which still displayed a photograph of Jenna on its home page even though she no longer worked there. He’d even guessed her shoe size, for God’s sake.

  He stared at her and frowned. “What’s wrong? You don’t like the sneakers? Not your style?”

  Jenna turned away from him. Averting her eyes, she put on the sweatpants and socks. Then she slipped her feet into the sneakers. They fit perfectly.

  She was busy tying the laces when she heard a rustle coming from inside the smaller box nearby, the one that was occupied. The long legs and muddy sneakers started to move, and then a skinny young white guy crawled out of the cardboard and rose to his feet. He had messy blond hair and a tattooed neck and a white T-shirt with a big dark stain below the neckline. There weren’t many white people left in South Brooklyn, and Jenna was wary of the few that remained. Most were either drug addicts or had serious mental problems, and this guy seemed to fall into the second category. A row of scars ran up his forearm like the rungs of a ladder, and his eyes were too wide and wet and fervent. He stared intently at Jenna, then smiled at Derek.

  “Shit, bro! You brought back a surprise!” He loped toward them, rubbing his hands together. “She’s a nice, juicy brown one! Is she Arab? Indian? Whoa, look at the titties on that bitch!”

  Derek shook his head. His face was blank, neither angry nor amused. “She’s not for you, Keith. Go back to sleep.”

  Keith the mental case didn’t seem to hear. He stepped closer to Jenna and leered at her chest. “Hey, girlie? You speak English? You like me, right? Maybe just a little bit?”

  She stood up and looked him in the eye. He scared the hell out of her, but she didn’t let it show. “No, I don’t like you. Get away from me.”

  He laughed. It was a loud, high screech, the laugh of a crazy man. “Oh baby! You and me are gonna have some fun tonight!”

  Derek stood up too, still shaking his head. “You don’t listen good, do you? I told you to go back to sleep.”

  Keith’s face abruptly changed from lascivious to enraged. He curled his lip and sneered at Derek. “No, bro, you owe me. I watched your shit, didn’t I? I watched it all day long and made sure no one stole your stuff. And now I deserve some kind of reward. Those are the rules.”

  “I’m not warning you again.” Derek stepped forward and stood toe-to-toe with the asshole, towering over him. “Go back to your fucking box.”

  Luckily for Keith, he decided to back down. He held up his arms in surrender and let out another crazy laugh. “All right, bro, all right! I guess you don’t want to share, do you?” He retreated to his cardboard box, slowly and reluctantly. “You want to keep the bitch all for yourself, right? All that nice brown pussy, and no one else gets a piece of it. What a fucking shame.”

  Keith knelt beside the box, and for a second it looked like he was going to take Derek’s advice and go back to sleep. But instead he reached inside the cardboard and pulled out a gun, a big black nine-millimeter. He held it with both hands and pointed the muzzle at Derek. “Well, lookee here. This is what you get for being greedy, you black cocksucker. Now you’re gonna—”

  Derek moved so fast that Jenna never saw him cross the platform. She blinked, and suddenly he stood right in front of Keith, with one hand around the barrel of the nine-millimeter and the other around the lunatic’s throat. He wrenched the gun out of Keith’s grip before he could pull the trigger and crushed his larynx before he could say another word. Then Derek shoved him backward, and Keith plummeted off the platform and onto the tracks. His skull cracked against one of the rails, and blood splattered over the railroad ties.

  Jenna turned away, but it was too late. She saw the man die. And now she knew why Derek had kidnapped her. No ordinary human had that kind of speed and strength and agility. The genetic experiments must’ve succeeded beyond all expectations. The research had progressed to human trials, and the results were far better than what anyone in her lab had thought was possible.

  For a moment, Derek examined the nine-millimeter pistol he’d acquired. Then he tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans and turned back to Jenna. His eyes were redder now, so bloodshot that there were barely any whites left. Yellowish pus leaked from the unhealed wound on his neck, and his breathing was harsh and ragged.

  “You ready?” he rasped. “We gotta keep moving.”

  FOUR

  Colonel Eli Grant marched into the White House, breezing past the Secret Service agents at the West Wing entrance. They knew him well, even the agents on the midnight-to-eight shift. He never would’ve imagined it, not in his wildest dreams, but he was a regular visitor to the White House now. He was a goddamn big shot.

  He walked across the lobby and down the corridor, passing the offices of the national securi
ty advisor and the vice president. During the daytime these offices buzzed with activity, with generals and admirals and bureaucrats hustling from one meeting to another, but at 3 a.m. the hallways were empty and the office doors were closed. To tell the truth, Grant liked it better this way. The worst thing about the government was that it required so many damn people to run it. And the vast majority were idiots.

  As he passed the closed doors, Grant pulled his secure phone from his pocket and checked for updates on the situation in New York. Superstorm Zelda was still pounding the city, flooding all the low-lying areas. Grant had sent reinforcements to the Federal Service Districts in Brooklyn and the Bronx, but there were reports of crowds gathering at the districts’ checkpoints. That was bad news. If the illegals breached the fences, the whole Safe Cities program would go straight to hell. Grant was trying to beef up the FSU teams, communicating with all his lieutenants on the front lines, but it wasn’t easy to command his troops from two hundred miles away. You can’t run a war long-distance—he’d learned that in Syria, during his first tour there as a Special Forces commander. And the same thing was true for this shitty home-front war.

  But he had to come to Washington after Keller summoned him. It was a bad idea to disobey the K-Man’s orders.

  Grant turned left and marched down another corridor. This one wasn’t empty. Two Secret Service agents stood at the far end of the hallway, flanking the entrance to the Oval Office. Thirty feet closer, another pair of agents stood by the door to the office that was adjacent to the president’s, the office of White House Senior Advisor Vance Keller. Stiff and unsmiling, the agents nodded at Grant. Then one of them opened the door.

  Inside, the K-Man sat behind his desk, pen in hand, looking down at some papers. He didn’t raise his head; keeping his eyes on the documents, he gave a hand signal to the Secret Service man. The agent nudged Grant into the office and closed the door behind him.

  Keller still didn’t look up. He kept studying his papers, occasionally jotting down a note or crossing out a sentence. Grant waited a couple of seconds, standing in the middle of the office, then took a seat in one of the fancy armchairs in front of the desk. He didn’t feel insulted. The K-Man did this to everyone, generals and ambassadors and congressmen and cabinet secretaries. It was a power play. He wanted to make it clear that his time was more important than yours.

  Grant busied himself by scrutinizing the office, but there wasn’t a whole lot to see. Behind Keller’s desk was a window made of bulletproof glass. During the day you could see the White House’s South Lawn, but now it was pitch-black. To the left of the desk was the door that led to the Oval Office, the private entrance Keller used whenever he wanted to talk to the president. Other than that, though, the office was unremarkable, and the walls were bare. That was Keller’s style. He liked being the Mystery Man, the guy who rarely speaks at cabinet meetings but takes careful notes on everyone else.

  The only decorative item on Keller’s desk was a framed portrait of his late wife. She’d died young, in her thirties, just five months after she married the K-Man. In the portrait she stared straight ahead, her blond hair draping her pale, flawless face. Printed on the frame in ornate script was the word “Princess,” which had been her nickname in the White House. In addition to being Keller’s wife, she was the president’s eldest daughter.

  Grant didn’t like looking at the portrait. For him, it was a painful reminder of failure, one of the worst defeats in the War on Terror. It happened three years ago, just a week after Grant quit the army and started working for Keller. The K-Man had been one of the president’s advisors from the beginning, a boyish Republican operative who knew everyone in Washington, but he and Princess didn’t become an item until 2020. She was on the rebound, having just divorced her first husband, who’d also been a presidential advisor but suffered a nervous breakdown after a couple of years in the White House. Her new relationship with Keller coincided with the president’s reelection campaign, which was floundering despite all their efforts. Princess tried to help her father by speaking at his rallies, and that’s when the attack happened, right after she gave a rousing speech about political harmony and hope. The date was burned into Grant’s memory: October 29, 2020. The day of her assassination.

  He averted his eyes from the photo and focused on the K-Man instead. Keller was still young, only forty, but he looked awful. His tall, emaciated frame hunched over the desk like a scarecrow in a $5,000 black suit. The job had aged him—he’d been at it for seven years—and he’d never fully recovered from the death of his wife. After the assassination, America stood behind the president, giving him enough sympathy and support to rescue his failing campaign and reelect him by a sizable margin. Keller got his share of sympathy too, and he took on an even greater role in the administration during the second term, seizing control of the White House staff and the National Security Council. But his boyishness vanished forever, replaced by a cold intensity. His narrow face was haggard and lined, his eyes sunk deep into their sockets, his lips stretched thin and colorless.

  Keller scowled at the papers he was reading. His expression was so full of annoyance that Grant grew curious about the documents. Sneaking a look out of the corner of his eye, he tried to read the papers upside down, or at least the words in bold type scattered across the pages. But he didn’t have much success. The only words he could make out were “CAR BOMB,” “THREAT LEVEL,” and “ISLAMIC STATE.”

  Finally, Keller put down his pen and pushed the papers aside. He raised his head and attempted to smile. “Thank you for coming on such short notice, Colonel.” His voice was soft and amiable, the exact opposite of his personality. “I’m especially appreciative because I know how busy you are right now.”

  Grant nodded. He knew enough not to go into the details about the crisis in New York. The K-Man didn’t like details; he expected his subordinates to take care of all that. And Grant was taking care of it. “No problem, sir. Everything’s under control. What can I do for you?”

  Keller leaned back in his chair. He was still trying to smile and not succeeding. His pale lips twisted at the corners. “I want you to see something.” He reached for the phone on his desk and pressed a button. “You can send him in now,” he said softly into the receiver. Then he hung up and turned back to Grant. “I think you’ll find this very instructive.”

  Ten seconds later, the door to the office opened again and two men stepped inside. The one on the left was another Secret Service agent, a beefy guy in a blue blazer, perfectly interchangeable with all the other agents in the White House. The man on the right, though, was a surprise. He was a twerpy, white-haired fellow dressed in khaki slacks and a rumpled polo shirt. His eyes were bleary, his cheeks frosted with gray stubble. He looked like he’d been woken from a deep sleep and forced to dress quickly. Grant recognized him immediately: it was the attorney general of the United States.

  Without a word, the Secret Service agent turned around, left the office, and closed the door. The attorney general stared at Grant for a moment, blinking slowly, like a befuddled gnome. Then he grimaced at Keller. “Whatever you want, Vance, it better be important. You know I don’t care for these middle-of-the-night meetings.”

  The K-Man gave him a sober look. He wasn’t trying to smile anymore. “I called you here because we have a problem. A serious threat to the nation’s security. I hate to disturb you at this hour, but I was under the impression that our national security was one of the things you vowed under oath to protect.”

  “I assume this has something to do with the Federal Service Unit?” The AG pointed at Grant. “That’s why Eli is here too?”

  He curled his upper lip as he said Grant’s first name, infusing each syllable with contempt. Technically, the attorney general was in charge of the FSU, but when Keller set up the new agency, he and the president appointed all the regional commanders. So Grant’s real boss was the K-Man, not the AG, and that drove the little gnome crazy.

  Keller nodded. “
Yes, this matter involves the FSU. Specifically, the Palindrome Project. Do you recall our recent conversation about this program?”

  “Of course. And I’m not surprised you’re having problems with it.” The attorney general stepped toward Keller’s desk, but kept pointing at Grant. “This man isn’t qualified to supervise the project. I don’t know what you were thinking when you chose him. This operation needs a high-level leader, not a Special Forces commando. He has no scientific expertise whatsoever.”

  Grant was ready to defend his qualifications, forcibly if necessary, but he stopped himself when he saw Keller narrow his eyes at the AG. The K-Man clearly wanted to fight this battle himself. “Colonel Grant has recruited dozens of scientists and technical advisors to work on Palindrome. They have more than enough expertise to guide the project.”

  “No, you need independent advisors. Experts who can point out the pitfalls and dangers, instead of blindly following orders.” The AG opened and closed his hands, twitchy and fervent. “Palindrome has tremendous risks, Vance. If something goes wrong, it could have catastrophic consequences for public safety. And that means you can’t run the project with such a small and inexperienced leadership team. You need input and guidance from other agencies, from Homeland Security and the FBI and the National Intelligence Program.”

  Keller frowned. He didn’t like to be lectured. “We went over this already. If we bring more agencies into the planning, we increase the chances that someone will compromise the project’s secrecy.”

  “Not if you do it right.” The attorney general raised one of his hands to his chest and tapped it with his index finger. “I’m the best person to run Palindrome. If you put it under my supervision, I’ll make sure it stays secret. And I’ll give the project the leadership it needs.”

  Grant had to bite his tongue to keep himself from laughing. The little schemer was so transparent. The AG didn’t really care about public safety. He was just trying to expand his bureaucratic turf. That was the biggest problem with this administration, all the clowns wrestling with each other for control of the circus.