Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

“Right now, I’m improvising.” Brodeur adjusted his aim from Miller to Adler and then back to Miller. “I was tasked with following you and reporting everything you discovered.”

“To monitor what the president knew,” Miller guessed.

He nodded. “I’ve become quite good at intelligence gathering.”

“How is this possible?” Adler asked. “You’re an FBI agent.”

Miller realized Adler could easily put the pieces together herself. She was stalling for time as the data transfer progress bar scrolled across the bottom of the computer screen behind them. But then what? Did she think he had a plan? Because aside from being Superman or the Flash, there was no way he could cover the distance between himself and Brodeur without being cut down.

“I was brought back in 2000. My first year included painful physical therapy. But I regained my former strength, and then surpassed it. For a year I studied modern American culture—learning about all of the silly ways you waste your lives. I perfected my Southern accent and then, in the wake of nine-eleven, when the military and law enforcement agencies began recruiting for the War on Terror, I was inserted into the United States with a complete history—passport, driver’s license, medical history, diplomas, everything I needed to join the FBI. I have enjoyed rapid promotion since.” He smiled. “I will be an Obergruppenführer in the SecondWorld.”

“But you almost died,” Adler said. “Several times.”

“A cause not worth dying for is a cause not worth following,” Brodeur said. “While I am thankful I will survive to witness the new world’s arrival, I would have gladly given my life, along with yours, to stop your progress.”

“Why not kill us yourself?” Miller asked.

“I considered it,” Brodeur replied. “On many occasions. But I could not risk exposing myself, and my superiors, if you survived the attempt. Better to die with you.”

Miller could feel the muscles of his back knotting. He understood how the president must have felt when he learned about the vice president’s involvement. “My apartment. Huber’s lake house. The attack on Air Force One. The police in Poland. Those were all you?”

“I cannot take credit for the lake house, but the rest…” The man just couldn’t keep himself from grinning. He took a small phone from his pocket. “You have your phone. I have mine.”

All of this was disturbing news, but a realization began forming in Miller’s mind. “Huber was already on the hit list?” Miller asked.

“He was.”

“But you wouldn’t send six men to kill an old man. The Germans. The men like you—”

Brodeur’s smile faded slightly. He gripped the MP5 tighter. “Were friends of mine.”

“They were there for Huber. But the other four. They were there for us.”

Brodeur said nothing, waiting for Miller to figure it out.

“And you didn’t know where we were.”

“Not at all,” Brodeur confirmed.

“No…” Miller’s thoughts came clear. “Fred Murdock.” His friend. His boss. Who he’d worked with and fought alongside for years.

Brodeur laughed. “He detests you. Has spoken of you on several occasions. The half-Jew mongrel. Firewood for the oven.”

Miller took half a step forward wondering how many rounds he could take and still break Brodeur’s neck. Adler’s hand on his wrist stopped him from moving.

“You shame Germany,” Adler said, her voice seething spite.

Brodeur’s eyes zeroed in on Adler’s hand gripping Miller’s. His nose twitched with disgust. “It is not I who have betrayed his heritage. Yours surrounds you even now. All of this was made possible by your grandparents. How proud they would have been to see this. How pleased they would be to know you lived to see SecondWorld.”

“I would rather die here,” Adler said.

“I’m afraid I cannot allow that. You will be coming with me.”

What is it with these guys and Adler? Miller wondered. But quickly realized the truth. The Nazis were all about purity—good breeding. Genetics. Adler’s grandparents were Elizabeth Adler and Walther Gerlach. Genius-level genetics. And given Adler’s pure white skin and bright blue eyes it seemed clear that her mother’s last name wasn’t Hernandez. She was a prize to these men in a world where many once “pure” bloodlines had been mixed as skin tone became less of a problem and more of an attraction. And he knew from his time with the NCIS that the majority of white supremacists in the United States were undereducated, and mostly men. The willing and available women in SecondWorld might not meet the stringent standards of the thawed-out Nazis, but Adler… she was—Miller looked at her—stunning, intelligent, and pure-blood German. A wife like that didn’t have to be willing.

Miller pulled Adler behind him. It was a useless gesture. Brodeur could shoot him where he stood. But if he was about to die, and she could make it out alive, then there was still hope—as long as she thought to take the thumb drive from the computer while Brodeur couldn’t see her.

“Please,” Brodeur said, looking at Miller. “Stand to the side. You don’t want her harmed as much as I.”

The man was right. Miller steeled himself for pain and death and—

“Hey, Survivor!” Vesely’s voice was distant, and excited. He had no idea what was happening in the control center, and the surrounding equipment would keep him from seeing Brodeur’s MP5 leveled at Miller's chest. But his appearance unnerved Brodeur and kept him from pulling the trigger. At least for the moment.

“I found a UFO, Survivor. You need to see for yourself!”

Miller looked over his shoulder. Vesely stood one hundred feet away between two of the cryogenic chambers. If Brodeur took a shot and missed, Vesely would have plenty of cover and an MP5 to defend himself with, not to mention the two .38 Supers still strapped to his hips. Brodeur had seen the man’s speed and aim. His first shot had to be a kill.

“Tell him to come closer,” Brodeur said.

“I can’t hear you, Cowboy,” Miller said. “Come closer.”

“Have you found something interesting?” Vesely asked, stepping toward them.

“Come take a gander for yourself,” Brodeur said, his German accent replaced by the Texas drawl.

“A gander,” Vesely repeated with a smile as he walked toward them. “This Texas accent never gets old. Like old Westerns, you know, Survivor?”

Was Vesely trying to tell him something?

“No offense, Survivor, but I think sometimes you would be better off if you were more like John Wayne.”

He was definitely trying to tell him something. John Wayne. How could being more like John Wayne help him? The man played gunslingers, but was actually a slow draw. What else was there? The only other thing he knew about Wayne was that the doors on his movie sets were made in miniature to make him look bigger. Because he was short!

Miller ducked.

Brodeur adjusted his aim toward Vesely.

Three shots rang out.

A shout of pain followed.

Miller recognized the voice as his own.

Lancing pain came next.

Miller recognized the burn in his left arm. Brodeur had pulled the trigger a moment before clearing Miller’s body. Two shots left the barrel of the assault rifle. The first struck Miller. The second headed toward Vesely.

But the third round Miller heard fired still echoed in the massive chamber. Cowboy’s .38 Super. He had gotten off a shot.

Miller rolled over and pushed himself up. He saw his MP5 lying a few feet away and reached for it.

“Don’t move!” Brodeur shouted.

Miller stopped mid-reach and looked up.

Brodeur stood near the exit of the octagonal control center. He held Adler by the hair and had his assault rifle pressed against her back. With most of his body concealed behind Adler, not even Vesely could get a clean shot.