Orson Card - Empire

“Desks,” said Cole. He headed back for one of the rooms full of cubicles and opened drawer after drawer, lifting up papers and feeling around inside.

Sure enough, he found a key that looked like it might do the job. Somebody forgot he had a spare in his desk. Happened all the time.

It wasn’t a master key, but it did open two of the first three doors they tried. Naturally, Cole assumed that the one it didn’t open was the one they wanted, but the third door opened to reveal a normal flight of stairs going upward.

And up and up. It wasn’t just one story up, it was way up. Maybe not all that far from the observation tower on top of the mountain between the lakes.

They ran up at a measured pace—didn’t want to be caught out of breath at the top, just in case somebody had a weapon waiting for them.

There it was. Command and Control. A single room full of screens and computers and control panels and gauges. These computers hadn’t been blown up, because these didn’t contain incriminating data, they just controlled the local machinery.

Cole moved into the room. Now he could see another door, labeled “Restroom.” Standing near it were two men. One of them was Verus, in slacks and an open-collared short-sleeved white shirt. The other man was wearing a business suit and holding an AK-47.

“Just go back down the stairs,” said the man with the gun. “Nobody has to get hurt.”

Cole shot him in the head. He dropped like a rock.

“Calm down now,” said Verus.

Cat moved into the room behind Cole and began scanning the controls. “Here’s the control for the doors,” said Cat. “Still open. There are still trucks going out. And the tunnel—flooded. Hey, thanks for that, Aldo. We’re still not dry.”

“You had no right to come here,” said Verus.

No point in arguing with him about who had a right to attack New York City and kill the cops, or chase Cole through DC and Maryland to get Reuben’s PDA.

“And here’s the lake levels,” said Cat. “One shaft is already open, pouring water back in from Genesseret.”

“Can you close it?” asked Cole.

It was Verus who answered. “You can’t close the upper gate until the Genesseret water level falls to normal.”

“How many shafts?” asked Cole.

“Six.”

“So it’s refilling at one-sixth of the maximum rate,” said Cole. “Still too fast. Close it.”

“But he said—” And then Cat realized that he had been taking the enemy’s word for how the thing worked. Why wouldn’t he? It was an American telling him. “Bastard’s probably got a secret set of controls all primed to flood everything and somewhere there’s an LED display counting down the seconds.”

“You watch too many movies,” said Cole.

“You’re Bartholomew Coleman,” said Verus.

“Sorry I didn’t let your guys kill me in D.C.”

“Too bad you were brainwashed by the right-wing extremists,” said Verus. “I could have used someone as resourceful as you.”

“What about me?” said Cat. “I’m resourceful, too.”

“This time we get to put John Wilkes Booth on trial,” said Cole.

“I didn’t have anything to do with killing that pathetic joke of a President,” said Verus.

“You just happened to be all set to invade New York two days later,” said Cole.

“We were going to move on July Fourth,” said Verus. “General Alton’s coup was going to be our provocation.”

“So Alton was yours,” said Cole.

“Then he decides to improvise and recruit you,” said Verus. “Idiot.”

“You want it done right, you got to do it yourself,” said Cat.

“So am I under arrest, or are you going to murder me?” asked Verus.

“You’re under arrest,” said Cole.

“Either way I win,” said Verus. “Excuse me while I take a leak.” He turned and pushed his way into the restroom, slamming the door behind him before Cole could grab him.

Cole knew immediately that the restroom was not just a toilet. Before he could finish saying “Son of a bitch,” he was at the door, opening it.

Just an unoccupied restroom with a closed toilet stall. Cole immediately dropped and slithered under the stall door. Inside there was a low doorway leading to a sloping ladder going upward. He could hear Verus climbing rapidly. Cole unlocked the stall door as Cat came in. “I think I got the flow stopped,” said Cat.

“He went up here,” said Cole, ducking into the ladderway. “I can see him.”

“Just shoot him,” said Cat.

“We want him alive,” said Cole softly. “And he knows it.”

They raced up the ladder after him. It was easy to overtake him. Verus was physically fit, but he was also in his sixties.

There was no reason to stop him, though, and risk having him fall and injure himself on the ladder. Cole just reached up and tugged on his pant leg a couple of times, to let him know he was right behind him.

Near the top, Verus slapped his hand against a button on the wall and a trap door opened automatically. If he had visions of closing it before Cole could get out, he was disappointed—Cole was out almost before he was, and grabbed him by the arm as he tried to run away. Verus fell to the ground, pulling free of Cole’s grip. At once, Cole pointed his rifle at Verus.

Cat came out of the trap door behind him. Only then did it close.

“Shit, we walked right by this and didn’t see it,” said Cat.

They were only a dozen yards from the cleared area around the observation tower.

There was a helicopter approaching from the northwest. Not the direction any task force would come from—but just the right direction for a chopper planning to take Verus to Seattle.

“No wonder the clearing around this tower’s so big,” said Cole.

Cat got his Minimi into position and fired a burst toward the chopper. It didn’t burst into flames, but the pilot got the message all the same. The chopper swerved away.

Verus got to his feet, watching the chopper fly away.

When he turned around, he was holding a pistol, which he pointed right at Cole.

“Go ahead,” said Cole. “Let’s have the video of Aldo Verus shooting a United States soldier in the performance of his duties. Let’s have that at your treason trial.”

Verus lifted the gun toward his own head.

Cole shot him in the hand. It was a big heavy bullet and his hand exploded in blood. Verus screamed and fell to the ground, holding his hand and writhing.

“I’m a sharpshooter with the U.S. Special Forces,” said Cole. “You’re not getting away with shit.”

“More choppers,” said Cat. “Good guys this time.”

“Your transceiver still working?”

Cat switched it on. “Seems to be. Even wet. Cool.”

“Tell whoever’s doing liaison with the attack force that most of the people they want are in trucks out on Highway 12. And we have Verus.”

Cat made the call.

“Lie down on your belly and put your hands behind your back,” said Cole.

He frisked Verus, then started field-dressing his hand. The bones were pretty messed up inside. That hand would never work right again. Cole knew it was petty, but it made him feel a grim satisfaction. That’s for Rube. That’s for a bunch of cops and a doorman in New York. I hope it hurts you every day of your life.

Meanwhile, he got the bleeding stopped and the wound bound before one of the Blackhawks landed in the clearing to take Verus into custody.

History is never proved, only supposed. No matter how much evidence you collect, you’re always guessing about cause-and-effect, and assuming things about dead people’s motives. Since even living people don’t understand their own motives, we’re hardly likely to do any better with the dead.