A. Colucci - The Colony

Now he had fifty news stories and computer printouts strewn across his mahogany desk. With raging black eyes, he stared down at the sensational photos. Russo had the temper of a pit bull and the body to match, broad at the chest and rounded at the shoulders, with a long torso that tapered down to a pair of short, sinewy legs. He puffed on a cigar and ran his thick fingers through a comb-over, dyed an unnatural black.

The latest post was from an MSNBC website minutes ago. Last night a subway worker covered in ants had to be practically scraped off the face of the number 6 motor car.

Russo winced.

“The White House confirmed your call for nine-thirty,” said his secretary, Olivia, standing outside his office. “And the exterminators just arrived so you better start packing.” She went back to her desk. Russo smiled. Things were going better than he expected. Already he had spoken to the president three times and the head of Homeland Security twice. He knew the road to glory was paved with small victories. Like union strikes, terrorism and three-alarm fires, this ant thing was a blessing in disguise.

Olivia buzzed. “Sir, it’s the governor on line three.”

He grumbled again and picked up the phone. “Hey, Bob.”

“John, I asked you to get me those reports first thing this morning. Why offer to handle the paperwork if you’re just going to sit on it? Is that what you’re doing, John, sitting on it?”

“Look, all we’ve got is a few deaths, couple of stings, and specimens as harmless as fucking butterflies. This is local. We’re doing just fine on our own.”

“That’s not what I’m hearing. You’ve got Washington involved and that’s where I step in. The deadline is noon, got it?”

“Sure, sure. Noon.”

“I’m not kidding. Elections are six months away and you’ll need my support.”

Russo hung up the phone and laughed. He had won the mayoral race in a landslide without a single endorsement. He didn’t need any politician in Albany to get his votes. He was a fierce competitor and devoutly regarded the city as his own. Politics was his calling, like the priesthood to his brother Salvatore. But while Sal had only to satisfy God, Russo had to please a million civil servants who never agreed on anything and 8 million New Yorkers who agreed on even less. He had been tough on crime and tougher on terrorism. The White House practically gave him sole credit for preventing two of the worst terrorist attacks on the city, in which he bypassed federal law enforcement and sniffed out multiple al-Qaeda cells using his own police force and street snitches. With the dismal state of world affairs growing more dangerous every day, citizens felt safe with John Russo at the helm.

Yet he had higher aspirations. A large audience of zealous Republicans clapping wildly on the right, covetous Democrats tapping palms on the left. Mr. Speaker, the president of the United States—

It was practically guaranteed.

Russo packed his briefcase. He would be heading to the secret location, the most secure place in Manhattan. Even the press didn’t know about it.

He glanced at the clock and grimaced. Paul O’Keefe was supposed to join him for the ride. The mayor wondered if it was a mistake, putting the notable entomologist in charge of solving the ant crisis. Russo had a habit of appointing a single person to manage every disaster. The main criteria for the job was expertise in the field, a deep understanding of public relations, knowing how to balance a budget—and doing exactly what the mayor advised. Paul seemed well qualified.

Olivia buzzed again. “Sir, it’s the president. Line one.”

Russo grinned and picked up the phone. “Mr. President. Glad to hear from you.”

The mayor listened intently, and his face turned grave.

Paul found himself lost in Gracie Mansion. He had declined an escort and took one wrong turn after another. By the time he remembered the mayor’s study was in an upstairs parlor, he was out of breath and twenty minutes late.

Russo was hunched over the phone with an expression of disbelief. Paul recognized the look quite well; more news about the ants. He cleared his throat and the mayor looked up, gestured to a chair.

Paul didn’t feel like sitting. Instead, he walked quietly to a window and watched the crowd of press photographers crawling all over the grounds. Reporters had been camped out on the porch since dawn, undeterred by a cop at the entrance who kept insisting that the mayor was out of town.

An exterminator strolled casually into the office, whistling through a handlebar mustache, snapping gum, and spraying chemicals along the floorboards. He was wearing a gray jumpsuit labeled DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH AND HYGIENE and he carried a tank of poison on his back.

Paul sighed. The man’s attempts to kill the ants seemed comical.

Russo hung up the phone and Paul was ready with the same excuses. “I don’t have anything new,” he told the mayor. “The samples taken from the two victims this morning—”

Russo raised an impatient hand. “Never mind all that. I’ve got some news, straight from the White House. This is big, Paul. Really big.” He threw on his suit jacket and stopped at the window. “Those damn reporters still out there?”

“They’re just trying to find out what’s going on, John… sir… Mr. Mayor.” Paul was still unsure how to address Russo. They’d been “close friends” for less than two weeks, since the first ant attack. “We can’t keep telling the press these are normal ants. Letting them believe the victims died of allergies.”

“Well, we’re not ready to talk yet.” The mayor grabbed a cigar smoldering in an ashtray and started for the door. “Follow me. This is a critical meeting.”

“Where are we going?” Paul asked.

“The one place they don’t know about.”

Paul passed the exterminator and said, “You know, that’s a total waste of time.”

Russo laughed and headed for his limo in the underground parking garage.

THE CABIN OF THE Cessna was exceedingly small. The luxurious interior couldn’t hide the fact that there was zero headroom, half a dozen seats and an aisle as wide as a squirrel. For three hours Kendra was in a sweat, trapped in a coffin two-thousand feet in the air.

She hated flying. Really hated it.

On her tray was a Thai chicken wrap, which definitely trumped the granola she’d been living on for months. But she felt nauseous from the flight—and besides, it almost certainly contained peanut oil. Despite the EpiPens packed in her duffel bag, it wasn’t worth taking a chance. That left ginger ale and a tiny bag of pretzels. She took tiny bites and little sips.

Agent Cameron was busy at a laptop across from Kendra. He didn’t seem to mind the cramped quarters, even though his legs protruded halfway down the aisle and the top of his head grazed the ceiling.

As soon as they boarded, the agent had given Kendra a stack of forms, nondiscloser statements and questionnaires, having to do with top-secret clearance. Reluctantly, she signed a document that stated, “Failure to comply with this agreement may result in criminal prosecution and up to 25 years in federal prison.”

The agent paid no attention to Kendra’s barrage of questions, offering only a silencing finger as he continued typing. It was infuriating being ignored.

She strained her neck, trying to read the folder by his side. It was labeled Kendra Hart. She let out a huff and slumped in her seat, unable to shake the feeling of being kidnapped, hunted down like a criminal. She turned to the billowing white clouds in the window, a constant reminder that the coffin was flying, and it sent a chill down her spine. Maybe the government wanted her for some kind of secret experiment. If she were to disappear, who would really notice? The university faculty perhaps, but they could be silenced. There was no family or friends checking in on her whereabouts. She was the perfect specimen.