So much had happened to him—to
them
—and he’d given her so many reasons to walk away. He’d never tried to intentionally push her away, but he couldn’t have planned a better way of accomplishing it.
And yet she was still here, holding him as if there were nowhere else she’d rather be.
Daniel had told her once the story of his youth, when he was often getting hurt but would always manage to bounce back. And even now, he had bounced back again. He’d even come to terms with his mistakes and made an admission of guilt. With this clearing of his conscience, his long-missing confidence seemed to be returning by the moment.
Daniel wondered if he was an evil man. He was a murderer; there was no doubt about that, even if the man he’d killed had definitely deserved it. But still he felt the death, as though he had
willed
death upon that vile man without the use of a gun. He’d enjoyed it, but it hollowed him out. He knew even as he was doing it that the ends didn’t justify the means, but at the time, he didn’t care.
He cared now. He’d explained all of this to Lisa last night, and he longed for someone to condemn him, to confirm that he was the evil man he knew in his heart he was. But instead, she’d said three words that he was not prepared for.
I forgive you.
What an absurd thing for her to say. He hadn’t shot
her
in the head. Why should her forgiveness make any difference?
But even as he thought of these things, his eyes moistened again. It was such a remarkable thing, those three little words. They had unmade him.
Lisa sniffled quietly to herself from behind him, and he suddenly wondered if her thoughts were lingering on the same things that his were.
“I love you,” she whispered. He hadn’t moved in quite a while, enjoying the feeling of her arms wrapped around him, so she probably assumed he was asleep.
Daniel’s heart lurched, and several moments passed as Daniel debated whether or not to reply, or acknowledge that he’d heard her.
Finally he could take it no more. He stirred, slowly loosening himself from her grip and turning to face her. Shame was etched across his features, along with no small amount of alarm.
Lisa reeled backward on her hands and feet. Her eyes looked ready to pop, and her mouth fell open.
Daniel shook his head miserably, struggling to find words, any words at all. “I’m . . . But . . . I’m a murderer. And a coward,” he said, his raspy voice barely audible. “I don’t deserve you. How could you possibly . . . ? Why . . . ?”
Tears fell unrestrained from Daniel’s eyes as Lisa suddenly relaxed and smiled as if relieved and thrilled and utterly calm all at once. She nudged herself up against the bars again and took his hands. “Because the choice is mine to make,” she replied. “And I’ve made it.”
Ethan Cooke wiped sweat away from his face, glanced up, and read a stamped beam above his seat, printed with the words
Conveyor Pod #168
. Already the black opalescent Pod—big enough to carry twenty or more, though he was alone on this trip—rocketed through the Secretum’s underground electromagnetic tunnel system at a bullet’s pace.
The Pod was circular in shape, but flattened like a straw on its side that’s been pressed down. There was nothing terribly eye-catching about the vehicle other than its sleek, futuristic design—a stark contrast to what he’d seen of the subterranean city where the Secretum lived, with its ancient architecture and caveman feel. Comfortable seats were stationed in simple rows; he sat near the vehicle’s front, a single knee bobbing up and down anxiously. There was no pilot or cockpit; the Pod was entirely automated. All he had to do was enter and select his Entry Node destination from a screen at the front of the passenger area that listed all possible destinations, and he was off.
Only one destination had come to mind, and he’d chosen it almost without thinking. The computer’s readout display periodically flashed on-screen with the time and distance remaining until he reached his destination. The time remained frozen, but the second readout said
2,811 km
— 2,811 kilometers to go.
In their arrogance, the Secretum had never bothered installing security measures within the Conveyor system. They believed that no one from the surface would ever be able to find it—or if they did, it would not deter the Secretum’s plans—so why bother securing it?
Ethan’s escape from the Secretum’s city had been narrow; Oblivion emerged from below just as Ethan was starting up the stairs that led to the alcove high above. He tried not to think about what would have happened to him if he’d been discovered by Oblivion. Just like he tried not to think about what was happening to his Ringwearing friends right now.
Oblivion
. . . he thought, the name new in his mind. He’d first heard it less than two days ago when he was abducted and drafted into a covert agency, which operated unimpeded by local or even national jurisdictions. The world had become unpredictable, unencumbered by rules. They seemed a better hope in such a world than the CIA or his former employer, the FBI.
Oblivion has come. It’s really happening. Everything I was
told . . . It’s all true, and it’s all happening.
Right now.
His new superiors hadn’t given him a contingency plan, in case he couldn’t get to Substation Omega Prime and stop what was destined to happen in time. They placed so much responsibility on his shoulders so fast . . . It was almost as if they knew he would fail. Knew there was no way to stop what was destined to happen.
Then why send me at all?
I
am
the lowest guy on the totem pole. Guess that makes me
expendable.
Still, something felt wrong about it. Ethan was an unknown quantity to them. Wasn’t he?
Had they known he would be too late? That Oblivion would emerge shortly after he arrived?
But that would mean they meant for me to see him, to witness
it in person . . . But why?
An old feeling returned. Ethan’s thoughts went back to his last few days with the FBI, when he’d received cryptic messages that put him on the path to finding Grant Borrows and his friends. That path had led him to resign from the FBI, only to find himself picked up by this mysterious group he knew very little about.
Was it all part of the same path? Was he still being guided along by his anonymous benefactor?
If so . . . to what end?
He looked up again.
A new idea occurred to him. At first, he brushed it aside impulsively. But then his sense of responsibility kicked in.
A cellular phone call was out of the question—he was traveling at supersonic speeds underground. Not to mention the fact that the earth’s satellites had entered deteriorating orbits and would eventually burn up in the atmosphere.
Ethan glanced around. Beside each seat in the Pod was what looked like a high-tech communications terminal, complete with a twelve-inch LED screen. He touched the screen and it blinked to life, presenting him with several options. After a bit of toying with the device, he decided it was a secure communications system, apparently used by members of the Secretum. It took more work to find out how it operated: some kind of advanced, underground communications telemetry based on sonar technology, of all things.
With a little fast thinking, Ethan was able to trick the system into hacking its sonar-based signal into a telephone land-line on the surface.
After a familiar dial tone emerged from the device’s speakers, Ethan punched in a phone number that provided privileged access to the Hoover Building in Washington, D.C.
He sighed, dreading this conversation almost as much as he’d dreaded encountering Oblivion.
2,440 kilometers.
“Code in, please,” answered a male voice on the other end.
Ethan rolled his eyes. He no longer had any valid codes. “This is former special agent Ethan Cooke. I need to speak to Director Stevens immediately. Tell her . . . tell her I have intelligence on what’s happening to the world’s measurements of time.”
A noteworthy pause later, the man replied, “One moment, sir.”
Ethan watched the clock count down to 2,203 kilometers before Stevens’s curt voice spoke into his ear.
“This better be good, Mr. Cooke,” she said, putting extra emphasis on the
mister
. “You’ve just pulled me out of a briefing with the Joint Chiefs, so skip the pleasantries and tell me what you know. If it’s good enough, I might
not
have you hunted down as a deserter with a ‘kill on sight’ order.”
Ethan ignored her threats. This conversation was necessary to keep the U.S.—or anyone else—from making a terrible mistake.
“Whatever your scientists are telling you about time having stopped moving forward—however outrageous it sounds, I can verify that it’s one hundred percent true.”
“And how do you know—?”
“Later,” he said, cutting her off. “The source of the phenomenon is a person. A single, superhuman individual capable of inconceivable power. An individual currently located in the nation of Turkey.”
“And do you know who this individual is? Consider your reply very carefully, Mr. Stevens. You may not be under my command anymore, but you did take an oath to uphold the sanctity and sovereignty of this nation. I would advise you to keep—”
“Listen to me very carefully, Director,” Ethan said with urgency, as static intruded upon her words. When it cleared, he continued. “I am calling you to urge you
not
to advise the president to take military action against this individual—no matter what happens next. Hear me clearly on this, because I can’t possibly overstate it: There is no power in the arsenal of mankind capable of harming this man. Any action taken against him is tantamount to condemning the entire planet to destruction. No matter how many men or weapons you throw at him, it will never be enough.
Do not engage this target.
Do you understand me?”
A pause. “I want to know who this ‘target’ you seem to know so much about is,” Stevens replied. “
If
he even exists, which I’m not entirely inclined to take your word about.”
“I don’t know anything about him,” Ethan lied. He knew quite a lot about Oblivion, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. He didn’t know
everything,
though.
He looked up at the readout again. 1,972 kilometers to his destination.
“You’re not a good liar, Mr. Cooke,” Stevens replied at last. “I believe you that this mystery man exists, if for no other reason than you’re so intent on keeping his identity from me. Which leads me to conclude that your friend Guardian is connected to all of this.”
“Trust me,” Ethan retorted, “this has
nothing
to do with Guardian.”
Stevens
hmph
ed in his ear. “I’ll see about confirming your . . .
intel
. . . And I’ll take your counsel under advisement. But I promise you, Cooke, if I find out that Guardian is connected in any way to this, I will personally deliver his head
and
yours to the president on the shiniest platter in Washington.”
Click.
No
. . .
Payton emerged from the secret entrance to the underground city behind Grant, the Secretum, and the Loci. The path led out into the open night sky of the Taurus Mountains.
They were very high up, so high that he didn’t have to attempt to move his neck to be able to see the clouds rolling violently, churning and boiling. Fire seared the clouds, licking at its edges. It was a colossal sight, the entire sky offering its angry protest at what the world was becoming. It left Payton feeling tiny, like a single grain of dirt, in comparison.
A hot wind blew across the steep mountain slope, and Payton, still in thrall to Grant’s commands, was also able to see that the phenomenon turning the earth black as ash had followed them from below. Even now it was creeping outward from the spot where they stood. The storm above seemed to grow to the same proportions as the dark earth below it spreading outward; the storm was keeping perfect pace with the changes to the ground.
No, that wasn’t quite right. It was creeping outward from the place where Grant stood. He was the epicenter of this— whatever
this
was. Wherever he moved, the earth seemed to die and turn black, like the inside of a volcano, and the black death radiated outward from his position, consuming every piece of dirt or sand or stone in its path. Even the sparse trees and plant life here in the Taurus Mountains turned to ash and became dehydrated, dying fast once the blackness touched them.
Payton took all of this in, in the merest fraction of a moment, and it changed everything for him. His thoughts, his desires, his attitude—it all shifted now. Because while he had no frame of reference for the phenomenon happening to the ground beneath his feet, he knew exactly what was happening in the skies overhead. He’d witnessed it before. As had most of the other Ringwearers.
It was the firestorm. The very same firestorm that had blistered the skies over Los Angeles several months ago, the day Grant had squared off against his grandfather.
It was happening again. Whatever had happened to Grant, whatever the Secretum had done to him, or he’d become—
this
was exactly what Grant’s grandfather was trying to achieve back in L.A. Where Maximilian Borrows had failed, Devlin had succeeded. But Grant wouldn’t be stopping the storm this time, reining it in with his emotions. It would be allowed to roam free, unabated, consuming the skies above the entire world.
He caught sight of Devlin, hovering at Grant’s right hand with reverence and self-importance, as if it were a place reserved just for him.
The old git’s loving every minute of this,
Payton thought of his former mentor.
Payton silently vowed to choke the old man to death with his bare hands the second Grant released his hold over the Ringwearers.
But that was assuming Grant
would
release the Ringwearers from his thrall. At the moment, Payton had every reason to believe that his existence from this point on would continue just as it currently was. An automaton, slave to Grant’s will. Forever trapped inside his own mind, with no means of escape. Very likely he would die this way, and he cursed every single person he could think of—including himself—at this most bitter of thoughts. He was a warrior. Anything less than a death earned by a superior opponent was an unworthy means of passing into whatever awaited beyond.