The Foundation: Jack Emery 1 (25 page)

She rested back in the seat and after a few blocks she started to feel safe. The car pulled up at a red light. She heard the glass on the car window shatter before she was deafened by a large bang and blinded by a million shining lights. Her head was spinning as she closed her eyes and brought her hands up to her ears.

Her breathing quickened and her heart raced, even as her hearing started to return. She heard a gunshot, which meant her driver was dead. Then the door of the car open as she fumbled for her seatbelt and any chance at survival. Still too disoriented to move efficiently, she squealed as she sensed someone slide into the back seat beside her.

“I surrender.” She could barely hear her own voice over the ringing in her ears. “If the Bureau wants me that badly, they’ve got me. Just don’t shoot.”

“It’s not the FBI.”

Fear gripped the pit of her stomach. While she still couldn’t see as a result of the flashbang grenade, she knew the voice. “Chen.”

His hand grabbed her by the throat. She squealed again.

“Where are my children? That is your only chance.” There was malice in his voice.

She started to hyperventilate as her vision returned enough to see him. He wore a balaclava and there was no remorse in his eyes. Her mind scrambled for the answer he sought. The Foundation—or what was left of it—had his children, but she couldn’t think of where.

Then it came to her. “Pennsylvania. They’re in Philly. The address is in my phone. Leave me alone and you’ll be with them in a few hours. But I need a deal.”

“Give me the address and I’ll determine what deal you get.”

She had no choice. “The code to the phone is three one five six. The address is in the notes.”

She felt pressure under her chin. Something poking into it.

This time she didn’t hear the bang.

***

Chen stepped back and crouched down. A second later, the small charge on the door handle hissed and flared white hot. The lock was breached. Chen looked around one last time and pulled the door open. It swung back on its hinges with only the slightest whine. He moved inside swiftly but silently, his pistol raised and alert for any sound or movement. He closed the door and was alone in the dark.

Using the information from Dominique’s phone, he’d tracked his children to this address in Philadelphia. While he was elated to be so close to them, he was also mindful to keep his thoughts on the job. His children were still missing and in danger, and the FBI and the Foundation were engaged in a dangerous cat-and-mouse game all across America. They could arrive at any second. That would be complicated.

The first room in the office was dark, lit only by green emergency lighting. He could make out a reception area and front desk, but the room was remarkably sparse for any sort of active business. He didn’t give the area another thought as he moved cautiously to the only other door in the room, which he assumed led to the main office area. He put his hand on the door handle and turned it slowly. When it was half turned, he waited for any sound, but there was only silence. He opened the door and stepped through.

He was faced with a long hallway with offices at evenly spaced intervals. At the end of the hall, slightly offset, was another room with no door. He moved quickly but as quietly as a snake toward it, checking each office for threats before moving on. Finally, he reached the doorless room at the end of the hallway.

He felt his breath catch in his throat when he saw his daughter, blindfolded, sitting at a steel table in what must be the lunchroom. A few more steps and he saw his son. They were both blindfolded, with ankles shackled to the table leg and uneaten sandwiches in front of them.

He raised his pistol an inch higher, but eased his finger away from the trigger. Despite his training, his emotions were on edge. He moved silently to the doorway, but kept to the side and out of sight. Finally, he saw the guard he knew had to be there. He doubted the overweight, middle-aged slob was among the Foundation’s elite.

Chen moved quickly, his head clear of all thoughts except the threat to his children. He took four large steps between the door and the sleeping man, who was dozing with his chin on his chest and a newspaper in front of him. Chen placed the pistol against the man’s head and squeezed the trigger as easily as turning off his television.

The pistol gave the slightest kick in response, which is more than the man in the chair offered. A fine spray of blood escaped from the other side of his head and only then did the children sense that someone else was in the room. They both raised their heads, and turned them from side to side, as if they expected their blindfolds to fall away.

When he saw his daughter grab her little brother’s hand, Chen’s heart nearly broke.

“Who’s there?” His daughter spoke only broken English. “Please don’t hurt us.”

Chen crouched down to his knees and whispered, in case other threats were close by. “It’s your father. Stay calm, climb under the table and uncover your eyes.”

His children settled instantly. He stayed in position while they climbed under the table and removed their blindfolds, though he couldn’t do anything about their shackles for the time being. Once they were in position, Chen removed the dead man’s pistol from its holster and took out the clip.

There was one door left, on the opposite side to where he’d entered the break room. He moved toward the door and stood to the side. He put his hand on the door handle, but didn’t get the chance to turn it fully, because a high-caliber pistol barked, blowing two large holes in the door. If he’d been standing in front of it, he’d be dead.

Chen’s mind screamed with options: either advance through the door, fire back or find another way into the room.

A voice called out from the other side of the door, “I know who you are. Take the kids, leave me alive and we all walk away. The key is on the hook.”

Chen processed what felt like thousands of small bits of information in a single second. He’d completed a hostile entry under fire a number of times, and it held no fear for him, but he’d never done it with two frightened children—his children—half-a-dozen feet away from him.

While every fiber of his being wanted to terminate the man on the other side of the door, he thought about the feeling he’d had when his father had been killed by the Chinese. He looked to his children, who stared up at him with wide eyes from under the table. The decision was an easy one.

He ground his teeth and took a step back. “You have a deal.”

It was time to go home.

The Chairwoman of the Pulitzer Prize Board, Elizabeth Harley, smiled as she read off the autocue. “And for Best Commentary, the award goes to Jack Emery, for his incisive blogs and columns on the spread of corruption by the Foundation for a New America. Please welcome him up to the stage.”

Jack smiled as he stood. He buttoned his jacket and brushed down the front of his suit, making sure no loose breadcrumbs would ruin the shot of him collecting the award. That would be perfect, end the threat of the Foundation, only to come undone at the hands of a nefarious cobb loaf. He started his walk to the stage.

Harley continued. “Jack’s stories led to hundreds of arrests across the United States by the FBI, and Interpol is still executing dozens of arrest warrants overseas. Among the arrests were many prominent Americans. Most importantly, his work exposed the link between the Foundation and the war with China, and their attempts to stack Congress.”

As he walked toward the stage Celeste smiled up at him, Peter and Josefa patted him on the back and some of the others he knew at his table and in the room offered words of encouragement as he passed. In many ways, this was the end of the craziest year of his life.

Jack reached the stage and walked up the handful of stairs and into the open arms of Harley, who hugged him politely and then shared a peck on the cheek. Jack broke the embrace and walked to the lectern. He searched his pocket for his notes and then thought better of it; he knew what he wanted to say.

He smiled, then leaned in close to the microphone on the lectern. “It’s a pleasure to accept this award and be recognized by the prize board for the second time in my career.”

More polite applause broke out from the room, and Jack was forced to wait while it dissipated. “I believe the stories I wrote about the Foundation were the most important of my career, because of the threat they posed to our freedom.

“Unfortunately, the story won’t bring back some good people. Erin Emery, Ernest McDowell, Admiral Carl McCulloch, and lots of others. I’d like to dedicate this prize to their memory.”

He backed away for a second, and felt a tear welling up in his eye. He smiled awkwardly and Harley placed a reassuring hand on his back. “Just take your time, Jack. The stage is yours for as long as you want it.” 

‘Thanks.” He stepped forward to the lectern again. “The last thing I want to say is that, more than anything, the last few months have shown me that we need to be vigilant. The people in this room are the last line.”

Jack nodded and held up his hand, as long and sincere applause broke out around the room. The short speech felt entirely appropriate, and was about all Jack could give. He’d said more in private to those who were closest to him. It would do. He left the stage with a smile and returned to his seat.

“Nice job.” Celeste leaned in to kiss him on the cheek as he sat. “Nice words.”

‘Thanks.” He looked at the trophy: a solid glass paperweight, engraved with his name. “Something else to gather dust on the shelf.”

She laughed. “Such a burden to be a success.”

“You’ll have to win one next year and start catching up. I think I’ll be stuck on two for a bit.”

The others at his table—Josefa, Peter Weston, Sarah McDowell, Simon Hickens—all laughed at that thought. While the crushing tentacles of Michelle Dominique’s control over EMCorp had receded, there was still a lot of damage for the new management of the company to fix.

Peter Weston had taken control of the board at the behest of Sarah McDowell, and had set about purging the company of Marles and the others who’d made their way in during the period of Foundation rule. The editors had control of content again and things were slowly getting back to normal.

“Want your job back now your price has just doubled, Jack?” Peter laughed. “I might get in trouble from the boss, but she did put me in charge.”

Jack looked at Sarah, who flushed red and looked down at her wine glass. “Pretty sure you’re doing better than the last person I chose, Peter.”

Jack had to feel for her. While none of it was her fault, she’d put the woman who had murdered her father in charge of his company. Though Sarah had been expertly buttered up, it wouldn’t be the finest hour when she got around to her memoirs in sixty years or so.

After Dominique’s body had been found, the FBI had continued to scoop up the Foundation’s entire network, the newly elected members of Congress among them. China, smarting from its losses and barely holding on to control, had accepted US overtures of peace after an apology from President Kurzon. The peace was holding.

Jack raised his glass of Coke. “A toast, everyone? To Ernest, Erin and all the others lost.”

The others raised their glass into the air. 
Josefa broke the silence that followed. “You’ve got a job waiting for you at the
Standard
if you want one, Jack.”

“No thanks, Jo. I’m starting something new.”

This book wouldn’t have happened without the love and support of my wife, Vanessa Pratt. She’s my love, my inspiration and a star. She shines plenty of light on me. I also need to mention Bear Gills II, our other family member, who stared at me agog while I wrote most of the book.

Deep thanks to manuscript tradespeople: Gerard Burg, PD Martin, Dr Kirstie Barry, Christopher Nelson, Andrew McLaughlin, Raya Klinbail, Andi Kenrick and the 2012 WV alumni. Your friendship is wonderful and your help is a bonus.

The Momentum crew are great. My thanks to Joel Naoum, who steered the ship, Tara Goedjen and Kylie Mason, who made it a lot sleeker, XOU Creative, who gave it a shiny paint job, and Mark Harding and Patrick Lenton, who showed it off. I hope you’re all proud of the book and I look forward to working with you all again.

Haylee Nash at Pan Macmillan has been the Yoda to my Luke, there for all of the stupid questions (of which there were many) and to teach me the way of the force. You’re wonderful and I hope to also work with you again soon.

I’m lucky to have a loving and supportive family. Love to Lyn, Paul, Darryn, Fiona, Warwick and little Victoria. I’ve also got the best in-laws in town – Stephen, Maree, Ashley and Lyndon. Firmly in the family column also belong James, Kylie, Andrew, Kristy, Megan, Dr James, Tenisha and Simon.

Slightly indulgent dip of my lid to Jane Milton, who has my deepest thanks, to Lesley Morath, the first person to tell me I could be a writer, and to the army of extended family, friends and colleagues who have supported and encouraged me along the way.

A final nod to you, the reader. It means a lot that you choose to spend your spare time with Jack. Enjoy the book and I’d love to hear from you in a review, on Twitter (
@stevepvincent
), Facebook (
facebook.com/stevepvincentwriter
) or the blog (
stevepvincent.com
).

Steve P. Vincent lives with his wife in a pokey apartment in Melbourne, Australia, where he’s forced to write on the couch in front of an obnoxiously large television.

When he’s not writing, Steve keeps food and flat whites on the table working for the man. He enjoys beer, whisky, sports and dreaming up ever more elaborate conspiracy theories to write about.

He has a Bachelor of Arts (Hons) in Political Science and History. His honors thesis was on the topic of global terrorism. He has traveled extensively through Europe, the United States and Asia.

Twitter:
@stevepvincent

Facebook:
/stevepvincentwriter

Web: 
stevepvincent.com