The Trigger (22 page)

“You’re wasting your time. I’ve tried all those.”

Dallas spent twenty minutes on it anyway, then picked up the screwdriver. What if she disabled the keypad? Would the door open… or would it lock permanently? She pressed the tip of the tool between the metal edge of the keypad and the concrete wall and gently pried. The mechanism didn’t budge. She might not be able to access the wires without dislocating them.
Fuck!

She fought to stay calm. There had to be another way out. A second exit—of course. Preppers were thorough and paranoid types. They likely hadn’t built a bunker with only one access point.

Heart pounding, she spun around. “We have to find the other exit.”

“There isn’t one.” Emma shook her head, looking a little dazed.

“I’m going to tear this place apart looking for it. Give me the lantern.”

Emma handed it over, then went to a shelf in the kitchen for another. Dallas followed her, eyeing everything. Calling it a kitchen was too generous, but the space did have a countertop, cupboards, and a sink. They had plumbing!

“Where does the water go?”

“I don’t know. The bunker was already here when I married Randall.”

“Where does the ventilation come from?”

Emma pointed at a three-inch vent near the ceiling. “Oxygen is pumped in through that opening.”

Three inches was no help. Dallas yanked open a cabinet and started pulling food items down to the counter. “Help me look for a larger opening!”

Emma joined the search, but they found nothing in the kitchen. Dallas ran to another freestanding structure with floor-to-ceiling shelves and drawers. She looked around and didn’t see a movable chair. Just a bed, a couch, and a table covered with paperbacks, chocolate, lotion, and other female stuff. Stacks of plastic crates lined the back wall. Dallas wondered what was in them. What did people pack for the end of the world? She hoped to go out in a blaze of glory, or even a sudden, stupid death, but not cowering in a cave, fighting over the last can of tuna.

“I need something to stand on,” she snapped at Emma. “Help me clear the crap off this table.”

“We have fold-up chairs.” Emma dug one out from between two plastic crates. “What are you gonna do?”

“I’m still looking for a vent. So should you.”

Dallas climbed on the metal chair and pulled blankets and reference books from the top shelves, letting them fall to the floor. No vent. She made her way down the shelves to the drawers at the bottom, which were filled with medical supplies, batteries, and packages of dried fruit.

The walls were uninterrupted concrete everywhere.

Except for a back corner, which was screened off by plastic panels. Dallas rushed over.

“That’s the composting toilet,” Emma called, following her.

Dallas opened the makeshift door. The toilet was tall with a solid white base, and the smell was milder than she’d expected. But the appliance was not her concern. The large vent behind it, covered with a slotted grate, made her heart leap with joy.

“Help me move this thing!” With no plumbing attached—only an electrical plug —the toilet was portable.

The damn thing weighed a ton, and even with both pulling, it moved inches at a time, and they had to stop twice. When they had a foot of clearance from the wall, Dallas stepped in and examined the screws on the vent. Phillips head. She rushed back for the correct tool and quickly removed the four screws. Stale warm air trickled out the opening.

Just big enough for an average person to fit through, the tunnel was lined with dense wet earth. The brothers had probably intended the vent to provide a flow of oxygen as well as function as a means of escape. Dallas turned to Emma. “Get some flashlights.” Randall had taken all of her gear, and it pissed her off all over again. Had he found the FBI cell phone hidden in a compartment inside the backpack? If she didn’t check in by morning, her team would come looking.

If Spencer’s financial malware was already on its way into cyberspace, the bureau needed to focus on a public communication effort. More important, they had to pinpoint Randall’s targets for destruction. She had to get out of here fast and warn them.

Emma handed her a small light that would strap around her head, like a miner would wear.
Very handy.
Dallas pulled it on. “Do you know where this tunnel comes out?”

“No, but based on the direction, it’s probably near the creek.”

Dallas had thought the same thing. As much as she wanted to climb in the tunnel and crawl like crazy to daylight, her job was to rescue Emma. “You first.” Dallas pulled the metal chair into place.

Emma chewed her lip. “You should go. I’m afraid I’ll freeze up and block us both.”

Relieved, Dallas stepped up on the chair, climbed into the vent, and started crawling. Small rocks cut into her hands and knees, and in places cold water ran down the walls and puddled in the tunnel. The hand Randall had stomped earlier ached from the weight of her upper body, and her head throbbed where she’d been kicked. None of that mattered. After a few minutes, the vent curved right and began a gentle downward slope. She stopped and called back, “Are you with me, Emma?”

“Yes.” The voice behind her came through gritted teeth.

The air was suddenly warmer. Dallas picked up her pace, ignoring the pain flooding her body. In a moment, she could smell fresh air. Another hundred feet, and she emerged, landing in dense brush that she had to claw her way out of. She could hear the creek nearby. Thank goodness. She would follow the waterway to the generator, then make her way back to Destiny from there.

Behind her, Emma cried out. Dallas turned to see her fall on her face. But she was fine, and they were outside, free of the bunker. Now they just had to steer clear of the Clayton brothers. Dallas instinctively reached for her weapon—which she no longer had
.

Randall raced back to the cul-de-sac, his thoughts spinning as quickly as his feet. He’d just kidnapped a federal agent, and now they had to put everything into action immediately. Spencer would be furious, but they were both far too committed to stop. The carefully orchestrated meltdown they’d planned spun more out of control every moment, and the stress was making Randall itchy and ill. This had happened to him on the campaign trail too. Near the end of his last election he’d been covered with hives and vomited daily.

As he neared Spencer’s house, he slowed to a walk to catch his breath. He needed to appear confident, in control. He knocked on his brother’s back door, not wanting to be seen out front. In the middle of the night, it was best not to barge in. They all kept weapons handy.

After a long wait, Spencer came to the door. The skin under his eyes sagged, his hair was tousled, and he had what looked like mucus on his shoulder. Randall remembered that Spencer was taking care of Tate. “How’s my boy?”

“A little cooler now and sleeping.” Spencer stepped back to let Randall in. “You need to stay with him for a while and give me a break.”

“We have another issue.” Randall headed for the fridge and pulled out a couple of beers. He downed half of one, ignoring Spencer’s folded arms and bracing stare. Finally, he plunged in. “Sonja Barnes is an FBI agent.”

“What? Why do you say that?”

“I followed her out to the bunker tonight. She was looking for Emma.” Randall pulled off her backpack and set it on the counter. “She carries a gun.”

“Oh no. Where is she? What did you do?” Panic made Spencer’s voice sound unnatural.

“I put her in the bunker. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You locked a federal agent in the bunker?” Spencer rubbed his temples and made an odd moaning noise. He looked up, eyes blazing. “Why didn’t you talk to me? We could have just made her leave.”

“She found Emma. It was too late!” Randall hesitated, then lowered his voice. “Was I supposed to kill her?”

“No! Christ. Don’t even say that.” Spencer began to pace. “Did you restrain her?”

“I didn’t have the chance.” Randall wondered if he’d made a mistake. “I just locked her in, like we did with Emma.”

“So what’s the plan?” His brother’s harsh mocking tone made Randall cringe.

“We speed up everything. Send out all the financial emails and crash the banking websites.” Randall figured it was time to ease Spencer into the whole truth. “I think Raff should target communication companies as well. We need to shut down the internet. Unless we create total chaos, this FBI agent could still make trouble for us.”

Spencer was silent for a long moment, then a look of weary resignation settled in. “How did you know Sonja was a plant? What made you follow her?”

Randall told him about the conversation he’d had with Sadie in the tavern. “But if you remember, I warned you the first day she was here.”

Spencer’s eyes went wide. “Did you get her cell phone?”

“She had two. One in an outside pocket of the backpack and one zipped inside.”

Spencer riffled the pack for the hidden phone and began reading her messages. “I’ll send a text to her contact, telling them everything is fine.”

“Great idea. We should keep sending them for a while. Maybe eventually, we’ll say she plans to join us and won’t be back to work.”

“That’s brilliant.”

Randall loved hearing it. Spencer so rarely praised him.

His brother glanced at the clock. “I have to get back to the data center, and you’d better look in on Tate.”

“What do you think about my idea to crash the internet?”

“I don’t know. Does it fit our mission?”

“Yes! Our goal is to cut carbon production so drastically that we halt global warming.” Randall was feeling more upbeat. It was about time they finally took charge. “You’re targeting oil companies with financial paralysis, so shutting down the internet just speeds everything up.”

“But Raff is too busy with the financial attack. He doesn’t have time to hack into a bunch of tech companies with tight cyber security.”

“Maybe I do.” The hacker’s voice came out of nowhere as he crossed the dining area. “But not right away.” Raff met Randall’s eyes. “Are you still planning to blow up internet hubs?”

Spencer spun toward him. “What? You have explosives set?”

“Not set. Just a few people ready to make it happen.”

“No violence!” Spencer stomped and clenched his fists. “We agreed that no one would be directly hurt.”

“Fucking semantics,” Raff said. “Everyone is going to suffer. You can’t create a new world without breaking the old one.”

“No explosives!” Spencer yelled. “We’re not terrorists.”

“You can’t stop me,” Randall argued. “All I have to do is send one group email.”

“Listen to reason! It isn’t necessary. We’ve already got Standford Oil’s finances frozen. By Monday the company will be rationing gas, and by Friday it will shut down refineries. And that’s just one element. Don’t do it.” Spencer pleaded with him. “Just go take care of your baby. Raff and I can finish this.”

Randall was done arguing. He needed to check on Tate, but after that he would head to his place and load the second explosive into his truck. Halfway to Sacramento, he’d send the email that would put his team into action. Even if everyone else failed in their mission, he wanted to shut down the capital city. He owed the state that for rejecting him.

Raff was pumped to the max. He was sedentary by nature, didn’t even watch sports because it was too intense for him. But this was wild. Sonja was an FBI agent and the wacko brothers had kidnapped her. His usually methodical mind raced from one thought to another. His instinct was to bolt. Pack his shit, jump in his car, and get the hell out of this freaky little pseudo-paradise. The feds would eventually show up to find their girl, and he didn’t intend to be here.

But if this crazy-ass scheme the brothers had cooked up even half worked, who knew what would happen? Especially if Randall and his little group succeeded in blowing up internet hubs. That would keep the feds busy! And if thousands, or millions, of people charged into their banks on Monday demanding all their money, riots might break out when the banks ran out of cash. That would keep law enforcement busy too. If the brothers kept sending texts and emails from Sonja’s devices for a while, they might buy themselves enough time to get away with it. Crazy-smart motherfuckers!

Raff decided to finish the job Spencer had paid him for, stir up a little more shit in the Muslim wasteland, and hang around for a day or so to see what happened. This was too fucking awesome to walk away from just yet.

First he told Spencer he needed a break and headed back to his apartment to pack everything but his toothbrush. In the dark, he quietly carried both bags to his car. Ideally, he planned to sanitize the room of his DNA before he left, but he wanted to be ready to make a speedy exit. He put popcorn in the microwave and downed a beer while he waited for it. The stink of sweat rose from his armpits, and he regretted packing his deodorant. He used a paper towel to wipe his pits, grabbed his bag of popcorn, and started down the stairs. He remembered Sonja downing vodka shots and kicking his ass at chess. She’d been pumping him for information! He liked her even more. Too bad she was a fed—and locked in a bunker. He wondered if he should do anything about that. Nah. She could take care of herself.

Back in the data center, he grunted at Spencer, then took his spot in front of a monitor. The only way to ensure a full-fledged war in the Middle East was to piss off the clerics who ruled Iran. The night before, with the help of a hacker friend in Tel Aviv, he’d finally found and taken over a group of proxy computers in Israel. He had hoped to access banking information through them, but he didn’t have time now. So he began an assault on one of the Iranian government’s websites. Once he modified the standard “server slowdown” bot-code to target the specific URL, the proxy computers would start sending hundreds of access requests every minute, overloading the site’s server and shutting it down. No real harm would be done, but Iran’s cyber specialists—probably former hackers—would trace the attack to the Israeli proxy servers. Combined with the theft of Syria’s money, the cyber assault from Israel might push the hard-line Iranian clerics to their limit. They could launch a first strike before the day was over. The world would soon learn whether Iran really had nuclear missile capabilities.