True Allegiance

Through the cracked glass of the television, the picture shifted. Now, the mayor stood next to Big Jim. Mayor Burns spoke first. “We may not all agree with the decision of Prosecutor Donahue,” he said. “I promise you that the Justice Department will engage in its own investigation. But we ask that everyone please remain calm, allow justice to take its course.” Big Jim stood next to him, nodding at every word. Then Big Jim stepped to the microphone. “We will not stop here to ensure that justice is done. Rioting, looting, violence will not help anything. We heard your call, ‘No justice, no peace,’ and I join that call—let us have peace so that we may have justice.”

The black female news anchor appeared in studio, well-coiffed and manicured, tears in her eyes: “Officer Ricky O’Sullivan is due to be released today from prison; the time and location of his release have not yet been given, due to safety concerns.” Then, unable to hold herself back, she muttered, “Awful, just awful.”

Levon turned off the television and turned to face the crowd in his barbershop. For the first time, he noticed the news cameras all around him. And he realized that, suddenly, he had the advantage: Big Jim was standing next to the mayor of the most racist city in America, and he was standing next to the black mother of a black child who had just been shot by a white cop—and that white cop had just been allowed to walk by a white DA.

The camera zoomed in on Levon. He forced himself to cry, just a tear; he looked up at the browning tiles of the ceiling. Then, he exhaled slowly and looked directly into the camera. “Enough dead children. It stops today.” And he silently led the crowd from his barbershop, walking the long miles toward the criminal justice center, picking up stragglers, then groups, then dozens, then hundreds along the way, a sea of faces, a sea of enraged faces, all of them with the pain of centuries written on them, each burning with an ember that Levon fully intended to stoke into an open fire.

Brett

New York City

BRETT SURVEYED THE DAMAGE FROM the top of a nearby parking lot. It stretched before him like a diorama: unreal, in miniature, too dramatic for life. Since the attacks, all commercial air travel had been shut down, thanks to warnings from the Department of Homeland Security. The terror chatter had actually elevated after the attack. DHS thought the airlines could be targeted again, given the focus on the destruction of the bridge.

Brett’s homecoming hadn’t been much of one. By the time he landed, his rescue, if you could call it that, had been blown off the front pages by the terror attack. His flight back to Texas had been canceled, and he’d been stashed at a local hotel, with guards on him at nearly all times—the president was obviously worried he’d talk to the media without handlers nearby. Ellen had hinted via phone that some big move was imminent in Texas from the governor, but he hadn’t had time to focus on that: he’d been more focused on helping out Bill Collier. Collier’s wife, Jennifer, had been on the bridge. They still hadn’t dredged up her body.

The day after his arrival, Bill had met Brett at his hotel. He’d dismissed the security for a few minutes. Brett could see that his friend had aged a century in a day—his face looked craggy, his eyes sunken. Bill had been married to Jennifer for a long time. He’d also lost his daughter in the attack, an eight-year-old he’d called his Little Trooper.

But Bill Collier would have no time to grieve until the cleanup was handled. Bill told him that National Guard units from across the country had been activated, ordered to New York to assist with the national crisis. He told him that the president would use the opportunity to call for a massive spending package on infrastructure, urge further cuts to the military to “build up on the home front.”

Then he told Brett that he’d be personally ordering him to New York City.

“The president won’t like that,” Brett had said.

“Tough. My patience for bullshit goes out the window after I watch them search on television for my daughter’s body,” said the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “I’ll make whatever excuses I have to make. I want to know who is responsible for this. And right now, you’re my best lead. You’re the only person who’s seen this Mohammed. I think Ashammi’s behind it. So does intelligence. He hasn’t taken credit yet, but I want you to track down whoever it is you think you saw.”

“You said it yourself: it’s a needle in a haystack.”

“We might have a lead. But I need your eyes on it. I’m sending you to New York on the next military flight. I’ll make excuses to the president. But I’ll need your word that you stay away from the media. That’s the only thing Prescott cares about.”

Brett nodded. Then, slowly, he said, “I’m sorry about your family, Bill.”

Collier grimaced. “Yeah, me too,” he said. “Me too. Now go get the pieces of shit who did this so I can bomb them back into the sixth century.”