True Allegiance

Aiden’s death had changed her, hardened her, she knew. She could fob off the California water crisis as political bureaucrats playing games. She could even pretend that Ricky O’Sullivan had been railroaded by a race-baiting system. But the drone attack—that was on Prescott. She had voted for Mark Prescott the first time. His promises of a better America, a more caring America, appealed to her.

Then, it turned out, caring was just a cover for control.

The drone had targeted both her and Ricky, but they’d made it to the trees in time. The military must have miscalculated; for whatever reason, she and Ricky had been stunned to see headlines touting their deaths. They’d hunkered down in the woods for a few days; by the time they made it back to camp, the group had disbanded, disappeared.

That night, as they sat by the fire in a country that had tried to kill both of them, Soledad broke down and cried. It was the first time she could remember, at least since the death of her parents. It wasn’t that Aiden had been so wonderful—there were times, she knew, she couldn’t stand him. But he represented hope to her in a way difficult to quantify. She believed in the inherent goodness of the system, despite everything, and Aiden represented that: a system made of good people who, when push came to shove, would stand against the powerful on behalf of the powerless.

And then the powerful killed him.

Meanwhile, after Aiden’s death, Ricky snapped back into the zombie state he’d been in before the rescue. He felt like a man apart, alone. The headlines about Soledad didn’t surprise him—of course the media and many Americans would celebrate her death. It was the easiest thing to do. Better to cheer the downfall of a lone terrorist than to hold up her cause for understanding.

He had been stunned, however, by the triumphalism with which the media treated his own death. He’d been acquitted, for God’s sake. He’d tried to serve his community. And there, on television, were faces from his hometown, Detroit, smiling at the news of his death. And there was Mark Prescott, telling the press that the killing showed that Ricky O’Sullivan trafficked in terrorism, and the killing closed the door on a “sordid incident sullying our national unity.”

Something had to change. He knew it. Whether Soledad was right or wrong no longer mattered to him. Something had to wake people up.

They had turned their motorcycles toward New York City.

Soledad felt the handgun in her purse. It was a 3D printed plastic gun; she’d bought it from a gun enthusiast in Ohio. He’d been a nutcase, obsessed with weaponry, with an industrial-grade printer in his garage. Prior 3D printed guns had been made with a few key pieces of metal to absorb the explosion of the gunpowder in the bullet—but this guy had perfected a method of making specialized bullets with a thicker shell that could absorb the brunt of the explosion. That meant no metal in the gun at all, just metal in the bullet. The plastic gun could be hidden in the bottom of her purse and wouldn’t set off a metal detector. And she could hide the bullet virtually anywhere. She chose to embed it in a pair of gaudy, dangling earrings.

That meant she’d have one shot.

She’d have to get within a few dozen yards of the president. But if she did, she knew, it would be enough.

Thanks to the foot traffic at the harbor, traffic had screeched to a standstill across the city. Brett and Ellen occupied one end of the limousine; Tommy Bradley sat across from them. For a few minutes, the White House chief of staff tried to engage with Brett and Ellen. When he realized they weren’t in the mood for small talk, he went quiet. Now they stared at each other awkwardly. Eventually, Bradley took out his cell phone and began making calls, smiling apologetically as he did so.

Brett turned to Ellen. He whispered to her, “I need to go now, sweetheart.” She looked up at him quizzically. He continued, “They won’t let me go anywhere once we get to the airport. I need to get down to the harbor. But you listen to me: whatever you do, you get on the plane with Prescott. I don’t know whether this attack will come at the event or not. But I want you out of this city.” He paused. “I’m so sorry for this, Ellen. I’m so sorry for everything. We could have had a life together.”

She looked at him, dead in the eyes. “Brett Hawthorne, I want you to know this: you are my hero. You always were. I am so proud to be your wife. I wouldn’t trade my life for anyone’s.”

They felt the urge to kiss each other—then they remembered Bradley in the car, and hugged instead. “Take a bullet for you, babe,” he said.

“Take a bullet for you, sweetheart,” she answered.

Before Bradley or the Secret Service agent in the car could react, Brett reached for the lock, popped it open, and stepped out into traffic. By the time they responded, Brett had dodged through the cars, sprinted around the corner, and was gone.