Everything was in place. He’d recruited the right partners to help him pull it off. He just needed to wait for the right event, something big, something with enough emotional resonance. He knew that, sooner or later, it would come. The planet was roiling, writhing in anger. More and more natural catastrophes were taking place all around the globe. And the one he got came as if gifted by the gods themselves. The best part of it all was the role the media would play. They’d buy into the deception without hesitation. It was visceral, it was huge, and—in its crucial launch phase, anyway—it was about saving the planet, an issue that was dear to their hearts.
Too bad, Drucker thought again, his hands steepled in front of his pursed lips. He would have preferred for Rydell to be on board. To be part of it all. He’d tried to convince him about the need to introduce a messenger—a prophet—to the mix. They’d talked about it at length. But Rydell wouldn’t listen. Drucker didn’t like doing what they had to do to Rebecca either. He’d known her for years, he’d watched her grow into an attractive, free-spirited young woman. But it had to be done. Rydell was too passionate. His commitment and his intensity came with an inflexibility that couldn’t be overcome. He’d never be able to accept the trade-off. And, besides, he couldn’t be fully included anyway. He was part of the end game. The sacrificial pawn that was crucial to its successful closure.
Drucker’s phone trilled. He glanced at its screen. The Bullet’s name flashed up. The enabler. The man whose foot soldiers were making it all happen. The charred, deformed marine who was Jackson’s commanding officer. The man who’d left half his face in the same Iraqi slaughterhouse that had ripped Drucker’s son to shreds.
Drucker picked up the phone.
The news wasn’t good.
Chapter 58
Brookline, Massachusetts
The hydraulic compactor whined as it swiveled upward. Almost instantly, a sour stench wafted out of the truck’s belly, even though the truck wasn’t actually carrying any garbage. Matt let the compactor rise two thirds of the way up, then killed its motor. The heavy lid just held there, cantilevered over the yawning, stinking cavity of the truck’s hold.
Matt leaned in. “Get out here,” he ordered.
A short moment later, Rydell stumbled out, shielding his eyes from the day’s glare.
The truck was parked in a deserted, narrow alley that ran parallel to and behind a busier, low-rise commercial street, at the back of a closed-down Blockbuster video store. It was six blocks from the municipal service center where Matt had stolen the truck. The green Bonneville was parked nearby. They stood by the mouth of a narrow passageway, out of view, shielded from any potential passing cars by the bulk of the truck.
Rydell stank. His clothes had rips in them, and he was battered and bruised from bouncing around the empty metal box. He was wheezing, his breath coming in brief, ragged bursts. A nasty, bleeding gash had been cut into his left cheek. He was wobbly, totally unbalanced, and had to lean against the truck, breathing in heavily, shutting his eyes, gathering his senses, and probably doing his best not to throw up.
Matt allowed him a few seconds to recover, than raised the big silver handgun the shooter at the airport had lost and held it inches from Rydell’s face.
“What did you do to my brother?”
Rydell raised his eyes at him. They were still half-dead, drowning in a morass of pain and confusion. He glanced at Matt, then across to Jabba, who was hovering nervously a few steps back, but Rydell’s head was still spinning and he still wasn’t totally there. His eyelids slid shut and his head lolled forward again as his hands came up to rub his temples.
“What did you do to my brother?” Matt growled.
Rydell raised a hand in a stiff back-off-and-give-me-a-second gesture. After a moment, he looked up again. This time, his expression was alive enough to telegraph his not having a clue about who Matt and Jabba were or what Matt was asking him.
“Your brother . . . ?” he muttered.
“Danny Sherwood. What happened to him?”
The name resuscitated Rydell. His eyes flickered back to life, like a succession of floodlights getting switched on in a stadium. He winced, visibly struggling with how to answer.
“As far as I know, he’s okay,” Rydell said with a hollow voice. “But it’s been a few