Page 48 of The Presidents Shadow

Maddy turns, moving quickly into the dark recesses of the alley. On the other side, a few yards away, everything is brightly lit by streetlights. She can see two of her fellow workers standing in their usual spots.

Relieved, Maddy takes a few steps toward them but is stopped when a strong gloved hand comes from behind her and covers her face. Unlike the goons under the bridge, these men expect Maddy to fight back and are prepared for her counterassault. Unable to take them by surprise, she’s lost her advantage.

While she struggles to escape, the attacker forces herhead back. Of course, it is terrifying. She moves her eyes and sees that there are two of them.

Surprisingly, they’re not the same two guys she saw in the Cadillac. These are new attackers. They both have ski masks pulled down over their faces and woolen scarves pulled up high around their necks and chins.

As one guy holds her head in place, his partner thrusts an aerosol can into her face. She’s about to squeeze her eyes shut against the coming spray, when a third man appears. He is dressed exactly like them—ski mask and scarves totally obscuring his face. But he’s clearly not a friend. Maddy feels the man holding her tense up at the sight of him.

“What the hell?” he says, and is blown backward off his feet. His buddy follows, both of them thrown out of the dark alleyway and into a dumpster across the street. The third man, with almost impossible speed, removes his mask, scarf, and jacket.

“Dache!” Maddy yells.

She cries. She is terrified and happy. But Dache appears to be stern, angry.

“Listen to me! And listen well!”

Maddy shakes her head up and down. She is shivering, shaking.

Dache continues. Intensely. Firmly. “I will not always be here to help you. You must understand that. This is your final lesson. This is your most important lesson.You must learn how to save yourself!”

CHAPTER 67

THE PARACHUTES ALL deploy; I wait to jump last and see all three balloon into life below me. The jolt of the chute after I pull the ripcord feels as though I’m being yanked roughly upward, knocking the air from my lungs. After that, it’s almost pleasant. I glide through the air, taking in the New York City skyline.

But that all changes when I realize what’s about to happen.

The cargo plane shudders on, dropping rapidly as it is programmed to do. I keep my eye on the three chutes below me, unable to tell who is who. One of them hits the water, the chute floating for a moment—then sinking. I can see a human figure flailing, and then it goes under, dragged down by the chute.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I say. But I can’t fall faster.

I concentrate deeply, then send an enormous amount of mind power in their direction, pulling the sinking person above water. I see their hands scrabbling—I don’t know ifit’s Margo, Tapper, or Burbank—but they are able to free themselves from the chute and swim away as their gear sinks once again.

The plane, meanwhile, has rapidly lost altitude. It hits the water of the bay, sending up an enormous wall of water that is only going to give the swimmer more trouble. But that’s not the biggest problem. Margo was right—the fuel tanks on the plane were quite full, and the plane explodes on impact, sending a percussive wave of hot air in all directions.

I’m immediately blown out to sea, and I spot the other two chutes struggling as well. One of the jumpers cuts themselves free of their gear and free-falls the rest of the way to the water. I steady my own chute with my mind powers, watching as the last chute makes it to the water and the human figure swims away, safe.

Now I can see all three of my team below me, swimming for the shore. The mind connection I’d built between all of us is strong, but in some ways it’s only making matters worse. I can feel their pain, their fear, and the weakening of their bodies as they try to make it to land. I send a last pulse of mind power at the trio, creating a small wave that pushes them to the shore, just as my own feet hit water. I slip easily from my chute and glide to shore, feeling the collective relief of my team as I do. I gain my feet and walk to them across the surf.

Margo, Tapper, and Burbank are wet and shaking from the cold, but no one seems to be hurt, thank God.

Margo even manages a smile for me. “Next time, Lamont—a better plan would be nice.”

It’s a miracle that we all survive, and it turns out that New York City, in its own way, is also a miracle. The city has so far remained untouched by the horrors that are destroying so many other parts of the world. New York has no beds full of sick and dying people like in Australia, no half-mile-high tons of rubble like in Kyoto, no rushing water flooding the streets like Copenhagen.

“Who would have predicted that New York would turn out to be a beacon of stability and peace?” says Margo as we make our way back to our home.

“Too soon,” Tapper says, as he comes to an abrupt halt.

It seems that Margo and the rest of us misread the situation.

A crowd of about fifty people are gathered directly in front of our house. They all push and shove one another, trying to get as close as they can to the entrance of my home.

Burbank is first with the obvious question. “What the hell is going on?”

Then we get our answer. Sort of. One man in the crowd points toward us and yells, “There they are. It’s Cranston and his people! They’re right here! They can’t hide!”

Suddenly, the crowd moves toward us. Everyone is yelling. Questions pepper the air.

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