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Dead.
Cotton was nowhere to be seen, which meant he had to have headed into the tunnel.
So she followed.
* * *
Malone inched forward on his belly, hands thrust ahead pushing the flashlight along. The confines were so constricting he could not even bring his arms back to his sides. He was easing his way toward the case, clutches of dirt coming away in his grip with each inch of ground gained. His throat choked up, his lungs felt as though they were filled with fluid. He coughed, trying to get air. Dirt from the ceiling cascaded and caused him to stop. He wondered if his efforts might cause a cave-in.
That thought paralyzed him.
He reminded himself that a nuclear bomb lay just a few feet away. If it exploded he would be utterly vaporized. The only saving grace would be that this torture—and that’s what it was—would be over. But he could not allow that to happen. Too many people above were counting on him. So he kept crawling, shoulders passing his elbows, kicking with his toes.
He made it to the bomb.
The chute here was maybe twenty-four inches tall at most. Not much room to even open the case. Jostling it around, trying to pull it back for more room to work would take time and could be catastrophic. He saw that its latches were free. He laid the light where it held the case in its beam and carefully opened the lid enough so that his hand could enter.
He felt the stainless-steel cylinder.
Hot.
He recalled what Daniels had advised and flicked the toggle but, to be sure, his fingers probed and found the wires springing from the battery poles.
He yanked them free.
Sparks triggered inside.
His eyes went wide.
He waited for a blast as hot and bright as the sun, a blinding phosphorous light he’d see only for a millisecond.
But nothing.
Another few seconds.
Still nothing.
His prison was ice-cold, the air nearly impossible to breathe. He was truly in the bowels of the earth. He lay still and stared at the case, his hand resting inside. He moved his fingers and again found the cylinder. Already not nearly as hot. Only warm and fading fast. He kept touching, then gripping. Touching, gripping.
The cylinder was definitely cooling.
He’d made it.
The damn thing was disarmed.
Time to leave.
He tried to back out, but couldn’t. He tried again, but the ultratight space restricted his movements. When he tried to force it, dirt fell, clogging the air. Suddenly everything around him seemed to be contracting even more, bearing down, crushing him.
More earth rained down on his spine.
The chute seemed to be resenting his intrusion.
He was stuck.
Mother of God.
What the—
The chute collapsed.
And he screamed.
* * *
Cassiopeia hustled as fast as the tunnel would allow, using her phone for illumination. She could only imagine what Cotton was experiencing. He hated tight places. This was tough even for her, and she wasn’t necessarily bothered by them. She’d moved a long way into the ground, maybe a hundred meters, the tunnel becoming progressively smaller, when she heard a shriek.
From ahead.
Not far.
She increased her pace and finally saw where the tunnel became more of a slit, closed onto itself.
There was movement.
Shards of light seeped out.
Oh, God.
Cotton was buried.
* * *
Malone lost it.
He could not remember the last time, if ever, he’d screamed. He felt silly and weak. The stink of his own fear had finally hammered him into submission. He closed his eyes as the reality of the situation washed over him. He heaved at his leaden body, arms and legs cramping with pain. He was buried, barely able to breathe, his brain locked with only one thought.
Get out.
How could—
“Cotton.”
He grabbed hold of himself.
A voice.
Firm, resonant, authoritative.
And familiar.
Cassiopeia.
Just hearing her yanked him back from the precipice.
“I’m here,” he said, trying hard to keep control.
Hands grabbed his shoes. The sensation of her touch calmed him. The dual grip on his ankles told his addled brain that he might be okay.
Hold on. Take it easy. Help is here.
“I’m sealed. I … can’t get out.”
“You can now,” she said.
* * *
Cassiopeia had dug her way in, tossing dirt out behind her, burrowing furiously until she’d found Cotton’s feet. She now kept a firm grip on his ankles and wiggled herself back out of the chute. Being smaller gave her a few more precious centimeters in which to maneuver.
The scream had been his, and she knew why.
If there was any concept of hell, which she did not necessarily believe in, this would be Cotton’s.
* * *
Malone wiggled his way backward, Cassiopeia helping things along with solid pulls on his legs. Just a few more feet and he’d be free of this coffin. He’d left the case and flashlight. Others could retrieve them later. He just wanted out. His feet and legs escaped the chut
e, back into the cramped three-by-three-foot tunnel, which seemed like Grand Central Station compared with where he’d just been.
He was on his knees, his breathing ragged but calming. A light came on from a phone and he saw Cassiopeia’s face. Like an angel.
“The bomb?” she asked.
“I got it.”
“You okay?”
He heard the concern and nodded.
But he wasn’t.
He dragged air into his aching lungs and fought a coughing fit, his whole body heaving, throat still filled with bile and fear.
She reached over and clasped his wrist. “I mean it. Are you okay? It’s just you and me here.”
“I was … buried.”
He knew his dirty face reflected pain and pleading, his features clawed with terror, but he did not try to hide any of it. Why? She’d heard his scream, revealing a vulnerability that someone like him would never want exposed. But they’d made a pact. No more bullshit.
So he decided to honor it.
He stared into her eyes, grateful for what she had done, and said what he felt. “I love you.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
WHITE HOUSE
MONDAY, JANUARY 21
5:45 P.M.
Stephanie studied the Oval Office, the room now clear of anything to do with the administration of Robert Edward Daniels Jr. Warner Scott Fox had taken the oath, as prescribed by the Constitution, yesterday at 12:00 noon. She’d stood just outside the Blue Room and watched, everything broadcast live to the world. The whole time both she and Edwin had wondered if they’d all be blown to dust from an underground nuclear explosion, but nothing had happened.
Cotton had done his job.
Which had allowed for the second ceremony today outside the Capitol. Fox had spoken in the cold for half an hour with a surprising eloquence, energy, and courage. The new president had enjoyed the inaugural parade, then returned to Blair House to prepare for an evening on the town, he and his wife moving from one ball to another. But first Danny had asked to speak with him, choosing here, in his old haunt, for a final conversation.
The gang was all there.
Cotton, Cassiopeia, Edwin Davis, and herself.
She’d reported everything to Danny yesterday, just after the swearing-in. She’d wanted to tell Fox, but Danny had vetoed that idea.
