Chapter 29 Harper #2
I try to scream at Whitman, but other than shaking my chair and emitting muffled noises, it doesn’t do any good. Whitman simply laughs at me.
“And you, dear Harper, thought you were helping me capture your father.” Whitman takes another step and squats down in front of my mom. “Eloise, how does it feel to know that your precious daughter, your lifeblood, came here to arrest you? It was so easy to turn her against you.”
My mother spits in his face, which only makes Whitman cackle. “Harper is doing what she believes to be right. You leave her out of this!” she shouts.
More gunfire. More shouting. I watch as Zurkowski runs past the open door, but before he is out of sight, he drops to a knee and returns fire. He takes off running again, followed closely by one of Whitman’s men.
Whitman wipes his face clean with the palm of his hand, then wipes it on my mother’s pant leg.
He faces me. “As you can see, I have the upper hand. I wonder what your parents would be willing to tell me if I started removing your fingernails with a pair of pliers. One. By. One. Would they give me the location of the uranium? Or the blueprints? What would it be worth to them?”
“Leave her alone!” my father demands. “You want the uranium, and I want answers. It’s a fair trade.”
“I thought you had it all figured out, Robert,” Whitman says smugly.
“I know the ‘who,’ and I know the ‘what.’ You plan on building a nuclear bomb. But I don’t know the ‘where’ or the ‘why.’ Where do you plan on detonating the bomb, and why are you doing this?”
“The why should be easy enough to figure out, but I’ll spell it out for you.
P-O-W-E-R. Not power for me, but for the Bureau.
With the CIA more or less in shambles, we’ve been taking on a lot more responsibility.
We need to police not only the sheep in this country but also the wolves.
If we had been able to keep tabs on the CIA, they never would have been able to do business with The Demon Kings in the first place. ”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing? You’ve been working with The Demon Kings to further your own agenda. How are you any better?” my dad asks.
Whitman’s face turns red as he shouts in my father’s face, “The Director of the CIA wanted to line his pockets! I’m doing it to keep America safe!”
“Detonating a nuclear bomb isn’t exactly keeping America safe,” my mom quips. “What was your plan exactly?”
“I have no intention of detonating anything, but the threat needs to be real. That’s all America needs to hand over their rights.
A little fear goes a long way. The bomb is going to be planted under Times Square on New Year’s Eve, and the FBI will swoop in and save the day before it can go off.
There will be a huge public spectacle that showcases the importance of the agency and how we’re fundamentally important to preserving their freedoms.”
“Freedoms you plan to take away. It will also cause mass panic and a stampede. People will die because they’re trampled on. Either way, you’re killing Americans,” my father says steely.
Whitman shrugs. “It’s a small price to pay to keep America safe.”
“What about the illegal immigrants you’ve been smuggling into the US? How are they a part of your plan?” my mother asks.
“They serve a two-fold purpose,” Whitman says casually, his face returning to a normal color. “They pay me handsomely to come here, and I give them a simple job. But don’t worry, Eloise. I didn’t keep a single penny. That money was used to fund this plan.”
My father’s brows knit together. “And what kind of job are you giving them?”
“An easy one. All they have to do is attend the New Year gathering in Times Square. The FBI will arrest them for an attempted terrorist attack. They’ll either go to Guantanamo or be deported back to Cuba. Either way, I don’t really care.”
My mother starts flailing in her chair and eventually falls over.
She glares at Whitman from the ground. “You’re despicable.
It’s bad enough you illegally bring them into this country, but you do it by giving them the hope of freedom.
Then you smash that hope by framing them for a crime they didn’t commit.
You’re as bad as CIA Director Borshardt ever was. Actually, you’re worse.”
The rapid gunfire outside has all but ceased, and nearly three dozen men march Zurkowski, Ackerman, Walsh, Henrickson—and six other men I don’t recognize—into the barn. Whitman’s men have confiscated the weapons and have M-4s pointed at my father’s team.
“I think it’s time we made an example out of these traitors,” Whitman shouts, gesturing to the lot of us.
Then he leans between my father and me, talking softly.
“I gave you information, Robert. Now, it’s time for you to reciprocate.
However, should you fail to cooperate, know that I have a contingency plan.
There’s a shipment of plutonium with my name on it.
I just need to say the word. Whatever you decide, it won’t stop this from happening. ”
Whitman takes a step backward and reaches for his weapon. “Cut their restraints,” he shouts as he pulls out his gun and points it at me.
I wait for Monroe to cut away the tape securing our ankles before twisting my wrists to tear the duct tape that binds them.
Just as I lunge for Whitman, the Shining Knight Team appears and points their weapons at Whitman.
I falter, but Whitman doesn’t. He spins out of the way and wraps his arm around my neck, pulling me up to a standing position.
Before I can make a move, I feel the muzzle end of his gun press against my temple.