38. Evie
EVIE
Cold air escapes through the widening gap.
Not stale air.
Conditioned.
Preserved.
The Warden fires through the breach behind us.
A bullet strikes the vault door and ricochets into the ceiling.
“Hold the entrance!” Rook orders.
Shark and Falcon take position behind the collapsed shelving.
Cobra adds two steel cabinets to their cover.
Caleb starts toward them.
I catch his hand.
“You’re hurt.”
“So is Falcon.”
“That doesn’t make either of you less injured.”
Victor’s rifle fires again.
Caleb squeezes my hand once.
Then releases it.
“Stay with Fathom.”
“I’ll stay where I’m useful.”
His eyes narrow.
“That isn’t the same answer.”
“It’s the one you’re getting.”
He almost smiles.
Then runs toward the barricade.
The vault door reaches its final position with a thunderous impact.
Our flashlights illuminate rows of climate-controlled cabinets disappearing into darkness.
Leather-bound ledgers.
Metal cases.
Vacuum-sealed drives.
Photographs.
Microfilm.
Boxes marked only with dates.
Fathom enters behind me.
“This isn’t one operation.”
Mac steps across the threshold.
His legs nearly fail him.
“It’s all of them.”
I open the nearest cabinet.
Binders fill every shelf.
FIRST CIRCLE.
SECOND CIRCLE.
THIRD CIRCLE.
The labels continue.
Each level farther from the center.
Each circle containing more people who may not even know who controls them.
I remove a recently disturbed binder.
Photographs cover the pages.
Government officials.
Military commanders.
Judges.
Intelligence officers.
Each biography includes family members, finances, weaknesses, and secrets.
A handwritten status appears beside every name.
RECRUITED.
COMPROMISED.
REMOVED.
“These aren’t enemy agents,” Falcon says from the doorway.
“No,” Fathom whispers. “They’re ours.”
The next section contains flags from dozens of nations.
The United Kingdom.
Germany.
France.
Australia.
Japan.
Brazil.
The files continue beyond the reach of my flashlight.
“This isn’t a national conspiracy.”
Fathom stares down the rows.
“It’s global.”
I open another cabinet.
Hundreds of photographs fill it.
Children at birthday parties.
Couples on their wedding days.
Military graduations.
Families at parks and county fairs.
At first, they look harmless.
Then I turn over a photograph of a little girl sitting on her father’s shoulders.
A note is written across the back.
USE IF SUBJECT 184 REFUSES REASSIGNMENT.
My stomach turns.
“They kept records on the families.”
“Hostages,” Shark says.
“Leverage,” I correct.
A man might accept death for himself.
The First Circle threatened the people he loved until obedience looked like protection.
Caleb enters the vault.
Blood darkens his side again.
“What did you find?”
I hand him the photograph.
His jaw locks.
“They did this to our fathers.”
“Yes.”
His eyes move toward me.
“And they would have used you against mine.”
“Or you against mine.”
For one breath, we simply look at each other.
Then I notice a smaller cabinet against the far wall.
Its door requires a key.
But the lock is already open.
Inside rests a black leather journal embossed with three concentric circles.
Mac stops when he sees it.
“I know that book.”
“Whose is it?”
“The Chairman’s. No one was allowed to touch it.”
I lift the journal carefully.
The leather is soft from years of use.
The first page contains seven words.
IF YOU ARE READING THIS, I HAVE FAILED.
The next page is titled:
SUCCESSION DIRECTIVE.
Fathom leans closer. “That isn’t a journal.”
“No.”
I turn the page.
“It’s a contingency plan.”
The bunker shakes.
Concrete cracks somewhere outside the vault.
Victor roars through the barricade.
“You cannot escape!”
Caleb looks toward the entrance.
“He’s almost through.”
Rook points toward the cabinets.
“Take everything you can carry.”
His gaze lands on the journal in my hands.
“That leaves with us.”
I hold it against my chest.
“It will.”