Dead Edge: the gripping political thriller for fans of Lee Child

6

Be2 e5

The hard concrete of Jefferson County Parkway pounded through Cooper’s sneakers. Pounding through his head as he sprinted along the tree-lined sidewalk. Pulled down heavy from the drugs whilst the Colorado sun scorched a pattern of fire on his back. Parked car after parked car. Empty vehicle after empty vehicle fuelling his alarm.

He stumbled as he ran, looking for a cab in the deserted streets and not realizing the loud cry for help he’d heard had come from him, until the call of panic cut at the back of his throat. The only thought making sense to Cooper was somehow he had to make the twelve mile trip to Denver.

The sound of a car, an engine, had Cooper spinning round. He squinted. Shielded his eyes from the sun. And there on the other side of the road, driving down the public highway, like water to a thirsty coyote, was a rusting grey Honda.

Cooper exhaled. Long. Hard. Tasting every second of the relief because although the driver didn’t know it yet, Cooper knew that car was going to be his one-way ticket to Denver.

Quickly he darted across the middle section. Scrabbling up and along as the Honda began to drive past him. Briefly Cooper thought about hailing, waving the guy down like he was summoning a yellow Checker taxi in NYC. But for once, sense kept his mouth shut and his hand firmly by his side. His mind was messed up, but even he wasn’t going to bet on the driver stopping for a sweat drenched, wild-eyed guy.

Cooper dug for an energy he wasn’t sure he had, trying to push himself forward, feeling the burn of his legs as he ran to get in front of the station wagon.

He dived.

Threw himself round in a one eighty.

Closed his eyes.

Heard the slamming of brakes accompanied by the noise of the horn which told him he was still alive.

He peeled his fingers off the burning hot metal of the hood, thumping his fist on top of the roof to counteract the pain, then watched as the driver’s eyes welled with terror. Three hundred and twenty pounds of fear. His stunned deliberation – as to whether to risk driving off or not – costing him, giving Cooper the chance to fling open the door.

‘Hey, sir, how’s it goin’?’

The gaping mouth full of nachos and the remains of a cheese dip on his lap made Cooper feel bad for the guy.

‘Here’s the thing, sir. I need your help. I’m not going to hurt you but I need to borrow your car.’

The guy started choking. Real hard. Guacamole-colored saliva dripped from his mouth and onto his chin. He gave no words to Cooper, just nodded like a marionette on a string, his jowls wet with drool as he cowered from the hard pat on his back from Cooper.

‘Look, it’ll be okay… My name’s Thomas J. Cooper. If you go inside the court, ask for an Earl Edwards. He’s my attorney. He’ll vouch for me… I will return your car, sir. But hey, you can always ride along with me if you’re concerned that I won’t bring it back. Or if you prefer, you can always get out here.’

Cooper didn’t blame the guy. Heck, he didn’t blame him at all, though he reckoned it was the fastest the Guacamole guy had run since high school.

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Cooper put his foot down and drove. Over the mid-section of Weimer Street. Over the sidewalk of Johnson Road. Over anything that got in his path. Swerving. Weaving through traffic. Keeping his eyes out for the cops as he sped down the freeway towards Denver.

Sign read, 60.

Speedometer read, eighty-five.

Sign read, Do Not Pass.

Cooper undertook using the shoulder.

Whatever it took to get there.

Trickles of sweat bled between his fingers, causing his hand to slip as he jabbed at the radio buttons trying to listen to the news of the unfolding events. To anything which would tell him where. How. But as for why, he needed to leave that one for another day.

*

Fifteen minutes in and Cooper was gripping onto the Honda’s steering wheel as if he had it in some kind of neck lock. Keeping it from running right out from under him. He was wired and if the drugs had worn off he couldn’t tell. The adrenalin hitting him harder than any handful of OxyContin ever could.

A couple of hundred yards past the Denver health center at the top of Bannock street, the crowd worked better than any satnav could, showing Cooper he’d arrived at his destination. A phalanx of the bewildered, of the traumatized, of cops, of news anchors, formed and filled the street.

Not bothering for the car to stop fully, nor waiting to turn off the engine, Cooper opened the door. Jumped out and raced into the crowds, pushing through, ramming and wedging himself towards the front.

‘Move it…! Move it…! Get the hell out of my way!’

He gave loan of his emotions to a stranger, turning and yelling in his face as if somehow it was he who’d caused this pain… Panic. Terror inside him.

‘Did the bomb go off here…? Where’s the President…? Is he still in the school…? Answer me, dammit.’

The dark-haired stranger’s head lolled back and forth as Cooper held his shoulders. Tight. Shaking. Hell, he just wanted answers and he didn’t care how he was going to get them.

‘No…’

That was all he needed. Didn’t need more. More would’ve cost time.

Frantically, Cooper ran back to the car, and without looking to see if anyone was in his way the Honda burnt up rubber as he reversed the car, taking it into a J-turn.

Clutch in.

Clutch out.

Shift to first.

Up and along the side walk, over the mound, banging the gears full throttle. Didn’t know where he was going but wherever it was he knew he had to find it.

Within five minutes, Cooper had got himself back on the highway and beyond, forcing the rusting station wagon well outside its limits. Sun in his eyes. Pain behind them. A migraine screwing in. He pressed his palm against them to stop the throb. Took his hands off the wheel for only a moment. But he knew that’s all it took.

The Honda swerved, running onto the grassland like a breakaway horse. Smashing and slamming the axle along the rock scattered terrain, dragging the steering off balance as the brakes began to lock.

Fighting to regain control, Cooper drove into a snaking skid whilst the mismatched tires ploughed up the prairies. And although it took less than a minute to pull up sharp, for the second time that day, he trembled as he exhaled. Real long. Real hard.

He rubbed his head, for all the good it did. Glanced at the sun. Knew he was looking due east. And then Cooper looked some more. But it wasn’t the direction that interested him. It was what was on the crest of the hill.

Without hesitation, Cooper floored the accelerator, forcing the old ’83 Honda’s speedometer to touch and quiver at ninety. The engine was racing faster than the car seemed to be able to move. Smoke was billowing up and the smell of burn-out filled the car, but it could’ve blasted right in half for all Cooper cared. As long as it got him over that ditch he was headed for… He angled the car so he could hit it like a ramp. Fast. Forward. But most of all up. Cooper knew it needed to go up.

A dense cloud of smoke thickened in the car’s interior, making it difficult to see, while the car juddered at maximum speed. ‘Come on…! Come on…! Come on!’

Wheels hit the edge at well over a hundred. A brief sense of suspension followed by a bone-shattering impact.

Head flicked back.

Front teeth sunk deep into his tongue.

Blood filled his mouth.

The Honda nose-dived, crashing into the hard ground on the other side. The engine seized and the grey driver’s door swung open. Fell right off.

Desperately, Cooper rolled out. Running. Scrabbling. Holding his shoulder at the same time as trying to pop it back into its socket. He ignored the pain and the cold sweat and the clothes sticking and the blood dripping down his chin like he was the Guacamole guy.

But none of it mattered to Cooper because now he could see the President’s black motorcade in the distance. And as crazy as he knew it was, right there was where he was heading.

*

Cooper felt it before he knew what was happening and it took him clear off his feet. Sending him through the air. Heat and energy expanding, blast-waves of air rushing out from the Honda as it exploded into a fireball of orange flame. Black smoke storming up to fill the skies.

The explosion flung him down as unceremoniously as it’d picked him up. Thundering him into the ground. Pain shot through his ribs, ricocheting into his shoulder, whilst teeth once again found his tongue to sink deeply into.

Sucking up the pain Cooper crawled onto his knees. Pushed himself up onto his feet. He didn’t turn but he could hear sirens. Cars breaking away from the motorcade. Drawn by the blast, racing towards him.

Instinct had him running but he was aware there was nowhere to run on the grass covered plain. They were closing in. Herding him up like the buffalo.

He could almost feel the heat from their engines as the Tannoyed words crashed across the quiet of the Colorado land.

‘STOP! THIS IS THE FBI… GET ON THE GROUND… DO IT NOW…! I REPEAT, THIS IS THE FBI… GET ON THE GROUND OR WE WILL SHOOT!’

Then, like someone had reached into his body to tear out his muscles, a raw torture of fifty thousand volts surged through him, dropping Cooper hard onto his knee caps.

Neck snapping back.

Eyes rolling up to sockets…

… teeth through tongue.

8

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It was the call he was expecting. Later than he thought. But with the same meticulous pronunciation. And once again there were no surprises. None.

The caller said, ‘I congratulate you on your initiative. I must say I’m impressed. I did wonder how it’d play out because there’s no doubt that you couldn’t afford anyone to find out exactly what it is you’re doing. Have done… Are about to do. Though next time there won’t be any warning. There’ll be casualties. Lots. Next time we’ll let slip the dogs of war. Unleash hell. And make no mistake, there will be another 9/11.’

FIVE MILES OUTSIDE GOROM-GOROM,

BURKINA FASO, WEST AFRICA

9

Nd2 a5

On any other day the boy would’ve wiped away the large droplets of sweat which sat and mixed with the dust on his sun scorched skin. But today was different. Today he needed to concentrate and finish off the present he’d been making for his mother. And although the brightly colored paper collage had been trickier and taken longer than he’d imagined, he was certain she’d be pleased.

His faded Mickey Mouse T-shirt, and bleached out jeans held up by a piece of string, gave him little cool. And the corrugated roof, like iron waves sitting on the brick house, painted in hues of summer barley, gave him no shade. But he smiled, his happiness as it always was; warm and strong like the winds which blew across the burnt yellow grasslands under the African skies.

Above the sound of the exciting buzzing of flies, a noise in the distance made the boy look up. He tilted his head, listening again. Not recognizing the sound. Frowning, he got up, only then wiping the sweat off his face, leaving the precious collage on the ground.

He walked forward to the wide dirt road, the dust like a haze making the sun seem darker than it should be and the afternoon seem later than it was. Beneath his feet a rumble. He looked down at them curiously, as if somehow they would speak and tell him of the mystery of shudder.

The tremble began to become harder and with it the noise greater. Roaring louder, reminding him of the stories of the animals which preyed and stalked in the forests. He shivered at the thought of such creatures but curiosity moved him forward. He was, after all, seven years old, and at seven years old, he knew he was almost a man.

With renewed vigor, the boy stood in the middle of the road, looking into the thick haze which swirled and churned. Then like his mother pulling back the tattered drapes each morning, the curtain of dust parted, sweeping aside to reveal a huge object which reminded him of the giant horned beetles.

His face smiled, delighted at whatever it was that was moving towards him. His face a spectacle of amazement, of wonder, as the mechanical insects trundled forwards.

‘Run Bako… run!’

The boy whipped round at the cry of his name then watched as a vision of red burst up from the man’s head like a sequencing fountain before it imploded, splitting apart into pieces.

Bako’s scream seemed to freeze in the air, almost as if his anguished cry hung suspended, trapped between the visible heatwaves rising up from the road.

A loud explosion behind Bako triggered him to run as balls of flame fired from armored tanks burnt and blazed alongside him. He heard the cries of people, of neighbors, of friends as they fell, picked off, and pools of red became their final resting place.

Tears welled and ran down Bako’s cheeks, causing his vision to become blurred. But he was glad. He didn’t want to see the woman he knew dropping her baby as gleaming metal struck into her face, splitting it in half as if it were his grandfather cutting the cassava. And he didn’t want to see the tiny brick church crumble as the monster tanks blew it into rubble. Nor did he want to see his mother’s friend, filled with terror. Her top torn. Her skirt missing as two men dragged her inside a house. But he did want to cover his ears to drown out her screaming.

Through the machine gun fire and the grenades, Bako scrabbled along, tripping over the freshly dead. He turned the corner to see a man coming towards him holding a blood-soaked machete. Whites of eyes marbled, ruddy with rage yet laughing, opening his arms as if to embrace Bako like his uncle had done this morning.

Bako backed away, running again, now through the smell of the kill and the screams which cut through the air as violently as the parangs did.

Quickly, he headed round the back of the small brick houses, making his way home, the thought of it spurring him on to run faster, helping him to push through the pain of his torn feet.

In front of his house Bako could see his mother. Searching. Calling his name as smoke filled the skies. She cried out. Waving as he ran into her arms.

‘This way, Bako, we’ll be okay if we go into the bushes. But quickly… quickly.’

They began to run, but without warning, Bako slipped his hand from his mother’s, heading back towards the house.

‘Bako, no! Bako! Stop!’

He could hear his mother calling but he didn’t turn. He wanted to make her happy. Wanted her tears to stop falling and he thought he knew how.

Quickly Bako grabbed the collage before speeding back towards his mother.

‘Bako…! Come…! Bako.’

He reached out to take her hand but it was his mother’s hand which now suddenly slipped away from his, as she began to sink to the ground. Her yellow dress turning red, her eyes holding Bako’s stare one last time before rolling. Closing.

This time Bako’s cry splintered the air. He pulled at his mother’s arm.

‘Get up, mama, get up! Please get up… Look, mama, look what I made you.’

He pushed the collage to her as she lay in the tributary of blood which flowed and bubbled, stemming from the countless dead.

‘See what I made for you… See, mama, see.’

He stood up, stumbling backwards, tilting his head to the sun. Blinking. And just for a moment he didn’t know what it was he was feeling. A sudden warmth. Then cold. Such cold.

Glancing down, Bako touched his Mickey Mouse top. A hole where the face once was. Red. Wet.

And then slowly. So slowly. Bako dropped to the ground. His head lolling back as his body snaked, winding as it fell on top of his mother with his blood oozing, coloring the brightly painted collage red, whilst the chill of death rose and mixed with the warm winds of the ensanguined African plains.

JEFFERSON COUNTY

COLORADO, USA

10

Rb1 Nd7

‘Get your ass up!”

Cooper could hear a voice but he wasn’t sure where it was coming from. He didn’t bother trying to open his eyes to find out. Hell, he’d already attempted that one. And the way he saw it, no man was born to suffer a pain like that. And as for any attempt to move, from the position he was lying in, it wasn’t even an option. And so if that meant staying here forever, wherever here was, well, Cooper reckoned, all things considered, that was fine by him.

‘You listening to me…? Give me that water, Officer.’

‘Jesus Christ!’

Cooper scrabbled up as the water hit him. The sudden movement caused jolts of pain to tear through parts of his body he’d forgotten he owned. His limbs cried out in agony, along with his swollen, dried tongue which shrieked in searing, primal pain.