“Will the vice president be at the bunker?” I ask. He’s the highest official I can think of who’s sold his soul to the Mogadorians.
“No. From what I understand he’s AWOL. Disappeared along with his entire security detail right after everything happened at the UN. They may have tracked him down by now, but it’s standard procedure to keep the president and VP in different locations in a situation like this. You know, so they don’t get taken out at the same time if something goes wrong.”
“Ah,” I say. “That’s good.”
“You don’t think . . .” He doesn’t finish the question. Just lets it linger in the air. It’s obvious what’s on his mind, though.
“The Feds think he’s working with the Mogs.” This was one of the first things Walker told us when she showed up at Ashwood. Was that really just yesterday?
“Jesus.” Briggs shifts his focus and looks me straight in the eyes. His gaze is piercing. “Just . . . Jesus. Do we even stand a chance?” he asks.
“I have to believe we do,” I say.
Briggs seems comforted by this. The muscles in his face relax a little.
“I won’t mention Gamera,” he says.
“You know, you never told me your name.”
“Major Briggs.”
“I meant your first name.”
“Oh.” He shrugs. “Yeah. You get used to everyone using your last name, I guess. It’s Samuel.”
Sam.
Of course it is. I smile, even as my worry for Sam pounds against the inside of my chest.
“That’s my son’s name.”
“He wasn’t back at Ashwood, was he?”
“No. He’d left already. Headed to New York to try and stop the Mogadorians. He’s been fighting against them for months now, trying to keep all this from happening. Working alongside the Garde. The good aliens.”
Briggs nods but doesn’t say anything for a minute or two. When he does talk, his voice has a softer tone to it than I’ve heard since he showed up to whisk me off to a secret bunker.
“My mom’s the only one I have left. She lives in the Bronx, but she . . . she works in the city. I haven’t been able to reach her.” There’s a spark of something painful on his face and then it’s gone. He’s back to the stony expression that seems to be his natural state.
I hold out my phone. “Here,” I say.
“No signal underground.”
“I’ve got one.”
He looks at me curiously and then takes the phone. “How is that possible?” he asks.
“It’s a long story.”
I watch him dial, carefully, his fingers hesitating over each button. He holds the phone up to his ear for a long time before finally handing it back to me, shaking his head.
“I’m sure she’s all right,” I say, knowing full well what a useless assurance this is.
The train starts to slow. Briggs gets to his feet. “She’s a tough old broad. I’m sure she’s fine. Say, can I get my gun back? They’re kind of particular about who has weapons down here.”
I hand the pistol over. He limps a bit as he positions himself in front of the car’s sliding door. The brakes screech, and we come to a final stop. He stretches, gritting his teeth as he puts weight on his injured leg.
“I hope they’ve got a solid med staff here. And hot water.”
Gamera shrinks down to an insect again and hops on my shoulder as I stand beside Briggs.
“And coffee,” I say. “Wait, is this your first time here?”
“In person, yeah. But I know the schematics like the back of my hand, so I pretty much know what to expect.”
The door slides open, and the first thing I see are five guys in dark suits all pointing machine guns at my face.
Briggs doesn’t flinch at the sight of the weapons. I, on the other hand, jump and raise my hands in the air.
“Major Samuel Briggs,” a man in black says as he steps forward. Briggs nods. The man holds some kind of small electronic device up to Briggs’s eyes and then has him place his fingers on an electronic tablet. He must pass whatever this test is, because the man motions for Briggs to come out of the train car.
“This is the asset, Malcolm Goode,” Briggs says as he steps between the men. None of them turns his gun off me. “He’s cleared. I’ve disarmed him.”
Despite this, one of the suited men steps forward and pats me down. He holds my satellite phone out to the guy who seems to be in charge, but he just shakes his head.
“Won’t do him any good so far underground and with all our shielding,” he says, and my heart sinks. He continues. “Hand.”
I reach out, obliged to follow any orders at this point, and he guides my palm to the tablet. An old picture of me pops up on the screen—one I know they used in “missing” posters when I disappeared—along with some sort of record full of my information. The man pulls the tablet away before I can actually read anything.
“Welcome to Liberty Base,” he says. “I’m Deputy Chief Richards with the Secret Service. Follow me.”