The sensation of being inside the elevator was that of inhabiting a golden egg. Walls, floor, and ceiling bore the mirrored sheen of twenty-four-carat gold etched in an intricate pattern of tessellating peacocks. Antique lanterns situated at the four corners bled a thick amber light. Even the music that tingled his ears suggested an ancient harp strung with golden strings. And his reflection depicted a golden man, as orange and warm as the embryo ensconced within its yolk.
Senator John Taylor would have preferred that Jane had headquartered her campaign in Montana. It would have helped her connect more with the rural conservative voters who composed the base of the Security Party. But she was an urbanite and insisted on remaining in her wife’s home city. Ultimately, the location proved inconsequential. They had read the mood of the nation, overripe for change, and had handily won the election—now Taylor was poised to do what needed to be done.
Titan Tower had been constructed over a century ago by the new First Lady’s great-grandfather. The property’s value was in its location, granting its elite inhabitants unparalleled vistas of Central Park—an emerald gem in the concrete jungle—the Empire State Building, the East River, the Brooklyn Bridge, and the Hudson. It towered boldly and protruded from Midtown Manhattan, a brazen obelisk of gold lighting up sunset and sunrise as ostentatiously as that flamboyant family lit up the internet and the front pages of every glamour magazine and tabloid in the world.
No, Allgood could have New York. He no longer needed to pander to the populace.
The elevator stopped, the doors opened on the ground floor, and the blue world of reality cracked into the egg, shattering its halcyon dream.
His personal bodyguard, Tim Boothe, was waiting by the elevator, watching the Secret Service agents in the lobby and no doubt keeping a vigilant eye on various feeds in the display of his AR glasses. Boothe had personally selected the election night team that currently surveilled Titan Tower. All fresh out of JTS advanced training and in need of hands-on experience.
Taylor was proud of the man, as beautiful as he was deadly. Over the course of the campaign, the taciturn bodyguard and his stunning good looks had not gone unnoticed by the media: ‘Taylor’s Army of Hunk. The Hun’ with the Guns. If Looks Could Kill! What’s He Packing?’ These headlines were the precise image he wanted to cultivate for John Taylor Security—a fighting force superior on every metric, but also sexy. Sex appeal was the great psyops.
He remembered that day ten years ago when he had first seen the boy at the Montana State Wrestling Tournament in Billings. Boothe had been put on his shortlist by his scouts, and with his portfolio of information on the kid, he knew he would get what he wanted. Mother: L1 Escape addict found murdered—not uncommon. Father: not on Escape, but on every other drug and drink, was abusive and manipulative. Raised by his older cousin (killed Fighting FEEN six months before the tournament) in a shanty at the border where the refugee ghettos of Asiatown began to blend with the impoverished, drug-ridden Southside neighborhood, just a block away from South Park, where there was never a day without a dead body, be it drugs, gangs, or suicide. Indeed, it was in that park where his dear mother—drug-addled, gutter-fucked, Escape-whore that she was—had been found behind the swimming pool pumphouse with both her vagina and her neck slit wide open. It was inconclusive if the death came before or after the rape.
Taylor had watched as the teenage athletic prodigy had crushed his larger, steroid-enhanced opponent with skill and composure beyond even seasoned war veterans. It was all he needed to see to know he was making the correct offer.
Of course, teenage Tim Boothe had agreed and entered JTS’s elite training program. Taylor let the process run its course, checking up on the boy now and then, ensuring he was spared no hardship; indeed, seeing to it that more pressure, both physically and psychologically, was put on him than on any other recruit. Now he stood on guard—young, handsome, deadly—the perfect warrior.
When he saw his boss, Tim Boothe nodded and spoke into a concealed radio. “We’re on our way.” He looked around the lobby, already as secure as any building in the world. “Sir, she’s here.”
“Very well. Tim, I want you to come with me. Give your team the night off. They’ve earned it.”
“Sir? Continuity of security requires—”
“It’s okay, son. I wrote the book on it. I want only you to come with me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Following Boothe out through the main doors, he noticed the slight bulge of his bulletproof vest and the way his suit jacket brushed across his hip holster containing the Colt .45, one of two guns the bodyguard carried at all times, the other being a Glock 19 in his vest under his left arm. The weapons didn’t impede him or detract from his grace of movement. He had once witnessed the man run a seven-minute mile in full gear and still make a kill shot on a moving target at seventy-five yards.
The black SUV sat like a predator in front of Titan Tower. A flustered secret service agent circled the sleek vehicle, speaking into her radio.
When he approached, the door to the vehicle opened on a mechanical arm to reveal a dark interior.
“Sir, I should ride with you.”
“It’s fine. Follow us in the Humvee,” said Taylor.
“Sir.” Boothe climbed into the military-grade vehicle parked behind the SUV.
Despite his experience, despite his years, Taylor’s heart thudded in his chest as he entered.
She was alone on the seat opposite him, her back to the front, which was partitioned by an opaque window. She read from a portable device and did not immediately acknowledge his presence. She wore a black bodysuit made of a material that resembled leather, and around her neck, the pelt of an animal, perhaps a jaguar. The fur shimmered in the blue glow of the indirect lighting around the ceiling. The door closed with a hiss. The din of the city vanished, replaced by absolute stillness.
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“You look good, John.” She set her device on the seat beside her and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. Her lips were cool, and she smelled like the forest after a rain. “How old are you now, sixty?”
“Sixty something. My birthday was a month ago. You look good too. You look… the same.”
“I haven’t aged a day since our time in Africa.” Her voice as silky as smoke.
His mind recalled back thirty-five years to that harrowing battle in a slum of Mogadishu and that young woman who had materialized out of the death and destruction to save his life. Here she was again, in front of him. Her hair had been longer then. Now, it was cut short in a sharp bob, and she wore lipstick and eyeshadow somewhere between blue and black.
“How old are you?” He couldn’t stop himself from asking.
She laughed. “What do they say about a woman and her age? You were expecting me to have gone gray, earned a few wrinkles, sagging tits at least, eh?”
Beneath the tight, black fabric, her breasts appeared as firm and full as he remembered.
“There’s how old I am, John Taylor, and then there’s how many years I’ve lived, and then there’s how old I feel.”
The SUV pulled away from the curb into traffic. He looked out the back and saw the headlights of the Humvee following close behind.
“You’ve done well for yourself, Senator. More than I expected.”
“Thank you. I work in the service of my country.”
“And such a young country it is. It seems like only yesterday you wrenched yourselves from an empire.”
“You talk like you were there.”
She lifted her chin and turned her head to watch the city pass.
“Do you remember your promise?” she asked.
“I do, though I sometimes wondered if you would come.”
“Believe me when I say I hoped I would not have to.”
“What does it mean that you’re here?” he said.
“My associates have kept me abreast of the Majis’ spread in the United States. Things have changed. We underestimated certain individuals… the timing of key events.”
“Allgood has agreed to the Centurion,” Taylor said, “but she’s not happy about it. She’s not a believer.”
“There are those who argue the time of faith is at an end. She will adapt. And when her time has finished, she will go as quietly as those who have gone before her.”
“I trained her. She’s a warrior. A leader. She’ll be the greatest Centurion the Den has ever seen.” He locked eyes with the woman across from him. They were intense and unflinching.
“And you, my old friend?” asked the woman.
“I will make sure things get done. I will be the Hammer.”
Her face was an unblemished mask, betraying no emotion. “It’s unusual for someone with political ambitions to wield the Hammer. Do you know who your predecessor is?”
“I don’t.”
“That’s because, like every Hammer, she’s as anonymous as the night. She deals with the problems of the Veil. They alone are enough without the trappings of government.”
“I have turned down any cabinet position. I will be the Chief Security Adviser.”
“Tradition is a powerful thing, John. The other Centurions will feel threatened, and the other Hammers will not trust you.”
“Should I trust them?”
She finally donned that ironic smile. “No, you should not.”
“And immortality?” asked Taylor. “I want to live.”
“Eternity is no gift. It must be ripped from the greedy clutches of time.”
The blue cabin lights dimmed and went off. They rode in silence. Through the vehicle’s darkened glass, New York played by like an old-time movie. Opulent hotels and plazas transitioned into shopping centers and department stores.
The air around them grew cold, and he recognized it from before, like the days in Africa.
“The attack in Montana? Was that you?” he asked
She did not answer him immediately. Her eyes were closed. They were waiting for a light to change. When it did, they continued, and she said, “No. They were from another clan. I have my suspicions, but I’ve not been able to track it down. It doesn’t matter. Their work was necessary. We chose not to intervene.”
“Those were innocent men,” he said.
“You should have killed that boy when you had the chance, before he was allowed to spin his enchantment.”
“I didn’t know he was capable of that… from a jail cell. I was going to bring him to you at the prison.”
A thin smile creased her lips. “When you are the Hammer, there will be no luxury of compassion, Senator John Taylor. Never trust a Maji. You will learn. You will soon have the sight.”
“And my daughter?”
“You knew there was a risk in the name of the experiment.”
“Yes, I knew there was a risk.”
“I’m bringing in a specialist. A doctor. It will be interesting to see what he can do.”
“Interesting? What the hell does that mean?” Anger took him swiftly.
The woman’s composure was like a glacier—her eyes, jewels of ice.
“When you become the Hammer, you will need to let her go. Her salvation will be your vengeance.”
“She’s still my daughter.”
“Blind spots,” said the woman. “Humanity loves its blind spots.”
She knocked on the black glass separating them from the driver. It lowered to reveal a chubby, older woman with gray hair poking out from under a chauffeur’s hat.
“The refugee camp.”
“Yes, Sister,” said the driver.
The window went up, sequestering them. Taylor looked back. Tim was still behind them.
“Don’t be concerned. Your man will stay with us. I want you to see something.”
“I had wanted to ask you.” His heart fluttered. This was it.
“Even a loyal servant needs to be reminded of his purpose.” Through the dark glass, the muted city lights crossed her frozen, emotionless face.
The Upper East Side was bedecked for the tri-season holidays. Halloween vestiges blended into the autumnal Thanksgiving in storefront windows, and glittering trees beckoned shoppers hoping for an early jump on Christmas. Families strolled the streets, done with voting, now gazed at the ornate displays decked out along the sidewalks.
In the militarized zone of East Harlem, the decorations suddenly vanished. Suspicious eyes of the homeless and the masked faces of Gretas turned to watch them pass as they approached one of the largest staging grounds for the United States Refugee Effort. At the rise of the Willis Avenue Bridge, the SUV stopped at a checkpoint guarded by men in military fatigues. The window to his left lowered, and a soldier with a machine gun slung over his shoulder looked in.
“You’ll need to go back to Third Avenue if you want to cross. There’s no access at this point,” declared the stern young man.
“It’s okay,” she said and produced a badge.
The soldier inspected it closely before he spoke into his walkie-talkie clipped to his uniform. “Sergeant, I’ve got a vehicle here. Black SUV. Looks civi. Occupant has a clearance I’ve never seen before.”
“What does it say?” came the reply over his speaker.
“Centurion. That’s all.”
“Wait.” A breeze wafted in, carrying the damp scent of mud and moss. “Alright, scan it.”
The soldier produced a device from his pocket, and a lattice of lasers lit up his hand and the badge. It beeped twice. He promptly returned the badge and snapped to attention. “All clear. Proceed.”
“The vehicle behind us too,” she said.
“Yes, sir!”
The SUV and Humvee rolled across the bridge. They came to a stop under the pivot house.
“We walk from here,” she said.