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  ISBN 978-1-988281-66-7

  Copyright © 2019 Peter Parkin

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  Cover Design by Jason Russell

  Edited by Sparks Literary

  Formatting by Renee Hare

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  Publisher’s Note

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales, are intended only to provide as a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the authors' imaginations and are not to be construed as real.

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  1st Printing March 2019

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  In honor of the victims and survivors of the seemingly endless progression of unthinkable man-enabled calamities.

  This book is dedicated to the memory of dear friend, Lynne Galster (nee Hyde), who broke our hearts by leaving us far too soon.

  Plots, true or false, are necessary things,

  To raise up commonwealths and ruin kings.

  (John Dryden, Absalom and Achitophel)

  Prologue

  February 13, 2003 - 9:00 a.m.

  Mitch Joplin looked in the mirror as he went about his morning routine. Not bad looking after all these years, he thought. Tall, well-built, still lots of hair. And his most striking feature of all—his eyes—still penetrated, right back at him from the mirror. Those eyes had seen a lot over his sixty-five fast years, and unlike most people his age he wished he could forget more than he could remember. But that was not to be, and he was haunted by the trauma those memories produced in his dreams, every single night. It wasn't much better when he was awake either, Mitch realized, as he popped his morning Prozac.

  He shaved as usual, being careful not to chop off the mole on the left side of his cleft chin. Every time he made that boo-boo, it would bleed for hours... and he didn't have hours to spare today. He ran his fingers through his hair, and pulled on his favorite "activity" shirt—one in a family of shirts he wore only when he had something eventful to accomplish. Mitch's entire adult life had been one event after another. On this day there would be another mission, but one that was his alone for a change.

  He ambled out to the kitchen of his spartan apartment and began the preparations to scramble some of his patented eggs. He knew it would be a long and agonizing day, and he needed the energy to get through it. As he pulled the spatula from the drawer he soberly reflected that he might not even see the end of this day.

  He had been trained to always believe that the day, or mission, would end in victory. That discipline of mind had probably helped to make every one of them a success. That also depended of course on how you defined "success." Up until now he had defined it as simply getting out alive. His superiors had a different definition entirely, and his survival wasn't part of it. Mitch had always accepted that as an inescapable fact with his particular line of work. His chosen occupation was behind him now and had been for over a year. What he had done was not behind him; it was always staring him right in the face. Most of his actions he could neatly categorize under "love of country." But there was one act—his last before he had retired—that was tearing him apart.

  Today was the day he had chosen to get closure, and for the first time in his life he felt butterflies in his stomach. He had never experienced closure before. He completed his deeds like a robot, detached from reality. He was talented at what he did, and those talents had been well rewarded. He had put faith in his masters and did what he was told. Most of what he had done took place in faraway lands, which gave an almost fairy-tale quality to his memories. Hard to feel guilt. But once or twice upon a time he had done things closer to home.

  He looked around the ugly apartment. This was the last time he would see it. Rented under a phony name, paid in advance for eighteen months to avoid credit checks on a name that didn't exist, the lease was now almost up. But that was okay...he had somewhere else to go. His dog was waiting for him there right now as a matter of fact. After this long day, Mitch would return to that apartment and leave this one behind. It had been rented under his real name, a nice change. He visited there yesterday and left enough food and water for his pet for at least three days. He liked this new apartment, located on the ground floor with a fenced backyard. A trap door allowed his dog to let himself in and out. Perfect for Mitch and his little buddy. He had also recently sent a note in the mail to his daughter, letting her know of the apartment address, and asking her to take care of his dog if anything happened to him.

  Kerrie, what a treasure. And what a waste of his life that he had missed so much over the years. He intended to make up for lost time if he survived the day...and if she let him after learning what he had done.

  He finished his eggs, gulped down his coffee, and turned on the television. A CNN headline of yet another terrorist warning, this time in the Los Angeles area. Mitch shook his head—what this world had become in the last couple of years. He thanked God that Kerrie had never had children, even though he would have been thrilled to be a grandfather. What a world for kids to grow up in. And what on earth would society look like in twenty years? He wasn't sure he wanted to be around to see it.

  Time to get on with things. He rose from the couch and strode in his trademark swagger to the bedroom. He pulled out his belt holster and glock, snapping them into place. Then he carefully removed a heavy, multi-pocketed vest from a separate closet, expertly donning it over his activity shirt. A black trench coat and gloves completed the look.

  He took one final glance in the mirror, and was a bit startled at how menacing he looked. He wondered why he had never really noticed that before.

  Well, today that menace would come to an end. In more ways than one, he thought, and for more people than just himself. Today was probably the first unselfish day of Mitch Joplin's life.

  February 13, 2003 - 10:00 a.m.

  Connie Reynolds rushed for the shower, beating her younger brother by a hair.

  "Ladies first," she said apologetically, opening the door.

  Her brother glared back at her. "If you were a true lady, I wouldn't mind so much!"

  She grabbed a towel and playfully flicked it at him. He jerked out of the way before it caught him in the crotch. "I'm going to be late for work John, so I promise I'll be quick, okay?"

  She closed the bathroom door while hearing John mutter, "Every morning, the same thing, and I always lose."

  Connie jumped into the shower and turned on the soothing hot water. She knew she didn't have the time to luxuriate under the pulsing settings, but she picked her favorite one anyway and let it roll over her body. Just a few minutes. John could wait; he was already pissed at her anyway. She didn't want to be late for work. Her job at the bank was fun, and even though she was just a teller she felt important. Dealing with customers all day was right up her alley; she loved people and hers was the
perfect job for that. She had a knack for calming people down when they were upset, and she knew when to call upon someone more senior if the problem was beyond her authority.

  Connie was twenty-three now, and had had to grow up well before her time. Both of her parents were killed in the World Trade Center on 9/11. They had been visiting their investment advisor in the South Tower that morning. Hoping for early retirement, they were planning to be a little more aggressive in their investments, drop out of the rat race in five years, and still have enough to help out their two kids as well. They were wonderful people, and she and John missed them terribly. John was sixteen and becoming a man very quickly. Connie had assumed the position of legal guardian of her brother, and the two of them were left equal interests in their parents' estate, including this little house on Long Island. They were well taken care of thanks to their parents' foresight; except for the emotional part. They also received a considerable sum of money from the "Victims of 9/11 Fund," which Connie had carefully put aside in safe investments for herself and John. It was amazing how much she had had to learn over the last eighteen months, and it was even more amazing to know that she could actually learn these things that used to be so foreign to her. It showed her what a person was capable of when there was no other choice, and when there was no one to lean on anymore.

  It had been a tough eighteen months, but her memories were finally becoming more pleasant. Before, they had been tainted with bitterness and anger. Connie and John had spent many an evening looking over photo albums of family vacations and get-togethers. She remembered how they both had made fun of their mother for insisting on whipping out the camera at every moment and snapping away. They always had to stop what they were doing and pose. Mom believed in being prepared, to not catch people at their worst. She felt that everyone had the right to look his best in something as important as a photo. Connie regretted now that she had made fun of her mom at these photo-ops, and when she thought of those moments she always felt a tear in her eye. She wished there were more photos.

  Now she was a substitute parent, and raising her brother to manhood was not easy. Particularly since boys didn't wear their emotions on their sleeves the way girls did. She really had to step up to the plate in those first few months after 9/11, to help her brother deal with his grief. He had become angry and withdrawn, which affected his schoolwork, as well as relationships with teachers and other students. John was the only one in his class who had lost parents in the disaster, and he was having a tough time coming to grips with why—why him. Connie lost count of how many visits she had made to the school for parent/teacher conferences. However, what seemed to make a difference and help turn John around, was just Connie's persistence in talking to him, caring about him—whether he liked it or not. She guessed that he just needed to know that someone still cared. And Connie sure cared about her little John. He had absolutely refused to attend grief counseling, so Connie knew his only hope was her own determination. It paid off.

  After dealing with John's grief, Connie began to make time for her own. She missed the comfort and security her parents had given her—the affection, the advice, always being there; hell, just shoulders to cry on.

  It was sad, she thought, how much she and John had taken their parents for granted when they were still alive. They were supposed to have been a part of their lives forever—invincible—and then to lose them in such a horrifying, shocking and public manner, cut her to her core. She so longed for the midnight chats with her mother over tea, the boisterous games with her father at the lake, and Sunday dinners with all four of them together. Those times could not be repeated—and new experiences would never be. Her father would not walk her down the aisle, her mother would not help her pick out a wedding dress, and her children would not be visiting grandma and grandpa on weekends. Her children would never know their wonderful grandparents.

  They held a burial for their parents, carefully chosen clothes and personal effects the only items inside otherwise empty coffins. No remains were ever found, which was sadly the case for hundreds of victims. It was tough to get closure without the remains, but Connie found some peace by visiting Ground Zero. That was her parents' real grave. What a tangled mess of destruction, and it hurt her to know that those tons of material had come down on her beloved mom and dad. It was astonishing to read the reports of victims' passports and credit cards being found in the rubble, but very few tangible remains. How was it possible that all evidence of human life could be extinguished so easily, but temporary creations of paper and plastic could hang around virtually intact? They also apparently found passports for a couple of the terrorists who had hijacked the planes, and she wondered how that was possible with impact explosions of the magnitude that she had seen on T.V. And those terrorists' passports, in her mind, had no business being in the same rubble that contained her mom and dad.

  For a long while after the attacks, she couldn't help but hate the face of every Arab she saw on the streets of New York. The barrage of media coverage of these terrorists, their roots overseas and the apparent hatred that their world had for her world, was more than the normal brain could process. Connie's feelings were normal, she guessed, but they weren't nice to carry around, day in and day out. So she had attended anger management counseling to help her deal with these unfamiliar and poisonous feelings. Thankfully, she was now able to isolate the perpetrators of the attack without broad-brushing an entire race or religion. However, most New Yorkers hadn't bothered with counseling and the feelings of most people were still centered in hate and fear, albeit more subdued now than in 2001. A period of relative calm had now settled in around the city, since nothing else had terrorized them in the same way since.

  Connie teasingly tapped her brother on the back of the head and ordered him to get his books and head off to school. "Okay, okay, who made you the boss?" John cried out, then caught himself. " Just kidding, Sis." He went over and gave his big sister a rare hug, and she hugged him back. Both of them knew it was just the two of them now, and they had to hold onto each other to survive.

  They headed out the door together, and Connie offered to drive John to school, only a few blocks away. He agreed. Connie knew that he would. All modesty aside, she knew that she would be considered by most teenage boys as a "hottie." Being seen dropped off by his "hottie" big sister could only be a good thing for John. A guy needed every advantage he could get at sixteen. In fact, she remembered that with teenage girls it was similar—being judged by association was a reality in high school.

  Of course, John never admitted to her that he thought she was hot. Connie just knew it, and knew that he was proud to be seen with her. And why shouldn't he be? She had long auburn hair—the same color as John's— which contrasted with her milky white skin making her look younger than her age. And she had been told by former boyfriends and even a scout from a modeling agency, that she had the face of an angel. Of course now that she was older and less naïve, she knew that they all probably had ulterior motives when they told her that. But, being as objective as she could possibly be, she tended to agree with their assessment.

  Connie knew that status for teenage boys was terribly important, and being accepted within a peer group was almost a daily obsession for them. John had admitted these things to her during the time she was helping him with his grief. He was only fourteen when their parents had died and just barely cracking into the "cool" crowd. Then, all of a sudden everyone was tiptoeing around him, afraid to say anything. He had tearfully confessed to Connie that he felt like he was now on the outside looking in. He grieved for his parents, but also in typical teenage fashion felt that it was unfair that they had died and put him in the position he was now in.

  Connie counseled him to simply grab the bull by the horns and control the situation—not wait to be talked to or included, but instead initiate things himself. To be outgoing and cheerful, even though he might still be crying inside. Teenagers didn't like to be around kids who were "downers," and would tend
to avoid those kids at all cost. John should save his misery to share with her, or to keep for his private moments. Connie wasn't even sure at the time that she was giving him the right advice—she had just been following her instincts when she talked with him. But gradually over a period of months, everything began to click for John. His confidence and sense of belonging returned. Connie loved seeing him smile again, and vowed that she would always give him every possible advantage in life that she could—even the simple things like being the "hottie" who dropped him off at school.

  They said their goodbyes at the school, and Connie headed off on her commute to Manhattan. She worked at the NY State Security Bank right downtown, not far from Ground Zero. It was one of the smaller banks, but she liked that. Smaller banks tended to be friendlier. A person wasn't just a number or an anonymous face in the crowd.

  Many of her fellow workers, some quite good friends, had left to work in the suburbs after 9/11. Not Connie. It was weird, but she felt as if she'd be abandoning her parents if she gave in to the fear and left the area where they had perished. Her counseling sessions had helped her deal with both the fear and anger together. She had learned that they were very similar emotions, and had almost identical physiological effects on the body. She came to believe that this entire tragic process had made her stronger, and she was glad that she hadn't run away. That would have been very easy to do, and indeed many did.

  She made it downtown in record time, left her car in the parkade where she held a monthly pass, and walked the five blocks to her building. Monthly parking was expensive in Manhattan, but she preferred the privacy and relative safety of her own car. It was one little luxury that she allowed herself.