Page 4 of Mastermind

I’d be lying if I said I don’t calculate the best head shot in just about any situation I’m in these days. My bureau therapist can’t decide if this is a healthy response or a bad one. When you’re the FBI’s most wanted—as in, the FBI agent with the record of most assassination attempts—conventional advice doesn’t always apply.

We drive through the parking lot and onto the road that leads to the marine airfield where the FBI keeps one of its several Gulfstream jets. I keep an eye on the agents, trying to decide what I’m going to do if they don’t make the right turn to the airport.

I breathe a silent sigh of relief when we take the road leading to the guard gate. A security officer checks their credentials and waves us through. I slide my gun back in my holster.

The SUV comes to a stop past a hangar where a group of people are standing in a cluster close to a jet. A man in the middle is giving some kind of briefing. I exit and walk toward the crowd.

The man in the middle sees me and calls out over the heads of everyone. “Blackwood?”

“Yes,” I reply, looking for familiar faces and not seeing any.

“Sheppard,” says the short, gray-haired man who reminds me a little of Dustin Hoffman. “This is Jon Vaslov. He’s a physicist working at the academy.” He points to a tall man in his late thirties with a receding hairline and a hoodie. “Kari Linman, counterterrorism,” he continues, indicating a woman with auburn hair and an expression even more serious than my own. “You can find out everyone else’s names later. DC already has a team leaving Dulles. So let’s get moving.”

Sheppard leads us into the plane. I head for the back, but he calls out to me. “Blackwood, Vaslov, up front.”

I take a seat opposite Sheppard’s as he sets his laptop and files on the table between us.

How does this man have files if this only happened an hour ago?

“Blackwood. You know weird stuff. What’s going on? Is this the Red Chain blackouts all over again?”

Red Chain was a cult that wanted to bring about the end times by starting global panic through blackouts and civil unrest. They came pretty damn close. When I finally found out what they were up to, it was too late to stop the final tragedy from taking place—their own mass suicide in a desert bunker.

While that should have put a stop to them, there were other members who weren’t part of the bunker deaths. There was also the question of who had been backing them. At least a question for others. I knew who it was: Michael Heywood, known to the world as the Warlock, a serial killer, cult leader, and hacker who almost killed me after I became his personal obsession.

“I think parts of Red Chain are still active—”

“I know. I’ve been reading your updates,” says Sheppard.

I didn’t think anyone was reading them anymore. The rumors were that I blamed Heywood for everything from COVID-19 to the Patriots losing Tom Brady. Which, honestly, are not deeds I’d put past him.

The problem is that Heywood had been in custody most of that time, until he managed to escape during a prison transfer that is still under investigation. Nobody could explain why he was being transferred or who ordered it. There’s also the fact that I’ve been told confidentially that while he was making the FBI run in circles, he was also supplying intelligence to the CIA.

Add to that the fact that Heywood is an alias and nobody has any idea who the hell he is.

The best theory I’ve heard was a joke from my former coworker Gerald. He once wondered out loud whether Heywood was actually just some Russian-intelligence chaos agent assigned to screw with our heads. While that’s doubtful, the man does defy explanation.

“I need to know what’s going on in New York,” I tell Sheppard.

He types away on his laptop and spins it so I can see the screen. “This is live helicopter footage from the Port Authority.”

The camera view shows the Brooklyn Bridge over the East River apparently cut off in midair where it reaches New York City. The helicopter travels north, showing the view of what should be Manhattan. It’s just a dark void. A bluish spark lights up part of it, revealing that the void is some kind of cloud.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Discharge,” says Vaslov. “Kind of like when the power station at the north end went up back in 2019. But bigger.”

There had been a fire at a power station on the island, causing a continuous stream of smoke and sparks that looked like something out of a Marvel movie. This is kind of like that, but bigger.

“No cell coverage?” I ask.

“No,” says Sheppard. “No radio, no internet. Nothing.”

“What about driving onto the island?” I ask.

“The roads are filled with stopped cars, and all the entry and exit points have some kind of toxic smoke.”

“EMP,” says Vaslov, suggesting that an electromagnetic pulse disabled all electronics.