Loyalty in Death (In Death #9)(59)

What did it matter?

She shoved the thought aside, sipped her coffee again. For once, Roarke’s superior blend left a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Revenge,” she said. “If Fixer was right and that’s part of the motive, this could be the root of it. ‘We are loyal,’” she murmured. “Every message they send has that phrase in it. Loyal to Rowan? To his memory?”

“A logical step.”

“Henson. Feeney said a man named William Henson was one of Rowan’s top men. Do we have a dead list on here?”

Roarke brought it up to the wall screen. “Christ Jesus,” he said quietly. “There are hundreds.”

“From what I was told, the government hunted them down for years.” Quickly, Eve scanned the names. “And they weren’t too particular about it. Henson’s not on here.”

“No. I’ll run a check on him for you.”

“Thanks. Shoot this much through to my machine here, and keep digging.”

He stopped her by brushing a hand over her hair. “It hurts you. The children.”

“It reminds me,” she corrected, “of what it’s like to have no choice, and to have your life in the hands of someone who thinks of you as a thing to be used or discarded as the mood strikes.”

“Some love, Eve, and fiercely.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “And some don’t.”

“Yeah, well, let’s see what Rowan and his group loved, and fiercely.”

She turned away to man her computer.

The answer, she thought, was in the series of statements on file that Apollo had issued during its three-year run.

We are the gods of war.

Each statement began with that single line. Arrogance, violence, and power, she thought.

We have determined the government is corrupt, a useless vehicle for those inside it, used for exploitation of the masses, for suppression of ideas, for the perpetuation of futility. The system is flawed and must be eradicated. Out of its smoke and ashes, a new regime will rise. Stand with us, you who believe in justice, in honor, in the future of our children who cry for food and comfort while the soldiers of this doomed government destroy our cities.

We who are Apollo will use their own weapons against them. And we will triumph. Citizens of the world, break the chains binding you by the establishment with their fat bellies and bloated minds. We promise you freedom.

Attack the system, she decided, cry out for the common man, for the intellect. Justify the mass murder of innocents, and promise a new way.

We are the gods of war.

Today at noon, our wrath struck down the military establishment known as the Pentagon. This symbol and structure of this faltering government’s military strength has been destroyed. All within were guilty. All within are dead.

Once again, we call for the unconditional surrender of the government, a statement by the so-called Commander-in-Chief resigning all power. We demand that all military personnel, all members of the police forces lay down their weapons.

We who are Apollo promise clemency for those who do so within seventy-two hours. And annihilation for those who continue to oppose us.

It was Apollo’s most sweeping statement, Eve noted. Broadcast less than six months before Rowan’s house had been destroyed, with all its occupants.

What had he wanted, she wondered, this self-proclaimed god? What all gods wanted. Adulation, fear, power, and glory.

“Would you want to rule the world?” she asked Roarke. “Or even the country?”

“Good God, no. Too much work for too little remuneration, and very little time left over to enjoy your kingdom.” He glanced over. “I much prefer owning as much of the world as humanly possible. But running it? No thanks.”

She laughed a little, then propped her elbows on the counter. “He wanted to. When you take out all the dreck, he just wanted to be president or king or despot. Whatever the term would be. It wasn’t money,” she added. “I can’t find a single demand for money. No ransoms, no terms. Just surrender, you fascist pig cops, or resign and tremble, you big fat politicians.”

“He came from money,” Roarke pointed out. “Often those who do fail to appreciate its charms.”

“Maybe.” She skimmed back to Rowan’s personal file. “He ran for mayor of Boston twice. Lost twice. Then he ran for governor and didn’t pull it off, either. You ask me, he was just pissed. Pissed and crazy. The combo’s lethal more often than not.”

“Is his motive important at this point?”

“You can’t get a full picture without it. Whoever’s pushing the buttons in Cassandra’s linked to him. But I don’t think they’re pissed.”

“Just crazy then?”

“No, not just. I haven’t figured out what else yet.”

She shifted, rolled her shoulders, then set up to run comparisons on the names Roarke had fed into her machine.

It was a slow process, and a tedious one that depended more on the computer than its operator. Her mind began to drift as she watched names, faces, data, skim over the screen.

She didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep. Didn’t know she was dreaming when she found herself wading through a river of blood.

Children were crying. Bodies littered the ground, and the ones that still had faces begged for help. Smoke stung her eyes, her throat, as she stumbled over the wounded. Too many, she thought frantically. Too many to save.