Fractured State (Fractured State Series Book 1) Read online

  ALSO BY STEVEN KONKOLY

  THE PERSEID COLLAPSE SERIES

  The Jakarta Pandemic

  The Perseid Collapse

  Event Horizon

  Point of Crisis

  Dispatches

  THE BLACK FLAGGED SERIES

  Black Flagged Alpha

  Black Flagged Redux

  Black Flagged Apex

  Black Flagged Vector

  WAYWARD PINES KINDLE WORLD

  GENESIS SERIES

  First Contact

  Last Betrayal

  Sanctuary

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 by Steven Konkoly

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503935587

  ISBN-10: 1503935582

  Cover design by Marc Cohen

  To the heart and soul of my writing: Kosia, Matthew, and Sophia.

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  PART II

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  PART III

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  PART IV

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  PART V

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  CHAPTER 73

  CHAPTER 74

  CHAPTER 75

  CHAPTER 76

  CHAPTER 77

  CHAPTER 78

  CHAPTER 79

  CHAPTER 80

  CHAPTER 81

  CHAPTER 82

  CHAPTER 83

  CHAPTER 84

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  Elissa Almeda closed her eyes, wishing she could keep them shut for the rest of the short ride back to her townhouse. After spending the entire day in an increasingly hostile Capitol building, followed by a painfully long dinner with two of her least favorite colleagues in the House of Representatives, the last thing she wanted to do was field another round of questions. But she could feel him glaring from the dark shadows of the seat behind her.

  “Don’t you ever take a break?” she asked.

  “Not while you’re in DC,” he replied.

  She shook her head imperceptibly, opening her eyes to the well-lit, ornate facades of Embassy Row passing her window. As the SUV slowed to enter Dupont Circle, Almeda tapped the glass twice with her index finger, replacing the scene with a muted, dark-green image. The security agent seated across from her in the driver’s-side captain’s chair tapped his window moments later, dimming the rest of the backseat area.

  “Thank you,” she said, pausing awkwardly while she struggled to remember his name. No use. “The lights were giving me a headache,” she added.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, flipping the compact optics attached to his communications headset in place against his face.

  She assumed that the binocular-shaped device interacted with the window’s digital tinting technology, restoring his view of the streets surrounding the SUV. Almeda still wasn’t sure what to think of her new security team. They were slick, professional—and no doubt expensive. California was paying a fortune to protect her, and she wasn’t about to protest or ask too many questions. Not with the secession issue raging across the state again.

  “So, what prompts my chief of staff to stalk me while I’m having dinner?” asked the congresswoman.

  “I just happened to be walking by Sonoma when your security team offered me a ride,” said Jacob Preston.

  “Uh-huh. Mr. Leeds, can we keep my schedule and whereabouts secret from Mr. Preston after hours?” she asked, smiling back at Preston. “I could use a few minutes to myself while I’m in DC.”

  Her new security chief looked back between the front seats to address her. “Do you want us to remove him from the vehicle right now? This is a stable part of town,” he said dryly.

  “I can’t tell if he’s serious,” said Preston.

  “He’s not serious, and neither am I. Just making a point,” she said, catching the faintest trace of a grin from Nick Leeds.

  His name she remembered. She imagined not many women forgot it. His ruggedly handsome but weathered face suggested someone more comfortable out of the tailored suit that barely contained his muscular frame.

  “Sorry I have to resort to hitching rides in armored SUVs to secure an uninterrupted conversation with you these days,” said Preston.

  “It’s been busy. What’s up?” she asked, turning her body as far as she could within the confines of her seatbelt.

  “I don’t think we can hold off taking sides much longer.”

  “I don’t control the state legislature,” said Almeda. “I told them that.”

  “You’re a senior congressional representative with a nuclear triad plant and a nuclear desalination plant in your district,” he said, “along with eight hundred thousand voters that have reelected you by a very wide margin for eleven terms. You have considerable sway with the state legislature.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “We’ve run the polls over and over again. The Forty-Ninth District is not interested in cutting economic ties to the federal government. We’re letting a vocal minority hold court, and if we’re not careful, the sentiment might catch fire,” he said. “Look at what Sean Jarvis is dealing with in his district.”

  “His district’s demographic is a little more sus
ceptible to secession fever.”

  “Fiftieth District’s demographic is strikingly similar to ours.”

  “I meant economically,” she added.

  “Point taken, but he has two gigawatts in solar farms near the Anza Borrego Desert, which is enough to power most of the homes in his district,” said Preston.

  “Which they share with the state grid. We have twice that capacity with San Onofre alone, not to mention the runoff electricity created by the Del Mar plant.”

  Preston didn’t respond immediately, which meant he was letting her reflect on her own statement. It was one of many annoying quirks that came with the thirty-nine-year-old political genius she’d hired in the wake of the ever-unpopular California Resources Protection Act. Preston had reinvented Almeda’s platform leading up to the 2030 elections, singlehandedly guaranteeing her return to Congress. She’d learned to live with his quirks.

  “People can do the math,” said Preston, “and they start to ask questions when the answers don’t add up. That’s what Jarvis is facing.”

  “The numbers add up. The state isn’t energy independent, or water independent. California has a ways to go before we can start to seriously consider independence.”

  “That’s not what people are hearing from the California Liberation Movement crowd,” said Preston. “You don’t want to play catch-up like Jarvis. I think it’s better to get out ahead of this one. Send a strong signal to the state and surrounding districts. Ease some of our pressure here in DC. No point in making more enemies than necessary. How was your dinner?”

  “The water is still free,” said Almeda. “Ironic for a restaurant named after a county in California.”

  “Did you have the avocado salad?”

  “Of course,” she answered.

  “That must have cost a pretty penny.”

  “I wasn’t picking up the bill,” she said.

  Five years earlier, California had cut avocado and almond yields by half in response to the federal government’s continued refusal to deal with the Colorado River issue. States upriver from California had been siphoning off far more than their share of water from the withering river for the better part of two decades. The US Department of the Interior’s Bureau of Reclamation turned a blind eye to the water pipelines diverting water to the growing number of fracking fields expanding across the parched Great Plains. The cuts had been presented as a protest, but they were mostly a necessity. Almonds and avocados were two of California’s most water-intensive agricultural products, outside of beef and other livestock.

  “I hope that wasn’t the extent of your protest tonight,” he said.

  “It was about all I could manage with those two. I liked it better when the lobbyists were open about their manipulation—not hiding behind my colleagues at five-hundred-dollar dinners,” said Almeda.

  A few moments of silence passed before Preston responded.

  “One Nation Coalition’s financial backers are getting really nervous about the secession issue. California’s already an inhospitable business climate for a number of major industries.”

  “Nobody is losing money. They make it sound like they’re destined for the poorhouse,” she replied.

  “It’s not just the money. They stand to lose even more control over the regulatory environment in the state,” said Preston. “It sets a difficult precedent, reducing their leverage in other markets.”

  “Which makes it harder to squeeze every dry penny out of those markets,” said Almeda. “It’s always about the money. At least they’re consistent.”

  “And relentless. I’m pretty sure most of my appointments tomorrow will revolve around the topic.”

  “The session ends Friday,” she said. “We’ll test the waters when we get back to California. I don’t see any good coming out of the California Liberation Movement’s renewed activity either.”

  “None at all,” said Preston. “I’ll start working some angles.”

  As the car slowed for the final turn onto Thirty-Fourth Street, Nick Leeds’s angular face reappeared between the front seats.

  “Ma’am, a second team cleared your townhouse a few minutes ago. We’ll escort you to the door and take Mr. Preston to his residence, unless you’d prefer one of my agents to conduct a walk-through with you.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Almeda.

  She suspected her new security arrangement included twenty-four-hour coverage, though she had never seen a second car on the street. She had to admit that the recent increase in death threats made her a little wary. She’d lived with threats like these since she first ran for the California State Senate, nearly thirty-one years ago. They had become a routine part of her life as a public figure, a part she had mostly ignored—until this serious upgrade to her security detail.

  “I’ll be fine, too, Mr. Leeds,” said Preston. “I’m just a few blocks away. I could use the fresh air.”

  “Understood,” said Leeds, before quietly issuing orders through his headset.

  The SUV straightened on Thirty-Fourth Street, maintaining a steady speed down the cramped one-way street. The driver abruptly stopped the vehicle when they reached the streetlight across from Almeda’s townhouse. She tapped her window, revealing a redbrick facade with black shutters. There was a small concrete stoop with black cast-iron railings guarding each side of the short stairway.

  The agent next to Almeda whispered, “Ready,” prompting Leeds to open the front passenger door and step outside. Through her window, Almeda watched Leeds glance up and down the sidewalk, speaking into a microphone she assumed was embedded in his collar. The second security officer slipped out of the driver’s-side rear door, closing it behind him before stepping back to assume a protective stance behind the SUV. A few moments later, Leeds opened Almeda’s door, offering his hand to help her down. She caught a glimpse of a gun barrel protruding from the bottom right of his suit jacket.

  “I got it. Thank you,” she said, taking an exaggerated step onto the uneven brick walkway beyond the curb.

  Preston followed her into the humid night air, meeting her at the bottom of the townhouse steps.

  “Coffee at Saxbys?” he said.

  “Six a.m. sharp,” she answered. “Leeds, can you have a vehicle pick up Mr. Preston at five fifty-five?”

  Leeds didn’t immediately respond, which was odd. This man had a knack for anticipating her questions.

  “Nick, do you think—” she started, freezing at the sight of her security chief in a combat stance, staring over the illuminated scope attached to his short-barreled rifle.

  “Back in the vehicle,” he hissed.

  Almeda stared past Leeds, searching the shadows. “Is there a problem?” she asked, instinctively taking a step toward the safety of her townhouse.

  A strong hand pressed down on her shoulder from behind, pulling her off balance, as a sudden snap fired past her head. A deafening fusillade from Leeds’s weapon illuminated the tree trunk and red cobblestones next to the SUV. She tried to turn around to find Preston, but a firm shove knocked her to the ground behind the SUV’s open passenger door. Almeda’s protest was masked by a discordance of hollow thumps and cracks striking the other side of the bullet-resistant door.

  A burst of gunfire erupted directly above her, showering her with red-hot shell casings. She flipped onto her back, screaming—just in time to see part of the second security agent’s head splatter against the spider-cracked passenger-door window. Almeda pressed against the SUV as the agent’s body crumpled to the cobblestone walkway in front of her.

  Beyond the dead agent’s twisted corpse, Jacob Preston lay in a motionless heap next to Almeda’s townhouse stoop, one of his arms hanging limply through the bars of the metal railing. Her eyes darted from Preston to the front door, craving the perceived safety of the posh Georgetown home.

  Almeda gripped the SUV’s blood-slicked elbow rest and started to lift herself off the pavement when Leeds materialized. He stepped over the dead agent and jerked her
to her feet with one hand, tossing her into the armored Suburban by her suit-jacket collar.

  “We’re leaving!” he yelled, firing a quick burst down the street.

  “What about Preston?” she yelled, reaching for the door.

  “He’s gone,” said Leeds, slamming it shut in her face.

  Her fingers clawed at the leather interior, seeking the door handle. Muted thumps and sharp cracks filled the SUV’s interior, seeming to come from every direction. The door didn’t budge when she located the handle. I’m locked inside, she thought, raising her fists to pound on the sticky window.

  A blast rocked the SUV, spraying her with warm chunks. Almeda whipped her head toward the front of the vehicle, glimpsing a three-inch hole in the supposedly bulletproof windshield. The door beside her opened, and she spilled onto the pavement at Leeds’s feet, still processing the ghastly front-seat image. The driver’s headrest and most of his head had been missing.