He could leave her to join Susann and the son they’d named Gabriel.
Thinking of them he began to drift away, into the comfort of imagining Susann in a white dress, sitting under a big, arching tree on a gentle green hill, with the baby in her arms.
There was a little farmhouse nearby, yellow with blue shutters, a white fence, a garden in bloom.
Their dream house, one they’d built in their dreams and conversations, the house in the country they’d dreamed of having one day.
She waited for him there, with the baby in her arms, and a brown puppy sleeping by her side.
He needed to see her there, her and his son. Under the big tree, in sunlight. At night she screamed for him in the dark, screamed his name, and the baby screamed with her.
But now she smiled, content to wait until he climbed the hill and sat beside her.
“Dad! Dad!”
He shot awake, reaching for the weapon at his hip.
In the gloomy light of the loft he saw Will standing in front of the short sofa, staring at the wall screen. She’d been cleaning her weapon, he noted, pleased to see the rifle on the table in front of her.
Still, the snap in her tone brought him to his feet, brought back the former soldier inside him. “Do we have a breach?”
“They’ve got our names, our faces.”
He stepped over to stand with her, to listen to the breaking story.
His last official ID photo, and Willow’s, filled the screen while the reporter’s voice sounded over them.
“To repeat, police have identified two suspects in the Wollman Rink and Times Square attacks in which seven people, including a police officer, were killed and more than fifty people were injured. Police are looking for Reginald Mackie, a former Tactical officer with the NYPSD, and his fifteen-year-old daughter, Willow Mackie.”
The ID shots shrunk, swiped to the side of the screen while Nadine Furst in her bold red came into view.
“Police officials have scheduled a media conference to provide additional details. At this time, they ask if anyone has information regarding the whereabouts of these suspects, please do not engage, as they are believed to be armed and dangerous.
“Reginald Mackie, fifty-four, an Army veteran and decorated police officer, was widowed in November of 2059 when his wife, Susann Prinz Mackie, was killed in a vehicular accident. Mrs. Mackie,” Nadine continued when Susann’s picture came on screen, “was sixteen weeks pregnant at the time of the accident.”
Susann’s picture hung on screen, lips curved, eyes smiling. Then his came on, and Willow’s while Nadine continued the report.
“How’d they make us? How’d they make us this fast?”
“Solid police work.” He said it quietly as he saw his dream of a life in Alaska, a life of peace, fading.
Gone, he thought. No peace to come. No home. No life to build.
“But we’ve been so careful. They have Mom by now, don’t they? And Lincoln and the brat.”
“Your brother,” Mackie reminded her. “He’s your brother, Will. Your blood.”
Something feral gleamed in her eyes, but her father didn’t see it. “Yeah, they have them. You cleared out everything from your room? Anything that connects to the agenda?”
“I told you I did.” Insult sliced through her tone. As if she’d leave anything. Her eyes, hard green against that soft, smooth skin, flashed toward him. “There’s nothing in my room back there. I’m not stupid.”
He nodded, moved over into the tiny kitchen area, programmed coffee for himself, got her a tube of the Coke she preferred. “This is why we worked out a Plan B.”
“But, Dad—”
“Will, the mission comes first. You understood that. You trained for that. We go to the alternate plan, and regroup.” He gave her a sad smile. “You need to cut your hair, honey, and get moving. I’ll get to you when I can, but . . . In the event I’m captured or taken out, you know what to do.”
He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I depend on you.”