Rebel Heart

"Hello?"

"I'm calling on behalf of Tim." The masculine voice was low and calm, his speech marked by a Southern drawl.

"I believe you have directions for me?" she asked. She hurried to her greencar, trailed by the self-propelled suitcase.

"I'm going to take you the scenic route," the man said. "If we're cut off, I'll call back immediately. If the network doesn't work, there's a radio in your greencar."

She reached the greencar. Her gaze dropped to the driver's seat, where a small black military radio sat where none had been when she left the car. She looked around her, puzzled. Thus far, Mr. Tim was not following typical protocol for emergencies. He hadn't issued an emergency order over the nets of those who worked for him, and he'd asked someone in the regular military to contact her rather than calling out his special security forces.

"You there?" the soldier prompted impatiently.

"Yes," she replied. "How bad is it?"

"Be assured that you're in no danger," he said in a clipped tone. "Your call sign for the radio is Angel. Mine is Guardian. The correct channel has been programmed into it. Place your thumb on the pad, and it'll signal me. Follow my instructions no matter what. Understood?"

"Yes."

"Let's go."

The Peak was abuzz with activity when Lana arrived several hours later. During exercises, the government's premier contingency operations compound in the Appalachian Mountains of Tennessee was populated only by maintenance crews and a few relaxed guards. She parked in her assigned spot and emerged from the car, startled by the scores of personnel already present. The gate guards were doubled, armed and wearing tactical gear, the perimeter lit by intense floodlights. Helicopters thumped in the distance while military patrols roared overhead.

The air was charged by the activated electromagnetic field surrounding the compound. Lana snapped her identification chip to her uniform before proceeding to the operations control center with Mr. Tim's portable vault. Alerted to her passage through the perimeter by the microchip implant in her brain, Mr. Tim intercepted her before she reached the command and control hub.

"Good to see you, kid," he said with warmth, drawing her off the sidewalk as two soldiers hurried by. "Guardian do you good?" His accent appeared when he was too stressed to be concerned about emulating the flat, cultured accent of the political elite.

"Yes, sir," she answered. "What's going on?"

The thump of a helicopter drew nearer. Roving searchlights splashed the Undersecretary with brilliant white light. Despite his urgency, Mr. Tim was immaculately dressed, his silvered hair clashing with features rendered youthful by multiple advanced cosmetic surgeries. Blue eyes were sharp and his handsome façade calm. He shielded his eyes.