Act of Revenge: A Puppet Master Thriller
By Dale Brown and Jim DeFelice
5/5
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About this ebook
When terrorists attack Boston, Louis Massina races against time to save the city with a high-tech counteroffensive . . .
On Easter Sunday morning, the city of Boston is struck by a widespread and coordinated series of terrorist attacks: an explosion in the T, a suicide bomber at Back Bay Police Station, and heavily armed gunmen taking hostages at the Patriot Hotel.
For robotics innovator Louis Massina, aka the Puppet Master, this is far more personal than a savage act of political terrorism. Boston is his city—and one of his employees, Chelsea Goodman, is among the hostages facing certain death. As Chelsea fights from the inside, Massina leads his team of tech geniuses at Smart Metal to deploy every bot, drone, and cyber weapon at their disposal to defeat the fanatics and save his city and friend.
That's step one. Step two: Find the twisted mastermind behind the attacks and make him pay.
Dale Brown
Dale Brown is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous books, from Flight of the Old Dog (1987) to, most recently, Eagle Station (2020). A former U.S. Air Force captain, he can often be found flying his own plane in the skies of the United States. He lives near Lake Tahoe, Nevada.
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Book preview
Act of Revenge - Dale Brown
Epigraph
Revenge, at first though sweet,
Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.
—Milton, Paradise Lost (Book IX, lines 171–72)
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Epigraph
Contents
Data sheet
Obscenity
Flash forward
1: Real time
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
A Need to Avenge
Flash forward
17: Real time
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
Takedown
Flash forward
32: Real time
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
Failure to Close
Flash forward
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
Puppet Master
Flash forward
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
Done Deal
111
About the Authors
Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author Dale Brown
The Puppet Master Series
Copyright
About the Publisher
Data sheet
Important people
Louis Messina—scientist and entrepreneur, proprietor of Smart Metal, deeply religious; lost his hand and his wife in a car accident as a young man; never remarried
Chelsea Goodman—project engineer at Smart Metal; genius at math, young, petite, creative
Johnny Givens—young, athletic FBI agent on Jenkins’s task force
Yuri Johansen—veteran CIA officer, in charge of a covert antiterror action group primarily operating overseas
Ghadab min Allah—nom de terror of Samir Abdubin, roughly, God’s wrath.
More demon than man, with a fetish for knives, especially ornate khanjars, which he uses to slit victims’ throats
Shadaa—Ghadab’s paramour
Important places
Boston & suburbs—birthplace of freedom, hardscrabble values, great Italian food, and the best baseball team in the world
Palmyra, Syria—city in Syria occupied by ISIS/Daesh, used as sanctuary by Ghadab
Important tech
Bot—Smart Metal slang for robot that can function to some degree on its own, in contrast to mechs and industrial robots designed for specific, stationary tasks such as welding or chip making. Smart Metal constructs all types
Mech—Smart Metal slang for robots that are preprogrammed for specific tasks but retain more flexibility than industrial robots
Autonomy—ability of bot or other entity to think
or make decisions without direct commands from operator
UAV—unmanned aerial vehicle, commonly referred to as a drone
; Smart Metal UAVs can operate without direct human guidance
Obscenity
Flash forward
Boston, Easter Sunday
High noon
Louis Massina paced back and forth in the small high-security area, worried, anxious, and angry.
But most of all, impotent. Boston was under attack. The lives of dozens, maybe hundreds, of his friends were directly threatened. One of his closest employees, a young woman with tremendous promise, was among the hostages.
Maybe even dead.
And all he could do, for all his money, for all his inventions—his robots, his drones, his computers, his software—was walk back and forth, trying desperately to suppress what could not be suppressed.
Anger. Rage. The enemy of reason, yet the core of his being, at least at this moment.
There were other alternatives. Prayer, for one.
Prayer is impotence. Prayer is surrender.
The nuns who taught him would slap his face for thinking that. They held the exact opposite: Prayer was strength, tenfold.
But while in many ways Massina was a man of faith, he had never been much given to prayer. In his mind, actions spoke more effectively than words. Prayers were all well and good, but they worked—if they worked at all—on a realm other than human.
And the action needed now was completely human. Not even the Devil himself could have concocted the evil his city faced.
Light flashed in the center of the far-right monitor.
They’re going in,
said the operator watching the hotel where Massina’s employee had been taken hostage. The light had come from a small explosion at the side of the building. They’re going in.
Almost in spite of himself, Massina started to pray.
1
Real time
Two hours earlier
Boston, Massachusetts
Easter Sunday morning
There were few better hotels in Boston than the Patriot Hotel if you wanted to soak up the city’s history: city hall was practically next door, Faneuil five minutes away. You could catch a trolley for the Old Town tour a block or two down the street. Bunker Hill was a hike, but then the British had found that out as well. The rooms were expensive—twice what they would go for at similarly appointed hotels nearby—but money had never been a major concern for Victoria Goodman, Chelsea Goodman’s favorite aunt. Victoria had gotten a job as a secretary for Microsoft very soon after it started, and when she cashed out her stock in the early 1990s, invested in real estate in and around San Francisco, most notably Palo Alto and Menlo Park—the future homes of Facebook and Google. Victoria had that kind of luck.
Despite her luck, and her money, Victoria was especially easygoing, self-assured yet casual. She met Chelsea in the hotel lobby wearing a blue-floral draped dress that showed off toned upper arms and legs that remained trim and shapely despite the fact that she had recently passed sixty.
Just on time,
declared Victoria, folding Chelsea to her chest. I hope you’re hungry.
I wouldn’t mind breakfast,
answered Chelsea. How far did you run this morning?
It’s not the distance, it’s the attitude,
replied Victoria. Only five miles. But it felt wonderful. It’s so marvelous running through the city.
You’ll have to try for the Marathon.
Those days are gone, dear,
said Victoria lightly. I’d never qualify. But thank you for the thought. You didn’t bring your young friend?
We’ll meet her at the Aquarium,
Chelsea said. She had to go to church with her dad.
Well, it is Easter.
Actually, they’re Russian Orthodox, so it’s Palm Sunday. He’s a single father, and lately he’s been trying to instill religion in her.
Chelsea followed Victoria across the paneled lobby to the restaurant entrance, where a maître d’ greeted them with a nod. He had a fresh white rose in his lapel and the manner of someone who’d been looking forward to this encounter the entire morning. He showed the two women to a seat at the far end of the room, then asked if they would care for something to drink while they looked at the menus.
Mimosas,
said Victoria. And coffee.
Mimosas?
asked Chelsea.
Why not? You don’t have to work today, and champagne always puts me in the mood for sightseeing.
Chelsea was just about to ask how exactly that worked when a loud crack shook the room. The metallic snap was followed by two more, each louder than the other. The noise was unfamiliar to most of the people in the restaurant, but Chelsea had lately had a singular experience that not only made the sound familiar, but warned her subconscious that there was great danger nearby. She leaped up from her seat, and before her aunt could respond, had grabbed her and pushed her to the floor.
Someone is shooting!
Chelsea told Victoria as the crack of a fresh round of bullets echoed against the deep wood panels of the room. We have to get out of here!
2
Boston, Massachusetts—around the same time
Johnny Givens couldn’t help but be impressed. Since coming to Smart Metal, the former FBI agent had seen more than his share of high-tech gizmos and gadgets. The company was the leading manufacturer of stand-alone robots in the Northeast, and its R&D section was beyond anything Jules Verne, Gene Rodenberry, or William Gibson could have imagined. And he himself was an example of its cutting-edge technology—having lost his original legs in an accident while working a case, Johnny now walked on a set of prosthetics designed and manufactured by Smart Metal’s Bio-Med division. Yet what he was seeing this morning impressed him even more than his legs. For he was seeing the future of policing.
The Boston Police Department had invited Johnny and his immediate boss, Smart Metal Security Director William Bozzone, to inspect their not-yet-complete Command Center, a veritable Starship Enterprise located in a disaster-proof shelter under the Charles River. Besides the normal communications gear one would find in a class-one emergency call center, BCPD Command had dedicated links to a dozen nearby police departments, the Massachusetts State Police, the National Guard, Homeland Security, and even the Pentagon. Police video cameras, set up at every substation, municipal building, and historic site, provided real-time visuals of what was happening around the city. Visual input could also be received from up to twelve helicopter drones, which were piloted from a room within the complex. Commanders could not only speak in real time to any officer on the force, but could push
data such as video to their devices—phones, tablets, laptops—as well. Sophisticated computers utilized face- and voice-recognition software to ID suspects and present their rap sheets in less time than it would take a police officer to tell them to put up their hands. The center also received status reports on the city’s T or subway, buses, electrical grid, and its internet systems. And while still in its infancy, software that integrated all of the available information promised to provide alerts that would make the department far more proactive than imagined even a decade before.
To Johnny, it looked like nirvana: a twenty-first-century tool for law enforcement that would put police officers two steps ahead of criminals. So he was baffled when he noticed Bozzone’s frown deepening with every step they took around the center. What had seemed like a quizzical annoyance as they passed through the metal and chemical detectors before boarding the tram at the entrance had blossomed into something that suggested disgust. Bozzone didn’t voice it—he was nothing if not disciplined and polite—but having worked with him closely for several months, Johnny realized he was about ready to explode.
Their tour guide, Police Captain Horace Wu, seemed oblivious. Wu, a fifth-generation police officer whose great-great-grandfather had been one of the first Chinese American members of the Boston PD, led them from the Situation Room down a hallway past some as-yet-unoccupied offices to the Galley—a full-service cafeteria that, unfortunately, was not yet manned. Coffee and pastries had been put out on a table; Wu directed Bozzone and Givens to help themselves while he checked on the other groups being shown through the center.
This is going to kill your diet,
Givens told Bozzone, glancing at the array of fruit tarts, jelly donuts, and squares of cheesecake.
Bozzone silently poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. Johnny helped himself to a Danish and followed.
Not even tempted?
asked Givens.
Bozzone shrugged.
What’s up?
You realize this is Big Brother Central, right?
said the security chief.
I don’t follow.
The gear here, the coordination, the inputs, and the abilities—it can be used for a lot of things.
Catching criminals. Sure.
Bozzone focused on his coffee, stirring it slowly.
Danish is good,
said Johnny.
The problem is balance. And responsibility. Who do we trust with the keys?
Bozzone raised his head and stared at Givens. His expression was somewhere between that of an interrogator and a philosopher, both accusing and pensive at the same time. Who do we trust watching our every move?
It’s an extension of the guy on the beat,
offered Johnny. In the old days, a cop would patrol a few blocks, know just about everybody, see just about everything going on. That was community policing.
Johnny, who’d earned a bachelor’s in criminal science after his Army service, knew this was an exaggeration, and that in fact it bordered on an idealistic fantasy. But it was the best he could offer at the moment.
He expected Bozzone to counter, but he didn’t. Instead, his boss rose.
Let’s get going. I don’t really feel like spending all Easter here.
Good idea,
said Johnny. Otherwise I’ll be tempted to grab another Danish.
It occurred to Johnny that their intel shack at Smart Metal, which had been set up to help the CIA complete a mission in occupied Ukraine, had even more capabilities than BCPD Command; Bozzone had raised no objections about that. But this wasn’t the place to bring that up. He fell in behind Bozzone, following as he walked back through the hall to the Situation Room, looking for Wu so they could say thank you and take their leave.
They had just spotted Wu across the room with a pair of Massachusetts State Detectives when a buzzer sounded. Givens looked up at the massive LED video panel at the front of the room. A large red banner was flashing across the top of the screen:
Shooting Reported in Old Town District
A systems operator at a console on a raised platform near the back of the room typed furiously, and the image changed from a map of Boston to a bird’s-eye view of the area near the harbor. A red marker glowed near a building Johnny recognized as the Patriot, a pricey five-star old-world-style hotel in the center of the city’s historic area. The screen divided in half; a video from a police car responding to the scene appeared at the top right, next to the map. Below it was an image from one of the two helicopter drones currently flying above the city.
Is this a tech demonstration?
Johnny asked.
Before anyone could answer, another banner appeared on the screen, just below the earlier one:
Explosion in Orange Line Station: Back Bay
Come on,
said Bozzone. Fast.
Johnny followed his boss as he beelined for the exit portal, running to one of the waiting trams. Johnny had barely gotten in when Bozzone hit the Transport button. The magnetic-impulse car shot away from the Command Center toward the facility’s guarded entrance.
We need to get out of here before they go to lockdown,
said Bozzone. Boston is under attack.
You don’t think it’s just an exercise?
Bozzone shook his head. No way.
3
Near Boston—a short time later
As a practical matter, most days, even Sundays, religion did not intrude too greatly into Louis Massina’s thoughts, let alone his schedule.
Easter was different.
Easter high mass was a must-attend event; he had not missed one in his memory, which extended back to his days as a toddler. Accordingly, the mass was an exercise in nostalgia as well as devotion. The scent of lilies and incense as he crossed to the narthex from the vestibule returned him to his childhood; by the time he knelt in a pew to pray, he would remember the hard wooden kneelers he’d bruised his knees on as an altar boy. The choir would transport him farther back, to a neighborhood church—boarded now, but at the time crowded with blue-collar parishioners and their prayers. Massina would see his great-aunt, a nun, face beaming as she fingered her rosary beads. He would remember his parents, and the long walk home to the apartment where his mother had hidden their plastic eggs in various crevices.
That was a long time ago, and not just in years.
Conscious of how much had changed, Massina came out of the church in a contemplative mood, and it only deepened when he returned home. If he had been of a different temperament, this contemplation might have led to melancholia, a yearning for the past, and half a bottle of Scotch or some similar beverage. Massina was different: his mood prompted a laundry list of projects he must absolutely turn his attention to, things he had to accomplish, projects he had to try. That was his family’s greatest legacy—urging him to never be satisfied.
If I can dream it, why can’t it be?
A somewhat naive credo, and yet look where it had taken him.
Massina was lost in thoughts of cybergenic prosthetics and autonomous ships when the security system alerted him to the car that had pulled up to the gate.
He was surprised to see that it was one of his company SUVs, driven by Johnny Givens.
Open gate,
he told the system, then went to meet Johnny on the landing to the front steps.
You have today off,
said Massina sharply as his deputy security supervisor got out of the truck. Why are you here?
Terrorists are attacking the city,
said Givens tersely. There’s been an explosion in the T, hostages at a hotel downtown, a bombing—
Take me to the office.
Beef wanted you to stay here. It’s safer.
We’re leaving now,
said Massina. Do you want to drive or should I?
Johnny Givens had only worked at Smart Metal for a short time, but he wasn’t surprised at all by Massina’s decision. He doubted Bozzone would be either.
Getting downtown, however, was not an easy task. The police had cordoned off the area near the Patriot Hotel, and traffic was snarled to the point that they reached a standstill about a dozen blocks from their office. Massina surveyed the situation, sat patiently for about thirty seconds, then unlocked his door and hopped out.
Mr. Massina!
Johnny shouted. At least let me come with you.
Well, come on, then.
I can’t abandon the truck.
Massina shrugged and started away.
They had passed a parking lot a half a block away. Johnny edged his way onto the sidewalk—fortunately empty—then backed all the way to the lot. He pulled into a space, then ran to catch up to his boss.
The inventor was rather short, and Givens had the benefit of appendages that were several times more powerful than normal
legs. Still, it took him several blocks to catch up. By that time, they were within sight of the renovated factory that housed Smart Metal’s offices in the city center.
Two policemen dressed in riot gear stopped them on the next block. Givens prepared himself for an argument, but he didn’t get a word out of his mouth.
Hey, Jimmy O’Brien,
said Massina, walking over to the taller of the two officers. I saw your father at mass this morning. He’s looking very well.
Mr. Massina, how are you?
said the policeman, pushing up the shield on his helmet to see Massina better.
Not good. What the hell is going on?
We’re not sure, but the city’s on lockdown.
I’ll be at my office,
said Massina, already starting past. If you need anything, send someone around to see Bozzone. We’ll send you out some coffee. I’m not sure if there’s food, but if so, we’ll get you that, too.
Thank you.
You know everybody in the city?
asked Givens, catching up.
Just the important people.
Bozzone met Massina in the entrance hall. You were supposed to stay at your house.
You’re giving the orders now? What’s the situation here?
We’re secure,
said Bozzone.
How about our people?
I don’t know where everyone is but—
But you’re working on it,
snapped Massina. It wasn’t a question.
I am.
Good.
The police want everyone to shelter in place,
said Bozzone.
Is that wise?
Probably.
Unless they happen to be in a place where the terrorists are,
said Massina. Make sure everyone is accounted for. Update me upstairs in twenty—no, ten minutes.
4
Boston—around the same time
Chelsea crawled around the back of the dining room toward a door that led to a hallway with storerooms and a bathroom. She could hear gunshots and a commotion at the front of the room, but knew better than to stop and see what was going on.
Still with me, Aunt Vic?
Right behind you,
said Victoria.
The lights snapped off just as Chelsea reached the entrance to the hallway. She took her aunt by the hand, then rose and began running down the corridor.
Her first thought was the restroom, but out of the corner of her eye she saw a metal fire door and realized it meant there was a stairway behind it.
The stairs,
she hissed. Come on!
She slammed her shoulder against the crash bar as if she were punching into a scrum in a field-hockey game. The door gave way easier than she had expected, slamming against the concrete wall of the stairwell and punching her in the side. Victoria rushed past, ducking to the right as Chelsea pushed the door closed. There was no lock.
Up the stairs, come on,
she told Victoria, though her aunt was already leading the way.
Chelsea expected the older woman to fade as they hit the second flight, but either fear or her daily running exercise—perhaps both—gave her the energy of someone forty years younger. She wasn’t even breathing heavily as they reached the third-floor landing.
How far up should we go?
asked Victoria.
To the roof!
decided Chelsea.
Unlike the richly paneled and stuccoed walls of the hotel’s public areas, plain cement blocks lined this stairwell. Cold to the touch, their solid, no-nonsense, whitewashed surface reassured Chelsea as she climbed. It was a bunker-like womb, a literal stairway to safety.
Or so it seemed until a loud crash reverberated from above. A woman screamed—high-pitched, the sound bounced off the hard surfaces of the walls, vibrating the loose metal of the treads so that the entire stairwell tingled with fear. A deeper sound followed, one even more frightful—it was male, a grunt that turned into a shriek before sinking to a groan, pain mixing with despair. Its echo lingered for only a moment, disrupted by the sound of automatic gunfire, a rapid click and whistle, ricochets dicing the surface of the cement. Splinters began to fall, and a cloud of dust—cement, gun gases, blood—filled the stairwell.
We gotta get out,
Chelsea told her aunt, grabbing her hand and pulling her to the door of the landing they’d just climbed to. The doorknob turned but the door wouldn’t open. Chelsea’s adrenaline took over. She pulled her aunt with her, descending to the next level down.
Don’t panic, she told herself. Step by step.
She thought of her trip to the Ukraine, and her training, and how to breathe. She forced herself to slow as she reached the next landing, fighting her adrenaline.
This door also seemed blocked, even though the knob turned.
Oh, for crapsake!
She was pushing, when of course the damn thing opened into the stairway.
Calm is better!
Slow is sure. Sure is fast. Slow is fast and sure!
Chelsea closed the door behind them as gently as she could. A fresh shock of gunfire rang from above as the latch closed.
Head leaning forward, arms out as if to catch a fall, Victoria moved in slow motion down the hallway, her head swiveling back and forth.
Stay close to the wall,
Chelsea told her. She put her hand on her aunt’s shoulder, gently holding her back so she could take the lead.
Careful,
said a male voice, so loud that she thought it was coming from behind her. She glanced back.
There was no one else in the hall. Chelsea lowered herself into a half crouch and began walking again, her right shoulder hugging the wall. The rooms along the hallway were laid out similarly to the ones in the restaurant—the stairwell at the end, a men’s room, a ladies’ room. Rather than opening into a larger room, however, this hall led to another passage. Chelsea went down on her knee, peering forward to scan the hall. It was only a few yards in either direction; each end gave way to another hall.
She listened, hoping to hear the voice again. There was strength in numbers.
Which way do you think?
asked Victoria.
Right, I think,
said Chelsea. Toward the front of the hotel. Did you hear that voice?
No.
There must be other guests.
I hope they’re on our side.
Chelsea peered around the corner, not sure what to expect. The hall ran for about six feet before giving way to a lounge area that rose above the main lobby. Seeing it, Chelsea knew where she was; the reservation desk was below and to her right. There was a small coffee kiosk around the corner from it. Most of the rest of the lobby area was a maze of low couches and chairs. A bank of elevators lined the hall on the left.
This is kind of a balcony,
Chelsea told her aunt, leaning back. It’s about eight feet wide, and it’s over the lobby. The front doors are just over there, and there are a couple of side entrances around that way.
She pointed to the section beyond the reservation desk. It’s too high to jump down, but there are stairs at the far end. It’s like thirty yards.
OK.
The lobby is empty,
said Chelsea. She leaned back around the corner, making sure she was right. Let’s go that way while we have a chance.
Out the front?
I think it’s our best bet.
Sneak or run?
Run . . . OK?
Chelsea looked at her aunt’s face. Her eyes had narrowed, and while her lips were pressed together, she looked determined.
Chelsea started to get up.
Wait,
said Victoria, grabbing her.
What?
Do you have your phone?
Yes.
We should call and tell someone what’s going on.
God.
Chelsea dug into her pocket for her phone. She hadn’t thought of that.
But the phone couldn’t get a signal. Reception here was always iffy.
Try yours,
she told her aunt.
I left it in my pocketbook.
Forget it,
said Chelsea. Let’s get out of here. On three.
On two.
Victoria raised her thumb.
Chelsea turned back toward the lobby, leaning forward to make sure the way was clear.
One, two,
she whispered, and then she was off, flying across the long expanse. The deep carpet muffled her footsteps. The hotel remained eerily silent, without even mechanical noises, let alone people or guns or explosions.
As Chelsea reached the far side of the balcony, she spotted an alcove to the right. A red exit sign lit the corner. She decided that would be a safer route, since they wouldn’t be exposed.
This way, come on,
she said, changing direction. She ran into the alcove and stopped at the door.
Just then the lights flickered and the place blackened. Emergency lights tripped on a moment later, casting the hall in a yellowish, almost sepia-toned hue.
I just need to catch my breath,
said Victoria. What’s this? I thought we were going out the front.
This might go directly outside,
said Chelsea. Better not to be seen.
Good. Let’s go.
But rather than leading to a separate entrance, the staircase came out on the side of the lobby, not far from the reservation desk. Chelsea took a step toward the desk, then quickly retreated as shadows moved across the floor.
She held her breath, waiting. There was no sound, and the shadows were gone.
Ready?
she whispered to her aunt.
Yes!
We go right to the door,
said Chelsea. When we get outside, run left. I passed a Starbucks there, across the intersection. We’ll get help there.
And lattes,
said her aunt.
Lattes, yes,
said Chelsea. On three.
Though they’d rested for only a moment, her legs muscles had tightened, and Chelsea felt her calves straining as she leaped forward, glancing both ways to make sure the lobby was empty. Heart pounding, she shot toward the row of doors.
A chain linked the bars of the set closest to her. Chelsea ran to the next set—another chain.
They were all chained.
Victoria either didn’t see it or didn’t quite realize what it meant. She continued past Chelsea and landed both hands on the crash bar. The door budged about an inch and a half before stopping abruptly. Victoria smacked hard against the glass.
Chelsea grabbed her aunt, holding her up.
That hall,
she said. Come on.
The hallway off the lobby ran parallel to the front of the building. The right side rested against the building’s