3rd Degree - James Patterson [27]
The “tragic” incidents of the past week are only the tip of things to come.
The finance ministers of the world are meeting next week to carve up the last marginal remains of the “free” world economy left after Breton Woods—that which they have not already savagely consumed.
Cindy’s heart was thumping as she read on.
We are prepared to kill one prominent bloodsucking pig every three days unless they come to their senses and denounce the global virus that is the system of free enterprise, that has imprisoned helpless nations in the Great Lie that trade will make them free; that has enslaved our fellow sisters into the sweatshop bondage of the multinationals, that has stolen the savings of the American worker in a stock market that is no more than a corrupt, insider scheme.
We are no longer isolated voices.
We are an army, just as lethal and far-reaching as the vampire superpowers.
Cindy blinked disbelievingly, almost unable to move. Was this some kind of Internet hoax? Somebody’s idea of a joke?
She hit the PRINT key, clearing off her desk and cradling the phone in her neck as she read on.
The reason we have chosen you is that the normal channels of the media are as corrupt and self-serving as the global multinationals that own them. Are you part of the corruption? We’ll soon see.
We ask the important people who will meet in San Francisco next week, the G-8, to do something historic. Unlock the chains. Forgive the debt. Stand up for freedom, not profit. Set back the machines of colonization. Open the economies of the world.
Until we hear that voice, you will hear ours. Every three days, another deserving pig will die.
You know what to do with this, Ms. Thomas. Do not waste your time trying to trace it. Unless you don’t want to hear from us again.
Cindy’s mouth was dry as dust. SLAM@hotmail.com. Was this real? Was someone messing with her?
She scrolled a little farther to the bottom of the page. For the next few seconds, she was unable to move.
The e-mail was signed, August Spies.
Chapter 38
BACK AT MY DESK, there was a message from Chief Tracchio waiting for me, and one from Jill.
“And the Chronicle’s waiting for you,” my secretary Brenda called.
“The Chronicle?”
I looked up and saw Cindy, sitting knock-kneed on a stack of files outside my office. She pulled herself up as I approached, but I just didn’t have the time for her.
“Cindy, I can’t meet right now. I’m sorry. There’s a briefing scheduled—”
“No,” she cut in, stopping me, “I have something to show you, Lindsay. This takes precedence.”
“Is everything all right?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
We shut the door to my office behind us, and Cindy removed a piece of paper from her knapsack. It looked like e-mail.
“Sit down,” she said. She put the page in front of me and sat next to me. “Read.”
One look at Cindy’s eyes and I knew this wasn’t good.
“It came in my morning e-mail,” she explained. “I’m listed on the Chronicle website. I don’t know who it’s from. Or why they sent it to me. It’s just that I’m a little freaked right now.”
I started to read. Don’t ask how we got your name or why we’re contacting you…. The more I read, the worse it got. We are prepared to kill one prominent bloodsucking pig every three days…. I looked up.
“Keep reading,” Cindy said.
I looked back down and read the rest of the page. I was trying to decide if it was real. I reached the bottom, and knew that it was.
August Spies.
My chest was building up pressure. Suddenly, it was clear where all this was headed. They were holding the city hostage. This was a statement of terror. The G-8. Their target. It was scheduled for the tenth—in nine days. The finance ministers of the top industrial states around the world would be in San Francisco.
“Who knows about this?” I asked.
“You and me,” Cindy said. “And them.”
“They want you to publish their demands,” I said. “They want to use the Chronicle as a soapbox.” I was thinking of all the possible scenarios. “This is gonna make Tracchio shit.”
The countdown had already started. Every