"February 8, 2024. I saw that."
"Explosion. The feds blew up his house, though the public stand is he did the job himself." He glanced up again, face blank and set. "But that's confirmed in this file—time, unit, authorization to terminate. It appears he had his children in the house with him."
"You're telling me the FBI bombed his house to take him out, and took two kids along for the ride?"
"Rowan, his children, the woman he'd taken as his lover. One of his top lieutenants and three other members of Apollo." Roarke rose, moved to get more coffee. "Read the file, Eve. They'd tagged him. They'd been hunting him since his group had claimed responsibility for the Pentagon bombing. The government wanted payment, and they were pissed."
He brought fresh coffee to Eve. "He'd gone under, moved from location to location. Using new names, new faces when necessary." Roarke settled behind her as they read the data. "He still managed to make his videos and get them on air. But he stayed a step or two ahead of the hounds for several months."
"With his kids," she murmured.
"According to these files, he kept them close. Then the FBI ran him to ground, surrounded his house, moved in, and did the job. They wanted to take him out and break the back of the group. That's what they did."
"It didn't have to be done that way."
"No." He met her eyes. "It's rare in war for either side to consider the innocent."
Why hadn't they been with their mother? It was her first thought, one that came unwillingly to mind. What did she know of mothers? she reminded herself. Her own had left her in the hands of the man who'd beaten and raped her throughout her childhood.
And would the woman who had given birth to her have carried the same bitter look in her eyes as the woman now on-screen? Would she have had that same tight-lipped scowl?
What did it matter?
She shoved the thought aside, sipped her coffee again. For once, Roarke's superior blend left a bitter taste in her mouth.
"Revenge," she said. "If Fixer was right and that's part of the motive, this could be the root of it. 'We are loyal,'" she murmured. "Every message they send has that phrase in it. Loyal to Rowan? To his memory?"
"A logical step."
"Henson. Feeney said a man named William Henson was one of Rowan's top men. Do we have a dead list on here?"
Roarke brought it up to the wall screen. "Christ Jesus," he said quietly. "There are hundreds."
"From what I was told, the government hunted them down for years." Quickly, Eve scanned the names. "And they weren't too particular about it. Henson's not on here."
"No. I'll run a check on him for you."
"Thanks. Shoot this much through to my machine here, and keep digging."
He stopped her by brushing a hand over her hair. "It hurts you. The children."
"It reminds me," she corrected, "of what it's like to have no choice, and to have your life in the hands of someone who thinks of you as a thing to be used or discarded as the mood strikes."
"Some love, Eve, and fiercely." He pressed his lips to her forehead. "And some don't."
"Yeah, well, let's see what Rowan and his group loved, and fiercely."
She turned away to man her computer.
The answer, she thought, was in the series of statements on file that Apollo had issued during its three-year run.
We are the gods of war.
Each statement began with that single line. Arrogance, violence, and power, she thought.
We have determined the government is corrupt, a useless vehicle for those inside it, used for exploitation of the masses, for suppression of ideas, for the perpetuation of futility. The system is flawed and must be eradicated. Out of its smoke and ashes, a new regime will rise. Stand with us, you who believe in justice, in honor, in the future of our children who cry for food and comfort while the soldiers of this doomed government destroy our cities.
We who are Apollo will use their own weapons against them. And we will triumph. Citizens of the world, break the chains binding you by the establishment with their fat bellies and bloated minds. We promise you freedom.