The Feather's Push

By Noel Zamot

Amber Drake can sense emotions through touch. Today she learned she can change them.

In the wake of a near-fatal accident, Air Force Lieutenant Amber Drake awakens to a chilling reality: she can sense the emotions that others hide. The ability draws government interest, plunging her into

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atabey Press
• Release date: Sep 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987711217

Noel Zamot

Noel Zamot is an author, former military aviator, aerospace expert, and public servant. He is the award-winning author of "The Archer's Thread," the 39th Commander of the US Air Force's elite Test Pilot School, and served in a Congressionally-appointed role as Puerto Rico's "Infrastructure Czar" in the aftermath of Hurricane Maria.

Book preview

PART ONE

1

Christopher Everett smiled as the setting sun warmed his soul. Sunset over the slate gray waters of the Charles lit the Boston sky in colors that overwhelmed him. Scattered low clouds stretching west would gift the Berkshires with a beautiful evening. Across the river, the reserved majesty of MIT stood quiet and content. Behind him, Back Bay erupted from an emerald esplanade vibrant with life. This would be the perfect ending to a spectacular day.

He arrived at his favorite spot late, for good reason. His startup had closed their second round of funding, and he was lucky to capture the sunset before dinner with Kate. He couldn’t wait to tell her all about the day’s events, about what it meant for his job—and their new future together. There was no time to waste.

He was about to capture the sunset when a young woman stepped into view.

Hi, excuse me? Would you mind?

The girl, disheveled and clueless, ambled toward him. He ground his teeth at the interruption, but tried his best to be polite. A good photographer should never rile a subject, even one burning up precious minutes during golden hour.

Miss? I’m sorry, I just need a moment to take this⁠—

She reached out and touched his forearm. Her hand was tiny, soft as a feather, and very warm.

She was beautiful, far beyond the gold and pink sunset. He felt an overwhelming urge, right there, to remember her face forever.

I’m so sorry, miss. Would you... would you mind if I took your picture? Words failed him in her presence. He wanted to tell her she was the most interesting person he’d ever seen. Her auburn mane framed a delicate face, and honey-green eyes teased a delicious secret. The sunset paled compared to her smile.

Thank you. Her lips parted in a soft pout that left him speechless. That is very sweet. I’d love it.

Her voice was low and throaty, and he drank it in. His heart soared, melting with a desire beyond anything he’d experienced with Kate. He asked her to pose with her face lit by the fading sun. If he lost everything in life, he would still have this perfect picture, the only thing he would treasure forever.

Click. Click.

Thank you. You... made my day. He struggled to find words to convey the gratitude for being in her presence. Could I please have your number? I’d love to send you a copy. He smiled and hoped she would, too. If you don’t mind.

Well… She flashed her mobile phone with a flirty smile. I was wondering if I could download it from your camera?

Oh, I’m so sorry. I can’t do that. He was terrified for a moment that she’d run away. This was the worst day to be a film aficionado. He’d left his digital camera sitting on the table back at his apartment, excited to finish this roll. I’m shooting film today. But I can scan it and send it to you…

The change in her eyes surprised him. His heart raced with expectation as she stepped close, reaching out with her delicate, warm hands.

The afternoon gloom covered him like sand, endless desperation with no escape. The girl in front of him had it all but didn’t care. She’d never understand why his life was so difficult. He was worthless, sick of being a failure, ashamed that all his life had led to only this. He glanced at his stupid camera—why did he even do this?—and felt a deep, all-encompassing disgust with himself.

Cars flew by on Storrow Drive. He was a loser, in a dead-end startup job in Cambridge that would fail and doom him to misery. Kate was probably cheating on him right now, laughing at him while she was having sex with a coworker. He realized he hated her, but he understood. The world was better off without him. He knew what he had to do. No one would know and no one would care. The pain would soon be over.

He glanced over his shoulder as he stepped onto the parkway, the screams of the people behind lost in the roar of traffic. The girl with green eyes and auburn hair stared with a terrified look. She seemed to yell the word No.

His last thought before the truck slammed against him was I hope it hurts less than

2

You ready? Simon Lyons asked.

Justin Asher nodded and stared at the dark wooden door at the back of the small foyer. Although he’d been out of the military for over a decade, Simon still appreciated the young man’s fresh haircut, the close shave, the well-fitting but unwelcome charcoal suit with a mandatory white shirt and dark tie. Justin was ready for the most important meeting of his young life. For a moment, the only sounds flooding the silence were the far-off, muted whine of an air handler and the pounding of Simon’s heart.

Justin took a deep breath and knocked on the door three times. He opened it, walked to the desk at the end of the spartan office, and stood at attention.

Ma’am. Technical Specialist Justin Leigh Asher reporting as ordered.

Minerva Ayala sat behind her desk; her black hair tied up in the severe bun she reserved for official business. A severe, thin man—legal counsel from somewhere in the bowels of the Pentagon—stood a few paces behind her, as if supervising the upcoming rite. No one smiled.

You may stand at ease, Mister Asher.

Minerva dressed the part for the uncomfortable event. She wore a dark business suit, a starched blouse, pearl earrings, and no smile. She looked less like a government executive and more like an angry accountant. Simon could not see the tiny crucifix he’d gifted her ten years ago when she was the center of his life, before he became someone else. He wondered if she still kept it.

She stole a glance at Simon, then read from a single sheet of paper on her desk.

Memorandum for the Director, Defense Special Activities Offices, with copies to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the Secretary of Defense, Under Secretary of Defense for Intelligence, and Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency. The letter is from the Office of the Inspector General at the Department of Defense.

She paused and glared. Subject: Recommendation for Reinstatement.

Tension evaporated from Justin’s lean frame. He almost teetered, a house of cards before collapsing from an errant breath.

"Paragraph one. After conducting an extensive review, the Department of Defense Inspector General and the Defense Counterintelligence and Security Agency, based on the legal opinion from the Department of Justice, recommend full reinstatement of Technical Specialist Justin Leigh Asher to the Defense Special Activities Office.

Paragraph two. Additional details remain classified in accordance with Department of Defense program guidance. Please contact the Office of the Inspector General for additional information.

She looked up. That’s it. That’s the letter. Signed by the Inspector General.

Simon smiled. Working at one of the most obscure outfits in the nation had some perks. One was minimal paperwork. Not much of their jobs could be shared or documented for posterity. The clinical opacity worked well and kept secrets—like his—hidden from an unsuspecting world.

Do you have anything to add, Mister Asher?

Tears of relief welled up in the young man’s eyes. No, ma’am.

Very well. I do. She turned to the attorney. Thank you for being here. Miss Bennett will escort you out.

The man nodded in approval of the deed, then stepped out. As the door opened, Simon winked at Marcy Bennett, his partner at work, and Minerva’s erstwhile assistant. She acknowledged the message with a fleeting sigh of relief. The door closed, and the room fell silent.

Then Minerva stood and leaned on her desk, her ebony eyes blasting into the young man. By any measure, Minerva Ayala was imposing: tall and beautiful, with exotic features that seduced or threatened with equal ease. She commanded attention and respect—and when she wanted to, fear. A lifetime ago, he’d fallen in love with that.

What did you do on active duty, Mister Asher?

I was a Combat Rescue Officer, ma’am.

How good were you?

I was, uh⁠—

Simon smiled at the hesitation. He’d known Minerva long enough to recognize this counseling technique from miles away.

Director Ayala, if I may, he interrupted. Mister Asher received numerous service and joint commendations for bravery and heroism while serving as a captain in the US Air Force. He was ranked as the number one Combat Rescue Officer when he separated with distinction after his active-duty service commitment. Had he stayed in, he’d be fast-tracked for promotion and groomed for command.

Thank you for the clarification, Mister Lyons. Is that correct, Mister Asher?

Justin glanced at Simon, trying to convey a nervous thank you. It is, ma’am.

Justin Asher, you are smart, capable, and one of the very best in my unit. I am glad you are back. But you are also a lucky sonofabitch. She paused and let her silence flood the moment. You swallowed an internal mole’s bullshit hook, line, and sinker. You put that man, she said, pointing at Simon, and three civilians in mortal danger. It took our team—your team, my team—months to clean up the mess. Do you understand what I’m saying?

Justin stiffened. Yes, ma’am.

If you do something that stupid ever again, Mister Asher, I will rip your fucking head off with my bare hands and shit on the stump of your neck. And that won’t be the worst thing to happen to you. Is that clear?

Yes, ma’am.

I didn’t hear you.

Yes, ma’am, he said, a lot louder.

Good. I hate Owen Lockwood more than you will ever know. He betrayed all of us, and we are still trying to figure out why. We have no clue what other horrors he’s planning. The Pentagon, and the FBI, and the Department of Justice, and the DIA have all agreed that you were not at fault. I believe them. Now I want you to prove to me you deserve to be back.

Understood, ma’am.

Do you have anything else to say?

Ten years ago Simon received a gift, the result of an accident that almost claimed his life: he could see seconds into the future. The skill was useful in his line of work, allowing him to predict others—everyone except someone quite extraordinary—with ease. Despite the condition, he was unprepared for the tear streaking down the young man’s face.

I will earn this, ma’am, Justin Asher whispered. I will not let you down. I swear.

Minerva Ayala clenched her jaw. Simon knew the tell. She composed herself before she spoke, a moment to control visible emotion.

Dismissed.

Justin Leigh Asher snapped to attention, performed a crisp about-face, and walked out of the room. Simon glanced at Minerva as he followed the young man. She conveyed everything in a fleeting smile—relief, hope, pride. He closed the door behind them and stood alone with Justin in the gray hallway. The cold hum of the metal building made him shiver.

Congratulations, kid.

Justin nodded, fighting emotion.

You okay?

Thank you for being here, sir. He shook as he tried to control the shame. I am so sorry… He stopped before his voice broke.

You’re back, Justin. That’s all that matters.

Sir, I want to apologize to you. Again. I’m sorry.

You’ve apologized enough. I forgave you months ago.

You almost died. Because of me.

Simon raised a hand to his cheekbone, a reflex born in the recent past. He ran a finger over the scars that might fade from flesh but never from memory. Six months ago, on a deserted street north of Boston, they’d both been betrayed, walking into a trap with Justin as the bait. Simon remembered the fear in the young man’s face as he told him the truth. Minutes later, he fought to stay conscious, a whisper away from death. Bleeding out alongside a colleague was an odd way to bond.

We all make mistakes, Justin. How we learn from them determines who we’ll be.

Justin fought a grimace and his dark gray eyes welled up. Thank you, sir. He winced, holding back something, and ran into the bathroom.

Justin would stay there for a long time, crying alone, uncertain of what or how he felt. The experience would be horrible and memorable—and would change his life. A lifetime ago, in a grimy stall a world away, Simon had done the same.

He let out a quick breath, leaving memory and pain behind, then turned toward the labyrinthine exit from the metal building, hoping to catch the next flight home.

3

She hid her gaze on the walk home from the subway, hoping no one would suspect. Each step held the potential to be found. Only hours had passed since she’d killed someone. How long until they found out? How long until her life collapsed—again?

The summer’s heat seeped from the landing to her apartment, a converted house in a yet-to-be-gentrified neighborhood in Medford. Her initials—AD—scrawled on the slip of paper identifying her loft were bleached and thin, eroding like the horrid green paint infecting the house. Everything around her died or faded. No one would weep her last day. She deserved the fate.

The apartment was tiny, less a one bedroom than a studio, far below luxurious in these Boston hinterlands. One thick curtain kept the outside world at bay, leaking yellow streetlights on the ceiling. The few clothes she owned sat folded in a neat pile atop a cupboard across from her futon. She walked to a small corner table and lit a scented candle, a ritual of comfort. The flickering orange light warmed and soothed her, and after a few moments, the soft vanilla scent tamed the memory of the afternoon.

She glanced at her poetry books and journals collecting dust on her desk. A box in the closet held her uniforms, neatly starched, never to be worn again. In the far corner, two boxes of cosplay gear—wigs, vintage clothing, many props, stage makeup—lay undisturbed, a remnant of a useful past she now avoided. Someday, perhaps, she’d find a hobby that would not embarrass her.

She washed the residue of vomit from her lips, and considered her reflection in the mirror. An abandoned mannequin stared back; pale, gaunt, and sick. She brushed her auburn locks—the late summer humidity had turned her hair into a ragged mess—careful to avoid the scar that spanned half her skull. One year was enough to hide it, not enough to forget. How many passersby on Boylston had noticed it as they watched her retching on the sidewalk?

The image of the photographer’s broken body flashed in her mind, and she doubled over with a fresh wave of nausea and panic. For a moment she considered hurting herself. She fought the urge and instead turned on a kettle for mint tea. Minutes later, she sat down with the warm cup in front of the window. Then she cried, desperate and alone.

The mug cooled to a tolerable level when she opened the tablet, loaded with only two items. One was the communications app, the other a folder with documents she’d been studying for the past several days. Her new assignment would be challenging, and she’d have to focus. She’d have to play a role, something she’d been good at once. This time, she would play herself. If she succeeded, maybe she’d start again.

Her phone beeped. She texted back, ready whenever, and sat back, wondering how she would tell him what happened. The thought stabbed in her gut.

No one would know. Not him, not anyone, not ever.

A soft tone broke the silence, announcing a secure connection. She wiped her eyes and leaned into the tablet camera to ensure a good look at her iris. She placed her thumb, index finger, and ring finger on the touch sensor, then recited the nonsense phrase—Dickens sue outwardly shoe set—used to authenticate her voice. The image took a few seconds to build to full resolution, an artifact of signal compression and encryption. She saw the outline of his glasses before the connection beeped complete.

Lieutenant Drake, can you hear me?

I have you loud and clear, Major Lockwood. How about me?

Doing well. Let’s talk about your target.

4

They felt like the only people at Tufts University on a glorious day in Medford. The campus lay quiet and still in the heat, comfortable being the wrong place to be on a beautiful day. The warm air smelled like the space between summer days: caramel and sunlight, with no care about tomorrow. A handful of students walked across campus, unable or unwilling to leave. The rest of the world wished they could study here. Paula Mendez wanted to go home.

She fought the knot in the pit of her stomach walking with Harriet Morris—her best friend and fellow teaching assistant a few months prior—toward their old building, a path they’d walked countless times. Returning so soon after graduation was surreal. Memories rushed back in the familiar heat—the desperate race to finish her PhD dissertation, the longing to be anywhere else in the summer lull, the pride at seeing the institution as her alma mater instead of a place to escape from.

She adjusted her glasses and ponytail as they entered their old office building. The cool air spilling out smelled of yesterday, a respite from the heat they no longer needed. They walked on autopilot to their former office, commenting in hushed tones about tiny details they’d missed for years. The carpet, the walls, the windows—mute witnesses to years of indentured servitude as teaching assistants—now seemed charming and comforting.

She felt out-of-place walking the halls in something other than flats, jeans, and a short jacket, her erstwhile uniform for the past three years. She twirled her black hair over one shoulder and flicked her top for some fresh air, wondering if former students might recognize her now, dressed like a professional. Even in her linen slacks and tucked-in blouse, anyone would still remember Harriet—sassy and confident, her honey-brown frizz defying all attempts at control.

You think she’ll recognize us? Paula asked.

Just because we look like women now?

Paula smiled as they rounded the corner to their old haunt and paused before opening the door.

Good morning, boss!

Oh, my god! Good morning, ladies!

They rushed into the small office and hugged their former advisor. Doctor Kelly Austin, Assistant Professor of Mathematics and their mentor until only a few months ago, stepped back and smiled with pride.

I, my fellow doctors, am no longer your boss.

"You will always be our boss. She pushed Harriet and choked back emotion. What do you say, Doctor Morris?"

"Absolutely, Doctor Mendez, Harriet said, wiping her eyes. Honestly, Kelly. We would have never made it without you."

Kelly hugged them again. I’m so proud of you. My first advisees have left the nest. I will never forget you.

Paula took off her glasses and dabbed her eyes. She hadn’t seen her former advisor since the graduation whirlwind, six months after the horror of Burlington. Kelly no longer looked like a barista posing as a college professor, indistinguishable from her students. Now she looked … classy, content, and fulfilled. Her unkempt bob was cut short and full of sass. She seemed more at home in Newbury Street—or Rome, for that matter—than a lecture hall in the bowels of Medford. Even in the middle of the lazy summer, she dressed sleek and elegant in gray slacks, gorgeous black pumps, a wispy jade top, and a stunning pearl necklace—the latest gift from her boyfriend, no doubt. As one of the public faces of the university, she now had to dress the part. The way she moved, how she carried herself, even how she stood, made it clear she was doing this for Kelly—not for anyone else. A year after meeting Simon Lyons—Kelly’s boyfriend, their new supervisor at work, and the most dangerous person alive—Paula had never seen her mentor so happy. It filled her with joy.

So, how are your new jobs?

They flashed knowing smiles. Well, we’ve barely started. We’ll be in what they call ‘the Boston Office.’

At Hanscom Field?

I think we’ll be at some strip mall somewhere inside of I-95. With access control. Paula winked. Don’t tell anyone.

Kelly beamed. Simon was so excited! I hope everything is going well with⁠—

Paula shook her head and smiled. I would’ve called her ‘Dragon Lady’ before, but now… she wants us to call her Minerva. She’s still Miss Ayala at work. We’re flying to DC this week for in-processing.

Tell your boyfriend that we owe him serious beer money, Harriet said with a grin. This is going to be awesome.

Kelly held their hands and gazed in admiration. I’m so happy for you both. After last year, he was determined that you had to be on the team. He was convinced that without you we would’ve never found… Her voice faded.

"Him," Harriet said.

Paula shivered. She’d tried to not think of the name for the last six months.

Owen Lockwood, the psychopath who tried to kill them, was still out there. Angry, vindictive, and very much alive.

They fell silent for an eternity. Kelly turned ashen, and Paula sensed the terror in her gaze. Six months ago, she’d seen the love of her life almost shot to death before her. She glanced at Harriet, who’d shared the horror of that night. The calm of their current lives was a betrayal of the memory.

Well, Kelly, you were the one who figured out how to find him.

That’s very gracious of you. She sounded thankful for the interruption. But Minerva was mostly impressed with both of you. She allowed a thin smile to wash away the memory. I’m so glad this worked out.

Paula shook her head. Gotta tell you, Kelly, this is not what I thought I’d be doing after graduation. I thought I’d still be here at Tufts. Doing a post-doc. Teaching summer classes and hating it. Not joining some government outfit that not even Harriet can find online.

Give me a few weeks, Harriet replied with a wink.

She reached for their hands. Just…be careful. Please.

What do you mean?

She took a deep breath. Some people don’t want to be reminded of what happened. It was a huge embarrassment for some powerful people. Keep your eyes and ears open. Please.

We will, boss. The M&Ms are on it.

Kelly smiled with what Paula imagined being sadness and pride. "I miss you both so much."

We miss you too, boss. Who are you advising next term?

Actually, this year I’ll have an assistant. To help with classes and the university STEM initiative!

You have an assistant? Paula pumped her fists in victory. Holy shit, you’re famous!

And you get a break from idiot PhD students! Harriet laughed out loud.

Oh, come on. Kelly smiled. I think she’ll do great. She’ll be here in a few days. Her name is Amber Drake.

5

Scott Thomas stopped at the door of his Pentagon office, expecting someone to notice him.

No one did, and he smiled. Power and importance were best wielded unseen.

He glanced back at his assistant and tried not to sneer. Instead of a hot and clueless ingenue desperate for upward mobility, Scott had kept the old crone who inhabited his office. The anonymous people who kept the Pentagon running were like cats: loyal to place, not people. Elizabeth Mulholland was mild, obsequious, and hated him. But her knowledge of the building—how things worked—made the old hag valuable.

I’ll be away for an hour, Beth. I won’t have my phone.

Of course, sir, she said with deferential disdain. Where should I call if anyone asks for you?

Take a message. I’ll be back.

He closed the door and walked into the belly of the beast. The Pentagon existed in an endless cycle of remodeling: fresh paint—always gray—lumber, and dust. None of the dozens of people he passed acknowledged him. The Assistant Undersecretary of Defense for the most lethal capabilities in the Nation was not supposed to be famous.

The nuances of honorifics in the Building were useful only to those who had them. No one outside of their backbiting group knew or cared about their rat race, the unending tension of getting work done, not fucking up, and positioning yourself for the next appointment. But that didn’t matter. He had a trump card others would kill for: his own classified vault. Being a political appointee with a security clearance put you at the top of the heap. Owning your own secure facility was on another level. He was winning this game, lording his superiority over the sheep who worked shit jobs at Labor, or Commerce, or wherever. This labyrinth of power and lies was miles from his past life as a Texas state legislator, representing cowboys and idiots as he climbed the political ladder.

Last year’s disaster with Owen Lockwood had proven an old Pentagon adage right: Fuck Up and Move Up. The Secretary of Defense, to cover his own ass, had established one more layer between Washington’s political stratosphere and the Defense Special Activities Office. The reason was as old as the building: plausible deniability. Scott Thomas vacated his job as Director and stepped into a brand-new role overseeing his replacement. Minerva Ayala—attractive enough that if she were anywhere else they’d accuse her of sleeping her way to the top—now ran what everyone called the Office, one of the most anonymous and classified outfits in the District. His promotion covered his bosses’ asses. The job was little more than providing Minerva with money and resources and ordering people around. But the reach—access to the entirety of Relented, the crown jewels of classified programs—had its perks.

Scott Thomas now controlled the most lethal and sophisticated tools in the building. Even if the people working for him didn’t know.

He arrived at a nondescript door on the third floor of the D-ring and knocked. He did not want to use his card and have his location flagged to some Inspector General idiot looking for a scandal. After a few minutes, a south Asian man wearing thick glasses and a fleece sweater opened the door.

Hello, Director.

It’s Assistant Undersecretary now, Scott Thomas