“A man with moral courage,” I said quietly. “You're not going to make it long in Washington with an attitude like that, Mr. Smith.”
Bilson chuckled. “Do I sound that naïve?”
“You don't sound as jaded,” I said. “As when I first started talking to you, anyway.”
He bowed his head. “I'm sorry for what I've done to you, talking you down the last few years. I've been part of a...group. One that's viewed you, the things you've done, as antithetical to our aims for progress. The level of violence you've brought to bear, the way you've blown up carefully-crafted discussions...and of course what you did to President Harmon...we viewed you as a threat, this group.”
“Oh, it's a group?” I asked with a slight drip of sarcasm. I checked over my shoulder to make sure there was no phone nearby, and whispered, “I thought of it as more of a...Network.”
Bilson blinked a few times. “You...know about us?”
“I'm not stupid,” I said. “You think I didn't notice somebody was trying to run me into a ditch or under a bus? Whichever. Hell, both.”
“But we were secret,” Bilson hissed.
“You know what Ben Franklin said about secrets.” I caught a blank look from him. “'Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.'”
Bilson's eyes widened. “That's dark.”
“It's accurate,” I said. “Your secret club isn't that secret. I know you've been running me for the last year.”
Bilson looked like he really struggled with that revelation, but finally got it under control. “Yes. We have been. But I think I'm broken from them at this point. You need to understand something about this group, though – they are very serious people. We had a consensus. Plans. Influence. Power. Add those together, it's a dangerous combination.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
“Because these people are still controlling you,” Bilson said. “Or trying. They want you to lay off China.”
I held my breath for a hot second before responding. “I've tried to go along. Get along, these last few months. But letting this sort of thing go...it's not in my nature.”
“I know,” Bilson said. “But if you do this...” He stopped. Smiled. “When you do this...they're going to be upset. You need to know that Chalke is already at her limit with you, or damned close.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
Bilson paused, thinking. “I'm going to help you.” He stared over my shoulder. “I've been doing the wrong thing for a while now.” He dropped his gaze to my eyes, and smiled. “I think it would feel good to do the right thing here. Righteous, you know. Truly, not that faux-righteous feeling you get when delivering a sick Twitter burn.”
“Wouldn't know about that last thing,” I said, and heard something at the window. I turned and found Jian, in pigeon form, scrabbling there. “Excuse me for a second.”
“Is that a...are you opening your window for that p – gyahhh!”
Bilson shouted and leapt back as Jian sprouted back into human form, snatching the bedspread and wrapping it around himself deftly as he did so.
“Jian, this is Russ Bilson, political operative,” I said, “Bilson, this is Jian, Chinese dissident meta and that white tiger that's been saving me the last few days.”
Jian exchanged a look with me, then shrugged. “Nice to meet you. Michelle is on her way. She's less than a mile away, so she will be here soon. Also, she said she might have something for you.”
“That'd be nice,” I said. “I hate flying blind. Though I'm not flying much these days.” I looked to Bilson. “How do we keep our...internal troubles at bay while we go deal with this? I don't want governmental interference.”
“Leave your phone here,” Bilson said.
“Simple as that?” I asked.
He nodded. “I doubt they've got mine yet, but I'll leave it behind, too, just in case.”
“Okay,” I said, and looked at Jian. “You got a phone?”
Jian made a face at me. “Yes, but not on me.” He looked down, clearly indicating his washboard abs. “You see anywhere I could hide a phone?”
“Prison wallet?” I shrugged.
He shook his head, looking vaguely offended at the suggestion.
“All right, let's get out on the street,” I said, keeping my voice down. “I don't want to chance being overheard. But we'll need transport.”
“My Maserati's parked outside,” Bilson said. Then he frowned. “But it's got a LoJack, and they might be able to track it.”
“I guess this rules out a rideshare app, too,” I said. “I left my FBI SUV at the office. And it's definitely GPS tracked.”
“Michelle has a car,” Jian said.
“Guess she's our designated driver,” I said, looking at him. “Unless you want to shift into a gryphon and I can ride you bareback like...” The look on his face made clear that was a firm NO. “Car it is, then.”
We cleared out of the apartment as quietly as possible, Jian going out the window as a pigeon again, Bilson and I tiptoeing past his phone and shutting the door silently. I had my AR still slung over my shoulder; if Bilson had noticed it, he hadn't said anything about it yet. Maybe he'd just sort of accepted the game we were in.
“This is exciting,” Bilson whispered, huffing a little as we cleared the last round of stairs. “Is it always this exciting?”
“For better or worse, yeah,” I said, coat dangling behind me as I hit the street, slightly cool morning air washing over me as I left the stuffy apartment. The temp had dropped overnight, even more shocking since I hadn't noticed all those times I'd opened my window for Jian. “The threat of death being elevated tends to cause the pulse to race.”
“It's very invigorating,” Bilson agreed as a four-door compact SUV screeched to a halt in front of us.
Michelle rolled down the front window, mirrored sunglasses on as she looked out. “'Sup, dudes? Someone order Chinese takeout?”
“You're a laugh a minute, yoga pants.” I came around to the passenger side before Bilson could, grabbing shotgun seating placement. “You're in the back, Bilson.”
“We're about to face death, aren't we?” Bilson had a trace of a smile on his face as he slipped in the back. “You should call me Russ.”
“All right...Russ,” I said as we shut the doors. The Washington morning was still dark and the streets calm, near empty.
Jian the pigeon flew above us, visible through the open sunroof, a shadowy outline keeping pace with the SUV from above. “He better not shit on my rental,” Michelle said with clear annoyance.
“Where we going?” I asked. It seemed important. Maybe not as important as the fact that Michelle took the next corner at about ninety and almost flipped the SUV, but up there, somewhere in order of importance.
“Port of Baltimore,” she said, flipping her unlocked phone at me. “Chinese flagged cargo vessel Zoushan left out yesterday for Wenzhou, just a few hours before your raid. Cargo of soybeans and pork.” She smiled. “Except it's not actually soybeans and pork.”
“How do you know that?” Bilson asked. When she didn't answer immediately, he turned to me. “How does she know that?”
“Michelle's a recovering Triad boss,” I said. “She's hooked into the underground, and I'm guessing if she says some shit's being smuggled on that vessel...well, she would know?”
Michelle grinned. “'Recovering Triad boss?' I like that. 'It has been 92 days since our last instance of criminal activity.'”
I checked the chamber on my AR. “Time to reset that counter to zero. But first...” I took a long breath. “...We need to make a quick stop.” I thought about it for a second. “And a phone call.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
There was a helicopter pad not far from the Port of Baltimore. Bilson had made the call, booking the flight as I'd requested, with an insistence on urgency. The rotors were already spinning on the old Kiowa model helo when we pulled up.
“I know I'm probably late to the party i
n asking this,” Bilson said, “but it's my first...uh...raid, so...what's the protocol here?”
I hoisted my weapons, checking my AR sling and making sure my belt held the new addition. It did. Sturdy thing, carrying my two pistols, spare mags, and my newest acquisition. “The protocol is this – I get out to the ship, I drop. Shit goes down, day gets saved, celebrations ensue.”
“That sounds...simple,” Bilson said.
“Lemme cut you in on a secret – it's never that simple,” I said. “Something's bound to go wrong. Which is why you need to observe safely from the shore. See ya, Russ.” I gave him a little wave goodbye.
“No, wait!” Bilson charged forward to walk next to me. “I'm not leaving you.”
I sighed. “Russ...I'm going into battle here, okay? I know you want to help, but please – what good are you going to do in a fight?”
“I don't know,” he said, after a moment of his face flitting around, suggesting he desperately wanted to find an answer to that. “But I need to go with you.”
“'Need' is probably overstating it,” I said. “I like you now, Russ. I like your turnaround. I really like the promise of you helping navigate the diplomatic mess I'm about to cause and maybe subvert your superpals’ Network. I would hate to compromise that by getting you killed for no reason, which is what will almost certainly happen if you come with me.”
“I can wait in the helicopter,” he said. “But I just...I want to be of use.”
I caught a look from Michelle with her reflective lenses. “I suppose you want to come, too?”
“Oh, I'm coming,” she said, smacking her lips. “My yoga pants and I are not missing this flight.”
“How do you and your yoga pants feel about having to answer FBI questions in an interview after this is over?” I asked.
She didn't even miss a beat. “On the other hand, I'm not good with guns, I can't fly a helicopter, and I'm not of much use in a fight, so maybe we call it good with giving you a ride and sending you on your way?”
I looked at Bilson. “See her? She's smart. Be like Michelle.”
“Wait.” Bilson put a hand on my shoulder. “Without us or even a phone, you're going to be out there on your own.” Jian the pigeon squawked overhead. “Or nearly so. What happens if things go wrong?” He looked like he was ready to pop, all that energy, all that motherly worry, nowhere to push it. “I don't know how I could just sit back and let this happen.”
I stared at Bilson, then leaned in. “So...don't.”
He blinked. “Don't...what?”
“Don't just sit back,” I said. “Do what you're supposed to do. What you're good at.” He still didn't get it. “Go to your office, call up your press contacts, and push back on this stupid China propaganda bullshit. Tell my story. Get your friends interested in it. Subvert the Network narrative and push some inconvenient truths out there. Michelle, give me your phone.”
She looked at me suspiciously from behind those reflective glasses, but offered it to me, unlocked.
I found the record function and turned it on, set it up for a selfie video and hit record. “My name is Sienna Nealon, I'm an FBI agent...well, you know who I am. I've received a tipoff about a Chinese merchant vessel that departed the Port of Baltimore yesterday afternoon with some fifty to a hundred kidnappees on board of the same kind I recovered from the port two days ago. I am currently on my way to pursue this lead. My partner, Xavier Holloway, was shot and killed in what I believe was a Chinese government attempt to keep me from discovering this conspiracy. More ships, more kidnappings have occurred around the United States but haven't been reported because the Chinese government is picking out people who mostly won't be missed. I believe they are taking these people because they have genetic predisposition for metahuman powers that the Chinese government covets after the loss of their own program in 2012.” I looked out toward the horizon. “People need to know what the Chinese government is up to. They are the single largest human rights abuser on the planet and almost no one talks about it because they control our corporate media with threats to shut down their access to Chinese markets and Chinese news sources, which would cost these companies billions. This silence cannot be allowed to continue.” I looked right into the camera. “So I'm going to make some noise, in my own inimitable way. Good luck ignoring that.”
Clicking the record button off, I tossed it back to Bilson. “There. That ought to interest at least a few people. Maybe trend on Socialite or something.”
Bilson looked a little pained. “Maybe not Socialite. But you're right – I'll do what I can, my way.”
“Good man,” I said, and walked away.
“Good luck!” Michelle shouted. “Oh, and Sienna?”
I looked back in time to see that she'd thrown something at me. I reached out and caught it instinctively, only realizing after I had that she'd tossed me her glasses.
She smiled, and it was the kind that crinkled to the edge of her eyes. “Give 'em hell?”
“My own special blend,” I said, putting on the glasses. “Locally sourced, artisanal, but definitely not small batch. And I raise every bit of it myself.”
CHAPTER NINETY
“I see you're coming loaded for bear,” the pilot said as I got into the helo. “Gotta tell you, I haven't taken on a passenger with a weapon load like that since my last tour in Afghanistan.”
“You know who I am, right?” I asked, flashing my FBI ID anyway.
“It'd be hard not to know you, ma'am,” he said, completely straitlaced and squared away beneath his own ball cap, reflective aviator glasses and headset complete with boom mic. “Where are we heading today? Because I'm assuming it's not just a leisure tour.”
“A Chinese cargo ship left the Port of Baltimore yesterday afternoon,” I said. “I need to intercept it.”
He looked at me levelly. Couldn't see his eyes behind those glasses. Which was probably the same for him. “Why not take an FBI chopper?”
“Because I hired you,” I said. Then I looked back at Bilson. “Or my friend did. What's your name?”
“Cayce,” he said. It sounded like “Case.” “But you didn't really answer the question.”
“Because the FBI would like this problem to go away without having to go all-in on it,” I said. “There's a diplomatic incident waiting at the end of this particular rainbow if you know what I mean, and they're not keen to bury their noses in that. They prefer the sand.”
Cayce almost smiled. “I'm not real excited to get in trouble either, ma'am. Not for a lone fare. And if your cargo ship left yesterday, it could be a hell of a long ways off by now.”
I shook my head. “No. They travel at about ten knots, which is around 11 miles an hour. It's 120 miles to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, and I know the general bearing they'll take after that to Wenzhou.” I'd looked it up on Michelle's phone while we drove. “The search radius is going to be small.”
Cayce seemed to hesitate. “Okay. Well, I can get you there, but if you get into trouble...I'm not hanging around. I did my time, and I'm not sticking my nose into whatever you're getting into here. Not without knowing what it's about.”
“It's about kidnapping and human trafficking, Cayce,” I said as he paused, hand frozen on the stick. “By the Chinese government.”
I couldn't tell if that registered or not, but Cayce didn't say anything. Just put his hands on the collective and then increased the power to the engine. Pretty soon we were lifting off, the bird coming around to a southeast vector and then leaning hard into the wind as we sprinted over the Chesapeake Bay, trying to find that ship.
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
Chapman
CHAPMAN: Has anyone heard from Bilson?
Jaime waited, staring at the screen.
CHALKE: No. And Nealon is off grid, too. Her phone is at her apartment but she's not answering. At all.
Chapman cursed out loud and pulled up the feed to her phone.
Darkness. And a distant hum. That was all he was getting, and the si
gnal was spotty.
FLANAGAN: What is up with Bilson?
Chapman pondered a course of action on that; he'd had the Escapade app designed at his direction. It was pretty straightforward – mostly. It kept to itself, had top-level encryption, didn't track its users. That last thing would have been easy to pick up, so he hadn't bothered to piss off his would-be colleagues by doing anything that obvious.
But he was the CEO of the world's biggest tech company, owner of both the largest social network and most-used search engine. Those had their own apps, their own EULAs, and their own...quirks. Loudly fussed about quirks, but quirks nonetheless. Like tracking features sprinkled throughout the software.
And for a bunch of brilliant people in their individual fields, the members of the Network were dumb as hell in his field.
He pushed a button on the master Escapade program running on his computer. It was a simple bit of programming, not designed to cause a stir. It really didn't do much, even. A little ping, in which the program reached outside its own use of the operating systems of the member’s smartphones...
And nudged their FindIt and/or Socialite apps. Every single one of these clowns had at least one of them installed on their phone. Most had both.
The “nudge,” as it were, was designed to do one thing. Ping the location systems of said apps, telling them to report in to Socialite and FindIt's main servers. He was looking to add the same functionality with Instaphoto, but that was more of a problem in that – near as he could tell – half the Network didn't use it. Well, it was more of a millennial service.
Location results popped up on a specialized box on his screen in seconds. Chalke was at the Hoover Building; Flanagan, Johannsen, Byrd, and Kory were all at their respective offices in the various boroughs of New York City. Mostly Manhattan, except for that hipster Kory with his Brooklyn address. He was laughable; a tech guy who hadn't even bothered to figure out how the app worked before loading it on his phone. Moron.
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