by Nick Petrie
“I’m sure he will.” Although in truth Holloway doubted it. “Whatever you need. You’ve really gone above and beyond on this one.”
He disliked this kind of ego-stroking crap. He’d always tried to rise above all the petty human bullshit, but he had to admit this was a special case. And now he understood why Edgar had become so helpful. It was useful information to have.
“I didn’t mind going into her house,” Edgar said. “It was fun to see what her life was like.” He turned back to the road, the speedometer steady at seventy-five. “Although I’d rather just do my regular job.” He tipped his head toward the back of the van. “You already paid me for this one, but I want to finish the other one first. I like to do them in order.”
“Oh, the other one is still very important,” Holloway said. “Let’s get you fixed up and you can go back to work.”
“Do you still want this one?”
Behind them, Maria spoke up, her voice sharp. “You pendejos know I can hear you, right? Talking about killing some reporter, about killing me?”
Holloway patted the cardboard shoebox on his lap. “Oh, your health and well-being are very important to me, Maria. You and I are going to become great friends, and great partners, for many, many years.”
Then he reached into the backpack by his feet, pulled out her computer, and opened it on his lap. “While I have your attention, why don’t you tell me your password? It’s time to shut down your ransomware.”
She looked at him like she had a secret she wasn’t telling. “Too late, Vince. Your files are being deleted right now.”
Holloway felt a surge of anger. He woke his phone and called Coyle, his IT contractor. “Tell me you solved my problem.”
“We haven’t freed up your files yet, but we did manage to pause the countdown. And of course your hyena controls are on an entirely separate system that is still under your full control.”
“Good. Keep working.” Holloway ended the call and looked over his shoulder at the woman hunched on the floor of the van. “Did you hear that? I’ve already beaten you, Maria. You might as well join me. What’s your password?”
“I know about your assessment agreement with the Defense Innovation Unit,” she said. “Why are you in bed with the Department of Defense?”
The DIU was a small, fast-moving, Silicon Valley–based program intended to accelerate the adoption of cutting-edge commercial technology into the military. Holloway felt the anger begin to congeal into something sour. She’d been deeper into his system than he’d thought.
“Imagine my hyenas in a combat setting and you’ll understand,” he said. “I’m a patriot. It’s about saving lives.”
“Vince, the only person you care about is yourself.” She shifted on the floor of the van. “You stole this technology. You think the Pentagon won’t find out?”
She knew about that, too? Had she been reading his personal notes? Was nothing sacred? He felt his cracked sternum begin to separate again, no matter that his heart attack had been seven years ago.
“I took it from a program so secret it doesn’t even exist,” he said. “And I developed it into something much greater. If the DoD ever figures it out, they’ll see it’s too valuable to stop. I’m too valuable.”
And he was. He had seen the future. He was a fucking genius and normal rules did not apply. And if the Pentagon didn’t see it, someone else would. “This is a major evolution in defense technology,” he told her. “Far fewer soldiers in combat will mean far fewer lives lost to war. That’s a good thing. Foreign interventions will be cleaner, cheaper, and more palatable to voters than ever. America will use her might to bring about the end of war. Hyenas will be peacekeepers all over the world. Not to mention the downstream domestic market, which is unlimited. In five to eight years, we’ll move into police contracts. In ten to fifteen years, we’ll have a hyena on every street corner in America, with our autonomous facial recognition on constant alert for bad guys.”
“That’s not the end of war, that’s an endless war abroad and a police state at home. That’s your big dream?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Those things will happen with me or without me. Don’t you read history? The writing’s on the wall. Consolidation of power is the inevitable future. My dream is to be the power. The wealthiest man in the world, advisor to kings, maker of presidents. And you, with this fuel cell?” He patted the shoebox again. “Will guarantee that future. Now, Maria, tell me your password.”
She turned her head and spat on Harry’s sensor covering. “Mal rayo te parta.”
Holloway felt his strength return in a flood. “That doesn’t sound like a password. And this is no way to start our partnership.” He raised his voice. “Harry, are you listening? Very slowly, tighten your claw by five millimeters.”
Behind him, a powerful servomotor softly ticked. A higher, louder sound came out of the woman.
“It doesn’t have to hurt, Maria. What’s your password?”
“Chinga tu puta madre, viejo.”
“Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish. Harry, tighten by five more millimeters. No, make it ten.”
Human beings, Holloway thought, really were unpleasant.
60
PETER
The self-driving semi picked up speed as it slalomed through the afternoon traffic, running red lights with no police around to notice or care. Peter and Lewis clung to the slender grab-handles on the back of the trailer, doing their best imitations of limpets. The sill that held their feet was no more than three inches wide.
Peter smiled at his friend. “This thing drives like you, Lewis.”
“Man, that’s a insult to my style,” Lewis said. “Listen, you think somebody telling this damn thing what to do? Or did it decide to take out my truck and Metzger’s minivan in one quick move all by itself?”
“I think we need to hang on tight and figure out what the hell to do next.”
They flew past a rounded old Mercury sedan and three little boys in the back seat stared at them goggle-eyed, then rolled down the windows and started waving. Peter saw a converted firehouse and a shining barbershop slide by on the right and knew they were coming up on Lincoln Park.
Next came the river and the I-43 overpass with the north shore suburbs on the other side.
“We’re headed for the freeway,” Lewis said.
Peter nodded and looked down at the pavement flying past. They weren’t going to go much slower any time soon. “If we’re going to make a move, we better do it before we hit that on-ramp.” He tipped his chin at the roof of the trailer. “Up is our best bet.”
“We stay down here, some solid citizen gonna call 911 for sure.”
“Agreed.” Peter pulled his pistol and aimed at the gray sensor blob at the top center of the trailer. “If anyone’s watching, better they can’t see what we’re doing.” Lewis turned his head and Peter put two rounds into the plastic. The whole assembly fell away, revealing a shallow oblong hole where the brake light had been. “We can get a couple fingers in there, pull ourselves up.”
“Good a plan as any.” The horn sounded and the truck lurched as it swerved around a driver who had clearly not been watching his mirrors. They lost their footing again, just their hands on the skinny steel handles, holding tight. Lewis grinned. “Starting in just a damn minute.”
“I’ll go first.” Lewis had two kids, and this whole adventure hadn’t been his problem to begin with. “If I fuck it up, you can always bail at the on-ramp where it crosses the river. Practice your Olympic diving technique on the way down to the water.”
“You won’t fuck it up,” Lewis said. “Who else’m I gonna drink beer with?”
They were approaching Green Bay Road, the last intersection before the park. The semi swerved again, this time into the opposite lane, apparently to bypass cars waiting at the signal, then made it through cross traffic somehow managi
ng to not hit anything. Peter hoped this truck wasn’t truly autonomous, because its priorities were totally fucked up.
Their toes found the narrow steel sill again as the truck approached the first of several tight curves. The pavement was good here, so there should be fewer bumps, at least in theory.
As Peter felt the truck begin to brake, he let go of the grab handle, stood on his toes, and reached up to jam his left hand into the empty light socket. The deceleration of the truck pressed his body into the closed roll-up door and kept him from turning into reverse roadkill.
He got three fingers lodged in a good pocket hold as Lewis’s hand closed lightly on his belt, then the curve pulled him sideways and his feet left the narrow metal ledge.
On a good day, Peter could manage a half-dozen one-armed pull-ups. Even though June was a much better rock climber, he’d gone out with her plenty of times. But usually the mountain wasn’t holding a curve at fifty miles an hour. He was lucky that there was a small lip at the bottom of the socket, designed to hold the original brake light cover, that kept his fingers from slipping loose.
He lifted himself to chin height, then slapped his right hand onto the flat of the trailer roof and hauled himself higher. He was surprised to find a low metal frame just a foot in front of his face, suspended on brackets a few inches above the surface. He reached out and grabbed a bracket and raised a leg and then he was up, lying flat on a smooth, shiny platform that stretched the width and length of the trailer.
He didn’t have time to wonder what the platform was for. He looked ahead and saw the next curve coming up, tighter and in the other direction, with the on-ramp just beyond. The truck was still going at least forty-five. He spun on his belly and hung one arm down toward Lewis. “View’s better up here.”
Lewis scrambled up and crouched on his toes with a stabilizing hand at the edge of the platform as the semi accelerated toward the on-ramp. “Shit, it’s all solar panels, enough to power a small house. Probably keep this thing rolling twenty hours a day.”
“Let’s hope we’re not headed to California.” Peter still wore his go-bag. “I don’t have enough granola bars to feed us both for three days.”
“Man, I ain’t eating granola bars for three days. Think we could get a pizza delivered up here?”
61
JUNE
June stared at Detective Hecht. “Why are we talking about my personal life? You guys do remember that somebody tried to kill me yesterday, right? At least twice, maybe three times?”
There was a knock on the door and Sergeant Threadgill, the patrolman with the push-broom mustache, stepped in carrying a manila file folder.
Threadgill handed the folder to Hecht, who laid it on the table without opening it. Threadgill folded his arms and leaned against the closed door. With Lorenz still standing in the corner, her cheekbones sharp enough to cut, there were now three cops packed into the small space. A nice bit of intimidation theater, June thought.
Hecht smiled at her. “We don’t have all the pieces yet, but we think there might be another actor in all this.” He opened the folder, took out two pieces of paper, and slid them across the table.
The first was an arrest warrant with Peter’s name as the defendant. The second was an FBI printout that showed Peter’s old Marine Corps ID photo beside another, more recent picture, probably from when he cleared customs into Iceland.
Hecht reached across the scarred Formica tabletop and tapped the FBI printout. “Have you ever seen this guy?”
June examined the photos. Neither made Peter look good. “Jesus, I hope not. He’s kinda scary.” She read the text at the bottom. “He killed somebody?”
“According to Interpol,” Hecht said. “He also beat the daylights out of four armed police officers while still in handcuffs. The guy’s a real beast. I hate to say this, but Sergeant Threadgill here thinks he looks a little bit like your boyfriend, Peter Murphy.”
“That’s ridiculous.” They were all looking at her, Sergeant Threadgill and both detectives.
“I know,” Hecht said. “It’s crazy. But there’s an easy way to clear this whole thing up. Ask your boyfriend to come in for a few minutes. We run his fingerprints through the system, thank him for his time, and send him on his way. Piece of cake.”
Sergeant Threadgill smiled under his mustache. “Do you know where Mr. Murphy is right now?”
“Honestly,” June said, “I have no idea. He could be anywhere.”
“Reason I ask, ma’am, I ran a check on your boyfriend, trying to rule him out, but he’s kind of a mystery. Driver’s license is good, but he’s got no utility bills, no credit cards, no financial history at all.”
“I told you, he’s a minimalist.” But she knew the conversation would only go downhill from here. It was time to call their bluff. “You know what? I have to get back to work.” She stood up and pushed back her chair and walked around the table. “Excuse me, Sergeant.”
The sergeant didn’t move from his position against the door.
June turned to Hecht, making sure her face and voice were clear for the camera. “Are you detaining me? If the sergeant doesn’t get the hell out of my way, then you’re detaining me. In which case, I’ll call my attorney, and he’ll call the newspaper.” She smiled at Hecht. “Can you imagine the story they’ll write? Victim harassed by heartless police. I’m a great interview. Or am I free to go, Detective? What’s it going to be?”
Hecht frowned. “You’re playing with fire, Ms. Cassidy.”
“And you’re worried about the wrong fucking people,” June replied. “Now get Sergeant Potato Head out of my way or I’m calling my lawyer.”
* * *
—
Outside, she stood on the sidewalk and looked for the Yukon, even though she knew Peter wouldn’t park nearby. She had no idea what Edgar might be driving, but was semi-certain he wouldn’t try anything right in front of the District Five stationhouse.
When her phone powered up, she had two voicemails from Dean Zedler, but she opened the text from Peter instead. Hope you’re okay, it read. Call me when you’re done.
She texted back. Done now. Can you pick me up?
Slight hiccup, he replied. Better take a cab to the hotel and lock yourself in your room. I’ll be in touch.
Fuck that, she thought, and called him.
“I hope I’m not your one phone call.” His voice was loud but she could barely hear it over the rushing background noise. Like he was standing beside a waterfall.
“Nope, I’m on the loose,” she said. “Where are you?”
“On the freeway,” he said. “How’d it go with the cops?”
“The good news is that I’m not under arrest.” She glanced around but nobody was there to eavesdrop on her. She lowered her voice anyway. “The not-so-good news is they showed me an FBI sheet with your face on it. They know who you are.”
“Shit,” he said. “I’m sorry, June. I fucked this up and put you at risk.”
Behind his voice, she heard the sharp blast of a car horn. “Just tell me we’re making progress. What did you get from the delivery driver?”
“Funny story,” he said. “There is no driver. The damn semi drives itself.”
Jesus, she thought. We really are living in the future. “That was your hiccup?”
“Well, no. Lewis’s truck got kinda wrecked so we had to hitch a ride.”
She forced herself to keep her voice calm. “What do you mean, kinda wrecked?”
“Well, totaled, actually. The semi hit it. Don’t worry, we weren’t in it at the time.”
“I can barely hear you,” she said. “Roll your window up for a minute.”
“Uh,” he said.
God, he was a terrible liar. “What the fuck is going on, Marine? Who did you hitch a ride with?”
“Uh,” he said again. “On that same semi. On top of t
he trailer, actually. We’re just rolling south of downtown now.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” she said. “Don’t die, please. ’Cause I want to kill you myself.” She blew out her breath. “What do you need?”
“We’ve got this,” he said. “I had some rope in my pack, so we’re tied off nice and secure, enjoying the ride, just waiting to see where we’re going.”
She closed her eyes tight, trying not to picture him on top of a goddamn truck on the goddamn freeway going who the hell knew where. “You are such an asshole.”
“I didn’t have a choice, June.” He told her about the scene in the parking lot, the abandoned electric bike, Kiko Tomczak down with two dozen knife wounds. Then he told her about Metzger’s. “We saw two of those things, the hyenas. They came after us. They’re no joke. We’re out of options. This semi is our only remaining connection to Holloway.”
She rolled her shoulders, trying to work out the tension from the interview room and the last few days. What she really needed was a long bike ride, or maybe a trip to the shooting range. Funny how that cleared her head. “How about weapons? You have guns?”
“Tons of guns,” he said. “We’re good, June. We’re just going to do a little recon. Tell Oliver we’re on the hunt and I’ll call you when I know something.”
“Just tell me what you need. I’ll get my Subaru and chase you down.”
“That might not be the best idea, June.” He was choosing his words carefully. “We don’t know where we’re going or what we’ll find when we get there.”
She ground her teeth. She hated it when he tried to manage her. “You just made my fucking point, Peter. You need help and I’m it.”
The sound of the wind rose up in her ear, but he didn’t say anything. As long as the wind was there, she knew she hadn’t lost him.
“June, I know this is your story, and I’m just your backup. Believe me, I’m okay with that.” His voice was gentle, but it carried over the noise. “But when the guns come out, that’s my department, right? Plus, we don’t know where Edgar is. What if he’s watching your Subaru?”
