Stolen Thoughts

by Tim Tigner

  “And thwarting justice in the process,” Vicky added.

  “Did she beat you in court as well?”

  “No. The partners of RRS&S sent an assassin to kill me.”

  “Whoa! Really? Why?”

  “This is all speculation requiring confirmation, but after thinking about little else for months, I’m convinced that they developed mind reading technology about twenty years ago. Then they, like me, realized the imperative of keeping their discovery secret. I’m also assuming that they’ve been monitoring the field ever since in order to prevent other inventors from releasing the plague on the world—and ending their reign.”

  “So they never reached out to you? Never tried to negotiate?”

  “No. What could they say? We’re going to practice as attorneys but you can’t be a psychic?”

  “I see your point,” Chase said, rubbing his temples.

  She leaned back and let him ponder.

  After a minute he asked, “How does the technology work? Physically, I mean. Did you get an implant? Take a pill? Or is that what your crystal ball does?”

  Vicky closed her eyes. “I need to stress again how confidential this is. I swore to my mother on her deathbed that I’d never tell anyone. But I am compelled to make an exception for you because I can’t stop RRS&S alone.”

  She paused there, letting the implications sink in. The awkwardness for her. The implications for him. Then she pressed on. “Chewie is fantastic. Lovable, reliable, honest, loyal, and kind. But I haven’t told him about the lawyers.”

  “You’re afraid he’d go after them and wind up dead,” Chase said with a knowing nod.

  “He doesn’t have your special skill set. Or mindset for that matter.”

  “I understand. And I appreciate your faith in me.”

  “It’s not about faith. I know for a fact that you’ve been keeping highly sensitive national security secrets for years.”

  “Good point.”

  “Glad you like it, because you’re not going to like it when the other shoe drops.”

  “What other shoe?”

  “I also know those CIA secrets now, Chase. When you thought about them, at my prompting, you gave them to me. Think about that. Think about what it means. If you give Skylar or anyone else this ability, you’ll be giving them the secrets you swore never to reveal. You’ll be giving them access to every secret out there. Imagine the damage that could be done if the wrong person has dinner with the Director of the CIA.”

  Chase did as she asked. Vicky watched him do it. His thoughts regarding the national security implications of mind reading ended with a pivot to their present situation. You didn’t answer my question about how your technology works.

  “Think back to your meeting with Scarlett Slate. Picture her in your mind.”

  “Okay.”

  Vicky put her cell phone on the table face up.

  Chase looked at it. “Voice to text. I know. I’ve seen others with hearing impairments use those, but Slate wasn’t one of them.”

  She handed him her sunglasses.

  “Her glasses?”

  Vicky nodded.

  Chase donned the Pradas and looked around before focusing on her face. His excited expression turned to one of puzzlement. “I’m not hearing anything.”

  She pointed to the bottom of her screen. The portion that appeared blank when one wasn’t looking through her glasses.

  “Oh my god!”

  Will you help me stop RRS&S? Will you help me put an end to their evil ways? Will you, Chase?

  “Yes. Yes, Victoria Pixler. I will help you.”

  29

  Single Minded Focus

  New York City

  SCARLETT SLATE quickly glanced at her watch and returned to her research. She still had three minutes to prepare, and she intended to use them all. The news on their prospective new client was breaking hard and fast.

  Working with billionaires and tech CEOs was nothing new for RRS&S. In fact, the powerful and wealthy were the norm. Resseque and Rogers were the two most in-demand civil attorneys in America. Just as she and Sackler were the country’s most sought-after criminal defenders.

  Their case acceptance rate hovered around five percent, making them by far the most selective firm in New York City. Still, as they noted in their rejection letters, the partners at Resseque Rogers Sackler & Slate were five times more accommodating than the justices of the United States Supreme Court.

  Market theory indicated that they should raise their hourly rate until supply met demand, but concern over increased scrutiny stifled that reaction. The $2,400 an hour they commanded was already sky high, and frankly, quite acceptable.

  Even with their elite status and crowded calendars, rejecting Archibald Pascal’s request for a meeting had never been an option. Even though he demanded a “4P,” their shorthand for a four-partner meeting. Even when he insisted on gathering in his hotel suite rather than their office. And regardless of his request coming during a tense time.

  “It’s 4:48, Ms. Slate,” her new assistant announced from the doorway. Margaret Gray wore an encouraging smile while holding out Scarlett’s slim briefcase.

  The four illustrious lawyers with their quartet of beefy bodyguards converged on the open elevator door like subway trains pulling into the same station, silently exuding power and precision.

  “What are your bets?” Colton Resseque asked no one in particular as they started to descend. “Why has Pascal called on us now?”

  “I bet another witness has come forward,” Jim Rogers speculated.

  “I think it’s a pure power play,” Walter Sackler said. “When one of the country’s most powerful and influential public figures is looking at serious time behind bars, he’s bound to pull out every gun in the arsenal. And why not, when the money doesn’t matter?”

  “Because it makes him look guilty,” Scarlett countered. “One sympathetic client beside one sympathetic attorney standing humbly before a frothing angry mob is the proper way to play this one. He’s savvy enough to know that. My money’s with Jim’s. Some bad news is about to break.”

  “I think it’s habit,” Colton said. “He’s going with what works. The Titans of Silicon Valley documentary stressed that he prefers brainstorming with groups over one-on-one meetings.”

  The elevator bell ended their discussion, and a moment later the partners of RRS&S emerged onto Central Park West. It was a beautiful summer afternoon in Manhattan. Scarlett wished they could walk to the meeting. Cutting across the southeast corner of Central Park would get them to the Ritz Carlton in ten minutes. But the four of them with their combined bodyguard contingent made for a scene, so they used an armored limo with two accompanying SUVs whenever moving about the city as a group. Fortunately, the partners’ apartment building was just a block from the office, so each of them did get a bit of outdoor exercise every day.

  Their visit to the tech CEO still ended up creating a spectacle, but did so on the top floor of the Ritz-Carlton rather than on the sidewalks of Central Park. With Pascal’s security scanning them while their bodyguards cleared Pascal’s Premiere Park View Suite, it was little short of comic. You’d think that normal security procedures would be waived given the location and social status of all involved, but after hearing “exceptions enable assassinations” a few dozen times, Scarlett just rolled with it. As an attorney, she knew all too well the peril that amateurs invited when ignoring professional counsel.

  Despite the security arrangements, the four attorneys found themselves seated at the suite’s dining table within three minutes of the elevator opening, while all the bodyguards were relegated to standing watch in the hallway. Their host, however, was nowhere in sight.

  With all four RRS&S partners present and on the clock, Archibald Pascal’s bill was increasing at the rate of $160 per minute. Most people wouldn’t waste a single one of those, but the Silicon Valley legend could keep the lot of them on the clock for over ten thousand hours with just one of his many
billions of dollars, so Scarlett doubted he was sweating the accounting.

  She found that catering to extremely wealthy clients was a double-edged sword. They didn’t bicker over the outrageous bills, but they loved the little ego-stroking acts. The kind that put mere millionaires like her in their place. The guys didn’t seem to mind. They laughed it off on the way to the bank. But the subtle jabs and slights squirmed beneath her skin.

  Archibald Pascal said nothing as he walked into the room already over $1,000 into the red. He didn’t even meet their eyes. He just sat down across from them and stared at the table while disciplining himself to think a single thought. He had it on repeat like a catchy advertising jingle. The six most sobering words Scarlett had heard in the past twenty years. Put your glasses on the table. Put your glasses on the table. Put your glasses on the table…

  30

  Dead Certain

  The Caribbean

  CHASE FOUND HIMSELF appreciating Vicky’s warning more with each passing hour. He had not previously kept anything significant from Skylar. They’d maintained a transparent relationship. Now, however, he was not only holding back what had to be the biggest secret on the planet, but was also acting on it. Conspiring around it. Immersed inside it. All behind his wife’s back.

  With another woman.

  He could meet with Vicky inconspicuously while Skylar and Chewie were cooking or grocery shopping, habits they’d fallen into out of mutual interest—thank goodness. The two or so hours a day that yielded were sufficient during the current research and planning phase. Once it came time to implement their clandestine project, however, maintaining the secret would require some serious social engineering.

  Meanwhile, Vicky had agreed to work with him the same way she did with Chewie: glasses off.

  “Just to be sure we’re starting on the same page,” he asked, “how do you see this ending?”

  Vicky leaned against the top deck railing as she met his eye. “My goal is to stop killers, without becoming one.”

  Chase groaned inwardly. Skylar had experienced the same initial, naive reaction after her own first close escape. People who’d lived their whole lives on the light side of humanity had no idea how to deal with people who thrived in the dark. “That’s a noble sentiment, but it’s not a plan,” he replied.

  Vicky canted her head, exposing the desperation in her eyes. “I was hoping you’d know what to do. You spent a decade working for the world’s most acclaimed covert operations organization. Surely you know sophisticated methods?”

  Chase turned toward the open water. “The sophisticated methods apply more to gathering information than to coercing action.”

  “Really?” Vicky pressed. “I thought you guys found pressure points and applied leverage. Spy movies show that stuff all the time.”

  “Perhaps. But Hollywood makes things look unrealistically fast and easy. Actual operations typically involve lengthy undercover assignments against people with a pre-identified weakness, and tend to require months of preparation. In your case, I believe we’re talking about four highly-capable individuals and a condensed timeline?”

  “That’s right,” Vicky said. “Given all that, what would you suggest?”

  Chase shrugged. “Four rifle shots from outside mind-reading range. Or maybe a single explosion.”

  Vicky blanched, but her speech remained steady. “The sniper approach would result in four pairs of blood-spattered glasses being logged into evidence and examined, potentially with catastrophic results. We can’t use any tactic that would allow that to happen.”

  “And the explosion?”

  “I know a thing or two about those,” she said solemnly. “It would take a powerful one to ensure that all four pairs of glasses were destroyed in the blast. Since we’re talking about New York City, innocent bystanders would likely be injured and public property would be destroyed. So that’s a no, twice over. As I said at the beginning, I want to resolve this without becoming a killer. Without fundamentally changing who I am.”

  “Got it,” Chase said with another inward groan. He took a deep breath. “Has your research uncovered anything of tactical value?”

  “Nothing leapt out. I didn’t find any relationships we could exploit. None of them are married or living with a significant other.”

  “Really? All four are single?”

  “I’m not surprised,” Vicky said. “Their firm has risen like a rocket since its founding in 1999, so it’s safe to assume that they’ve had the ability to read minds since their mid-twenties. And given their overtly selfish nature, I’d assume they found the work all-consuming and completely fulfilling. One big winning streak. Why complicate that with traditional family life?”

  Chase had read that marriage rates were unusually low among the upwardly mobile in most major cities. And, come to think of it, divorce would be a disastrous complication that the four mind-readers would be determined to avoid.

  “For what it’s worth,” Vicky continued, “I never had a serious boyfriend before Chewie—and I never really wanted one. Between my research and looking after my mother, I was always too busy.”

  “Okay, so much for gaining access through an unsuspecting spouse. What’s their security situation?” Chase asked, virtually certain that he would not like the answer.

  “I didn’t find any references to that online, but they’re rich and aware that I might be coming for them. Plus, they’ve probably had multiple death threats over the years from the opponents they’ve bested. Given all that, I’d assume they have quality bodyguards and other proven security procedures in place.”

  Chase also had little doubt.

  For the first time in his life, he felt truly daunted by an operation. Figuring out how to neutralize four wealthy, mind-reading New York City attorneys without killing them or getting killed himself was going to require either a brilliant insight or a stroke of genius. Chase wasn’t sure he had either in him.

  31

  Researchers and Spies

  New York City

  TWENTY-FOUR YEARS had passed since Scarlett Slate became the first person in human history to have her mind read. She’d been a second-year student at Harvard Law at the time—and Colton Resseque’s girlfriend.

  Colton was a graduate student at MIT, where he and his three roommates, Jim Rogers, Walter Sackler, and Trent Keller, were PhD candidates.

  Scarlett had known what the bioengineers were working on, of course. She’d been their test subject many dozens of times during the year and a half that she and Colton had been dating. She would read her textbooks and cases while they aimed their gadgets and adjusted their dials.

  Despite their big brains and the world-famous facilities at their disposal, she’d never expected them to succeed. At most, she’d expected something like a Geiger counter that buzzed louder when her thinking intensified.

  They hadn’t truly anticipated a home run either. At least not enough to think through the implications. The what do we do next?

  Once her thoughts began broadcasting into their minds like a radio talk show station, it took them mere minutes to recognize the devastating toll their device would take on society if people could hear each other’s unfiltered thoughts.

  Being the disciplined scientists that they were, the four immediately swapped champagne flutes for espresso cups and dove into a half-panicked, half-euphoric, entirely surreal brainstorming session on how to exploit their invention without setting the world on fire.

  Scarlett had immediately recognized the enormous advantage a lawyer would wield if she could read minds. The five could become the toast of New York, gaining wealth and fame while having a blast. It didn’t take her long to get three of the boys to share her vision. The fourth didn’t oppose it. Trent was simply wise enough to recognize that he wouldn’t make a good litigator, even with their special skill. He didn’t have the silver tongue, the people-pleasing personality, or any interest in the spotlight. Fortunately, he loved the idea of being the wizard behind the
curtain. The Q to James Bond. The Merlin to King Arthur. For an equal slice of the pie, of course.

  While the other three guys left MIT for Harvard Law, Trent set about perfecting a portable system that they could use without fear of detection. He ended up hiding it in plain sight using what became the firm’s trademark: horn-rimmed glasses.

  Resseque Rogers Sackler & Slate had been formed four years later in 2000, after the guys had chalked up one year of associate experience at a big NYC firm, and Scarlett had three on her résumé.

  Their rise had been meteoric and their success had become unrivaled while their secret remained undetected. Until a few seconds ago. Until Archibald Pascal mentally told them to “Put your glasses on the table.”

  His shocking request wasn’t the only recent disturbing development. In September, another bioengineering student, this one from the California Institute of Technology rather than the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, had successfully replicated their work.

  That was a one-off. A single occurrence in a twenty-four-year span. An acceptable level of threat. But Pascal’s revelation represented a second recent security breach. Two data points could mark the start of a line. A trend. A wave. Was that what this meeting signified? The beginning of the end? Scarlett didn’t know yet. All she knew for certain as she stared across the table at the Silicon Valley legend was that their gig was up.

  Put your glasses on the table. Put your glasses on the table. Put your glasses on the table…

  Scarlett and her partners glanced at each other—and then, with slack jaws and skipping hearts, they complied. They lined their glasses up on the table like surrendering soldiers.

  It was a sad sight.

  Looking at the three humbled men beside her, Scarlett couldn’t help but picture Lee at Appomattox, Cornwallis at Yorktown, and Napoleon at Waterloo.