▲▼▲
Jake left through the back door and jumped through the bushes, then skirted old man Henderson’s house. He’d parked the beat-up Ford Taurus his brother had given him in the street behind the house. It was past midnight, so he could catch a few hours’ sleep in the back of the car, then get up and drive into New York at dawn.
Even if the authorities caught him, even if Tolliver wasn’t on the level, he would be no worse off. He’d spill everything he knew, beg them to start searching for his daughter. Dean would make public everything they knew, send emails to all the news outlets; broadcast it over the Internet.
He had a hard time imagining how Bluebridge could contain that, but maybe it could. Jake would end up in jail undoubtedly, or worse, but the most important concern was getting things in motion to find Anna.
His only shot, his only wildcard, was that Tolliver was the real thing. So he had to risk it.
“Hold it right there!” a voice shouted in the darkness.
Floodlights clicked on and Jake held up one hand, blinded. He stopped cold. Fear swept through him like a wave, from his fingertips to scalp, and he resisted the urge to bolt. Squinting, he tried to see who it was. Was he surrounded?
“Don’t move!” the voice commanded. “I’ll shoot, I swear to God.”
It wasn’t floodlights, it was the headlights of a police cruiser, Jake realized, his eyes adjusting to the brightness.
▲▼▲
In the view from the police dashboard camera, a grainy black-and-white video, Sheriff Ralston leaned against the open door of his police cruiser, his gun pointed at Jake O’Connell. O’Connell had his hand up, blocking the glare from the headlights. Sheriff Ralston barked at him again, telling him not to move.
Slowly, O’Connell put his hand down, squinting into the light. Sheriff Ralston instructed him to get on the ground, but O’Connell remained still. His gun trained on the other man, Sheriff Ralston stood and walked around his car door. Moving closer to O’Connell, he told him to get on the ground.
O’Connell did not respond.
After a standoff lasting no more than ten seconds, Jake O’Connell advanced on Sheriff Ralston, who backed up. He instructed O’Connell to get on the ground, to keep his distance, threatening to shoot otherwise, but O’Connell continued to walk forward until he was right in front of the other man, the sheriff’s gun pressed into his chest.
Then O’Connell reached down and took Sheriff Ralston’s gun away from him.
AUGUST 25th
Thursday
34
Rockefeller Center
New York City
A huge inflatable pumpkin floated over the bronze Greek god. At his feet, his subjects skated on the ice rink of Rockefeller Center. Jake smiled. It seemed appropriate that he was meeting Agent Tolliver next to the iconic statue of Prometheus, the Greek god who, legend had it, brought fire to mankind.
They used to call the Rockefeller Center the ‘sunken plaza.’ The skating rink was two stories below street level, lined with flags from nations around the world, with passers-by gawking over the edges at the skaters below.
While he was waiting, Jake read the plaque detailing the Center’s history. Back in the 1930s, it was an open-air café lined with shops, but when nobody seemed to want to go down there to shop, they came up with the bright idea of turning it into a skating rink—nearly a century later, it still was one.
More important for Jake, standing here gave him a wide-angle view of anyone around the square. He’d arranged to meet Agent Tolliver on the viewing platform at the south end of the skating rink, one level down from street level, but still one level up from the ground. Just as important, tourists always packed the Center—it was as public a place as one could find.
The exposure was dangerous, though. Jake had a bounty on his head, but he had to take the chance. Meeting somewhere private would entail a whole other set of complications. Acting quickly was the only thing on Jake’s side.
Though meeting next to the statue of Prometheus seemed appropriate, the giant orange pumpkin seemed out of place. It hovered over the spot where the famous Rockefeller Christmas tree would stand, blazing in its glory, in a few months. It was only August 25th, but the retailers were already gearing up for Halloween. The tourists didn’t seem to care—Christmas tree or giant pumpkin—people taking pictures filled the place.
Jake checked his phone.
Nearly two o’clock, the pre-arranged time for his meeting with Agent Tolliver.
Jake had arrived early—before eight—when the plaza was still empty. He spent the time scouting, sitting at a café across the street, then down in the Rockefeller Café, getting a good idea of the ways in and out, watching for anything—or anyone—suspicious. Now Jake watched the viewing platform from across the square. He’d asked Tolliver to wear a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap.
Another sleepless night.
After disarming Sheriff Ralston, Jake had tied him to a tree and then hid the police cruiser in the woods down the road. Adrenaline competed with exhaustion, and only one thought hammered through his head: Where’s Anna? He continued to check in with Elle every two hours. New video clips of their daughter were being sent in like clockwork.
But without any demands.
Torture wasn’t a strong enough word.
A scrolling news display hung on the side of the Rockefeller building directly in front of Jake. He tried to focus on the platform above the rink, waiting for that red baseball cap, when something caught his eye. “Bluebridge acquires Japan’s largest hedge fund…” announced the news display.
Jake clenched his jaw.
Even while it hunted him, this bastard thing was still ringing in deals and racking up profits. The next news item described a terrorist attack in Hong Kong harbor, something about a rocket-propelled grenade destroying a fishing trawler two days before.
There.
A red flash in the crowd.
Jake glanced down from the news display. On the platform a red baseball cap appeared. Jake fished out the old binoculars he’d taken from home, the ones he used to take out camping with Sean years ago. He focused them on the person with the baseball cap, and the image of Agent Tolliver came into sharp relief. He stared directly back, and Jake involuntarily retreated a step.
Agent Tolliver looked away after a second.
“Can you take our picture?”
Jake spun around. “What?”
“Can you take our picture?” repeated a man standing next to Jake.
“Ah,” Jake stammered, “no, sorry. I’m late.”
He held up his hands and walked away from the perplexed-looking family. Glancing back at the platform, Tolliver was still there. Jake started around the plaza and tried not to stare. What was the procedure for something like this? Should he wait to see what the other guy did?
But Jake was tired of waiting.
It was him.
Jake was sure of it.
The agent who’d come to his apartment when Eamon was there. The same blue eyes, the same gaunt face—either it was him, or someone who looked exactly like him.
Was it possible for Bluebridge to come up with a body double that quickly? In less than twenty-four hours? He fought the feeling that he was dealing with something supernatural. He had to be pragmatic, take some calculated risks.
Anna’s life depended on him.
“Tolliver,” Jake called out from the top of the stairs leading down to the rink.
Agent Tolliver turned around. He nodded. “Jake.”
That was definitely the guy Jake had met at his apartment. Glancing back and forth, Jake tensed up, waited for yelling to start, for the sound of sirens, for someone to tackle him to the ground.
Or for the impact of a sniper’s bullet.
“I came alone, as we agreed,” Agent Tolliver said, still standing at the railing.
He looked as nervous as Jake felt.
“Can I come up?” Agent Tolliver asked.
Jake
nodded, and Agent Tolliver walked up the stairs. Took something out of the pocket of his trench coat. Jake expected a gun, a Taser…some sort of weapon. Not an iPhone.
“Put your index finger on this,” Agent Tolliver instructed, holding out the phone. A dongle was attached to the end of it.
“What is it?”
“Fingerprint reader.”
Jake hesitated, but then lifted his right hand and pressed it to the device.
Agent Tolliver held it in place for a second before turning the phone around. “Good. Can’t be too careful, Mr. O’Connell. Let’s go sit down.” He motioned to an empty table and two chairs at the edge of the building. A couple had just vacated it.
“After you,” Jake replied. He followed Agent Tolliver through the crowd. “My daughter, they abducted my daughter.”
“Who did?” Agent Tolliver asked as they sat together.
A young boy screamed as he ran past, his mother in pursuit. Tourists took pictures all around them.
“Bluebridge. I don’t know. I think it’s them.” Jake noticed a girl in a motorcycle helmet looking at him. She had a camera on top of her helmet, one of those ‘Go Pro’ ones Anna raved about wanting. The girl looked away.
“When?”
“Yesterday, when I called you.”
“That’s why you called?”
“I need help. You said you could protect my family.”
“I can, and we will find your daughter. I can assure you of that, Mr. O’Connell. The agency has immense resources for this sort of thing. It’s what we do.”
It felt like a mountain lifted off Jake’s shoulders.
“But I need you to help me, too,” added Agent Tolliver.
Anything, Jake was ready to do anything to get Anna back. “Tell me what you need.”
“You can start by telling me why you think someone at Bluebridge is targeting you.”
It felt good to let loose. Jake had nothing to hide, not now. “I have the automated trading algorithms for several of the large banks. Donovan gave them to me.”
Agent Tolliver frowned. “And that’s what they want?”
“That”—Jake put his elbows on the table and clasped his hands, resting his chin on them—“and Sean Womack sent me a copy of the programming core of Bluebridge’s systems.”
This time Agent Tolliver didn’t frown. “I see.”
“And I have the original death certificate of Vidal Viegas.”
“You have the original?”
Jake nodded.
“Mr. O’Connell. You have no idea how important—”
“There’s more,” Jake interrupted. “Max Lefevre, he worked with Sean Womack, I met him, and he said that Henry Montrose wasn’t in charge of Bluebridge anymore.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that Bluebridge is running itself, that some kind of artificial intelligence has taken over.”
Agent Tolliver didn’t look surprised. Didn’t betray any emotion at all, actually. “We’ve suspected that for some time. Where’s Max now? Can I speak to him?”
Jake grimaced. “He’s dead. Almost got killed myself.”
Agent Tolliver pursed his lips. “And who’s 'we'? Who have you told? It’s important, Jake.”
“My brother, my wife.” Jake looked at the table. “Dean—”
“Dean? Who’s Dean?”
“He’s with the Kahnawake Mohawks in Canada, runs a data center up there.”
“And he has the information Sean gave you?”
This was going a little too fast for comfort. Jake was giving a lot away, and not getting much in return. “Can we talk about my family? How we’re going to find Anna?”
“One step at a time,” said Agent Tolliver. “To start with, where’s your wife?”
“My wife?” Jake looked around at all the people crowding them. “Shouldn’t we go somewhere quieter, more secure to talk?”
Agent Tolliver paused but then nodded. He got up from the table, and some tourists nearby asked if they could take it. He said yes, of course, and asked Jake to follow him. He had a car nearby on 50th. They could take that to a safe house, he said, and discuss everything at length. Tolliver pointed through an opening in the crowd, indicating a black car parked beside a van.
In his jacket pocket, Jake gripped the gun his brother gave him. He was relieved that they weren’t the only ones fighting Bluebridge, but he also felt uneasy. He’d seen Agent Tolliver somewhere else. Sometime before he came to the house. Jake was sure of it. He watched as Tolliver limped forward, favoring his right leg. He noticed a bandage on Agent Tolliver’s neck, the skin around it red and blistered. He was about to ask what had happened to him when it hit Jake.
Limping.
Jake flashed back to when he and his brother went to the Colcannon for a drink, just before he had met Tolliver. A man had limped into the bar. And at the Atlas Capital offices, when Donovan told him Bluebridge was framing him, the man who’d followed Viegas to the front had limped.
Jake looked at Tolliver again.
Adrenaline flooded Jake’s bloodstream.
It was him.
Jake took a second look at the bandage on his neck. It looked like it covered a burn. There were no coincidences in this thing.
Jake gripped the gun in his pocket.
▲▼▲
Cormac saw the flash of recognition in Jake’s eyes. With one lightning-quick motion, he reached into Jake’s jacket pocket, wrapped his hand around the gun he’d seen there, and put it in his own pocket. Amateur. Didn’t he realize how easy it was to spot a gun in a jacket pocket? He moved behind Jake, pushing the muzzle of his silenced gun into Jake’s ribs. “Don’t even think about it,” he whispered.
He felt Jake tense up, his feet stopping in place.
“Nowhere to run, Jake. Keep walking. You want to see your daughter again, don’t you?”
“You bastard,” Jake hissed, but he started moving again.
Cormac could hardly believe his luck when Jake called him. His employer had predicted he would, but Cormac was still amazed. Cormac usually wouldn’t expose himself to a target, but he had to admit it worked beautifully—showing up at the O’Connell’s apartment and posing as an FBI agent. He had to give credit to the old man.
Cormac could have killed Jake in a dozen easier ways in the past few days, but his employer wanted information, wanted to know what Jake knew, who else knew. Cormac would have opted for a small room and a bone saw to get the information out, but the old man didn’t think it would work on Jake.
His employer had been right again.
This was much easier.
There was one problem, though. Not really a problem, but more of an issue: Cormac wasn’t the one who kidnapped Jake’s daughter. The old man had only informed him about it after the fact. Not that he couldn’t use the information, though. It was excellent leverage.
“Get in the car,” Cormac instructed as they crossed the street. “And we can go see your little girl.”
The problem was that it demonstrated a lack of trust on the part of his employer. Cormac already had one foot out the door, sure, but it didn’t suit him to find out he wasn’t included in all of his employers’ plans. The truth was, he might have balked at kidnapping a child. It was too risky. Too many unknowns. Too much emotion.
Cormac opened the door to the Cadillac. “Get in,” he told Jake, “and strap on your seatbelt.”
“You heard what I said, right?” Jake stared at the interior of the car and back at Cormac. “This machine has taken over Bluebridge. You’re not working for who you think you are. Montrose is gone, Viegas is gone. Bluebridge is running itself.”
“Get in the goddamn car, Jake.”
“I want Anna to be safe. I’ll do anything you want.” Resigned, Jake stooped and slid into the car and strapped on the seatbelt.
Cormac edged around the front of the car while keeping an eye on Jake. Keeping one hand on his gun, he pulled out his earpiece with his other hand, disconne
cting it. His employer was listening in, but it was time to cut the cord.
So Jake’s friends had the automated trading algorithms for major banks, even a copy of the Bluebridge core? That sounded like it could be worth a lot of money.
He looked at Jake through the open window of the driver’s side of the Cadillac. Was Cormac being set up somehow? He didn’t like the feel of this anymore. What Jake told him made sense. It was hard to believe, sure, but all the pieces fit together. Those strange questions from the old man. The calls made late at night.
“For God’s sake,” Jake said from inside. “You’re working for a machine.”
Cormac looked Jake square in the eye. “No, I’m not.”
“Everything I’ve told you is true.”
Jake was quick but naive. “I know I’m not working for a machine,” Cormac said. He stood and backed up a step. “Because I’m working for money.”
Time to tie up loose ends.
“Jake, I’ve got some good news and some bad news. The good news is, I didn’t take your daughter.” Cormac pulled out his gun and pointed it at Jake, the muzzle of its silencer three feet from Jake’s head. Point blank range, and Jake was strapped into his seat. There was no way Cormac was going to miss this time. “The bad news is, I’m going to take your life.”
Cormac started to squeeze the trigger.
A loud whining noise sounded to his right.
He had just enough time to glance sideways before something crashed into him, sending him flying into the back of the van in front of him.
▲▼▲
What just happened?
Jake ripped off his seatbelt and jumped out of the Cadillac. Already a crowd of people ran over. Agent Tolliver was splayed out on the pavement in the middle of 50th street, beside the van in front of the Cadillac.
Someone on a dirt bike had rammed into him. The bike and driver were in a pile next to the van.
Jake couldn’t see the gun.
He looked at the driver of the dirt bike. It was the same girl he’d seen in the plaza, the one with the camera on top of her helmet. She got up unsteadily, shaking her head, and leaned down to pick up her bike. She looked at Jake.
Darknet Page 22
