by Kim Oh
Whatever had been implanted in Simon, it was buried under a thick enough layer that there was no way any scent could have seeped out. But just like Cole had taught me, when you’ve been around that kind of stuff, and you’ve seen what it can do, you don’t have to smell it – not really – to know it’s there.
Simon grabbed hold of Jerry, fingers digging tight into his arm. “Don’t . . . don’t go –”
“You can’t help him!” I grabbed Jerry’s wrist and tugged, as I used my hand holding the .357 to shove open the van doors. “There’s nothing you can do –”
Jerry froze in place. He could’ve yanked himself free from the other’s grasp, but he didn’t. I had a fragmented last glimpse of the two of them inside the van, as I tumbled out and landed shoulder-first on the asphalt.
I picked myself up and ran, heading straight down the street, back toward where I’d left my bike parked and as far from the van as I could get.
Behind me, I heard the one thing I didn’t want to hear –
The rapid-fire beeping suddenly stopped. The darkness around me was silent, except for my own panting breath. For exactly one second –
Then the bomb went off. The microcircuit connected to the explosives implanted under Simon’s skin went closed, and a tiny spark passed down the battery wire. That was all it took.
I’d already dropped to the pavement, curling myself into a ball with my back to the van, my face buried against my forearms. I didn’t want to be on my feet when any metal fragments came slicing through the air.
The silence flashed into a deafening roar. Even with my eyelids squeezed shut, I could see the world turn bright and orange-red. A wash of searing heat passed over me like a hot tide, lifting and rolling me onto my knees. I clenched my body tighter around my gut, as I heard the debris from the explosion bounce and clatter on the ground. Something big enough to have been the van’s bumper skidded end over end, one twisted bit colliding against the back of my legs.
Pushing with the point of my elbow, I rolled the rest of the way onto my other side, face toward the van – or what was left of it. Peering between my forearms, I could see flames and black smoke billowing upward from the wreckage.
I scrambled to my feet and ran, the .357 heavy in one fist, the backpack slapping against my spine. There was one more explosion coming, I was sure. The flames ignited the liquid spilling from the van’s gas tank as I climbed onto the bike seat, shoved the gun inside my jacket, and grabbed the handlebars. That explosion wasn’t as big as the first one, but I saw the churning, red-flecked fireball mushrooming up into the night sky.
There wasn’t any point in going back there – if there was anything remaining of either of the two Beta Team guys, I didn’t want to see it. All I wanted right now was Plan A. I started up the Ninja, wheeled it around, and tucked my head down behind the windscreen as I shot past the pyre-like flames at the side of the road.
Something white – but dark around the edges, like a little singed ghost – snagged at the front of my jacket. I had a momentary glimpse of what it was – one of the pages of the employment contract I’d signed. Before the wind could tear it away, I grabbed the paper and wadded it into my pocket. Better to leave as little evidence as possible.
I didn’t stop for any traffic lights. In less than a minute, I turned a hard right onto the freeway on-ramp, and I was heading north at full speed.
TWELVE
“We need to talk.”
I stood under the silvery-blue fluorescents of a Chevron station, somewhere between Los Angeles and San Francisco. Maybe about two-thirds of the way to my destination – I’d been making pretty good time, racking up the miles on the Ninja’s odometer, since I’d stopped screwing around and gone with straight Plan A.
Along the way, I’d stopped twice. First time had been just for a minute, when I’d gotten enough miles away from the burning, blown-apart wreckage of the fake paramedics van. Considering the damage, no one was likely to connect me with what had gone down there. I hadn’t even switched off the bike’s engine or thrown down the kickstand as the traffic had streamed by me. I’d just tightened up the straps of the backpack so that it was snug against my body and unhooked the helmet from the side of the bike seat and slipped it on. Riding full bore, with the cold night air buffeting into my face, had done a lot to clear my thoughts. I’d been a little rattled from having nearly gotten caught in the explosion that’d snuffed out those two Beta Team guys, but my nerves finally had settled down enough that I could keep a steady hand on the bike throttle.
Second time had been for gas, a little farther on. Even as thrifty as a 300 cc engine can be, I had been doing a lot of high-speed running around down on the surface streets, what with the hospital and going back and forth to the strip mall to confer with Mason. When the fake paramedics van had gone up in one big fireball, I hadn’t bothered to look at the bike’s gas gauge, but had just beat it out of there as fast as I could – it wasn’t until maybe a quarter-hour later, and that many freeway miles, that I’d looked at the instrument cluster behind the windscreen and saw that I was getting toward empty. I’d swooped down the next off-ramp – its sign promised services at the bottom – filled the bike’s tank, splashed cold water on my face in the station’s restroom, then got back on the freeway and gunned the bike again. I figured if that Stinson character was waiting for me somewhere along the way, the second Challenger of his cruising along like some sort of land-going shark, maybe I could blow past him before he could mash down the muscle car’s accelerator.
I didn’t spot him anywhere on the freeway. That didn’t make me any less apprehensive – I just figured that he was waiting to make his move until I got to one of the more remote stretches of the interstate, where he’d have a clear shot at me.
Or maybe . . . just maybe something else had happened. I had no way of knowing. So by the time I’d put another batch of miles on the Ninja, and it was time to fill its undersized tank again, my thoughts were going in several different directions as I peeled off the freeway and down to a remote 24-hour Chevron. It was one of those with nothing but a minuscule convenience store attached to it, a vat of turpentine-tasting coffee on a counter near the cash register, and a grease-spattered microwave above a cooler bin of plastic-wrapped burritos. As hungry as I was starting to get, I took a pass on those. I gave a twenty to the skinny teenager, nearly comatose with late-night boredom, added some kind of vaguely nutritious granola bar to the damage, then went back out to where I’d left the bike at the pumps.
It doesn’t take long to fill one of these sportbikes. So I didn’t have much time to mull things over further. What I thought was that if Stinson was going to make a move, to take another pass at getting the backpack away from me, he’d have to do it soon. For two reasons. The first was that I’d gotten this much closer to my destination. In a couple hours, I’d be going by the Altamont Pass, out where the Sixties had died at a party thrown by the Rolling Stones and the Hells Angels – way before my time, of course. I’d read about it in a high school civics class with a gray-ponytailed teacher who’d had the kind of mumbling, weed-tinged look of having been damaged by being around during those days. As landmarks go, however, that meant I was getting close to San Francisco – I figured Stinson wouldn’t come after me once I actually was cruising into the city.
Second reason was that there weren’t many more hours before this way-too-long night would finally be over, and the sun would be coming up. Stinson didn’t have an element of surprise working in his favor any longer – he knew I’d be watching for him, both ahead of me and in the bike mirrors. And there would start to be more traffic around me at that time of the morning. I figured he was more likely to come barrel-assing toward me in the dark.
That was the sort of thing that was going through my head as I finished filling up the bike. I twisted the cap back onto the tank and hung up the nozzle. Just as I was taking my hand away from it, I felt the cell phone go off inside my jacket.
Not the little burner
phone that Mason had given me, but my own smartphone. I fished it out and looked at the screen – I didn’t recognize the number.
For a moment, I hesitated. Then I thumbed the phone on and held it up to my ear. And waited.
“Miss Oh –”
I knew the voice.
“We need to talk.”
It was Dalby.
† † †
“You know, whatever else there was about those Beta Team guys –” I pulled the .357 from my jacket and displayed it. “They understood that whenever I have this handy, I’m kinda in my comfort zone.”
“Really.” Dalby studied me from across the table of the diner we were sitting in. “That’s hardly necessary.”
I’d gotten there a few minutes before he did. Soon as I stepped inside, I scanned around for any kind of security camera, but this place was too old for that kind of modern technology. Relieved on that point, I’d sat down in one of the booths. While I’d waited, I’d taken something else out of my jacket, set it on the table, and covered it with a paper napkin. He didn’t even notice it there.
“Maybe not for you.” I laid the gun on my lap, where nobody could see it. “But given everything that’s happened since I signed on for your little job . . . humor me on this. Okay?”
“Whatever you like.” He picked up the stiff menu and pretended to read it. “I’ll admit . . . that I might have misled you on a few points.”
“You think?”
“But – as I’m sure you’ll agree – you wouldn’t have taken the job, otherwise.”
I nearly spat out the sip of coffee I’d just taken.
There was no one else in the diner but us. Which wasn’t surprising, given that the outside lights, including the big neon EAT sign, were all switched off. If Dalby hadn’t told me over the phone which exit to take, I would’ve never found the place.
“Not only would I not have taken it –” I set the heavy mug back down. “I might’ve frickin’ killed you then, rather than listen to any more from you. That’s just now badly I react to people wanting to set me up to get killed. Like the gun – it’s an emotional thing with me.”
“But you’re not even going to kill me now.” Dalby’s tone was mild and somewhat amused. He sat there in the booth upholstered with frayed red vinyl, incongruously radiating that rich-guy assurance I’ve always found so irritating. “When you so easily could.” He held up his hands, empty palms outward. “I don’t have any way of stopping you. And I know you’d like to – as you say, an emotional thing. But I know you won’t. Do you think I would’ve suggested this meeting if I had thought there was a chance of that happening?”
“Probably not.” I tapped a fingernail against the mug’s rim. “So why won’t I?”
“Because.” He tilted the menu so he could look straight at me. “You’re curious – you want to know. Some people get blown up right in front of you – people who were trying to get something from you just a little while before – who could blame you for having some questions about that?”
The waitress came over. She was the only other person there, other than me and Dalby, and whoever was handling things in the kitchen. “You folks know what you want?” She had a pencil and notepad in her hands, had streaks of gray in her hair, and the sardonic gaze of someone who’d seen just about everything that could be seen in an aging diner off the interstate. Including a rich guy forking over the cash to have the doors locked and the CLOSED sign put up, just for a private meeting like this.
“How are the waffles?” Dalby looked up at her.
The question got a shrug. “They’re waffles. What do you expect?”
“Then they’ll do fine. And syrup.”
“You’re the boss,” she said. “Since you’re paying for this little get-together.” She looked over at me.
“I’m good with the coffee.” I set my hand on the cup. “For now.”
Her Air Pillow shoes made squeegee noises as she returned across the room to the equally unoccupied counter and the kitchen service window beyond it.
“Actually . . .” I matched my gaze with Dalby’s. “It isn’t those Beta guys getting blown up that makes me curious. It’s the bit about me nearly getting blown up.”
“I knew you’d be fine,” said Dalby. “Morton just about guaranteed it.”
If this was how Morton was lining me up with assignments, with that kind of endorsement, I really needed to talk to the guy and straighten him out. Before he really did get me killed.
“I’m glad everyone’s so confident.” I was hoping for a refill on the coffee, which had started to turn cold and brackish. “Just too bad for Jerry and Simon, I guess –”
“Who?”
“The Beta Team guys. The ones I was in the van with. You know, the ones who don’t really exist anymore. Except for the bits the coroners sweep up with a broom and dustpan.”
“You knew their first names?” Dalby nodded in appreciation. “That’s very thorough of you.”
“Yeah, we were getting really chummy there, toward the end. You know they offered me a job, right? To get the backpack?” I took one of its shoulder straps and raised it from the seat beside me. “They figured that was the best way to win the contest.”
“Contest?” He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”
“Give me a break.” I brought my gaze back to Dalby sitting across from me. “You don’t have to run that line on me anymore. I found out the whole deal about the so-called contest.”
“Oh?” He smiled. “Who told you about that?”
“Who do you think? The Beta Team guys. Just before they got blown up.”
“If they hadn’t gotten hold of the parcel you were carrying . . .” Dalby nodded. “You have to understand, Miss Oh. I considered that to be a pretty unlikely event. If they had crapped out the way I’d expected they would, they’d all be alive today.”
“But they didn’t. So they were gotten rid of.” My gaze turned into a hard glare. I hadn’t even liked those Beta Team guys much, but the unfairness rankled at me. “Why? Just so you wouldn’t have any inconvenient witnesses left over?”
“Really, Miss Oh – in your line of work, isn’t that exactly what you would’ve done?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “But it’s still not right.” I took another sip of coffee. “So . . . would it have?”
“What?”
“Would it have won the contest for them? I just want to know if I really did come that close to becoming the CFO of their new company.”
“Not close at all.” Dalby shook his head, with a sad half-smile. “You see . . . it wasn’t ever a contest. Not really –”
As he spoke, something happened outside in the diner’s unlit parking lot, empty except for my bike leaning on its kickstand and the glossy BMW sedan in which Dalby had arrived. Looking past him, toward the diner’s big window a couple booths away, I could see the beams of another vehicle’s headlights sweep across the front of the building. That was the only car I’d seen coming off the interstate while I had been sitting in the booth with Dalby. With his back to the window, Dalby didn’t notice it. As I watched, the car’s headlights switched off.
“So what was it, then?”
“I’m not sure you’d understand.” He set his fork down beside the half-finished waffles. “You’re too old –”
“Are you kidding? I’m way younger than you are, pal.”
“Up here.” He leaned forward, reaching over the table, and tapping a finger at the side of my brow. “Your brain’s old. It thinks the way people have always thought. The way they thought in the Old World, the world that used to be. But that’s all gone. Things are different now. People like you – old-type people – just haven’t realized it yet.”
I’d heard stuff like this before – from my own brother Donnie. Look, I love him – he’s family, and all I’ve got – but sometimes all that techno-enthusiasm blah-blah-blah can get a little tiresome. He was up there in San Francisco right now, at that fancy conference he
’d gotten a free trip to, and he was probably having a fine time hanging out with people just like him, all young and starry-eyed and sure they were going to change the world and get fantastically rich besides, all by poking the buttons on their keyboards. But in the meantime, his sister was here in this crappy roadside diner, with a high-caliber gun in her lap and some whacked-out billionaire sitting across from her, who’d come this close to getting her killed. That’s just the way it is in our little family – I’m the one who always winds up having to deal with reality. Which I don’t mind, but it doesn’t leave me with a lot of patience for hearing about how wonderful the future is going to be. I have enough problems already, dealing with the world the way it is.
“Spare me,” I told Dalby. “Just tell me what this was all about. This delivery job that was really some sort of contest, only it wasn’t a contest at all – just lay it on me, and if I understand it, great, and if I think it’s a load of b.s., that’s fine as well. I just want to know.”
