“Now there’s something I haven’t seen for a while.” He picks out the L85A2. The old assault rifle was retired long before his time in the field, but he’s fired it on a range and always had a liking for it. He turns the weapon over in his hands. “Yes, you’ll do nicely. All I need now is some ammo.” He quickly finds the rounds he’s looking for and makes short work of loading up. He takes one last quick look around the room then heads for the door and slips out into the corridor.
He hold his rifle ready and moves quietly, keeping close to the wall. Wait. From up ahead he can hear voices: harsh, angry voices. Jamie stops walking at the corner and drops to one knee, shouldering his rifle and tilting his head to use its scope. Very slowly, he leans out to peer into the corridor.
Some distance away, a knot of soldiers stands in the corridor, their heads close together in a heated argument. Mervin must have run toward the troops to head them off as quickly as possible. And there he is. Jamie picks out Mervin in his scope. Hank’s dad is raising his voice and making a chopping motion with his hand, directing the patrol away. He’s putting on a great show, and the troops are watching him intently, although, from the sound of their voices, they don’t like being told where to go.
A bead of sweat trickles down to sting the corner of Jamie’s eye, and he blinks it away. When he looks again, one man steps forward, pointing his finger toward Mervin’s face. Jamie takes aim, centering his scope on the man’s chest. Jamie can easily take the soldier out from here, and that should cause enough confusion for Mervin to make a break for it. But if Jamie starts a firefight, Mervin will be trapped in the middle, and in the confines of the corridor, he won’t stand much of a chance. No. Better to hold that option in reserve. For now.
“Go on, GDL,” Jamie whispers. “Be on your way.”
He freezes. Something’s happening. Most of the troops are turning away, charging into a side corridor. Mervin waits for a second, watching them leave, then he turns his back to them and sets off at a run, heading toward Jamie.
“He’s done it,” Jamie murmurs, but he stays in position, just in case.
“Mervin! Wait up!” One of the GDL soldiers changes his mind and hurries after Mervin. “I’m coming with you. I need to grab some ammo.”
Mervin stops running and half turns to wait for his new companion.
Jamie exhales gently as he targets the soldier, tracking him as he moves. He aims for his chest. The guy is wearing good body armor and the shot shouldn’t penetrate, but it’ll certainly give him something to think about. The noise will bring the other men running, but that can’t be helped. He slides his finger onto the trigger.
But before he can take the shot, there’s a sudden blur of movement, and Mervin obscures Jamie’s field of vision. Jamie moves the scope in time to see the GDL man slump silently to the ground. The man lies still as Mervin jogs away. “Good for you,” Jamie mutters, “we’ll make a spook of you yet, my friend.” He stands up and raises his hand to greet Mervin.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Mervin says. He glances back over his shoulder but the corridor is clear.
“You know, just keeping an eye on you.”
“Where’s Hank? Did he get out OK? Couldn’t you find the damned room?”
“It’s all fine,” Jamie says. “I made sure Hank logged off, then I popped out to see if you needed cover.” He nods down the corridor. “But I see I wasn’t needed. Nice work. Out cold, and he didn’t make a peep.”
“Yeah, well I learned a thing or two,” Mervin says. “Now quit jawing, and let’s go. Hank will be getting worried.”
“Certainly. Lead on,” Jamie says. And the two men double-time it to the gear room.
It’s dark. Hank is alone, floating somehow in a sea of emptiness. He can see nothing, hear nothing. A wave of nausea washes through his belly, and he fights against it, curling his fingers into fists. Something warm and wet squishes sickeningly between his fingers, and his stomach churns. He tastes the bitterness of bile in his mouth, but when he tries to swallow, his throat tightens. I’m going to throw up! Then suddenly, the nausea fades away. The darkness melts, and Hank takes a sharp breath. He can see.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “That was a rough one.” He sits forward and looks around his room. The familiarity of the place rushes in on him. It’s all just as he left it: clutter on the desk, papers on the floor and crumpled clothes just about everywhere. But somehow, the room is less real, less vivid, than the brightly lit armory he’s just left behind. He rubs his brow, covering his face with his hands, and an image flashes into his mind: his dad standing guard in the corridor, the grim determination in his eyes, the sheer, immovable strength in his stance. And all alone. I should never have left him. No. He should’ve stayed with his dad. He should’ve given Jamie the slip and run back to stand at his father’s side.
“Dad,” he whispers. He’s got to go and check on him straightaway. He pushes himself out of the chair and stands up. Every muscle aches, every joint throbs with waves of dull pain, but Hank forces his tortured limbs into action and heads for the door. He knows exactly where his father will be.
CHAPTER 38
Yes, He Is
IN THE GEAR ROOM, Mervin and Jamie exchange a look.
“Out with it,” Mervin says. “I can see you’ve got something on your mind.”
Jamie nods thoughtfully. “I was just thinking about Will. We’re going to have to do something about him.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Mervin says with a smile.
Jamie narrows his eyes. “Why? What have you done?”
“When the patrol came along just now, I had to send them somewhere, didn’t I? Reckon they’ll have found him by now. Don’t think they’re going to be too happy to see him.”
“Good thinking,” Jamie says. “You know, you’d have made a good agent out in the field.”
Mervin grunts. “I’ll try not to take that as an insult.”
“On that note, I think it’s time to go.”
Mervin nods. “And that, my friend, is the first sensible thing you’ve said.” He hesitates. “I just wanted to say, though, thanks for watching out for Hank and all.”
Jamie shakes his head. “Not necessary. He did a damned good job of watching out for me. He’s a good lad.”
Mervin looks down for a moment and clears his throat. When he looks back up, his eyes are bright. “Yes. Yes, he is.”
Jamie offers his hand, and Mervin takes it for a very brief, very firm shake. And this time, Jamie logs off immediately. Mervin takes a breath and exhales loudly then crosses the room and replaces his rifle in the rack. But he holds onto his gun, staring down at it. So much has happened since he picked up his rifle. Brave men and women, his friends, have been thrown into harm’s way, perhaps wounded, or worse. He remembers Paul’s words: We lost a lot of good people today. Mervin grimaces and shakes his head. Injuries at this level had a way of reaching out into real life, and the consequences were unpredictable but always dangerous.
Mervin lets go of his rifle and presses his fist against his chest. It wasn’t my fault, he tells himself. But if he’d been a better father, if he’d been there for Hank, maybe none of this chaos would have happened. Mervin swallows the lump in his throat and takes a last look around the gear room. He won’t be coming back. He closes his eyes. Log off.
Mervin opens his eyes to greet the darkness, welcoming the rush of swirling dizziness. This is nothing. Just a momentary blip. He’s going home, and that’s all that matters. A jolt of pain shoots up his arm, and he grimaces. Something’s wrong. But he pushes his anxiety away. He’ll be fine. It’s just been one hell of a day, that’s all. The sooner he can get this whole sorry episode over with, the better. Hank will be waiting for him, getting worried.
The pain in his arm is getting worse. He’s getting too old for this. As soon as I get home, this old chair is getting tossed out. Maybe he’ll see if Hank will get rid of his too. It’s time for a clean start.
Mervin rolls his
shoulders, and it helps a little with the pain in his arm. Just stiff muscles, is all. But there’s something else. There’s a weird fluttering sensation in the middle of his chest. Maybe a muscle twitching somewhere. It’s probably just nerves, or his body dealing with all the adrenaline of the last couple hours. But it’s getting worse, as if something is shaking deep inside his chest. He takes a breath, releases it slowly. He’ll be fine. He’s just not as fit as he used to be, that’s all. In a few seconds, he’ll be home, and then he’ll take a walk, get some fresh air for a change, maybe take Hank out for a bite to eat—something fresh and wholesome. They’ll talk. It’ll be great. Just like the old days. Better.
The darkness slides away, letting in the dim yellow glow from the basement’s single light bulb. Mervin breathes a sigh of relief. Damp air never smelled so good. And when he moves his head, there, standing at his side, is his son. “Hank,” he whispers. “Are you OK?”
“Sure, Dad,” Hank says. “I was getting worried, but now you’re here—it’s all good.” He hesitates. “But what about you, Dad? You look kind of pale. Do you need your meds or something?”
“Thanks, Son, but no.” Mervin smiles. He has a sudden surge of energy, and he pushes himself up off the chair, moving faster than he has in years. He stands tall and, without hesitating, he wraps his arms around Hank, hugging him tight, pressing his face against Hank’s hair. “I’ve got everything I need right here.”
“Me too, Dad,” Hank says. “Me too.”
CHAPTER 39
No Advantage To Be Gained
JACOB GRIMWOOD JUMPS TO HIS FEET and rips the sweatband from his forehead. He should’ve known Will would screw it up. “Stupid, greedy, moronic asshole!” he mutters. “Why did I have to trust him? What the hell is wrong with me?”
He raises his hand, ready to throw the damned sweatband to the floor, ready to stamp on it until its delicate fibers are reduced to dust.
But no. that would be a waste. A terrible waste.
He closes his eyes, and a savage scream rises in his throat. Why not? he thinks. Why shouldn’t I scream? He’s lost more than any one man has ever lost: more than most men can even imagine. And if he wants to howl like a goddamned banshee, then he’s damned if anyone can stop him.
But where would it get him? What would be the point of it? There’s no advantage to be gained from shouting his head off, and it’s bound to attract the attention of the guards.
He shakes his head. Better to swallow his anger, maintain his composure. He has much work to do. He may have lost a battle, but the war goes on.
And there’s no nice way to fight a war.
Jacob looks at the sweatband and turns it around in his hands for a moment, thinking. This outcome was always a possibility. And of course, he’s planned for it. Of course he has.
Jacob stretches the sweatband between his fingers then slips the soft material over his head. There. He’s ready. It’s time to begin.
Derek Partridge hurtles down the corridor, the shrill shriek of the alarm system ringing in his ears.
He grabs at his radio as he runs. “Open gate thirty-seven.”
He can hardly hear the reply above the din of the alarms, but someone in the control room is bitching about the lockdown.
“I don’t give a shit,” Partridge yells. “Just open the goddamned gate.”
There’s a buzz as the steel gate in front of him unlocks. Partridge yanks the gate open and hurls himself through the opening. It should lock automatically behind him, but he doesn’t stop to check.
Partridge powers past the row of cell doors. He doesn’t even slow down when the sprinkler system activates, showering him with cold water. “Grimwood!” he growls.
All these alarms, all these doors unlocking randomly all over the place, all these systems going on the fritz at once—it’s got to be something to do with Jacob Grimwood. Got to be. He’s some sort of computer genius, isn’t he? He must’ve got into the system. Or maybe he paid someone to do it. Everyone says the guy has millions stashed away somewhere.
He arrives at Jacob’s cell and calls up the control room. “Open cell two-eight-five.”
A burst of static on the radio, then: “I can’t. It’s already open.”
Partridge wrenches the handle down hard, but the door is locked. “What the hell?” he mutters. Is this all just part of some practical joke? An elaborate hoax? “Goddammit! Of course it isn’t open. I’m standing right in front of it. Try again.”
“It’s no good, man. The system’s dead. I can’t do a damned thing.”
Partridge hammers his fist against the cell door then presses his face against the small window set into the steel. He turns his head from side to side, craning his neck to see into every corner of the room.
“Jesus Christ!” he hisses. “Jesus goddamn Christ!” He steps back from the door and scrapes his hand across his face. He’s seen enough. Jacob’s cell is just as neat and orderly as usual. But there’s no sign of its occupant. No sign at all.
EPILOGUE
HANK IS WATCHING TV on the day it happens.
He’s sitting on the couch while Dad gets dinner ready. It smells good. Maybe it’s chili. Dad makes a mean chili: good and hot and with the meat cooked just right so it melts in your mouth. Hank rubs his stomach. He just got back from work about an hour ago, and even though he spends all day serving food to other people, he always comes home hungry.
He has a music station on the TV, but he’s not really paying attention, just letting the music wash over him, occupying his mind until dinner time. Even so, it’s kind of annoying when the screen suddenly goes black.
“Aw, man! What’s wrong with the damned TV?” Hank tries the remote, but the screen stays dark. He stands up and crosses the room to turn the set off, but as he passes the window, a movement out in the street catches his eye. He frowns and walks over to the window.
The car that’s just pulled up outside their house is sleek and gray. Hank isn’t certain, but it looks like one of the new Mercedes models. “Guess somebody took a wrong turn,” he murmurs. This neighborhood is a whole lot better than their last place, but even so, a car like this belongs on some swanky boulevard, not here.
Hank watches for a moment, waiting for the Mercedes to perform a fast U-turn and speed away, but the car’s rear door swings smoothly open, and a smartly dressed middle-aged man slides off the luxurious leather upholstery and stands on the sidewalk, straightening his jacket. Hank stands back from the window, but not before the man from the Merc has spotted him.
“Dad!” Hank calls. “I think someone’s coming to the house.”
“What?” Mervin shouts out. “I can’t hear a thing in here, Son. I’m kind of busy.”
“Never mind,” Hank mutters. He heads for the kitchen, but before he can get there, there’s a knock at the front door.
“Will you get that, Hank? It’s probably one of your buddies from work. They always seem to know when dinner’s almost ready.”
“Sure, but it’s no one from work, it’s...” He lets his voice trail away. He doesn’t know what to say. There’s something unsettling about the smartly dressed man. He looks out of place. Hank shakes his head. He’s being silly. The guy is probably looking for the people who lived there before. They left an address on a slip of paper. If he can find it, he’ll hand that over, and then this guy can be on his way.
He walks slowly to the door and opens it.
The man outside is standing back from the door, and he smiles broadly, looking Hank in the eye.
“Can I help you with something?” Hank asks.
“Good evening,” the man says. “You certainly can.” The man’s accent is weird. He has a strange way of clipping his words, like he’s speaking to a public meeting, and it sounds like he’s putting on a phony English accent.
Hank tries to hide his grin. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re selling, but we aren’t buying.”
The man lets out a chuckle. “Oh, that’s a good one. Yes. No, I’m
looking for a young man called Hank. And unless I’m much mistaken, I’ve found him.”
Hank’s smile drops from his face. “What?”
“Yes. It is you, isn’t it, Hank? You’re the young man who coded his own HUD and sneaked it into the game one bit at a time? The young man who cracked the highest levels of game security and uncovered a traitor?”
Hank’s dad calls out from the kitchen, “Who is it, Hank?”
“Oh, is Mervin home as well? Excellent. May I come in?”
Hank frowns. “Am I in some kind of trouble or something?”
The man smiles. “No, no. Quite the reverse. I’m here to offer you a unique opportunity.”
“So you are selling something, right? You’d better leave before I call the cops.”
The man purses his lips and studies Hank’s expression for a moment. “You know, Hank, I expected a little more insight from you. I really think the penny might’ve dropped by now.” He looks Hank in the eye and smiles: a curious little, lopsided grin.
Hanks eyes go wide. “Jamie?”
“Good lad,” the man says. But from now on, you’d better use my real name.” He holds out his hand. “Stewart Headingley-Clarke. Nice to see you again, Hank. It’s been quite a while.”
Hank stands still, staring down at the man’s hand. He hears his dad’s footsteps coming down the hall.
Mervin stands next to his son in the doorway. “Who’s this, Hank?”
Hank shakes his head in disbelief, but despite himself, he says, “It’s Jamie, Dad. From the game.”
Mervin’s brow furrows. “Come away, Son. It’s some kind of scam.” He folds his arms across his chest and stares at the stranger. “Get off my property, right now.”
Stewart takes his hand back and sighs. “I can see I have a lot of explaining to do. But you know, the last time we met, Mervin, we parted as friends. In the gear room, the one with the knife stuck in the door, you shook my hand.”
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