by Marcus Sakey
The hallway was corporate chic, gray carpet with a subtle pattern, beige walls, recessed lighting, a backlit glass display board listing the company names. Quinn said, “Turn right, third office on your left.”
Cooper started down the hall. “Any sign of backup?”
“Negative. Local DAR frequencies are quiet, and the only phone I’ve monitored out of the building is on the third floor. A woman explaining to her husband that she’ll be home late.”
The office doors were heavy glass with bright metal handles, business names etched in the glass. He passed a lobbyist’s office and a real estate firm, rounded the corner, saw the third. Hingepoint Productions, the first word spelled out lowercase and boxed in a design. A faint double chime pinged as he stepped through the door.
Quinn had said this was a graphic design firm, and the décor looked it. The near walls were painted a risky shade of orange that worked, and in place of paintings, skateboard decks were bolted to the wall, each a miniature work of art, robots and monsters, graffiti and skylines.
The floor plan had shown cubicles, but now he saw they were half-cubes, coming up maybe four feet. The ceiling was exposed, conduit and air-conditioning hanging from the girders. Quinn said, “I’ve unlocked all offices on the fifth floor. Shannon has checked the first—no luck. She’s moving on.”
Cooper moved down the aisle and stepped into the office proper. He could see clear across it in all directions. The studio took up a corner of the building, the exterior walls glass from floor to ceiling. With the overhead lights on, they were dark mirrors, bouncing the space back upon itself. In the precise center of the office was a long conference table surrounded by chairs.
Beside it stood Drew Peters and Roger Dickinson.
Cooper strolled forward. Calm and steady. Taking his time; the longer he could stall, the longer Shannon would have.
Dickinson looked the same as ever. Handsome, good posture, an alert readiness. His right hand was itching to jerk the pistol from his shoulder holster.
“Hello, Nick,” Peters said. For the first time, Cooper noticed that Peters had a rodent-ish look. Something in his neat bearing and small mouth, his rimless glasses. The briefcase he’d been carrying sat on the table in front of him. “Nice to see you again.”
The conference space was wide open. Cooper walked to the table. Stood opposite the two of them.
Remember, they don’t know that you know, or that you have help. If they suspect either of those things for a second, this all comes crashing down. “Where’s my family?”
“They’re nearby.”
“Not good enough.” He took a step back, eyes forward.
“I’ll prove it to you,” Peters said, “but I’ll need you to put down your gun.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Of course you do. But it’s okay. I’ll go first.” Peters reached for the briefcase, opening it slowly. The inside of the lid was a monitor, which glowed to life. The screen held white for a moment, then cut to a video feed.
Natalie sat in a leather chair at one end of a small room, Todd to her left, Kate to her right. The kids had pads of paper in front of them and appeared to be drawing. Kate, younger, was lost in it, but Natalie was leaning into Todd, trying to encourage him. Distracting them, Cooper realized, trying to keep them calm. The wall behind them was glass, the Capitol dome glowing in the distance. The two gunmen stood nearby, weapons out. One looked at the camera, the other at Natalie.
“That’s quite a woman you divorced, Nick. A wonderful mother. And your children. Beautiful.”
Cooper stared at the image, at his children, the reasons for every action he’d taken. Reason enough to set the world on fire. Natalie glanced up, directly into the monitor, as if she was staring at him.
How?
The camera, he realized. They would have set that up in front of them, and she was smart enough to know it would be for his benefit. It wasn’t “as if” she was looking at him; she was staring at him. The look in her eyes a plea. Not for her, but for Kate and Todd.
A plea, and something else. What?
“Now. Your gun. Gently, please.”
It wasn’t that Natalie’s eyes moved. They didn’t. It was that she thought about moving them, thought about flickering them to the left. That thought translated into the tiniest subdermal motion, the kind of thing he could see.
The kind of thing she knows you can see.
She’s giving you a hint.
Warmth bloomed in his chest. The women in his life were amazing.
“All I see is a conference room with the Capitol in the background,” he said. “They could be anywhere.”
“Let’s not play games, Nick. You know how far I’m willing to go. Your gun.”
In his ear, Quinn said, “Checking.”
Cooper hesitated as if thinking about it. Then, slowly, he reached around his back and took out the pistol. Dickinson tensed, a coiled spring begging to explode. Using just his thumb and forefinger, Cooper set the weapon down and pushed it to slide across the table.
Quinn said, “Got it. Suite 508. The conference room is in the southeast corner.”
Shannon said, “On my way.”
Cooper said, “There. Now how about Roger does the same?”
Dickinson laughed. Peters gave his thin smile. “I don’t think so. We’re both aware of your abilities. Now, where’s the drive?”
“It’s safe.”
“How nice to hear. Where?”
“If I tell you, how do I know you won’t kill them anyway?”
“You have my word.”
“That’s not carrying as much weight with me as it used to, Drew.”
“It’s going to have to do. I told you, you’re not in a position to negotiate. Give me what I want and I’ll let you all go.”
Dickinson said, “I bet it’s in his pocket. Let me take him.”
Shannon said, “Nick, I’m in the office, outside the conference room. Going now.”
“No, Roger.” Peters paused. Then he said, “Shoot Cooper’s son on the count of three.”
On the monitor, one of the guards raised his gun, pointed it at Todd—
The guards can hear him.
The speakerphone. The call light is on. They’re listening in.
Shannon is stepping into that room now. She can take the guards…unless Peters or Dickinson yells a warning from up here.
Which they will if they’re watching the monitor.
—as Peters said, “Three. Two.”
“Okay!” Cooper took a quick step forward, and both Peters and Dickinson jumped, turned their full attention on him. “I’ve got it here.” He reached in his pocket, felt the slim profile of the stamp drive. He didn’t want to risk losing hold of it, even for a moment. It was the only proof he had of the monstrosity he had helped create. Once he let it go, everything could change. The only chance for some sort of justice could vanish.
It’s justice or your children.
Cooper pulled the drive from his pocket. It took all his effort not to glance at the monitor. His children, helpless, and him up here, powerless, and Dickinson right there, hungry, his hand already flexing. Cooper kept his fingers curled around the drive, didn’t let them see it. They wouldn’t risk making a move until they were sure he wasn’t bluffing. He held the moment as long as he dared, his heart pounding. Stepped forward, lowered his hand over the table. Opened his fingers.
The drive fell to the table.
Peters zeroed in on it, eyes hungry and triumphant.
A flash of movement on the monitor. Cooper told himself not to look, but it was too late, his gift beyond his control, needing data, reading situations.
Dickinson staring at him. Tracking his eyes. Following them.
They both watched as, on the monitor, Shannon threw an elbow into the throat of a gunman.
To the guards, Dickinson yelled, “Kill them!” as his hand flew inside his jacket.
Cooper spun and bolted for the nearest cubicle, le
aving the drive on the table. A shot from behind, and drywall exploded. He kept moving, feeling Dickinson tracking him, firing again and again, not quite catching him, and then he was out of sight behind a low cube. He dropped to his knees and quickly crawled for the next one, bullets punching through the fabric walls.
Peters will go for the drive.
Nothing he could do about that. The conference room would be lethal. He wasn’t a superhero who could dodge bullets. Being able to see where someone intended to shoot gave him a leg up, but against a professional like Dickinson, in an open space, it wouldn’t be enough.
Had Shannon taken out both gunmen? No way to know, and no time to wonder. There was another shot, and another ragged hole blown in a fabric wall. A monitor exploded.
Cooper stayed low, hurried along the aisle between the cubicles. Pictured the floor plan, trying to place himself on it. The design studio was large, maybe fifty employees. The open plan meant that if he stood up, Dickinson would be able to see him. On the other hand, if he didn’t stand up, his own gift was nullified. Without being able to see what was going on, he was just prey, scurrying from cover to cover.
He looked around. Two cubes near him, one stacked with papers and folders, the other neat and decorated, someone making an effort to turn a gray fabric cage into a cozy living room: a recliner, a lamp, framed photos on the desk. Nothing resembling a weapon in either, at least not a weapon he’d match against a handgun. Glanced upward: girders, pipes, hanging banks of fluorescent lights.
At some distance, a faint double ping. The door chime.
Quinn would have warned him if any more threats had come into the building. Which meant that sound was Peters leaving. With the drive.
Everything was falling apart.
Cooper crept into the well-decorated cube, took one of the photos off the desk. The glass was bright and reflected a ghostly image of him. He eased it up above the edge of the fabric wall. It was a long way from a mirror, but it gave a hint of what was going on, the overheads glowing in it, and motion, Dickinson somehow ten feet tall. The table. The agent had climbed on top of it for a better view. Cooper pulled the picture down before the man spotted it.
“Come on, Cooper,” Dickinson said. “Come out and I’ll make it quick. Just like your children.”
Bile surged in his throat. He whispered, “Shannon? You okay?”
No response.
Quinn said, “Coop, I don’t know what’s going on. I’ve got no feed, and she’s not answering.”
“I recognized your terrorist girlfriend,” Dickinson said, “but I’m afraid she didn’t make it.”
It was a bluff. A way to taunt him into the open. It had to be.
“And that little stunt cost your family’s lives. Sorry about that, but we did warn you.”
He closed his eyes, leaned back against the cubicle wall.
“Ahh, don’t sweat it, Cooper. Kids are replaceable. What’s one or two gone?”
Nothing from Quinn. Nothing from Shannon. He’d caught only the tiniest flash of her on the monitor, a move to disable one of the guards, but there had been two in the room. Skilled killers on high alert.
His gift ran ahead of him again, collated the data, jumped to its conclusion.
Your family is dead.
Cooper had been at a scene once where a car had collided with an agent and pinned him against a metal barrier, shattering everything from the ribs down, severing both legs at midthigh. Massive physical damage, unsurvivable. What had haunted him most, though, was that the man was calm. He didn’t scream, didn’t seem to feel any pain.
Some wounds were too enormous to feel.
A strange dark purity flowed through him. It was almost sweet. If his family was gone, there wasn’t much point in going on. Not many reasons to live. Just one.
You’re going to die, Roger. And so is Peters.
He ducked low, left the cubicle, and scurried down the aisle. Kept his shoulder against the near wall, visualizing the angle Dickinson could see. Climbing on top of the conference table would give him the high ground, generally a tactical advantage. But it came with limitations, too.
A gunshot, and then another. Nothing exploded near him, though. Dickinson was blind-firing, trying to draw him out.
I’m coming out, Roger. Don’t you worry.
He moved along the aisle back toward the entrance. On the wall between two mounted skateboards he saw what he’d been looking for. But it was a long, exposed sprint to reach it. No way to get there without being seen.
He dropped to a runner’s crouch, ready to sprint. Then, with a looping toss, he threw the picture frame as far behind as he could.
Dickinson reacted immediately, twin gun blasts. Cooper didn’t pause, just launched himself into a sprint for the far wall, covering a dozen yards in seconds. He heard glass shatter behind him, the picture frame hitting something. Dickinson would have processed it for the distraction it was. He’d have his gun up and be tracking, looking for motion.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now except killing. Killing, and the fact that Cooper had made it to the bank of light switches he’d spotted on the lobby wall. He smacked them all in one swiping blow. The fluorescents died.
Darkness fell, pure as fury.
Cooper turned and stood up. No need to hide now. When the lights had been on, Cooper had been prey, and Dickinson had been a predator.
With the lights out, Cooper was a shadow in the dark. And Dickinson was a silhouette standing on a conference table, bathed in the glow of the monitor Peters had brought. He may as well have been in a spotlight.
The agent had a gun in each hand, his own in the right, Cooper’s in the left, and he raised them both and fired in the general direction of the light switches. But Cooper was no longer there.
And the twin muzzle flashes would only make things worse for him. Rob him of what limited night vision he’d have.
Cooper moved steadily, not running, not risking tripping or making a sound. Just watching Dickinson as he spun and flailed in the dark. By the time he reached the conference table, the other agent had realized his mistake. Dickinson jumped down, landing hard.
Cooper stepped forward and twisted the guns from the man’s hands.
Then he put them both against Roger Dickinson’s chest and pulled the triggers until the slides locked back.
What was left of the agent fell limp and wet. Cooper dropped the guns on top of him.
He walked to the table. To the monitor.
His family was dead.
Now he just had to face it. To look at the monitor and see the end of the world.
Cooper forced himself to face it.
The screen showed a conference room, the Capitol dome glowing in the distance.
It showed one of the shooters on the ground, splayed flat.
It showed the other pulling himself to his feet, woozy, his fingers scrabbling at the table for help.
What it did not show was the bodies of his family.
God bless you, Shannon. My girl who walks through walls.
“Coop?” Quinn’s voice in his ear. “I just picked up Shannon in the number three elevator. She’s got your family with her. She’s bleeding pretty bad from the right side of her head—must have taken a hit that disabled the transmitter. But she’s giving a thumbs-up to the camera, and everyone else looks fine.”
For a moment he let himself feel it. A feeling as if he could flex and blow the roof open, a feeling like his heart might burst.
Quinn said, “Bad news is, I’m getting a lot of traffic on law enforcement frequencies. A small army is headed our way. Time to go.”
“Where’s Peters?”
“He’s not with you?”
“No. And he’s got the drive.”
“What? How?”
“No time to explain. Has he shown up on your screens?”
“No. He didn’t go through the elevator lobby.”
The smart thing to do was get out, escape with Quinn and Shannon and
his family. Hide somewhere and think of their next move. Let Peters walk away with the only evidence.
Cooper turned and ran for the exit. Through the lobby, out the door, the chime ringing behind him. “Quinn, are there cameras in the stairwells?”
“Negative.”
Turned left on a hunch, kept going, found the stairwell at the end. He pushed open the door, stepped into a brightly lit concrete space. “Do they exit to the outside?”
“Yeah, of course, that’s code in case of fire,” Quinn said, and then, “Oh shit.”
Cooper started down, jumping a flight at a time, his hand trailing down the metal railing. Peters would have made it to the street by now. Vanished into—
He couldn’t be sure that Dickinson would take me. If he were, he’d have stayed to help.
Since he didn’t, he suspected I might win.
And he knows that if I did, I’d come after him.
He won’t do what you expect.
—the night. Cooper caught himself on a handrail, turned the other way, sprinted upward. His calves burning and lungs screaming. Past the tenth, the eleventh, the twelfth.
Quinn said, “Shit. Cooper, I’ve got a helicopter inbound, ETA forty-five seconds.”
Sneaky, Drew. Very sneaky. Cooper said, “Good.”
“Huh?”
“Get out of here. Get Shannon out, get my family out. I’ll meet you at the rendezvous.”
“Cooper—”
“Now. That’s an order.”
The flight above the twelfth ended in a door. Cooper hit it at a run, the thing flying open to expose the roof. Gravel and the bulk of industrial air conditioners, the sudden cool of the evening air and the buzz of the city all around, and, faint but growing louder, the whap of helicopter rotors.
The director was at the southeast edge of the building, in a clear space just barely broad enough for a helicopter to land on.
A flash of an image, San Antonio, the rooftop with Alex Vasquez. Chasing her to the edge of the building, her body a silhouette against the night sky.
Peters heard him when he was about ten feet away, whirled. He said, “No,” and reached around his back. Cooper caught his arm, twisted it forward, then spun to bring the force of his other forearm down against the director’s elbow, which snapped with a sick pop. Drew Peters screamed, and the gun dropped from his limp fingers.
