Brilliance. Part 18

"Of course not. I want you to help me become someone else."

Zane picked up his drink. Sipped at it. "Why not go to Wyoming?"

"And live with the rest of the animals in the zoo?" He shook his head. "No thanks. I don't like cages. And n.o.body is going to put a tracking device in my throat. Not ever. So I need a new name, a new face, and the doc.u.ments to go with it."

"You're asking a lot."

"Those semiconductors?" He gestured to the case. "That's virgin newtech. No one, no one, outside of the DAR has seen that architecture. You play your cards right on those, you can make a fortune. And they won't cost you a dime. You're one of the biggest smugglers in the Midwest. You really going to tell me you don't have a hacker and a surgeon in the family?"

The tri-d switched to footage of the Exchange explosion, the same loop of footage he'd seen on the tri-d billboard back in March. They had played it endlessly for the first months, followed by clips from President Walker's speech, especially "For them, there can be-will be-no mercy." Then as it became clear that John Smith wasn't going to be quickly caught, it had slipped out of rotation. But it still ran every time anyone wanted to say anything negative about abnorms. Which was pretty much once an hour.

"Sure, I have the resources. But if I do this for you, then what?"

"I told you. You get those for free."

"I could just kill you."

"You sure?" He smiled.

Zane laughed. "You got b.a.l.l.s, man. I like that."

"We have a deal?"

"Let me think about it."

"You know how to reach me. Meanwhile, hold onto the money and the semiconductors. Call it a good faith gesture." Cooper brushed off his pant legs, then stood up. "Thanks for the drink."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

The rain had let up, and by the patch of slightly brighter gray in the western sky, it looked as if the sun might even be trying to shine. Cooper retrieved his weapon from the trunk, then steered the Jaguar off the crumbling streets of the warehouse district and into traffic. The car was a beauty, though he missed the raw muscular rumble of the Charger.

It had been a risky play, with Zane. Hopefully the man was the dirtbag Cooper believed.

He swung south, downtown. The skyline was half lost in clouds. He pa.s.sed a row of shops, a car dealership. The El banged by overhead, sparks showering down where it banked.

Streeterville was a high-rent district, the kind of place that before he'd never have thought to stay. It was all boutiques and hair salons, shrill dogs and expensive women. He pulled down Delaware and stopped in front of the gleaming opulence of the Continental Hotel. A tall, pale guy in a dark jacket opened his door. "Welcome back, Mr. Eliot."

"Thanks, Mitch." He left the car and strode into the hotel.

The lobby was the definition of modern opulence, all clean lines and lush furniture. A huge paper chandelier glowed above. Cooper strolled to the elevator and swiped his keycard. It slid into motion without him touching a b.u.t.ton. His ears popped as they rose.

"Forty-sixth floor. Executive suites," the recorded voice purred. He pictured her tall, with sleek blond hair and a skirt that showed a little thigh and a lot of shadow.

Cooper keyed into his suite and slid out of his suit jacket. It was gray and Italian and cost more than his entire previous wardrobe. The staff had cleaned the room and drawn the curtains. Outside and far below, Lake Michigan churned silently against the sh.o.r.e. The sky was slowly turning to amber. He called down for smoked salmon and a bottle of gin.

In the bathroom he splashed cold water on his face then dried himself on a thick towel. Looked in the mirror. The same face looked back, as it always did; only the setting changed. He remembered the first apartment he and Natalie had shared, a dim, narrow s.p.a.ce above a Chinese restaurant. That had been back in their early days, before time and his gift went to work on them. Todd had been conceived in that apartment, on a couch that smelled like egg rolls. They'd had their first Christmas together there, and Cooper could still remember Todd sitting wobbly amidst a pile of wrapping paper, a bow stuck to his head. Could remember- Don't. Just don't.

Back in the bedroom, he dropped his d-pad on the desk, his gun in the drawer. The armchair was where he'd left it, pulled out of place and turned to face the floor-to-ceiling windows, a stunning panorama of lake and skyline. He sat down and sighed.

"Home sweet home," he said.

Six months ago, when he'd shown up at Drew Peters's door with a plan and a stomach full of reckless energy, his main concern had been convincing his boss. He'd known there would be costs, and he'd accepted them. But it was only after everything was in motion that he first got that pit-of-the-stomach what now? feeling.

It wasn't as though he could just e-mail John Smith and say he wanted to change sides. Any attempt to reach out directly would be seen for the trap it was. And so instead, Cooper had to ask himself what he would do if he couldn't do what he'd always done. If he wasn't the good guy who believed that the system, for all its flaws, was the only way to survive; that it was the route to a better tomorrow. If he really had been cast out by the department, if they had pinned the explosion on him, had betrayed and hunted him, what would he do?

And thus began a startlingly lucrative life as a criminal.

There was a knock at the door. He let the waiter in, asked him to put the tray on the desk by the window, signed the check and a tip without processing the numbers. The salmon was perfect, the smoky sweetness offset by the sharp salt of the capers and the brightness of fresh lemon. He washed it down with icy gin, watching the sky slowly change colors.

He'd been careful. He'd planned his moves with a rigorous devotion. After all, he had nothing else to do. No family he could share his life with. No boss to complicate his work. No friends who needed him. For a little while he tried sleeping with a woman he'd met in the hotel lounge. A magazine editor, smart and chic and very s.e.xy, but neither of their hearts was in it, and the thing petered out on its own.

It had been a surprise-and yeah, okay, a pleasure-to realize how very good he was at being bad. The same skills that made him the best agent in Equitable Services made him an exceptional thief and powerbroker. In the last six months he'd hurtled through the underworld.

There had been some thrills on the criminal end, but far more dangerous than his new friends was his old agency. As they'd planned, Drew Peters had laid the explosion at Cooper's feet. He was now one of the top targets of Equitable Services. Three times they'd tracked him down-in Dallas, Los Angeles, and Detroit.

Detroit had been bad. He'd nearly had to kill an agent.

Staying in cities was dangerous, but he had to be on the radar. Vanishing entirely might save him from the DAR, but it wouldn't bring him any closer to Smith.

Six months of hide-and-seek, building his reputation and his wealth. Six months of relentless caution and patience. Six months while his children grew up without him, while Natalie dealt with G.o.d knew what, while his former colleagues hunted him. Six months of never making the first step in John Smith's direction.

Until today. He could only hope that the table he'd set for Zane was tempting enough.

He finished the salmon and licked his fingers. The clouds had broken, and the world outside glowed shadowless Easter colors. Magic hour. The double panes of gla.s.s canceled sound, turning the world into a mime show, a bright and dazzling spectacle for his eyes alone. That was the lure of wealth, he'd discovered; a throaty whisper in your ear that you were special, that it was all-this wine, this woman, this world-for you. That it in some way existed only so that you might partake of it. He liked it, a lot. Liked being part of the aristocracy, the one percent who had enough money to do whatever they chose.

He'd trade it in a second to be back in the front yard, spinning his children in a whirling arc of joy.

The phone rang. He rocked the chair back on two legs and stretched for it. Let it ring while he checked the display.

Zane.

Cooper smiled.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

Funny thing about Chicago's business district-it had a faucet.

Most of the day was a steady trickle, tourists, shoppers, and the like. At night, the faucet was cranked down to a bare drip. But there were certain moments when the thing was opened full stream, and the streets and sidewalks transformed to wild rapids of humanity. The first was the morning commute. The third was the evening rush back to the trains.

Cooper sat in the window of a falafel joint waiting for the second. Outside the smudged windows, cars wove slowly south. The concrete chasm effect was even more claustrophobic here on Wells, where the tracks for the El cut the sky into thin slivers. He checked his watch. Almost...

Lunchtime.

The sidewalks were suddenly thronged, people hurrying and jostling in braided vectors. Cooper picked up his plastic shopping bag and joined them. As always, the crowd made him uncomfortable. Too much stimulus, too many intentions.

The day was clear and cold. He craned his neck upward, saw nothing but the towers of industry rising to a pale blue sky. Half a block north he climbed the stairs up to the El, careful to move within a crowd, a cl.u.s.ter of twentysomething businessmen laughing and talking. His right shoe was tight and awkward, but his body felt loose and strong, tingling with antic.i.p.ated adrenaline. Cooper swiped his card and walked through the turnstile. A portico shaded the platform. Holographic ads for beauty products and movies danced along the railing overlooking the street. The buildings pressed close; ten feet off the edge, people in office buildings did...well, whatever people in office buildings did. He'd never been sure.

Cooper walked halfway down the platform. He tossed the plastic shopping bag at the trash and missed, the bag landing at the base of the metal can. He left it there and took a seat on the third bench. The portico hid the sky.

In five minutes Zane's hacker would be here, or not. He was betting on not.

A train rounded the curve, unG.o.dly noisy. There had been talk for years of retrofitting the tracks to allow a maglev train, faster and quieter, but the money had never been in the city's budget. Cooper was glad of it; he liked the El the way it was. Old-world thinking, sure, but the rattle and clank made him happy. He rested his arms on the back of the bench, crossed his legs.

As the Brown Line pulled in, the platform erupted into a ma.s.s of motion. People jostled to get off as others fought to get on. Conversations, phone calls, music. Excuse-mes and curses. A man rapped to himself as he walked, completely unselfconscious. The wave of humanity crested with a recorded tone and the announcement that doors were closing. The tide pulled away with the train, leaving the platform suddenly empty.

Except for a very, very pretty girl who had not been there a moment ago.

Cooper blinked, startled. His palms went sweaty and the back of his neck tingled.

The Girl Who Walks Through Walls wore boots to the knee, soft tights to the hem of her skirt, a fitted shirt, and a loose jacket that had plenty of s.p.a.ce in the cuff to conceal the snub-nosed pistol she was pointing at his chest.

She said, "Get up."

Cooper stared- She is not part of the plan. She's a surprise on a day with no margin for error. In about sixty seconds, everything is going to explode.

Why is she here? Why now? She can't be working with Zane.

There must be sources within the department. John Smith has informers.

And how the h.e.l.l does she do that, anyway?

-at her, conscious, suddenly, that his mouth was open. He closed it. Was this how other people felt about what he could do? Her ability to move unseen was uncanny. He could have sworn he'd been looking right at that spot. "You made it out of the Exchange, I guess."

"Stand up. I won't say it again."

He read her intent in the lines of her shoulder, the set of her mouth, the fury in her eyes, and he stood up. Slowly. "I don't work for the DAR anymore," he said. "Shooting me won't help your boss."

"I'm not here for that. I'm here for Brandon Vargas."

His bafflement must have shown on his face. Her lips tightened. "Of course. You don't remember. He was just another number to you. Walk." She gestured with her head, not the gun. A pro.

Cooper glanced in the direction she indicated. The nearer exit. She meant to take him off the platform before shooting him. Normally he'd have welcomed that, knowing that every second he was alive he'd have a chance to turn this around. But not today.

Today stepping out from under the roof was a death sentence.

"Listen to me," he said. "There's something you need to know."

"Start moving or I'll shoot you right here."

"I don't think so. You're not actually invisible. You may know how to be where people aren't looking, but I'm betting once they're staring, you're just as screwed as anyone else who fires a gun on an El platform."

"Maybe I'll risk it."

"For Brandon Vargas?"

"Don't you say his name. His life was s.h.i.t because of men like you. Men like you put him in an academy. Men like you made him a slave. And when he refused to join the government after he graduated, you killed him. You're the boot of the system, Cooper. It's your job to step on human beings. And you don't even remember them."

"I shot Brandon Vargas thirteen months ago," he said quietly, "behind a biker bar in Reno. We talked first. He smoked a cigarette, a Dunhill Red. Then he made a run for it, a reckless one. Tell you the truth, I don't think he was trying to escape. I think he wanted me to end things. Wanted me to stop him."

A spectrum of emotions rolled across her face. The detail about the cigarette had been the clincher. Had Brandon been friend, family, or lover? If it was the former, he might be able to talk her down. If it was one of the latter two...

"I remember everyone I've killed," Cooper said. "I didn't go after Brandon because he wouldn't join the DAR. I went after him because he started robbing banks and shooting people. In the last one it was a woman and her two-year-old daughter. The girl was in a stroller. It was an accident, but she's still dead." There was motion in his peripheral vision. People coming onto the platform. He desperately wanted to turn and look, but didn't dare. "Yes, his childhood sucked. But I don't think that buys him a license to shoot two-year-olds. Do you?"

Her eyes were large to begin with, and the mascara made them huge. He stared at them, trying to read her thoughts, and more than that, her next move, whether she was going to pull the trigger just because that was the plan. He could feel the seconds ticking away, and the motion in his periphery drawing closer, and then he could no longer take it, and he turned and looked at the steps.

Just as he had expected. Zane, thank you for being the traitorous opportunistic piece of weasel s.h.i.t I thought you were.

He turned back to the Girl Who Walks Through Walls. She was on the train side of the platform. The roof would cover her from one direction, but not both. "Listen to me," he said. "Take exactly two steps forward and face east. Do it now, or they'll kill you."

"Who?"

"Do it now." She would listen or she wouldn't. Either way, he had to focus. He turned.

Pouring out of both entrances to the east were men and women with neat hair and good shoes and the chest bulk of people wearing body armor. They carried shotguns and SMGs and pistols, carried them properly, aimed down and left, safeties off but fingers outside trigger guards. Three at the far stair and five at the near. Agents from Equitable Services. His former colleagues. There would be dozens more nearby, scores, covering every block. And for a little salt in the wound, both Roger d.i.c.kinson and Bobby Quinn were among them.

Ah well.

They were yelling, telling him not to move, standard law enforcement technique, disorient and overwhelm. Their guns coming up. The handful of civilians on the platform had turned to stone. Slowly, palms out to show he meant no threat, he raised his hands. Showed that he was complying. They fanned out in a precise tactical arc, giving every agent a clean shot. The barrels of eight guns were locked on his chest. No one pointing at his head, no hotshots. If he so much as twitched his finger, they would blow his chest across the platform. He could see it in the white tension of a forefinger curled on a trigger; in the unblinking fish stare framed by submachine gun sights; in the locked shoulder muscles and flared nostrils. Roger d.i.c.kinson's lips were twisted into a snarl that looked almost like a smile. They wanted to shoot. They hated him, and they feared him.

All but Quinn. Quinn wasn't sure. Cooper locked eyes with his friend and partner. Let the sounds wash over him, their yells and howls and the rumble of an incoming train, all of it static, like the burbling of a river, out of sync with the motion of their lips.

And then he used his toe to trigger the remote he'd jammed into the front of his shoe, and the flashbangs in the plastic shopping bag turned the world into a blazing roar.

Even facing east, with his back to them, the glare left spots in his eyes, and now static really was all he could hear. All of the agents in their textbook-perfect arc had been staring directly into eight million candelas worth of white-hot flare. They reeled back, hands going to eyes, weapons flailing.

Ten seconds.

Cooper turned, saw the girl standing beside him, facing east. She started forward, but he lashed out, caught her wrist. "No!" He was shouting, but could barely hear his own voice. "Snipers!" He let go of her, turned to the west, and began to run.

Eight seconds.

The platform ran another thirty yards. Benches and trash cans were strung along the length. He leaned into the run, hoping she could keep up. The beginnings of a potential next step were a.s.sembling in his head, and she was at the heart of it. No time. He reached the end of the portion with a roof.