Brilliance (23 page)

The door bore a sign that read N
O
E
NTRY
: E
XIT ON
G
ROUND
F
LOOR
. He put a palm against it and pushed. It swung open. On the way through he pulled off the duct tape he’d applied last night to keep the latch from catching. Wonderful stuff, duct tape.

“Now what?”

He ignored her and strode down the hall. A woman smiled as he passed. A cubicle jock did cubicle jock things. The break room was just a wider space in the hall, a fridge buzzing away, packets of coffee creamer and plastic silverware. The window had been painted a dozen times, thick layers that locked it shut. He slid one end of the crowbar under the sash and jerked downward. The paint cracked, and something squealed. Another jerk, and the thing popped open half an inch. He forced it the rest of the way, then climbed out onto another fire escape, half a block away and two stories up from the one they’d arrived at. A train was pulling into the El station. Perfect.

“You’re kidding.” She leaned over the railing.

“Nope.” He climbed up, balanced for a moment, then leaned forward. Felt gravity begin to take him. At the last second he flexed his legs and leaped off. Below streaked the same unforgiving concrete, the same buzzing cars, the same empty air. Then he hit the roof of the El platform, bending his knees and falling into a roll. The metal bonged and rang at the impact, but the arriving train masked the noise. Behind him he heard the same metallic clatter, softer than his, and then they crouched side by side atop the roof as the silver train drew to a stop. He waited until the flow of riders on and off the train had ebbed, and then, with an easy step, he moved onto the roof of the second car. Lowered himself down and army-crawled to the front, got a good grip on the lip, and braced his feet. The metal was cold and dirty. A moment later, the girl joined him. She looked sideways, shook her head. “Asshole.”

He grinned. “Doors are closing. Please hold on.”

There was a lurch like an elevator starting, and then the train began to move.

Most of the plan he’d been reasonably sure of. His old agency hadn’t yet taken into account the fact that he knew their techniques. They were using the same playbook. So it had been easy to create a situation where the flashbangs would buy him time, where he could use standard protocol to his advantage, where he could lure every available agent to one spot and then double back from it. But he’d never ridden atop a moving train before.

After everything else he’d done in the last few minutes, it turned out to be almost easy. According to his d-pad, on a long straightaway the trains could hit fifty-five miles an hour. He didn’t know if they’d be able to hold on under those circumstances, clinging to the slick metal by lousy handholds. Fortunately, they were in the Loop, where trains made a circle before running back the way they’d come. The greatest risk came as they rounded a corner and the train rocked sideways, but he’d anticipated it and braced for the motion. The wind was exhilarating, and the expressions he saw on the faces of people in the buildings made getting shot at worthwhile. They rode through two stops, and he was almost sad when the third came up.

Goddamn, but I’m good.
He stood, started for the edge of the train. The doors had opened, and riders were pouring in and out. He’d wait till they were mostly gone and then jump off just before—

She came from behind, her knee knocking out his as her hands took his shoulders. He was going down, no arguing with physics, but why had he turned his back on her in the first place? They hit the roof of the train, bounced. He slipped her hold, twisted, raised one arm to strike.

The Girl Who Walks Through Walls pointed, alarm in her eyes. Cooper narrowed his, risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Passengers leaving the train, men and women, tourists and businesspeople, a flight attendant, a couple of students…and two men in suits.

Roger Dickinson said, “Damn it. I was sure he’d double back.”

“You want to check the train again, sir?” Bobby Quinn had a dryly insubordinate tone, but it was the “sir” that caught Cooper’s attention. Peters must have promoted the man, probably given him Cooper’s old position. That was bad news. Whatever else he might be, Roger Dickinson was very good at his job.

“No, I don’t want to check the train again, Bobby. You know what I want? To know you’re on the right side.”

“I told you, I don’t believe Coop’s a terrorist.”

“Yeah? Even though he blew up the Exchange?”

“He didn’t blow up—”

“Right. He just went there seconds before it blew up, then vanished and started robbing DAR labs. And that woman he was holding hands with, she’s the one who killed Bryan Vasquez. So tell me again. How is Cooper one of the good guys here?”

“I don’t know.” Quinn’s voice was dogged. “But I still don’t believe he’s with Smith.”

“Get it through your head, Bobby. Your girlfriend, he’s a—”

“Doors are closing. Please hold on.” There was a loud
bing-bong
, and then the train started moving. Cooper barely had time to grab the lip of the car. A strange and awful heaviness tightened his stomach. He’d been cocky there, had almost stepped right in front of his old colleagues. He’d seen how fast Dickinson was. And Cooper was unarmed.
If I’d jumped down, he’d have killed me.

When he turned to look at her, The Girl Who Walks Through Walls met his gaze briefly. Then she looked away.

You say you are the master race,

I say you are our disgrace,

You say it’s not your fault,

I say destroy all trace.

Put out the lights,

Put out the lights,

Wash the streets with blood,

And put out the lights.

You say you are the future,

I say I wouldn’t be so sure,

You say live and let live,

I say scrub our world pure.

Put out the lights,

Put out the lights,

Set the streets on fire,

And put out the lights.

For all the times you kicked us,

And all the times you smiled,

For all the times you tricked us,

And all the times you lied,

Put out the lights,

Put out the lights,

Let the bodies fall,

And put out the lights.

—Severed Bloodlines, “Put Out the Lights”

Resistance Records, 2007

It was a far cry from an executive suite at the Continental.

Bland and generic and mildly soul-killing, the Howard Johnson was on the unfashionable end of State Street. The afternoon light through the curtains was funereal. Behind him, the Girl Who Walks Through Walls said, “Now what?”

“We wait.” He moved to the edge of the bed, sat down.

She stepped in as though uncertain whether to stay. Ran a finger along the desk. “Nice digs.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t expecting company.” Cooper began to unlace his shoes. “This is just a place to ride out the storm. Once they realize we slipped past them, they’ll make a last-ditch effort to catch us while we’re close. They’ll fan out across the Loop. They’ll co-opt the CPD video camera system. They’ll get cops to do door-to-doors, popping into every bar and restaurant, looking in the restrooms. They’ll check hotels for new arrivals.”

“Last I looked, this was a hotel.”

“I booked it a week ago. Under the name Al Ginsberg.”

She said, “‘I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked…’” She parted the curtains, looked out at the brick wall opposite, and the street below. “Never really understood the poem, but I like the way the words taste.”

“Yeah.” Cooper pulled the shoe off, shook it until the flashbang remote fell out into his hand. “Me too. Why’d you do it?”

“Huh?” She turned.

“The Exchange. Why blow it up? You killed eleven
hundred
people.”

“No,” she said. “I tried to tell you then. I was there to stop it.”

“Bullshit.”

“It was supposed to be empty. We’d called earlier that day, announced we had bombs in the building, that we would trigger them if they started searching. I was there to make sure it
didn’t
blow, not with all those people there.”

“Bang-up job. I noticed on the news how it didn’t explode.”

She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Destroying it was supposed to be a symbol. The Exchange was built to counter us, to exclude us. We wanted to show that they can’t build a future that doesn’t include us. How would killing people have made that point?”

Cooper looked up at her. The width of her pupils, the calm in her fingers, the steady pulse at her neck, none of it suggested she was lying.
But this woman could find a way to hide in an airplane bathroom. Controlling her body is part of that.

“Anyway, who are you to talk? You’re the killer. Not me.”

“Yeah? What about Bryan Vasquez?”

Her lips drew into a tight line. “He betrayed the cause.”

“The defense of every terrorist masquerading as a freedom fighter.”

“Said the storm trooper who protects the state by murdering its citizens.”

He started to reply, caught himself.
You’ve got three hours to convince her that she should help you. If she vanishes, you lose.
He tied his shoe. His fingers were clumsy with post-adrenaline shakes, and his ribs hurt from where he’d hit the balcony. Cooper stood, went to the minibar fridge beneath the television. It opened with a squeal. He pulled out two miniature bottles of Jack Daniels for himself. “You want a drink?” He rifled through. “They’ve got red wine, cheap champagne—”

“Vodka.”

“There’s orange juice, I could make a screwdriver.”

“Just vodka and ice.”

“You want to watch me pour it? Murdering storm trooper and all?”

She stared at him for a long moment, and then one corner of her lips quirked up into a smile. “Gimme the drink already.”

The world’s tiniest ice tray was in the freezer. He cracked it, shook the cubes into a plastic cup, splashed Smirnoff over them. He passed it to her, then poured his bourbon. The soothing warmth went right to work on his aches and shakes.

“So how long do we need to hang out here?”

“A couple of days.”

“A couple of
days?
”

“I’ve got some canned soup in the closet, we’ll eat it cold. But I was only planning for one, so we’ll have to ration our provisions.”

Her eyes went so wide they seemed to bulge. He cracked, smiled, said, “I’m kidding. Just till the evening rush, so we can get lost in the crowd.”

The Girl Who Walks Through Walls laughed. It wasn’t a throaty or sultry thing, a laugh as a pose; it was an honest sound of amusement. Cooper said, “That’s better.”

“Than what?”

“Than calling each other names. Which reminds me—”

“My name is Shannon.”

“Nick Cooper.”

“I’ve heard,” she said dryly. “So what, we just walk out of here and that’s that?”

“Were you thinking we’d pick flower arrangements, send out invitations?”

“Thing is, Nick—”

“Cooper.”

“—you’ve put me in a bit of a bind.”

“How’s that?”

“You’re not dead.”

“Pardon?”

“I came to kill you. But you’re not dead. And to anyone watching, it wouldn’t have looked like I was trying to kill you. It would have looked like we were working together.”

“So?”

“So the DAR already has me marked as a target for the Exchange. Now that they’ve seen us together, I’m probably higher priority than you. And now they know I’m here. Not only that, but until I can get to my people, they’ll assume I’ve switched over.”

“Why? Didn’t they know you were coming for me?”

She shook her head. “This was personal. I didn’t tell anyone. And now it’ll look like just as the bad guys were descending, I hooked up with Equitable Services’ top gun and we made a daring escape. What am I going to do, say, don’t worry, all Cooper and I did was talk poetry and revolutionary politics?”

“How would they even know you were there?”

“We have people in the DAR.”

“Really.” He sipped his drink. He’d known that, worked it out by her appearance on the platform, but there was no reason to let her know that. “And your moles will report that you joined up with me.”

“That’s right. This burns me. In both directions.
You
burned me.”

Cooper shrugged. “Sorry?”

“Listen, you smug—”

“Lady, I didn’t burn you.
You came to kill me
. Not my fault you picked the wrong time. Besides, I could have left you. If it weren’t for me, you’d be shivering in a white, well-lit room right now.”

“And if it weren’t for me, you’d be bleeding out on the platform at LaSalle and Van Buren.”

They stood on opposite sides of the bed, both tense and braced, bickering like an old married couple, and there was something so backward about it all, about this woman—this terrorist—having saved his life from his former colleagues, about
her
referring to
them
as the bad guys, and about the fact that in terms of his continued survival she had a point, and it was all so absurd that he found himself chuckling.

“What?”

“Long day.” He took another sip of whiskey and then crossed to the television—it was an old flatscreen, not a tri-d—and turned it to CNN. There was no way to know if this would make the news, and even if it did, it probably wouldn’t be for hours yet.

“—the site of yet another in a string of terrorist attacks in recent weeks.” The woman standing on the El platform was plastic-pretty and overeager, a local reporter getting her big break. “Earlier today, an unidentified man planted a bomb during Chicago’s lunch rush.”

The image cut to her holding a microphone to a man Cooper vaguely remembered from a seminar in DC two years before. The words
Terry Stiles, Chicago Bureau Captain, Department of Analysis and Response
were printed over the lower third. Stiles said, “We’ve been tracking this individual for several weeks and were able to apprehend him before he could detonate a bomb on the El. However, we were unable to prevent him from firing on the crowd. Several civilians were wounded, as well as two agents.”