DAYBREAK: a gripping thriller full of suspense (Titan Trilogy Book 3) (23 page)

“Correct,” said Wick. “Likely where Heilshorn must’ve gotten ideas that led to his involvement with Nonsystem.”

“Bullshit.”

“That’s it, Jennifer,” said the attorney general, rising. He turned to Wick. “General Wick, I’m so sorry. Agent Aiken has been under a great deal of stress. I’m afraid we’ve pushed her too hard.”

“It’s my fault,” Rascher chimed in, getting up. “I knew she wasn’t ready to come back after her traumatic incident. But because of my own hubris, I pushed for it. I thought she was the best fit, since she had already established a rapport with—”

“Shut up,” the attorney general snapped at Rascher. Rascher’s face turned bright red and he tried to find somewhere to look.

Wick stood up as well and waved his hands in the air. “Please, there’s no need. I understand completely.”

Jennifer felt strangely calm. “You’re right,” she said, from her seat. “The fact that three men abducted me in broad daylight and dragged me off to a building in New York City to interrogate me, it rattled me a little.”

“Agent Aiken,” said Rascher, heedless of the attorney general’s admonitions for him to shut up. “You’re dismissed. Please see me outside.”

“Of course,” she said to Wick, “you would probably tell me that those soldiers were working for this group of — what did you call them — misguided children?”

“Outside, now.”

“I wonder then where they came up with the term Lebensluge?”

Wick looked down at her, and she saw a tendon twitching in his jaw. His nostrils flared as he took a breath, the only betrayal of the aggression uncoiling inside of him. “They’re very skilled cyber criminals,” he said in a measured tone. “You did a commendable job bringing them in. Consider yourself as having been of vital service for your country.”

“I have. I do. And since I’m so concerned, I just have to know — what
would
you do, General, in the event that these kids became such a threat to cyber security that lives were at stake?”

The attorney general put a hand on her shoulder. “Get out of the chair.”

“How would you stop them?”

Wick’s jaw kept tensing, but at last he was at a loss for words. In another second, she would be yanked out of her seat by her armpits. She was through. No more agent for the Justice Department; the only job she’d ever get in government again was maybe State Comptroller in North Dakota. She was finished. She stood up at last, on her own, before the attorney general could physically drag her away. She left the room, watching Wick as she went. Before she left she said to him, “It was very nice meeting you.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you, Jen. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

“You never knew who I was. What are you going to do about Healy?”

“Healy? He’s got a sign on his back bigger than Osama Bin Laden had. Let the local authorities pick him up, wherever he’s going.” Rascher pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “God, Jen. You’ve lost it. You have no idea what you’re . . . You’re lucky all the Department is going to do is ask for your resignation. Charges could be brought against you for insubordination. Or worse.”

“Worse?”

“Wick is a very gracious man . . .”

“You’re sick,” she said. “All of you. The Joint Services Cyber Command has a private paramilitary force. Probably Wick and Heilshorn put it together. How do you think it would be done? Is there an internet kill switch?”

“Listen to yourself!” Rascher was boiling now. He looked like he wanted to hit her. “You know the same as I do there is no unilateral control of the fucking internet, Jennifer. Like Wick said, you did well. Okay? You realize what we did? We may have prevented a major catastrophe here.”

His composure was not merely slipping, it was gone. He’d cursed — John never used foul language, he felt far too superior — and he called her Jennifer. Just like her mother would, for God’s sake. Her mother, whom she loved. John Rascher, whom she loathed.

“You keep telling me that. ‘Listen to myself.’ I am. I’ve spent years listening to other people. Years. I started by listening to all your bullshit. And I’ve listened to the bullshit of countless men after you. And now I was just stared in the eye by one of the highest ranking officers in the country and was lied to.”

“You
attacked
him like you were in the courtroom and he was a witness on the stand you were looking to skewer. He’s the deputy chief of the Central Security Service, for fuck’s sake and—”

“And he denied knowing who Heilshorn really is because he’s the one calling the shots with Heilshorn dead! He had to step in. Don’t you see? This whole thing started to unravel when a woman named Olivia Jane and Reginald Forrester killed Heilshorn’s daughter. Brown and Forrester wanted more than Heilshorn was giving them, and Jane was a jealous psychopath. They all screwed up and it started a chain reaction. Brendan Healy investigated. He found out about Heilshorn, who he was, how far back this thing goes. He killed Heilshorn — or, Sloane Dewan did, John. Brendan brought these players together, and Heilshorn wound up dead. It hastened this; this event. Wick himself has had to step in. He’s just going for it. Crippling the internet in ways that will rock the economy, nearly collapse it and framing Nonsystem.”

“No. That’s ridiculous. You’re wrong. You . . .”

She looked at him, and at last allowed herself to accept how unredeemable he was. Maybe, she thought, this was how everyone seemed once you’d turned that corner. She grabbed the car keys out of his hand.

He looked down at his empty palm. And he raised his fist — the same fist he’d raised and held above her once before, years ago — ready to strike her. Ready to hit her and call her a bitch. Because that’s what men called women when they couldn’t control them. He was gritting his teeth — he wanted to hit her. It had always felt like that with John, that things were just on the edge of violence. And now, here it was.

Before he had a chance to bring his fist down on her, Jennifer ducked, and hit John Rascher in the stomach as hard as she could. Not the balls — she could’ve gone there, but she had her principles — and she listened as the air burst out of his lungs. It was a good shot, just beneath the diaphragm. It dropped John Rascher like a rock. When he went down, clearing her view she saw the attorney general, watching her, his mouth hanging open.

She lowered her eyes to look at Rascher. He was on his knees, bent forward, gasping for breath. She looked out over the base, out at the simulated Middle Eastern village where the soldiers trained. Thousands of men and women serving their country. They got their target, they went after it. No question about it.

Like Brendan Healy.

Their loyalty was commendable. Their faith. Their strength. Their honor.

But it all just depended on whom and what you were fighting for.

An announcement came over the loudspeakers: “Ladies and gentlemen we’re going to need to make an unscheduled stop on this morning’s ride to Albany, Westport, and Montreal. We’re very sorry for this inconvenience, and we’ll be rolling back along in no time.”

The train started slowing a minute later. Brendan stood back near the bathroom. He’d opted not to follow the conductor into the next car; he didn’t want the man to even see him again, his gut told him to stay put. He reminded himself of studies done at NYU, research involving the frailty of human memory. He knew from both study and experience what unreliable witnesses human beings were due to the limitations of short term memory.

But none of that mattered anyway. By now the CSS was commanding Penn Station and the NYPD. They could have watched video footage confirming that Brendan had boarded the train a half hour ago. They knew he was here. Anything else was delusional. Yes, they might allow him to reach his destination, to wait and see where he was going, but surely an agent or three or ten were going to board this train at 125
th
street. Maybe some take-no-shit NYPD cops, too, who didn’t care about the CSS taking command of anything. Someone causing a ruckus in Penn Station on the train headed north? Awesome. I’m fucking on it. Who knew how many were going to board?

As the train neared the station, he walked a few seats up the aisle, ducking his head casually to see out of the windows. He spotted at least two NYPD uniforms, a Metro Transit Authority worker with an orange vest on, and one guy in a plain black suit. In the distance, through the crisscrossing steel girders of the 125
th
Street Bridge, he saw more police arriving with their lights twirling.

No. Goddammit.
Maybe they weren’t going to keep the train moving at all. Maybe they were just going to let it sit here, despite all the griping that would arise from the disgruntled passengers, as they checked every person. If that was the case, he would just have to sit and take the scrutiny. Which he couldn’t. Not with a fake finger.

Brendan realized he wasn’t the only person on the train who was apprehensive. He spotted the kid with the headphones throwing nervous looks out the window. He wasn’t so much a kid, really. Eighteen, maybe twenty. He wore some chains, a Starter hat cocked to the side, and large basketball shorts. Brendan blatantly profiled him, made a decision, and headed over. The train was almost stopped.

He kept his head down and then bent over when he reached the kid and leaned in. He had to tap him on the shoulder.

The kid turned with a jump and scowled up at Brendan. Brendan pointed to his own ear, and the kid reached up and pulled one side of the headphones from his head.

“A hundred bucks for those,” Brendan said.

The kid just looked back. He had stubble around his chin and upper lip, and a thin line of it following his jawline, like a chin strap. His dark eyes were dancing. “Two,” he said.

Brendan had already expected the bump in price and discreetly handed the kid two bills. The kid looked at the money, and, just as discreetly, slid it into the backpack sitting next to him.

“Can I sit down?”

Now the kid became standoffish. “Huh? Why?”

Brendan put the headphones around his neck as the train finally stopped.

He sat down and turned to the kid. “What are you listening to?”

The kid cut a sideways glance, his voice low but vehement. “Dude, are you fuckin’ gay?”

“No,” Brendan said. “Just looking for a little company, man. That’s all.”

“Last time some guy told me he needed some company, wasn’t a good thing,” the kid said, his eyes hard and direct.

“It’s not like that.”

The kid looked out the window, as if connecting the train’s unscheduled stop with Brendan. Then his head swiveled back as Brendan spoke.

“Just thinking, maybe you got something else I can buy. Long trip; I’d like to relax, you know?”

The brakes hissed. The doors opened.

Brendan could see movement outside on the platform. He was careful not to make a show of looking outside to see who was there. He held his hands up, palms out, in front of him. It was becoming his new trademark gesture.

“Man, what I got ain’t nothing for you.” The kid glowered at Brendan. “Get the fuck out of here before I take my headphones back and keep your money.”

“Alright, man,” Brendan said. “I was just trying to be friendly.”

Brendan got up and slipped back a few rows and sat back down. He watched the back of the kid’s head.

A minute passed. Brendan put the headphones on and sat back in the seat, looked out the window, down at 125
th
. He bobbed his head slightly, moved his lips to non-existent music.

An eternity. Two minutes, five. What were they doing? They were checking every car. The passengers were getting riled up. One of the two women got up to use the bathroom. A man and his son were having a hard time — the son was bored, starting to whine. The kid with the Starter hat looked ready to crawl out of his skin.

Every minute that passed was one of doubt. Doubt that he had done the right thing, leaving Sloane. Doubt that the message from Jennifer Aiken was legitimate, when it could’ve been one of Staryles’ tricks, aiming to flush Brendan out. Which it had. Doubt, even, that the book from Colinas had really been a valid clue at all, or if Brendan had been grasping at straws. To make the connection that Leah Heilshorn was now being kept near where Brendan had once tracked the paid killer of Angie and Gloria — where he’d met the ultimate darkness in his life — it was just an idea. Now, on this unmoving train, the minutes crawling by with agonizing slowness, it all felt insubstantial, like smoke. He was only getting himself in deeper; the more he struggled, the tighter the noose around his neck.

Ten minutes.

He continued to listen to imaginary music. He put on the gloves. He was a bike messenger from the city, an affectation of his new personality, as William Chase. William Chase, originally from Sarasota, Florida. Now living in Queens. Retired parents dividing their time between Sarasota and Lake Placid, New York. One sister, stricken with breast cancer at the age of thirty. A daughter, six years old, his niece. The name had been selected for him at random, but the backstory was his to invent. He focused on these details, aimed his mind there, sharpening his will to a point. He would not waver; this would be his new identity, and it would work.

The prosthetic finger looked terribly fake.

Now the first NYPD officer stepped onto the train.

Behind the officer was a plain-clothed agent. Brendan wondered what his code name was. Artemis, maybe. Or Zeus. He wondered if they fought over who got the best Greek-god names. He realized he was punchy. Punchy was dangerous. He needed to quell the adrenaline twisting in his veins, slow himself down, act a little stoned. Show his new ID with one hand, keep the other out of sight.

The agent was in his early thirties, short reddish hair. He tucked his chin in and spoke into his wrist for a moment, his gaze sweeping the train car. The NYPD cop preceded him, body language suggesting that this was his show, federal jurisdiction be damned.

“Hey what’s going on?” said the passenger with the restless son.

“Everything is okay, sir, we ah, we’re taking care of it.”

“Yeah,” the passenger said with a typical, New Yorker, no-nonsense tincture, “that’s great, but what’s the problem? We’ve been here a half an hour. This train ride is eight hours as it is.”

“I understand, sir.” The cop tried to keep moving. The agent was coming slowly behind him.

“You understand? What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

“Not at liberty,” the guy said with disgust. “Yeah, okay. Not at liberty. Thanks.” He turned to his kid and in a lower voice sternly attempted to get the little one to
siddown and shaddup.

The cop’s eyes passed quickly over the women, the businessman, and then found the kid, where his gaze lingered. The agent loomed behind him, skeptical, at the ready.

Brendan felt badly, but it had been his only chance. If the kid was holding, he was going to pop.

The kid stood up. His face white as a sheet, he turned and walked stiffly down the aisle.

“Hey,” the cop said. “Hey wait up.”

“Better run,” Brendan said under his breath.

The kid jammed one hard look at Brendan and got moving faster.

“Hey,” the cop called. “Hey, whoa.”

But the kid was going faster now, reaching the last of the seats. He leapt from the train onto the platform and took off running.

“Hey, hey!” the cop kept calling, now backing up. He pushed past the agent and ran out of the train, his handcuffs jangling on his belt. Brendan looked around, acting as if he was just now sensing some commotion, pulling one of the headphones from the side of his head, eyes wide. If the agent was clocking him, he didn’t really know, because he didn’t make direct eye contact. Instead he sort of half-stood in his seat, as people do when there is some drama happening, keeping one headphone pressed to his ear.

The businessman had set the paper aside and was craning his neck to look out the window. Brendan saw the cop run past. Finally he risked a glance at the front of the train. The agent was gone. He heard shouts coming from the platform. Then, nothing.