The greatest saltwater lake in the Western Hemisphere spanned nearly seventeen hundred square miles and hosted almost a dozen individual islands. Several of which had their own unique ecosystems. A seemingly endless stretch of deep blue water from the view of the penthouse suite of one of the city’s few remaining hotels. Towering dozens of stories high, it provided the unobstructed and mesmerizing view of the lake, glistening under a late-autumn afternoon sun. And beyond that, desert as far as the eye could see.
The scene would have been striking to almost anyone else, provided they were not Liam Duchik, who now stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing absently over the vista.
Behind him, Nora Lagner was in a plush red fabric chair, studying Duchik’s motionless outline.
It was after the second call from the analyst that he had grown completely reticent. The man had witnessed, through satellite footage, several people emerging from the remains of the antique store.
It was inconceivable. No, not inconceivable. Unthinkable that they could have survived.
He was beyond angry. Beyond irate. He was fuming. Over all of it. Everything that was happening.
“Is it really necessary?” asked Lagner delicately.
The question caused Duchik to turn from the window and stare at her. He was too incensed to be objective. But he tried to control his rage and inject some level of detachment into his veins.
Was Reiff really that important?
There were limits. Duchik knew it and so did Lagner. Self-imposed, perhaps, but still limits. Which, in some ways, was the mother of all ironies.
Duchik had enough clout, enough political leverage, to mobilize half the armed forces if he had to. But the catch was that there were only so many people he could afford to use. That he could afford to let in. Only so many he could risk knowing about his secret. And the more resources he spent trying to stop Reiff, the more outside attention he ultimately brought upon himself.
That was the crux of it all. Of the anger and frustration. He had worked for so long to reach this point, and he simply could not afford to risk losing control now. Which, even in his enraged state, begrudgingly brought him back to Nora’s question. Was Reiff really that important?
The fact was, Duchik didn’t know.
He didn’t know what the man knew, or what he didn’t know. All he had to go on were Reiff’s pictures. Drawings. While he was in the process of recovering. Pictures that had no scientific explanation at all. And yet could not be dismissed either.
Dozens of scenes were simply too close to be coincidence. Like Reiff’s picture of the torching of the ECB’s headquarters. Or the different riots across the country. Or the tanks.
The truth was that there was no way to know exactly how dangerous Reiff was to Duchik’s operation. Maybe the man just wanted to be left alone. To disappear. Or maybe he didn’t know enough to obstruct a damn thing.
But maybe he did.
Even a small risk over a long enough timeline could become an enormous problem. A problem that could derail everything Duchik had worked for. Everything he was still working for.
The long-term risk simply wasn’t worth it. Because Duchik’s end goal was still decades away. Which was a long time to leave a cancer to fester. And Reiff was very much a cancer. Whether he knew it or not.
Duchik was facing the window again. Contemplating. Calculating. Before finally answering Lagner with a shake of his head. “There’s still too many loose ends,” he said. “But we’re done chasing. Time for him to come to us.”