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I PERCHED ON THE END of the bed and tried to concentrate on the babe reading from her teleprompter. Not even her outfit—a thigh-high sheer teddy with postage stamp panties and no bra—could keep me focused. My ears picked up sounds from everywhere, and each ping, click, squeak, and hum prickled my skin and crawled into my skull, demanding attention. Was it the cops? Had they found Wasserstrom and figured out we were on the third floor? Was that the creak of an old building, or the stealthy footsteps of a TAC team about to bust in the door?
“Now for today’s headlines,” said the smiling blond anchor. “In Hollywood, actor Ryan Meers was seen with his co-star and leading lady from the film Yeager’s Law VII: I Reckon So. Meers and M’Keya Newsome have denied rumors of a romance, but were spotted at a posh Beverly Hills restaurant with their heads very close together. Maybe they were ‘collaborating’”—the news babe winked and made air quotes—“on their next box office smash.”
“Jeez,” I muttered, “I hated the first six movies, why would I watch another?”
The anchor’s face shifted to a sad pout. “In a breaking news alert, Danion Carter and his long-time companions, Ja’Quille Bordelon and Abundancia Munoz, entered into a three-way marriage contract at their Newport Beach residence today. The seven-time Emmy-winning Carter, best known for his prime-time comedy hits Suck It Up and Dynamite Blows, said it was the right time for the trio to lock in a commitment and raise their five children in a three-parent household. Sorry, all you admirers, the delicious Mr. Carter is officially off the market.” The blonde sad-vibed so hard, her moue could cause suicide rates to climb.
Millie groaned and shifted. “Wassat?”
“Nothing, 3M. Rest up; John’ll be back soon, and you’ll need your strength.”
“Mmm.”
“. . . turn to local news,” the babe said. It must have been cold in the studio; her teddy made a couple of significant points. “Homeland Security foiled an attempted assassination—”
“A what!”
“Huh?” Millie mumbled.
“Sshhh.”
“—of Treasury Secretary Cho Nguyen in downtown Chicago tonight. We go now live to our reporter on the scene, Manila Carpeta. Manila?”
The scene cut to a view of the park where John and I had waited earlier. In front of the camera, a reporterette with a skintight body suit posed in the harsh light of a handheld vid camera. Behind her, the twinkle of expended brass littered the ground.
“Well, Daneace, here behind the Drake, a group of terrorists known as the Children of Literary made an attempt to kill Ambassador Nguyen and...” She touched her ear, and her eyes lost focus a second. “Sorry, that’s Secretary Nguyen, and they, they were intercepted by elements of Homeland Security. Agents tell us the group refused to surrender when confronted and opened fire with automatic weapons, including banned energy rifles.” Manila fixed on a serious expression. “Homeland had no choice but to use lethal, uh, sorry, legal force.”
“Oh, holy megaballs of crap.” Cold water poured over my head wouldn’t have stunned me any more than the “news” spewing from the screen. The camera panned away from a saddened Ms. Carpeta and swept in closer to the sidewalk behind the Drake. Tarp-covered forms littered the ground, amidst a field of shattered glass and broken concrete. The camera operator made sure we all got a great view of the blackened blood leaking from under the tarps. Technicians in coveralls operated among the corpses, photographing and tagging and writing on pads.
In a voice-over, Manila Carpeta said, “In speaking with Special Agent Forrester, he informed us that, that uh, the terrorist group is one of several anti-government groups in operation around the country. They are to be considered armed and extremely dangerous, and for citizens to contact Homeland Security with any information on this or any other extremists. Drones with facial recognizance software will be operating—recognition software, sorry—in continuous surveillance over the entire area until—”
My stomach roiled, and I made it to the bathroom seconds ahead of throwing up, returning all my corn bread muffins over the next few moments. When I finished, I leaned on the sink and splashed water on my face. Swished my mouth and spat out the taste of used muffin.
***
I DRANK A BOTTLE OF overpriced hotel water and shared a second one with Millie. When the door chime dinged ten minutes later, I had managed to wash up and pull myself back together. I activated the touch screen door monitor; it showed a picture of John Marsh’s chest. It had to be his chest; no one else could be that tall.
I blew out my cheeks with a heartfelt sigh and opened the door. “What took you—who’s this?”
John entered, followed by an average-size fellow with a swarthy complexion and rich black hair, carrying a satchel over his shoulder.
“Joe, meet Sal.” John dragged a wheelchair in behind him.
“Har-ya-doon?” Sal extended his hand and pumped mine with a calloused grip. He bypassed me and went to Millie. “Da-hell-happenta-ya?”
Millie winced and struggled to sit up. “I got shot, Sal.”
“Does he speak English?” I asked John in an aside.
“Sal came with the car,” John explained. “He brought some things we need.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “The wheelchair? How’d he manage that?”
“No, I got the wheelchair.” John dragged the chair next to the bed as Sal shuffled aside to give him room. “From the front desk. I told them my aunt got really tired from all the excitement and needed a wheelchair.”
“Your aunt!” Millie stared blue daggers at the giant.
“John,” I said. “You... lied?”
I could swear the big man blushed. He ducked his head and said, “Let’s get you in the chair, Millicent.”
“Hang on a sec.” A memory pinged and demanded attention. “Facial rec drones will be in the air. What if they have—no, strike that, they’re bound to have our faces, from when we were in jail.”
“That’s why Sal’s here,” John confided. He lifted Millie under the arms and helped her into the wheelchair. She bit her lip and scrunched her eyes closed. A small red blotch dotted the bandage around her thigh, so the bleeding had slowed.
Sal dug in his satchel and laid bits of cotton-swaddled objects on the bed. He unwrapped one and brought it over to Millie. “Here-ya-go.”
Millie held still while Sal pinched her nose. A long second passed before I realized he was sticking something on it. When he stepped back, I whistled. “Neat trick!” And it was. Millie now sported a longer, straight snout, totally different from her dinky fairy nose. And the dark wizard wasn’t finished. He worked on adding bits and pieces to each ear, her cheeks, and the corners of her eyes. The finishing touch was a black wig of long, straight hair.
“Great job, Sal,” I said. “She’s pretty now. That’s, like, a miracle.”
“Probation, Joe,” Millie warned me. “Remember you’re on probation.”
“Siddown,” Sal ordered Too-Tall John. “I canna-richupat-high.” I can’t reach up that high. I was starting to catch on to the swarthy man’s staccato speech.
While Sal worked on transforming John’s face, I stripped the blanket from the bed and tucked it around Millie, then I figured out how to extend the chair’s footrest and get her legs straightened out, wrapping them in blankets as I did it. “Nobody’s gonna believe an auntie taking a wheelchair ride in her lacy panties.”
“It hurts to sit,” she said. Sweat shone on her face, and all the color had drained from it. She seemed halfway to dead, with a ticket to go the distance.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you were a Revivant.”
“Not funny, Joe,” she mumbled and closed her eyes.
“Okay,” said Sal. He moved away, having worked the same miracle transformation on John’s face. “I-dunalla-can.” I’ve done all I can.
John stood up and I asked, “Can you take two feet off the top?” Sal packed things in his satchel without answering. “Hey, what about me?”
The makeup artist glanced at me, shrugged and said, “Nuttin’-left.”
“Great.”
John gripped the chair’s handles and wheeled Millie to the door. “Come on. Homeland is all over this place. It is only a matter of time before they find the security officer in the dryer.”
“Dryer?” Sal’s bushy black eyebrows shot up.
“Long story,” I said. “John, you guys take Millie and get to the car. She needs that doctor ASA-fuckin’-P. We need to split up, ’cause if they snap on my face, I don’t want them to get you as well.”
After a long moment, John nodded and laid a hand the size of a catcher’s glove on my shoulder and held out his other for a shake. His paw was so big, it felt like I was six years old again, shaking hands with my dad.
“If anything happens,” he started, then added after a pause, “I’ll never forget what you did.”
“What I did?” I blinked. “I’ve been trying to save my ass, you big goof. Now, get movin’, before you get me caught. If I don’t get busted, I’ll make it back to Rogers’ place. Tell those bangers not to shoot me, okay?”
“Okay, Joe. Good luck.” The big man nodded again and walked away. Sal held the door and followed the wheelchair as John steered it out. The makeup man saluted me with a nonchalant two fingers to his forehead and left. The door automatically shut behind them.
“Well, shit. Now what?”
I surveyed the hotel room, which exhaled an odor of blood and puke and fear. I perched on the edge of the bed. What if I were to lie down, right here, right now, and draw the sheets over me? I could wait for the Homeland troops to come get me, at which point they’d either shoot first, like they did downstairs, or they’d arrest me. Arrested would be nice. I’d get a cozy cell and probably a long chat with my buddy Ramirez, who would offer me tea and cupcakes, and a nice massage. On the rack.
Getting shot might not be so bad after all.
The glowing numerals of the bedside clock told me an hour (an hour!) had passed since we lined up on the pavement to wait for the Treasury Secretary. I had to shift my ass, get to Rogers’ place—no, wait a minute. Stop and think, Joe. I perched on the end of the bed curled into a Thinker pose. (Hands pressed against temples, in my case.)
The Cabrini bangers had cut the fed’s tracker out of my back; I still had the ache to prove it. That meant Ramirez couldn’t find me. Rogers and his people couldn’t reach me out here, away from their territory. The only tie I had back to my old life was Ding Winston and two women I barely knew. They were as good as dead. The feds would never let them go; I was smart enough to figure that out.
If I cut and ran, would their fate be any worse than it already was?
It struck me, how alone I really was. Both my parents were gone, killed on vacation in London by a jihadist asshole with an explosive-packed vest. Chelle was gone. Ding, in jail, never to see the light of a free day.
Who else did I have?
Good question.
“You’re a self-absorbed prick,” I said to myself. “It’s no wonder you have no friends.”
Myself concurred.
“A sarcastic, crabby asshole who pushes away everyone and everything. Crass, vulgar, and annoying.”
Agreed.
“A cowardly little fuck who stands for nothing and refuses to take a side, that’s you.”
No argument there.
I could see the future as a physical manifestation of two roads, splitting apart right now, from this room in the Drake hotel. Highway to Hell lay on the left, the one where I snuck back to Cabrini and picked up where I left off, worming my way into the Children of Liberty and, eventually, betraying them for a pat on the head from my owner, Agent Ramirez.
Journey to the Unknown split off to the right. On this road, I ditched everybody. I left this room, turned south, north, east, or west—well, not east, big stinking lake that way—and started walking. Disappeared into the shuffling herd of unemployed migrants, traveling from place to place like a modern-day hobo, working with my hands and living off my scant wits. It might kill me, but I’d die with maybe a tiny shred of dignity.
Why not? whispered a voice in my head.
“Why not, indeed?” What was the worst that could happen? Ramirez catching up to me, of course. Now that would suck. Maybe I could make it to Canada, where Ramirez had no authority, cavort with the caribou and the Eskimo and shoot the finger at the miniature little turd. I chuckled, almost sensing the chains falling away. “Why not? No fucking good reason I can think of.”
I slapped my thighs, jumped up, and headed for the door. U-turned and raided the honor bar for all the snacks and goodies I could rake out and stuff in my pockets.
“Put it on my bill,” I told the room and closed the door behind me. People filtered back into their rooms along the hall, engrossed in personal conversations with their electronics. So much for raiding some clothing or makeup for a disguise.
A short elevator ride later, I hit the lobby of the Drake hotel, a place more opulent than a dictator’s palace and richer than a cherry cheesecake. I crossed the room in long strides with my head down, very conscious of my tacky clothes and pockets of loot. I tracked people with my peripheral vision and breathed a little easier when no one paid any attention.
“Have a good evening, sir,” said the guy in a Beefeater costume at the door.
I kept my head down and waved. A second later and I was through. The night air bit my lungs with a chilly snap, and I paused to suck in a deep chest full. It would be even colder up north, but what the hell. I’d kill a bear and take its coat.
I turned right on Walton, hands stuffed in my pockets and feet barely touching the ground. Other folks, hotel guests or sightseers, milled around the entrance. I nudged through all of them and strode away, breaking into a clear patch near the end of the block. Behind me, nothing but trouble. Ahead of me, a wide-open future. All I had to do was reach out and grab—
“Hello, Joseph,” Agent Ramirez said from behind me.