FBI surveillance van, Cambridge—same time
“The problem with the Sox is that they can’t get consistent pitching,” said Flores. “And they traded away Trey Ball. He was a phenom. Believe me.”
“Would have been a phenom. Maybe,” said Jenkins.
Chelsea tuned the men out as they continued to argue, gently, about baseball. She checked the gear; they were tapped into twelve teller machines tonight, and would be able to cover another two dozen by the end of the week.
If they hacked into the ATM clearinghouses—something like bus depots for bank transactions—they could cover them all. But even Massina thought that was a bit too far.
For now, anyway.
Jenkins would definitely veto it. Chelsea could tell that he was having second thoughts about what they were doing, even though it had been his idea. He had a line in his head that he wasn’t going to cross, though he wasn’t very good at explaining exactly where it was.
They had eight UAVs in the air tonight, each doing what the flight engineers called an orbit around their designated air space. The orbits—slightly elliptical patterns—were designed by the computer for maximum coverage.
Chelsea toggled from Hum to Hum, looking at the infrared feeds. The people walking each starred in a movie she’d come in halfway through, and would leave before it ended. She was a strange kind of voyeur, watching them as if she were sailing above them, an angel from heaven looking for the soul she’d been sent to find.
Or the devil, maybe.
The system blurted an alert.
ATM 4 – unusual activity detected. ATM 4
The UAV in that area tucked its wing and sped in the direction of the machine, a mere three blocks away.
“I have something,” said Chelsea.