This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Douglas E. Richards

Published by Paragon Press, 2016

E-mail the author at doug@san.rr.com

Friend him on Facebook at Douglas E. Richards Author

Visit the author’s website at www.douglaserichards.com

All rights reserved. With the exception of excerpts for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system.

First Edition

MindWar

Douglas E. Richards

PART 1

Victor

1

The Sikorsky S-92 executive helicopter raced low over the South Atlantic Ocean, just off the coast of Brazil, whipping forward so feverishly close to the waves the man who called himself Victor thought he could almost reach down and touch the sea. Instead, he stroked the inner hull of the chopper lovingly, finding its manmade perfection just as awe-inspiring as the magnificence of the ocean.

Victor was the most accomplished arms dealer in the world, but had also evolved into a broker of advanced technologies, military and non-military alike. He had modified the S-92 to suit his needs, using technology that the most advanced Black laboratories in America would envy. Its outer surfaces were now faceted and covered with radar-absorbent coatings and infrared-suppressing paint, and sophisticated electronic technologies had been brought to bear to reduce the spacious helicopter’s radar cross section to that of a bird’s.

He was exceedingly confident that he couldn’t be found and identified, even if he were now inside an ordinary commercial helicopter, but why take any chances? No one was more brilliant—or more cautious—a combination that had long made him a legend to those whose job it was to capture or stop him, and explained why he was still alive and thriving.

The sole additional passenger, a handsome twenty-three-year-old named Lucas Perez, was seated beside Victor in the aircraft. “I know that flying this low reduces the risk we’ll be spotted,” he said in Spanish into a headset, which both men were wearing. “But I think it’s a mistake.”

Victor studied his son with great interest. “How so?” he said.

“I don’t think this risk needs reducing,” the younger man replied. “In this helicopter, we wouldn’t be spotted if we hovered at five thousand feet and taunted the Americans with skywriting. On the other hand,” he added, raising his eyebrows, “we run a real risk of slamming into the waves due to mechanical problems or pilot error.”

Victor knew the moment he heard his son’s argument that he was right. And if the chopper did hit the ocean at this speed and angle, the water’s surface would be about as forgiving as concrete.

Victor smiled proudly at his fellow passenger. He had urged all of those around him, especially his son, to challenge him whenever they thought he had erred. To challenge all conventional wisdom, for that matter. To never take any analysis or situation at face value. Victor was so certain of his own genius there was nothing he admired more than when someone was able to point out something he had missed.

Why take umbrage? Even God was capable of making mistakes, including the very bad hire of an angel named Lucifer, who turned out to be less than a model employee.

“Thanks for bringing this up, Lucas,” said his father. “You make an excellent point.” He nodded in appreciation and instructed the pilot to move to a higher altitude.

Thirty minutes later they landed on one of several islands spread throughout the globe that Victor happened to own, although none could be traced to him. There were well over a hundred thousand islands that weren’t important enough to be marked on standard maps. Most of these were small, ugly, largely devoid of vegetation, and of little value, so acquiring several on which structures had been built at some point in their history had cost little of Victor’s vast wealth.

He exited the helo and took stock of his son, who shared his rugged Spanish features and was so like him in appearance that he could have been a clone. Many of his associates had conjectured that their boss had intimidated the boy’s mother so much that her very genes had been afraid to contribute during the boy’s conception.

Lucas was Victor’s only child, born when he was several years younger than the boy was now, when he was working his way with unprecedented speed up the treacherous chain of command in the Mexican drug cartels before reinventing himself as an international arms dealer and, finally, an advanced technology specialist. Victor had banished Lucas’s mother shortly after he had been born, but had given her enough money to last a lifetime, his own version of a generous severance package.

Lucas had been back from school for two weeks now, but this time it was for good, which meant it was time for the young man to become more fully involved in the business—including its darker side.

Victor had discovered early on that Lucas was as brilliant as he was, perhaps even more so. He could have made a world-class scientist. But Victor had other plans, molding him to take over the family business.

Why use one’s genius to invent, to advance knowledge and prowess in a single field, when one could use this genius to direct scores of other scientists, working to mix and match and improve upon a vast array of groundbreaking technologies being developed in secret corporate and military labs around the world.

Victor’s dealings had given him, and would give Lucas, a panoramic perspective on the leading edge of science and technology and how these technologies could be enhanced, exploited, and combined in novel ways for undreamed of applications, giving him far greater insight into the tech landscape than the most informed CEO, general, or politician. These others were inevitably hamstrung by bureaucratic compartmentalization and secrecy. Victor, on the other hand, had more than enough money, power, and influence to get his hand into every high-tech cookie jar in existence, without regard to nationality or borders.

Lucas had just graduated from MIT with a PhD in physics and robotics, the youngest PhD the school had minted in over a decade, but Victor had convinced him that his best future was to follow in his father’s footsteps. Why be a single player in the orchestra when you could be the conductor?

And he had forged a bond with his son that could not have been stronger. He had respected the boy from the youngest age. He had cultivated his talents, had seen to it that Lucas was strong in both body and mind, and trained him in the less violent side of his business.

But now that he had graduated, it was time for this to change. It was time to take the young man’s virginity, so to speak, at least with respect to the taking of a life.

The two men walked silently through a door into one of several small buildings on the island and over to a man chained to a chair in a stark, empty room, his mouth taped shut and his eyes wild with fear and hatred. Victor’s people on the island had prepared this man, and this room, exactly as he had specified.

Victor gestured toward their bound guest. “This is Hector Alonzo,” he said. “Or, as I like to think of him, subject number seven.”

Hector Alonzo fought against his restraints and shouted incomprehensible, muffled words at Victor through duct-taped lips, but Victor ignored him until he finally ceased struggling.

Victor watched his son’s expression carefully. He had told him about his goals, and that he had gathered experimental subjects, but nothing more. Until now, his son had almost certainly assumed the subjects were volunteers and would be well paid for their troubles, but seeing this man forcibly affixed to a chair, and the look in his eyes, had disabused him of this idea in a hurry.

For all Lucas knew, this man, and the others, could be random innocents snatched off the street. Good men who might have young children and loving wives at home, who were not deserving of being kidnapped and turned into human guinea pigs.

“I assume you’re wondering how number seven here came to be part of our experiment,” said Victor, continuing to ignore the man as though he were an inanimate object. “And the others now on the island as well.”

His son nodded. “I am.”

“This man is a hardened criminal. Three days ago he was an inmate in a Brazilian prison. But I managed to forge an arrangement with the warden. Apparently, fourteen prisoners escaped two mornings ago and have not been found. In an ironic coincidence, I acquired fourteen human guinea pigs at about the same time.”

“And the warden’s superior didn’t question how such a mass escape was possible?”

Victor shook his head. “No. Through subordinates, I had the warden paid handsomely for these men. I also had his superior paid handsomely to accept his jailbreak story without question.”

Victor reached forward and ripped the tape from the prisoner’s mouth.

“What the fuck is this all about?” the man demanded in Portuguese, which the sophisticated computerized implants in Victor’s brain translated immediately into Spanish. “Why is your machine punching holes in my head? What kind of sick game are you playing?”

Brazil was a rare Central American country in which Spanish wasn’t the principal language spoken, but Victor had been assured his prisoner spoke it fluently. Victor calmly unsheathed a combat knife from his belt and held it with an unmistakable air of menace.

“Don’t speak until I tell you to!” he ordered. “And use Spanish,” he added for the benefit of his son. He raised the knife suggestively. “Do what I ask and we can avoid making this . . . messy,” he added meaningfully. “Understand?”

The man nodded, his eyes still burning with hatred.

“Good,” said Victor, making no move to re-sheath his knife. “I’m thinking of a four-digit number,” he continued. “Tell me what it is. Get it right, and I’ll not only let you go, I’ll give you a hundred thousand US dollars.”

The prisoner shook his head in disbelief, and if he was afraid before, he was even more so now, clearly convinced he was dealing with a raving lunatic. “How would I know that?” he said in disbelief. “You think putting holes in my skull makes my head suddenly magical? Well, it doesn’t.”

“Try,” said Victor simply. “Try very hard. Because if you get the number right, you get the reward I told you about. But if you get it wrong, you will die, right here in this chair.”

Victor glanced over at his son, who couldn’t hide his surprise at the nature of this threat. Lucas was more than astute enough to know that his father had killed in the past, no matter how sheltered from this reality he had been, but killing a helpless prisoner was cold-blooded enough to give anyone pause.

As for Hector Alonzo, his panic had become a living, breathing presence in the room. “But how can I possibly know what number you have in mind?” he pleaded. “This is ridiculous. It would take a miracle.”

“Then I suggest you pray for one now,” said Victor evenly, “because you’re running out of time.”

He paused to let this sink in and then added, “I’m going to focus on the number right now. Hard. Try to look inside my mind and find it.”

Hector Alonzo strained for almost a full minute, desperate enough to try anything to placate the madman who stood over him with a combat knife, but he had no choice but to give up. He finally blurted out a guess, but it wasn’t even close.

Victor picked up a roll of silver duct tape his men had left on the concrete floor beside the prisoner and taped his mouth shut once again. “This is very disappointing,” he said with a shrug.

He removed a handgun that had been tucked into the waistband in the small of his back and held it out to his son, who was a crack shot, having practiced on firing ranges since he was ten.

“Kill him,” said Victor firmly, as Hector Alonzo once again began to fight against his unyielding restraints. “Shove the gun against his throat and pull the trigger.”

2

Lucas’s eyes widened as he stared at the gun his father held out to him and then glanced back at the helpless prisoner. Finally, he turned back to his father, just to be sure this wasn’t a tasteless experiment designed to see how he might react to such a request.

But the grim expression he saw on his father’s face was too deadly serious to be a bluff. He meant exactly what he said. Lucas reached out and took the offered gun. “Shouldn’t we keep him alive for additional experimentation?” he asked, trying to pretend his father’s request hadn’t thrown him.

“We should,” said Victor, “but we won’t in this particular case. The good news is that we’ve recorded the data very carefully for the precise movements of the implants through his brain. So, even though the results were negative, he will add to our growing database. As Edison might say, we haven’t failed, we’ve just found dozens of pathways through the brain that do not result in ESP.”

“This man is subject seven. Were the first six also killed?”

“Four were failures, but are in good enough condition for one more try, which will take place over the next few days. Two others were turned into vegetables in the process. They were both killed.”

“I thought the damage to the brain is being minimized as much as possible,” said Lucas.

“It is. We’re using an implantation machine—a robot surgeon if you will—that is very advanced. But we’re making many attempts on each subject, gathering as much data as we can. Eventually, even minimal damage begins to add up.”

“How precise is this robot?”

“Extremely,” replied Victor. “But even though the implants are needle shaped and very small, there are four of them, and we’re trying multiple different pathways to get them where they need to end up. Cut enough grooves through a brain, even shallow ones, and you’ll eventually get a vegetable out of the other end.”

“I assume you’ve made sure none of the prisoners can receive wireless signals so they can’t mentally access the Web?”

Victor nodded. “That’s correct.”

Lucas stroked his chin with his left hand, deep in thought, still holding the gun in his right. Like his father, he completely ignored the presence of the immobilized prisoner five feet away.

“I still must be missing something,” he said. “If the other four are being held for further experimentation, why isn’t he? And couldn’t you just release these men? They don’t know where they are. And they have no idea who you are.”

Victor’s eyes locked onto those of his son. “Anything else?”

Lucas paused for several more seconds. “Yes. Even if you were going to kill these men, why make such a mess? The injection of a lethal drug seems more . . . tidy.”

“Before I answer your questions,” said Victor, “let me ask one of my own. Are you still committed to taking over my business someday and working with Uncle Eduardo?”

Eduardo Alvarez wasn’t actually Lucas’s uncle, but he had been Victor’s trusted right-hand man for so long, he was as close to Lucas as any uncle could possibly be.

“Of course,” said Lucas.

“No matter what is required of you?” added Victor.

Given what his father had just asked of him, the requirements in question were not much of a mystery. Lucas blew out a long breath and nodded. “Absolutely,” he replied.

“You’re sure?” said Victor. “Killing a man is like losing your virginity. Once it’s gone, there is no getting it back.”

Lucas swallowed hard. “I’m sure.”

“Very well,” said his father. “This will mark the beginning of a more comprehensive education. From now on, I won’t shy away from the more violent and unpleasant side of the business.”

“Yeah,” said his son with a heavy sigh. “I think I’ve already figured that out.”

Victor allowed himself a brief smile. “So back to your questions,” he said. “Your thinking is sound. For the most part. But you are dangerously wrong about not needing to kill these men. Even if they really were innocents, instead of violent criminals, how many times have I told you about the need for caution, the need for paranoia? The people trying to stop us are brilliant and sophisticated in their own right. Never underestimate them. You have to learn to clean up after yourself. As completely as is reasonably possible.”

He paused. “What have I taught you about loyalty and reputation?”

Lucas sighed, annoyed to have to recite lessons he had learned a hundred times. “Lavishly reward those who are loyal to you,” he replied by rote. “And treat them with absolute respect. Building a flawless reputation for fairness and honesty, for trustworthiness, is your most important asset. Be absolutely true to your word, every time, no matter what the cost.”

“Exactly. But I’ve taught you this with respect to keeping promises only. But the same applies to keeping threats. Following these principles, I have instilled massive loyalty in those who work for me. And customers prefer to deal with me over my competitors, because they know I will always honor my word.”

Victor raised his eyebrows. “Not that those on the other side of a transaction have always given me the same courtesy. But those who have tried to double-cross me have paid the price. Because I’m so paranoid, because I work hard to think ten moves ahead, I’ve come out on top each time. And the only thing that matches my reputation for honest dealings is my reputation for punishing those who cross me. My retribution is fierce. Ruthless. Absolute. All parties know that their dealings with me will be scrupulously straightforward and fair, but also know the consequences if they attempt any surprises. Because of this, I have been able to build a multibillion-dollar business, completely in the shadows.”

Lucas took this all in but didn’t respond.

“I also have a reputation for caution. For tying up as many loose ends as I possibly can. This is reassuring to the people I deal with.”

“I understand,” said Lucas. “Which is why letting these men go free would be a mistake.”

“Exactly. But even if none of this were true, in this case I’m doing society a favor. I’ve chosen hardened criminals who deserve to die. The man in front of you has raped and beaten any number of women. If he is released, there is no doubt he would pick up where he left off.”

Lucas nodded in sudden understanding. He knew his father’s history and that nothing stoked his rage more than a man who would beat a helpless woman. There was a reason he had saved this particular prisoner for his son’s first kill, and why he was rubbing salt in the man’s wound by letting him listen in as his fate was discussed, marinating in the inevitability of approaching death.

Lucas’s father, a man now known only as Victor, had been born Juan Jose Perez in a tiny hovel in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Juan Jose’s beautiful mother had been forced to turn to prostitution to support him and his three siblings when their abusive father had abandoned them, and she was beaten several times when he was very young, and finally killed by a particularly brutal American.

Juan Jose had already hated Americans for their smug attitude of superiority, for how poorly they treated the natives of Puerto Vallarta, but the nature of his mother’s death intensified this hatred and burned it deep into his psyche.

The day his mother died was the day Juan Jose left Puerto Vallarta forever, at the age of twelve, and joined a drug cartel. In addition to his home, he left his name behind as well. From that day forward he was simply Victor, a name that meant conqueror, something he vowed to be.

True to his vow, he was able to marshal his genius and determination to rise through the ranks of the cartel in record time, leading him to become one of the most powerful drug lords in the world, worth hundreds of millions of dollars before he was thirty.

And then he had reinvented himself, turning his back on the drug business and becoming an arms dealer instead. And as technology became more and more critical to militaries, far outpacing guns and missiles, he had morphed once again, not only acquiring or stealing technology, but assembling a team of world-class scientists of his own to modify or improve it to better suit his customers’ needs.

But no matter how wealthy and powerful he had become, the memory of his beloved mother would never be far from his thoughts. Which meant that the brutal rapist sitting before him had earned a special place in hell.

“I understand,” said Lucas simply. “This man has it coming to him. But even if not, we should err on the side of caution, and eliminate our subjects as possible loose ends.” He frowned. “I guess I hadn’t really thought this through.”

“No reason to expect that you would. You haven’t been exposed to this side of the business. But it’s time that changed. When killing is necessary, often for your own survival, you can’t afford to be fearful, to be squeamish, to spend even an instant wrestling with ethical issues. Which answers why I won’t be experimenting on this man any further. Because I want him to have all of his faculties when you kill him.”

He paused to study his son’s reaction to this and then continued. “You see, killing a lucid man pleading with his eyes for mercy is much more difficult than killing a vegetable. And I want you blooded. A soldier who has never taken a life is unreliable and a possible liability on the battlefield. But killing is like anything else—the more you do it, the easier it becomes. So my job is to see to it that you’ve made peace with any demons you have about taking a life. To see to it that you’ve killed with your own hands so many times that you become jaded, calloused. This will be important, because there will come a time when your life will depend on doing so without an instant of hesitation.”

Lucas displayed a kaleidoscope of emotions as his father’s words slammed into him like a battering ram—disgust, resolve, even dread—but only for a moment. His demeanor became stoic again with surprising speed and a thoughtful expression replaced all of the others. “Which also explains why a lethal injection is out.”

Victor nodded. “Not that your suggestion doesn’t have merit. In fact, this is exactly how these two other subjects were put down. But as you’ve concluded, I want you to be more hands-on. I’ll make sure you’re called in to kill all of our subjects who remain lucid when we decide to stop experimentation on them. A gunshot will suffice for this animal,” he said, gesturing to the prisoner in contempt, “since he is your first kill. But after this I will ask you to stab several subjects to death, something that is much messier and demands a higher level of callousness and . . . commitment. Finally, when you’re able to do this without vomiting, without even blinking, I want you to torture some of the prisoners before you end their lives.”

Victor noticed that his son looked ready to vomit already. But this would change. He would go from soft to brutally efficient in no time at all.

Victor’s own features softened and he lowered his voice. “You should know, Lucas, that I abhor violence. Truly. I take no joy in hurting others, and neither should you. If this were hunting, we should both be men who only do so when we are starving, never just for sport. I want you to be comfortable killing, but only when required. I am not a monster, and I don’t intend for you to be.”

“I understand.”

“These men need to die anyway,” said Victor. “And they deserve to. So why not let their deaths serve a broader purpose?”

“To get me acclimated to killing?”

“Exactly. To further your education. And on this subject, I should tell you that I couldn’t be any prouder of your accomplishments so far. The work you did to earn your PhD in robotics is truly brilliant.” Victor paused and added, “Dr. Perez,” emphasizing the word doctor with obvious pleasure.

“Thank you, Father. But no more Dr. Perez for me. I intend to become known only as Lucas. Like you, I intend to build my reputation around one simple name.”

Victor raised his eyebrows. This pronouncement had been unexpected. “If this is what you want, you have my full support.”

“Thank you,” said Lucas. He paused for several long seconds. “So how many men—subjects—do you think it will take before you achieve your goal?”

“Impossible to tell,” replied his father with a shrug. “I’d guess at least fifty. Probably hundreds. Possibly even thousands.”

“And do you intend to continue paying wardens to deliver fourteen at a time?”

“No. I’ve been busy, but I know I have to come up with a better source.”

“I have an idea on that,” said Lucas.

“Really?” said Victor, instantly intrigued. “Tell me.”

“I suspect you’re aware that ISIS continues to engage in ethnic cleansing whenever it engulfs new territory.”

Victor nodded. “Which is one reason I’ve cut off ties with them recently, and all other Jihadi groups as well. My relationships with these groups have proven lucrative, but their insane zeal to slit the throats of anyone who doesn’t subscribe to their version of Islam finally became too repugnant even for me. Since you and I are not radical Muslims, they would happily saw off our heads the moment we ceased to be useful to them.”

“Perhaps it makes sense to reestablish these relationships,” suggested Lucas, “if only temporarily. I linked to the latest report from Amnesty International on the state of ISIS’s ethnic cleansing on the way here. You know, using my phone,” he added pointedly.

Victor’s eyes danced in amusement. His son wanted BrainWeb implants like his so he could  surf the Web with his thoughts, and was annoyed that Victor hadn’t yet offered them up. “What a terrible burden that must have been for you, Lucas,” he said wryly, a grin spreading across his face.

His son couldn’t help but return the smile, realizing that this hadn’t been the most compelling of complaints. “Well, just so long as you can feel my pain,” he replied sheepishly.

“But getting back to what you were saying . . .” said Victor, prodding his son to continue.

“According to the report, when ISIS overruns a village or city, they don’t just shoot the civilian populations at random. They gather them up first in an orderly manner. They have become far more systematic, emulating the Nazi extermination programs more and more.”

Victor caught on immediately. “So you’re suggesting that I establish a small facility close to where ISIS is operating. That I buy experimental subjects from them in bulk, so to speak.”

“Exactly. You still have relationships with their leaders, and their trust. So buy a thousand guinea pigs at a time instead of fourteen. This is much faster and more efficient, not to mention reducing the number of possible loose ends.”

Victor considered his son carefully, astonished by the utter cold-bloodedness of the idea. Perhaps Lucas wasn’t as soft as he had thought. “It wouldn’t bother you that we’d then be killing helpless innocents rather than hardened criminals?”

“Yes, it would bother me. But these people are marked for death anyway. Our intervention actually buys them several additional days of life they wouldn’t otherwise get.”

“But once we do have them in our control, they are no longer in danger of death. We really would have it in our power to let them go, to allow them to live to a ripe old age. So as much as it would be nice to tell ourselves otherwise, we really would be murdering innocents.”

“I think you’re overthinking this, Father. The bottom line is that if you don’t employ this strategy, these people will all surely die. If you do, they’ll get a brief reprieve—and maybe a full pardon. Because once you’re able to discover the secret to mind reading, I would argue that you could let whoever remained live, since at that point you would be all but invincible.”

Victor wasn’t sure if he was proud of his son’s ruthlessly efficient logic and the audacity of his proposal, or alarmed at his ability to so quickly find justification for the slaughter of innocents. Apparently, Lucas was already able to see ethical decisions as nothing more than simple mathematics. These people were scheduled to die, so if Victor saved them from this, but later murdered them himself, he was simply balancing out the equation.

“Interesting proposal,” he said finally. “Let me think about this and we can discuss it again at another time.”

Victor turned to face his experimental subject and his son followed suit. “But for now, it’s time to rid the world of Hector Alonzo. Go ahead. One clean shot in the throat.”

“Why not between the eyes? Is this because taking out his jugular is a more grisly death? Something more difficult for me to do?”

Victor smiled. “Partly. Mostly it’s because he has priceless technology imbedded in his brain. Which I’d like to re-use.”

“Of course,” said Lucas, looking annoyed that he hadn’t realized this on his own.

“But if you’d prefer, shoot him in the heart. Your call.”

The prisoner was shaking his head in horror as tears began to fall from his bulging, pleading eyes. Lucas stared into his eyes, took a deep breath, and without saying another word dug the gun into the man’s throat and pulled the trigger. The entry hole was relatively small, but the bullet expanded immediately as it traveled and took out much of the back of his neck, accompanied by an explosion of blood from his jugular.

As Lucas lowered the gun, Victor noted that his son’s hand was shaking and gorge appeared to have risen in his throat. He watched as the young man fought to get control of himself, refusing to look away from the gory, nearly decapitated man he had shot, as the last of his victim’s life continued to geyser out onto the cement below.

But somehow, before Victor’s eyes, Lucas’s trembling hand, nauseated expression, and pale coloring all disappeared as quickly as they had arrived.

Victor put a comforting hand on his son’s back. “I know that wasn’t easy,” he said softly. “But it was necessary.”

Lucas stood in silence for several more seconds before finally turning away from his gruesome victim. “Whatever it takes,” he said evenly.

3

Victor sat on a bench on the waterfront promenade near the Golden Bauhinia Square in Wan Chai and allowed himself to become lost in Hong Kong’s Symphony of Lights. For once he turned off his prodigious mind and let himself be washed away by the beauty and spectacle of the show.

Immense columns of pinks, blues, and greens shimmered across the harbor waters, many times the size of the skyscrapers that had generated them, painting a vibrant city-sized landscape that seemed to pulse with life against the pitch-black sky, and which—literally and figuratively—reflected the vibrancy of the city itself.

The night was cool and crisp and clear, something that wasn’t always the case in this thriving, electric metropolis of just over seven million—especially the clear part. But Hong Kong truly was a spectacular destination, greatly outpacing second place London as the world’s most visited city. Victor had been here a handful of times, but had never before had occasion to let himself become immersed in the largest and most impressive permanent multimedia light and sound show on Earth.

Although China had assumed control of this tiny territory off its southern coast after a hundred and fifty-six years of British rule, the Chinese government had largely honored its commitment to leave Hong Kong’s economy alone, one of the most prosperous in the world.

“As you requested,” said a pleasing feminine voice in his head, tied directly to his auditory cortex, “I’m informing you that the show will reach the fourteen-minute mark . . . now.”

Thanks, he thought unnecessarily to the Personal Digital Assistant function of his BrainWeb implants, which he had named Maria. The fireworks would commence at any moment. He turned away from lasers and pulsating lights that were dancing to a glorious musical symphony to watch the people around him.

Just as the pounding pyrotechnics began, a tall Chinese man separated from the crowd, made his way closer to Victor, and sat on the bench beside him. “I hope you are enjoying the show,” he said in accented English, “modest though it is,” he added.

Victor was fluent in English, and with a quick thought disabled the translation function of his implants. “Immensely,” he replied, knowing that no one in any other culture would possibly call what he had just seen modest.

“Please excuse my ignorance of the Spanish language,” said the man as fireworks continued to boom and dazzle above them, “and my poor use of English.”

“There is nothing to excuse,” said Victor, “your English is more than good enough, my friend,” he added, knowing that the man’s English was perfect, and annoyed at needing to play this game. He preferred to deal with people raised in cultures in which communication was direct, even blunt, like in Russia or Israel. He had little patience for the endless false humility and self-effacement that was so critical to the Chinese culture.

“I would be honored if you would walk with me,” said the man as the grand finale began. Many dozens of fireworks streaked into the sky in rapid-fire succession and exploded into dazzling jets of color, filling the senses with sound and fury and turning the night into day.

“The honor is all mine,” replied Victor.

They walked in silence for ten minutes, ants among the never-ending array of skyscrapers and neon, until they entered the lobby of a fifteen-story glass structure overlooking the harbor that proclaimed itself to be the Intercontinental Hotel. They rode the elevator in silence to the top floor, where the man he had come to see had rented an opulent suite.

There, amidst humble apologies, Victor was picked over for nearly ten minutes by two men using their fingers and an array of wands and sophisticated electronic sensors, ensuring he was unarmed and that no video or listening device could possibly be on his person, or even wedged in the most private of places.

Finally, with this process complete, he was left alone with the man who he had come to see, General Li Jeng, a Chinese man of short stature and typical straight black hair who exuded an unmistakable sense of vigor and command and maintained a shrewd glint in his steely brown eyes. The general’s family name, Li—which unlike Western culture came before his given name—was the most popular in China.

After a few minutes of introductions and self-effacing small talk in English, a language that the general wielded better than most native speakers, Victor was motioned to a chair beside a long table laid out with cups of tea and an assortment of fruit and pastries. As Victor took his seat, Li Jeng apologized for the inadequacy of the offerings and especially for the inconvenience of the lengthy full body cavity search to which his guest had been subjected.

“Not at all,” said Victor, politely accepting an elegant bone china cup decorated with delicate blue pagodas, and taking a sip of the tea inside. “In fact, General Li, I’m very glad you took this precaution. I want you to have absolute confidence that what is said here will never leave this room.”

“I appreciate that,” replied the general, taking his own cup of tea and setting it on the table next to his chair as Victor had done. “It’s an honor to finally meet you. I am well aware of your previous dealings with my colleagues, who have praised you as being brilliant and honorable, and the technology you provide indispensable.”

“You flatter me, General,” said Victor, the rote response required of him. “And of course, I am here today only because of your reputation for being an up-and-coming force to be reckoned with. A current and future star in the Chinese government.”

“I fear that this is not the case,” said the general modestly. “I am but a simple man, honored that my meager abilities have been of some small service to my country.”

Victor fought not to roll his eyes. “General Li, before we begin, I have a favor to ask. I know you have experience dealing with Americans, Russians, and others raised in similar cultures. I mean no disrespect, but I would be grateful if we could perhaps conduct our business in a slightly more direct fashion than is typical in China.”

The general nodded. “I will do my best to make it so.”

“Thank you, my friend. I didn’t want to tip off the purpose of my visit until we were face-to-face. But as I told you, you are the only person in China I have contacted. This has to do with a technology developed in America called BrainWeb.”

The general’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting. A possibility I considered, but still unexpected. Everyone knows of a man named Nick Hall and of this technology. But rumors persist that while you were once involved,” he added pointedly, “this is no longer true.”

“Rumors?” said Victor, raising his eyebrows.

“Well,” replied Li with a smile, “rumors and a thorough investigation and analysis by Chinese intelligence.”

“And their findings?”

“That you managed to acquire all BrainWeb implants ever produced. But that your custody was fleeting. The Americans learned where they were and came after them. Your defenses were strong enough to keep the attack at bay until you could escape.” He shook his head solemnly. “But at the cost of the technology, which the Americans decided to destroy to make certain it did not stay in your hands.”

“This is largely true,” said Victor, “but things are not always what they seem, General Li,” he added, the corners of his mouth turning up into the slightest of smiles. “Perhaps we should start at the beginning. What do you know about Nick Hall and BrainWeb?”

“What everyone knows. A year ago, a company named Theia Labs developed breakthrough computer architecture, which they incorporated into small brain implants. My understanding is that each implant possessed the computing power of hundreds of desktop computers. Their goal was to fine-tune software that would allow the implants to be able to seamlessly decipher pure thought. They could then present Internet content to a user directly through the visual and auditory centers of their brains. In this way, users could access the Internet with their thoughts alone. They could choose to focus on sights and sounds coming through their eyes and ears, or on BrainWeb content that could be seen and heard with perfect clarity. As if it were suspended in front of them.”

Victor nodded, impressed with the general’s concise yet accurate description. “Nicely summarized,” he said, taking another sip of tea and nodding in approval. “Please go on.”

“Despite a brilliant team and impressive advances, perfecting this capability was expected to take many years, or might never be possible. Given regulations on human testing and the safeguards required, experimentation would move forward as slowly as a glacier. So the CEO of the company took a shortcut. Dozens of men and women were kidnapped and experimented upon for months. All but one died from the brain damage these experiments caused. The CEO was finally able to get the system to work with the last subject, a man named Nick Hall, using a set of four precisely placed implants. But Hall managed to escape. And although he didn’t survive long, he was able to bring these crimes to light along with the technology.”

Li paused for a moment to decide what to add from here. “Since only the CEO was involved,” he finished, “Theia Labs made reparations to the victims’ families and made plans to commercialize the technology, which they named BrainWeb.”

Victor smiled. “You have an impressive grasp of this history, General,” he said. “I assume that once this became public your government made the ah . . . acquisition of a BrainWeb prototype a top priority,” he said.

“As did the governments and militaries of every country in the world,” said the general defensively, unable to conceal his irritation.

“Apologies, General. I meant no disrespect. I obtain technology—unlawfully—for a living. Something I have done a number of times at the request of your government. Believe me, General Li, I am not here to judge. I was just curious.”

Li’s features softened. “China was working on a plan to acquire prototypes for study, yes. But we both know what happened before we had the chance to set this in motion.”

“And what is that?” said Victor.

The general calmly took another sip of tea while he studied his visitor, trying to decide what his angle could possibly be.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll play along. What happened was that the secret factory Theia built to manufacture the first of the commercial BrainWeb implants was destroyed. But not before all ten thousand sets of implants that the factory had produced had been stolen. None of this was ever made public. The fact that there had even been a factory, or that it was destroyed, or that implants were lost.”

He stared intently at the man before him. “And you were the man behind this.” Li raised his eyebrows. “Or are you here to tell me otherwise?”

“No, you are quite correct, my friend. I’d be interested to know if your intelligence community has any theories on how I might have managed it?”

“Yes. You had the help of an American general named Justin Girdler, who headed up all  American Black Operations. He was on the outs with his government and about to go down. This much is very clear. The speculation is that he offered to help you acquire the implants in exchange for enough money to stay hidden in style.”

Victor was impressed. High marks for Chinese intelligence. And if they knew this, he expected most of the better intelligence groups in the world did also. “Any idea why the general was on the outs?”

Li paused for a long moment in thought. “I’m willing to share from here on out, but only if you are.”

“Absolutely,” said Victor without hesitation. “My intent was always to make this a two-way street. And to give even more than I receive. And you are correct, I did forge such an agreement with General Girdler.”

Li now wore a more satisfied expression, suddenly more optimistic that this conversation would yield useful information. “As I’m sure you know,” he said, “there may well have been more to Nick Hall than just BrainWeb. Rumor has it that he had developed the ability to read minds. Perfectly.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” said Victor.

“We are convinced this is more than just a rumor. When he was an unwilling test subject, the implants were moved about randomly in his brain. This was done in the hope of finding the precise coordinates needed for thought-controlled Web surfing. We believe that these movements somehow triggered a latent ESP ability, but one that requires the implants on board to function.”

“So do you think Nick Hall is special?” asked Victor. “Or just lucky? What if someone managed to find the exact path that was taken during the hit-and-miss experimentation? Do you believe this mind reading latency could be triggered in anyone with implants on board?”

“We can’t be sure, of course, but our scientists believe it is quite likely.”

Victor nodded. “I agree with everything you’ve said so far. Please continue.”

“We are also convinced this Nick Hall did not die as advertised,” said Li. “We believe he was instrumental in stopping the terrorist attack on the Academy Awards ceremony in Los Angeles. The terrorists’ strategy was flawless. Perfect mind reading is the only way this could have been stopped. Even then it is unclear how he managed it.”

As Li spoke he watched Victor carefully for any reaction. “Which brings me to your original question,” continued the general, “why General Girdler was about to take a fall. We believe that the general was aware that Hall was still alive and could read minds, but kept this from his own people. He only came clean to stop what would have been the worst attack on American soil since 9/11.”

“Very good,” said Victor. “This is, indeed, the reason the political winds turned against the general. By hiding such a potentially important asset from his superiors, he violated their trust, and he violated the law.”

“It’s been widely publicized that Nick Hall is dead,” said General Li, “yet again. But we do not believe this to be true. As the Americans say, the man seems to have more lives than a cat. Do you know where he is?” he asked with great interest.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” replied Victor.

“And Justin Girdler?” pressed Li. “Do you know where he ended up?”

“I don’t know that either,” admitted Victor.

“What do you know?” snapped Li, losing his patience and proving he could be blunt after all. “Surely you must have something useful to add. You promised a mutual information exchange, but it’s been all one-way traffic so far. This needs to change, significantly, or your audience with me is nearing its end.”

“Thank you for your patience, General. I was just getting a few needed preliminaries out of the way. But I am now ready to begin holding up my end of the bargain. More than my end. And I bring not just information, but opportunity. If you’ll bear with me a little longer, I’m confident you will one day look back on this meeting as the most important that you ever had.”

“That is very hard for me to believe,” said Li bluntly.

“I don’t doubt that, General Li. But I intend to convince you of the truth of this very soon now.”

4

The general leaned forward intently and stared at his guest. “I suspect you’ve greatly overestimated the importance of what you have to offer. But since you have a reputation of being a man of your word, and are not known for playing games, I will humor you a little longer.”

“Thank you, General,” said Victor. “I will get right to it, then. I can tell you that while your intelligence on the Americans’ attack on my compound is accurate,” he began, glad that Li couldn’t read his mind to know that this was a lie, “you did miss one critical point.”

Victor was a man of honor, yes, but only once he reached an agreement. The truth was that the Americans had never found him, never attacked. He had staged the raid on one of his own bases of operation at great cost and effort, using US equipment and tactics, selling it as real by unleashing enough shock and awe for three attacks. He had painstakingly orchestrated clues and leaks as to what happened to make sure that the version Li had recited became gospel in the international community.

He had done this to correct a mistake. He had advertised his possession of the implant sets to a few key customers, but hadn’t taken the proper steps to ensure this information was kept contained, and its rapid spread had created unforeseen problems. With a lure as irresistible as BrainWeb, the demand was far higher than the supply, making him the potential target of every government who wanted a monopoly, along with many thousands of powerful people around the globe who would not take his refusal or inability to sell to them lying down.

After learning details of Hall’s history, he had decided to hold back a significant number of sets to pursue mind reading, and had also realized that his initial thinking had been flawed. He would be far better served to severely limit the number of BrainWeb customers, to be much more strategic in their selection. Placing many thousands of implant sets would be unwieldy and dangerous, and he already had more money than he could ever spend.

But if he could get himself back off the radar, there was much more than just wealth to be gained.

“The attack happened just as you’ve said,” continued Victor, repeating his lie, “but the Americans didn’t destroy all ten thousand sets. I lost the vast majority, but I had previously moved a meaningful number of my eggs to a separate basket. Giving me a monopoly on the technology for years—possibly decades.”

Victor paused. “As I’m sure you know, General,” he continued, “the secrets to BrainWeb were lost with the destruction of the factory and the disappearance of the software and data. American scientists are frantically trying to recreate the technology. But without a willingness to sacrifice lives to get the necessary data, they are not making progress.”

“But you possess implants that can be reverse engineered,” said Li, unable to hide his enthusiasm at the prospect. “Is that what you’re here to offer?”

“No. Reverse engineering is impossible. The Americans still have a number of prototypes produced before the factory was even established. Fifty to a hundred sets is my best guess. But this has done them no good. They’ve thrown everything at the implants to uncover their secrets, but have gotten nowhere.”

“Why?”

“Because they were designed and safeguarded by Alex Altschuler, and his genius is unmatched. Even with the raw data, it’s unlikely anyone could have reproduced the software and algorithms he created. Extracting precise thoughts from a sea of chemical and electrical signals in the brain turns out to be even more complex than it seems. But without the raw data, it is absolutely impossible. And experts have told me that the anti-reverse-engineering safeguards Altschuler incorporated are as foolproof as it gets.”

“And you’re certain the Americans have failed?”

“Yes. My sources are impeccable.”

Li blew out a long breath. “Scores of companies and most militaries around the world are trying to recreate BrainWeb—including us—without success.”

“I assume you’ve been willing to sacrifice some of your prison population to get raw data.”

“Let’s just say that raw data isn’t the problem. Everything else is. The hardware itself is much more of a challenge than we ever expected. And as you’ve noted, the software is next to impossible. We have yet to find Alex Altschuler’s equal.”

“So if I could get a number of implant sets in your hands, you would be interested? Even knowing reverse engineering won’t work?”

The general rolled his eyes, deciding that such a stupid question didn’t deserve an answer. “What is your price?” he asked instead.

“And if you had them,” said Victor, ignoring Li’s query, “would your Politburo install them in their own brains and use them for their intended purpose?”

“Of course,” said Li, but he had paused before answering for just a moment too long, a telltale sign.

“I can help you in ways I’m sure you can’t imagine right now,” said Victor. “But if I am to deal with you, I need absolute honesty. How would you really use the implants?”

General Li looked into Victor’s eyes and rubbed his chin. “Okay, since you seem to know the answer already, I’ll tell you. While the implants have great value, we wouldn’t use them to surf the Web. We would use them to go after bigger game.”

“Mind reading,” said Victor. It was not a question.

“Yes, we would try to replicate the path these implants took through Nick Hall’s brain when he was a test subject. Our people are trying to solve ESP right now, throwing huge resources at the problem. But without the implants, which we know triggered this ability, this effort is also doomed to failure.”

“Thank you for your honesty, General.”

“As long as we’re both being honest,” said Li. “Tell me the real reason you are here. If you wanted to sell implants, you would have contacted those in my government you’ve worked with in the past. Or the head of the army’s Science and Technology Commission. Also, you said you could help me in ways I can’t imagine. Not China. Me personally. So what is this all about?”

Victor smiled. “I’m glad you asked,” he replied. “I am here because I’ve chosen you to become the next General Secretary and President of The Peoples Republic of China.”

He paused for effect, leaning forward intently. “Is this something that might interest you, General?”

5

General Li’s eyes narrowed and an air of alarm replaced his previously calm demeanor. Victor’s audacious claim that he could make him the most powerful man in China hung in the air and he made no attempt to respond. Instead, he removed his gun from its holster and held it on his lap, at the ready.

Victor knew his words would be met with skepticism, but Li was eyeing him as if he were an inmate in a psychiatric ward. Perhaps this was a reaction he should have predicted.

As he thought it through, it was little wonder the general had drawn his gun. Being alone in a room with an unarmed man who was rational, who had built a reputation for being trustworthy and self-interested, was one thing. Being in a room with a crazy person, on the other hand, was unpredictable and highly dangerous. A rational man wouldn’t attempt to lunge at an armed man to kill him, but a paranoid schizophrenic might try anything.

“So I’ve managed to convince you I’ve gone crazy, is that it?” said Victor, forcing a smile.

“Actually, I don’t find it likely,” replied Li. “But like you, I’m a cautious man. And your statement is preposterous.”

“Then allow me to continue,” said Victor. “I’m confident I can convince you otherwise.”

“Go ahead,” replied Li, not releasing his hold on the gun.

“While ESP would be a big prize,” began Victor, “you are underestimating the value of the implants themselves. The true potential of this technology is difficult to appreciate at first, but I know that you’ll come around. I chose you for many reasons, but one of them is that my studies and sources tell me you are ambitious and very talented.”

“Flattery won’t help you make your case.”

“Not flattery. The truth. You are in charge of the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection. My understanding is that this group has grown ever more prominent lately, and ever more powerful.”

“Not in charge,” corrected Li. “The number two man. Behind Sun Qishan. A long way behind.”

“We both know that your boss is more of a figurehead, and that you run the department on a day-to-day basis.”

“With ample input from the Politburo,” said Li, his face souring for just a moment before he caught himself and regained a passive expression.

“As I understand it,” said Victor, “the charter of your Commission is to investigate high-ranking members of the communist party for corruption. When Chen Han assumed power in 2020,” he added, speaking of the man who was still China’s paramount leader, “he elevated your group to help him consolidate his position. Using it as a vehicle for . . . purging. Since this time you’ve had the ability to seize evidence and detain any party member for months without a warrant. And you are empowered to adjudicate your own cases, making you judge, jury, and executioner.”

“Parties found guilty do have the right to appeal,” said Li in a half-hearted defense of this policy.

“Has there ever been a single case that was overturned?”

“Not so far, no,” admitted the general.

“It is my understanding that Chen Han uses you for his own ends. He doesn’t care about justice. Nor about what is good for China. He has turned you into his personal dagger. I have studied you very thoroughly, General. I’ve studied your record and your writings as a younger man. My every instinct tells me you agree with my assessment, and are not happy about the harm he is doing to your country.”

“Do you really think me unwise enough to criticize our glorious paramount leader?”

Victor shrugged. “Why not? You know this room has been scrubbed. I’ve been scrubbed. You have my word nothing you say here will ever be repeated. And even if this were not true, who would I tell? And why would they ever believe me? It would be my word against yours.”

Victor could see in the general’s eyes that his arguments had been persuasive. Once Li decided not to censor himself, his features darkened and he shook his head in disgust. “Our previous General Secretary, Xi Jinping, was a great leader,” he said. “Chen Han is a monster. He has had me take down men of great talent and commitment to China for little more than failing to laugh at one of his jokes. He is a ruthless psychopath and a disaster for my country.”

Victor nodded. “Just as I thought. It is also my understanding that your boss is no better,” he said.

Sun Qishan, Li’s boss, was not only part of the twenty-five-member Politburo, but one of only seven members on its powerful Standing Committee.

“And I’m right about you, aren’t I?” continued Victor. “You care deeply about your country and your people. We both know you would make a far better leader than either Sun Qishan or Chen Han.”

“What of it?” said Li in disgust. “Any rational man would know my chances of rising to the Politburo are nonexistent.”

“But if you were a member, do you believe you could make up for some of the atrocities you’ve had to commit in the name of your president? Do you think you could do good for your people?”

“Yes I do. I also think that if this hotel room were a spaceship, I could fly it to the moon. But that’s not going to happen either.”

“Have you ever considered taking Sun Qishan down? Through assassination or catching him being disloyal to Chen Han? If you did this, especially the latter, you’d be in a good position to assume Sun Qishan’s Politburo post. Then, if you waited a few years and gathered allies, you could assassinate Chen Han and become the leader of the People’s Republic.”

“My patience is wearing very thin,” growled Li. “You paint a nice fantasy, but that’s all it is.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Have you ever considered killing Sun Qishan? Or Chen Han, for that matter?”

“Of course!” spat Li in contempt. “How could I not? If there were any chance of success, I would have done so already. But I am stuck trying to do what good I can from my current position, trying to root out actual corruption and ensuring good men don’t hit any landmines.”

“How do you protect them?”’

“I tip them off to change certain behaviors when this might help, and hide information from Chen Han I know would incite him against them.”

Victor couldn’t believe how well this was going. His choice of Li Jeng had been even more perfect than he had known. “You’ve called my proposal a fantasy,” he said, “but I am here to assure you that I can make it a reality, my friend.”

“How? With your implants? You think you can work things out so I’m seen as a hero for finding you and acquiring this technology? It won’t happen. Or do you think using them myself, accessing the Internet with my thoughts, will suddenly give me the magical powers needed to bring down two of the most powerful and protected men in the world? Because brain surfing is nice, it really is. And I can see the benefit. But it changes the basic equation very little.”

A grin spread across Victor’s face. “I don’t think you’re seeing the possibilities, General. If you were the beneficiary of a set of implants, there would be no stopping you. Especially you. Especially in the role you’re in.”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t disagree more.”

“Then allow me to demonstrate,” said Victory smugly. He nodded toward a computer tablet resting on an oak dresser behind the general. “Can I assume that belongs to you?”

Li looked confused. “It does.”

“Can you get it, please?”

The general retrieved the tablet and returned to his seat, never taking his eyes from Victor. “Now what?”

“While we’ve been talking,” said Victor, “I’ve sent you an e-mail, with a link to one of my cloud accounts.”

Li glanced down at his computer and noted that this was true. “I do have an e-mail from you,” he said, “but you must have sent it earlier on a time-delay, or had someone else send it.”

“I assure you that I sent it just a minute ago,” said Victor, understanding the man’s confusion. Li’s men had removed Victor’s phone and everything else on his person bigger than a flea.

Li’s jaw dropped in dismay. “You have a set of implants in your brain right now, don’t you?” he said, having finally caught on. “I’ve been a fool,” he added. “I should have guessed this from the start.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, General. When you have no experience with the technology, BrainWeb seems abstract, theoretical. The beauty of the implants is that they are hidden, an extra brain you can use during meetings like this one with no one knowing. As you said, internal computers that are hundreds of times more capable than a desktop or phone. And since they are rarer than unicorns right now, and just as mythical, no one thinks to guess that a visitor might have them installed. Even when they’re the subject of discussion, as you’ve just demonstrated.”

Victor paused to let this sink in. “With this being said,” he continued finally, “I think you should open my e-mail message and hit the link, General.”

“I will,” said Jeng Li. “And I am more impressed than I was,” he admitted. “You can multitask without others knowing. Conduct research during discussions to appear smarter than you are. But on the whole, I continue to be underwhelmed.”

“Hit the link, my friend, and I’m sure your views will change.”

The general complied without another word and a video box appeared on his tablet and began to play in ultra-high definition.

Li’s face paled and he let out an inadvertent gasp.

Because he was the star of the video.

He was sitting where he was now, holding a gun in his lap. As soon as the video began there could be no doubt it was recorded only minutes earlier.

“Chen Han is a monster,” the general heard himself say on the screen. “He has had me take down men of great talent and commitment to China for little more than failing to laugh at one of his jokes. He is a ruthless psychopath and a disaster for my country.”

Li’s eyes widened in horror as the video jumped to a point later in the conversation. This time it was Victor’s voice coming from his tablet, although the video footage was still solely of himself. Of course it was, he realized, since Victor’s eyes must have served as the camera.

“You didn’t answer my question,” his visitor was saying. “Have you ever considered killing Sun Qishan? Or Chen Han, for that matter?”

“Of course!” Li watched himself respond. “How could I not? If there were any chance of success, I would have done so already.”

With this, the video ended, and General Li Jeng couldn’t have looked more horrified had the footage been from the near future and displayed his own bloody dismemberment, which had suddenly become a certainty.

6

Li raised the gun from his lap and pointed it at Victor’s head. “Delete this immediately or die!” he shouted. “Now!”

“Of course,” said Victor reasonably. Not only had he expected this reaction, he had counted on it. “It’s deleted,” he announced a moment later. “And it was my only copy. Hit the link again and see.”

The general did and quickly satisfied himself that the link no longer returned the video.

Li took a relieved breath, but his cloak of anxiety had not disappeared, which was no surprise to Victor. How could he not still be feeling exposed and violated, unable to eliminate the possibility that his visitor was lying about the existence of additional copies.

“Please,” said Victor warmly, “put your mind at ease. I gave you my word that our conversation was in confidence, and it will remain so, no matter what.” He allowed himself a shallow smile. “But I see that my little demonstration was effective.”

The general didn’t respond, but it was clear the wheels in his head were spinning.

“Just to review,” said Victor. “You and your men would have bet their lives that this room was clean, and so was I. You had no idea I was harboring implants, and no idea how dangerous this would be to you if I was. Because of this you felt relaxed. Comfortable enough to be goaded into disclosing information that would get you killed. You failed to remember that a technology capable of converting Internet data into something a user can see and hear must also be able to do the reverse. I have become a living, breathing video camera. I can record everything I see and hear and instantly send it to the cloud for storage. Or to a tablet computer,” he added pointedly.

“Perhaps your proposal is more rational than I had thought,” said Li with a new respect in his voice. He lowered his gun and returned it to its holster.

“I can implant these in your brain, General. I have an advanced machine that immobilizes your head and installs them with incredible precision and with very few neurons damaged in the process. Then you become a living recorder. You suddenly have a photographic memory, can use BrainWeb to call up a replay or details of anything you’ve ever read, or seen, or heard. And you can goad people into saying something they’ll regret, and then make them regret it. They don’t have to know how you managed to get incriminating video, just that you managed it. And then you own them.”

“But if the incriminating evidence always stems from me, wouldn’t—”

“It won’t,” interrupted Victor. “I can offer you twenty sets of implants. For you and nineteen of your closest allies. All at no cost. You get to extend your reach and build a formidable team. They get access to groundbreaking technology and the chance to be in the inner circle of China’s next paramount leader, both of which will send their careers skyrocketing.”

“You’ve really thought this through.”

“I have. And another benefit you will come to appreciate is that you can set the implants to communicate with each member of your team instantly, and secretly, through the Web. You can program the implants to take incoming messages from each other and convert them to auditory signals such that the messages seem to be spoken by members of your team, in their own voices. Virtual telepathy. With two of you in a room, you can basically talk to each other, strategize, in the middle of a conversation with a third, without the third being any the wiser.”

Li may have been slow to grasp some of the possibilities the implants made available, but the benefits of blackmail and of being able to basically communicate telepathically with any of his nineteen closest allies was very clear to him.

“But if just one of these men cross me,” he pointed out, “the game is over. I think I have nineteen men I can trust, but there is never a way to know for sure.”

“I’ve thought about this, as well. I can load an extra software module into the implants. One command from you, sent from your implants or any computer in the world, and the user dies from what looks like a stroke.”

“Are you really suggesting I put a ticking time bomb in the brains of my closest allies without their knowledge?”

“No. With their knowledge. I’m suggesting that after the implants are in their brains, you tell them exactly how you’ve armed them. It’s important they know. The kill switch isn’t for punishing them after they’ve already betrayed you. You want this to act as a deterrent so they never do.”

Victor took a sip of tea and allowed this to sink in. “They are loyal to you and have everything to gain from your rise to the top, so your insurance policy in their heads shouldn’t worry them. If it were me, I’d set it up so the command to trigger their deaths is automatically sent every few days. Unless you’re alive to actively stop it each time. That way, your inner circle has a strong vested interest in seeing that you survive and prosper.”

Li shook his head. “You must think I’m very stupid,” he said. “While I’m holding the detonator on them, you’ll be holding the detonator on me. Is that the deal?”

“No. Your set will be clean. I assume you can find a software expert who will keep your secrets on fear of death. Or one you don’t mind killing. Have him take a look. He’ll find a main software core on all twenty sets that he’ll tell you he can’t get at, that is the best protected he’s ever seen. That would be Alex Altschuler’s work. Separately, on nineteen sets, there will be an offshoot of code, a bubble, that is unprotected. Software that I added myself. He’ll be able to verify that the activation of this code will instruct the implants to cause a stroke.”

“And this software expert will be able to verify that my set is clean?”

“Yes!” said Victor emphatically. “Believe me, General, I don’t want to control you. I don’t want your money. I want to be your silent partner.”

Li considered. “And what do you get out of this partnership? Do you somehow imagine yourself as co-leader of China?”

“Not at all,” said Victor, shaking his head. “I have no interest in meddling in your affairs. All I ask is for an occasional favor or two now and then from the most powerful man in China. A favor that I would only expect you to grant if it doesn’t compromise your interests, or those of China. And I propose that we share intelligence to our mutual benefit, beginning now, and then continuing once you’ve, ah . . . ascended the throne.”

“Intelligence?”

“Yes, in certain instances my intelligence-gathering capabilities exceed even China’s. But I have a very narrow focus, whereas your intelligence apparatus is many thousands of times bigger. For reasons I won’t go into, it would give me great satisfaction to weaken America:  culturally, economically, militarily, you name it. Something that can benefit China as well.”

There was silence in the room for almost a full minute as Li thought through everything that had been said. Victor sipped at his tea and waited patiently for Li’s next words.

“You make an interesting proposal,” said General Li finally, an understatement of epic proportions. “I will give this additional thought and get back to you soon, with either an answer or more questions.”

Victor fought the urge to grin. He had no doubt the general would agree, but just didn’t want to seem too eager. Not only was Li Jeng smart and ambitious, he was convinced the man now running his country was a monster. And Victor had shown him how easily the implants could be used to get a man’s testicles in a vise, although he probably would have preferred a demonstration using someone else’s testicles.

“Take all the time you need, my friend,” said Victor pleasantly. “Take all the time you need.”

PART 2

Trojan Horse Taskforce

7

The driver of the silver GMC Yukon showed the proper credentials and the SUV was waved into Hill Air Force Base, just south of Ogden, Utah, arriving at its destination after a leisurely ninety-minute drive. While the Yukon looked like a standard civilian vehicle—other than being one of the largest SUVs on the road—it had cost the government just over eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

Fifty-three thousand of this had gone to a GMC dealer, and the other eight hundred thousand to an outfit that had layered enough bulletproof glass and hidden armor onto the vehicle that it had been nicknamed the Cockroach, since it was all but impossible to kill. Unlike its namesake insect friends, the Yukon couldn’t survive a nuclear war, but it also couldn’t be pierced with conventional weapons and was so heavy it could effortlessly shrug off a collision with any vehicle short of a tank.

The man being transported, Nick Hall, warranted this level of protection—and more. Only President Timothy Cochran and a few handfuls of others even knew that Hall was alive, or could recognize him given the subtle but effective facial prosthetics he wore when in public. But those who were in this rarified loop knew that Nick Hall was, without question, America’s most valuable asset in the war on terror—and this activity wasn’t even part of his day job.

Only seven months earlier, General Justin Girdler had orchestrated one of the most brilliant intelligence coups in history. He had placed ten thousand sets of BrainWeb implants with an America-hating arms and technology dealer named Victor, a man of legendary guile and caution, in such a way that the man didn’t suspect he was being used as a pawn.

The implants had been modified so that whatever a user saw, heard, or even thought was secretly transmitted to a computer system with massive storage capacity, effectively turning ten thousand of America’s greatest enemies into human-sized electronic bugs, giving US intelligence unprecedented insight into their activities and networks.

Shortly after this had been accomplished, Girdler had arranged with the president to forge and fund an organization so off the books it made the inner workings of Area 51 seem as secret as the recipe for making ice cubes. This taskforce, code-named THT, operated from inside a large warehouse an hour out of Salt Lake City, with its back against a mountain.

Girdler was the head of THT. He had originally wanted to call it the Trojan Taskforce, since the deception he had orchestrated was inspired by the legendary Trojan Horse maneuver, which he considered to be the greatest example of the power of a PsyOps operation in history.

Beware of generals bearing implants.

But the team had rejected the name like a bad oyster. Trojan Taskforce was a bit too on the nose, and suggested the new agency was responsible for marketing condoms, or was a secret society of athletic boosters from the University of Southern California. The team finally compromised on the name THT, short for Trojan Horse Taskforce, but only after making the general promise to never reveal what these initials really stood for.

THT’s mission was three-fold, with each of the three objectives being nearly unprecedented in importance. First, Colonel Mike Campbell would lead the effort to sort through the enormous volume of data coming from the implants buried in the brains of scores of unaware enemies. He would then determine which intelligence gleaned from this activity would be passed on to which agency, so that America’s interests were furthered and threats to national security were stopped, without these agencies learning how this intel had been generated.

Second, Alex Altschuler would be responsible for safeguarding the BrainWeb technology. Altschuler had allowed himself to be thought dead, turning his back on billions of dollars so that the world would believe the secret to BrainWeb had been lost with him, temporarily halting its rollout.

If BrainWeb were commercialized it would surely set records for speed of adoption. If a single bad actor could hack into these devices, he could subvert technology imbedded in hundreds of millions of brains around the globe for purposes of his own. Girdler’s modifications to the implant sets now in Victor’s hands were but one example of the dangers of releasing BrainWeb without first ensuring it was absolutely inviolate.

So Altschuler would devote his genius to solving quantum encryption, a process that would take advantage of the fundamental laws of the universe to ensure the devices were unhackable. Right now, he was confident that the thought-translation software could not be reverse engineered, but this wouldn’t necessarily prevent clever hackers from adding to the software, as Girdler had managed, changing the device’s functionality and the way it interacted with the Web.

Finally, Nick Hall and his fiancée, Megan Emerson, would lead efforts to find a way to block Hall’s mind-reading abilities. Hall was involved, of course, because he was the only man alive known to be able to read minds, but Megan had an important role as well, since she was a rarity, someone Hall could not read.

This work was critical, because other individuals or countries would eventually discover the secret to ESP. When this happened the world would be at their mercy, with individuals helpless to prevent their most private thoughts from being violated. The consequences would be truly disastrous.

And if the secret became readily accessible to everyone, the consequences were likely to be even worse. Families, workmates, and other groups in society had enough trouble getting along when every cruel and selfish thought, every scheme, every sexual fantasy, was safely hidden away.

But when the dam burst and no thought, no matter how ugly, remained private, society would tear itself to pieces. Only if a way were found to restore the order that nature had intended, restore private thoughts to privacy, could these catastrophes be avoided.

But Hall had a more selfish reason for wanting the antidote to mind reading. It was a burden, a nightmare. The white noise had been very difficult to learn to tune out, and no one could be comfortable around a mind reader. And he was constantly exposed to remembered images that were repulsive, to sexual depravities that defied even his own fertile imagination, and to thoughts so hideous they made Medusa look like a supermodel.

“You ready, Nick?” said Captain Floyd Briarwood from the driver’s seat of the Yukon, breaking a long silence.

Hall swallowed hard. “It’s my party,” he said with a rueful smile, “so I guess I have to be, don’t I?”

Briarwood was in charge of THT security, which included protecting the only two members of the team who were truly indispensable: Nick Hall and Alex Altschuler. They also stood at the ready to become Hall’s personal commando force if a mission of paramount importance did arise.

The captain and eleven other special forces commandos had been scrambled to LA to assist Hall when the Cosmopolitan Theater had been seized by a group of Jihadi terrorists during the worldwide broadcast of the Academy Awards ceremony. Given that Hall and this team were the only hope of survival for hundreds of international movie stars and thousands of others attending the ceremony, Hall had been forced to reveal his ESP to them.

The skills of these men were unsurpassed, and not only did they know of Hall’s ability to read minds, they now trusted him enough to follow any order he gave them without a moment’s hesitation. In addition, Hall had developed a camaraderie with this group and had earned their respect. Reassigning them to THT made a ton of sense and kept the inner circle of people in the know as tight as possible.

Megan Emerson was seated next to the man she loved in the middle section of the Yukon, and squeezed his hand in a show of support. Three other members of the security team rode with them, a lieutenant named Chris Guest, and two sergeants, Joey Plaskett and Kevin Wellman.

The car pulled up to a large, flat building that had been hastily built at the behest of the president to Nick Hall’s specifications, one that was strictly off-limits to everyone at the base, including its commander. The forbidden structure looked like a windowless concrete barracks from the outside. Inside, it was a honeycomb of almost fifty separate self-contained rooms, each with one-way mirrors along their back sides, which could only be viewed from hidden corridors built solely for Hall’s use.

The mind reader took a deep breath and left the car, surrounded by his entourage. He had explained to his security force that he didn’t need them to watch his back while he was working, but they continued to ignore him. Not only was he safely within the gates of a military installation, but it was impossible to sneak up on a mind reader with intent to do him harm. While his conscious mind couldn’t possibly track and digest the sea of thoughts coming from multiple sources, his subconscious, behind the scenes, did just this, alerting him only when it identified something he urgently needed to know, a phenomenon researchers called the Cocktail Party Effect.

Megan Emerson had come along for moral support, as she had done each time they had repeated this exercise, once a month for the past five. The facility had been built at the westernmost corner of the sprawling base to keep Hall a full seven miles away from the bulk of the base’s personnel. Even so, there was no avoiding the scattering of civilians who drove near enough the base to be within Hall’s psionic range, which dropped off significantly at a distance of five to six miles. Megan couldn’t read minds, but she was well aware that Hall would be bombarded by enough signals to be under a low level of constant psychic stress.

“Sorry, Nick,” she thought at him telepathically. “I know how much this sucks for you.”

“I’ll live,” he broadcast back stoically. They had kept their telepathy an even bigger secret than Hall’s mind-reading abilities, since this ability had saved them on more than one occasion and could well do so again.

“If it gets too much to bear,” she advised telepathically, “just start picturing me naked.”

Hall laughed, which to those around him looked unprovoked, since they had no idea the loving couple they were escorting were in communication.

“Start picturing you naked?” he broadcast back with a broad grin, emphasizing the word start. “What makes you think I’ve ever stopped?” he added as they walked through a door that Sergeant Wellman held open for them.

Now it was Megan’s turn to laugh, which made their four escorts look around to see if there was something humorous happening nearby that they had failed to notice.

“Great,” she replied. “And this from a man who doesn’t even need to use imagination to picture me naked. Who can access actual footage of our past sexual encounters at any time.”

“Yeah, but that would be a serious mistake right now,” broadcast Hall, his telepathic communication managing to convey his amusement. “I have an important job to do, and I need all of my blood flowing to my brain, if you know what I mean.”

Megan gritted her teeth so she wouldn’t laugh once again. No need to make their guards, who were also now friends, think they had both gone mad.

Humor was Hall’s defense mechanism, used as much when he was under stress as when he was relaxed and happy. And this mission could not be more serious, or more mentally taxing. Although Hall had other primary responsibilities on the team, his abilities were too useful, their use in fighting terror too irresistible, to pass up.

In six hours he could root out more plots and terror networks than the entire Department of Homeland Security could in six years.

And these six hours were about to begin.

8

DHS maintained a list of their top terror suspects in America. Each month for almost half a year now, like clockwork, select DHS personnel had been assigned to round up the top ninety-nine names on this list, and take them on a pilgrimage to the odd structure at the westernmost corner of Hill Air Force Base for questioning. Each of the ninety-nine was escorted there separately from all corners of the country and arrived on the same day.

Thirty-three would be deposited at the interrogation center every two hours, but would be cleverly staggered and would come through several different entrances built for this purpose, so none could see any others who were involved. Hall had chosen this number of suspects himself, pushing the limits of what he could handle in a single day.

Even those who were American citizens could be held for up to seventy-two hours without charges before DHS risked even the slightest chance of running afoul of the law, but twenty-four hours wouldn’t raise a single eyebrow anywhere, especially since they were always treated exceptionally well.

Each man or woman was placed in a room with a comfortable chair and a television to keep them entertained during prolonged waiting periods, and a generous selection of quality food and beverages. The rooms were meticulously clean, warmly lighted, and smelled of vanilla. Vanilla.

Hall had insisted his job was made easier when they were relaxed and at ease.

Once Hall was finished with each suspect, a member of DHS would be alerted to come in and ask a few cursory questions, just to legitimize the episode in the minds of the suspects, although these personnel had no idea that Hall existed or was the real purpose of the exercise. The questions were generic and delivered in a non-hostile manner. “Do you know of any imminent attacks on the US? Are you involved in a terrorist plot?” and that sort of thing.

Some of the more affluent suspects who were American citizens insisted on bringing attorneys along, but given their gentle treatment and the friendly, even trivial, interrogations, the attorneys had no reason to complain and largely did nothing.

That was it. Suspects would sit in a relatively comfortable room, eating and watching TV, until they were asked the few tightly controlled questions that DHS personnel had been authorized to ask—despite the strenuous and repeated objections by these personnel that the questions were useless. After this, suspects were returned to their homes on the government’s nickel while members of DHS apologized for the inconvenience.

The DHS agents involved found the entire process a joke. Maddening. Humiliating. They were acting under orders issued far above their pay grades, but had no idea why they were engaged in such a pointless and moronic exercise, which succeeded only in tipping off suspects that they were high up on the terror list while gaining the Department of Homeland Security nothing in return.

The process was so idiotic, even for the government, that most agents felt certain that something else had to be involved. Had to be. Something they were missing.

Some conjectured that a Black laboratory had installed technology in these rooms that could obtain the suspect’s DNA, fingerprints, and retinograms without their knowledge or permission. Others thought the rooms must be fitted with advanced cameras, tied to specialized computers, which could extract ultra-accurate facial recognition data and tag the suspects in such a way that they could be picked out at any time, even from space.

While there had once been speculation in some circles about a man named Nick Hall who could read minds, he was once again convincingly dead, and no sane agent would possibly conjecture that he was the power behind this.

But behind this he was. And at the moment, he was bracing himself for a mental marathon, dreading the deep dive he was about to take into an ocean-sized cesspool of hatred and brutality.

He took a deep breath as the first group of thirty-three terror suspects were brought in, right on schedule, and deposited in four different blocks of rooms, once again cleverly staggered and positioned so they didn’t run into anyone else about to be interrogated. Nick Hall entered the corridor behind the first block of rooms, totally alone, and sat in front of the one-way mirror installed in room number one. Identical chairs had been placed behind the one-way mirrors of every room for Hall’s convenience.

He studied the man through the transparent side of the large mirror. He didn’t need line of sight to do his job, but it was a big help. He could have been a mile away and still managed to sort through the barrage of thoughts he was receiving to find each subject in turn, but this would have been far more mentally taxing.

Hall knew he had to average just under four minutes with each subject to complete the job in the six hours he had allotted. Experience had shown him that if he pushed on much beyond six hours he would be all but useless for days afterward, his brain suffering the equivalent of the world’s worst hangover, his gray matter barely functioning and forcing Hall to do little else but sleep it off.

He could dispense with some of the ninety-nine subjects very quickly, and a few in each batch even turned out to be mistakes, being pro-West in their views, even if they pretended otherwise for various reasons, including fear for their lives. But some required a full ten or fifteen minutes of meticulous probing for him to get all he needed.

The first mind Hall entered belonged to an American, Muhammad Adib, so he had no need to engage his implants to pick up on the thoughts he received and translate for him, or practice the Persian and Arabic he had been busily learning. He spun through the man’s brain like a cartoon Tasmanian devil, racing through its metaphorical table of contents to find chapters of interest.

Adib was heavily involved in the financing of Jihad. He ran a dead drop to deliver money to sleepers, and funneled other monies through dummy accounts into the hands of terrorist leaders around the world. Hall quickly read the particulars—people involved, verbal codes to be used to verify identities, account passwords, routing information, procedures, dummy corporations, and more—and instantly relayed this information to a secure website filed under the man’s name.

Within minutes Hall had drained Adib of every last atom of useful information, sucking intel out of the man’s brain so completely it was a wonder it didn’t collapse down to the size of a pea.

Hall noted with great interest that Adib had also siphoned off several million dollars for his own use, which he had kept well hidden—at least from everyone but a mind reader. Hall flagged this with his opinion that this knowledge could be successfully used to blackmail Adib into becoming a DHS asset.

In every batch there seemed to be a few who had stolen funds from the caliphate, or had engaged in thoughts or behavior so forbidden for Muslim extremists—especially homosexuality—that they could be easily blackmailed into working as spies for America.

The mind reader moved one chair down and repeated this exercise with the second prisoner. Then the third.

“How’s it going in there, Nick?” broadcast Megan Emerson as he rose to make his way to the fourth chair.

“It hasn’t even been half an hour,” he responded.

“True. But since my only job is to provide you with occasional refreshments and moral support, it seems a lot longer. Besides, I wouldn’t want you to forget I was here.”

“Never,” replied Hall, knowing she was with his security team just outside the hallway, probably reading a novel on her tablet computer. He also knew she enjoyed the company of all four of his protectors, so she wasn’t suffering from the wait all that much.

Those few in the know within THT had discussed the ethics of what Hall was now doing at great length. He was the ultimate embodiment of the thought police. He was a wraith, an invader, stealing thoughts from people who had no idea he was there, without their knowledge or consent.

After considerable debate they had decided that if Hall read from a subject’s mind that a crime was being contemplated, this would never be sufficient for further detainment or arrest. Tangible evidence would always be required.

Not only was this the ethically correct choice, it was the practical choice as well. They would need to get other agencies involved to move forward, and how could they make this happen without any proof they could point to? You couldn’t jail a man for fantasizing about murdering his wife. You couldn’t even jail a man who actually did murder his wife, if all the proof you had was Nick Hall’s say-so.

But if Hall were to suggest digging under a particular tree, and you happened to find a murder weapon with the husband’s fingerprints all over it, a conviction could be won. It wouldn’t matter how Hall knew how to guide you. After all, police departments had been using psychics for years. The only difference this time was that the psychic in question wasn’t a fraud.

Hall continued to plow through the first third of the suspects, transmitting what he read directly to websites partitioned with their names in each case, stopping only to take a bathroom break and to accept a bottle of cold water that Megan shuttled in.

As usual, these men and women were at the top of DHS’s list for a reason, and he most often confirmed Homeland’s suspicions—and more. The names, dates, terror networks, specific plots, passwords and other intel he was able to snatch from their minds in minutes would keep thousands of people busy at Homeland for months.

Hall became more mentally exhausted by the minute, but he pressed on through the second group, and then the third, which turned out to be four suspects short. This wasn’t uncommon, as a few on the list typically couldn’t be found, or flights were delayed, or they didn’t make it for other reasons, which Girdler collectively defined as, shit happens.

The man was a true poet.

Finally, Hall blew out a long breath and slumped back in his last chair, done. He shuddered from the horrific memories and images he had forced himself to endure, the vitriol and the lust to rid the world of all but those with the most severe interpretation of Islam in an orgy of grotesque butchery that many of the suspects had harbored.

As he exited the room, Megan Emerson handed him a grilled chicken Caesar wrap and a large bag of chocolate chip cookies, with a giant thirty-two-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew, his favorite, which he hungrily consumed as they left the base. The five members of his entourage knew better than to ask what thoughts he had read. They would read the report, hundreds of pages long, compiled at the speed of thought, like they did every time, and marvel at his speed, efficiency, and extraordinary value.

They piled into the Yukon and before they had even exited the base Hall’s head had fallen forward and he was in a fugue state, not quite asleep, but not quite conscious either. This too, was expected, and something he had repeated five times now.

Every time Megan saw him in this depleted state she wanted to storm into Girdler’s office and demand that this exercise be stopped, or the number of suspects dramatically reduced. She wanted to scream that it was all too much, that the toll taken on the man she loved was too high.

But then she would read his report, and she would know that his sacrifice would save many thousands of lives, and that what he was able to accomplish was nothing short of a miracle.

The SUV continued to hurtle along the leftmost lane of the I-15 South, heading back toward Salt Lake City. They had taken back roads to get to the base to avoid major population centers, which were never comfortable for Nick Hall, but he had insisted this wasn’t necessary on the drive back to headquarters. After six hours of mental interrogations, he knew he’d be brain-dead during most of the trip, anyway.

Hall hadn’t moved a hair in almost ten minutes when his eyes suddenly shot open and he bolted upright, eliciting a gasp of surprise from his fiancée beside him. He took a deep breath and then shut his eyes again in concentration.

“Nick . . . ?” said Megan worriedly, not wanting to say more and risk disturbing him, but unable to help herself from uttering a one word query.

Hall kept his eyes closed for several seconds and then opened them again. “We have to turn around!” he insisted. He motioned toward an exit about a hundred yards distant. “Get off there!”

“What’s going on, Nick?” said Briarwood, making no move to leave the highway.

“Now!” said Hall. “We can’t afford to miss this exit!”

9

Floyd Briarwood muttered a curse and shot across three lanes and onto the off-ramp to comply with Hall’s heated demand.

“Now get back on going north,” instructed Hall, blowing out a relieved breath, “while I tell you what this is about.”

“We’re all ears,” said Briarwood, and Hall couldn’t help but pick up his thought of here we go again.

The entire group was well aware that highly passionate, malicious thoughts sliced through even the heaviest background noise and hit the center of Hall’s awareness, lighting him up like a German Shepherd reacting to a piercing dog whistle. This was now the second time this had happened out of five trips, and all his protectors were thinking variations of the same thought: this had better be worth it.

“Hurry!” said Hall, waiting until Briarwood sped onto the northbound on-ramp and shot to ninety before he continued. “This involves a woman named Sandra Girvan who lives about twenty miles north of here.”

“Isn’t that well outside of your range?” asked Joey Plaskett from the third row of seats.

“I read her ex-boyfriend when he was five miles to our south. He’s headed toward her. But now that we’ve turned around and the captain is nearing a hundred, we’ll get to her first.”

“As long as you give me a heads-up if you read any cops along our path,” said Briarwood.

“So now Nick’s a human radar detector?” said Megan wryly. “Is there anything a mind reader can’t do?”

“Plenty,” said Hall with a tired smile. “At the moment, teleportation would be nice.”

Megan returned the smile. “So what’s the deal with this guy?” she asked him.

“His name is Daryl Poole. Sandra Girvan dated him for about nine months. Broke it off just last night, and he’s worked himself into a mindless rage, which is about to turn violent. As he’s driving he’s having some pretty graphic and powerful fantasies about beating her—and I’m not sure he’s content to stop with just unconsciousness.”

Briarwood sighed. “Nick, you can’t be sure when he’ll stop beating her. Because you can’t be sure if he’ll even start. How many husbands have fantasized about killing their wives? How many kids while they’re being punished have wished their parents dead? Happens all the time. Most of the time it’s all bark and no bite.”

“No one knows people’s dark inner thoughts better than I do,” snapped Hall. “And it’s true, most of the time people don’t act on them. But Poole’s thoughts are of a different quality. Stronger. More visceral than usual. I can’t put my finger on it, but this time I think they’ll translate into action. He has hit two women in the past. He managed to stop both times before they were seriously injured, but this time feels different to me.”

“Even if you’re right, why do you need to be personally involved?” said Briarwood. “You know I can arrange to have the police stop him before he arrives. Charge him for speeding or something else.”

“No,” said Hall, shaking his head. “That would just delay him. Or he’d return another day when I’m not here.” He sighed. “I know you’re worried about my safety. But trust me, I’ll be fine. I can fix this in a few minutes. We just have to beat him to her house.”

Megan rolled her eyes. “Why do I feel like you’re the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood?” she said in amusement. “Racing to beat Little Red to her grandmother’s house? I can see it now, he’ll see you and say, ‘My, what great big mind reading skills you have, Grandma.’”

Briarwood laughed along with everyone else in the vehicle, but his mirth was short-lived. “Nick, we’ve been over this many times,” he said gravely. “I have strict orders not to let you go on any side trips unless it’s a matter of the utmost urgency. You’re the most important man in the world, one who can bring down a dozen mass casualty terrorist plots before breakfast. We can’t let you risk exposure or injury for something like this. You don’t send Superman to rescue a cat up a tree. We need you for the big stuff. You do get that, right?”

“A cat up a tree?” said Hall. “We’re saving the life of an innocent woman here. One with two small children who rely on her. Hardly a cat up a tree.”

“But you don’t know her life is in jeopardy,” replied Briarwood. “You have to admit you could be wrong. This could be just the typical spurned lover rage that never amounts to violence. Even if it does, she might not get more than a few bruises. Horrible, of course, but compared to the tens of thousands of lives you’ve saved, a cat up a tree. And I have my orders. We need to go back.”

Hall shook his head and smiled. “Come on, Floyd. We don’t have time for this. We both know you’re going to disregard your orders out of respect for me. And because deep down, you couldn’t live with yourself if something did happen to this woman, regardless of orders.”

“I thought you promised not to read our thoughts, Nick. So much for that, I guess.”

“I didn’t read your thoughts,” insisted Hall, shaking his head. “I just know you.”

Hall had gotten better at ignoring the thoughts of those around him if he chose, which he promised to do with all of his colleagues. He deeply admired those who were willing to make the sacrifice of working with him, knowing what he was. Knowing he could access their entire past as easily as they could themselves. Every memory, every desire, every sexual fantasy, every prejudice, every secret, every regretted word or action made in the heat of the moment.

His colleagues, who were willing to brave proximity to him for the greater good, demonstrated the ultimate in courage and heroism. Being friends with a mind reader took a special kind of man or woman.

So he could do no less than swear a solemn oath to make his own heroic efforts to stay out of their heads, even though this wasn’t entirely possible. He could stop himself from taking a deep dive, but it was an enormous challenge to tune out all surface thoughts. You could try to ignore a loud conversation being held in front of you, try not to pick up any meaning, but this wasn’t always possible.

Briarwood frowned deeply. “Girdler’s going to have my ass in a sling,” he said, as Hall motioned for him to take the next exit.

“I’ll take care of him,” said Hall. “I promise. He’s a good man, and he knows he’d disregard these same orders in your shoes. He once disregarded a direct order to bring me in. Instead, he went off the reservation and tried to kill me for what he thought were good reasons.”

This caught the attention of the entire special forces contingent in the vehicle. “Now that’s a story you’ll have to share with us when we’re done here,” said Sergeant Wellman enthusiastically, a request that elicited hearty nods of agreement all around.

“You got it,” said Hall as they neared to within minutes of their destination.

This was the second time Hall had disobeyed orders and taken an unscheduled detour. Months earlier, he had read of an imminent liquor store robbery less than a half mile from where they had been driving. Not enough time for cops to arrive on the scene, so Briarwood had dropped Wellman and Plaskett off near the store so they could look like customers when the robbery occurred. Minutes later they managed to put down two armed men without drawing a weapon and without any shots being fired.

Hall loved these guys. Bright, personable, and total bad-asses.

They entered a residential area thick with streets and homes, and three minutes later Briarwood stopped the SUV a block away from where Sandra Girvan lived.

“You can referee this domestic dispute, Nick,” he said, “but only if you keep it on her front lawn. That’s the deal. We’ll set up so if this gets out of hand we can put Poole down. If you go inside her house, though, we won’t let him in also, no matter what we have to do to prevent it. This is non-negotiable. Read my mind if you don’t believe me.”

“No need,” said Hall, exiting the Yukon with a nervous smile. “Front lawn it is.”

He was confident he could handle this, but if not, he knew the men backing him up were good enough marksmen to use non-lethal force on Poole. He winced in pain for just a moment and rubbed his temple. If he were a computer, his fan would be going non-stop, trying to cool a processor that was overused and overheating.

Briarwood drove to the next street over, where his three colleagues exited. He would park out of sight and stay with Megan. Protecting her was as important as protecting Hall, since she was his one major vulnerability. Those tasked with protecting a president would never neglect to also cover the First Lady.

The three commandos fanned out from the SUV with a purpose, taking up positions behind cars and shrubs and homes, each hidden from view, and each with a line of sight to Sandra Girvan’s front lawn.

When the team was in place, Hall quickly made his way to the residence and pushed the intercom button to the left of the front door, which caused a chime to ring inside.

“Ms. Girvan,” he said into the intercom when she answered, “my name is John Barber. You don’t know me, but a friend of mine overheard Daryl Poole a few hours ago talking about you, and he sounded pretty violent.”

Hall paused for a moment to let this sink in. “I’m an ex-Navy SEAL who only lives a few miles away, so he called me.”

The truth was he was a civilian marine biologist who had been kidnapped and turned into a helpless experimental subject, but Navy SEAL had a much nicer ring to it.

“What?” said Sandra Girvan in disbelief, a sentiment closely echoed by her confused and anxious thoughts.

“Turns out Poole has a bit of a history of violence, and he’s coming here now. Be here in a minute or two, actually. So I thought I’d stop by to make sure he doesn’t try to hurt you.”

This struck a nerve. While Poole had never hit her, Hall could read that she sensed something in her ex that had troubled her. It wasn’t difficult for her to imagine him turning to violence. But she was afraid to let a stranger with such a strange story come inside her home.

Good. He had promised Briarwood not to do so, anyway.

“Can you come outside for a few minutes?” he asked. “It’s better if we deal with him out here. More public. If he starts yelling he’ll draw attention to himself. And this way your kids won’t have to be exposed to him.”

The woman was still hesitant. Her kids were glued to the television, so she would be able to leave them alone for a few minutes. But she still thought Hall’s story was too fishy to believe. He couldn’t blame her.

“How do I know I can trust you?” she asked.

Hall sped through her mind, searching for something that would have the desired effect, ignoring complaints from his own mind that it desperately needed to rest. He found the person she trusted the most and ran with this immediately.

“I’m going to level with you, Ms. Girvan,” he said. “I’m actually a private detective. Your sister Kimberly hired me a week ago to watch this guy, but made me promise not to tell you. She sensed Poole was a bit off and was worried about you, but thought you’d be pissed if you knew. Says you still haven’t fully forgiven her for chasing off Michael Fleischut in high school.”

“How’s it going, Nick?” asked Megan telepathically from the SUV, several blocks away.

“Good,” he sent back. “She’s just about to come outside, which is good, since Poole is about thirty seconds away.”

“Be careful. You do know that if this guy even flinches, Briarwood and the boys will turn this into a firing squad.”

“Yep,” Hall shot back quickly. “Gotta go.”

“Look, Ms. Girvan,” he said aloud into the intercom. “I need you to come outside so we can meet him together when he arrives. If you follow my lead, I promise you’ll never have to worry about Daryl Poole again.”

There was no answer, but Hall knew this had pushed her past the finish line even before he heard the deadbolt turn and the door spring open. The Michael Fleischut reference had sealed the deal, as only she and her sister could possibly know about this incident, so he must be telling her the truth.

She had just come out and closed the door behind her when a red sports car streaked into her driveway and her ex-boyfriend jumped out, almost before it stopped moving.

Hall had been monitoring Poole’s progress and the closer he got, the more certain Hall was that the man’s violent thoughts were not just idle fantasies, but that he fully intended to act. Until now the man had managed to mostly cage his inner beast, but the cage door had been flung wide open and the snarling beast would no longer be denied.

Poole marched over to the duo on Girvan’s lawn in a hot rage. “Who the fuck are you?” he demanded of Hall.

He turned to his ex with a predatory gleam in his eye, while she backed away in terror. “Is this why you broke up with me?” he shouted. “Were you fucking this guy behind my back? You think you can play me for a fool and get away with it!”

“You need to leave her alone right now!” insisted Hall, “or I’ll make you regret it!”

Poole sized him up in a hurry and shot him a look of disdain. “You’ll make me?” he said incredulously. “You can’t stop me from doing whatever the fuck I want! Now tell me who you are!”

Hall produced a predatory smile of his own. “Who I am isn’t important. What is important is that I’m the best hacker there is, and I’ve hacked your computer and every device you have. I know your every last secret.”

“Bullshit!”

“Sandra never cheated on you, with me or anyone else. But you—you self-righteous piece of shit—did cheat on her. Twice. Once with Jeannie Glasscock at your high school reunion, and once with Lisa Hines Hutchison at your health club.”

Sandra Girvan gasped, shocked to learn of these betrayals despite having broken up with him.

How the fuck does this guy know about Jeannie and Lisa? thought Poole in disbelief.

“I know plenty more,” continued Hall, as though Poole had spoken this thought out loud. “You’ve cheated on your taxes for years. Three months ago you keyed your boss’s new car. I know the sick type of porn you like. You want me to leak footage of you with your pants around your ankles watching it? Because I’ve got it.”

“Who are you?” demanded Poole for the third time, but his surface thoughts screamed at Hall even more loudly. How does this fucker know so much? Why does he have such a hard-on for Sandra?

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” said Hall. “You’re going to leave Sandra completely alone. Forever. You’ll find other women. Ever raise a hand to her and I’ll know it. Ever raise a hand to any woman and I’ll know it. Because I’m keeping you on my radar. Think your computer and phone are private? Not from me they aren’t.”

“Megan,” Hall sent urgently while Poole’s thoughts were reeling, “I’m going to goad him into taking a swing at me. He’s not armed and I’ll see it coming. Have Briarwood tell the team not to shoot when he does.”

“Done,” came the reply seconds later.

Hall sneered at Poole in absolute contempt. “So why don’t you crawl back into your hole and never come out again!” he spat. “Do the world a favor, asshole!”

As he expected, this was the straw that broke the hothead’s back. You’re going to fucking die, you fucking prick,  Poole thought as he sent two fists flying toward Hall’s face in quick succession, both hitting nothing but air.

Poole’s jaw dropped in disbelief. He knew how fast and unexpected his strikes had been. How could anyone duck both blows so effortlessly?

“You finished?” asked Hall calmly. “We’re under video surveillance right now, so I’ll add this footage of your attempted battery to the rest of the shit I have on you.”

“Who the fuck are you?” said Poole yet again, unable to process any of what was happening to him.

Hall ignored the question for the fourth time. “If you don’t back off, you’re even stupider than you look,” he said, glaring at the man in contempt. “You really going to ruin your life over this? I can get you fired, humiliated, and arrested. I almost hope you keep coming, just so I can demonstrate.”

Hall paused and forced his heated emotions down, taking on a calm, reasonable demeanor. “But if you never get near Sandra again,” he continued pleasantly, “and never strike another woman, you’ll never have to worry about me again. What’s it going to be? Think hard. Do you really want me as an enemy?”

Hall read that Poole’s sense of self-preservation was finally overwhelming his irrational sense of rage. Whoever this mysterious guy was, Poole was thinking, he had mad computer hacking skills and there was no doubt he could make his life a living hell. He really was the last guy Poole would want as an enemy.

And Poole had cheated on Sandra. Maybe this was Karma catching up to him. And he’d find other women soon enough. Maybe it was time to forget about this one, cut his losses. The bitch just wasn’t worth it.

Okay,” said Poole finally. “You got it. She’ll never see me again.”

For just a moment he reflected on how invasive and accurate Hall’s information had been, and a shiver ran up his spine. What if this asshole continued to stalk him? What if this guy thought he was lying? “I swear to God I mean that,” he added, now almost pleading. “You have to believe me. I’m out for good.”

Hall dug into the depths of Poole’s mind and confirmed he was telling the truth. “You had better be!” he snapped. “And remember what I said about mistreating women in the future.”

Poole nodded vigorously.

Hall shot him a look that could have melted lead. “Now get the hell out of my sight!” he growled through clenched teeth.

10

The moment Poole sped away, Hall made a quick exit, extricating himself from Sandra Girvan as pleasantly as he could, accepting her tearful thanks, but refusing to get involved in a discussion and politely declining to come inside for a drink. He was forced to be more brusque than he would have liked, but Megan reassured him telepathically that he shouldn’t feel bad about this. After all, she told him, Superman never stood around waiting to be adored after he saved the day. He just shot off into the sky and was on his way.

As the Yukon left the area, Hall spent a few seconds recounting his interaction with Poole. Everyone was happy it had worked out, and even happier that they were once again on their way, with their precious cargo safe and sound.

“Good work,” Briarwood told Hall. “But that’s it. If you ask to take another unscheduled risk—even to stop something as horrendous and unthinkable as a man about to leave a bad review on Yelp,” he added wryly, “I’ll kill you myself.”

They were just entering the highway, and Hall was just about to melt into a well-earned coma, when Briarwood’s phone rang. He listened for a few minutes, told whoever was at the other end he would call back soon, and then ended the connection.

“Nick, I hate to do it,” he said, glancing at the man in question in the rear view mirror, “but that was a DHS agent. Are you up for one more quick interrogation?”

Hall shot him a punch-drunk look. “Really?” he whispered wearily, knowing that the agents had been told to contact Briarwood for instructions if things didn’t go according to plan. “What happened?”

“He just arrived on base,” said the captain. “Delayed because the guy he was bringing in ran. Led him on quite a chase. Wants to know if it’s too late to bring his suspect to the interrogation building.”

“Shit,” mumbled Hall. “Haven’t I read enough of these guys for one day?”

“I can’t argue with you there,” said Briarwood.

Hall began to knead his temples with the tips of his fingers and he let out a heavy sigh. “Tell him it’s not too late,” he said miserably. “Have him bring the guy to interrogation room one. Since we reversed course, we have to go by the base anyway. Just park the Cockroach on the shoulder of the highway, near the fence, and I’ll read his mind from there.” He paused. “Just slap me awake if I lose consciousness while I’m doing it,” he added with a tired smile.

“Thanks, Nick,” said Briarwood. “Sorry to do this to you. But in a way you brought it on yourself. If you hadn’t done the cat up a tree thing, we’d have been too long gone to circle back for this one suspect.”

“No, no,” said Hall. “We’re good. This guy ran, so he probably has plenty to hide.”

“We have time to stop for coffee,” said Megan. “A double espresso will get the juices flowing again.”

Hall groaned. “Megan, at this point, I’m pretty sure that if you fed me coffee intravenously it wouldn’t help. But no worries,” he added stoically. “Plenty of time to rest when I’m dead.”

They drove past the base once again and Briarwood parked on the shoulder. Hall closed his eyes and took a deep breath, ready to begin. Everyone in the SUV fell silent, almost holding their breath, waiting for him to do his thing. Several minutes rushed by.

Hall gasped and his mouth fell open. He looked like he had seen the horrible visage of Satan himself. There could be no doubt he had found the mind he was after, and something within had horrified him to the core.

“Floyd, get us inside the base!” he snapped.  “Immediately! We need to borrow a jet.”

Without a word Briarwood started the SUV and shot across the short stretch of parched summer grass separating the southbound and northbound lanes of the I-15, ignoring blaring horns and heated looks.

When Hall had asked to exit the highway earlier because of Poole, Briarwood had tried to argue him out of it. But this was different. The fact that Hall was reading a terror suspect, and the horrified look on his face, which should have been comatose, told Briarwood everything he needed to know. He was now fully prepared to do whatever Hall asked without an instant’s hesitation, which included not wasting time waiting to get to the next exit to turn around.

“A jet?” said Briarwood as he hit the northbound lanes and accelerated, the SUV’s engine struggling to keep up with his demands. “I assume that means that whatever this is requires your presence to stop it?”

Hall nodded. “I’m afraid so,” he said grimly. “And we might be too late already.”

11

Justin Girdler drove to the edge of a shopping mall in Sandy, Utah, and parked in front of a tall building with an orange-and-black sign that read Momentum Indoor Climbing. He had a long night ahead of him and he relished the exercise he was about to get. He wasn’t sure why the sport of bouldering was so addictive for him, but he knew that it was. Addictive and therapeutic, both.

He had elected to move THT’s headquarters to a previously abandoned warehouse at the base of one of the endless mountains that surrounded Salt Lake City for any number of reasons. With its back against a steep mountain, their headquarters would be easier to secure. And although THT personnel would have a view of spectacular wooded mountains when they ventured outside, the mountain their building abutted was steep and barren, so it was never visited by nature lovers or hikers. It had been steadily mined for granite for over a hundred years, and the warehouse had been left behind by the last mining company to take what it needed from the earth and move on.

Even though Hall had steadily gotten better at ignoring massive quantities of thought-static, the base was far enough away from pockets of civilization to minimize this issue. And finally, while the Salt Lake City area was known for many things, it would be one of the last places anyone would expect to harbor the most secret agency in America.

Area 51, yes. Salt Lake City . . . not so much.

The warehouse had once been a mining headquarters, and after an extensive remodel to fit THT’s needs, it was a mining headquarters once again. But this time the mining would be for resources far more valuable than granite. THT was mining to find the cure for ESP, the secret to quantum encryption, and for intelligence that would be devastating to America’s worst enemies.

The fact that greater Salt Lake City was also home to Momentum Climbing, which ran several of the premier climbing gyms in the world, was just a happy and welcome bonus.

Girdler grabbed his climbing shoes and chalk bag and left his car. The moment he entered the building his mood heightened even further. The old cliché of being a kid in a candy store came to his mind. It might be corny and overused, but in his case it was accurate.

Girdler sat on the two-foot-thick floor mats and paused to change into his expensive climbing shoes, lightweight but firm, made of materials that could grip a smooth wall, and with toes so pointed they could find purchase on a lip that was half the width of a pencil.

His eyes feasted on the walls of all dimensions and curvatures that surrounded him, up to six stories high, pockmarked with a rainbow array of thousands and thousands of hard plastic holds in many hundreds of varieties. He couldn’t wait to choose one of the dozens of color-coded climbing routes and begin. He reached into his chalk bag and had just begun to give his hands a good coating of the white substance when his phone rang.

“Shit!” he muttered under his breath. It was his emergency line, and the ringtone indicated the call had been placed by Nick Hall himself, using his implants.

He felt his mood deflate like a popped balloon.

Was it just his imagination or did climbing seem to trigger emergency calls? Had he sinned so badly that the man upstairs took delight in punishing him this way? He had to admit, getting a call before he even began his first ascent was a new twist. Usually his phone waited to ring until he was hanging upside down like a bat, clinging to millimeter-deep holds with the very tips of his fingers.

He rushed out of the gym, inserting an earpiece as he exited, and made his way to the back side of the building where there was open space and no chance of being overheard.

Hall began the moment he answered, not asking if he caught Girdler at a good time or wasting time on pleasantries. “General, we were outside of Hill Air Force Base, ready to leave, when I read a straggler named Abu Patek. We’re headed back inside now. Everyone is with me in the Cockroach and is conferenced in on this call.”

“How bad is it?”

“Patek is the sarin gas expert we’ve been looking for.”

Girdler swallowed hard. Recent intel had suggested ISIS had activated a sarin gas expert in the States, a precursor to a coming attack. Hall’s identification of the man should have been cause for celebration. But since Hall’s call was anything but celebratory, Girdler’s stomach tightened and he braced himself for the worst. “And . . . ?” he prompted.

“He’s a brilliant chemist. Managed to make some dramatic improvements to the gas. Better potency. Better atmospheric dispersal kinetics. Apparently, ISIS has been planning a maiden voyage with it for months. They planned to keep Patek in the dark, but he’s smart, and he deduced the attack is taking place just before sunset tonight.”

“Deduced?” said Girdler.

“Long story,” said Hall. “I just sent you an e-mail with everything I got from him, which you can read later. But trust me, I have no doubt his conclusion is valid.”

“If the attack is that near,” said Girdler, “then it’s likely they’ve already placed the canisters.”

“No. They’ve loaded the gas into a canister all right, but they plan to use an advanced drone as a delivery vehicle.”

“What’s the target?”

“Patek doesn’t know,” said Hall. “Worse, he doesn’t know anyone who would know. No other human dots for us to connect. But he did manage to learn it’s going down in San Diego, California. Somewhere in a twenty-mile radius of the city.”

“Which is why you’re re-entering the air force base,” guessed Girdler. “To get transportation. You want to be on scene to use your bloodhound skills to sniff this out.”

“That’s right,” confirmed Hall. “We could use your help.”

“Understood,” said Girdler, knowing better than to try to argue Hall out of it, and not wanting to if he could. “I’m putting you on hold, Nick. I’ll have Hill scramble a jet to take your team to the Naval Air Station on Coronado Island. I’ll make sure you have a helicopter waiting for you when you land. Coronado is a stone’s throw away from downtown San Diego.”

“Thank you, General,” said Hall.

Less than two minutes later Girdler was back. “Floyd, it’s all set,” he said to Briarwood. “You’re clear to drive the Cockroach directly to runway four. They’ll be expecting you. Your jet should be a go for wheels up in twelve minutes.”

“Roger that,” said Briarwood.

“I’ve also ordered Abu Patek to be rendered unconscious and brought to the runway. He’ll take the trip with you. Nick can root through his mind and fish out information if specific intel questions arise.”

“I’m not sure he knows anything else that might be helpful,” said Hall.

“I agree,” said Girdler. “But I’m not sure he doesn’t. He’ll be an added insurance policy. We can keep him asleep the whole time so he won’t get in your way.”

Girdler paused. “Sergeant Plaskett,” he said, switching gears, “any thoughts as to which targets might be most attractive to ISIS?”

Plaskett was a Navy SEAL, which meant he had been trained on Coronado Island and would know the city better than anyone else on the call.

“It’s a target-rich environment if there ever was one,” replied Plaskett after a brief pause. “You’ve got Balboa Park, where thousands gather to picnic and go to museums and theaters. You’ve got the famous San Diego Zoo, a big tourist attraction. SeaWorld is nearby. Seaport Village. Old Town.”

Plaskett let out a groan. “Just had a really bad thought,” he added miserably. “It’s late July. Nick, find out if the Padres are playing tonight. Also, find out if it’s Comic-Con week. If so, you’ll have tens of thousands of science fiction fans and Hollywood elites at the convention center.”

Hall was so adept at using his implants to access the Web that the information appeared in his mind’s eye without him being consciously aware he had asked for it. “Bad news,” he said with a sigh. “The Padres are playing the Reds at seven tonight at their home stadium, in the center of downtown. They’re expecting thirty-two thousand fans. And Comic-Con is in full swing.”

“Just perfect,” said Girdler sarcastically. “Anything else?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Hall. “Turns out the horses are running tonight at the Del Mar racetrack, which is just at the outer edge of the twenty-mile perimeter. Which gives us another fifteen or twenty thousand sitting ducks.”

“Damn!” growled Girdler. “Target rich is an understatement. It’s like tonight is the perfect storm of activities there. No wonder ISIS chose this time and this city.”

“All of this airspace is drone restricted, right?” said Chris Guest. “So we can shoot down any drone we find over any of these locations, including downtown in general.”

Girdler frowned. Drone regulations were much like gun regulations. They could be very useful in certain situations, but not when it came to stopping those truly committed to doing harm. If you were willing to commit murder, breaking gun laws or drone laws was the last thing you’d worry about.

“We’ll scramble our own drones in the area,” said Girdler, “and ready our anti-drone countermeasures. But I’m not optimistic.”

Girdler had just read that drone use had tripled every year since 2019, and their numbers were huge to begin with.

“In a beachfront tourist destination like San Diego,” he added, “commercial and recreational drones will be everywhere. Throw a baseball high enough in a random stretch of unrestricted airspace and you’ll hit a half dozen of them. And they can dart into restricted airspace in minutes, sometimes seconds. So we’d really need to down thousands of the bastards that are anywhere near these possible targets.”

“And even if we could,” said Briarwood, “downing the sarin drone could release the gas and result in the mass casualties we’re trying to prevent. If they even see we’re coming after them, they could decide to trigger the canister. The only way this would work is if we knew which drone in the swarm belonged to ISIS, and made sure to down it over the ocean or some other unpopulated location.”

“Agreed,” said Girdler.

“I have even worse news,” said Hall. “This attack is going to be the unveiling of two new technologies. The improved sarin and an improved drone. Patek was told ISIS acquired ten of these drones last fall, but were waiting to deploy any of them for just the right moment. They have high end sensors allowing them to navigate and avoid obstacles at night, and defeat all currently available countermeasures. They’re relatively small, very powerful, and un-jammable, and have technology onboard that provides them a veritable invisibility cloak straight out of Harry Potter. Disguises an EM signature at all wavelengths: visible, radar, heat. We won’t find this drone unless we know where it is.”

“I smell Victor’s fingerprints on this,” said the general. “The tech is much too sophisticated for ISIS. We know from recent intel coming from his implants that he’s severed ties to the caliphate. But last fall he had extensive dealings with them.”

“Which was before we were inside his head,” said Plaskett in frustration.

The Yukon pulled onto runway four and several personnel were there to greet them. The jet and pilots were almost ready.

“We have about three minutes before we’ll need to board our flight, General,” said Briarwood. “At that time we may need to put you on hold for a few.”

“Understood,” said Girdler.

“I get that Nick will read minds to try to fish out the terrorists on the ground,” said Guest. “But given our lack of time, we’ll have to assume the bad guys are in or near the threat perimeter. The problem is, those guiding the drone could be fifty miles away from the kill zone. Maybe more.”

“True,” said Girdler. “But I think it’s more likely they’ll be fairly nearby. The shorter the flight, the less chance of something going wrong. They don’t care much about escape, or even survival. Wouldn’t surprise me if they had some martyrs at the target site who volunteered to keep the crowd trapped, to maximize fatalities.”

“Are you planning to evacuate any of the possible targets?” asked Briarwood. “Or at least alert them to the possible threat?”

“I’ll have to think this through, but I don’t think so,” replied Girdler. “Any alert will panic all of San Diego County, and will make national and worldwide news in minutes. We’d have stampedes to get out of stadiums, and you can bet some people would be trampled to death in the process.”

He paused in thought. “Also, any attempted evac could prompt ISIS to disperse their  payload early, over whatever population center is closest. I’m sure they’re trying for something splashy and symbolic, but they’ll take mass casualties as a win, even if they don’t strike where intended.”

“One other potential issue,” said Megan. “Nick is at the end of his endurance. He can get an hour power nap on the jet, but fishing out one or two minds from the many thousands sure to be in his range won’t be easy. Even if he was totally fresh.”

Girdler sighed. “Megan’s right, of course,” he said. “Nick, I can only imagine how drained you must be right now. You think you can do this?”

“I know I can do this,” said Hall with absolute conviction. “I know I’m going to do this. No matter what it takes.”

Girdler loved this man’s attitude and determination. But no matter how impressive his capabilities, he was still only human.

“I know you will,” said the general, but with more conviction than he actually felt.

Nick Hall was human. And humans often failed, despite their best efforts.

12

Coronado Island was technically not an island. It was connected to the mainland by a strip of land called the Silver Strand, a narrow, sandy isthmus seven miles long, which, along with Coronado and the edge of downtown San Diego formed the third largest bay in California. The Naval Air Station was located at the north end of the Coronado Peninsula and served as the home port for several aircraft carriers, among other duties.

“Nick,” said Megan gently into her fiancé’s ear as the jet finished screaming to a halt on one of the naval base’s landing strips. He didn’t respond, which was not surprising. If the multiple G’s of the hard-braking jet hadn’t managed to wake him, she could hardly expect one softly spoken word to do the trick.

She glanced at her phone. It was just after six p.m. in San Diego. Seemed impossible. Surely it must be midnight at least.

She was so out of sync with the time that she forced herself to do the math.

Up at seven a.m. and out the door at eight to make it to Hill Air Force Base by ten. Six hours of interrogations, an hour more at Hill wrapping up and leaving, another hour to handle Poole and Abu Patek, and yet a third hour in a military jet. So ten in the morning plus nine hours to get here would make it . . . seven p.m.

She frowned. San Diego was an hour behind, so six was correct, after all.

She was exhausted. Not physically, of course, because all she had done was sit around all day like a sloth. But mentally. Worrying about Nick. Worrying about terrorism. And even worrying about a woman she had never met before named Sandra Girvan.

But Nick Hall had all of these worries and more, magnified a thousand times. He had done all of the backbreaking heavy lifting. His hair was still jet-black, but at this rate she was sure it would turn white before his next birthday.

It was going to take slightly more than a single word to get him up.

She raised her voice considerably and tried several times more, but it wasn’t until she shook him violently that his eyes finally fluttered open. “Are we here?” he whispered groggily, as though he had been sedated along with Abu Patek.

“We’re here,” she affirmed. “Time to get up. We have to go.”

She leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips. “I love you so much, Nick,” she thought at him, not wanting the hardened special forces commandos with her to know she was going sappy right before what they would consider a combat mission. “I wish you could rest. But you have to go be the hero that everyone knows you are,” she added, still telepathically. “Yet again.”

“I love you too,” he thought back. “And don’t worry. Having you in my life gives me strength. More than I thought was possible.”

A tear rolled gently down her cheek, which she quickly wiped away.

Hall forced himself fully awake and only then realized the words he had just sent to her, which had brought a tear to her eye. He had been in the twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness and the words had just formed in his mind. But as was often true about thoughts that bubbled up from the subconscious, he realized they couldn’t have been any truer. She inspired him. Gave him strength. Filled him with joy.

She had such a zest for life, an irresistible vibrancy. And while she was cuter than any human had a right to be, he hadn’t fallen in love with her because of her looks. He hadn’t fallen in love because she was great in bed, either, or because of what she might think of him.

For once in his life, he had fallen in love because it was impossible not to do so.

He had thought he had been happy before Megan, but he now knew what true happiness was. She was a force of nature. Funny and alive. She had taught him not to put on airs, to stay grounded and humble. To retain a sense of joy, of optimism, each and every day.

She was short and slightly built, but she had enough personality to fill a room, a spirit of kindness that could fill a stadium. Had they both been married to other people when they met, Hall knew he still would have fallen in love with her. She was gravity, and he was a piano pushed out of a skyscraper.

The fact that she had fallen in love with him, too, was nothing short of a miracle. He had met her when he didn’t know himself, when his memory was gone, when he had the chance to see the world clearly, without any baggage. Rediscover what was important in life. Had he met her as he was before, he wouldn’t have given her a second look, or a first chance.

He had been a good man, but too arrogant, too self-involved, too superficial. She would not have loved the man he was. But he had been reborn in her presence, and she had given him the balance to use his newfound abilities without ego, to stay positive on humanity, despite the darkness and hidden evils he found in far too many minds.

He would do everything in his power to make her proud. To never disappoint.

“Pick up the pace, Nick!” said Briarwood brusquely, oblivious to the emotions the soon-to-be married couple were wearing on their faces. “Our ride awaits, and you’ve got an attack to stop.”

Hall glanced at Patek. “What about him?”

“He’ll be moved to a prison cell on base long before he wakes up,” said the captain.

“Have him stay in the jet, under guard,” said Hall. “That will make it easier for me to find his mind if I need to.”

“I’ll see to it,” said Briarwood.

Hall nodded and followed the captain and the other four members of the team as they piled off the jet and onto the runway. He drew in a deep breath. The air was clear, the sky a brilliant blue, visibility out to infinity, and no humidity or wind. Another day in paradise.

Perfect conditions to rain poison from above.

Hall had researched the effects of sarin gas as he was boarding the jet in Utah. If inciting terror was the goal, a sarin attack was surely the way to achieve it. Those afflicted died as horribly as a human could possibly die. Being blown apart or shot to death was horrific, as well, but at least tended to be mercifully quick.

Sarin was in a class of drugs known as cholinesterase inhibitors, which wreaked havoc on the body’s neurotransmitters. Within seconds of exposure, a victim’s chest would tighten, his or her vision would blur, and the gas would begin to wring out every secretion the body could produce. Mucus would pour from a victim’s nose and down his or her face, adding to uncontrollable tears and the drool and vomit pouring from a victim’s mouth. The bowels and bladder would evacuate. Depending on the dose, convulsions, paralysis, and death would follow. But not immediately. In some cases, not for five or ten minutes.

Before Hall could dwell on these horrors further, four navy officers approached and greeted the team. After the military personnel exchanged salutes, a bald admiral reached out to shake hands with first Hall, then Megan.

“I’m Larry Dinkoff, the base commander,” he said by way of introduction. “I was told you two are John and Jane Doe.” He raised his eyebrows. “So I guess you two are brother and sister,” he added wryly.

Megan shook her head. “Husband and wife. With two kids at home,” she added with a grin. “Play Doe and uh . . . Tae Kwon Doe.”

Everyone groaned as the group was ushered toward a large helicopter, twenty yards away, and Admiral Dinkoff introduced them to the two pilots who would be taking them up.

“Both have been given clear orders to follow your every command,” he told Hall. “Secondarily, the commands of anyone in your group. No questions asked.” Dinkoff paused. “I’ve been told the same thing. To carry out any orders from you as if they came from the commander-in-chief. Any idea who told me this?”

Hall shook his head.

“The commander-in-chief,” said the admiral. “President Cochran himself.”

He studied Hall for any reaction, but the man seemed unsurprised by the president’s involvement.

“I also have the base on full alert,” continued Dinkoff. “I was told to be ready for any eventuality regarding a possible terrorist threat involving drones and sarin gas.”

“Thank you, Admiral,” said Briarwood.

As the pilots boarded the helo to begin preparing for takeoff, one of the men standing with  Dinkoff, a lieutenant who had not been introduced, removed a syringe from his pocket with a long needle and expelled a drop of liquid from the tip.

“This is Dr. Paul Mulwitz,” explained the admiral. “I was told to have an elephant-sized dose of a stimulant administered to Mr. Doe here before he took off. Enough to wake the dead. Whoever you are,” he said to Hall with the hint of a smile, “looks like you’ll be flying higher than the helo. Or at least you’ll be more charged up.”

Hall held out his arm without protest. When Mulwitz slipped the needle in, he was too tired and preoccupied to even notice. He had told Megan earlier that even IV coffee wouldn’t help him come to life, but at the time he was just being ironic, having no idea this never-ending day would continue past his interrogation of Abu Patek. Girdler hadn’t heard this comment, but was putting Hall’s theory to the test.

Hall was relieved that the general had thought of it, since this stimulant was likely to be the difference between success and failure. His admiration for the man continued to grow. Justin Girdler didn’t miss much.

“I was told to supply you with a Pave Hawk and two pilots, Captain Briarwood,” said the admiral. “Period. I understand that you and Lieutenant Guest are competent to act as flight engineer and gunner if necessary.”

“That’s correct,” said the captain.

Hall studied the large, single rotor helicopter in front of him, which he now knew was a Pave Hawk, while information about the vehicle magically flooded into his consciousness. It was an aging cousin of the more famous Black Hawk, known for its advanced electronics and used principally for the insertion and recovery of special operations teams, and for search and rescue missions.

The current assignment certainly fit this latter mission. They knew what they were searching for, all right. If only they knew who it was they were trying to rescue.

The military possessed many newer and more impressive birds, but many of these might incite panic if they were hovering over downtown San Diego, and the Pave Hawk provided everything they would need to get the job done.

Provided Hall could do his part. Something that was far from a guarantee, despite his earlier bravado.

Just as they were about to board the Pave Hawk, Hall turned to Sergeant Plaskett. “Joey, I’d like you to stay behind with Megan.”

Plaskett opened his mouth to object, but given the base commander had been told to follow Hall’s every order without question, how could he do otherwise? “Roger that,” he said, his tone unable to hide his disappointment.

“There is no way I’m not coming with you,” sent Megan telepathically.

“There is no way you are,” replied Hall the same way. “I love you too much to keep putting you in danger. And there’s no reason for it this time. We have no idea what we’ll be facing. As much as I love your moral support, I won’t risk it.”

Like Plaskett, she wanted to argue the point, but he knew she wouldn’t waste further time when every second counted.

“Goddammit, Nick!” she thought at him petulantly as he boarded the helo. “You had better be careful. And report back as often as you can.”

“Roger that,” he sent back as the helicopter lifted off the runway and rose into the glorious blue sky.

13

Justin Girdler glanced down at the climbing shoes he still wore and wondered when he might find the minute or two it would take to change them. Not anytime soon, he decided.

“Nick and the team just took off from Coronado,” he reported from inside the operations center of THT’s headquarters.

The two men with him, Mike Campbell and Alex Altschuler, simply nodded, not taking the time to tear their eyes from a series of enormous monitors that covered the entire length of a fifty-foot wall. Along with Nick Hall, Megan Emerson, and Heather Zambrana, these two men formed THT’s core team. Heather was Altschuler’s wife now, although Girdler wasn’t certain this marriage would hold up in court. After all, the brilliant scientist was legally deceased, and the phrase, “I now pronounce you corpse and wife,” wasn’t often heard in marriage ceremonies.

When Altschuler had gone along with Girdler’s plans to bury BrainWeb, he may have thrown away hundreds of billions of dollars, but he was still worth billions. The technology and algorithms for the flawless translation of thoughts may have been thought lost, but the implants’ ability to convert external signals to sight and sound represented the cure for deafness and blindness, and Theia Labs was moving forward with this. His will had left all of his shares in Theia to Heather, who had already cashed out two billion dollars worth, in case she or her dead husband needed any petty cash.

THT had been gradually adding members, but only a select few knew the true nature of its charter. The warehouse offered many times more space than the secret organization would need for some time to come, with half being used as an indoor parking lot, hiding cars so as not to shatter the illusion that the structure was largely abandoned.

Those who worked at the warehouse would only enter and park when sensors and satellites monitoring the roads and skies indicated the coast was clear. While the outside of the warehouse was left an eyesore, no expense had been spared to convert the inside into a brightly lighted modern office complex equal to the nerve center of a major global corporation, with the most advanced computers and electronics anywhere, and communications that tied directly to President Cochran and the sixteen intelligence gathering agencies in America that collectively employed hundreds of thousands of men and women.

THT was a dust mite next to the mastodon of the US intelligence apparatus, but its power was unparalleled. Nick Hall’s contributions just that morning easily outdid months of work by all other intelligence agencies combined.

Military construction workers, hidden from the view of any road, had used marble and fine wood on THT’s floors and offices and huge panels of bulletproof glass, opaque and camouflaged from the outside, to create skylights and panoramic windows. A large open-air courtyard was carved out in the center, in which small trees and other foliage now thrived.

Girdler considered leaving the operations center to lie on his back in the courtyard, but decided against it. The change of setting might well spark the inspiration he so desperately sought, but he also needed to be where he was. Not only to stand shoulder to shoulder with two men he greatly admired, but because here he had instant access to communications and the NSA’s Expert System, nicknamed Nessie, which represented the most sophisticated supercomputer ever built.

Nessie was artificially intelligent, but not quite a full-fledged AI, thankfully, for those worried about a sentient Skynet destroying humanity.

But she wasn’t all that far off, either.

She might one day evolve further and destroy the world, but for now she was tasked with applying her considerable talents to protecting THT, overseeing security of the building and its tenants.

Think! Girdler ordered himself. What was he missing? What stone had he failed to overturn?

They had to find a way to stop the attack, even if Nick Hall failed. While Girdler was racing from the climbing gym back to headquarters he had brought his two colleagues up to speed and had tasked Nessie with searching through all of the data they had on Victor, and all other implant recipients as well. Victor may not have been responsible for the drone, after all, or someone else might be able to shed some useful light on its operation.

It had taken Nessie almost a millionth of a second to complete the search he had outlined, an eternity for a system of her power and speed, which reflected the difficulty of the problem. They had months of data generated just from Victor’s implants, every active surface thought, every sight, every sound, everything he had read, or had done, or had discussed, every second of every day. It was an avalanche of information.

And if Victor had read any reports that touched on the drone in question, they would be disguised with code names, not marked “specs on the advanced drones sold to ISIS for use in a future sarin attack.” Victor was all about stealth and circumspection.

In that millionth of a second, Nessie had returned hundreds of documents, thoughts, and bits of conversation that might be relevant, but those that Altschuler and Campbell had skimmed through so far had been dead ends. Girdler had taken on a stack of electronic documents himself, but paused in this activity periodically to rack his brain, try to think outside the box, find an angle he had missed.

But so far inspiration was in no danger of striking him.

“I think I’ve found it,” said Altschuler triumphantly, pulling Girdler from his desperate mental flailing. The scientist expanded the document he had been reading and sent it to the right side of the wall of monitors, each page appearing as big as a man. “Can’t be positive, but I’d bet these are the specs for the drone in question.”

Girdler studied the pages laid out on the screen, but if there were drone specs present they were imbedded in enough technical jargon to choke anyone but Alex Altschuler. Not only was Altschuler a genius, he also possessed BrainWeb implants, allowing him to access scientific information he needed for cross-referencing or other purposes at the speed of thought.

Girdler and Campbell had both been given the opportunity to have implants installed as well, but both had passed, since there were precious few sets remaining and they were men who were set in their ways.

“First, general characteristics,” said Altschuler. “It’s an octocopter. Eight arms, eight rotors, each made from military grade hardened plastic. A perfect circle, five feet in diameter, so about the same size as the top of a small, round kitchen table. It can carry up to seventy-five pounds and remain airborne for up to four hours.”

Altschuler paused, and when he continued, he was unable to keep admiration from his voice, despite the horrible death this device was poised to deliver. “And now for the truly novel end of the spectrum,” he said. “This is one amazing drone. Better even than Nick led you to believe.”

“In what way?” said Girdler.

“First, its invisibility cloak, as Nick called it, is revolutionary. Well beyond anything we’re even attempting in our most advanced labs.”

“Why hasn’t Victor incorporated this technology into manned aircraft?” asked the general.

“It basically generates a bubble around the craft that cancels or scrambles light and other EM radiation,” said Altschuler. “But this bubble of invisibility weakens exponentially with increased volume and rapidly becomes unstable.”

“So in plain English,” said Campbell, “it can only hide relatively small objects, like a drone?”

“Exactly,” said Altschuler.

“What else?” said Girdler.

“It’s much faster than any drone now in use. It can sustain speeds of over two hundred miles per hour.”

Girdler frowned deeply. This drone was fast enough to give the Pave Hawk a run for its money. Perhaps they had been hasty in their choice of equipment.

“Finally,” continued Altschuler, “it can disrupt all communications in its proximity, within about a fifty-yard radius. Not enough information here for me to fully understand the method used, but it’s novel and quite innovative.”

“You’re sure of all this?” said Colonel Campbell.

“Not a hundred percent, but I think I’m interpreting the science and technical specs correctly. This drone isn’t just an advancement, it contains breakthroughs on three different fronts. The signal-jamming technology alone could be highly disruptive, and something we’ll need to get a handle on for the future. Bottom line is that if this drone gets to within fifty yards of you, you aren’t communicating. Period. Cell, Internet, sat phone, nothing will work.”

“So the more we learn, the worse this gets,” said Campbell in frustration. “I was kind of hoping it would go the other way.”

Girdler’s expression soured. They had hoped for a weakness but had only found more strength. These next-level drones were lethal little bastards in their own right, never mind the sarin gas. Even so, the better they understood what they were up against, the better their chances.

“Nessie,” he said to the ever vigilant AI, “send a text message to our team in San Diego and let them know about this new intel on the drone.”

Hall and Altschuler had set their implants to act as an instant communication conduit between them, but it was better to have the message sent through more normal channels.

“Done,” said Nessie simply, and then a few seconds later added, “Captain Briarwood has acknowledged receipt of my message.”

“Alex, please tell me you found something else,” said Mike Campbell. “Something that can help us stop these things. They have to have some weakness. What about disable codes?”

Altschuler shook his head. “The design is as foolproof as I’ve ever seen. How are Victor’s people able to outdo the best and brightest in our own Black labs?”

“He’s brilliant in his own right,” replied Girdler. “And he pays ten times what we do. He also breaks into legitimate corporate and military labs around the world, so he has access to all the best stuff everywhere. And he’s daring and spares no expense to get it right.”

Altschuler was staring off into space, and it was clear he hadn’t heard a word Girdler had just said. “An EMP burst would stop the drone,” he said. “That’s one thing I am sure of.”

Girdler shook his head. “Good to know, Alex, but the results of this would be worse than the attack we’re trying to stop. We might as well declare war on the city of San Diego.”

A high altitude EMP burst was a nightmare scenario countries had been dreading for decades. The pulse would fry all electronics and any technology making use of the electromagnetic spectrum, which modern civilization was completely dependent upon. Cars would be temporarily transformed into paperweights.

All drones would fall from the sky, yes, but so would all commercial and military aircraft. The power grid would be smashed, and every computer, every monitor, every cell phone would be fried beyond repair.

“General Girdler,” said Nessie in a soothing feminine voice, “I believe there is new technology that might allow this plan to work.”

Girdler’s pulse quickened. There were so many top secret developments occurring around the country, and his responsibilities were so great, he couldn’t possibly keep up with all intel and all developments. But Nessie could. So he had long ago ordered her to jump in any time she thought he was missing something important.

“Please elaborate,” said Girdler.

“The technology is still experimental,” she explained. “It’s called an EMP Cannon. Non-nuclear, but able to create an EMP burst just as powerful as one stemming from a nuclear explosion. Except in this case the burst is contained within a small and precisely defined area. Generates a powerful cone of disruption, but one that only extends out to about one hundred eighty yards. The pulse is entirely directional, and only affects technology inside this cone.”

“Ring a bell with you, Mike?” said Girdler.

Campbell shrugged. “Never heard of it,” he said. “You and I need to get out more,” he added with a wry smile.

Girdler allowed himself the briefest of smiles in return. “Where can I find one of these?” he asked Nessie.

“Prototypes have been sent out to each of twelve select military bases on the East and West Coasts for limited tests far out over the ocean. Pendleton has one, and so does Coronado.”

“I assume the helos flying the prototype EMP Cannons for testing are insulated from its effects,” said Altschuler. “Otherwise, they’d go down themselves if they tried to test it, correct?”

“That is correct,” said Nessie. “The EMP device has already been installed inside a modified helicopter at the naval base in Coronado. Essentially, the shell of the aircraft has been constructed to act as a Faraday cage, and all electronic components within are protected by individual cages. They’ve now tested the Cannon three times without any loss of aircraft functionality.”

“That’s great,” said Girdler. “But to use it on the drone, we’d still need to know where it was within a hundred yards or so.”

“That is essentially correct,” said Nessie.

Girdler rubbed his chin in thought. “Assuming we could figure out where to point our EMP Cannon,” he said, “we’d also have to be sure this wouldn’t release the gas.”

“That would depend on the canister,” said Altschuler. “Most likely it has valves that are electronically controlled. If so, frying the electronics will trap the sarin inside.”

“Most likely?” said Campbell.

“It could be effectively built as a mechanical system as well,” admitted the scientist.

“Nessie,” said Girdler, “where is Nick Hall?”

“GPS and Coronado computers place him in a Pave Hawk helicopter hovering near the center of downtown San Diego.”

“Open a communications link to him,” said the general.

“Opened,” replied Nessie.

“Nick, it’s Justin Girdler,” he said. “Sorry to be a distraction. I assume you haven’t found anything useful.”

“Not yet,” said Hall, the exhaustion coming through clearly in this voice. How spent must he really be to sound like this after getting such a massive dose of stimulant?

“If you’re over downtown, you should still be well within mind-reading range of Abu Patek, correct?” said Girdler.

“That’s right,” said Hall. “Why?”

“Need to know everything he knows about the workings of the canister. Most importantly, is the release of the sarin controlled electronically, or only mechanically?”

“Hold on,” said Hall. Less than a minute later he was back. “It’s controlled electronically. Patek tested it himself. Like the drone, pretty advanced stuff. Computerized. They left nothing to chance. Sensors measure altitude, wind speed, humidity, and modulate the release for maximum spread and uniformity of coverage.”

“This may play into our hands,” said Girdler. “We have the ability to generate a controlled, short-range EMP. It will make the drone visible, down it, and fry the electronics in the sarin canister, which Alex believes will seal the gas in.” He paused. “Do you agree with this assessment, Nessie?” he asked the AI.

“Yes. I calculate the chances the gas will leak after the proposed EMP attack are less than five percent.”

Girdler sighed. Still risky, but what other choice did they have? And this did expand their options. Their first hope was that Hall could identify whoever was guiding the drone on the ground and read the information from his mind necessary to take control. But now, if the drone had been set on auto-pilot, setting it irrevocably on its course, this gave them another chance.

The problem was that success was still dependent on the mind reader. If he didn’t tell them approximately where to point their EMP shotgun, they were nowhere.

“Hold on,” said Hall. “I think I read something problematic. Need to check Patek’s memories again.”

After a brief pause, he added, “Bad news. It won’t work, no matter what. It’s Patek’s understanding that based on dispersal kinetics, the gas is set to be released at an altitude of fifteen hundred feet. But the canister has a failsafe mechanism, a dead man’s switch so to speak. Even if the electronics trap the gas inside, there is a mechanical pressure gauge attached. Once the canister gets above five hundred feet the failsafe is set, and there is no turning back. After this, the canister will blow automatically if it ever goes below this altitude again.”

“Shit!” said Girdler. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” he thundered, surprised by how concentrated his own bottled-up stress had become.

He took a deep breath to calm himself. “Thanks, Nick. I’m going to get out of your ear now and let you do your thing. Sorry for the distraction. Good luck and Godspeed.”

“Thanks,” said Hall weakly. “We’re going to need both of these things.”

14

If a terrorist with knowledge of the coming sarin attack was anywhere in downtown San Diego, or within a five-mile radius, Nick Hall was failing, and failing big.

They had hovered over the center of the city now for fifteen minutes while he let tens of thousands of voices wash over him, drown him, bury him under an ocean of thought, waiting for his subconscious to miraculously find the one mind thrilled in anticipation of a horror to come, of a mass casualty event that would bring honor and glory to Allah.

He let his unconscious become the conductor of a thousand-piece orchestra, straining to hear the single discordant note within a monumentally complex symphony.

But either the note wasn’t being struck or he was failing to hear it.

Either way, if he continued his efforts for even another minute his brain would surely burst. He held his head in both hands and squeezed, as though trying to contain the explosion about to happen within.

If he had missed the terrorist behind the attack, he was dooming thousands of innocents to a horrible death, and he would have to live with this knowledge forever. Still, there was nothing he could do. It was time to move on.

He had already cleared the geography to the west of the city. The Pave Hawk had torn over the Pacific with a purpose, weaving in the complicated search pattern its computer had dictated. There had been mercifully few seagoing vessels due west of downtown, which limited the number of minds through which he needed to sift. The view of the never-ending blue-green of the ocean was majestic, but Hall’s eyes had been closed, and he barely managed to keep vomit at bay as the helicopter had completed a series of sharp turns and circles to cover the area as efficiently as possible.

Had they not moved on to hover above the city when they had, he would surely have been wearing his lunch, which is the only way this could have gotten any worse. Luckily, Kevin Wellman had found some anti-nausea medication to give him, so this would not be a problem on the last leg of their search.

“We’re done here,” he told the pilots, his voice strained and weary. “For now. Fly ten miles east of here. Start the same search pattern we used over the ocean, working our way farther east.”

The pilots confirmed his command, having no idea what their guests were trying to accomplish, since they didn’t appear to be looking for anything on the ground, or doing anything else for that matter.

And the man who was giving them orders appeared to be on the verge of collapse.

The pilots knew better than to ask any questions, but this man’s eyes were haunted, and his expression was so tortured they wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that an invisible sadist was pulling out his fingernails with pliers as they flew.

15

“Nick says they’re planning to release the gas at fifteen hundred feet,” said Girdler right after the connection with Hall had ended. “Why so high? Doesn’t make sense to me.”

“I understand why you’re confused,” said Alex Altschuler. “Most people would guess the optimal release point would be only ten or twenty feet above target level.”

“Exactly. Wouldn’t the gas spread out too much if released so high overhead?” said the general. “Get too diluted?”

Altschuler shook his head. “I’m sure they’ve done extensive testing and this altitude was chosen to maximize the coverage of target, which might be quite a large area. Don’t think of it simply as gas that will rapidly disperse in the air. It is likely a heavy colloidal suspension, or an aerosol, which might also be tied into another gas that is far heavier than air, like sulfur hexafluoride.”

“I’m not sure what that means,” admitted Girdler.

“Just trust me,” said the scientist. “They’ve done the proper experiments and calculations. They know how long it will take for the aerosol to fall to earth from this height, and this will be the exact length of time required for it to spread out from its release point to blanket every inch of the target area.”

“Given this is the case,” said Girdler thoughtfully, “doesn’t this give us a small window? I mean, the controlled EMP would solve our problem if not for the dead man’s switch, right? Say we knock out the drone at fifteen hundred feet. The automatic release of the gas won’t happen until the drone’s fallen to five hundred feet.”

He shook his head in sudden determination. “There has to be a way to catch a falling drone before it’s dropped a thousand feet,” he insisted. “Has to be. Nessie, anything available? Some kind of science fictional tractor beam?”

“No tractor beam,” replied Nessie, “but there is something available. It’s called the X81 Drone Falcon, developed for just such a purpose. A drone-catching drone patterned after the bird of prey from which it gets its name. The X81 Falcon is a drone that swoops down toward its target drone and fires a large net at it, which remains tethered to the X81.”

Girdler felt an electric surge travel through his body. Perfect! “Does the naval base have one on hand?”

“No. But Pendleton does. They can fly it there in ten minutes. Would you like me to issue this as an urgent, priority one order using THT’s authorization codes?”

“Yes, immediately,” said Girdler.

“Done,” said Nessie.

“As the only civilian in the room,” said Altschuler, “do you want to walk me through what you’re envisioning, General?”

“Certainly,” said Girdler. “As soon as the X81 Falcon is delivered to the naval base,” he began, “we load it aboard the modified helo carrying the EMP Cannon, where it should be insulated from the effects of the burst. We then get the helo airborne and at the ready. When Nick learns approximately where we can expect the drone to be, we blanket that area with our targeted EMP. Two things will happen immediately. The drone will become visible, and it will drop from the sky, with the sarin safely inside its canister.”

Altschuler nodded. “So you wait until an instant after the EMP Cannon is fired to release the Falcon Drone,” he said, “so it won’t be affected by the EMP, correct?”

“Exactly,” said Girdler. “The Falcon will then snare the falling drone, keep it above five hundred feet, and drag it off over an empty stretch of the Pacific, where it can then drop it.”

“Sounds like a workable plan,” said Campbell. “Hopefully, we won’t need it. With any luck, Nick will be able to wrest control of the drone from the terrorists. But if it’s on auto-pilot and its course can’t be changed, we’ll still need Nick to learn the precise target and time of strike, or none of this will do us any good.”

The general nodded solemnly. Hall had always come through in the past. But they had been unable to come up with any plan for stopping the attack without another one of his miracles, and so far he was striking out.

“If anyone can manage to pull this rabbit out of his hat,” said Girdler, “it’s Nick Hall.”

While this was true, he said it without conviction, and he wasn’t inspiring anyone, himself included. Because he had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that they had been too lucky for too long, and that their lucky streak was about to end.

16

“Got them!” said Hall triumphantly as an adrenaline spike temporarily jolted him from his coma-like state.

The pilots exchanged glances and shook their heads as they continued their easterly search pattern. What did that mean? Were they taking orders from a raving lunatic?

Hall hadn’t so much found the two terrorists as their hateful, violent thoughts had cut through the unholy background din and found him, stabbing into his tortured mind.

He reeled as he realized that their malevolence wasn’t directed at the target of a sarin attack. It was directed at a Pave Hawk helicopter.

The one he was now in.

Hall grasped the situation in an instant. ISIS had deployed all ten of their drones for this mission, leaving nothing to chance. Eight had been patrolling San Diego, in the unlikely event the US got wind of what was about to happen. The two terrorists had been tracking the Pave Hawk for some time now, and had deduced it was searching for them. Now that it was getting close, they had decided to do something about it.

Each of these drones was the perfect weapon. Undetectable, they could be crashed into a larger craft like a guided missile, impossible to see coming.

The terrorists’ mental elation at the imminent destruction of the helicopter, their anticipation of stabbing at the heart of their enemy, was deafening. Hall could see through their eyes. It was as if they were playing a video game. Each watched a monitor displaying the progress of the Pave Hawk, and each controlled four drones that also appeared on the screen.

Hall’s breath caught in his throat.

All eight drones were converging on the Pave Hawk in a big, big hurry.

“Dive! Dive! Dive!” Hall shouted at the pilots. “Invisible drones coming at us from all sides, seconds away. Immediate evasive action!” he added, having heard this in an old Star Trek episode and having no idea if this was a real command.

The instant he shouted his warning, Hall tried to use his implants to beam what he had learned to his teammates in Utah and Coronado in case he didn’t make it, but the Internet was down. All communication was down.

The two pilots must have realized this the moment he did, which is what saved them. They had been warned the drones could kill communications if they were nearby, so they knew Hall’s desperate command wasn’t so crazy after all.

The helo dived straight down like a rocket launched in the wrong direction. Hall fought to ignore his abject terror as the ground raced toward him and G-forces and nausea threatened to sever his psionic connection.

He had to stay in the terrorists’ minds. Had to see what they saw.

“Bank right!” screamed Hall in a panic as he noted that one of the men was positioning a drone in the path of their descent. The helo jerked to one side, missing the drone by inches, with only one man knowing how close a call it had been.

“Climb!” barked Hall, and then a second later, “Bank left!”

They were now over a wooded campground area and moving ever closer to the terrorists’ location in the woods.

“Continue evasive maneuvers and land in that clearing!” commanded Hall, pointing to an opening in the trees the size of a basketball court.

He continued to shout out instructions, and the pilots did a brilliant job of carrying them out as they approached the clearing, ducking and dodging invisible bogeys with dizzying changes of direction and gut-wrenching drops, not questioning how their guest knew what moves to make, just happy they remained unscathed.

But as they approached the clearing they were forced to slow, and there were too many drones, moving too quickly. One finally managed to slam into the rotor just as the Pave Hawk neared its landing, mangling the propeller and causing the now-wingless bird to fall the last twenty feet to the dirt.

The pilots fought the beast all the way down, somehow managing to hit the ground upright and at a glancing angle. Even so, the craft impacted the ground with bone-jarring force and skidded to a stop against a tree stationed at the very edge of the clearing.

Nick Hall’s head slammed into a bulkhead and he lost his connection to the two terrorists, but not before reading their awareness that the crash may have left survivors, and their excitement at having the chance to personally remedy this situation.

They would arrive at the site of the crash in minutes. But try as he might to cling to consciousness, his tenuous grip could hold no more, and he slipped quietly into the bottomless void.

17

“General,” said Nessie urgently, interrupting him in mid-sentence. “We’ve lost all communication with the Pave Hawk, including GPS.”

“Display its last known location on the screen,” he commanded.

Nessie did as requested, but the satellite map she depicted was of little help.

“Do we have any reports of a helicopter sighting in this area?” asked Campbell. “Or a crash?”

“Checking,” said Nessie. “Scanning police communications, medical, fire, 9-1-1—nothing so far. Personal and business phone traffic—also nothing.”

“Maybe they found the drone and it’s jamming them,” suggested Campbell.

“Maybe,” said the general. “But this area is relatively unpopulated, so this can’t be the drone’s final destination.”

“The terrorists could also be deploying their advanced jamming technology from the ground,” said Altschuler.

“Whatever is going on, we can’t afford to be blind and deaf,” said Girdler. “Nessie, get a satellite pointed at the Pave Hawk’s last known position as soon as possible, highest priority.”

“Acknowledged,” said Nessie. “When the satellite imagery is ready, I’ll send it straight to the monitor.”

“Good,” said Girdler.

“We should also get Megan airborne immediately,” said Campbell. “Coronado can scramble its fastest helo and get her within telepathic range of Nick in less than ten minutes. She’ll be able to determine their exact status and act as a communications relay if the Pave Hawk’s comm systems remain jammed.”

Girdler nodded, thankful, as always, that he had the honor and privilege of leading what he considered to be the most impressive group of people ever assembled. “Good thought, Mike,” he replied. Sending Megan was an excellent idea. He just wished he had someone on the team left to accompany her.

The chopper with the EMP device installed had just taken off, and Joey Plaskett was on board, on Girdler’s orders. The Navy personnel on Coronado didn’t know that Girdler existed, but they did have strict instructions to follow all orders from Hall and his teammates, so sending Plaskett allowed Girdler to retain seamless command and control of the operation. He only wished he had another Plaskett to send with Megan.

“Nessie,” said the general, “relay orders under THT’s command codes to Admiral Dinkoff, urgent, priority one. Have him get his fastest helo ready for takeoff within four minutes, sooner if possible. Tell him we need it to make best speed to the Pave Hawk’s last known position, with Megan Emerson on board, accompanied by three SEALS. And remind him that her word is law on this mission.”

“Orders have been relayed,” reported Nessie.

“Good,” said Girdler. He paused to be sure there was nothing he was missing. He didn’t think so, but it was impossible to be certain. “Now open a line to Megan Emerson,” he commanded.

“Opened,” said Nessie. “And Admiral Dinkoff has acknowledged the orders and will escort Megan to the helicopter himself, an upgraded AH-99 Apache.”

Girdler nodded. He got on the line with Megan and hastily explained the situation. Minutes later she was in the air.

“Are communications on the Pave Hawk still down?” he asked the AI the moment she had taken off.

“As far as we know, yes,” replied Nessie.

Girdler frowned deeply. What could possibly be going on? he asked himself for the hundredth time.

Whatever it was, he had high hopes they would know in just a few minutes, courtesy of a telepathic connection that could not be jammed.

But as he glanced at the digital clock on the monitor, he knew that they were rapidly running out of time, and that a few minutes might just be a few minutes too many.

18

Sergeant Kevin Wellman screamed into Hall’s mind with all of his might. He wasn’t telepathic, but he knew the more visceral his thoughts the more penetrating they would be, and his visceral panic could not have been more genuine.

Wake up, Nick! he blasted at his friend.

He watched his captors through lidded eyes, and when they moved out of earshot he kicked Hall savagely in the leg. Nothing. He might as well have kicked a corpse. The only way he knew he hadn’t was the shallow rise and fall of Hall’s chest.

Nick, wake up! Wake up or we’re both dead!

Nothing. There was no way to reach him. The man had been mentally depleted to the depths of his soul before the crash landing, and now he was fighting physical trauma to his brain as well. Hall was probably relishing this sleep, almost longing for the peace that death would bring him.

Wellman’s eyes widened as he realized that there was one death that would motivate Hall, far more than his own.

Nick, dammit, wake up now or Megan will die!

Wellman focused all his mental energy on images of Megan Emerson being beaten. Of men slicing into her arms and legs with razor-sharp knives as blood gushed around the blades. Of acid being poured onto her face and eating its way through the skin as she writhed and screamed in agony. Wellman sent every horror-movie scene of psychopathic torture he had ever watched in a steady, relentless barrage at his friend, with Megan Emerson as the victim in each case.

Wake up, Nick! Megan is dying!

Hall’s consciousness rushed back to him in a blind panic. Megan! he thought in horror. No! he mentally screamed as tears began to form in eyes that were still closed.

Just as he was about to scream out loud he realized he couldn’t actually sense Megan anywhere nearby. He explored further.

She wasn’t being tortured.

None of this horrific imagery had originated from Megan. Instead, he discovered, it had all come from Kevin Wellman, who had used Hall’s love for her to light a psychic blowtorch that had been impossible for him to ignore, jolting him fully awake.

It was a despicable thing to do.

But it was also brilliant, and utterly necessary.

He and Wellman were both prisoners in a rustic cabin in the woods, and both were sitting on the floor with their wrists cuffed together behind them with plastic straps. While all communications weren’t being jammed inside the cabin, the terrorists who had downed them, Hassan Salam and Abdul Rehmani, had been instructed to block all Wi-Fi signals so they wouldn’t be tempted to connect to the Internet, which would make their computers vulnerable to scrutiny.

Which meant that Nick Hall couldn’t connect to the Internet, either.

The two ISIS terrorists were just completing the task of sending all of their remaining drones to strategic locations between here and downtown San Diego to continue their watchdog mission. Since they weren’t watching their two prisoners at the moment, Hall took the occasion to nudge Kevin Wellman and shoot him a wink before slamming his eyes shut once again.

Wellman’s mental images of Megan being tortured immediately ceased and were replaced by thoughts of pure elation. Thank God you’re okay, Nick, he thought as hard as he could. Keep your eyes closed. They’re leaving us alone until you regain consciousness. I know you’ll use your abilities to get us out of this. I’ll follow your lead when you come up with something. Move your right pinky if you’ve read these thoughts.

Hall moved his right pinky ever so slightly—eliciting a burst of pure joy from Wellman—and then went to work reconstructing how he had come to be here, darting between the minds of Kevin Wellman and the two ISIS terrorists.

Two men had died instantly during the crash landing, including one of the pilots, who had cracked his skull against the Pave Hawk’s front windshield, and Chris Guest, who had been stabbed through the neck with a sharp piece of helicopter shrapnel. Floyd Briarwood had been thrown from the craft and had rolled under a tree, out of sight of the clearing. Since he had been knocked out cold, Hall could no longer read his presence, but Wellman had rushed to where the captain had ended up and had confirmed his pulse was strong.

The ISIS savages had never seen Briarwood. If they had, he would certainly be dead right now.

Hall and the other pilot had both blacked out as well. Only Wellman had retained consciousness, although he had been stunned and was bleeding from any number of cuts. After confirming Briarwood was alive, Wellman had lifted Hall in a fireman’s carry into the woods, taking great pains to hide him in a patch of thick undergrowth.

Unfortunately, Salam and Rehmani had arrived on the scene quickly and quietly enough to have observed Wellman’s attempts to conceal Hall. Their plan had been to kill everyone they found, except for one man they would spare temporarily for interrogation purposes.

But they were fascinated by Wellman. He could have fled and saved himself. He could have attempted to ambush anyone who came to investigate. Instead, he had risked leaving himself totally vulnerable to protect this one man.

Why was this man so important? How was he able to command such loyalty and sacrifice?

Wellman’s efforts to save Hall’s life by hiding him had failed, but, ironically, the fact that he had risked so much just to make the attempt had ended up saving his life just the same.

The ISIS terrorists carried assault rifles and were able to easily capture Wellman, preoccupied as he was. The sergeant could only watch helplessly as they shot the unconscious pilot in the head at point-blank range.

Finally, Rehmani, the brighter of the two terrorists, came up with an experiment. He told Wellman he would only keep one man alive, and asked him to choose who this should be. Predictably, Wellman chose the man he had been trying to protect. The fact that Wellman was willing to die to keep this man alive underscored his importance.

The man now unconscious was the one they needed to interrogate.

But Rehmani had decided to keep Wellman alive as well, since there was no guarantee that the other would ever wake up, and they needed to assure themselves they would have one man left to interrogate.

Hall read all of this in seconds. The sacrifice Wellman had tried to make for him was stunning, but he didn’t have time to focus on this or thank the man—this would have to come later. For now he needed to focus on the coming sarin attack.

He quickly read everything that Salam and Rehmani knew about the attack. Rehmani had launched the drone with the sarin canister almost an hour before they had been shot down. It was on autopilot, as they had feared might be the case, and no human could alter its course. The attack was set for seven p.m. exactly. It had almost certainly reached its final destination by now, but neither of the terrorists knew where that was.

The target had been pre-programmed in and they had been purposely left in the dark. The drone possessed sophisticated sensors and a central computer programmed to trigger the sarin’s early release if it detected that the target site was being evacuated in any way.

The head of ISIS, a butcher named Sayed Nazry, had chosen the target and orchestrated the attack personally, and both of the men chosen to safeguard the attack were convinced it would be extraordinary. They were so eager to find out what Nazry had planned they were practically salivating. The target would not just be a run-of-the-mill stadium or park, but something that would make a profound statement. Something that would be remembered for eternity.

They believed this because they knew Sayed Nazry well, especially Rehmani, who was his nephew. Nazry longed to produce an attack that would scar the West forever, cutting far more deeply than even a large number of casualties alone would accomplish. And he had paid an exorbitant premium to purchase ten drones from Victor on an exclusive basis, making sure he retained the element of surprise on the global stage.

Nazry was well aware that terrorists and anti-terror forces had been locked in a deadly tug-of-war for decades. A technology and strategy arms race. Evolution in action. A constant battle by predator and prey to outdo each other, to adapt to each other’s evolving capabilities.

The terrorists would come up with an attack they hadn’t tried before—like flying jumbo jets into skyscrapers—and the West would scramble to respond. Novel attacks had a limited lifespan, often only able to work a single time before the West learned how to defeat them, or defend against them.

So a first attack using a new method or a breakthrough technology needed to be spectacular, because it could well be the only chance they got. And Sayed Nazry had held on to these drones for a long, long time. He had been very patient.

So it stood to reason that when he finally decided to strike, it wouldn’t be just another racetrack, or even a Comic-Con for that matter. It would be something that would deliver a devastating psychological blow to the West.

Salam and Rehmani were curious as to the target, but had both promised Nazry not to probe too deeply in an effort to guess what it was, because the terror leader knew it would be unmistakable to them if they stumbled upon it.

If the target would be this unmistakable to them, then the same should be true for Hall.

Since not one target the THT team had considered screamed that it would deliver a unique and spectacular blow to the West, they were missing something critical. But something that should be straightforward to figure out if they could only expand their horizons.

As though the attack alone weren’t bad enough, Nazry had ordered Salam and Rehmani to send another of the drones to accompany the one carrying the poison, a drone that had also been pre-programmed for the target. This one carried sophisticated cameras with telephoto lenses nearly as powerful as those on US spy satellites. It would record a video of the entire attack, capturing what was sure to be horrific beyond imagination, as tears and vomit poured from thousands of writhing victims, their faces twisted into a rictus of agony, taking minutes to finally die.

ISIS would then post this nightmare to the Internet, ensuring it went viral, amplifying the devastating psychological impact of the attack.

This would also cause pandemonium as everyone in the West became terrified of the many drones flying overhead. Cute little drones that had seemed so harmless just the day before would strike panic into the hearts of populations who now saw them as possible harbingers of a gruesome death. When this panic forced governments to ground them all, at least temporarily, including the many thousands of delivery drones that had recently sprouted up like mushrooms, the economic impact would be significant as well.

The attack was taking place at seven on the nose, which was little more than a half hour away. Hall needed to escape, disable the Wi-Fi jammer in the cabin, use his implants to search beyond run-of-the-mill targets for something truly unique taking place in San Diego, and then communicate his findings back to the team.

It was an impossible task.

Impossible, yes, but at least he had a full thirty minutes to find a way to do it, he thought to himself wryly, trying to maintain a sense of humor when all he wanted to do was scream and roll up into a fetal position.

He had just begun to plan his escape when his attention was diverted by urgent thoughts coming from the two terrorists.

His heart leaped to his throat.

They had detected a military helicopter streaking in a straight line toward their current position. And it was in a very big hurry. Which meant only one thing: it was coming to check up on the Pave Hawk they had downed.

Rehmani and his partner themselves couldn’t track the sarin drone, but had been told to shoot down any military aircraft that appeared to be trying to find it—or them. And one of the seven invisible surveillance and attack drones was now in position to do the job nicely. Rehmani began to maneuver this drone into the helicopter’s flight path, while Hassan Salam sped the six remaining drones toward the area of likely contact to serve as backups.

The military aircraft was making no effort to be evasive, so placing an invisible landmine in its flight path was sure to be decisive.

Panic tore at Hall’s throat like a taloned bird. Although the helo was still out of his and Megan’s telepathic range, he had little doubt that she was on board. It would be the smart play to send her, and the team only made smart plays.

Of course she was on board.

And Rehmani would have the drone in position in a matter of seconds.

19

“Abdul Rehmani, look at me or die!” thundered Hall in Pashto, using the translation function of his implants. “Now! I have a gun pointed between your eyes!”

Rehmani’s head reflexively jerked up from the monitor he was studying, startled by the outburst but also the content of Hall’s words. He quickly inspected the prisoners, noting that they were both still handcuffed and sitting harmlessly against the back wall of the cabin, and neither seemed to have a gun pointed his way.

How did this man know his name? Or know that Pashto was his native language? And it was obvious he didn’t really know the language, but seemed to be reading it—poorly—almost as if from a script.

And why had he chosen now to burst awake and make idle threats to his captors, who clearly held his life in their hands?

As much as Rehmani was eager to ask these questions, he had only seconds to finish directing his drone or he would miss his target—at least for the time being.

As Rehmani bent back to his task, Hall realized he hadn’t delayed him quite enough. He tore through the terrorist’s mind looking for his jugular, for a secret that never failed to get a man’s attention.

“What’s the matter, Abdul,” he said in contempt, this time in English, which both Rehmani and Salam spoke fluently, “afraid I might tell your partner here that you dream of being tied up and spanked by prostitutes?”

This time Rehmani’s reaction was even more severe than when he thought his life might be on the line. He stopped guiding the drone and pointed a gun at the mind reader. Hall read that the terrorist was an instant away from taking a shot and fell to the floor, his version of playing dead, which was just enough to get Rehmani to ease back on the trigger.

Hall allowed himself to feel a momentary triumph. When he needed to get a man’s attention in a hurry, extracting his sexual fantasies was a go-to move that never failed to work. Each man had fantasies he kept hidden away, knowing they would seem deviant to other men—who each had their own set of deviant sexual interests to hide.

Sexual arousal was primal, and no man knew why certain scenarios or images were exciting in this way. But these carnal dreams represented a man’s most private longings, his most embarrassing secret thoughts, which made them his biggest vulnerability.

To Rehmani’s credit, he calmed himself down and returned to his efforts with the drone, but he was still too late. The military helo hurtled past, a galloping horse that had missed being bitten by a rattlesnake in its path by the thinnest of margins.

But the six drones his partner was now controlling were coming on strong from several directions, and would be able to intercept the helo in less than two minutes. Rehmani took control of three of the drones, only pausing to tell Hall, who was still playing possum, that if he uttered even one more word it would be his last.

Hall didn’t need his talents to know this wasn’t a bluff, but he did read Rehmani’s intent not to focus on his prisoners until after he heard news of a successful sarin attack, which was now only twenty-seven minutes away.

Hall reached out with his mind, straining to his limits, screaming Megan’s name telepathically, over and over. It was a race with an unclear outcome. Would he reach her first, or would the six drones?

The helicopter continued on toward the Pave Hawk’s last position at full speed, oblivious to the invisible death being directed toward it, now less than a minute away.

“Megan!” screamed Hall telepathically. “Answer!” he demanded as she and six drones continued to converge in a relatively small region of space. “For the love of God, Megan, tell me you hear me!”

20

Worst-case scenarios spun through Megan Emerson’s mind over and over again in an unstoppable continuous loop, as the AH-99 Apache whipped through the sky toward the area at which contact with her fiancé had been lost. She was an emotional wreck, consumed by fear for Nick Hall, incapable of doing anything but praying with all of her might that he was okay.

Please let him be alive, she implored a cruel universe, over and over again, as her roiling stomach continued to digest itself. Please!

What would she do without Nick? She couldn’t imagine life without him. She couldn’t imagine loving anyone more, or that there could be anyone in the entire world more worthy of her love.

How did the man who wielded the most power in human history stay grounded, keep a level head, and never abuse this power for his own enrichment? How could he stay such a loving, giving human being, with such a fun-loving personality and such generosity of spirit? Absolute power had not only failed to corrupt him absolutely, it had failed to corrupt him at all.

He was utterly irreplaceable—to her, and to the world.

“Megan!” came a faint telepathic voice in her head.

She jerked upright in her seat. It was Nick! He was alive!

“I’m here, Nick!” she broadcast back in elation. “Where are you? What happened?”

“Invisible drones are about to hit you!” he warned frantically, his mental signal now coming in stronger as the Apache raced ever closer to his position. “You have to get higher!” he insisted in abject terror. “Hurry!”

“Climb! Climb! Climb!” she screamed at the pilot. “We’re under attack by stealth drones!” she added.

Admiral Dinkoff himself had insisted the pilot follow her orders without hesitation, and he did so now. He yanked back hard on the control stick and instantly transformed the Apache’s forward speed into pure lift, threatening to drive Megan and the three SEALs on board through the floor.

“All communications are down,” reported one of the SEALs as the Apache continued its relentless surge ever higher.

“Keep climbing,” sent Hall, his telepathic tone more controlled now that Megan was out of immediate danger. “They’re still on your tail. Make best speed to fifteen thousand feet, but ease your way east as you do, so we don’t lose our connection due to elevation. Once you’re over where we were lost, hover there. I’ve read your pilot and the terrorists. This altitude isn’t a problem for your Apache, but the drones can’t reach above eight thousand feet. This will also put you beyond their communications blackout range.”

Megan issued the relevant orders and then quickly returned her attention to Hall. “What happened to you?” she asked.

“We were attacked by these same drones. My instincts were to dive and then land to avoid them, but this was a mistake, requiring the Pave Hawk to slow too much. We were hit at the last moment and crash landed in a clearing. Kevin Wellman and I are being held captive in a cabin in the woods. Floyd was thrown clear and needs a hospital. Everyone else is dead.”

“I am so sorry, Nick,” she broadcast. She wanted to say much more about the tragic loss of these good men, but there was no time to grieve. “But we can rescue you,” she added. “I know it.”

“Stay put,” insisted Hall. “Attempt a rescue and you’ll only be taken out yourself. Girdler can send someone for us on the ground to avoid the drones. I’m sure he’s already found the wreckage of our helicopter by satellite. I’ve read in the terrorists’ minds that they headed due north from the wreck in a 2021 Toyota 4Runner with Arizona plates, for about three miles. Whoever you send should be able to find the 4Runner, and then the cabin. Make sure they bring a medic to take care of Floyd until we take these assholes out and can fly him to a hospital.”

“I’ll relay this to the general as soon as we get communications back. Any way we can take control of the drone with the sarin gas?”

“No. It’s most likely over the target already. Its course can’t be altered, and it can’t be recalled.”

“Our Utah contingent figured out a way to use the targeted EMP after all,” she broadcast back. “They’ve identified a predatory military drone called the Falcon. Lightning fast. It can catch the ISIS drone in a net and keep it safely above five hundred feet. But we need you to tell us when and where the attack will take place, so the EMP can stop the drone and make it visible.”

“I know the when for sure,” he replied. “The sarin will be released precisely at seven—just over twenty-one minutes from now—as long as it doesn’t detect any evacuation taking place before then. And I think I can determine the target, but I need your help. The moment you have an Internet connection, call up the entire daily event calendar for San Diego. Whatever the target is, I’m certain it’s not something as simple as a stadium or a theme park.”

“Will do,” she replied. “I love you Nick. Even more than you know. Get through this and save the day, and I’ll show you how much in ways you’ll never forget.”

“With that as incentive, how can I fail?”

“Exactly,” broadcast Megan, like him, doing her best to stay positive and ignore the crushing odds against them. “I’m entering search commands on my tablet right now. The instant we get the Web back I’ll tell Girdler how to find you and read you the results.”

21

Hall read that the two terrorists were furious that the helicopter they had been about to destroy had somehow eluded their drones at the last possible instant, and worse, was now hovering beyond their reach three miles up, almost directly over their heads.

Still, the deadly poison would be released in only twenty-one minutes, and while this helicopter was hovering it wasn’t getting any closer to the sarin drone, wherever it might be.

Hall remained slumped on the ground, continuing to play dead, even though he knew he wasn’t fooling his captors. Still, Rehmani’s decision to ignore him until after the attack gave him a window of opportunity.

They weren’t beaten yet.

“Got the list, Nick,” broadcast Megan, now wearing an oxygen mask that one of the SEALs had affixed to her face. The Apache was able to draw hot air off its compressor to keep the cabin warm at high altitude. Fifteen thousand feet was only slightly more than halfway up Mount Everest, but it wasn’t exactly balmy or oxygen rich. “Girdler is working on a rescue op, but there is no way anyone can get to you before seven.”

“Understood,” he replied. “Read me the list. Hurry!”

“The San Diego Young Professionals Society is holding its seventh annual Rockin’ Date Night Auction in the Gaslamp Quarter downtown,” she began. “The annual International RoboSub Competition is taking place on Pacific beach,” she continued after a brief pause. “Student-designed autonomous robotic submarines will compete in a series of underwater tasks.”

She paused once more. “The Home on The Range RV show will continue at the Del Mar Fairgrounds, which boasts all of the top manufacturers and—”

“This is good,” interrupted Hall, “but no need for location or details unless I ask for them. We’re running out of time.”

“Understood,” she replied. “There’s a Hawaiian concert and hula show, a beer and music festival, a showboat dinner cruise, Malala Yousafzai is speaking at a private university, an all-night swap meet—”

Nick Hall’s heart froze in his chest and Megan stopped in mid-sentence, also realizing what she had just said.

Malala Yousafzai was in San Diego. The young woman who had achieved almost legendary status.

Hall barely stopped himself from gasping. How could she not be the target?

No one was more despised by Islamists. No one’s death could be more of a statement than hers.

But why now? he wondered. They could have targeted her at any time. What was special about tonight? And killing her, even in so grisly a fashion, couldn’t possibly produce a devastating enough body blow to the West to satisfy Sayed Nazry.

Hall was one of many around the world who believed that Malala Yousafzai was a courageous and heroic figure of historical proportions. She had grown up in Afghanistan at a time when the Taliban exerted great influence. This group adhered to the strictest form of sharia law—which was more oppressive to women than most citizens of the West could truly comprehend—and had blown up hundreds of girls’ schools. In their world, the education of women was an abomination and had to be stopped, no matter what it took.

Despite these bombings and an edict in 2009 that girls in Malala’s district could no longer attend schools without suffering consequences, she rebelled. She refused to stop learning, to stop going to school, and blogged about the situation so the world would know what the Taliban were truly about.

She received scores of death threats and ignored them all. In October of 2012, while riding a bus home from school, a masked Taliban gunman shot Malala Yousafzai in the head, with the bullet passing through the left portion of her brain. Miraculously, after being airlifted to a military hospital in Peshawar, she survived.

The assassination attempt received worldwide media coverage and she and her family were able to relocate to the West, where she became the sensation she deserved, a symbol of courage and resolve in the face of evil, of bravery and valor. She was embraced and honored, celebrated for her love of learning and her refusal to back down, becoming the youngest ever recipient of a Nobel Prize—the Peace Prize—in 2014.

She was as despised by Islamists as she was heralded by women’s rights supporters around the world.

“It has to be her,” broadcast Hall. “But they could have made the attempt at any time. Where is she speaking? What’s special about today?”

“Searching for this and other background info now,” replied Megan. “I’ll be back with you soon.”

After a two-minute period that felt like an eternity, she continued. “She’s speaking at USD, which stands for The University of San Diego—not to be confused with UCSD, the University of California, San Diego. USD is a large Roman Catholic college on the edge of an extensive mesa overlooking Mission Bay, two miles from downtown.”

“Is her speech a private event for the school, or can anyone come?”

“Private. But get this,” added Megan, “USD is a ghost town during the summer. So as of three years ago they decided to host an all-girls camp and religious retreat for one week each July. They open up their dorms and facilities for six thousand third-, fourth-, and fifth-grade girls attending Catholic grade schools around the country—which means ages eight through eleven. Apparently, the college is a paradise, palm trees and majestic architecture, so they have no trouble getting a full house.”

“Shit!” broadcast Hall. “This is it! She’s speaking to all these grade-schoolers, isn’t she?”

“She is.”

“That’s what they’re after. An attack during her talk is irresistible to these assholes.”

Hall shuddered. Just when he thought he had been exposed to the ultimate depths of evil and human depravity, Sayed Nazry and ISIS had managed to find a new low.

Of course the terrorist leader would see this as the perfect target. Six thousand innocent little girls, happily receiving a Western education, addressed by an iconic young woman who had fearlessly risked her life for the right to get an education in the face of barbarism. Add in a video of helpless little girls being massacred in the most horrible way possible, and it was a heinous, unimaginable atrocity that would surely send the West reeling.

Hall searched through Rehmani’s mind to learn more about his uncle, and what he read just confirmed what he already knew: USD would be the target. Nazry loathed Malala with a passion that was truly extraordinary. He had been the leader of the Taliban tribal council in Afghanistan all those years ago who had ordered her assassinated to make a sick, twisted point.

And she had made a fool of him.

Not only had she survived, but she had become a superstar, a beacon of strength and resolve around the world, while his efforts to stop education for women had blown up in his face. Nazry was also a big proponent of killing children, especially little girls, as it was never too early to wipe infidels from the earth and nothing left as deep a scar in Western psyches as this. He also despised Catholicism.

This attack would be his trifecta. He would kill the hated Malala, renew his stand against education for women, and wipe out thousands of helpless Catholic grade school girls, all in a single strike.

“Where is she giving her speech?” asked Hall. “And when?”

“Inside USD’s football stadium,” came the reply. “And she began about five minutes ago.”

22

Malala Yousafzai soaked in the applause of six thousand young girls and almost a thousand USD dignitaries, guests, and camp counselors. She looked around the packed football stadium and spotted her image on a soaring white-and-navy scoreboard built for the school’s beloved Toreros.

It was a glorious late afternoon, the sunlight just beginning to wane and the temperature a perfect seventy-two. She had been given a tour of the campus by USD notables, and it, too, was glorious, having routinely been ranked as one of the most beautiful campuses in America.

In addition to offering ocean views and palm-tree-lined courtyards, each of the school’s many majestic buildings had been built in the Spanish Renaissance tradition, with row upon row of arches, elaborate facades, carved wood, and elegant ironwork. The Immaculata Chapel was breathtaking, capped by a gorgeous, piercing blue dome visible from much of the city.

In this spectacular setting, Malala thought it even more important than usual to impress upon these young girls just how critical it was not to take their rights, their education, for granted. When she had been their age, she would have fought to the death for the chance to be educated in the ugliest of sheds, the smelliest of hovels. She needed to impress upon these girls that they should be thankful each and every day for having the opportunity to learn, freely and unmolested—anywhere—let alone within schools as inviting as the ones they were lucky enough to attend.

“Like San Diego,” said Malala, continuing her address, her voice booming over the loudspeaker and echoing throughout the stadium, “my hometown of Swat was a place of tourism and beauty.”

She was now moving into a section of the address she had borrowed from her own Nobel Prize acceptance speech, made many years earlier. “But it was suddenly changed into a place of terrorism. When I was your age, more than four hundred schools were destroyed. Women were flogged. People were killed. And our beautiful dreams turned into nightmares.

“Education went from being a right to being a crime. Girls were stopped from going to school.

“When my world suddenly changed, my priorities changed too. I had two options. One was to remain silent and wait to be killed. And the second was to speak up and be killed even sooner.

“I chose the second one. I decided to speak up. We could not just stand by and accept the injustices of the terrorists, who denied our rights, ruthlessly killed our people, and misused the name of Islam. We could not—”

She stopped in mid-sentence. The president of the university, Dr. John Riddle, was walking toward her across the large podium that had been built on the field and was making motions for her to stop. This was odd. She checked the time. It was six forty-five, and her address was just beginning to take off.

Riddle took the microphone as camp counselors around the stadium whispered to rows of their wards to remain quiet and respectful, keeping boundless little-girl energy contained during a surprising change of events.

“Apologies to our honored guest for breaking in here,” he said, “but I just got a call from Timothy Cochran. And yes, I mean that Timothy Cochran. President of the United States Timothy Cochran.”

A loud, excited murmur of little voices filled the stadium. No adult could keep a child from reacting to a statement such as this. For that matter, a small roar of chatter had broken out in the adult sections of the stadium as well.

“Turns out that President Cochran is a huge fan of Malala, but just learned minutes ago she was speaking here this evening. When he learned that she was addressing such a wonderful gathering of girls, sure to be among the leaders of tomorrow, he felt he had to reach out. I’m told our technical people are working to get him on the PA system, which should happen at any time.”

John Riddle looked over at a man seated in one of the many chairs on the podium and received a thumbs-up. “I’ve just been informed that the president has been patched in,” he said excitedly, “so I’ll turn it over to him.”

“Thank you, President Riddle,” said the unmistakable voice of Timothy Cochran, reverberating around a stadium that had suddenly become silent, almost in shock. “And many apologies for the interruption. But I wanted to thank Malala before she finishes her speech for exemplifying all that is best in humanity. Thank you so much for being such an inspiration to girls around the world. Had I learned of this event earlier, I would have been delighted to help introduce Malala, rather than interrupt her, and I would have sent an aerial team of air force jets to fly in formation overhead, to honor her, and to honor this group of promising young students.”

The president paused for effect. “But what I have been able to do on short notice is to co-opt a nearby military helicopter, which will be with you soon. It will fly high above the stadium for a few minutes and tip its wings, or its propellers in this case, to Malala and this august group of promising young girls.”

He paused. “And who knows,” he added mischievously, “I’m told they might just try to spice things up, show off a bit, by lassoing a demonstration drone in mid-air.”

Every last person in USD’s Torero stadium continued to be stunned by one startling turn of events after another. This just kept on getting wilder.

“So if I could ask you all to just sit tight,” continued the president, “the helicopter will be overhead any minute. When it’s gone, I’ll be back with some final words, and then we’ll let Malala finish her address, which you are all very lucky to hear.”

Malala continued to stand at the podium, apparently now needing to wait until the president’s show was over to continue.

This was a great honor, but also very strange. Why had President Cochran decided to interrupt her in mid-sentence? The fact he had addressed the crowd and had said such kind words to her was very gratifying. But the helicopter flyover was strange—and a drone capture demonstration totally bizarre, its timing more than a little disruptive to the flow of her address.

Oh well, thought Malala. It was all good. A broad smile consumed her face, despite the awkwardness she now felt just standing there. Her grandfather had always called her the happiest girl in the world, and this was for good reason. A helicopter tribute with a random demonstration was strange, indeed, but how could she be anything but grateful for it?

And things seemed to happen for a reason. She had always been optimistic, by nature, but even if not, surviving a gunshot to the head from near point-blank range would make even an avowed atheist begin to believe that a higher power just might be looking out for them.

23

Sergeant Joey Plaskett checked the time. Ten minutes before seven, and they were a minute away from USD’s Torero stadium. A pilot and two navy SEALs were with him on the helo, and in his ear he carried four additional passengers, each glued to the aircraft’s video feed.

Two of these, Justin Girdler and Mike Campbell, were tied in from THT’s headquarters near Salt Lake City. Another, Megan Emerson—who was in telepathic communication with Nick Hall—was currently hovering at fifteen thousand feet in an Apache helicopter, due east of Plaskett, keeping seven stealth drones occupied as they stared up at the aircraft hungrily, like rabid dogs that had treed a possum. And the fourth was President Timothy Cochran himself, tied in from the White House, keeping his involvement secret from even his closest security advisors, who were unaware of THT’s existence.

Plaskett didn’t let the president’s presence in his ear add to his stress—because this wasn’t possible. Knowing the leader of the free world was watching over his shoulder would have normally been extremely intimidating, but when the lives of six thousand little girls were on the line—along with Malala Yousafzai, an iconic young woman beloved by millions—the pressure he was feeling couldn’t possibly be any greater.

“Sergeant Plaskett,” said the president, “I just finished addressing the crowd as General Girdler advised. No one will panic when you fly above them. And they’re also expecting a showy demonstration of a drone capture.”

“Thank you, sir,” he replied.

“Sergeant,” said General Girdler, “you’re a go to commence the op at any time. Don’t forget to tip your rotor down at the crowd a few times before you fire the EMP.”

“Roger that,” said Plaskett. “Expecting to engage the target in approximately one minute.”

“Godspeed to you and your team, Sergeant,” added Girdler solemnly.

“Amen to that,” said the president.

Joey Plaskett took a deep breath and reviewed the plan for the last time. He had two highly trained SEALs on board with him, and a highly decorated pilot. One of the SEALs had been on the test missions with the prototype EMP Cannon, and had been responsible for targeting the device, even though it was fairly user friendly and required only a few simple commands.

The second SEAL had worked with the X81 Falcon previously and already had the drone programmed, powered up, and ready to burst forth from a ten-foot-wide opening on one side of the helo created by the retraction of the doors. This commando had personally tested and packed a net into the X81 that would quickly expand to the size of a parachute after being fired and then close around its target.

Plaskett, a SEAL himself, had the easiest job of all. He was there simply to supervise the op, ensure it was coordinated, and give commands. No skill required.

Everything should work out fine, he told himself yet again. Nick Hall was convinced the drone would be approximately dead center over the stadium, hovering at exactly fifteen hundred feet. If this were true, they could almost snatch it out of the sky with their bare hands.

Naturally, this isn’t something they would attempt. The drone’s placement might not be so precise, after all, and an EMP produced the ultimate shotgun blast, requiring minimal precision. It would also fry the canister’s electronics and trap the deadly poison—at least until the drone fell below five hundred feet.

More importantly, had they tried to capture what now seemed to be a sitting duck, it would either release its payload or take evasive action. The EMP pulse, on the other hand, traveled at the speed of light, reaching its target in less than a millionth of a second.

“Dodge that, asshole!” said Plaskett under his breath to the invisible drone.

The plan seemed solid, but never had so much been riding on the outcome of an operation. As far as Plaskett knew, Hall had never been wrong before, but there was a first time for everything. Plaskett just prayed that this wasn’t it.

Even assuming Hall was right about the sarin drone’s location, the EMP had to work perfectly, and the X81 Falcon had to be released the instant the drone became visible, striking as swiftly and unerringly as its namesake.

Nothing could go wrong, because they wouldn’t get a second chance.

Plaskett issued orders and the pilot flew the short distance to the stadium, tipping its rotor to the crowd and then stabilizing three hundred feet below and to the south of where they expected the sarin drone to be, which would give the Falcon an angle on its target.

“Is the EMP Cannon targeted and ready?” barked Plaskett.

“Affirmative!” came the crisp response.

“Is the Falcon ready for immediate release upon target visibility?”

“Affirmative!” replied a second man.

“Trigger EMP Cannon on my mark. Five . . . Four . . . Three . . .”

“Hold up!” screamed Megan Emerson into Plaskett’s ear, practically deafening him.

“Stop the countdown!” the sergeant barked to his team. “What is it?” he demanded of Megan.

“Nick just realized something he failed to mention. He’s sick about the oversight, but there are two drones up there, fairly close to each other. The sarin drone and an identical one that is carrying video equipment.”

“Shit!” said General Girdler. “That’s a big problem.”

“Are you kidding me?” thundered Plaskett. Altschuler had discovered that the ISIS drones had a five-foot diameter, so they had programmed the Falcon to net an octocopter in this approximate size range. “That means the Falcon might go after the wrong one!” he added in disbelief. “Fifty-fifty chance.”

Plaskett wanted to unleash a primal scream that would deafen the little girls below. How had this suddenly become a clusterfuck?

He wanted to blame Hall for not realizing the criticality of this intel until the last second, but he knew this wasn’t fair. Hall had been through the wringer, physically and mentally, and should have collapsed long ago. The man’s mind was a car that had been out of gas for a thousand miles but had still somehow managed to soldier on. He couldn’t be faulted for failing to think of everything.

“Can we reprogram the Falcon to differentiate between a drone carrying video equipment and one carrying a gas canister?” asked Campbell.

Plaskett asked the Falcon programmer on board and received a quick answer: not a chance in hell, not in the six minutes they had left. “Can’t be reprogrammed in time,” said the sergeant.

Plaskett’s stomach churned. Had it really come to this? Were the lives of thousands of innocents now at the mercy of a coin flip?

“Wait a minute,” said Plaskett as an idea materialized in his head. “The Falcon can’t tell the difference between the two drones,” he continued excitedly, “but I can.”

“Where are you going with this, Joey?” said Girdler.

“I can act as door gunner,” he replied, reaching for a safety harness. “Once the EMP disables both drones, I can shoot the one with the video equipment, blowing it to pieces. Then only the sarin drone will be in the size range the Falcon is programmed to go after.”

“Great thought,” said Girdler. “But the Falcon’s window for intercepting this drone is already tight. A thousand foot fall will happen in a hurry. You’d have to release the Falcon as planned the moment the drones become visible. You’d only have a handful of seconds to take out the video drone. And you’d have to do it without hitting the sarin drone or the Falcon. You think you can do that?”

Plaskett blew out a long breath. “Yes. I’ve been a door gunner on helo missions before,” he replied. “This craft has an M240 on board,” he added, referring to a belt-fed machine gun, “but I believe this weapon has too much destructive power. I use this and I risk taking out both drones, especially if they’re very close together. So my plan would be to use my HK416 assault rifle on semi-automatic. It’s like a part of my body by now.”

To Girdler’s credit, he paused for only a brief instant. “Do it!” he said decisively. “Hurry!”

“Roger that,” said Plaskett. He barked commands at his team and finished strapping the safety harness around his chest, tethering it to the cabin floor. This would allow him to lean out of the door with maximum maneuverability and degrees of freedom.

He once again confirmed that all was ready and began his countdown. The jobs of the two SEALs remained the same, but the pilot’s job just became a lot more complicated. He needed to spot the drones, pivot so that Plaskett had a good line of sight through the open door, and then immediately steady the craft.

Plaskett readied his HK416 for immediate firing. He knew he wouldn’t have time to line up the drone carefully in the gun’s sights. The firing angles from a helo could be treacherously difficult to estimate, especially given a falling target, but he had no choice but to trust his training, his instincts.

It was time to channel his inner Luke Skywalker, time to switch off his targeting computer. He may have never bullseyed womp rats in Beggar’s Canyon as young Skywalker had done, but he was not without his skill.

Girdler and the president had wished him Godspeed. If that wasn’t the equivalent of, “May the Force be with you,” nothing was. But if the Force was ever going to be with him, now was the time.

“Five,” he began. “Four. Three. Two. One . . . mark!”

Before he was even aware that the EMP Cannon had been fired, two stealth drones suddenly flashed into full view above them, exactly where Hall had thought they would be, hovering within twenty feet of one another. They were absolutely identical, as expected, except that the one on the left had video equipment suspended below it, and the other a canister.

Then everything happened at once. The drones both began to fall from the sky, plummeting toward the stadium below like sacks of cement, while the pilot pivoted sixty degrees to give Plaskett the perfect line of fire on his target. He was only vaguely aware that the Falcon had been released and was hurtling toward both drones, only a second or two away from choosing one at random.

And then the world disappeared from Plaskett’s awareness.

His entire universe became a plunging octocopter sent to film an atrocity. For just an instant, time seemed to stop. His focus was so complete, an alien could have eaten through his chest and it wouldn’t have affected his aim in the slightest. He lined up the falling target and squeezed off fifteen rounds, six of which hit the video drone and tore it to smaller pieces.

The Falcon made an almost imperceptible course correction as it dove toward the two drones, its sights now firmly set on the one bringing poison. It fired its net and then began swooping upwards again, not even waiting for the tethered line to go taut or feel the weight of its captured prey before preparing to lift it to a greater altitude.

The captured octocopter continued to fall inside the massive net to a low point of six hundred and forty feet, but then rose higher, its poison contained. The Falcon continued to climb steadily, picking up speed and leaving the airspace above the stadium behind on its way to the wide open ocean.

The shrapnel from the other drone and its video equipment had already slammed into the ground, but the force of Plaskett’s high-caliber rounds had pushed it enough off center that it fell onto the empty field, missing the stands and the large podium on the fifty-yard line.

Plaskett fell to his back onto the floor of the helo, his heart pounding wildly, enough adrenaline coursing through his veins to jumpstart a herd of elephants. Cheers, whoops, and congratulations came from his three-man team and through his earpiece.

Turned out his job hadn’t only been supervisory, after all.

President Cochran didn’t share in the celebration. Instead, his voice boomed over the loudspeaker below, calming the crowded stadium and improvising wild excuses and tall tales to account for the gunshots they so clearly heard and saw, and for falling shrapnel that could have killed or maimed one or more in attendance.

Plaskett didn’t envy the president on this one. He would have to eat a lot of crow for ordering a helo to perform dangerous maneuvers above a packed stadium. He would be pilloried by his enemies for his foolish and reckless stunt, and would have to apologize over and over again for putting little girls in harm’s way.

But Joey Plaskett knew that while President Cochran was taking his lumps, he’d be tranquil on the inside, knowing that this was a far better outcome than having to console a nation over the loss of so many of its beloved daughters.

24

Hall blacked out, only to be startled back to life from the painful impact of his head on the floor, lucky that he was already on the ground so his skull had only fallen a short distance.

Stay with us, Nick, thought Kevin Wellman. Come on! Stay with us!

Hall shook his head like a dog, which should have drawn the full attention of the two terrorists in the cabin with them, but they were otherwise preoccupied. Unfortunately, they continued to carry automatic weapons and remain well out of range of their prisoners, so an attempt to overpower them in a moment of inattention would be suicidal.

The ISIS soldiers were also clearly unraveling, nearly losing their minds. They had been pacing the floor now for almost fifteen minutes, watching multiple computer and television screens, each tuned to a different cable news channel.

Yet news of a terror attack in San Diego was nowhere to be found. Impossible.

Both men knew something must have gone terribly wrong. If the attack had succeeded, no matter what the target had been, it would preempt any other programming and would be plastered over every screen.

They were now in full panic mode. How had the attack failed? Had they done something wrong? Could they somehow be held responsible?

Rehmani was certain that if his uncle decided that he and Salam had been at fault, no matter how twisted the logic, they would pay a terrible price, regardless of any blood he might share with the man. He glanced one last time at the screens and then turned to face Nick Hall, who was spread across the floor, looking like he had already spent an eternity in hell.

It was time to interrogate this enigmatic figure. Time to learn how he had come into possession of knowledge he shouldn’t possibly have. The accuracy with which he had called out Rehmani’s sexual fantasies was uncanny, and almost as troubling as the failure of the attack.

He said a few words to Salam so that he, too, would turn his full attention to Hall. The man may have been going through hell already, but this was nothing compared to the hell they would soon put him through. They were in no mood to be merciful. Their attack had failed, and they would take this out on their prisoners—they would test the very limits of human suffering.

The powerful assault rifles both men had been clutching were now pointed at Hall and Wellman as they began to move closer.

Hall read the rage in their minds and their sadistic intentions but couldn’t bring himself to care what happened to him. He felt nothing but immense pain, and immense relief. The attack had been stopped, that was all that was important. It was time to give in to oblivion. All he had to do was stop going to heroic efforts to ward off the unconsciousness that fought to consume him.

“Nick!” shouted Megan in his head. “Nick! Answer me! Don’t quit now! Please!” she pleaded, and the terror in her telepathic tone finally broke through his stupor.

He was vaguely aware that she had been shouting his name for some time, beginning just before he had blacked out.

“Megan?” he sent back weakly. “Where are you?”

“Come on, Nick! Shake it off! You know where I am: still hovering fifteen thousand feet above you. We did it! The sarin attack was stopped. A medic is with Floyd now. But this isn’t over. Not until the three of you are back with us.”

He didn’t respond.

“Nick, goddammit! Snap out of it! Just hang on for a few more minutes. The general scrambled two men to help you. Remember? From the ground. They just reported they found the 4Runner with Arizona plates. They’re approaching the front door of the cabin you’re in now. They’ve been told to follow my commands. Nick, we need you to coordinate! Come on! You told me when we landed that having me in your life gives you more strength than you thought was possible. Prove it to me!”

Hall shook his head like a dog a second time, desperate to remain awake just a few minutes longer. He wouldn’t let her down. He couldn’t let her down.

“Is this situation boring you?” spat Rehmani, eager to begin the festivities. “If you’re getting sleepy, I can help you with that.”

“Nick!” screamed Megan. “Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God!” she replied. “What’s the situation inside?”

“Not good. Your guys charge in here and we’re likely dead.”

“I have an idea. Hold on. Need to check something with them.”

Rehmani’s upper lip curled into a snarl as he faced Hall. “Now, I need you to tell me what makes you so special,” he  said. “Why this man,” he continued, gesturing toward Wellman with his gun, “was willing to trade his life for yours. Tell me or I’ll carve out your left eye with my knife.”

“Find a way to get these shitheads in front of the door,” broadcast Megan. “Your rescuers tell me it doesn’t appear to be hardened or reinforced. They’re shooting high-caliber armor-piercing rounds, which will go through it like it’s tissue paper.”

“Got it,” replied Hall as he struggled to rise from the floor, his hands still cuffed behind him and his face twisted in pain. Wellman began to rise to his feet as well, but Hall caught his eye and shook his head, and he returned to a seated position.

“Need fresh air,” he mumbled drunkenly at Rehmani, motioning toward the front door. “Then I’ll tell you everything.”

The two terrorists glanced at each other in disbelief. Fresh air? This man defied logic at every turn. “Take a single step toward that door and you’re dead!” barked Rehmani.

“Look,” said Hall, “I can help you in ways you can’t imagine.  I’m a mind reader. I can tell you everything your enemies are thinking.”

They both snorted in derision at this ridiculous claim, but in less than a minute of Hall parroting back the exact words they were thinking the truth of it became undeniable. Once he read that they were both convinced of his talent, and fantasizing about the possibilities of exploiting it, he began moving to the door, shaking his head imperceptibly at Wellman once again to ensure he didn’t move.

“Have your men spray the door, chest height, on my order,” he broadcast, continuing to inch his way toward the door while Megan confirmed receipt of his instructions.

“Freeze!” demanded Rehmani, his finger now on the trigger.

Hall ignored him. “Are you really going to shoot the golden goose?” he asked as he continued creeping slowly toward the door.

Rehmani had never heard of a golden goose, more familiar with methods of butchering innocents than with Aesop’s Fables, but Hall read that he had no intention of shooting his newfound prize.

“I need some air,” repeated Hall. “Then I’ll do whatever you want.”

He was about to add that they could come with him if they wanted, but they were already rushing forward to do just this.

“Get ready, Megan!” he broadcast.

Just when his captors were about to reach him he gave his final command. “Now!”

Hall paused for just a moment and then collapsed to the floor, having calculated that there would be a brief delay while Megan relayed the command to the men outside.

He almost waited too long. Before he even finished his fall, all hell broke loose. The machine-gun thunder of automatic fire almost ruptured his eardrums as the men outside sprayed so many chest-high rounds through the door that its bottom half was cleanly severed from its top half.

The same was nearly true for the two terrorists, who were so riddled with holes they were almost cut cleanly in two before gravity took over and they fell to the ground beside Hall, showering him with blood and chunks of flesh.

Hall was too far gone to even know that he was now covered in gore. He had been clinging to consciousness by torn, bloodied fingertips for so long now that he felt relief bordering on elation as he released his grip and instantly plunged into the abyss.

And only Kevin Wellman’s quick actions prevented him from drowning in a thick pool of blood that continued to gush from his fallen captors.

PART 3

Lucas

25

Victor sat beside Eduardo Alvarez, his closest friend and most trusted lieutenant, on top of a cliff overlooking the ocean. He gazed off in the distance to where a glowing red ball was slowly inching its way toward the edge of the world. Sundown was less than an hour away and the setting sun was already spectacular.

The sea air was invigorating and birds that had somehow colonized this giant ugly rock ages ago were making their vocal presence known, sounds that were pleasing to the ear in an indefinable way.

Both men had their legs hanging down over the edge of the cliff and sipped margaritas that one of Victor’s underlings had prepared, although these were the authentic version, so the only resemblance they bore to the fruitier, more feminized variety popular in the States was the presence of tequila.

Victor and his son had already spent a full week on the island along with a number of trusted rank-and-file associates from within his vast organization. Alvarez had joined them only a few hours previously. While he and Lucas would be leaving in the morning, his right-hand man would be staying behind for several days to attend to cleanup and a few other projects, and then he and Victor would decide where he needed to be from there.

“So you finally gave Lucas a crash course on killing,” said Alvarez in Spanish. “He seems to have taken it well.”

Victor frowned. “I only wish it wasn’t necessary, my friend. But we both know I can’t let a lamb become part of a business that deals only with wolves.”

“I know you were concerned this would be a difficult hurdle.”

“I was. But it turned out to be just the opposite. He showed more strength than I ever would have believed.”

Alvarez shook his head in amusement. “Did you really have him kill for the first time by shooting a man in the throat, through the jugular?” he said. “That’s a high degree of difficulty for the uninitiated.”

“That’s a high degree of difficulty even for the initiated,” replied Victor with a smile. “Even I’ve never done this, not at point-blank range. And I thought a knife kill could be messy,” he added, his smile widening further. “In my defense, I did give him the option of shooting the bastard in the heart. I have to say, I was proud of Lucas for not taking the easier way out.”

“That kid is truly something special, Victor. Since the time he was three and he taught himself how to read, we knew how brilliant he was. But he’s tough as well. The whole package. Like you.”

Victor smiled. “Thank you, my friend.”

Coming from anyone else he would have been suspicious of such praise, but he and Eduardo had become closer than brothers over the years and he knew it to be sincere. At least he thought he did.

“Have you given his idea any further consideration?” asked Alvarez.

“Which one?”

“Striking a deal with ISIS to supply experimental subjects in bulk.”

“I have,” replied Victor. “We churned through all fourteen of the prisoners I imported to this island in ten days. If we want to get anywhere in my lifetime, we need to experiment on several subjects in parallel, and turn this into more of an assembly line.”

“Which means you’ll need a lot more guinea pigs a lot faster,” said Alvarez.

“Yes,” said Victor. “I’ve come up with other ideas, but Lucas’s idea does make the most sense. The only thing that was holding me back is having to deal with Sayed Nazry again. Highly unstable and highly dangerous isn’t a great combination.” He raised his eyebrows. “Speaking of which, he called me just before you arrived.”

“That’s a strange coincidence,” said Alvarez. “What’s the matter? Upset that he hasn’t heard from you in so long?”

Victor shook his head. “Remember the ten Omega Drones he bought last year?”

“Yes. He paid a huge sum for us to take the tech off the board.”

“That’s right. Says he finally went to use them last night in an attack in America and they failed. Blames me. Wants his money back and an apology for selling him shoddy technology.”

Alvarez laughed. “Hard to be surprised by any move this barbarian makes,” he said. “I assume you reminded him that he tested the shit out of those drones before he bought them, and no doubt just before his attempted attack as well. And that any failure is certainly his.”

“I did. And Nazry knows this is true. Just lashing out however he can. Must have really been excited for the drones’ maiden journey, which somehow went horribly wrong.”

“I wonder how many people he beheaded to satisfy his anger,” said Alvarez.

“Good question,” replied Victor. “I’m just glad to know we won’t be two of them,” he added, thankful once again that he had always taken such great care to ensure that their enemies, and their business associates, had no idea how to find them.

“So how did you leave it with Nazry?”

“If I told you I said he could go fuck himself, would you believe me?”

Alvarez considered. “If this happened two weeks ago, absolutely,” he replied. “I’d be shocked if you hadn’t. But given that you see the merit in Lucas’s idea, you wouldn’t want to burn this bridge. Might even want to strengthen it.”

“Excellent,” said Victor. “You’re right, of course. I told him I would think about his request and get back to him tomorrow. But that was just so I didn’t seem easy. I’ve already decided to refund his money.”

“If memory serves, this was fifty million US dollars.”

“That’s right,” said Victor. “But since the refund means the technology will no longer be exclusive, we can make most of this back by selling it to the many other parties sure to be interested.”

“We’ll have to disclose that the Americans are most likely aware of these drones now and are working on countermeasures,” noted Alvarez.

“True. But no other country knows they exist, or the technology they carry. And even the Americans won’t be able to come up with ways to stop them right away. Like I said, we’ll get far less per drone selling them non-exclusively, but we’ll sell enough to get close to the fifty million. And I’ll tell Nazry we’ll give him his refund, but only if he also agrees to enter a lucrative contract to supply us with human subjects.”

“Sounds like a win-win to me,” said Alvarez.

“Which means that soon I’ll need you to scout out locations for a new experimental facility, Eduardo. One we can turn into more of an industrial strength assembly line, making this a much larger and better organized operation.”

“Of course,” replied his right-hand man. “Once you and Nazry have struck a deal, just let me know where he thinks the subjects will be coming from. That way we can set up shop within a reasonable range.”

Victor nodded.  “I will,” he said.

He took a long draw from his cocktail while he gazed out over the ocean, continuing to admire the glowing ball that persisted in inching its way down to the horizon. Finally, he sighed and turned back toward his friend. “To be honest with you, Eduardo, I sometimes have to wonder why I’m even pursuing this.”

“You mean mind reading?”

“Yes. I’ve done considerable thinking about it, and I’m convinced it would be a curse.”

“A curse for the mind reader?” said Alvarez. “Or the people he’s reading?”

“For both, but I’m talking about the mind reader now. Be honest with me, my friend, if you knew I could read your every thought, search your every memory, how comfortable would you be around me?”

“Not comfortable at all,” admitted Alvarez. “You know how loyal I am, Victor. You know how much I value our friendship, how much I respect you. But there are parts of my personality I keep hidden away for good reason. Parts I wish were hidden, even from me.” Alvarez arched an eyebrow. “How comfortable would you be if I could read your mind?”

“I would never stand for it,” said Victor. “I love you like a brother, but even brothers think terrible thoughts about each other on occasion. As do husbands and wives, and parents and children. And if I could read minds, I wouldn’t want to read yours. Or Lucas’s. Or anyone I’m close to. I don’t really want to know every thought people I care about have ever had about me. I’d rather wrap myself in self-serving fantasy, protect myself in a cocoon of self-deception.”

Alvarez nodded, but didn’t respond.

“When you’re with a hooker,” continued Victor, “she pretends to like you, to enjoy screwing you—even blowing you—as though you were her entire universe.”

“At least the good ones do,” said Eduardo with a smile.

Victor laughed. “If you think about it,” he said, “you know she must be doing this for every customer. That she’s just pretending. You aren’t special, she’s just doing her job, and hoping for a bigger tip. But even so, it’s more fun to pretend along with her, to believe the fantasy she’s projecting, to willfully ignore what you know is true.”

“You are right, of course,” said Alvarez. “Self-deception can be a beautiful thing.”

“We all want to believe everyone likes and respects us as much as we think we deserve. Every boss wants to believe his underlings admire him and sincerely think his every joke is funny. But we all have an inflated view of ourselves. And we all have ugly thoughts at times.”

“Human beings are a complicated mess,” said Alvarez sagely.

“A very complicated mess,” agreed Victor. “If I had ESP,” he continued, “I would instantly become a pariah. An unstoppably powerful pariah, but a pariah nonetheless. No one who knew I could read minds could ever be comfortable around me, even those I’m closest to. They would flee, and I couldn’t blame them. They wouldn’t want me to know their darkest secrets, thoughts they’ve had that others might find disturbing. And they wouldn’t want me to know of the times when I said something they thought was stupid and pathetic, but they told me it was brilliant. We all have malicious thoughts, disloyal thoughts, and we all tell white lies to spare the feelings of those we care about.”

“This is all very true,” said Alvarez. The corners of his mouth turned up into just the hint of a smile. “But at the moment,” he added in amusement, “all I can think about are the hookers you just brought up. You don’t happen to have any on this island, do you?”

Victor laughed once again. No one had ever accused him of being jolly, but Alvarez knew his sense of humor well and could lighten his mood better than anyone he had ever met.

The technology dealer fell silent for several long seconds, lost in thought, taking in his magnificent surroundings. “You know, my friend,” he said finally, “I’ve recently studied research on what makes people happy.”

Alvarez rolled his eyes. “Of course you have.”

Victor almost laughed for a third time, which might have set a personal record. His friend was always teasing him for showing off when he pulled out an obscure quote or cited research in an obscure field, which he often did.

His interests were eclectic, but not entirely random. He just found a wide range of subjects fascinating, and lived in an age in which he could indulge his every curiosity. The Internet provided all of humanity’s knowledge at his fingertips. And now that he had implants installed, knowledge acquisition was instant, and retention was absolute. It would be a crime not to range far and wide in pursuit of whatever subjects struck his fancy.

“I brought up happiness for a reason,” said Victor.

“Sure,” said Alvarez with a grin. “Hookers and happiness just naturally go together.”

“As hard as it is to believe,” said Victor wryly, “that’s not why. I think you need to get out more, Eduardo,” he added. “Any idea what ingredient—you know, other than sex—is the most important in achieving true happiness?”

“I have a feeling it’s not money,” said Alvarez. “That would be too obvious.”

“You’re right. Money helps, up to a point, but one of the real keys is to avoid boredom, to challenge oneself. People are most content when they’re growing. When they’re accomplishing goals, working hard to achieve something difficult and then achieving it.”

Victor paused. “But most important of all is a person’s social network. The quality of relationships. Friends, relatives, co-workers, and so on. Emotional connections. I have these, especially when it comes to you and Lucas, but to many other of the men and women who work for me as well. ESP would ruin this. Only a psychopath who has no need for any social relationships would covet a power like this.” He raised his eyebrows. “And I’m only a sociopath.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Eduardo.

Victor knew his friend could use his own implants to call this up from the Internet, but part of being social was engaging in conversations and getting a friend’s take on things, so he was glad he hadn’t.

“It’s true that psychopaths and sociopaths seem identical,” he replied. “And all but the top people in the field use the terms interchangeably. But there are differences. Psychopaths are born. Sociopaths, on the other hand, are made.”

“I’m not sure I understand the distinction.”

“Psychopaths actually have telltale differences in the structure of their brains. They are destined to be psychopaths, even if raised by loving parents in a nurturing environment. Sociopaths, on the other hand, are forged in society’s cauldron. They are created, a consequence of a poisoned environment, a cruel upbringing, exposure to ruthless people, that sort of thing. The difference is that a sociopath can forge connections, care about select others, show loyalty to people around him. But a psychopath cares only about himself. He could kill his child or his closest friend if it suited his needs, without any hesitation or remorse. ”

“Then as your close friend, let me be the first to say I’m glad you’re only a sociopath.”

Victor smiled. “Don’t worry, Eduardo. Even if I were a psychopath, you’d be the last person I’d kill. You’re too valuable. And I like your sense of humor too much.”

“Good to know,” said Alvarez dryly. He paused in thought. “I had no idea you had pondered life as a mind reader so carefully. You’ve painted quite a picture about it being a curse. So why are you pursuing it?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe because it’s such a challenge, and I can’t resist that. And it’s obviously of enormous value. Maybe more as a weapon than a superpower. Give it as a gift to a group of people you don’t like, who haven’t thought through what will happen, and watch them tear each other apart. Also, if I do discover the secret, maybe I can find a way to block it, give those I care about a shield.”

“But you won’t use it for yourself, is that what you’re saying?”

Victor nodded. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“I can’t help but be relieved,” said Alvarez. “Not that I’ve ever had a bad thought about you.”

Victor smiled. “Why do I have the feeling that if I could read your mind right now, you’d be praying for death, just so you wouldn’t have to engage in any more conversation about this.”

“Not true at all,” said Alvarez. He lifted his margarita. “In fact, let me propose a toast. To the wisdom of staying out of each other’s minds.”

Victor raised his glass and tapped it against his friend’s, resulting in the sharp clinking sound he was after. “I’ll drink to that,” he said.

Once they had both swallowed another mouthful of the beverage and lowered their glasses, he added, “But enough about this. Right now it’s a hypothetical discussion, anyway. No use giving it another thought until we find the secret. If we find the secret.”

Alvarez nodded. “Agreed,” he said. After a few seconds of silence he changed the subject. “So any further word from our Chinese friend, Li?”

“Nothing since what I communicated to you last. He’s agreed to my proposal, as I knew he would, and I’m meeting him in Hong Kong in two days to hand-deliver his twenty sets of implants.”

“How long do you expect his meteoric rise to take?”

“He is a steady, cautious man. One of the reasons I like him. Even with the considerable advantages he’ll get from the implants, he won’t move until he has all of his ducks in a row, and has checked the row twice with a straight edge. I’d say eighteen months before he takes out Sun Qishan and replaces him on the Politburo. Three or four years before he assumes the top post in China.”

Victor shrugged. “But I’m a patient man. I’m just planting seeds that will pay off for us down the road.”

The sun finally dipped below the horizon and light continued to drain from the sky. August was winter in this part of the world, and while the temperature was still mild, darkness arrived each night not long after six.

Victor checked the time in his mind’s eye, carefully slid back from the cliff, and rose to his feet. “Our last experimental subject came to the end of his usefulness this morning. I was having Lucas torture and kill the man when we came out here,” he explained to his friend. “I told him to finish up, scrub himself clean, and meet me in the building I’m using as an office at six o’clock sharp.”

“And the agenda?”

“I’m giving him his next assignment,” replied Victor. “Along with some news he won’t like. I want you to join us, Eduardo. We can all have dinner afterward. I think you’ll like the meal that I’m having prepared.”

Alvarez rose from the edge of the cliff and joined his boss. “Are you sure I won’t be a third wheel?”

“Positive. And I think you’ll find this very interesting.”

“Okay then,” said Alvarez. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

26

Lucas had yet to see his father’s trusted lieutenant, having been otherwise preoccupied when he had landed, and greeted him warmly with a handshake that melted into a quick hug. “Uncle Eduardo,” he said happily. “Welcome to the world’s ugliest island.”

“Great to see you, Lucas,” replied Alvarez. “Not to burst your bubble,” he added, “but compared to some of the islands your father uses for operations, this one is like a Hawaiian paradise.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Afraid not,” said Alvarez.

“But look on the bright side,” said Victor. “No matter how rocky and desolate the island, it still has a perfect view of the sea. Even if you’re on an oceangoing trash barge, you’ve got that going for you.”

“You truly are a glass-half-full kind of father,” said Lucas with a smile. He turned to the man he had called his uncle from a very young age. “We’re leaving in the morning. I only wish we had more overlap with you.”

“Sure you do,” said Alvarez, rolling his eyes. “I’d believe you if we were in Paris or New York. As it is, I’m pretty sure you’re desperate to get off this floating boulder.”

“You have no idea,” said Lucas. “Dad had me working in a building with no Wi-Fi signal, so our subjects didn’t discover the Web surfing capabilities of the implants we gave them. It’s been pure torture.”

“Weren’t you just actually torturing a man in there?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure who had it worse,” said Lucas dryly. “Sure, he was getting bloodied and was about to die. But I had to live without Internet access.”

“Wow,” said Alvarez. “That may be the coldest thing I’ve ever heard. Even for gallows humor.”

“Too soon for that joke?” said Lucas in mock innocence. “In my defense, this killing was part of Dad’s grand plan for me. Not to mention that this asshole was a violent criminal who really, truly deserved what he got.”

Victor studied his son. Perhaps this cheerfulness was his attempt to show how well he could handle the wetwork his father had assigned, prove that he could roll with the unpleasant training he was being asked to endure. And even though he was trying just a little too hard, Victor couldn’t help but be proud of his son’s positive attitude, and the backbone he was demonstrating.

“You’ve done well here,” Victor told him. “I could not have asked for more from you.”

“Thank you,” said Lucas, obviously pleased by the praise.

“You’re probably wondering why I’ve asked you here to meet with me and Eduardo.”

“I am.”

“I wanted to talk to you about your next assignment,” said Victor. “And your future in general.”

Lucas nodded with great interest.

Victor eyed a small table surrounded by chairs, furniture he made sure was placed in any structure he was using as a makeshift office, along with a desk and couch. He considered motioning the two men with him to take a seat, but he had just been sitting for some time outside and decided he’d prefer it if they all remained standing.

“I’m the top dog in this organization, of course,” he continued, “because I built it. Eduardo is number two, because he has been by my side since the early days, proving himself invaluable, and more than earning this role. Right now, Lucas, you are number three. But this is only through right of birth. And because your brilliance and potential is undeniable. But you haven’t actually earned anything. I have no doubt you will, but I’d like to see you begin proving your value early and often. Showing me that you would be indispensable to this organization, even if we were not related.”

“I welcome that chance,” said Lucas.

“Good,” said Victor. “As you know, my goal is to see you eventually carry on for me and Eduardo when we’ve become ancient.”

His son smiled. “You mean when you become even more ancient.”

“I know you’re joking, but I wear my age as a badge of honor. Anyone in this business who isn’t tough, smart, and careful dies very young.”

“A point you’ve impressed upon me often,” said Lucas, “and one I won’t forget. I intend to demonstrate all three of these qualities. Not only to live to a ripe old age, but to live up to your expectations.”

“I would expect no less from a person of your talents,” said Victor, his sincerity evident. “But let me move on, to the near term. Before I give you your next assignment, you should know that I’ve come to a decision regarding your use of BrainWeb implants. It’s obvious why you want them so badly. They represent a tool of astonishing power. But I’ve thought about this at length and have decided I have to say no. I can’t allow you to have these installed, at least not for several years.”

Lucas’s eyes burned with a sudden, fierce intensity, and all traces of joviality vanished. Victor was glad he couldn’t read his son’s mind, not that his current thoughts were much of a mystery.

“The exact number of years will depend on you,” continued Victor. “On how well you prove yourself. I know you’re brilliant academically. What I don’t know is if you’re savvy, street smart. I don’t know how much insight you can bring to a complex analysis, how strategic you can be. How deeply you can think, how doggedly you can focus on a problem. I need to see you demonstrate creativity. Problem solve on your feet. Think outside the box.”

“This makes no sense!” spat Lucas, making no attempt to hide his anger. “Why make the implants contingent on me demonstrating these other qualities? The implants will help me be a better thinker. Why deny me a tool that will help me prove myself, help me make key contributions, that much faster?”

“Because at this stage of your life, I’m not convinced implants won’t have a more negative impact than positive. They offer truly miraculous capabilities. But they are also addictive. And a crutch. They cause dependency, and allow users’ minds to become lazy. Even the standard Internet is addictive, and is known to create superficial thinkers rather than deep thinkers.”

“I know you were joking, Lucas,” said Alvarez, entering the conversation for the first time, “but didn’t you just a few minutes ago compare the absence of Wi-Fi to actual torture and death? Think about that for a moment.”

“Exactly,” said Victor. “If that isn’t a demonstration of what I’m saying, nothing is. In addition to addiction, the Internet causes us to behave like dogs on a busy highway,” he added, “chasing every car that goes by, rather than staying on task and really digging in. It’s too distracting, too ADD inducing. It makes it ever harder to focus on a single problem for hours and days at a time, when a broad, superficial analysis is so easy. It’s too tempting to search the Web for tangents instead of continuing to struggle with a problem at hand.”

He paused to allow his son to digest what he had said. “And these are all issues with standard Internet usage. BrainWeb implants make these temptations, these addictions, these dependencies a hundred times worse.”

Based on Lucas’s now thoughtful expression, Victor guessed his arguments were making at least some sense to him. But if you were desperate to try heroin to become euphoric, the fact that it was addictive and could be bad for you in the long run probably wouldn’t change your mind.

“If BrainWeb implants lead to dependency and scattered thinking,” said Lucas, “then why do you and Uncle Eduardo have them installed?”

“Because we shaped our adult minds for many, many years without them. We learned how to think deeply, to analyze and solve problems, to harness our potential, without having this crutch.”

Victor thought about taking a few steps closer to his son and putting a hand on his shoulder, but decided against it. “As accomplished as you are academically,” he continued, “you’re still young. Think of the next several years as formative. I need you to cement your ability to think deeply and well—unaided. There is no doubt that you can. Your recent idea to acquire experimental subjects in bulk is a demonstration of this. But show me a history of insights. And continue to demonstrate that you don’t have an addictive personality.”

Lucas’s face remained impassive, unreadable.

“Think of it this way: you’re a world-class distance runner already. I’m just sending you off to train in the mountains for a few years. When you’ve shown me deep thinking, deep focus, and have honed your mind into a weapon—without benefit of BrainWeb—that’s when you’ll be ready. And then when you do get implants, you’ll be in a league of your own. Runners who develop world-class times where the air is thin are unstoppable when they finally return to sea level.”

Victor paused, waiting to see how his son would respond.

“Anything to add, Eduardo?” he sent to his friend on what he thought of as their telepathy channel, with the words he thought at his implants being converted into a replica of his voice in Alvarez’s head.

“Nothing,” came the reply. “You’ve done a good job making your case.”

Lucas was silent for an extended period. “I have to admit,” he said finally, “you’ve raised some points I hadn’t considered. I’ll do some research and think about this more. Maybe I’ll come to agree with your decision. I doubt I’ll find a flaw in your reasoning big enough to change your mind, but if I think I have, are you willing to keep an open mind?”

“Always,” said Victor. He paused. “I take it that this means you’re ready to move on, at least for now.”

“At least for now,” said Lucas.

“Good,” replied Victor. “As I said, the primary purpose of this meeting is to give you your next assignment, which I will now do.”

He paused for effect. “For at least the next month, probably much longer, I want you to lock yourself in a room. I want you to come fully up to speed on every aspect of the organization. Every document, every project history, will be made available to you. Most importantly, I want you to think. About how our strategies can be improved, yes, but most of the time I want you to focus on worst-case scenarios, anything that could bite us in the ass. What are the weaknesses of our operations? What could be exploited to hurt us?”

Lucas’s features darkened. This was clearly not what he had been expecting, and not at all welcome.

Victor sighed. “I know being cloistered away from ongoing activities sounds unappealing. I know you wanted to be in the field with me, by my side as I go about my day. I want that too. But this is more important. Gives you an early chance to prove yourself. Think of it as an exercise in paranoia, the one thing you need to stay alive in this business. I’m extremely careful, as you well know. I don’t miss much. But I’m not perfect. I’m certain to have overlooked things that are important. Find them. I challenge you. Impress me. Come up with at least one dazzling insight about the business.”

Lucas’s lip curled up into an almost feral snarl. “Challenge accepted,” he said with almost frightening intensity.

27

“Are you sure you’re up for this, Nick?” asked Megan as she and Hall entered conference room three inside THT’s headquarters, arriving ten minutes before the scheduled start of the bi-monthly meeting of the executive team of Hall’s ESP Taskforce.

“I’m sure,” he replied with a tired smile. “I wouldn’t have called the meeting if I wasn’t.” When Megan’s concerned expression didn’t go away, he hastily added, “I’m fine. Really.”

Megan knew this remained to be seen, and that he would respond the same way even if he had one foot in the grave.

It had been six days since the attempted sarin attack, which would have been the bloodiest, most despicable atrocity to ever occur on American soil if Nick Hall hadn’t gone to herculean efforts to stop it. Without him they wouldn’t have known the attack was even coming, or where and when the drones might strike. Even so, he was far from the only hero. Stopping the attack had been a true team effort.

But it had come at a very high cost.

Two navy pilots were dead, as well as one of THT’s own, Lieutenant Chris Guest, for whom they had held a formal memorial service just the day before. Guest’s loss continued to be a great blow to the team. Floyd Briarwood was still recovering from multiple broken bones and lacerations.

Nick Hall had pushed himself far beyond his limits, overcooking his mind almost to the point of no return, recklessly continuing to use his psionic power long after the check engine light had come on, nearly killing himself in the process.

The moment his captors had been shot he had fallen into a coma for four full days, only returning to consciousness forty-eight hours earlier. It had been touch and go, and the doctors weren’t sure he’d pull out of it.

These had been the worst four days of Megan’s life.

“My coma was harder on you than on me,” said Hall, and if Megan didn’t know better, she would think he had read her mind. “I had the easy part, lying unconscious without a care in the world. But you maintained an around-the-clock bedside vigil, which is a lot more draining. So how are you doing?”

“I see what you did there,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye. “You deflected this discussion away from yourself. You are, indeed, a man of many talents.”

Hall was about to protest that he was sincerely concerned about her well-being, but several meeting participants filed in and he was drawn into greetings and friendly conversations until the meeting officially began.

Everything was compartmentalized within THT. All eight members of Hall’s ESP taskforce knew about his telepathic connection to Megan, but those on other teams did not. And most members of the ESP taskforce knew nothing of the BrainWeb implants that Victor was busily installing in America’s enemies, or Altschuler’s work on quantum encryption.

Hall sat at the head of a long table with a glossy lacquered surface, with Megan sitting just to his right, as usual. He looked out over the members of his taskforce with pride, including the newest addition, Dr. Catherine Ellen Guess, a neurosurgeon who had been working on a sister Black Ops team for many years, attending her first meeting. Next to her sat Gabriele Safani, an MD/PhD neurobiologist from Yale, whom Catherine had long admired. Gabriele had recently lost her husband in a tragic accident and had wanted to shake up her life, try something new. Working on ESP certainly fit that bill, and the team was lucky to have her.

Drew Russell and Heather Zambrana came next. Like Megan, these two were in the minority of team members who had not earned an MD, a doctorate, or both. Not that anyone stood on formality, with first names almost always the order of the day.

Drew Russell was a computer expert and brilliant software architect, second only in skill to Alex Altschuler himself, and was working on all three THT initiatives, essentially making him the seventh member of the core team. Girdler had come to him when he had needed to add software to the implants that would instruct them to surreptitiously beam all incoming thoughts and data streams back to US intelligence, and he had come through with flying colors.

Like Altschuler and Heather, Russell was a comic book geek, but younger, in his early twenties. Russell was as cocky when it came to his field as he was awkward in social situations, although this cockiness vanished when he was in the presence of Altschuler, his programming idol, whom he followed around like a lost puppy dog.

There was only one other scientist/coder who was in their league, a man named Troy Browning, but Browning was rumored to have been forced out of the NSA when he had developed a messiah complex. Russell’s ego was also inflated, but he was eminently likable and managed to stop just short of thinking himself a god.

Heather was sitting next to her husband, who was wiping down his glasses absently with a pre-moistened towelette. She was on the plump side, and he was on the scrawny side, but this only seemed to make them even more perfect for each other somehow. She didn’t have a doctorate next to her name, but the entire team had come to appreciate her keen scientific mind and important contributions.

An intense-looking man in this mid-thirties, Dr. Dennis Sargent, sat next to Altschuler, a bundle of anxious energy. He was one of the top scientists in the world in the area of man/machine interface research and part of a team that had been steadily mapping the human brain, with the ultimate goal of one day completing a computer simulation that would contain all hundred billion neurons.

The scientist next to him, Dr. Hilton Subel, a short, affable man with an elegant South African accent, was a leading expert in both quantum physics and dark energy. Originally brought on board to help with Altschuler’s quantum encryption program, he had been added to the ESP team when it was conjectured that mind reading might well be a quantum effect.

And finally, at the opposite end of the table from Hall sat Dr. Dottie Logerot, on loan from yet another Black laboratory. Dottie was an expert in electromagnetism, exotic signals, and sensors, and had made huge breakthroughs in detecting the signatures of inconceivably small levels of electromagnetic energies and other forces.

Hall began the meeting promptly at ten a.m., as scheduled. He began giving the newcomer, Catherine Ellen Guess, a warm welcome, and then launched right into reviewing his state of health. He described his recent ordeal, not with respect to terrorism, but how overuse of his mind had felt, and its impact on his abilities. Given that the team had been assembled for the sole purpose of studying his abilities, his health was now a matter of great interest and great scrutiny.

Gabriele Safani then gave a more extensive briefing, tackling the scientific side of Hall’s recent experiences. She compared his state of health before and after the ordeal, including MRI scans of his brain, sophisticated panels of brain electrolytes, ion channels, and neuronal firing patterns and recovery times. The differences were many and complex, including a severe depletion of glucose. No surprise there, as the brain was a glutton for this substance. The organ may have made up only two percent of a person’s total body weight, but it burned through twenty percent of the calories taken in. In Hall’s case, this was closer to fifty percent.

The Yale neuroscientist kept her review relatively brief. “I’ll e-mail my full report to each of you after the meeting,” she said when she had finished. “I can’t be certain, but my confidence is high that Nick won’t suffer any permanent aftereffects, to his brain or abilities.” Gabriele turned to Hall and gave him a cross look. “But don’t ever push yourself that hard again,” she insisted, scolding him like a schoolmarm.

“And risk getting on your bad side?” said Hall with a smile. “Never.”

He paused for a moment and then turned to address the entire table. “With that out of the way, I wanted to use today to provide an extensive review session. I’ll begin by giving a thirty-thousand-foot overview of our efforts and findings to date, and then I’ll pass the baton to each team member in turn to give a more thorough report of their own activities and findings.”

“Thanks, Nick,” said Catherine, “but please don’t put everyone through this kind of torture on my account. I don’t want everyone to resent the newcomer right away,” she added with a disarming smile. “I’m sure I can read all the reports and catch up on my own in no time.”

“I have no doubt of that,” he replied. “But this is better. More comprehensive. And it will give you a chance to have back-and-forth discussions with the entire group, probe for deeper understanding.”

Hall nodded at the accomplished neurosurgeon with a warm smile. “But make no mistake, Catherine, we’re doing this for our benefit every bit as much as for yours. Our group is pretty insular, and we don’t get the benefit of new ideas very often. We’re eager to review our work for someone who brings a new perspective. You’re sure to raise points that we’ve missed, question things we’ve come to take for granted.”

“Okay, then,” she replied, his response having clearly satisfied her concerns. “I’ll do my best to come up with a novel idea or two.”

Hall launched into a broad overview of their efforts. He described how he and the team had gone to Temple Square in Salt Lake City, a tourist attraction with plenty of open space outdoors, and one that received a high density of foot traffic.

There, he had gone about identifying others whose minds he couldn’t read. After two days he had ended up finding nine people who were as naturally resistant to his abilities as Megan, a hit rate of about one out of every seven hundred.

He next had tested for telepathic ability and confirmed that, like Megan, all nine of these subjects were able to receive the thoughts that he directed their way.

“How did you do this without giving away your secret?” asked Catherine.

“Turned out to be easier than we thought,” said Hall. “When I found a test subject, I just yelled, ‘Duck!’ telepathically. In every case the person ducked, looking around to see who had said it.”

“Nick tried a few similar experiments,” said Megan, “but not many. Didn’t want these people to think they’d gone crazy.”

“Or that they were hearing the voice of God,” added Heather in amusement. “Probably wasn’t a great idea for Nick to project thoughts into people’s heads while they were on the grounds of a temple.”

Hall grinned. “One guy who was telepathically receptive did have a dog with him,” he said, arching his eyebrows suggestively.

“You didn’t,” said Catherine in delight.

“No, but think of all the funny things I could have had his pet say to him.”

“Wasn’t there a serial killer years ago who said his dog told him to do it?” said Catherine.

“That wasn’t me,” said Hall innocently. “Really. And I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the dog, either.”

Catherine laughed, seeming to genuinely appreciate the group’s sense of humor.

Hall liked to keep his meetings as lighthearted as he could, and he made sure new team members were vetted for their personality and compatibility with the team along with their technical expertise. Based on what he had seen so far, Catherine Ellen Guess would fit in nicely.

He went on to describe how each of the nine subjects they had identified in Temple Square were later approached and told they had been randomly chosen to participate in a medical study. If they were willing to undergo a comprehensive physical at a medical center nearby, they would be paid five thousand dollars.

Eight of the nine had jumped at the chance, although comprehensive didn’t come close to describing the tests they endured. In addition to blood and urine draws, and undergoing dozens of tests they hadn’t known existed, their brains were scanned and their DNA was sequenced.

After these findings had been discussed, Hall went on to review the many ways he, himself, had been put through the wringer. DNA, MRIs, and every other brain scan known to mankind, of course, but reflexes, RNA analysis, chemical content of cells, neuronal physiology, the list went on and on.

“About the only doctor who hasn’t taken a piece of me is a proctologist,” he explained to the newcomer.

Megan grinned. “And that’s only because the team reluctantly decided that Nick’s rectum was probably not the source of his mind-reading ability.”

“Maybe we should rethink that decision,” said Altschuler. “Are we sure Nick has been probed enough? What if his anus does hold the key?” he continued. “Not literally, of course,” he hastened to add, breaking into laughter. “But it is possible we’ve been going about this analysis . . . ass-backwards?”

“Wow, what are we, in seventh grade?” said Heather with a twinkle in her eye.

“Yeah, Alex, thanks,” said Hall. “With you as a friend, who needs, you know . . . enemas.”

“Please tell me you didn’t just say that,” said Megan.

“Sorry,” he replied sheepishly, directing his apology more to Catherine Ellen Guess than to Megan. “We usually maintain at least a semblance of decorum,” he explained.

“Sure we do,” said Heather, rolling her eyes.

Hall went on to summarize all they had done to get a handle on the power and range of his abilities. They had tested his powers from inside a steam room, in arctic conditions, deep underwater, behind lead walls, inside a hyperbaric chamber, inside a Faraday cage, deep underground, surrounded by a vacuum chamber, and in any number of even more creative environments.

None of the endless barriers and interfering waves they had tried blocked Hall’s mind-reading ability in the slightest. Only Megan Emerson could do that, and she had no idea how.

They had also taken delicate measurements as Hall read minds, shouted telepathically, and strained to move tiny objects, but none of this had registered on any of the insanely sensitive sensors Dottie Logerot had brought to the party. Mind reading failed to register in any way on the environment. It didn’t create any residual heat or cold, and it had zero impact on any wavelengths in the electromagnetic spectrum.

Since this was impossible, they had decided it might be a quantum effect, since most things in this realm seemed equally impossible. Or perhaps it was working through dark matter or dark energy, mysterious substances that, like Hall’s psionic powers, were also impossible to directly detect, baffling scientists for decades.

After describing the rationale for these conjectures, which explained Hilton Subel’s presence on the team, Hall concluded his overview. He then turned the meeting over to the research scientists among them to plunge into these results with far greater depth and scientific rigor, while Catherine asked questions and engaged in discussion.  Finally, more than three hours after the meeting had begun, the presentations concluded.

Catherine gave the team her heartfelt thanks for taking the time to bring her up to speed. “But before we call it a day,” she added, “there is something else I’d like to bring up, even though I’m sure you’ve done so long ago.”

“By all means,” said Hall.

“Since I got clearance to join this team, I’ve been doing homework. As I understand it, the prevailing theory is that Kelvin Gray’s experimentation somehow triggered Nick’s ESP, which is likely a dormant ability present in all of us. I know I’m stating the obvious here, but it stands to reason that if we really want to understand this, we need to know the exact pathway the BrainWeb implants took through Nick’s brain.”

“As you suspected,” said Hall, “this point did come up. During our very first meeting, in fact. The core team debated attempting this approach, but we decided not to go there. Not yet. We do have a copy of Kelvin Gray’s data, including a careful record of his experimentation on me. This is in a file that also contains thousands of pages detailing the technology behind the implants, and specifications for large scale manufacturing. We kept a single copy only. But this file has been safely trapped within an impenetrable cage of Alex’s making, one we think of as our own version of Pandora’s Box. It’s not only the recipe for ESP, as you point out, but for the BrainWeb hardware and software as well. We have no doubt that there are people and governments who would do anything to get their hands on it. We can’t take any chances. Besides, we aren’t trying to recreate mind reading, just block it if others do.”

“I know I’m the newbie,” pressed Catherine, “but I’d recommend this be reconsidered. I’m very impressed with your efforts. But I’m not sure how much farther you can get from here. You’ve been ingenious and thorough. I know you want to safeguard the recipe, as you call it, and I appreciate that, but I don’t see how we can make the progress we need without it. It’s the most important piece of the puzzle. More important than all of the other pieces combined.”

She paused. “We’re trying to stop ESP,” she continued, “not create it. I get that. But knowing which of your neurons were stimulated or destroyed by the passage of the implants would be invaluable. It’s a lot easier to determine how to block something if you know what caused it in the first place.”

Hall nodded. She made some excellent points. And they had vetoed this idea back when they had started, back when they thought they might find an answer without this data. But they had been fooling themselves.

“I also understand that there are still a few handfuls of prototype sets available,” continued the neurosurgeon, “but that they haven’t been installed in anyone else. I think they should be. Nick’s ESP is dependent on the implants, after all. Comparing Nick’s brain activity to that of someone who has implants, but not ESP, could prove valuable. We might begin to get a handle on how the implant/brain interface contributes to the mind reading effect.”

Hall glanced over to Dennis Sargent, who raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. He was the only one outside of THT’s core team aware that Alex Altschuler also possessed implants. He had done the very experiments Catherine Ellen Guess had just suggested, but they hadn’t led anywhere useful. Still, this was one sharp woman. What a great addition to the team she was going to make.

Hall decided to speak privately with Altschuler while conversation continued around the table. Since both possessed implants, the communication was indistinguishable from telepathy. “What do you think, Alex?” he asked.

“You know what I think,” he replied. “I know you’re trying not to read me, but my thoughts are pretty clear on this.”

“Can you tell me anyway?”

“She’s remarkable. Just what we need. Not afraid to speak her mind in her first meeting. And I think she’s right. The time has come to open Pandora’s Box. I think we’ve been too paranoid. And it won’t be dangerous if we open it inside an even bigger Pandora’s Box.”

“Meaning what?” asked Hall.

“Meaning that I can make sure it won’t leak. I can set up the data so it won’t let itself ever touch the Internet. If we only ever view the data inside these walls, and keep it isolated from the Web, there’s no way anyone can get at it.”

Hall ended his private communication with Altschuler and listened to the continuing conversation around the table. It was soon clear that the idea to provide the team with access to Kelvin Gray’s data had unanimous support.

“Okay,” said Hall when the discussion had died down. “Catherine makes a good point, and we’ve always known this course of study might prove valuable. I guess I’ve been guilty of being ridiculously paranoid. I’m sure Alex can come up with a way to let the data off the leash but make sure it’s still secure—along with Drew, of course,” he added hastily.

Drew Russell shook his head. “How did I manage to find the only place on earth where I’m second fiddle?” he said. “Where my considerable talents are just an afterthought?” He held out his hand in mock resignation. “That’s okay,” he added dramatically. “My ego is big enough to take it.”

“Your ego is big enough to take a nuclear warhead, Drew,” said Hall in amusement. “But we wouldn’t have it any other way.” He paused and faced the entire group. “But back to Kelvin Gray’s data. I’ll take this up with General Girdler and President Cochran. I’ll let you know if they approve our request for access.”

“What are the chances they will?” asked Catherine.

Hall smiled. “For a request that has this team’s unanimous support? I’d say as close to a hundred percent as it’s possible to get.”

28

Admiral Robert “Bob” Siegel waited until he was informed the coast was clear and then drove inside a mining warehouse set against a Utah mountain, alone in his rental car.

Until just a few days earlier he had thought he had been doing a good job of keeping the country safe. He had thought he was as high as it got in the intelligence pecking order.

As Director of National Intelligence, he could be forgiven for having these grandiose thoughts, no matter how wrong they had turned out to be. He was, after all, in charge of all sixteen US intelligence agencies, including the CIA and NSA, and was the principal intelligence advisor to both the National Security and Homeland Security Councils.

He was also supposed to have been the principal intelligence advisor to the president, and he had thought that he was, until the president had read him into a tiny little Black Operations group called THT, which was just chock-full of surprises. Mind-blowing surprises.

Siegel, a trim man in his early fifties, was just glad that his hair was already white, or it might have changed to this color during the hour or two meeting at which the president had finally disclosed this bombshell. Revelations like THT didn’t happen every day.

In fact, none even close to this had ever happened in his lifetime.

As he exited the rental car, feeling more like a feeble tourist than the head of the most powerful and far-ranging intelligence organization in history, he was greeted warmly by an old associate, General Justin Girdler, looking quite well for a treasonous bastard who was being hunted as though he were Osama bin Laden.

Apparently, no one had thought to look in Utah.

And no one had considered that this Benedict Arnold was actually George Washington in disguise. Not to mention the man pulling all the strings of national security, playing patty-cake with the president while Siegel played the clueless figurehead.

“Let me give you a tour of the kingdom,” said Girdler.

Siegel knew the general was using irony to poke fun at the vast disparity in the facilities they controlled, along with their human and physical resources. But this only served to highlight the obvious: as ridiculously small as Girdler’s physical kingdom might have been, his power was unparalleled.

Timothy Cochran had given Siegel a verbal overview of THT’s history and had let him read a brief summary file in the Oval Office, one the president wouldn’t let out of the room, but the admiral wasn’t even close to being fully up to speed.

Right now, all he knew were the basics. He knew that two legends thought dead, Nick Hall and Alex Altschuler, were in surprisingly good health, and a man known only as Victor had been fooled to implant Trojan Horse bugs inside the heads of key enemies of the state, streaming intel back to THT-controlled computers 24/7. He knew that Girdler had wanted to keep knowledge of THT more rarified than any Black project in history.

Not that he could fault the general’s reasoning. When giving a hollow wooden horse as a gift, a single leaked rumor that there were soldiers inside would ruin everything.

Finally, he knew that Girdler and his second-in-command, Colonel Mike Campbell, whom Siegel had also worked with previously, had finally decided their job was too big, and that they needed to bring the Director of National Intelligence into the tent after all.

When he had first learned of THT’s activities, Siegel had been self-critical. How had he failed to connect the dots? How had he failed to realize that US intelligence organizations were being fed high-quality intel in ways that disguised how this intel had come to be known?

But after a brief period of self-recrimination, he had decided he hadn’t been negligent or incompetent. Girdler had done his usual crafty job of orchestrating this stealthy data dump, with the President of the United States running interference. And Siegel’s domain was enormous, a sixteen-tentacled octopus, with each tentacle sprouting hundreds of others. He couldn’t possibly be expected to ferret out hidden data insertions spread out across all of these offshoots, any more than the ruler of an ocean could be expected to be aware of all that was occurring within its murky depths.

And when the president had personally ordered Homeland to round up ninety-nine different suspects each month for useless interrogations in Utah, requesting his fingerprints not be on the orders, Siegel had strenuously objected. Objections Cochran had shut down without explanation, insisting that the admiral leave it alone.

At least now he knew why.

“The president gave me a rundown on the attack you stopped over the University of San Diego,” he said to Girdler. “Well done! Malala and thousands of little girls? Jesus, Justin, my head explodes just thinking about what would have happened if this wasn’t stopped.”

The attempted attack had taken place exactly a week earlier. Siegel wasn’t sure if they had made the decision to read him into THT prior to this, or if this had somehow been the straw that broke the camel’s back, convincing them of the need to broaden their manpower and reach, and that continuing to keep the DNI in the dark might be misguided.

Either way, the decision had been made. The president had read him in and then had him whisked away to Utah to get a more comprehensive briefing, and to meet the band, which had been playing the real music while he had been busy playing air guitar.

Girdler’s facilities tour lasted all of ten minutes. The interior of the warehouse was modern and high tech, but this was the last thing that set THT apart.

Their last stop was the main conference room, where the rest of THT’s core team would be waiting for them. A team Girdler had raved about during the tour, proclaiming it to be the most extraordinary ever assembled.

Based on what Siegel knew, it was hard to argue otherwise.

29

Girdler smiled to himself as he watched Admiral Bob Siegel take a deep breath and enter the main conference room. The man looked like he was going to a funeral. His own funeral.

Every member of the core team was standing inside, some holding glasses of orange juice and some with mugs of coffee, waiting for them to arrive.

Girdler also noted that the Director of National Intelligence tried to be polite and make small talk while he was introduced to each man or woman in turn, but he couldn’t completely hide the nauseated expression on his face or keep the slightly panicked look from his eyes, and Girdler’s colleagues couldn’t quite hide their amused smiles. Only he and Mike Campbell managed to keep straight faces, and he had no doubt that Siegel was wondering if some sort of happy gas had been released into the air to account for the laughs and smirks he was seeing all around him.

Heather and Megan seated themselves at the conference table right after being introduced and studied Siegel like he was a puppy they expected to soon do something fun and entertaining. Drew Russell gave the incoming admiral a “you’re fucked now, buddy,” expression, just to play with his mind. And Altschuler simply raised his eyebrows in amusement as he noticed a thin coating of perspiration emerge from the pores on Siegel’s face, making it the slightest bit shiny.

Siegel was so paralyzed when Nick Hall reached out to shake his hand that Girdler couldn’t keep a straight face any longer. The admiral couldn’t have looked more horrified had a proctologist announced he was using a sword to give him a rectal exam.

“Let’s get started,” said Girdler when everyone had been introduced and all were seated around the table. “The purpose of today’s meeting is to bring Admiral Siegel up to speed on all of our activities, and for all of us to, well . . . bond . . . for want of a better word. Thus the personal visit.”

He paused. “We’ve allotted three hours for the briefing, and then we’ll have lunch brought in for an additional hour. Then President Cochran will join us for our first full meeting with Bob as the new team member.”

He turned to Siegel, who seemed to be in another world, completely preoccupied. “Before we begin, do you have anything to add?”

Siegel looked confused for just a moment, as though Girdler’s words weren’t registering, but then nodded. “Thanks, Justin,” he began. He swallowed hard. “It’s an honor to meet all of you. I know you’ve singlehandedly been responsible for . . .” He paused. “Responsible for . . .” He stopped again.

“Shit!” he said finally. “I can’t concentrate.” He turned squarely to face Hall, who was sitting quietly at the table, three chairs away. “I mean, are you reading my mind right now? Do you know exactly what I’m going to say?” he finished in exasperation.

Everyone in the room broke into broad smiles or laughter at the same time, except for Nick Hall, whose face remained impassive.

“Sorry, Bob,” said Girdler. “We’ve been having a little fun at your expense. It isn’t hard to guess that you’ve been feeling a little . . . uncomfortable. And by a little, I mean more uncomfortable than you’ve ever felt in your life. And by uncomfortable, I mean anxious to the point of puking.”

“But you hid it well,” said Megan Emerson wryly.

From Siegel’s expression, it was clear he wasn’t yet rolling with the joke.

“This has nothing to do with you personally,” Girdler reassured his old associate. “We’re amused because we’ve all been there. Welcome to the club. Worried about what secrets Nick might be reading? Feeling more exposed than you’ve ever felt? Well, we’ve all had the experience of encountering Nick for the first time and realizing our minds were an open book, ugly warts and all. So we didn’t want this opportunity to pass without observing you and extracting out the humor in the situation.”

Siegel was now no longer glaring at the group, but he wasn’t smiling, either.

“Think of this as an initiation,” said Altschuler. “A rite of passage. We tend to ease new scientists joining our peripheral teams into the fold a lot more gently, but we knew you could handle it.”

Putting the situation in this context did seem to soften the blow, and Siegel’s demeanor continued to improve.

“You made it for a full eight minutes,” said Girdler. “Eight minutes before you got so unnerved being in Nick’s presence that you couldn’t go on without addressing the elephant in the room. We set the over-under on this at ten minutes,” he explained. He turned to address the entire table. “So congratulations to all of you who bet on the under. We’ll settle up after the meeting.”

Siegel shook his head. “What the hell, Justin?” he said, but in a good-natured tone, almost one of surrender. “So this is your idea of fun? Watching me squirm?”’

“Pretty much,” admitted Girdler. “Like Alex said, think of it as an initiation.”

“Okay, so I’ve been initiated. And you’ve all been in my shoes, which does make me feel better. But I still need to know exactly what those shoes look like. So tell me, Nick, are you planning to read my mind in great depth? The president said you had made a vow to respect the privacy of your colleagues to the best of your ability. Is this true? Will you stay out of my mind?”

Hall sighed. “It’s true. And no one understands better than I do that this is no laughing matter. I don’t enjoy being a leper any more than you enjoy being around one. I’m sorry that you don’t feel comfortable around me. But I can assure you, as soon as this meeting officially begins and you’re officially a colleague, I’ll give you this same vow.”

“As soon as the meeting begins?” said Siegel suspiciously. “Does that mean you’ve been in my head since I entered the room? What, vetting me?”

Hall winced. “Actually, I have something to tell you that you may not love. Turns out I vetted you long before you got here.” He shrugged. “You didn’t think we’d bring you into the fold until we were absolutely sure we could trust you, did you?”

Siegel’s eyes widened. “When?” he stammered in horror. “How?”

“We first decided we might want to have you join us about a month ago. Remember when the president had you fly out to Hill Air Force Base to meet with the base commander? Well, I’m afraid I vetted you then.”

“For how long?” asked Siegel.

“Long enough. Naturally, I read things in your past that you wouldn’t want publicized: duplicity, misuse of power, and so on. But none of us are saints. I’d say your ethics and conduct are about even with the general and colonel here,” he added, gesturing to Girdler and Campbell, “which is very high praise. And if it makes you feel better, I’ve read President Cochran as well. You have fewer skeletons in your closet than he does, and he has the fewest of any politician I’ve ever read—and believe me, I was forced to read a lot of them.”

“What?” said Siegel in confusion.

“Long story. The important thing is that you’re here. You passed the screen. Your secrets and indiscretions are safe with me. You aren’t exactly as pure as the driven snow—or even snow that’s been sitting for months outside of a coal factory—but you’re a good man on the whole. You have good instincts and good intentions. And you’re a man who can be trusted.”

Hall sighed. “And for the purposes of full disclosure, yes, I also went into your head while you were touring with the general just now, just to get a sense of how you took the revelations about this group. And just so you know, all things considered, you’ve taken them well.”

Altschuler jumped in before the admiral could respond. “I know you feel violated,” he said. “But consider if this wasn’t for the best. We all trust Nick implicitly. If he hadn’t vetted you like he did, we’d have been forced to keep you at arm’s length for some time. We’d be worried that you couldn’t be trusted or would play politics to exert control. But now that Nick has vouched for you, we’re ready to embrace you as one of our own, from day one.”

The admiral stared back at the brilliant scientist, deep in thought. Finally, he nodded. “An interesting point,” he said.

“So why don’t we begin the briefing, Bob,” said Girdler. “The moment we start, you’re officially one of us—part of our two-man Washington cohort—and Nick will stay out of your head.”

“Then we don’t have a second to waste,” said Siegel, showing just the hint of a smile for the first time. “Let’s start this damned briefing already.”

30

President Timothy Cochran joined the meeting from the Oval Office four hours later, looking for all the world like he was actually inside THT’s conference room and seated at the table along with the rest of the team. Holographic televisions that projected perfect 3-D video without the viewer needing to wear glasses had been perfected years earlier and had spread across the US like a hyper-infectious virus. Not only was breakthrough technology being developed at an increasingly furious pace, it was spreading faster than ever before.

Girdler still marveled at a holographic breakthrough that had occurred only in the past few months, enabling the creation of a virtual presence anywhere, one that could be manipulated to make it appear a virtual meeting attendee was interacting with the room, actually seated around the table. It wasn’t quite flawless, but you had to pay attention to tell the virtual from the real.

It was science fiction come to life. But for that matter, the technology in Nick Hall’s head had recently been nothing but science fiction as well.

Science fiction had predicted many of the advances humanity now took for granted with uncanny accuracy, and had even been responsible for a number of them. Girdler had read that Captain Kirk’s communicator had been the inspiration for the cell phone, one of the greatest transformative developments of all time.

The general shook his head as he realized something profound. One of the few things that science fiction had largely failed to predict was the Internet itself.

He had read the great Isaac Asimov as a kid. In Foundation, set in a star-spanning empire thousands of years in the future, Asimov had envisioned a mighty initiative to amass humankind’s collective knowledge in a work called the Encyclopedia Galactica—a work that would take generations to complete. At the time, Girdler had found Asimov’s vision of a single repository of all human knowledge to be powerful and compelling.

But despite painting a far future civilization filled with starships and other advanced technology, not even the genius of Dr. Asimov could imagine a tool as awesome as the Internet, a vast collection of knowledge—including images, audio, and video—that could be instantly searched for the occurrence of any subject matter or phrase. One that enabled a reader to jump off the page to reference a related topic millions of pages away and then jump back again in an instant.

Astonishingly, the Internet had swept across the planet only a handful of decades after Foundation had been written, turning Asimov’s grand, far-future vision of the ultimate printed encyclopedia into something laughably primitive. Comparing the scope and usefulness of the fictional Encyclopedia Galactica to the Internet was like comparing a flint arrowhead to a nuclear ballistic missile.

“Welcome, Mr. President,” said Girdler after the computer rendered a virtual Timothy Cochran at the other end of the oval table.

“Glad to be with you,” he replied. “How goes the briefing?”

Girdler gestured for Admiral Siegel to respond.

“They’ve given me a fairly comprehensive crash course on their operations,” said Siegel. “And a pretty good dose of their sophomoric sense of humor.”

Cochran laughed. “Glad to see you’re getting the full treatment. I take it they also told you exactly how you were vetted before being asked to join.”

“Oh yeah,” said the admiral.

“Well, just so you know,” said Cochran, “you get the last laugh. They’re all staying here within Nick’s range, while you get to spend most of your time thousands of miles away.”

“Thanks, Mr. President,” said Hall, pretending to be offended. “It’s always great to be reminded of how much I’m loved.”

“Believe me, Nick,” said the president in amusement, “I’m doing you a favor. I’ve known Bob for years. No one should have to be exposed to that mind.”

“We should probably get started,” said the general before Siegel could come up with a humorous rejoinder. “It’s been a while since you’ve attended a meeting, Mr. President. And while Bob is now current on operations, we still need to fill him in on important events that have taken place over the past several months. So we have a lot of ground to cover.”

“Understood,” said Cochran. “Before we do, though, this is the first opportunity I’ve had to congratulate all of you on the USD operation. I want to thank you, Nick,” he added, turning to face the man in question, “first and foremost, since I know you almost extended yourself to the point of no return. And I can’t begin to tell you how relieved I was when you finally came out of your coma.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But all of you performed brilliantly,” continued Cochran, “and heroically. General, please extend my congratulations and gratitude to the members of your security team who were involved. Tell them that I mourn your losses and thank them for their heroism.”

He paused. “I also want your recommendations as to what medals would be appropriate to award. Beginning with Kevin Wellman, who I understand was willing to sacrifice his life for Nick’s. But don’t forget about the members of the team who captured the drone, especially Sergeant Plaskett.”

“I’ll make sure you have these recommendations by tomorrow,” said Girdler solemnly. “Speaking of the USD attack,” he added, “how goes the backlash over the cover-up?”

“Not great,” grumbled the president. “But I’ll be honest with you,” he added with a crooked smile, “I’m a professional politician at the top of the food chain. As such, lying goes with the territory. But usually it’s for self-serving political reasons. It really is a pleasure to hone my lying skills for the right reasons.”

Girdler nodded. He couldn’t believe Cochran had so freely confessed to this, but since Hall had been in his head, after all, perhaps he felt more comfortable letting his hair down among this group.

“Not that my fabrications have been totally effective,” continued the president. “There are conspiracy theories going around. The most popular is that we stopped a tactical nuke from being exploded in USD’s stadium and killing Malala and six thousand little girls.”

“Well that’s just crazy,” said Megan with a twinkle in her eye. “I mean, where do these nutcases come up with this stuff? It’s obvious that this was nothing more than a gun malfunction over a crowded stadium. Which just happened to turn one of two drones into a rain of shrapnel. Which just happened to occur during a drone-catching demonstration done to honor Malala. Which was ordered by a president with really poor judgment, who was, you know, probably a little drunk at the time. I mean, what else could it be?”

“Thanks,” said Cochran with a groan. “That makes me feel a lot better.”

Mike Campbell laughed. “We do appreciate you taking one for the team,” he said.

“And you did an excellent job keeping everyone in the stadium calm,” added Girdler. “If not for this, our operation couldn’t have been successful.”

Cochran simply nodded to acknowledge this praise.

Girdler didn’t consider himself a religious man, but it was difficult not to wonder if a higher power wasn’t looking out for the world. Believers argued that even great tragedies had a purpose behind them, just one that humanity wasn’t qualified to see, like a beginner chess player trying to understand a sophisticated move made by a grandmaster.

Kelvin Gray had killed eighteen people in a quest to perfect what had come to be known as BrainWeb. A tragedy, no doubt. But in the process Nick Hall had been created, and how many tens of thousands of lives had he saved already?

“There are a few important recent events I want to report on,” began Girdler, finally getting down to the nuts and bolts of the briefing. “But before I do, I’d like to give Bob some historical context that we didn’t quite get to.”

Girdler turned his head to the left and caught Siegel’s eye. “Since I put the ten thousand sets of implants into Victor’s hands, a number of things have changed. Most importantly, Victor decided that selling all of them would be problematic, especially when word got out that he had them.”

“Why?” asked Siegel.

“The appetite for them was a lot greater than he could manage. He worried that those he denied might resent him for it, might become enemies.”

“And you’re certain this was his rationale?” asked the admiral.

“Victor isn’t just a seller of BrainWeb technology,” replied Girdler, “he’s a user. So what I’m telling you we got from his conversations and even his surface thoughts, which we’ve been privy to since just after he acquired the sets.”

Siegel nodded. “That’s what I call solid intel,” he said appreciatively. “Please go on.”

“So he staged an attack on himself,” continued the general, “pretending it was us, and pretending we took back our property. In this way, he got off the radar, and regained discretion over which customers he would work with. After that, he’s been very stingy about doling out the implants,” he added unhappily. “It’s like the city of Troy gratefully accepting our wooden horse, not suspecting a thing, and then innocently deciding it would look prettier if displayed outside of their gates.”

“I can see how that would be frustrating,” said the admiral.

“It got worse from there,” said Girdler. “Victor also disengaged from working with Jihadists, which he had done extensively to that point. We thought we’d be inside the heads of most of the top terrorists. When Victor changed gears, we at least thought we’d get a read on terror chiefs through their dealings with him. When he went cold turkey it was quite a blow to the program.”

“It seems as though Nick’s work with terror suspects at Hill Air Force Base is filling in that gap quite nicely,” said Siegel. “Whatever you call it. Your ninety-nine bottles of terrorism on the wall initiative, I suppose.”

Girdler smiled. Ninety-nine bottles of terrorism. Take one down, pass it around. Siegel might just fit in even better than he expected. “It has been a big help. Especially in protecting the homeland. But we’re still mostly blind to the internal politics of ISIS and other groups.”

“Not totally,” said Siegel. “I’ve had some recent success placing operatives inside some of these camps. And inside Iran, Iraq, and Syria. Something we’ve made a top priority. Not as good as being in their actual heads, maybe a bit old-fashioned, but we aren’t totally blind.”

“Congratulations,” said Girdler. “That’s excellent work. And we might be able to get back in the game too, at least when it comes to ISIS.” He paused. “Mike, could you elaborate?”

“Sayed Nazry contacted Victor just six days ago,” said Campbell. “The day after the attempted sarin attack. I’ll send everyone the data Victor’s implants beamed back to us during the call so you can watch for yourself. You won’t believe it. Nazry treated Victor like he was a clerk at Walmart in charge of customer returns. He wanted his money back for the drones Victor sold him, basically because he was so pissed off that we stopped his attack.”

“So how did this improve our situation?” asked the president. “Didn’t Victor just tell him to go to hell, putting us right back where we started?”

“Surprisingly, no,” replied Campbell. “Victor has decided to make a play for ESP.”

He went on to explain how the arms dealer had decided to use a large number of implant sets to try to recreate Hall’s condition in helpless victims, first using Brazilian prisoners and now trying to work out arrangements for ISIS to supply them in bulk.

“Not a good turn of events,” said President Cochran. “Yes, he’s now interacting with the head of ISIS, but only for a narrow purpose of his own. The window we’ll get into Nazry’s activities will be vanishingly small. On the other hand, if Victor succeeds in his quest for ESP, we’ve got a huge problem.”

“Not as big as you might think,” said Girdler, “since we’ll know if, and when, he hits pay dirt. They haven’t set up the facility they’ll use to test their experimental subjects yet. But once they do, we’ll know where it is, and we can ready a strike plan. In the unlikely event Victor succeeds, we’ll end the facility—and him. This will stall out any further distribution of implants, but we’ll still be receiving data from those he placed prior to his death.”

“I still don’t like him going after mind reading,” said the president.

“I don’t either,” said Girdler. “But in my view this doesn’t warrant any drastic changes to our program. Not yet. We need to use him as long as we can. The odds of his success are long, and since we’re in his head, he’ll have no place to hide.”

Cochran nodded. “Agreed,” he said finally.

“Interestingly enough,” said Mike Campbell, “the idea to work with Nazry didn’t originate with Victor this time.”

“Eduardo Alvarez?” guessed the president.

“No,” said the colonel. “There’s a new player on the board. Turns out Victor has a son.”

“You’re shitting me!” said Siegel in dismay. Victor had been on the admiral’s most wanted list for years, and he had studied him extensively. “He managed to keep this from our entire intelligence community. Remarkable. So who’s the son?”

“His name is Lucas Perez,” said the general, “but he’s decided to do the one-name thing like his father. And get this, the kid was in our easy grasp for years but we didn’t have a clue who he really was. He was just hanging out in Massachusetts, getting his doctorate at MIT.”

“We pulled his records,” said Colonel Campbell, “which I’ll forward to everyone. As they say in Boston, the kid is wicked smart. Even more brilliant than his father. And judging from how well he’s taken to killing after losing his virginity, he’s wicked ruthless.”

“After losing his virginity?” repeated Cochran, arching an eyebrow.

“Not sexually,” explained Campbell. “His father wanted him to get his hands dirty. Learn how to kill. I’ll send the images taken thorough Victor’s eyes of his conversation with Lucas and subsequent kills, but I have to warn you, viewer discretion is advised. Lucas shot a man in the throat at point-blank range. I’d probably pass on that one. But the son is catching on fast, and seems to be cut from the same mold as his father.”

“So how is this significant to us?” asked Admiral Siegel.

“It isn’t,” said Girdler. “For now. But now that Lucas is in the picture, he’ll add a new variable to the equation.”

The general paused. When no additional questions were asked, he nodded toward Mike Campbell to continue.

“There is one last key development to report,” said the colonel. “One that we think might well make up for our lack of penetration into Jihadi groups.”

He went on to describe Victor’s new strategy, one that his implants had revealed less than a month earlier as he was cooking it up in the private confines of his mind, and then as he discussed it with Eduardo Alvarez.

Victor may have decided to limit access to the implants, but he would make every placement count. He would become the puppet master for power players around the globe, providing twenty sets of implants to each to help them move up the ladder and ultimately take the reins of power in their countries, creating a group of world leaders who would be forever in his debt.

Since the president’s last briefing, Victor had met with Alexander Sokolov in Russia, Pak Pyong-so in North Korea, and most recently, Li Jeng in Hong Kong, and had set up a number of additional meetings with others of their ilk. Campbell promised to forward implant-derived footage of Victor’s meeting with General Li to the members of the team to give them a better sense of how he had been implementing this strategy.

“Why twenty sets?” asked Siegel.

“So the men he’s trying to elevate can give implants to nineteen of their closest allies,” replied Campbell, “strengthening their hands.”

The admiral shook his head. “That’s a mistake. In these circles, with these stakes, at least one ally will want power for himself and turn on the man Victor selected.”

“True enough,” agreed Girdler. “Which is why Victor modified the implants. Basically, he armed nineteen of the twenty sets. He gave the man he selected in each country the detonation code, which can be activated remotely via the Internet.”

“Armed?” said the president. “Like with an explosive?”

“No,” replied Campbell. “Armed with software that will trigger the implants to cause a deadly stroke. A little less dramatic, but just as effective.”

Admiral Siegel’s eyes widened. “So if they have the detonation codes, that means we do as well, correct?”

Girdler nodded. “Correct.”

“Wow,” said Siegel. “That’s a lot to process. So, at minimum, we have total access to the eyes, ears, and thoughts of twenty of the highest-ranking officials in several key governments. And before long, as these people rise, we’ll have eyes and ears in the corridors of power in the Kremlin, in the Politburo, in the Worker’s Party, and others. And all the while, we’ll have the ability in cases of extreme need to snuff out any one of the nineteen like we’re the hand of God.”

“In many ways we hit the jackpot with this one,” said Girdler.

“In every way,” replied the admiral. “Like Mike alluded to, this largely balances the scales. You may be falling short when it comes to Islamic fundamentalists, but you’re exceeding expectations when it comes to intel on foreign governments.” He paused. “Although with Nick’s efforts, you’re still more effective in the terrorism space than anyone could have dreamed of seven months ago.”

“This really is a remarkable development,” said the president.

His virtual head turned to face Alex Altschuler, his expression one of concern. “But how was Victor able to arm the implants?” he asked. “I know the protection on the BrainWeb prototypes isn’t absolute, like quantum encryption would be, but I was told it was your best work. Not impregnable, but just about. Was Victor able to breach it?”

Altschuler shook his head. “No, but the sets he controls do have a design flaw. I designed them to prevent anyone from reverse engineering the central code, or changing it. But there is nothing to prevent the implants from accepting software add-ons. This is what Drew did to give us our intel feeds, and what Victor did to create his bomb. I’ve since corrected for this. The latest version of the software won’t accept add-ons, under any circumstances. Rest assured,” he added decisively, “when I perfect quantum encryption, BrainWeb will be absolutely safe for widespread commercial release.”

Siegel tilted his head and shot Girdler a funny look. “You considered arming the implants you gave to Victor, didn’t you, Justin?”

“I did,” said Girdler softly. “How did you know?”

“Because you never miss an angle,” replied Siegel. “And I mean that as a compliment,” he added hastily. He stared at the general with great interest. “So why did you decide against it?”

Girdler sighed. “I felt that spying on our enemies from inside of their heads was questionable enough, ethically, but that the ends justified the means. But imbedding kill codes?” He shook his head. “This was just a bridge too far. I couldn’t do it.”

Siegel nodded thoughtfully. “I’m not sure whether to be wildly impressed, or wildly disappointed.”

“That makes two of us,” said the general grimly.

31

Victor’s eye fluttered open but his memory did not.

He was groggy—drugged—and his memory remained opaque, even when he realized he had been bound like a hog and propped back against the wall of his office, his ankles and wrists tied together with plastic zip-ties, his mouth covered by duct tape.

Eduardo Alvarez was tied beside him, wrists together, ankles together, seated against the wall, his mouth also taped shut. Worse, Victor realized that both he and Alvarez were chained by a plastic strip to his imposing desk, built into the wall at considerable cost.

Neither of them were going anywhere.

“Eduardo, wake up!” he screamed through the telepathy channel of their implants.

Alvarez began to rustle, and Victor continued to prod him awake.

Alvarez’s eyes finally opened and he tried to speak into the duct tape, but his eyes fell shut again, and Victor guessed he must think he was hallucinating. Seconds later his eyes slowly opened once more, and he now appeared to be surprised that his mouth was taped and his body bound.

“Victor?” he replied to his friend on their implant channel.  “What’s going . . .” He trailed off, but his thoughts became more coherent as adrenaline worked its way through his system. “What happened to us?”

“I’m not sure,” transmitted Victor, but even as he did a small portion of the fog cleared, just enough for him to channel vague, dreamlike impressions. “I think someone threw a gas canister into the office.”

Alvarez stared blankly at his friend for some time, before finally nodding. “Right,” he replied tentatively. “I remember now. We held our breath and tried the doors, but they were locked from the outside.”

“That’s right. I remember my lungs burning, finally having to take a breath.” Victor shuddered. “I was sure it would be my last.”

Alvarez looked around. “Who could have done this?” he asked. “And how? This office is at the heart of the compound. No way a stranger makes it all the way here, or shoots something in.”

Victor frowned deeply, ignoring an itch that had erupted on his leg, one that seemed to have known he had no way to scratch it. How could this have happened? His automated security systems were the best in the world. Everyone who had a right to be here was programmed in, so they would be ignored, but anyone else wouldn’t make it ten feet without alarms being sounded and Victor being warned. And he had a number of actual human bodyguards as well, watching monitors, patrolling the grounds.

“It had to be an inside job,” concluded Alvarez.

Victor nodded. He was right. It was the only way this could have happened.

There was a noise just outside of the main door, which Victor identified as the sound of a padlock being pulled open.

The zookeeper was returning.

Victor braced himself. They were about to get answers.

The door swung inward and a young man stepped across the threshold, looking grimly satisfied. Victor’s eyes bulged in disbelief.

It was Lucas.

“Hello, Father,” he said cheerfully. “Uncle Eduardo. Comfortable?”

Victor shouted into the tape over his mouth.

“Sorry,” said Lucas, “I didn’t quite catch that. I made sure to gag you so I wouldn’t have to put up with your bullshit for once. So I wouldn’t  have to choke back vomit while listening to your insipid sermonizing. And I didn’t want you to embarrass yourself by begging for mercy.” His face transformed into a mask of pure malevolence. “Not that it would help.”

Victor arched his back slightly so he could see the top of his desk, searching frantically for anything he could use as a weapon, his paperweight, letter opener, or lamp. But his desk was as barren as the Sahara. Lucas had left nothing to chance, having cleared the desktop and having made sure nothing even remotely helpful might be in reach of him or his first lieutenant on the floor.

Victor was utterly horrified, but a small part of him still couldn’t help but be proud.

Lucas calmly pulled out a chair and sat in front of his two prisoners, looming above them. He placed a gun on his lap and stayed well out of range of a possible lunge, which couldn’t happen anyway since he had left his prisoners with no way to cut the plastic straps that bound them to the desk.

Lucas followed his father’s eyes and deduced what he was thinking. “Have I been careful enough for you?” he asked with a cruel sneer. “Are you satisfied with my preparations?”

Lucas cupped his right ear as though straining to hear. “What’s that?” he demanded. “No answer again?” He shook his head sadly. “I guess it’s too bad I don’t have implants. If I did, you could still communicate with me. You’d still be able to plead your case, even with your mouth taped shut.”

“Is that what this is about!” shouted Victor, but only gibberish came out through the tape.

Lucas laughed, an icy sound, easily guessing what his father had been trying to say. “No, Dad, this isn’t me having a hissy fit over being denied some cute technology. Although it did piss me off. Think of this as a tribute. To you. You’ve been a great mentor. You’ve taught me that being smart isn’t enough. That I need to be tough. That the strong should take what they want from the weak. Oh, and let’s not forget, you’ve taught me how to kill without remorse.”

Victor suddenly felt unable to breathe. Despite the presence of the drug in his system, dulling his mind and senses, the pain he felt from this betrayal, from the extent of his son’s venom, was almost unbearable.

“I taught him just the opposite,” he transmitted to Alvarez, feeling the need to defend himself. “I taught him to only kill when there was no other choice. I insisted that he not become a monster.”

“Nothing you did is responsible,” replied his friend. “You didn’t turn him into a monster. He must have always been one. He must be the kind of psychopath you described earlier.”

Victor searched his mind. This had to be true. But it seemed so impossible. Psychopaths were brilliant liars and born con artists, no doubt, capable of fooling almost anyone. But he couldn’t believe that even the most accomplished psychopath could fool his own father, not when his father was as sharp as Victor.

Lucas had never displayed a single telltale sign. Not once. The boy knew what his father was, knew that he might be more accepting of violent tendencies than anyone, but if anything Lucas had seemed to be a pacifist. That’s why Victor had been so worried about pushing him into his first kill, fearing this might be a line the boy refused to cross.

Clearly this fear had been misplaced.

“Thanks also for giving me the opportunity to access all facets of your business,” continued Lucas, “along with some quality time to think. I’m pretty sure I aced your assignment. Turns out I did find something you should have been paranoid about. Something you missed. Me.” He shot his father a look of contempt. “Are you proud? Have I impressed you?”

Victor stopped his futile efforts at communication. Instead, he closed his eyes, ignoring Alvarez’s desperate insistence that they had to come up with a plan of escape, had to do something. But Victor had already strained his mind to its limits, and he was sure there was no way out.

Victor had been correct in thinking his son was a singular talent, but had utterly missed that he was a psychopath. It was an epic mistake.

The last one he would ever make.

“So let me give you a preview of the future,” said Lucas icily. “Since you won’t be around to see it for yourself. I’m going to take over the family business like you planned. Just a little ahead of schedule. I’m sure I can run it better than you have. Not to mention living longer. Do you know why? Because I’m superior. And because I’ve learned something about survival that you never did.” He paused for effect. “Never have children,” he finished, breaking into laughter.

Victor kept his eyes closed and didn’t respond, not wanting to give his son any further satisfaction.

“Just so you know,” continued Lucas, “I’ve studied the arguments you gave about delaying the use of implants. You actually made some good points. So in your honor, to hone my mental skills, I’ll leave them out of my head for a little longer.” He shrugged. “So congratulations. You win. Although something tells me you’re in no mood to celebrate this victory at the moment,” he added with cruel smile.

“Now that the business is under new management,” he continued, “I’m afraid I’m going to be making some key changes in strategic direction. First of all, I’ll be ending your ridiculous search for ESP. What a wild goose chase. You can’t really think this exists. Are you really that gullible? Probably something this General Girdler of yours cooked up as part of a PsyOps strategy to fuck with his enemies, to make everyone chase their tails. I don’t like wasting my time,” he added.

“Second of all, I plan to consolidate your gains and pull in my horns. No more placing implants in future world leaders. Not that Machiavelli wouldn’t be proud, but who needs the hassle and drama? I will continue to pull the strings of those you already reached, because, well . . . why not? You already went to the trouble of turning them into puppets, and you never know when you’re going to need the President of the Russian Federation in your pocket. But mostly I plan to focus my energy on the tech aspect of the business, the creative side. Challenge myself. You always say this is the secret to happiness.” He smiled thinly. “And I’m sure that knowing I’ll be happy will be a great comfort to you as you go into the afterlife.”

Lucas turned to face Alvarez full on for the first time. “Eduardo,” he said, dropping the Uncle from the name, “I’m sorry about this. You’ve been very good to me. Never preachy or judgmental. Never trying to mold me in your image. Really sorry you’re involved, but you are loyal to my father, a quality I’ll never understand. Loyalty is like wisdom teeth. Something our ancestors may have needed, but something that has become nothing but a liability. Like having children,” he added, shooting his father a wry smile.

He raised the gun and pointed it at Victor’s chest. “Speaking of which,” he said matter-of-factly, “I’m afraid it’s time for you and Eduardo to die. Just so you know, I’ll be shooting you in the heart. A head shot would be more interesting, but you both have implants. And as you pointed out, why destroy valuable property? Waste not, want not, I always say.”

Lucas spread his hands wide. “But I am not without compassion,” he said. “Out of respect for you, I’ll let you and Eduardo say your goodbyes. You have twenty seconds.”

“I’m truly sorry, my friend,” Victor sent through his implants. “I failed completely to understand the nature of my own son. Forgive me for being so blind.”

“I was fooled just as badly,” replied Alvarez.

“It has been an honor working with you, Eduardo. Thank you for your loyalty and all you’ve done for me.”

“It has been an honor for me as well,” replied Alvarez in resignation.

Victor was about to transmit one last thought, but Lucas depressed the trigger, firing at both of their chests in rapid succession, and watched the light go out in their eyes with grim satisfaction.

PART 4

Troy Browning

32

President Timothy Cochran eyed Bob Siegel’s computer-generated doppelganger, seated in front of his magnificent desk in the Oval Office. The real Bob Siegel wasn’t far away, but a virtual meeting was less of a chore for the admiral, and Cochran had been assured that the NSA had developed technology that made transmissions on this channel more impenetrable than an actual meeting in his office would have been.

Siegel’s spies in Iran had been reporting a deteriorating condition in the country for some time, and the dam had burst, just the night before. Prior to this, the Director of National Intelligence had thought chances were good the situation would self-stabilize, but the president had long suspected it would go in the other direction.

Cochran didn’t have a crystal ball, he just relied on a simple rule when it came to the Middle East: things always tended to go from bad to worse. He was becoming pretty sure it was some kind of scientific principle.

And there wasn’t much room for Iran to get any worse, which made things extremely scary.

“Before we begin,” said the president. “What did you think of Girdler and his team?”

The looming crisis was the chief order of business, but Siegel wasn’t going to try to rush the president, and they hadn’t spoken during the few days since he had returned from Utah.

“It was quite an experience,” he replied, still assimilating all he had learned. “I’ve never seen a more cohesive group of people. It’s apparent every second that you’re with them. No egos, total respect and support for one another—and affection. Total belief in the mission. But a sober belief.”

“I agree. They don’t act like a group of zealots. They question everything they’re doing, and make great efforts to police themselves.”

“An impressive group,” said the admiral, “with an even more impressive team dynamic. On paper, there is no way a collection of hardened military men, inexperienced civilians, and quirky genius scientists should get along so well.”

“I think the secret is that they’re all decent, caring people,” said Cochran. “And they’ve been through hell and back together.”

“They’re hard not to like. And if I can say that after Nick Hall probed me without permission, and after the group kicked off our meeting by basically hazing me, that’s really saying something.”

“Nick’s actions weren’t entirely without permission,” admitted Cochran. “He was under my orders. Not that he ever would have allowed you to join THT without taking this step, under any circumstances. Besides, if he didn’t have the chance to read you earlier, the moment you met he’d have given you a rectal probing that outer space aliens would have envied.”

“We didn’t have to ever meet,” said Siegel. “You could have chosen to keep me out of his range for the duration.”

“Which would have been a poor way to add you to such a perfectly cohesive team. They’d never go for it, and they’d never trust you. But now that you have Nick’s good housekeeping seal of approval, I can keep you out of Utah indefinitely.”

The president frowned, knowing it was time to move on to a decidedly less pleasant topic. “I’ve read your entire report on Iran, Bob,” he began. “Not that it was necessary. You could have saved me a lot of time with just a two-word summary.”

“We’re fucked?” guessed Siegel.

“Those are the two words,” said Cochran with a tired smile.

Iran had entered an agreement with a previous administration that had filled their coffers and had given them a free hand to develop nukes. America thought its concessions had at least delayed Iran’s timetable, but the Islamic theocracy had begun breaking their end of the bargain before the agreement was even officially struck, and had only ignored it at an accelerated pace ever since. They had perfected their warheads and the means to deliver them years earlier.

Now, only a complex web of international threats and pressure, along with massive payoffs by America, had been able to keep the Iranian nukes in their silos, but Siegel’s sources confirmed what they already feared. The ultimate hardliner, Hakim Osmani, was maneuvering to pull a coup and assume power, and his chances of success had just gone from near zero to near a hundred percent.

The current regime was run by a ruthless zealot, Javad Zarif, a barbarian who cared nothing for human life, or his own people. But compared to the likes of Hakim Osmani, this man was a prince. The most extreme Islamists were passionately devoted to bringing about a global apocalypse, and Osmani had drunk deeply from this Kool-Aid.

“What are our chances of stopping him from taking over?” asked the president.

“Very slim. My men in Iran are good, and we’re trying. But there have been more sightings of Bigfoot than of Osmani. And he’s rumored to be protected by tech and by dozens of zealots not only willing to die for him, but eager to do so.”

Cochran chewed his lower lip. “And we still believe he’ll emerge and consolidate power within three to four months?”

“Based on predictions made by my men on the ground and our best analysts, yes. After that, his first act will be to send multiple nukes toward Tel Aviv and New York.”

“Doesn’t knowing the target increase the odds we can shoot them down?”

“Yes, significantly,” replied Siegel. “Our anti-missile countermeasures are extraordinarily good, and there are some who argue Israel’s are even better. But they’ll have tricks up their sleeves too. If they launch everything they’ve got over a short window, we believe they have a good chance of getting one through.”

“What if we launch a comprehensive attack now, before this situation plays out?”

“Our sources say Osmani loyalists are in control of Iran’s nukes already. He’s waiting until he takes full control so he gets the credit for the strike. But if we go after him hard enough to have any chance of success, he’ll see us coming in plenty of time and send up the nukes early.”

“Losing New York or Tel Aviv is catastrophic enough,” said Cochran, “but you know this will escalate across the region and world.”

“That’s what they’re counting on,” said Siegel in disgust. “We knew that letting Iran have the bomb could only end badly,” he added bitterly. “Remember the good old days, when the destruction of the world was a possible side effect of the quest for power and not the primary goal?”

“What do you recommend we do?” said the president.

“I would normally recommend we call an emergency meeting of the National Security Council to start brainstorming options,” said Siegel. “Normally.” He blew out a long breath. “But as of a few days ago,” he continued, “I’ve become aware of other . . . options.”

It wasn’t hard to guess where the admiral was going—exactly in the direction Cochran had wanted to take the meeting—but the president decided to play dumb, staring at the virtual Bob Siegel as though he needed it spelled out.

“We could deploy our mind reader,” said the admiral simply. “We could keep this latest intel on the shortest of leashes. Instead of trying to solve this through traditional channels, we could roll the dice with Nick. Send our superman over to Iran. He’ll be able to find Osmani and defuse the situation if anyone can. Surgically. It’s not as though he hasn’t delivered miracles before.”

Cochran nodded grimly. “I’ve given this a lot of thought, Bob. I think you’re on the right track. But not quite. You know Nick almost killed himself during the USD Op. The doctor I spoke with gave him less than a fifty-fifty chance of pulling through. What if he had died? Then what? Threats to the world are metastasizing faster than ever before. The intel gathered by Girdler’s Trojan Horse implants has been outstanding, but Hall’s intel on terrorist activity in the homeland has been even more vital, preventing what would have otherwise been unprecedented losses.”

“I know that throwing him into Iran is a big risk,” said Siegel, “but at this point I don’t think we have any other choice.”

“But we do,” insisted Cochran. “Because Nick Hall isn’t the answer in this case. His abilities are what we need.”

Siegel squinted in confusion, but didn’t respond.

“We’ve become too reliant on Nick,” continued the president. “He’s much too valuable to send out on dangerous missions. And this isn’t something he signed up for anyway. But what if we could turn someone else into a mind reader? Someone who would not only have Nick’s abilities, but so much more. Nick has no formal combat training, no schooling in military strategy, in weapons, in tactics. And although he’s making an effort to learn a few key languages, he’s not fluent.”

“Can he only read minds in English?” asked the admiral.

“No. The computing power imbedded in the implants is truly extraordinary. He can set them to translate to and from hundreds of languages. They can even help him with pronunciation. But it’s not quite as seamless as if he were fluent. Incoming words and thoughts are translated into English so quickly this isn’t a problem. But if Nick wants to speak in a language he doesn’t know, he has to slowly repeat the translation the implants give him. This is slow and clumsy.”

“So in this fantasy scenario of yours,” said Siegel, “we’d create a new and improved Nick Hall. The Farsi-speaking commando edition.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m sure we could find the right commando,” said Siegel. “But how do we give him ESP?”

Cochran explained about Kelvin Gray and the implant movement data that everyone thought would replicate the effect. “We’re sitting on fifty sets of implants,” said the president. “And we have the necessary data. Nick just asked for authorization to let his ESP team access it inside THT’s headquarters, and Justin and I gave him the okay.”

“It’s really that straightforward?” asked Siegel. “Just use the data to guide the implant installation, and the next thing we know we have our Nick Hall action figure, complete with ESP and kung fu grip.”

“Something like that,” replied Cochran. The reality was far from this simple, but no sense getting lost in minutia at this point in the discussion. “We’d keep this entirely to ourselves, of course. You’d be responsible for finding the right guy. I’m pretty sure one of the members of SEAL Team Six would do the trick.”

SEAL Team Six was the nickname for The US Naval Special Warfare Development Group. SEALs underwent extreme training and their skills as warriors were legendary, but only the top two hundred of these, from a pool of almost three thousand, became part of this ultra-elite group.

“I know any number of these guys are fluent in both Arabic and Farsi,” continued the president. “They’re also mission hardened, experts in weapons and tactics, and experienced killers. Not to mention able to run marathons, barefoot, in freezing rain, while carrying two of their comrades on their backs,” he added. “And I’m barely exaggerating. So we carve out a four-man subset of SEAL Team Six. Call them SEAL Team Six-and-a-half.  All four get implants. Allows them to communicate telepathically.”

“What are you talking about?” said Siegel, blinking in confusion.

“If two people have implants, they can set them to communicate with each other in a way indistinguishable from telepathy. Nick and Alex do it all the time.”

“Alex has implants?” said Siegel. “Anything else I should know about?” he added irritably.

Cochran couldn’t blame him for being annoyed. Not that he should have expected a single briefing to bring him up to speed on everything. “Alex doesn’t like to advertise them,” said the president. “He was five times the scientist of anyone else before he got implants. Now that he can access nearly unlimited information and run computer simulations in his head, he’s truly off the charts.”

“Good thing he’s on our side,” said Siegel. “But back to your SEAL Team Six-and-a-half. You’re envisioning one guy who reads minds, and three teammates who can surf the Web with their thoughts and communicate with each other telepathically.”

“Unless you think a bigger or smaller team makes more sense.”

“No,” said the admiral after a few seconds of thought, “four is the right number. So what’s the mission? Locate and kill Osmani? Anything more?”

“Yes, depending on how it goes. That would be the primary goal, but why stop there? Why not disable their entire nuclear program? Seems impossible. But you know what Nick accomplished at the Academy Awards. That was my first introduction to the man. You weren’t in the briefing at the time, but they had us by the balls. All it took was one man to rewrite the laws of what was possible. An untrained marine biologist.”

“Any concerns that we’d be creating the ultimate weapon?” asked Siegel. “If the guy we chose ever went off the reservation, there’d be no stopping him.”

“Yes. I have enormous concerns,” replied Cochran. He grimaced. “But nothing like the concerns our THT brethren would have. They equate the release of this data in any way with the opening of Pandora’s Box—almost literally.”

“I know they do.”

The president sighed. “ I hate to say it, but this is why we’ll need to keep this secret, even from them.”

Siegel’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I agree,” he said. “They’ll recognize the magnitude of the danger we’re in, and realize that we don’t have a choice.”

“Maybe. But I’m not willing to count on it. If any group will see the cure as being more dangerous than the disease, it’s this one. For good reason. These people have more experience with ESP, have thought more about it, than anyone. They’ve committed themselves to making sure mind reading never spreads beyond Nick, and finding a way to block it if it ever does. Justin has made his opposition to something like I’ve just outlined loud and clear, and the rest agree. They all know that absolute power corrupts absolutely, and love Nick all the more because he’s incorruptible. They believe the world is very fortunate that lightning struck the man it did, and think the chances of getting this lucky twice in a row are vanishingly small.”

“So if they’re out of the loop, how do we proceed?”

“I’ve given this a lot of thought since reading your report this morning,” said President Cochran. “They’re lax when it comes to monitoring their own people. They’ve made sure the data isn’t connected to the Internet, so no one can hack it. But an insider could copy it and remove it manually.”

“And they don’t check these people when they leave?” said Siegel. “I can’t believe that Justin Girdler would ever be that sloppy.”

“You say that because you aren’t used to a world with Nick Hall in it. He’s read all of their minds. He tries to stay out, but if a new security issue arises, he’ll dive in for a quick swim. So he knows for sure that no one will betray him or the team. He can read intent. They all absolutely intend to protect the data, with their lives if necessary. Nick knows this, so Justin and Mike know it too.”

“I don’t see how this would work, then,” said Siegel. “This just means that we know for certain that none of them will take a copy off the premises. And even if this suddenly changed, Nick would know it right away. What am I missing?”

“That I’m the President of the United States. While Nick is off at Hill with his ninety-nine terror suspects—which is scheduled to happen again in about two weeks—I can order one of the peripheral players on the ESP team to bring out the data. I can tell him I’ll explain everything once he does. These people may not intend to steal the data, but when their president insists that they do so for reasons that only he understands, this is a compelling argument.”

Bob Siegel pursed his lips in thought. “But not certain,” he said. “If the ESP team is anywhere as cohesive as the main group, the one you choose might tell even his president to go pound sand.”

“Maybe. But it’s a chance we need to take.”

“Justin will remain at headquarters the entire time Nick’s at Hill,” said Siegel, “which will make this more difficult. Last time, when Nick got wind of the sarin gas attack, Justin was at a climbing gym in Sandy, Utah. He doesn’t ever want to be caught out of position like this again when something big happens. So he’s vowed to hold the fort whenever Nick’s off premises—just in case.”

“I have an idea that might even incorporate Justin into things in a small way,” said Cochran. “And I can make sure he’s tied up in meetings, even if he is at headquarters, while our mole is copying the data. I don’t want to discuss it now, but you and I are scheduled to meet face-to-face next week, and I should have it ironed out by then.”

“However creative your idea, it won’t be easy to get anyone there to betray Nick and the group.”

Cochran sighed. “Whatever happens, happens. I could just order Justin and Nick to give me the data, but I’m still not sure they would, and they’re too important to risk alienating. I’m trying to do what I think is best to save lives. They’re trying to do the same. So if I fail to get the data out, who knows, maybe it’s for the best. It’s not us against them, or good guys and bad guys. We’re on the same team, just with different strategies to reach the goal line.”

“Remember when ethics used to be easy?” mused Siegel. “In grade school. Stealing is wrong. Hurting others is wrong. When did it get to be so complicated? If you murder a psychopathic serial killer who was released on a technicality you go to jail for life. If you murder a kind family man on the battlefield, one who was forced into service by his government, you get a medal.”

“So what do you get when you screw over people you admire?” said Cochran wearily, “and steal data they don’t want used?”

“I guess we’re going to find out,” replied Siegel.

There was a long silence. “Regardless of the ethics, Bob,” said the president finally, “your job couldn’t be more important. The guy we choose to turn into a mind reader has to have all the warrior skills, but also top scores on his psych evaluations. We need a guy who is . . . well, whatever the exact opposite of a sociopath is. A guy with a lot of empathy. High moral standards. A team player. Incorruptible. Another Nick Hall.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” said Siegel. “I’m not saying that most of these soldiers aren’t very good men, but you’re looking for a cross between a pacifist and a saint. Not easy to find in a commando. These guys have all killed—a lot—and they aren’t exactly docile. Ever wonder why Jesus Christ never signed up to serve in the Bethlehem division of SEAL Team Six?”

Cochran laughed. “You do have a point. The perfect recipient probably doesn’t exist. But just get me close. Find a team player. Someone stable, with solid ethics. Who follows orders. This should be good enough.”

“And if it isn’t?”

The president stared at Siegel for several long moments. “We take a page from Victor,” he said. “We add software to the implants allowing us to trigger a stroke by sending the proper code. Obviously, we won’t tell our commando. And we’d only use it as a last resort—if he goes off the reservation, goes crazy, becomes out of control.”

Siegel looked on in disbelief. “So we find a decorated soldier willing to go on a dangerous mission to save New York and Tel Aviv, at minimum. And then we repay him by putting a land mine in his head when he’s not looking. Are you serious? Girdler wouldn’t even put a kill switch into the heads of our enemies, and you want to do it with our heroes?”

“You were the one complaining about how blurry ethical lines can become,” pointed out Cochran. “It’s a horrible thing to do. Despicable. But when you create the ultimate predator, it would be irresponsible to do anything else.”

“Look, I’m not a philosophy professor,” said the admiral. “But this just feels . . . wrong. Very wrong.”

“It does to me, too.”

Cochran was about to continue the discussion when the back wall of the Oval Office, which years earlier had been entirely transformed into a continuous touch-screen monitor, indicated a call coming in from General Justin Girdler over the NSA’s secure line. The president quickly instructed Cali, his personal digital assistant, to put the call through.

The Oval Office appeared to grow larger and it became populated by the large table in THT’s main conference room along with the entire core team back in Utah. At the same time, at THT’s headquarters, the core team now saw projections of the president and Director of National Intelligence as if they were seated around the table.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Girdler by way of greeting, “but it seems there’s been a . . . situation. One with a major impact on what we’re doing.”

“What happened?” said the president.

“Victor and Eduardo are both dead,” replied Girdler, as though still in shock. “Murdered.”

“How is that possible?” said Siegel in disbelief. “No one is more careful than Victor. And no one is better defended. Was it Sayed Nazry?”

“Not Nazry,” replied Girdler. “It was an enemy who turned out to be a little bit . . . closer to home.”

The general still looked shaken, as though still unable to fully process what had happened. “I just sent the footage of their murders to Cali,” he continued. “I recommend you and Bob take a look before we proceed. This is something that you really have to see to believe.”

33

The president and Bob Siegel watched the scene play out on the back wall of the Oval Office, as large as life. Victor and his first lieutenant tied against a wall while his son hovered over them, taunting them and gloating. Cochran had no love for these tech merchants, but it was a sickening spectacle.

Watching implant-generated footage was like playing a first-person shooter video game, since the recipients’ eyes were the camera, but this had been like playing a first-person shooter from the victim’s perspective. In this case, that victim was Victor, although nearly identical footage was also available from Eduardo Alvarez’s perspective.

Cochran could follow Victor’s darting eyes as he searched for a weapon, and his surface thoughts as well, which the software translated from Spanish to English and printed next to him. This was a fascinating feature, since what a man with implants thought, and what he said, were often very different. But in this case Victor had been gagged, so his thoughts were all they had, along with Lucas’s words, which had also been translated from Spanish to English and printed beside him.

Victor’s mind had been reeling throughout, but his thoughts were more consumed with regret than with fear. And with pain. Pain from misreading his son so badly. Bitterness from what was clearly the ultimate betrayal. He had been impressed with his son’s ability to kill with equanimity, but he had been a fool. Lucas had only pretended to be squeamish at first, fooling his brilliant father with remarkable ease.

The footage played out until Lucas pulled the trigger, and then it abruptly ended. It may have looked like a video game, but players only had one life in this first-person shooter.

“What the hell?” mumbled the president in revulsion. “That was the coldest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“We could tell that Lucas was ruthless,” said Girdler, “but there was no way to see this coming. I had assumed he was loyal to his father.”

“Apparently,” noted Siegel, “so did his father.”

“How screwed are we?” asked the president.

“Well, not as screwed as Victor and Eduardo Alvarez,” replied Girdler, “but pretty screwed. Shit!” he thundered, an unstoppable eruption of frustration.

Cochran waited a few seconds for him to calm down. “So we’re now blind to Victor’s organization,” he said. “We have no one left in his camp with implants. And Lucas doesn’t appear to want to place any more of them.”

“We can’t be certain of that,” said Mike Campbell. “Things change. Lucas’s hold on the organization may turn out to be tenuous. And he’s still evolving.”

“But if nothing changes,” said Siegel, “we’ll never be in his head, or see through his eyes. And the implant sets he has will just gather cobwebs rather than being implanted in more of our enemies.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Girdler. “Even if he doesn’t regain the appetite to place the implants, why leave that much easy money on the table? At minimum, he’d give them to a high-ranking member of his father’s organization to place, for a percentage, to make some money and turn a possible rival into a friend. Our program could re-emerge from Victor’s ashes yet.”

The president sighed. “Even if it doesn’t, Justin, we still have the placements Victor has already made, which will pay off for many years to come. But we have to at least consider rolling up Victor’s operation right now, while we can. Regaining our property. Given what just happened, Lucas is a bigger threat than Victor. Unpredictable. And anyone who can kill his own father the way he did is in an entirely new class of ruthless. We know where he is right now, but once he moves we no longer have eyes.”

Girdler shook his head. “Lucas won’t stay without implants for long. I give it a month or two at most. And we know all of Victor’s current hideouts and codes. Even without being inside Lucas’s head, we won’t have any trouble putting him down whenever we choose.”

“So you recommend we just sit tight?” said Cochran. “Wait this out?”

“Yes!” said Girdler emphatically. “When Victor decided to limit distribution, we thought the program was going south. But then he implemented a strategy that might have been more useful to us than the one we expected. So you never know. This may still turn back in our favor.”

The president stared at the head of THT for some time. “Okay, Justin,” he said at last. “We’ll do as you suggest. Sit tight and see what happens. But not forever.”

“Understood,” said Girdler.

Cochran took the temperature of the civilians around THT’s virtual table, who had remained silent. While they were distressed by the recent turn of events, they each agreed that nothing rash should be done.

“I know this has been a shock to the system,” said the president, addressing the entire team, “but if any group can find a way to make lemonade out of what just happened, it’s this one. Good luck.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Girdler. “And sorry to break in like this.” He shifted his gaze back and forth between the president and Bob Siegel and raised his eyebrows. “I hope we didn’t interrupt anything too important.”

“Not at all,” said Cochran evenly. “Just another routine briefing.”

34

Troy Browning couldn’t believe his eyes and ears. Holy shit! Had he really just witnessed what he had just witnessed?

He fell back against his chair and stared at what was now a blank screen. Amazing.

But he shouldn’t be amazed, he realized. This was yet further evidence that he was special, destined for great things. The universe itself would always look out for him, the chosen one among humanity, always provide. He was special, and the universe had special plans for him. The conversations he had just overheard, just eavesdropped upon, were but another manifestation of this.

Still, it was impossible not to be euphoric at the mighty demonstration of his destiny the cosmos had just delivered.

A demonstration in the form of Timothy Cochran and Bob Siegel.

Browning had been forced to resign from the NSA almost a year earlier. But he had taken it in stride. He knew it would end up being a blessing. He didn’t believe in God, but he did believe in fate, that the universe itself had a guiding consciousness, that the universe itself found ways to influence the future of mankind, and that he was the instrument of this influence.

He couldn’t fault his bosses and colleagues for not understanding his destiny. How could they? They knew his genius was unmatched, but that was the limit of their understanding.

Of course they thought he was out of his mind, a little off. How could they not? Could an amoeba understand the first thing about a sperm whale made up of hundreds of trillions of cells? Could an amoeba understand the behavior of a man?

Of course not.

So they spoke of the fine line between genius and insanity. They mistook Browning’s clear-eyed understanding of his own greatness for delusions of grandeur.

He didn’t have a messiah complex, as they accused him of. He was the messiah.

So for almost two years the Deputy Director of the NSA, Eric Silver—Browning’s boss and the agency’s highest-ranked civilian technical expert—had gone to great lengths to keep him on, recognizing his genius but afraid of his glorious visions. Without him, none of the advances the NSA now took for granted would have occurred. Silver and his colleagues had known he was doing groundbreaking work, so despite their fear of him, their awe at being in his glorious, supernova presence, they had no other choice but to let him finish what he had started. He was the Einstein of his generation, and no one could even come close, with the possible exception of Alex Altschuler.

Browning had singlehandedly revolutionized communication security. He had developed protocols to ensure that no high-level video or audio communication could be intercepted, and that even if it were, an eavesdropper would receive nothing but gibberish. His creation wasn’t absolutely foolproof, like quantum encryption would be, but it was the closest that had ever been achieved.

When the president and his Director of National Intelligence wanted to have a private video-call, the NSA could assure them that their connection was absolutely secure. And it was.

From everyone in the world except its creator.

Browning had made sure he could hack his own invention whenever he wanted. Other scientists, brilliant in their own right but nothing compared to him, had scoured his code, his tech, to make sure he hadn’t established a backdoor for himself, but his methods were so advanced he knew they wouldn’t find his means of ingress in a million lifetimes. And they didn’t, of course.

Idiots.

And when his bosses could no longer take it, could no longer handle being near the blinding light of his brilliance, despite the fruits that it produced for them, they had finally forced his resignation and escorted him from the building. A day later four other top scientists had made subtle changes to his protocols, designed to ensure that he couldn’t hack into his own baby, just as an added precaution.

Except that he had been several steps ahead of them, long having monitored the computers of those who had been tasked with making the changes. They were among the best in the world, but they might as well have been children trying to win a sprint against Usain Bolt. Their efforts were futile, and played right into his hands. Now the NSA slept like a baby, confident that he had been shut out for good.

He had signed an agreement with the agency on his way out the door. They would continue to pay his salary indefinitely, and would not put him under surveillance. In exchange, he agreed to keep NSA’s secrets, to cease working in areas they deemed to be sensitive, and to see a psychiatrist twice a week.

The NSA had honored this agreement for all of twelve hours. Ironically, this was twelve hours longer than he had done so.

The agency had clumsily attempted to monitor his computer and cell phone, but he rigged a program to let them think they succeeded, feeding them nothing but vanilla boredom, shrugging off their pathetic efforts at surveillance as easily as he might shoo off a fly.

Morons.

His goal was to intercept the most restricted conversations in the nation, and nothing could stop him from roaming the airwaves at will, like the god he was—least of all Eric Silver and the NSA.

He had begun by monitoring the top people in Washington. The president, Secretary of Defense, Director of National Intelligence, Director of the NSA, Secretary of State, and too many others to possibly name. He programmed an AI of his own, not as sophisticated as Nessie, but plenty powerful enough to monitor thousands of conversations at once and alert him to those he would find especially interesting.

He would gather dirt on power players across the country and across the globe and blackmail them to build knowledge and power. And then he would find a way to save mankind, a thundering train about to plunge over the edge of a cliff. All he needed was for the universe to signal to him how this messianic feat should be accomplished.

In the meanwhile, he was prepared to be patient. And being a fly on the wall was a fascinating pastime. Who needed a movie theater when you could make a bowl of popcorn and enjoy a front row seat on the political machinations of a United States president?

Not long after he had begun his efforts he stumbled across the find of the century, a secret organization named THT. The identities of three of the key players had blown him away, including two who forced him to rethink the definition of the word deceased. The famous Nick Hall, alive and well and reading minds. The great Alex Altschuler, equally healthy. And finally, that little shit, Drew Russell, who fancied himself in the same league as Browning and Altschuler. Talk about delusions of grandeur.

But all of his eavesdropping successes paled in comparison to what he had just learned. It was the opportunity he had been waiting for, without knowing it. The universe working its sleight of hand to inspire him from offstage.

His eavesdropping had revealed a bombshell, an earth-shattering development that he would use to change the course of human destiny.

ESP. Perfect mind reading. The blueprint for how to turn anyone—everyone—into a Nick Hall. It couldn’t be coincidence that this was falling into his lap.

He had known about mind reading, but not that the recipe for both the implants and ESP was as alive and well as Hall and Altschuler themselves. And—glory of glories—President Timothy Cochran was planning to go behind the backs of his own people and find a way to pull the data out of the impenetrable lair Altschuler had built for it in Utah.

Mind reading was the answer Browning had been looking for. Part of the universe’s grand purpose, and he would not let the universe, or mankind, down. Mind reading was the key to healing the planet, to bettering mankind.

He had long known he was the savior. Now he finally knew the means he would use to carry out this divine responsibility.

The world was headed for disaster. Humanity was a mess: selfish, self-absorbed, hateful. But now he had the means to cleanse it. He would get the data for himself. He would package it and release it to the world.

Right now, having to manufacture implants and push them through the brain in a complex pattern to activate ESP was slow and clumsy, and not universal. But when he released the data, this would change. The gold rush would be on. He would give the world the plans for the Wright brothers’ Kitty Hawk flyer, and the world would give back a supersonic jet.

Governments would see the danger in finishing second in this new arms race. Such a huge number of scientists would devote their all to researching this transformative ability—in universities, government labs, and private basements—that progress would be unprecedented in the annals of science. Hall’s tiny taskforce was remarkable, but when every great mind across the planet and endless resources were put on the problem, it would be solved within a year or two. Universal ESP would be available to all.

And this is what would save humankind from the self-destructive course it was on.

Not that the utter transformation of a species would come without costs. He wasn’t delusional. Worldwide mind reading would be disruptive in the extreme, would cause chaos and disorder. Much of civilization would collapse. Billions and billions of people would probably die before it was over.

But given that all of humanity would inevitably die if those harboring self-destructive impulses were not purged, the cost was a bargain.

Universal ESP would quickly bring down the wicked, the selfish, the hateful. Those who emerged from the ashes of the old order to pick up the pieces would be a changed humanity. Caring. Empathetic.

Mind reading would allow people to bare their souls to one another. To feel each other’s pain. To fully open themselves up to love and compassion.

Minds that were truly open to all could not harbor evil, could not be destructive. A new race would emerge, one based on cooperation rather than competition, on understanding rather than antipathy.

This desperately needed cleansing would thin the herd severely. In his estimation, less than one in twenty would ultimately survive, but these were the wages of sin. And one in twenty survivors beat the alternative, which was species extinction.

Few would understand that he was triggering such tragic losses to save humanity from itself. To allow ESP to expose the ugly stain on humanity’s soul, so that it could finally be eliminated, once and for all. And the most religious would understand this the least, painting him as the ultimate monster.

Which was ironic, since he was just taking a page from the playbook of the god they believed in with such passion.

Talk about thinning out the herd. God had wiped out all life, save for a few representatives of each species that could fit on an ark. And drowning was a horrible way to go. If God had been willing to make the sacrifice of committing nearly absolute genocide to wipe out the wicked and create a new beginning for mankind, could Troy Browning do any less?

And Browning’s solution wouldn’t just spare Noah and his family, but likely tens of millions who were pure enough to embrace the sharing of thoughts, forging a compassionate society in which evil could not take refuge, ensuring a glorious future for humanity.

The universe was purpose driven. This development proved it, and that Browning was the chosen savior. It wasn’t just an accident that a man of his genius, his vision, had appeared when he had, and had been presented with this opportunity.

He had been accused of thinking he was Jesus Christ, but this couldn’t be further from the truth.

He was nothing like Christ. Christ had been a sham. He, on the other hand, was the real deal.

Browning would be the messiah Christ was supposed to have been. He would bring peace and love to the world, and save humanity from itself.

Christ had preached a good game, but nothing had changed. He had failed to fulfill a single one of the messianic prophecies contained in the ancient scriptures. The Bible stated that the Messiah would build a third Jewish temple and usher in an era of world peace, ending all hatred, oppression, suffering, and disease.

Hardly. None of these things had come to pass. The opposite in many cases. After Christ’s passing there were more wars, not less. Many in his name.

The early Christians had a ready explanation for these failures, of course. These and other prophecies would be fulfilled, they argued, during Christ’s second coming. The first must have just been a dress rehearsal. Unfortunately, after Christ’s followers had patiently waited for over two millennia, his return was still stalled, by what Browning could only guess were technical difficulties. Meanwhile, not only were hatred, oppression, disease, and suffering not extinct, they didn’t even appear on the endangered species list.

Fuck waiting for a second coming. Waiting for a Messiah who had failed to get the job done the first time around.

Humanity was about to experience Troy Browning’s first coming. And that would be enough.

Once all the dust had settled, of course.

35

Troy Browning continued to think through the glorious future he would bring about, but his initial ecstasy at the opportunity gave way to a sober assessment of the difficulties involved. It wasn’t time to celebrate just yet. There were still daunting hurdles left to clear. Hurdles that could easily stop even the most talented of men.

Which was only fitting, he supposed. He wouldn’t be the chosen one if an ordinary man could have his vision of the future, and his ability to overcome obstacles.

So what steps would he need to take to turn his destiny into reality?

First of all, he realized, he needed to keep ESP to himself for a while before he released it into the wild. He would study the effect. He wouldn’t be surprised if he discovered an easy way to trigger it in every man, woman, and child, all by himself. Hall’s team might have done the same, but they had been focused on achieving the exact opposite goal.

He also needed time to acquire power and riches, so he could create an opulent stronghold to hide within, safely isolated, and exceedingly well-protected from the chaos that was sure to erupt when mind reading became widespread. He would go to whatever lengths were necessary to emerge from the coming collapse unscathed, to lead the new, enlightened flock his efforts would create.

This was another key mistake Christ had made. Die for humanity’s sins? Fuck that.

Christ’s dad had had a better idea, which was yet another lesson from the story of Noah’s Ark. Humans should die for their own sins.

Christ must have been such a disappointment to his father.

Given Browning’s genius, once he could read minds he should be able to build up the appropriate level of resources in no time. He could blackmail billionaires, slip into safes, buy and sell stock based on insider knowledge he could read in the minds of corporate CEOs. He could read the location of cash hoards, waiting to be laundered.

But there were faster paths to enormous wealth also. Instant paths. He would be the ultimate identity thief. He could read computer passwords and Swiss bank account numbers. He could read corporate CFOs to learn what he needed to know to divert hundreds of millions from mega-corporations or government slush-funds while covering up his tracks. The sky was the limit.

Troy Browning would be rich and powerful, and he would devote his power and riches to preparing an impregnable stronghold. He was one messiah who would survive the coming flood, not immolating himself on a cross, but sticking around to build upon the love and harmony that his cleansing would bring.

But this would be the relatively easy part. The difficulty would be acquiring the technology to begin with. First, he would have to find a way to intercept the data coming out of Utah, and such interception wasn’t his area of expertise. He would need to be very clever, and most likely acquire a hired gun or two. But even then, it would be a daunting prospect.

THT’s headquarters and personnel only looked unsecured. The warehouse building was a fortress, with hidden traps and advanced weapon emplacements controlled by Nessie, the most formidable computer on Earth, one birthed by the NSA itself. Despite her origins, she couldn’t be touched or tampered with, not even by Browning. She was too smart, too watchful, and would never allow her programming to be corrupted, no matter how clever the attempt.

Nessie’s brain was incomprehensibly big, but she had eyes to match. An entire satellite had been devoted to THT’s headquarters and the movement of its tenants. She also had access to every traffic camera and security camera in the area.

The core team had small living quarters within the main structure, and rarely ventured out. But Nessie monitored the movements and activities of all THT’s employees anywhere within the Salt Lake City area, her expert systems always on the watch for anything out of the ordinary, better than a human could ever be at picking up on subtle clues and sounding a warning.

His second problem was even more worrisome. Implants were required to trigger ESP. This wouldn’t be true for long, but for now he needed a set of his own. While the US possessed dozens, he couldn’t possibly get his hands on them. Girdler and Cochran had locked them up tight in the most secure vault ever built, Fort Knox, where they were keeping the nation’s supply of gold company. Only the president himself, or someone he had designated, could get access. Even if Browning could find a way in, he couldn’t hide the theft, which would be like kicking a hornet’s nest.

So this strategy wouldn’t work on a number of levels.

He didn’t have to think for long before the only possible viable alternative hit him squarely between the eyes: Lucas Perez. It was obvious. Lucas had thousands of implant sets just lying around.

Thousands of sets that until very recently had belonged to Lucas’s father. While Browning was watching the president’s chat with Siegel, a funny thing had happened. THT had called with some interesting news.

It turned out that Lucas Perez had some serious daddy issues.

Lucas was the opposite of Troy Browning. Browning was a messiah, willing to cause death, yes, but only for divine purpose, to carve out a malignant tumor before it killed the entire patient. Lucas, on the other hand, was a devil, exemplifying the wickedness of the species, willing to kill his own father to achieve nothing but petty, selfish ends.

But no matter how evil Lucas had shown himself to be, Browning needed him for a divine purpose, and he knew he had the leverage to get what he needed.

Luckily, President Cochran never came to Utah in person, always phoning in on his oh-so-secure channel, so Browning had a front row seat for most THT meetings and off-line briefings. Since Victor was THT’s Typhoid Mary, spreading BrainWeb implants far and wide, he was a frequent subject of discussion.

Victor maintained a phone number that was well known to the scum who might want to do business with him—a number he had gone to heroic lengths to make sure could never lead to him. Anyone who wanted to reach Victor had but to leave a message at this number. If the arms and tech merchant liked what he heard, he would return the call.

After Browning had learned of this he had looked into it further, and found the number was surprisingly easy to obtain. But Victor was known to be relatively unresponsive, like God. Huge numbers of people throughout history had attempted to contact the Lord, but precious few had ever received a reply. Not that the tech merchant was anywhere near as aloof as the fabled Almighty had shown himself to be.

Those hunting for Victor over the years had tried to use this messaging system to trick the man, but this strategy was obvious and had never worked. Only Nick Hall had used it successfully, but he had cheated, having acquired knowledge through mind reading that he shouldn’t have been able to get.

Lucas had studied his father’s business and was brilliant in his own right. Browning was sure the lad wouldn’t destroy this system. Why would he? He could listen to messages and choose not to respond. Or he could reply, explaining to the caller that his father had had an unfortunate accident, probably not going into detail on the whole messy patricide angle.

Browning thought deeply for a few minutes and then dialed up Victor’s legendary bat-phone. For just a moment he thought about introducing himself as Commissioner Gordon, but then decided to go in another direction, since a batman reference was a little too juvenile.

“Hello, my name is Miles,” said Browning after hearing the distinctive beep. “Miles Long.”

He broke out into a grin. He could have gone with John Smith for an alias, but why be boring? If he wasn’t going with Commissioner Gordon, he could at least use his favorite porn star name.

“I’m calling for Lucas Perez. Lucas, I want to make a deal with you. I happen to be an independent scientist who has developed revolutionary surveillance capabilities. In fact, I know everything there is to know about you and your father, and your operation.”

He paused. “Allow me to demonstrate. I know about your father’s dealings with Li Jeng in China, Alexander Sokolov in Russia, and Pak Pyong-so in North Korea, for example. I know about your visit to your father’s Brazilian island, and his efforts to get you blooded.

“Congratulations to him for being such a fine teacher, by the way. He did a masterful job of getting you acclimated to killing. If he were alive, he might say too good of a job. And congratulations to you, as well. Killing your father and uncle in cold blood is impressive. Shows initiative. That’s what I call taking the bull by the horns.”

Browning smiled, quite pleased with himself, and waited a moment to let this sink in. He could only imagine what was going through Lucas’s mind right now. The young man had no idea the implants were bugs, so he must think his mystery caller was omniscient, his knowledge supernatural.

Lucas would be tearing his father’s principal bases of operations and computer networks inside out looking for bugs, racking his brain to determine how Browning had managed such flawless surveillance. He would probably end up purging numerous of his father’s loyal employees, thinking them spies.

Regardless, Browning’s voice message would draw a return call, more surely than a red cape would draw a bull.

“I’m telling you this to make it clear that I hold your future in my hands,” he continued. “I can locate you wherever you try to hide. The US authorities would give me quite the reward for leading them to you. But I don’t want that. I’d rather be your ally instead. It’s all up to you.”

He paused. “Here is my number,” he added, reciting the digits. “If you haven’t called me in twenty-four hours, I’ll take this as a sign you don’t want to work together and act accordingly. I know how smart you are, Lucas, so I have every confidence you’ll make the right choice.”

Browning paused one last time. “Talk to you soon,” he finished cheerfully.

36

Troy Browning grinned as his phone began to ring. It had been less than eight hours since he had left his message, and he was certain Lucas had spent seven of these trying to trace the number Browning had left. Lucas would no doubt try to trace Browning again—with the same lack of success—after the call had ended.

Browning had written the book on untraceable calls, literally, or at least the lengthy classified White Paper. Lucas would die of old age before he got anywhere near finding him.

Browning answered the call on the third ring. “Hello, Lucas,” he said smugly. “I’m glad you had sense enough to return my call.”

“You had me intrigued,” said Lucas calmly, his English containing just the hint of a Spanish accent. “After all,” he added, “anyone calling themselves Miles Long has to be overcompensating for some kind of inadequacy. I’m sure if I did a search for tiniest dicks in America I could find you right away.”

“Very funny,” said Browning. “But do you really think it’s smart to piss me off?”

“I don’t take well to being threatened, Miles,” he growled, his tone now one of pure malevolence. “So who are you, really? How did you find out about me? And what do you want?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer your first two questions. As for what I want, this is a question I’ve already answered. Like I told you, I want to team up. I want the same deal your father made with Li Jeng and others. Give me twenty sets of implants, and when I get to the top, I’ll owe you.” Browning really only needed the one set, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a few backups.

“Are you a world leader?” said Lucas. “Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, maybe? Speaker of the House? Because this is the level of leader who gets this deal. If not, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

“I thought you might be smarter than your father. But right now, I’m not sure you’re smarter than a tree. I only made the offer to be nice, and because allies are better than enemies. But you forget who has the leverage here. So here’s the new offer. You give me a hundred sets, and we part company. In exchange, I destroy all of the copious surveillance data I have on you and your organization, and agree not to acquire any more.”

“A hundred sets?” said Lucas in disbelief. “I don’t even have a hundred sets anymore. And I’m getting offers for a million dollars apiece for the ones I do.”

“Okay, it’s your first few days on the new job, so I’m going to cut you some slack. Maybe you’ve been drinking to celebrate and you killed off too many brain cells. I told you I know everything. What about that word don’t you understand? You can’t bluff me. I know you have many thousands of sets left, Lucas. I know that your father staged the raid in which the Americans supposedly took them back. And I know you don’t plan to do anything with the ones you have. You have more money than you could ever spend, and you want to work on the scientific, creative side, anyway.”

He paused to let Lucas ponder the accuracy of these statements.

“So be as smart as I thought you were,” continued Browning, “and realize what you’re up against here. Your plan is to let the sets gather dust, anyway. It costs you nothing to give them to me. And if you do, I go away forever. If you don’t, I’ll give my intel to one of our three-letter agencies and you can wait for our special forces to pay a visit. Or maybe they’ll just send a missile down your throat.”

There was a long pause. “I need your assurances that you’re a one-man operation,” said Lucas. “That no one else has access to the information you have.”

Browning smiled. It was about time that the young man’s youthful arrogance gave way to his intellect. “No one else has access,” he replied. “So—do we have a deal?”

Lucas sighed loudly. “Tell me about this revolutionary surveillance method of yours and we do,” he said. “I want to know how you pulled this off. But you need to honor your word. I give you what you want and we go our separate ways. If I ever learn you’re still tracking me, or kept a copy of your surveillance data for future leverage, no special forces group or missile you try to have sent will keep me from learning who you are and turning your body into a bloody canvas.”

“Good,” said Browning, ignoring the threat. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. I’ll tell you where to send the sets. Once I have them, I’ll tell you my secret, let you peek behind the curtain.”

“Oh no,” said Lucas. “I hand them off in person. You know I’m not in America. There’s no way I’m sending them through customs. And I’m not trusting you to tell me about your surveillance methods from afar after you have what you want.”

“Now you think I’m stupid. I know you killed your father and fake uncle. So am I supposed to feel safe around you? Really?”

“How about this?” said Lucas. “How about we complete the exchange in Central or South America? In a country of your choosing. At a location and time of your choosing.”

“It doesn’t matter who chooses. You’ll still have plenty of time to set up an ambush.”

Lucas snorted. “If I do, you’ll know it, right? You know everything, remember? I’ll come alone. If your surveillance shows anyone else, or shows that I’m armed, call it off. Tell your agencies what you know about me.”

Browning chose not to respond.

“But I will play it straight,” continued Lucas emphatically. “You’ll know if I don’t, so you’ve got me by the balls. And you’re right about the implants. I have no plans to do anything with them. So it costs me nothing to get you off my back, like you said.”

“So why all the bluster?” asked Browning.

“I was trying to see if you could be intimidated or bluffed. Feel you out. See what you were made of. Now I know. We’ve both had our fun, now I just want this to go away. Choose the site, watch me to make sure I’m not armed or with others, hell, even bring bodyguards of your own. It’s true I killed my father, but only because I had a lot to gain. And I didn’t have to defeat armed bodyguards with my bare hands to do it. If you can think of anything else that makes you feel safe, we can do that too.”

Browning smiled. As evil as this young man was, and as stupid as he had seemed at first, he had turned out to be quite savvy, after all. “That won’t be necessary,” said Browning. “Provided you come to the exchange alone and unarmed, this will be enough.”

He paused. “I’ll leave a message on your father’s number with the meeting details within the next few hours.”

“Good. I look forward to putting this behind me.”

“You and me both,” said Browning. He needed the exchange to happen soon, so he’d be back in time to figure out some way to intercept the data disk coming out of THT’s Utah facility. “So gather up the implant sets and be ready to move,” he added, “because I plan for this to happen quickly.”

37

Browning was jet-lagged and hadn’t had nearly enough sleep, but he was so energized by the prospect of getting his hands on the most impressive technology ever created he felt ready to run a marathon.

Very soon he would be halfway to his goal. Then, once he found a way to get a copy of Altschuler’s data and became a mind reader, nothing could stop him from bringing humanity into the age of inclusiveness and enlightenment.

Browning had never been to Costa Rica before, but it was as beautiful as advertised, with eight hundred miles of coastline bordering both the Caribbean and Pacific Oceans, along with mountains, volcanoes, farmland, orchards, and even rainforests.

Not that he had picked it for its beauty.

One of the many conversations he had eavesdropped upon had revealed that US drug enforcement operatives in Costa Rica had frequently employed one or more mercenaries from a small private agency, for both protection and more offensive-minded duties, and spoke very highly of the professionalism, competence, and dependability of these men.

Browning had viewed this saved conversation once again to learn whose computer had the information he needed. After hacking into it, he was not only able to obtain the mercenary agency’s contact information, but codes he could use to masquerade as a high-level DEA operative.

The universe was providing for him once again.

Browning had been delighted. He didn’t really expect Lucas to give him any trouble, since the young man’s arguments for why he would behave had been quite persuasive, but it paid to be prepared. Costa Rica offered a convenient and reliable group of mercenaries for his meeting with Lucas. And there was only one thing better than having easy access to reliable mercenaries: having these same mercenaries accept him as a DEA operative and bill the US government for their services after he had left.

He laughed out loud every time he thought of it.

And it kept getting better. When he told the two men he had hired that his objective was to hold a brief meeting with a dangerous man, they had even suggested a location for this to occur. A safe house they maintained thirty miles from their headquarters on a stretch of farmland. The farmhouse and grounds were riddled with cameras and sensors, making this location absolutely secure from ambushes, or surprises of any kind.

The use of the mercs’ facility would add considerable cost to this engagement, but he had told them that money was no object, biting his tongue to keep from laughing when he did.

He was able to set up the hand off as quickly as he had hoped. Only two days after his call with Lucas he arrived in Cartago, in the center of the country. The city had been founded in the sixteenth century by Juan Vasquez de Coronado, and had served as the first capital of Costa Rica for well over two hundred years until the city of San José had assumed this role.

The two men he met with there were everything he had expected. Muscular, athletic, and serious—and armed to the teeth. They drove for forty-five minutes to a small, shabby-looking farmhouse, apparently in ill-repair and on grounds that were wide open and unsecured.

But looks were deceiving. Inside, the farmhouse was modern and well-appointed, and it was all but impenetrable from the outside. His mercenary friends checked their tablet computers and assured him that monitors and sensors indicated they were alone, and that the perimeter was secure out to well over a kilometer.

Browning grinned when the two men showed him the features of the safe house. It was well worth what the US government was paying them.

“Monitors indicate a car approaching,” announced the taller of the two mercenaries. “Three kilometers out.” Both men now had assault rifles slung around their shoulders, ready for immediate use. “One driver, no passengers,” added the merc.

“Show me an image of the driver,” said Browning.

The mercenary manipulated his tablet computer and handed it to his employer. Browning recognized the handsome young man on the screen right away, the same one he had seen through Victor’s eyes just before his death. “That’s him,” confirmed Browning, almost giddy now with anticipation.

“Sensors continue to show that the perimeter is clear,” reported the taller merc. “The driver will be our only company. I’ll let you know if this changes, of course.”

“Thank you,” responded Browning.

Five minutes later Lucas’s car became visible as it approached the farmhouse, rolling to a stop ten yards away from the three men waiting for him. The young killer exited the car. He was dressed casually and holding a small leather briefcase, which was more than roomy enough to carry a hundred sets of tiny BrainWeb implants.

Both mercenaries flanked their smallish employer, raising their assault rifles and pointing them at the newcomer. If Browning spread his arms, he might look like a human hammock suspended between two oak trees.

Lucas stared intently at the man he had come to meet. “Miles Long?” he asked.

“That’s right,” said Browning. “And I already know who you are.”

Lucas lifted his shirt and turned around slowly, demonstrating that he was unarmed. “Any chance your men could lower their weapons?” he asked pleasantly.

Browning nodded and signaled the two men to comply.

“Better?” asked Browning when the guns were no longer pointed at their guest.

“Much,” said Lucas. “Thanks.”

Browning was about to congratulate himself on how well things were going, but this condition changed at the speed of a bullet, as two distinctive cracks rang out over fifty yards distant. At the same instant the sound was registering, blood sprayed at Browning from either side of him, from two heads drilled by high-caliber sniper rounds.

Both mercenaries fell silently into heaps of flesh beside their employer, dead before they reached the ground, now nothing but human lumber.

Browning jumped the moment the spray hit his face. He let out a startled scream, tasting the metallic tang of blood that had worked its way from his lips to his open mouth.

Lucas looked bored by what was happening in front of him. He calmly reached into the briefcase, removed a gun, and pointed it at Browning, who had stumbled forward several feet.

“Did you think this case held implants?” said Lucas with a sneer, shaking his head at his adversary’s stupidity. “Well, guess again.”

The pounding of Browning’s heart rocked his body like an earthquake, but he realized his life now depended on how quickly he could recover his wits. He forced himself to relax. The universe had chosen him as the instrument of humanity’s salvation, after all. There was no way he could come to harm.

“Kill me and all the data I have on you will be released automatically,” he said firmly.

Lucas laughed. “Why don’t I believe you?” he replied. “Oh, right, maybe because you clearly lied about your vaunted surveillance capabilities. Weren’t you supposed to have seen this coming?” he added derisively.

“How did you do this? The perimeter is saturated with cameras and sensors. How were you able to place snipers?”

“Really?” said Lucas. “You do know that technology is my business, right? These cameras and sensors are older models, not state-of-the-art. I could defeat them in my sleep.”

“So what now, you kill me? Aren’t you even interested in how I came to know so much about you and your operation?”

“Oh yes,” said a voice coming up behind Browning, similar to Lucas’s but with a thicker Spanish accent. “Very interested. Not only in this information . . . but so much more.”

Browning gasped in shock. He wheeled around, ignoring the gun being held on him.

His eyes widened in dismay. The voice was as unmistakable as he had thought.

It was Victor! Alive and well and in the flesh. But it couldn’t be Victor.

“You look surprised,” said Lucas’s father in amusement. “I guess your surveillance didn’t see this coming either.”

38

Troy Browning took a number of rapid breaths. This was the mother of all curveballs, but there was surely an explanation, and he would still get out of this intact. The universe was testing his ingenuity, but it would not let him fail. He was confident that this would turn out to be a blessing in disguise, as had so many other events in his life that had looked to be setbacks at the time.

An instrument of the universe couldn’t be stopped by a lesser man, even one as extraordinary as Victor.

Browning was marched inside the farmhouse, zip-tied, and seated on a small couch, while Victor and Lucas took chairs facing him, their postures relaxed. It was clear they didn’t see him as a threat, even if his wrists had not been tied together.

“I must admit to being confused,” began Victor.

“You’re confused?” said Browning, staring at a man he knew to be dead.

Victor smiled. “I suppose it’s fair to say that we’re both confused,” he replied. “Although about very different things. I’m sure all will become clear to us both.”

He paused. “I’m going to begin asking you questions. Consider your responses very carefully. I trust that you know enough about me to believe me when I say that lying or withholding information will lead to . . . unpleasantries,” he added, staring at Browning with an intensity that could intimidate a rabid tiger.

Victor paused for a moment to let this marinate and then said, “So tell me, Miles Long, what is your real name?”

“Troy Browning,” he replied without hesitation.

Victor tilted his head and appeared lost in thought for almost twenty seconds. “The Troy Browning previously with the NSA?” he said finally.

Browning’s eyes widened. The ease with which Victor had come to this conclusion was remarkable. This indicated that he still possessed a working set of implants and had long ago hacked the NSA and other agencies. He must have directed BrainWeb to scan through confidential employee databases, and then guessed his identity from among the several Troy Brownings who worked in various capacities within the government.

This sleight of hand was a powerful demonstration of the astounding utility of the implants, even when they didn’t bring mind reading along for the ride.

“No need to answer,” said Victor. “I know that’s who you are. Okay, Troy, here’s why I’m confused. You must be working with Justin Girdler. But as good as he is, I can’t see the angle here. You truly thought I was dead, that much is clear. Which means that he did too. So you didn’t do this to set up an ambush. And you aren’t harboring implants inside your skull already. I know, because I’ve designed a means to detect them. And why did you want twenty sets—at least to begin with? Girdler has access to implants of his own.”

“Because I’m not working with Girdler,” said Browning. “Never have. I developed NSA’s communications technology, which enables me to intercept Girdler’s secure calls. That’s how I know about you.”

“Why would you lie to me about this?” thundered Victor, his fists balled up in fury. “You know the penalty!”

Browning sensed that the man’s fury was an act, that he just wanted to judge his prisoner’s reaction. “I wouldn’t lie,” he insisted. “Call up my employee file with those implants of yours. You’ll see I’m the greatest genius the NSA has ever employed. What you won’t see is anything that might suggest I’d ever sacrifice myself to protect General Justin Girdler. I’m what I said I was: a free agent who happened to intercept his calls.”

Victor stared into Browning’s eyes for what seemed like forever, unblinking. “Okay, Troy,” he said, finally shifting his gaze. “Let’s say I believe you. Let’s say you aren’t in league with Girdler. But you do know what he’s been up to, correct?”

“Absolutely. I know everything. About him, and the Black Ops group he now runs.”

Victor nodded thoughtfully and glanced at his son. “This version of events does clear up some of my confusion,” he said. “Although it still doesn’t entirely explain your motives.”

“I’ll tell you everything,” said Browning. “And I promise you’ll be very satisfied. But I have to know: how are you alive? I saw Lucas kill you. You and Eduardo Alvarez both. With my own eyes.”

“You mean with my own eyes,” growled Victor angrily.

Browning swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“I’m alive because my son is even better than I had hoped,” said Victor. He turned to his son. “Go ahead and tell him what happened. Why not?”

Lucas nodded. “It’s simple, really,” he began. “My father tasked me to rethink his business. To look for any weak spots he might have missed.” He glared at his prisoner. “Which I’m sure is something you already knew.”

When Browning didn’t respond, Lucas continued. “What my father was doing with the implants had become the main thrust of operations in many ways. So I spent most of my efforts considering possibilities in this arena. At some point, it occurred to me that in addition to adding a stroke-inducing feature to the technology, as my father had done, it should be possible to have the implants send incoming data back through the Web to us. Turning the wearer into the ultimate bug.”

Browning nodded appreciatively, forgetting for a moment the situation he was in. The chain of logic was simple and impressive. “So you realized that if your father could do it to others, perhaps it had already been done before. To him.”

“That’s right,” said Lucas.

“Eduardo and I missed this possibility entirely,” said Victor. “In retrospect, we were both fools. But to give credit where it is due, Girdler performed brilliantly. I knew from my sources that he was being hunted by his own government. There is no way that could have been faked. So when he proposed a deal to get me the implants, I took it at face value, never questioning his willingness to betray his country. I had always considered him to be the most clever of my potential adversaries, but I still underestimated him. Bravo, General Girdler,” he growled, the words dripping with venom.

Browning felt the temperature of the room drop precipitously. Here was a man who truly didn’t enjoy being outsmarted. A man one didn’t betray without consequences.

Victor was still seething, but nodded at his son to continue.

“I brought in our top software experts to take a look,” said Lucas. “None at the level of an Alex Altschuler, but very good in their own right. They had previously spent months trying to breach the core code for my father, but failed. They assumed all of it was integrated and impenetrable, and it did seem to be that way. But once I gave them something specific to look for, they realized that two islands of software comprised what they had considered to be the core, not one. One was Altschuler’s original work, which they still couldn’t crack. But there was also another, which was actually an add-on. It was almost as well protected as the other, but not quite. Since I told them the suspected purpose of the software, they were able to find it. Unambiguous evidence that all of the sets my father had gotten from Girdler were compromised. That every sight, sound, and thought my father and Eduardo had made were being sent to a secret cloud account.”

“Outstanding,” said Browning in genuine admiration. “Now the rest of what happened is obvious.”

Lucas was as good as advertised. He could have told his father about his discovery and had the implants removed. But if he had, the US would know their game was up, and would then try to clean up after themselves. So instead, he had put on a show for the eavesdroppers. One that had to fool even his father and Alvarez since he couldn’t tell them about what he had learned. Not when their very thoughts were being streamed back to agents of the US government.

And the only way to take them offline for good, while continuing to pull the wool over the eyes of the eavesdroppers, was to knock them out in a way that made it look like they were dead.

“So you staged a patricide drama for Girdler’s benefit,” said Browning.

“That’s correct.”

“What did you shoot at them?” said Browning. “A tranquilizer?”

“What else?” said Lucas with a contented expression. “They had to be unconscious after the shots to sell their deaths.”

Browning actually smiled. “I can see how Girdler might have been suspicious if he continued to receive images and thoughts from their implants after they were dead.”

An amused look came over Lucas’s face. “I had the surgical robot ready to go,” he explained. “Once they were unconscious, I had their implants removed. I then replaced them with sets that my software experts had stripped of the offending code.”

“So where is your uncle?” said Browning.

“Alive and well. He would have joined us today, but he had a previous engagement.”

“My hat’s off to you,” said Browning. “Your reasoning and planning were extraordinary. Exceeded only by your acting skills. I was in the audience, and it was a performance for the ages.”

“It wasn’t easy,” admitted Lucas. “My father has given me everything in life. I have nothing but respect and admiration for him, and for Eduardo. To appear to be such a raving psychopath, to betray them so completely, to spew such acid, was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Especially since I had to be totally convincing.”

“It wasn’t easy being on the receiving end of the performance, either,” noted Victor in a way that suggested he was still scarred from the experience. Not surprising. Browning had read the man’s surface thoughts at the time, and Victor thought he was about to be killed without mercy by the son he loved, utterly betrayed by a creature without compassion or remorse, who he had created.

Browning played back the scene in his mind and became even more impressed as he realized the full extent of the double game Lucas had played. He hadn’t just removed the bugs without THT knowing it, he had planted false information that he wanted them to intercept.

He made sure to let them know he wouldn’t be using implants, or placing them with others. If he hadn’t done this, THT would soon wonder why they weren’t picking up new intel from him, or from new customers. And he had made it clear he was rolling up Victor’s ESP program, believing mind reading to be a sham. In this way the US would close the book on this possibility, leaving his father free to pursue it without ever having to look over his shoulder.

Browning nodded at Victor. “Thank you,” he said. “It all makes so much sense now. When I contacted Lucas, trying to impress him with my surveillance capabilities, he knew exactly what method had been used. And that this method was no longer available.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed. “Eduardo and I have been betrayed and violated. I’ve been working hard to locate Girdler and everyone else behind what I consider an extended rape. Payback is in order. So you can imagine how happy I was when you called with information that could only have been obtained one way. I knew that you were a man who could provide the answers I was looking for.”

“So I played right into your hands,” said Browning. “You wanted to draw me out. You knew I couldn’t spot an ambush, but Lucas pretended to fear that I would, so I’d feel comfortable agreeing to a face-to-face.”

He cast his gaze on Lucas. “But you were belligerent and uncooperative at the start of our conversation,” he said to the young man. “Why? You risked pushing me away when you wanted desperately to lure me in.”

“He couldn’t appear too eager,” said Victor. “This is another case where Lucas played it just right. Pushing back just enough, not coming across as so savvy that you might suspect duplicity, and then pretending to acknowledge that you had him by the balls.”

Browning kept his face impassive, but there was a growing excitement within. Victor and his son were formidable, indeed. Even more so than he had already known. They were perfect. He had thought he was coming here to solve one of his two staggering problems, but now he saw Victor could help him solve both.

The universe was providing for him once again. He could now see the end game he needed to move this meeting toward with perfect clarity. This ordeal would turn out to be a blessing in disguise, as he had suspected—although he doubted the dead mercenaries outside would see it that way.

“Now that you’ve learned how I’m alive,” said Victor, “it’s time for you to tell me everything you know.”

“Of course,” said Browning.

He began by identifying each member of THT’s inner circle, including the president and the most recent addition, The Director of National Intelligence. Victor was stunned to learn that Nick Hall and Alex Altschuler were still alive, and now part of THT’s senior management.

“That’s quite an accomplished team,” noted Victor when he had finished. “But the two women don’t make sense to me. From what you’ve said they’re both civilians, and aren’t world-class scientists. What are their roles?”

“As far as I can tell, they’re just the romantic interests of the two most important members of the team. I guess they get special privileges. Heather Zambrana is actually now married to Alex Altschuler. And Hall is madly in love with Megan Emerson, and they are due to be wed at some point in the future. I get the sense that this Megan has importance to the team in some other capacity, but I’m not clear what.”

“Go on,” said Victor.

Browning proceeded to tell the two men everything he knew about THT, leaving little out. He described the group’s mission, the location of their headquarters in Utah, and even Hall’s once a month pilgrimage to Hill to read the minds of terror suspects there.

Victor’s appetite for information was insatiable. He asked dozens of questions as Browning droned on for almost two hours. Whatever Browning knew, no matter how inconsequential it seemed, Victor wanted to know. The personalities and tendencies of every member. Favorite movies, favorite colors, ethical stances, group dynamic, cars they drove, reading interests, and more.

Victor seemed especially interested in information about Justin Girdler and Nick Hall, and Browning delivered. When he described Hall’s involvement in preventing a recent drone attack, he could tell Victor realized that this was the reason for Sayed Nazry’s angry call.

Finally, Browning’s data dump began to wind down. “I think we’re just about done,” he said, unable to answer the latest of Victor’s queries. “I’m repeating myself. I’ve told you everything I know.”

Browning paused for a moment and then raised his eyebrows, allowing a sly smile to cross his face. “Almost,” he added provocatively.

“What does that mean?” snapped Victor.

“It means that I know how you operate. You don’t leave loose ends behind. So even though I’ve been cooperative and given you a gold mine of information, there is no way you’re going to let me live.”

Victor hesitated, as if debating whether to lie or not. “This may be true,” he admitted, “but by being so thorough and enlightening, you’ve spared yourself torture. And when I kill you, I will make it quick and painless. Relatively,” he added, not the kind of doctor to tell his patient a needle wouldn’t hurt just before he plunged it home.

“As great as that sounds,” said Browning, “I have a better idea. Let’s forge a partnership instead.”

Victor laughed. “I have no doubt this would be your preference,” he said, “but you’ve given me everything I wanted. You have nothing left to offer.”

“This is where you’re wrong,” said Browning. “I did leave a few things out. Important things. I never answered the question of why I contacted you in the first place. Why I wanted the implants.”

“You didn’t have to,” said Victor. “You’re a gifted ex-NSA hacker, not part of THT. Which means you learned of the existence of the BrainWeb implants but couldn’t get any of your own. So you came to us.”

“That explains why I contacted you. But it still doesn’t explain why I want them. If you guessed the obvious reason, for surfing the Web, you’d be wrong.” Browning leaned as far forward as his restraints would allow. “Like you,” he added, “I’m after mind reading.”

Browning paused for a moment to let this sink in. “But unlike you,” he continued, “I know that the recipe still exists. And where to find it.”

Victor’s eyes lit up and he exchanged a quick, meaningful glance with his son. “That is interesting,” he said. “But how does that gain you anything? Now that I know you have this information, I’ll just force you to tell me.”

“Force away,” said Browning defiantly. “But you’ll get nothing. This is a powerful bargaining chip, and my only one. I gave you everything you thought was out there of my own free will. But not this. Cut off my fingers, pull out my teeth, but it won’t do any good. This is my only chance to survive. So even if you cause me incomprehensible pain, you won’t get what you want.”

Browning shrugged. “Although, I must admit,” he added, “I’d probably tell you something, just to stop the pain. But would it be the truth? Or would I be leading you into a trap?”

Victor studied his prisoner in silence.

“On the other hand,” continued Browning, “if you partner with me, I’ll tell you everything. I know where the data is, and other vital information. Neither of us can get it alone. But with your skills and my knowledge, we can get it together. If you agree to help me, we can both have a copy. And you won’t have to fear any traps. I’ll be right there with you when you go after it. You’ll know I’m not leading you into a landmine, because if one explodes it takes me out too.”

“You’re bluffing. There is no recipe. You’re desperate.”

“Not only is there a recipe for ESP, I can get you the full, detailed specs on the implants themselves. Hardware and software. Comprehensive.”

Victor’s eyes widened.

Browning realized the tech merchant was especially interested in this data. Something to explore further at a later time. “I’m not bluffing,” he insisted. “Make the deal. If you come to believe my info is bad, then kill me. Torture me to death. But if it’s good, the arrangement goes forward.”

“What terms did you have in mind?” asked Victor.

“You give me twenty implant sets. I tell you what you need to know to get the data, and you carry out the necessary operation to get it. I was thinking of hiring out for the job, but it’s become clear to me that you’re perfect for it. You keep the data and do whatever you like with it, but I get a copy. Then we go our separate ways. Which means, just to be clear, that you never come after me. You promise not to torture me or kill me. Ever.”

“And you’ll tell me what you know, right here, right now?”

“Yes. If you tell me we have a deal, I will. I know you could choose to kill me afterward, but you won’t. You’re a man of your word. If you enter into an agreement, you will honor it.”

“You had a deal with Lucas,” said Victor. “He didn’t honor it.”

“That wasn’t a deal, it was blackmail. Not that I had the leverage I thought I did. But it was a sham to begin with. And you aren’t your son. You’re a man who has built a flawless reputation over decades for his fair dealings.”

Browning waited patiently while the tech dealer weighed the variables in his mind. He knew what Victor’s decision would be. It was inevitable.

“Okay,” said Victor after almost a minute of silence had passed. “You have a deal. I’ll help you get the data. In exchange, you get a copy, twenty sets of implants, and the chance to continue living. So tell me where it is.”

“Outstanding!” said Browning enthusiastically. “I’ll tell you, but first, I’m curious. You seemed to be even more interested in the specs for the implants than in those for mind reading. Is that the case?”

“Very good,” said Victor. “This is true. Mind reading is an ability I would never want, and one I’d refuse to give to anyone in my organization.”

“Why not?” said Browning in genuine confusion.

“It’s relationship repellent,” he said simply. “Anyone with sense would avoid it like the plague.”

“Does that mean you only want the BrainWeb specs?”

Victor smiled. “Nice try. Just because I don’t plan to use it doesn’t mean I can’t find a use for it. The deal stands, as is.”

“Of course,” said Browning. “And you won’t regret this. So here goes. The information is all bottled up tightly inside THT’s Utah headquarters. But trust me,” he added, “as long as it remains there, you have no chance to get it. That place has security that’s even beyond your capabilities to defeat. And even if you could mount a successful attack, this data would be the first thing destroyed.”

“Then there had better be more to this story,” said Victor harshly.

“Don’t worry, there is,” said Browning, a smug look on his face. “You see, the data will soon be coming out to play. An insider plans to arrange for a copy to be smuggled out on a data stick. I know when, and by intercepting key communications, I can learn how. It still won’t be easy to get, but for a man like you . . .” He let the thought hang.

“From what you’ve told me, those at the top of THT are all exceedingly loyal,” said Victor. “So who’s the insider planning to betray the group?”

A broad smile spread across Browning’s face. “Timothy Cochran,” he said simply. “The President of the United States.”

PART 5

Dennis Sargent

39

Dr. Dennis Sargent loved the name Dennis, perhaps more than any other Dennis in history. Not because the name in itself was so wonderful, but because it was so mainstream, so . . . usual. The kind of name that would inspire a talented young man to become a PhD in the new field of artificial human brain construction, instead of running away from home to join the army.

He was pretty sure there was at least one alternate universe in which an alternate him—not named Dennis—had done just this. A universe in which his father had gotten his way when it came to naming his son, with life-altering consequences.

Sargent’s father had been a fan of the novel Catch-22, by Joseph Heller. A huge fan. In fact, he was convinced it was the best book ever written, and in this he was not alone. A critic once complained that Heller had never written another novel as good as Catch-22, to which the author had famously replied, “Neither has anyone else.”

In the novel there was a character named Major. This was his first name. Also his last. Also his middle. And while it was true this name had been frequently used in all three of these slots, it had never been used in all three at the same time. But Major Major Major’s father had a strange sense of humor, which ended up destroying his son’s life, as anyone might imagine.

According to the novel, an IBM computer with a similar sense of humor had promoted Major to the rank of major long before he was due, unable to resist making him Major Major Major Major, a premature promotion that left him out of his depth and caused him to be resented by his men.

Sargent’s father thought the story of Major Major Major Major was hilarious—and relevant. Sargent was another name that could work as a first, middle, or last. There had been a Sargent Shriver. Why not a Sargent Sargent? Why not borrow a page from Heller and name his son Sargent Sargent Sargent?

Dennis Sargent’s mother had never been sure if her husband was serious about this or was only pulling her leg, but she had threatened divorce immediately, just on the off chance his love for this book had warped his mind.

Her threat had worked, winning her the right to name her son, but she had always felt she had dodged a bullet. So did Dennis when she told him of this close call years later. On that day he went from hating the name Dennis to loving it, shuddering at the thought of how many beatings he would have taken in school had his first name been Sargent.

Had this been the case, he would have run off to join the army, and didn’t doubt that a computer with a warped sense of humor would have promoted him to sergeant in record time.

Fortunately for him, none of this had come to pass. At least not in this universe. Dennis Sargent had been free to choose another path. And while he was one of the most driven men he knew, he was also the most content. He loved what he did.

Since he was eight years old, Sargent had believed that humanity was quickly creating its own successor, and that the species had very little time before it went the way of the Neanderthal.

Not that nature hadn’t done a brilliant job of constructing the human brain. It had hundreds of billions of components, was massively parallel, and required ridiculously small amounts of energy to power its astonishing capabilities.

But computer intelligence had advantages that would ultimately leave the brain in the dust. Computer systems could operate much faster than the wetware inside a human skull, and this advantage was only increasing as silicon photonic computing came online, essentially ramping up the speed of computer calculations to that of light. Computer memory was perfect and instant. And whatever an AI system learned could be instantly transmitted to all other computer AIs, now and forevermore.

Pretty handy.

But computer intelligence’s most important advantage would turn out to be its potential for evolution. Humans could evolve too, but could only produce one new generation every twenty to thirty years. AIs, on the other hand—once computer hardware became fluid, reconfigurable, so that both software and hardware could evolve together—could produce millions of generations before an amorous human couple could complete a single attempt at conception.

This was an insurmountable advantage, even if human efforts to produce additional generations were a lot more fun.

So Sargent had come to an obvious conclusion at a young age: if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.

If you could simulate an exact copy of a human brain inside a computer, then at some point you could transfer your consciousness inside. At least theoretically.

Why not? Why not trade out all human parts for something nearly indestructible? Once science designed a robotic body that worked as well as a human one, but without being susceptible to poison ivy, death from the nick of a razor blade, or the need for a constant supply of oxygen and water, why wouldn’t we climb on board? As long as we could also replace our squishy brain with something more substantial, we’d become all but immortal while boosting our processing speed thousands or millions-fold.

In Dennis Sargent’s book, this would be the ultimate upgrade. And he knew it was possible he’d be alive when it happened, on the front lines—making it happen—and would be one of the first to reach this next level.

It was ten a.m., but he had been up for almost four hours, his nose to the grindstone, doing his part to push the frontiers of knowledge just a little further, bringing the goal just a little bit closer. He was taking a yogurt break at his desk, lost in his computer screen, when General Girdler rapped on his open office door.

Sargent swallowed a mouthful of yogurt—as vanilla as his first name—and swung around in his chair, somewhat surprised to see who it was. “Good morning, General,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

Girdler smiled. “I want to give you a heads-up. I just got off a call with the president. He asked me to tell you he’ll be calling you in ten minutes.”

“Me?” said Sargent it utter disbelief.

The general nodded.

Just the fact that the people Sargent worked with had routine access to the President of the United States, that he was a member of a club so exclusive it made the Manhattan Project seem as open as Facebook, was surreal enough. But this was next level surreal. He had never even been invited to a meeting with the president, but a one-on-one call?

“Okay,” he said warily, wondering if he had done something wrong. It was the only reason he could think of for the call. He doubted that the president was looking for his keen insight into foreign affairs or the economy. “Any idea what he wants?”

“Every idea,” replied Girdler good-naturedly, “but I’ll let him tell you himself. I’m late to a meeting as it is. Have fun,” he said as he left.

Sargent still couldn’t quite bring himself to believe this was real, up until the time that a computer-generated image of the president, in all his holographic glory, was in his office, greeting him and asking him to close the door so they wouldn’t be overheard.

Sargent did as he was asked and motioned for the hologram to take a chair, resisting the urge to try to shake its hand.

“You’re probably wondering why I wanted to speak with you today?” said Cochran.

“That might just be an understatement, sir.”

Cochran smiled warmly, his charisma on full display. “The general has told me that you haven’t been fully occupied at THT for about a month now. After you completed your analysis of the implants’ interactions with the brains of both Nick and Alex.”

Sargent sighed. His efforts to compare and contrast results, looking for a difference that might account for Hall’s mind reading ability, had yielded nothing. Still, he had other ideas worth pursuing. Besides, he was also still performing duties as part of a group of universities and companies that had banded together to create a computer that replicated the position and functionality of every neuron in the human brain.

He reminded the president of this involvement, and that he could do this part of his job while remaining in Utah. “So even when I’m not fully occupied with THT duties,” he said, “I have more than enough work to do to keep me out of trouble.”

“It’s this other work that I wanted to talk about,” said Cochran. “What would you say if I told you I’m about to announce a dramatic expansion of this program? That I want to make it the next big-science moonshot for the United States? With considerable fanfare, I might add.”

Sargent’s mouth hung open. “You mean like the Human Genome Project?”

“That’s precisely what I mean. A joining together of huge numbers of institutions around the globe to make the creation of an artificial human brain humanity’s next great, collective goal. With ample funding from the federal government.”

“That would be . . . incredible,” whispered Sargent, feeling like a little girl on Christmas morning who had woken up to find a pink pony in her living room. Or maybe a unicorn.

“I thought you might approve,” said the president. “Here’s the thing. You’re one of the few people who have been at this from the beginning. Really a pioneer. Which is why we recruited you to Nick’s team.”

He paused. “General Girdler would love to keep you where you are. But I just had a conversation with him, and he realizes this would be selfish if it would keep you from making vital contributions to such a massive global consortium.”

“Are you saying you’d like me to leave THT so I can devote all of my efforts to this new project?”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all,” replied Cochran with a grin. “I’m saying I’d like you to leave THT to lead this program. The whole ball of wax. Like James Watson led the Human Genome Project before you.”

Sargent just blinked stupidly, unable to respond.

“Is that a yes?” asked Cochran in amusement.

“Yes!” said Sargent emphatically. He loved Nick Hall and his entire team. They had become a family. But this was an opportunity he couldn’t possibly pass up.

“Fantastic,” said the president. “And I assume you’d be willing to take a call from Nick going forward if something came up in your area of expertise.”

“Of course,” said Sargent immediately. “I’d do anything for this team.”

Sargent thought he saw the president wince at this last, but he must have imagined it.

“Great,” said Cochran. “It’s settled. I know this is something of a whirlwind, but I need you to get to Washington as soon as possible. Sorry about the short notice, but I want to meet with you in person later tonight at the White House. After that, you’ll have lots of preparations to make, lots of people to meet, and lots of members of Congress to impress. I assumed you’d be interested,” said Cochran, “so I took the liberty of booking a flight that leaves out of SLC International in three hours. First class.” He glanced down as though reading something. “United 289, landing at Dulles.”

“I’ll be on it,” said a still-stunned Dennis Sargent. A whirlwind was an understatement. This was more like a hurricane.

“There is something I need for you to do for me before you leave there,” said Cochran. He hesitated, not looking entirely comfortable. “It’s a bit delicate.”

“Sir?” said Sargent.

“As you know, Nick and Alex have the Kelvin Gray data bottled up pretty tightly. You also know that I recently approved Nick’s request to let his team study it inside headquarters—with the proper precautions, of course.”

“Of course,” echoed Sargent.

“For some time now I’ve been wanting to make another copy of the data and secure it at another location. With the data all in one basket, we risk the possibility of losing it forever, including the BrainWeb specs. Why take this chance? While the tech may not be ready for prime time right now, its loss would be devastating. A real setback for humanity. I’ve proposed keeping a second copy under lock and key at Fort Knox, for example, but Nick and I have a bit of a disagreement about this.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Sargent. “I think if he had his way he’d destroy the one copy we do have.”

“Hard to blame him,” said Cochran. “He knows how dangerous it would be if it fell into the wrong hands. But despite Nick’s objections, I’ve become more and more convinced this is something that has to be done.”

The president locked his virtual eyes onto Sargent’s. “You were chosen to lead what we’re planning to call the Artificial Brain Initiative a few weeks ago, Dr. Sargent. But there’s a reason I waited until today to tell you. An opportunistic reason. I realized that since you’d be leaving the group for greener pastures, you could bring me a copy of the data. Since this is the day Nick is out of the office, I waited until now to tell you, and to bring you to DC. This way, he’ll never need to know it happened.”

Sargent frowned. This didn’t smell right. “I don’t understand, sir,” he said. “You’re the president. Couldn’t you just order him to give you a copy?”

Cochran tilted his head and a tired smile crossed his face. “You might think,” he admitted. “But Nick is very important to the country. Much more important than I am, to be honest. I’m not sure he’d do it. Who knows, he might even decide to finally destroy the one copy we have left. You know how parano—cautious—he is.  And not without good reason,” Cochran hastened to add once again.

“You’re the commander-in-chief. I get that Nick’s a civilian, so maybe you couldn’t give him a direct order. But couldn’t you order General Girdler to get you your copy?”

Cochran shook his head. “The general will do what he thinks is right, and he’s more loyal to Nick than to me. I’d be more loyal to Nick, also, if I were in his shoes. Again, I can’t blame him. So doing this without them knowing really is the best solution.”

“And you don’t plan to do anything with it other than lock it away in Fort Knox?”

“That’s right,” said Cochran without hesitation.

Sargent considered. There was no doubt he could do what the president wanted. Easily. The files, thousands of pages, could be copied to a data stick in an instant. And the trust they all shared within the group was absolute. There was almost nothing he could do that would arouse the slightest of suspicions. And Cochran had been smart. He had given him a tight window to get to the airport when almost everyone he knew within THT was either off-site or in a meeting.

But he had promised Nick Hall he would maintain security, and Hall had no doubt read his mind to confirm this was true. He thought the world of Hall. This would be an unforgivable betrayal. Cochran must realize that if Sargent did this he could never get within six miles of the mind reader again.

“Just out of curiosity, Mr. President,” he said as pleasantly as possible, “what if I respectfully declined? Out of loyalty to Nick? Would that jeopardize my position in this new initiative?”

“Of course not,” said Cochran, as though offended at the very thought. “You’re the right man for the job. That was decided weeks ago. This is just a data safekeeping measure. Chances are the data is perfectly safe within THT. But I’d sleep better knowing we had a copy squirreled away. As a scientist, I’d urge you to think about how you’d feel if this data—which, tragically, Kelvin Gray took many lives to acquire—was lost forever. And I would consider it a big favor.”

The president spread his hands out toward Sargent, palms up. “But it’s entirely your choice. You’ll have to keep this secret from people you like and admire.” He sighed. “I know that’s asking a lot.”

Sargent stared long and hard at the virtual Timothy Cochran in his office, weighing his decision. Finally, he nodded. “I think the idea of safeguarding the data does make sense,” he said. “I’m glad I’ll be able to help.”

“Me too,” said Cochran. He seemed pleased, but not overly so. As though it would allow him to cross off a fairly minor item on his to-do list. “I look forward to meeting you in person later tonight.”

“Thank you, sir. And thank you for having the vision to embark on this Artificial Brain Initiative. Not to mention giving me such a wonderful opportunity,” he added, beaming. “I’ll make sure that you never regret either choice.”

“I’m sure that I won’t,” said the president with a warm smile.

40

President Timothy Cochran blew out a relieved breath as the connection with Dennis Sargent ended. Wow. That was dicey. When Sargent had asked him what the consequences of refusing to help would be, he could have gone in one of two directions. He had chosen the softer of the two approaches in an instant, going with his spur-of-the-moment gut feeling, but this could well have backfired.

The Artificial Brain Initiative was real, but until two weeks earlier it had been one of six such moonshots under consideration. Cochran had seized upon the opportunity to declare it the winner so he could use it an excuse to get Sargent to leave THT headquarters with the data he needed.

The good Dr. Sargent hadn’t been on the short list to lead the massive effort, but he was well qualified, so the president had no problem putting him in charge. The woman who had been at the top of the list would be made second-in-command, never knowing that she had been moved aside so the president could achieve another goal.

“Congratulations,” said Bob Siegel, who had been in his office but out of sight, observing the call. “I see that your political skills are as sharp as ever.”

“You mean my ability to lie convincingly?”

“You know what they say,” replied Siegel. “Sincerity—if you can fake that, you’ve got it made.”

“I did what I had to do,” said Cochran unhappily. “You know the stakes here. And speaking of that, we don’t have any time to waste. I have no reason to doubt that Dennis Sargent will come through, so set up a meeting with our man Bostic for tonight. I’ll leave it to you to give him the initial briefing. Tomorrow, I’ll spend some quality time with him. I want to get to know him and give him my perspective on things.”

“And the other three men?”

“We can bring them up to speed in the coming days. But we need to get going with Bostic immediately. We have to brief him and then send him off to get implants and, with any luck, ESP. We’ve thought recreating the pathway the implants took through Hall’s brain would recreate the effect for a while now, but maybe not. If it doesn’t, we need to know it now, so we can at least consider other options. If it does, we need Bostic to get used to his new powers in a hurry. The sooner we can deploy him to Iran, the better our chances.”

The four men who would form their so-called SEAL Team Six-and-a-half  had been selected days earlier, and had been transferred to Annapolis, one hour away, to await further instructions. All four had been instructed to begin growing beards, which gave them a sense of what might be in store for them, but they were given no further information. This included the chosen one, Lieutenant Craig Bostic, who was slated to become a mind reader and the most formidable man on Earth.

“I’ll get the ball rolling on this tonight then,” said Siegel. “I just hope we know what we’re doing,” he added uncertainly.

“You and me both,” said the leader of the free world. “You and me both.”

41

The moment the president’s call with Dennis Sargent ended, Troy Browning contacted his favorite tech merchant, feeling absolutely euphoric. Cochran had succeeded in luring the data out of headquarters. Part of him had been worried that he might fail, but this worry was irrational, he realized, not for the first time.

Of course Cochran hadn’t failed. The president’s success in this matter was inevitable, guided by higher powers. Browning’s destiny would not be denied.

He already possessed the implants he needed, but now he was so close to becoming a mind reader he could taste it. “Sargent agreed to smuggle out the data,” he reported to Victor. “And the president’s having him proceed exactly as you predicted,” he added. “Tell your men to be ready to execute option one.”

He went on to specify the details of Sargent’s imminent flight out of Salt Lake City International.

Their lives had been complicated when the president had discussed his precise plans with Bob Siegel in his office, in person, rather than over his secure video link. But even though they weren’t sure how the president would proceed once Sargent agreed to help him, at least they knew the exact date this would happen—when Hall next went to Hill Air Force Base to conduct his interrogations.

So Victor had been forced to plan for a number of possibilities, which he did with astonishing skill and thoroughness. Browning had chosen well, even though the method they would end up using was so simple Browning himself could have managed it.

Maybe.

But they hadn’t known it would be so simple, so Victor had prepared for bear. Some of his plans were brilliant in their daring and complexity, and his ability to think like his opponent was truly special.

And it had turned out that his reasoning was spot on. The man was an amazing talent.

Nessie handled security in the Salt Lake City region for any personnel who ventured outside of THT headquarters. The president himself couldn’t change her programming in this regard, not without her reporting the change to Girdler and THT. So she would report on anything she found suspicious, regardless of the president’s involvement.

Even so, Browning had been convinced that Cochran would supply all kinds of additional protection for Sargent as he smuggled out the president’s priceless cargo. Or would use an intermediary to accept the handoff soon after Sargent had left the building.

Victor thought otherwise. He reasoned that Cochran wouldn’t want to have Sargent do anything out of the ordinary. He would need to fool Nessie along with everyone else. So he would have him fly the data out of Utah on his own with no added security, at least until he left the purview of Nessie and her ever watchful eyes and algorithms.

The core team lived inside headquarters, but others who worked there, who kept the wheels of the secret organization turning, even though they had no idea what the organization really did, left hundreds of times throughout the year to return to their homes and apartments. Nessie had been put in charge of these lesser personnel for a reason, because maintaining anonymity was their greatest protection.

If all personnel were smothered by bodyguards or driven around in tanks, like Hall, this would draw attention, raise red flags. In a high crime area, leaving your door wide open was one indication you had nothing worth stealing. The more fuss you made about protecting your belongings, the more thieves you would attract.

Nessie was the ultimate in invisible security. No one could possibly know that whenever Dennis Sargent moved around the Salt Lake City area, thousands and thousands of eyes moved with him, and an enormous brain made sure no one was following and nothing unusual was happening.

Which was why Victor guessed Cochran would have his mole fly out of Salt Lake City the same way he had done previously on several occasions.

Nothing to see here, Nessie. Just an ordinary guy, going about ordinary business. Certainly not engaged in smuggling out a priceless data stick.

And Victor had been right in every regard. Perhaps it took a smuggler to think like a smuggler. But regardless, the more Browning worked with the man, the more impressed he became.

And the more concerned.

This was not a man with whom he wanted to share the instructions for implants and ESP. Browning needed absolute control of the situation. He alone needed to make decisions about the rollout of implants and mind reading. A random factor in the equation, like Victor—someone with extraordinary competence, immense resources, and unknowable motives—could well throw a wrench into the works.

But it was too late to do anything about Victor just yet. He had needed him for this operation. Even though the execution would turn out to be easier than Browning had guessed, it was still not without its challenges.

So he would work with Victor for today. They would break bread and share data.

But he was confident he’d find a way to bottle him up before too long.

After all, Troy Browning’s destiny could not be denied.

42

Chuck Hafer strolled casually through the busy airport and into a tiny kiosk, a small carry-on bag slung around his shoulder. He removed an overpriced plastic bottle of water from a refrigerated shelf and stood in a three person line at the small cashier’s station.

He looked down as a secure text came in. It was from Victor, as expected. You’re a go to proceed. He’ll be flying United 289 to Dulles, boarding at 1:30, Terminal One.

Proceeding as planned, he typed back, just as he reached the cashier. He smiled pleasantly and paid her in cash.

Victor’s guess had been exactly right. Hafer supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. He had only just begun working with the man, but it was already clear that his reputation was well deserved. Victor had instructed him to set up six teams around Salt Lake City, each with their own game plan should the ball carrier veer in their direction. But Victor had insisted that Hafer run the show at SLC International, personally, convinced that this was where the play would lead.

Not only had he been correct, he had even predicted the airline. The man was uncanny.

Hafer couldn’t have been happier when Victor had reached out to recruit him. Men in his line of work all jumped at any chance to be part of Victor’s team. The tech dealer was scrupulously fair, never screwed anyone over, and paid handsomely. The men on all six teams would be well compensated, but if Hafer was successful he would earn a million dollars for himself, and each of the seven men on his airport team two-hundred thousand.

Whatever was on that disk, Victor wanted it bad.

Chuck Hafer had been briefed at length on a computer named Nessie, which Victor insisted would be watching over Dennis Sargent like the overprotective mother of a toddler. A very savvy overprotective mother.

Which is the very reason Victor required Hafer’s services. Neither Victor, his unnamed partner in this endeavor, nor anyone from his usual team could be anywhere near Salt Lake City. Apparently, if Nessie got a single sniff of any of them in this region, the game would be up. She would know immediately that their presence here, of all places, could not be random.

Hafer forwarded Victor’s text to all seven of his team. The entire team, Hafer included, would purchase tickets on flights leaving from Terminal One, all on different airlines at different times, going to different destinations. In this way they would pass through security without any questions being asked and with no way to connect them together, and they would all have reason to loiter inside the terminal until they were needed to perform their choreographed roles. Each would later actually board and take these ticketed flights, as well, so as not to arouse the suspicions of a paranoid AI.

Hafer couldn’t be prouder of the plan, although he had to concede that Victor and his son Lucas had been responsible for most of it.

Hafer and his seven associates passed through security at staggered times, making it through with ease. None were armed, and only two had any concerns, whatsoever, about what was in their carry-on bags, Chuck Hafer and a man named Andrae Marquise.

Hafer had a battery powered electronic interface, about the size of a pack of cigarettes, which was unusual and risked being examined, but was not illegal, as well as a pen with a tiny needle hidden at the tip. Marquise had this same pen, with the same hidden needle, but one filled with a different drug. As expected, both bags containing these items sailed right through without raising a single eyebrow.

Each member of the team waited alone at various gates and bistros for over an hour until they received a group message from the man stationed closest to the security line. Arrived was all it said, indicating that Dennis Sargent had finally made it to the airport and was now in the TSA line.

The men receiving this message calmly moved into positions that had been planned out for days, all based on the locations of security cameras that had been installed throughout the terminal.

Only two of the men had starring roles. The others were mere supporting actors, only present to block Nessie’s line of sight for a short time, if this even proved necessary.

The actions of the team had been rehearsed and would be as well-orchestrated and precise as a wedding ceremony planned by a control freak. Hafer sat one gate away from the one Sargent would use, facing a wall of glass, gazing at the jumbo jets parked at their gates and the mountain ranges just beyond, seemingly close enough to touch.

He glanced down at another incoming text. He’s through. FRP.

Hafer smiled. FRP: Front Right Pocket.

Victor was correct again, although this one was more obvious. If you were carrying a data stick of great value, you’d want it firmly in your deepest pocket, not in a carry-on that might be stolen, as unlikely as this might be. You’d transfer it to your bag just before going through the airport scanners, and then immediately place it in your pocket once again.

It was good to know that Sargent was behaving precisely as predicted.

Now through security, Dennis Sargent began to make his way toward his gate, oblivious to the many sets of human eyes that followed his every step from afar, joining those belonging to Nessie that had followed his every movement since leaving THT.

Hafer removed the small electronic device from his carry-on and slid it in his shirt pocket. He rose from his seat and appeared to wander aimlessly, noting with approval that throngs of fliers were coursing through the terminal. Perfect, he thought. More than enough people to block out Nessie, even without the supporting players he had assembled.

Not that he was about to take any chances. Not for this kind of money.

His phone vibrated twice, indicating that Andrae Marquise had fallen into step behind Sargent at the precise position they had calculated, about seventy yards from where Hafer was waiting.

In seconds Marquise would bump into Sargent and dose him with a drug. The bump and the tiny needle prick would occur simultaneously, with a good chance the target would never even feel it, too distracted by Marquise’s misdirection. Marquise was the best pickpocket for a thousand miles. Others were there to block Nessie’s vision when he made his move, but his skill was so impressive that this was more of a precaution than a necessity.

Hafer’s phone vibrated once again, an indication that Marquise had completed his job, with Sargent being none the wiser. The typical walking speed of three miles an hour translated into four and a half feet per second, which they had calculated would put Sargent in the general vicinity of Chuck Hafer when the drug took effect.

Marquise had wandered away from the action after performing his duties, but the other six men on the team casually drifted toward Hafer’s position, their eyes on the incoming bogey.

Sargent’s gait began to shorten, almost imperceptibly, and those watching knew the drug was seconds away from its final stranglehold. He was already in the middle of any number of passengers heading to and from gates, but the team added to the crowd, blocking cameras, while Hafer fell into step beside the target.

Hafer took a deep breath and braced himself mentally. After only five steps Sargent stumbled and would have collapsed to the ground had Hafer not been waiting for this moment. He reached out and caught his target, managing to keep him upright.

Hafer freed the data stick from Sargent’s pocket while three members of his team stopped, in heated conversation, just behind, so traffic would have to flow around them. Another of his men paused just beside Sargent to pull an energy bar from his bag.

Hafer shoved the data stick into a slot on the small device he was carrying, which had been previously programmed to copy all files the moment the stick was inserted. The device signaled it was done before Hafer was even certain he had shoved the stick in all the way, and he returned it to Sargent’s pocket with practiced efficiency, not needing the pickpocketing skills of an Andrae Marquise when dealing with an unconscious man.

Less than seven seconds had passed since Sargent had stumbled. Hafer injected him with the antidote to the drug he had been given, which worked faster than smelling salts, bringing him back to life, and quickly steadied him on his feet. Once he was sure Sargent had regained his consciousness and balance, he walked calmly toward a men’s room, secure in the knowledge that the drug would strip Sargent’s memory of the last few minutes.

The other members of his team casually went about their business as Sargent paused for a moment, a confused expression on his face, and then, with a shrug, continued on toward his gate.

Hafer wandered over to his own flight with Victor’s prize in his pocket, fantasizing about what he would do with the payoff for this relatively painless operation. For just a moment he considered making a copy of the data for himself. After all, if Victor was willing to spend this much money, and go to this much trouble, something truly monumental must be on the disk.

But then he remembered the rest of Victor’s reputation and thought better of it. Crossing him was a very bad idea. Best to take his winnings and move on to live another day.

Had Nessie been aware of Sargent’s smuggling mission for President Cochran, even this flawless operation wouldn’t have fooled her. As it was, she recognized that Sargent’s brief pause in walking, out of her vision, and the coalescing of random passengers near this point were unlikely occurrences, but not at the level that would cause her concern. These minute anomalies in the fabric of Sargent’s ordinary reality had to be nothing but coincidence, her complex algorithm decided.

After all, if these movements had been orchestrated rather than random, there should have been a point to them. But there wasn’t. Dennis Sargent was unharmed and walking purposefully once more toward his gate, not in the least concerned about his well-being.

And unlikely coincidences happened all the time.

PART 6

Craig Bostic

43

Craig Bostic had always excelled in school, but had realized early on that he wanted to do something out of the ordinary. His father worked as an accountant in a major corporation and he had visited him on a number of occasions, horrified by the large number of people working forty or more hours a week in tiny, soul-crushing cubicles, their only view the walls of their prisons, and beyond nothing but more and more cubicles, stretching on for as far as the eye could see.

He couldn’t imagine how they did it, or even his father for that matter. His father at least had an office with a window, but he, too, spent endless hours glued to his desk, staring at a computer.

Seven-year-old Craig Bostic knew in his gut that this was unnatural, and he became more convinced of this with every passing year. Human beings weren’t meant to live this way.

The brainpower and knowledge of the species may have evolved rapidly, but primal needs remained relatively untamed. These were still hardwired in, resistant to the beehive existence of modern cities. You could take the primate out of the savannah, but you couldn’t take the savannah out of the primate.

Bostic believed that all humans needed a healthy dose of fresh air and the ability to roam outside to be truly content, to challenge both their bodies and their minds in equal measure. That’s how the species had climbed the food chain with nothing but the most primitive tools, using cunning to ensure survival, pitting human skills against nature, despite being hopelessly outgunned when it came to claws, or teeth, or speed, or strength.

Young animals at play were doing nothing more than practicing hunting skills they would need to survive as adults. Which explained why sports were always such an integral part of human society. These, too, represented a microcosm of the skills once needed for survival, requiring strategic thinking, eye-hand coordination, throwing and kicking accuracy, strength, and endurance.

But while sports satisfied the primal craving to challenge both mind and body in pursuit of a difficult goal, this wasn’t enough for some. Some needed to ski down dangerous mountains, jump out of planes, and scale cliffs.

Because a human being was never so alive as when his or her life was on the line.

Craig Bostic had known from a very young age he could never be happy at a desk job, but hadn’t known at the time that he would be happiest when pitting his skills against others, for the ultimate stakes. When he finally did come to this conclusion, he joined the Navy and trained hard to join the SEALs, knowing this would be his best destiny.

But the truth was, even when he reached this stage, it was not enough. There was too much rehearsal, too much waiting around to go on missions, and not enough days in which his mettle was truly tested, his life was truly in jeopardy. He was a star quarterback who wasn’t on the field nearly enough for his tastes.

So Bostic set his sights on SEAL Team Six, the elite of the elite. This team saw the most action and was deployed in the most challenging of situations. Naturally, he couldn’t tell his superiors or those giving his psych evaluations just how much of an adrenaline junkie he was, but how could this not be a given? Those who weren’t adrenaline junkies didn’t become commandos. He and his comrades were all addicted to life-and-death missions, although Bostic didn’t doubt that he was addicted more completely than most.

So he had not only made it onto SEAL Team Six, he had become one of its most respected members. He had learned Farsi, Arabic, and Kurdish over many years, and had honed his skills in hand-to-hand combat, weapons, sharpshooting, and technology. He had kept his nose clean and developed a reputation for daring and cunning, but also for showing restraint where needed.

But even he could never have imagined there might be a level beyond that of SEAL Team Six.

Because there hadn’t been. At least not until now. Until the president and Bob Siegel had decided to create one. A four-man team with Bostic at the helm, with the unofficial name of SEAL Team Six-and-a-half.

So the president and the admiral had told him about implants, about mind reading, and about their vision for the team, and had given him the option to back out. But they knew he wouldn’t. They wouldn’t have chosen him if there was any chance of that. They knew that he was a man who bored easily, and who detested this state more than any other.

And now the moment of truth had arrived.

Bostic laid on his back on a steel bench and slid his head into an oversized helmet, open at the top to expose his skull. Only two people other than the president and Director of National Intelligence had any knowledge of what they were attempting, both from a Black Ops lab running out of Area 51, a brain surgeon and a top programmer. These two men were with him now, his only company, having joined him at a safe house on a large tract of farmland outside of Richmond, Virginia, a hundred miles from DC.

They assured him the AutoSurge robotic unit—Surge standing for Surgery—was programmed and ready to go. The stainless steel unit was about the size of a refrigerator, with a large touch-screen monitor and six robotic hands, each capable of millionth-of-an-inch precision.

A liquid gel was pumped into a flexible bladder inside the helmet, which contoured precisely to the sides of his head, ears, jaw, and neck. Then a mild electric current was sent through the gel, hardening it, so that Bostic’s head was completely immobilized.

Bostic’s hand was free to press the start button himself, and didn’t require the presence of any outside parties, but since the two men from Area 51 had been read in and had taken the trip out to program the robot, they remained in the room.

Not that they provided much comfort. The procedure would happen too quickly for their intervention. The robot was not only a hundred times as precise as a human surgeon, it was a hundred times faster.

The robot would perform a detailed scan of his brain, which would account for all but a tiny fraction of the time required, and then take four BrainWeb implants on a wild ride through his gray matter. Cochran and Siegel weren’t sure if this procedure would work, but the last time such implants had taken this precise but frenzied path through a man’s brain, that man had ended up with the capacity to read minds. But there were no guarantees.

Bostic took a deep breath. He would know for sure in about twenty minutes.

Unless the procedure didn’t result in mind reading, but in severe brain damage instead.

In which case he might not know anything ever again.

“Are you ready, Craig?” said the brain surgeon, who had done little more than check to be sure the coordinates had been entered correctly.

As ready as I’ll ever be, thought Bostic, but since his mouth was currently out of order and these men couldn’t read minds, he gave a thumbs-up signal to communicate this readiness.

Bostic didn’t know how things would turn out, but he did know this for sure: he would not be bored today.

Dead, maybe. Perhaps a vegetable.

But definitely not bored.

44

Bostic knew within seconds after the completion of the procedure that it had been a success.

Thank God he had been prepared. If not, he would have been certain he was going insane.

Thoughts swirled in his head that were not his own, screeching at him, impossible to ignore, impossible to even soften.

Cochran had told him he had not just chosen this particular safe house at random. It was secluded enough that Bostic wouldn’t be inundated with voices, but there would be enough minds within a projected five- or six-mile range to get him acclimated. Not letting him become parched with thirst, not forcing him to drink from a firehose, but allowing him to take a few experimental sips. Just right: the Goldilocks zone.

For the first few hours after the procedure, Bostic was sure that even the limited number of people in his range were too much. Random, unceasing voices filled his skull, stabbing into his brain. He found himself clutching at his own head, moaning, convinced he would lose his mind. Or somebody’s mind. He was rarely certain where his own mind ended and another’s began.

But as the hours passed he gradually learned to separate himself from the voices, to use a mental muscle that he didn’t know he had, partitioning them, lowering their volume, finding a way to disregard the relentless static that never stopped.

After the most taxing, maddening seventy-two hours of his life, he was finally beginning to believe he would be able to operate effectively once again.

But this was the mildest of environments. How would he handle being in a crowded city? He shuddered every time he even considered it.

A day later the other three members of the team joined him at the safe house. Each of the three arrived with emerging beards and implants to match his own, but only he had been gifted—or cursed—with mind reading.

Bostic tried to respect the privacy of his comrades, but he hadn’t yet learned enough control to begin to do so. At first they had fun with it, asking him to read their thoughts to demonstrate his powers, like he was a headlining magician on the Las Vegas stage, but they quickly sobered up. Their friend’s abilities were real, total, and unstoppable, not just clever tricks performed by an entertainer.

The more they realized just how exposed they were, the more uncomfortable they became, even panicky.

These men had been on so many missions together, had put their lives in each other’s hands so often, they were closer than any brothers could ever be. They had mutual respect and admiration, and kept few secrets from each other.

Few, but not none.

Bostic soon learned things about his comrades he wished he never knew, and they would never be fully comfortable around him again, at least until he proved that he wouldn’t violate their trust and had learned how to stay out of their heads.

Day by day Bostic got better and better at doing just this, ignoring the thoughts of those he chose to ignore, and also better at sorting thoughts, suppressing them, and handling white noise.

He and his team also trained and planned for the mission in Iran, but there wasn’t much to the planning. Mostly, each of the four practiced using the breathtaking technology in their heads, setting up a PDA function to their liking and becoming adept at using their implants to conduct telepathic-like conversations with each other, surf the Web, and send information to the cloud.

The technology was so user friendly, and such an instant amplification of their abilities, that after only a few days of practice it seemed as though they had been born with it, wielding it as effortlessly and efficiently as they did their own arms and legs.

They had been thoroughly briefed on all current intel on the situation in Iran, but Cochran gave them enormous latitude on how they accomplished their mission. No operation had ever been this open ended, their instructions amounting to a four-word phrase: play it by ear.

They were instructed to take the path of least resistance to their goal, depending on conditions on the ground. To let Bostic do his thing, read minds, and see where this led them, what opportunities it presented them with.

The team would be able to draw upon every ounce of might the United States possessed, provided they could justify their proposed actions. They had direct lines to the president and Admiral Siegel, and had been told not to hesitate to contact them at any time, night or day, if they needed support.

They were given less latitude as to when their mission would begin—as soon as possible, with Bostic’s ability to harness his newfound abilities the rate-limiting step.

After ten days Bostic decided he was ready for what Cochran considered a critical test. He was flown by civilian helicopter to the state’s biggest city, Virginia Beach, landing on a private airstrip just off its famous three mile ocean boardwalk. The density of humanity in this resort area was immense, with hundreds of hotels, motels, and restaurants well within his range.

He lasted for five hours before he begged to be airlifted back to the farm. Had he been alone he might have considered eating a gun, just to make the raging voices go away. But by the end, weary though he was, he was adjusting, learning how to deal with even this volume.

He knew then that he would persevere. There was a light at the end of this tunnel, which had gradually come into focus. He would somehow find a way to make it out the other end.

He returned and convinced Cochran that at the rate he was improving, he was certain he would be ready in nine days’ time, almost three weeks after he had let a robot operate on his brain.

The president had accurately predicted the challenges he would face, and the rate at which his mastery of these new abilities would occur. He had warned him of just how brutal the early days would be, how threatening to his sanity, and had assured him he would eventually adapt, eventually be able to operate within the densest of populations.

But how could the president possibly have known this? Cochran had sworn to him that only one other man had ever possessed ESP, the legendary Nick Hall, who Cochran confirmed was just as dead as everyone thought. In Hall’s brief flash into the spotlight before he died, there had never been any suggestion that he and the president had ever crossed paths.

There was something President Cochran wasn’t telling him. Probably many things. Many important things.

Since the implants had been inserted, the president had ordered a dozen men to maintain a broad perimeter around the safe house, out of sight. Still, they were plenty close enough for Bostic to read their minds as if he were standing next to them and they were screaming in his ear.

These bodyguards had been tasked with the protection of Bostic and his team. They had been ordered to contact Bob Siegel if anyone entered or left the grounds, including any of the men they had been asked to safeguard. Other than Bostic’s side trip to Virginia Beach, he and his team had been ordered confined to the farm until their Iran mission began, for their own safety.

It all seemed perfectly reasonable, Bostic decided—if he were a complete imbecile.

What total and absolute bullshit. He and his comrades were seasoned members of SEAL Team Six. They didn’t require bodyguards. Not only were they more than qualified to protect themselves under ordinary conditions, they now had a mind reader on site. No hostile could even approach without them knowing it.

Bostic wasn’t being protected from the outside. The outside was being protected from him.

The president knew what kind of damage he could do if he were unleashed, and day after day these possibilities became more and more clear. Bostic was now virtually unstoppable.

Cochran would know that, too. He would know that if Bostic wanted to escape the confines of the farm, a dozen armed men on its perimeter couldn’t stop him. A hundred couldn’t do it. Not when he could read their positions, their thoughts, and their every moment of inattentiveness.

So the bodyguards weren’t there to protect Bostic, or even stop him from leaving. They were there simply to warn Cochran and Siegel if he did leave. The president expected Bostic to obey his orders to stay at the farm, but if he did ignore them, Cochran would at least know he was on the loose.

Which made Bostic even more convinced the president was hiding something. He suspected if he did disobey orders and leave, Cochran would immediately take Air Force One to an undisclosed location, well out of his mind-reading range.

This reasoning only intensified Bostic’s desire to learn what the president was keeping from him. Easy enough to do. He just needed to slip away during the night, without any of the bodyguards knowing he was gone.

DC was but a hundred or so miles away. He could travel there, station himself in close proximity to the White House, pillage the mind of the president for hours, and then return to the farm before anyone missed him.

But patience was the order of the day. His ability to tolerate large populations was improving by the hour, and DC was no farm. He had nine days before deploying to Iran. He would give his skills seven more days to improve before paying a personal visit to Timothy Cochran’s neighborhood.

By that time he should be more than ready.

Not only ready, but eager. Because jumping knee-deep into the mind and memories of a sitting president of the United States was a strangely enticing prospect.

He could only imagine what secrets he might find there.

45

Bostic stroked his dark beard, a bad habit he had developed whenever he had grown one, and waited for his guest to arrive. His three comrades were positioned out of sight in a pickup truck, waiting for him to finish up so they could fry an even bigger fish.

The biggest fish of all, in fact.

Bostic continued to read the mind of Rasoul Khan as the man walked briskly along the streets of Tehran. Khan was anxious, but who could blame him? This was the first time he had received a message from Hakim Osmani, the man he all but worshiped, the man who would soon take the reins of power from the current Iranian president, Javad Zarif.

Khan detested Zarif, a weakling who refused to deploy Iran’s nuclear arsenal, bowing to the whims of America and her money. A sniveling coward not worthy of his post.

Osmani, on the other hand, was strong and resolute. A man who showed no fear. A man dedicated to bringing a global caliphate into existence no matter what the cost, a glorious task he would soon commence.

Khan was one of Zarif’s most trusted lieutenants, trusted, in fact, with safeguarding Iran’s nuclear missiles. Yet another glaring error in judgment made by this so-called leader.

Over a period of two years, while continuing to ingratiate himself with the president, he had managed to place three other moles, three other Osmani loyalists, in key positions within Iran’s nuclear arms command and control. The four had gradually managed to gain a stranglehold over the arsenal, modifying software, stealing launch codes, so that the missiles would now dance on their command, with the idiotic Zarif having no idea this control had been wrested from his hands.

Not that it mattered, Khan had often thought in disgust. The weakling would never use the codes anyway. But now that Khan was in control, he could send missiles to destroy Israel and the West whenever he wanted. It had taken all of his willpower not to fire them the first chance he had, and the daily urge to do so had never weakened. But he would stay strong. He would wait until Osmani was in power, and then, together, they would unleash Iran’s terrible might upon the world.

Osmani’s message had taken him by surprise. It was marked urgent, and had all the proper verification codes and identifiers, leaving no doubt that it was legitimate. In it, Osmani had ordered Khan to meet with an unnamed man at midnight at a small abandoned warehouse whose address was specified. This agent would be waiting for him there, and would pass on information that was vital to ensure the success of the coming coup. Khan was not to communicate back with Osmani under any circumstances, or tell anyone else about the meeting.

It was an unusual message, he was thinking as he approached the door, looking furtively at his surroundings to be sure no one had followed him or could see him now. Khan had no idea that Craig Bostic was looking at the entrance through his eyes, and standing behind it waiting for him to arrive.

Khan opened the door and stepped inside a small concrete space that was dimly lit. Before his eyes could adjust, Bostic emerged from behind the door and drove his foot into Khan’s right ankle, breaking it instantly.

Khan screamed in agony and fell to the concrete floor against the wall, while Bostic calmly closed the door, knowing that no one was within hearing distance of Khan’s screams.

The mind reader waited patiently for Khan to get over the shock and initial pain and look up to the man who was now hovering menacingly above him.

Khan battled his way through the agonizing pain and considered his situation in panic. What had happened? Had Osmani’s message been intercepted? Had the man Osmani sent to meet with him here betrayed the great leader?

“Just so you know,” said Bostic in perfect Farsi, “Osmani didn’t summon you here. I did.”

“Impossible!” blurted out Khan, his face still contorted in agony from an ankle that had been completely shattered, tears of pain welling up in his eyes.

“If you say so,” said Bostic with a shrug, hulking over the man, knowing from reading his mind that this added to his already great physical and psychological discomfort. “But it doesn’t really matter, does it? Because I’m going to kill you. Very soon. But before I do, I wanted you to know just how completely you had lost.”

Bostic paused to let Khan stew for a few seconds longer. “You know your three associates?” he continued. “The ones who helped you wrest control of Iran’s nuclear arsenal away from President Zarif? The three others like you who pretended to have an allegiance to Zarif, but who became lapdogs for that shithead Hakim Osmani?”

This man must work for Zarif? thought Khan. But how could this be? Zarif knew nothing of Khan’s activities, he was certain of it. Besides, this man spoke Farsi with an American accent, so how could he be in league with the president? Nothing added up.

“I have no idea what three men you’re talking about,” said Khan.

Bostic shook his head in contempt. “Of course you do!” he said. “But don’t waste more breath on denials. I don’t give a shit what you say. Because I’m in here,” whispered Bostic menacingly, reaching down and tapping the top of Khan’s skull. “In your head. So I don’t care what you say. Only what you think.”

What kind of madman is this? thought Khan.

“The kind of madman who’s about to kill you,” said Bostic, as if Khan had spoken aloud.

Khan’s eyes widened. This is just a coincidence, he thought. Just a wild coincidence.

“Not a wild coincidence,” said Bostic calmly, tapping the top of Khan’s skull a second time. “I told you, I’m in here. How is this possible? you’re thinking. I’ll tell you. Allah sent me. He says he’s checked his naughty-or-nice list twice, and it turns out you’re one of the bad ones.”

He paused. “Oh wait, wrong guy. He’s not the one with the list.” He shrugged. “No matter, because you’re at the top of my shit list. And that’s the very worst list you can be on.”

“Who are you?”

“A vengeful Westerner,” said Bostic. “Determined to snuff out you and your kind. And by that, I don’t mean Muslims. I’ve worked with Muslims who are among the finest men I’ve ever known, men I would give my life for. I respect your right to practice any religion you want, Rasoul. But it really pisses me off that you don’t respect anyone else’s rights. That you’ve sentenced everyone not practicing religion the exact way you do to death. I have a bug up my ass about extremist assholes who believe that the slaughter of billions of innocents is something their God implores them to do. ”

“No matter what you do to me,” spat Khan defiantly, “you will always be an infidel. You will go on to suffer eternal damnation. Experience an infinity of pain.”

Bostic kicked the man’s shattered ankle. “You first,” he growled through clenched teeth, his words drowned out by Khan’s screams of agony. He waited for almost a minute until Khan’s screams subsided, tears of pain still rolling down the man’s face.

“But where was I?” said Bostic casually. “Oh, that’s right. I was speaking about your three friends who’ve helped you take over Iran’s nukes. Well . . . you know how they all used to be alive?” He shook his head in mock sadness. “Well, that’s not so true anymore. I sent them messages as well—impossibly legitimate-looking ones like yours, to flush them out—and my colleagues did the wetwork.”

Bostic glared at the man below him in contempt. “But I saved you for last, Rasoul. And I insisted on sending you to the afterlife myself. Because you’re the most evil of them all. The most deserving of a painful death. I only wish I had more time to make you suffer.”

Bostic paused, realizing he wasn’t just saying these words, but really meant them. He had always done what was necessary, never flinching, defeating monsters in the name of his country while getting the adrenaline high he craved. But he had never taken pleasure in torture, in punishing his adversaries unduly, in taunting the helpless, no matter how despicable.

What was happening to him? Was he turning into a sadist? Why had he crushed this man’s ankle, and why was he prolonging what had to be done, instead of driving a bullet cleanly through Khan’s skull?

The answer had to involve his newfound abilities. Because he now knew exactly how despicable of a human being Rasoul Khan really was, that he had no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Khan was a predator and an unapologetic sadist, deriving almost sexual pleasure from the pain of others, using his high position to routinely beat and rape women with impunity. Bostic had been sickened when he came upon these acts in Khan’s mind, reliving a steady stream of cruelties.

Khan had obtained footage of the aftermath of Hiroshima and watched it over and over, fantasizing about the millions of lives he would take with his missiles, how those in the blast zone would be vaporized instantly by a heat like that of the sun.

And his fantasies had nothing to do with serving his god. He tried to pretend this was his justification, but his ecstasy at the thought of the deaths he would bring had nothing to do with the caliphate. It had everything to do with the fact that his soul was utterly black.

Bostic had read so much ugliness in the past few days, so much sadism and hatred and intolerance. But he hadn’t been exaggerating when he told Khan he was the worst of them all, the most deserving of a painful death.

Bostic had also been under a state of constant psychic stress since the mission began. It wasn’t just having to read the evil in men’s souls. It was the maddening cacophony always in the background, clawing its way into his every last nerve.

He and his team retreated to unpopulated regions each night, so at least he was able to recharge and get some sleep, but his sleep was limited, and troubled by nightmares. Nightmares fueled by vivid images of barbarities perpetrated by the Jihadists whose minds he had read.

All of this was taking a heavy psychic toll. The voices were like a splinter in his brain, a constant painful irritant driving him to distraction, making him irritable, increasing his violent tendencies. He was less and less able to control his temper. More and more capable of uncharacteristic acts that might appear like sadism to an outsider not aware of how deserving of suffering Rasoul Khan really was.

“So three down, one to go,” said Bostic. “Although your ankle really doesn’t look so good, so I’m probably doing you a favor. Putting you out of your misery.”

“Do what you will to me,” whispered Khan, his face now perpetually contorted in agony, “but in the end you’ll have to answer to Hakim Osmani. When he captures you—and he will—he’ll introduce you to a level of suffering you didn’t even know existed.”

Bostic laughed. “That’s not going to happen, Rasoul. Because I don’t just know everything you do. I know everything Osmani knows also. So guess what, not only are your three friends nothing more than an ugly memory, you and Osmani no longer have control of Iran’s nukes.” He pointed at his own chest. “I do. America does. And we’ll lock out any further changes, so that control remains with us. If your leaders ever try to launch them, imagine their surprise when they learn their codes won’t work.”

Bostic shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking,” he continued. “You’re thinking that control of the launch codes isn’t enough. But it is. Because right after I’m done here, I’m going to kill Hakim Osmani, also, now without any fear that such an attack will lead you to launch the nukes I’m trying to prevent.”

“You won’t get anywhere near Osmani!” insisted Khan. “He can’t be found. And if you were somehow able to find him, he’s surrounded by brave men willing to die to protect him.”

“Oh don’t worry. We’ll make sure they get that chance.”

“Everything okay in there, Craig?” transmitted Larry Potomac through their telepathy channel. Potomac was his second-in-command on the tiny four man team. They were waiting for him a half mile from the warehouse and knew he didn’t need any time for interrogation. Not given what he could do.

“Everything is under control,” Bostic sent back. “Just finishing up.”

“As fun as I’m sure this has been for you,” said Bostic out loud to Khan, “I need to wrap up. But I did want to make my second point about your nukes. It’s true that if your leaders discover they can’t launch their missiles, they have other nukes they can put in other missiles. So it’s only a delay tactic. But I’ve learned the locations of every nuclear device in your arsenal. I know where they are kept, how to bypass security, what codes to use, and which devices are decoys. I’ll soon give all of this intel to Israel, and they’ll be only too happy over the next six months to use this knowledge to sabotage them all, to poison them, rendering them harmless.”

Khan was a nuclear expert, and Bostic knew he had no need for further elaboration. Nuclear bombs would only work if they contained ultra-purified uranium, which was very difficult to achieve, and was the reason that Iran had spun this material in centrifuges for so many years, inching closer to the necessary purity.

But what was so difficult to make pure was simple to make foul—provided one could gain access. The Israelis would secretly introduce minor impurities into the bombs. Instead of being as destructive as a small sun, each nuke would become about as destructive as a broken washing machine.

Bostic read in Khan’s mind nothing but confusion and defeat. The man was beginning to believe that Bostic was supernatural. Perhaps Osmani had been so close to creating the caliphate that Iblees, the Muslim equivalent of Satan, had sent him to the human realm to try to thwart the will of Allah.

“I’m not an associate of your devil,” said Bostic. “Although if he’s dedicated to preventing the death of innocents, he’s no devil to me. Regardless, I’m afraid millions of infidels are no longer going to die at your hands. Your fantasies about men, women, and children melting in the nova of a nuclear blast will never come true.”

Bostic raised a gun and pointed it at Khan’s skull. “Sorry to disappoint,” he said, waiting several additional seconds to let Khan contemplate what was about to happen. Finally, he sent three rounds through Khan’s brain, pulverizing an organ that had been filled with nothing but ugliness.

Craig Bostic let out a sigh of relief. At last he was no longer exposed to the putrid thoughts spraying from this wrinkled three-pound mass of cells, now as inert as the giant prune it resembled.

46

Bostic and his team drove in silence through the night, preparing for the end of their mission, two hours distant. They would drive an hour outside of Tehran and then spend another hour twisting up an unmarked path in the Alborz Mountains on four high-powered dirt bikes they had stowed in the back of the pickup.

Considering how close to Tehran Osmani’s hideout was, he had done well. His fortress was on top of a heavily wooded mountain ledge, invisible from the air and accessible only from below. Sensors and hidden cameras protected all approaches to his lair for miles, and he had planted mines that he could trigger remotely should he detect unwanted guests approaching.

Parties that evaded these more remote sensors would be greeted by trip wires and other booby traps closer in. If these were somehow avoided, there was a steel fence around his reinforced dwelling that could be electrified.

The money and effort that had gone into creating something so well hidden, and so impregnable, was impressive. The entire signals intelligence apparatus of the United States had failed to learn Osmani’s whereabouts, nor had numerous men on the ground, Americans or hired Iranian agents.

Not that knowing Osmani’s location would have helped prior to the arrival of Bostic’s team. Intelligence had made it clear that Iran’s nuclear arsenal was in the hands of Osmani loyalists, who would send nukes flying to targets in the US and Israel should Osmani be caught or killed. This put the Jihadist in an untouchable bubble, a safe space, that the most sensitive college freshman would envy.

With this as background, the mission objectives of Bostic’s team had been absurd. Find and nullify those Osmani loyalists able to trigger Iran’s nukes. Find and nullify Hakim Osmani. Find a way to disable Iran’s entire nuclear arsenal.

As Bostic had become acclimated to his abilities at the farm, he had begun to believe even these objectives were achievable. But he never could have imagined that they would be more than achievable, they would be simple. So quick and easy to accomplish that they weren’t even much of a challenge, assuming, of course, that the coming raid went off as flawlessly as they expected.

Mind reading was the ultimate cheat in the game of espionage. In every game. It turned deadly missions behind enemy lines into errands as dangerous as buying a carton of milk in a Beverly Hills grocery store.

In one sense it was exhilarating to be able to accomplish so much, so effortlessly, but in another, mind reading made things too easy. Bostic wasn’t sure he liked it, since it added a constant source of irritation enough to drive one to insanity, and subtracted any adrenaline rush or sense of excitement.

Superman could stop an armed robbery with ease, no adrenaline or wits necessary. When he did so his limits weren’t tested in the least, and he didn’t need courage or bravery.

In short, invulnerability could be boring.

And when it came to the current mission, Bostic would rather have his powers than those of the man of steel. Strength, flight, and speed were nice. X-ray vision was good, too. You could use it to see inside a safe. But if you could read the mind of the man controlling the safe, you didn’t need to see inside. You could know everything you would find, along with the purpose and history of each item.

Bostic had no idea that an ability that seemed like a nice parlor trick would turn him into a superhero and make him absolutely unstoppable, like a god. More powerful than any man who ever lived.

They had arrived three days earlier in Tehran and settled into a shelter an Iranian agent had provided for them. And then Bostic got to work. Within hours he had found a concealed position near the Iranian parliament building downtown, where Iran’s two-hundred and ninety legislative representatives met. If one wanted a place to start looking for duplicity, moles, hidden leaders contemplating coups, or dirty laundry of any kind, a large group of high-ranking politicians was the place to start.

Bostic also paid a visit to the Sa’dabad Complex, eleven miles from downtown, which was adjacent to the residence used by Iran’s president. The complex was a veritable royal park, with natural forests, streams, museums, galleries and numerous residences, including a White House, not that dissimilar to the one Timothy Cochran now inhabited in Washington DC, although the complex also sported a Black House and a Green House.

Bostic’s trip to read the mind of President Zarif wasn’t even necessary, as he had gotten everything he needed from Iran’s parliamentarians, but he had done it for good measure.

There was a theory called six degrees of separation, which stated that every person was six or fewer links away from every other person in the world. This meant that a random person could be introduced to another random person anywhere on Earth by a friend of a friend of a friend, and so on, with a maximum of six friends in the chain.

In the case of finding those engaged in crime, bribery, treason, or for that matter, finding any bad actor that one could imagine, in hiding or otherwise, one couldn’t do any better than starting the chain with a body of professional politicians. In this case, all the evils of the world were usually only a few links away. In many cases they were resident in the politicians themselves.

Zero degrees of separation.

Bostic had no trouble finding men in Tehran that one or more legislators suspected of being loyal to Osmani, reading them, obtaining further leads, and reading additional minds, until he quickly found everything he was after.

In two days he had turned the impossible into the laughably simple.

He had been on previous missions in Iran one thousandth as challenging, but these had brought a constant rush of adrenaline. They had forced him to pick his way through the ultimate figurative minefield, requiring his full attention at all times. Who was your friend and who was your enemy? Was there anyone you could trust? Was there an ambush waiting around the next corner? Did the terrorist you just captured have a hidden knife with your name on it?

To stay alive you had to be at your most alert, most aware. You had to exercise intuition, listen to your gut, play detective.

Not anymore. At least not for him.

Bostic’s musings were interrupted as the pickup he was in completed the first leg of the journey. The soldier at the wheel, Nick Daniels, pulled it carefully off the road and drove deep into a wooded ravine, hiding the pickup the best he could behind a cluster of trees and thick vegetation. He then turned off the lights, plunging them into darkness.

Each of the four men slipped on night-vision goggles. Only a few years earlier this technology had been bulky and somewhat unwieldy, but recent advances had turned these contraptions into something as sleek and light as the goggles used by Olympic swimmers.

They pulled the dirt bikes from the back of the pickup and mounted them, ready to proceed up a backdoor route to their destination. Although this section of the mountain was relatively flat, with just a gentle slope, riding motorbikes through mountainous woods could be treacherous, even in broad daylight. This journey would require skill and care.

Bostic could feel his adrenaline level rising already. This was more like it. If he hit a felled tree or misjudged a turn on a dirt bike, no mind-reading skill in the world would save him from the consequences.

47

The four commandos slowly and steadily zigzagged up the slope, having to stop at obstacles on several occasions and carry their bikes over them. The bikes had been modified and advanced noise-canceling technology applied to reduce their acoustic signatures, but the men still stopped two miles from Osmani’s stronghold and continued on foot.

Bostic could have called in a drone strike, but in a case like this he needed to be certain Osmani had been taken out. Besides, the aftermath of a more up-close-and-personal action would leave a lot of generals and intelligence officers in Iran scratching their heads, marveling at the capabilities and reach of the American military, since those in the know would recognize the signature of a Navy SEAL mission when they saw it.

“Ready?” said Bostic to the three men beside him, and each indicated their readiness in turn.

“I’ll take point,” he continued. “Potomac will take the rear. I’m not reading anyone between here and Osmani’s fortress, but let’s operate with maximum quiet, as though the enemy might be near, just for good practice. Telepathy channel only from here.”

Everyone acknowledged the order and they began their climb to Osmani’s stronghold, slipping quietly through the terrain as a dense colony of bats winged overhead, made eerily visible by their night-vision technology.

Bostic had reconned Osmani’s stronghold the night before. Everything he read from Osmani’s mind and the minds of his guards had been sent to his comrades through their implants. While they would follow Bostic as a matter of routine, stepping precisely where he stepped, each could navigate to their destination without tripping any sensors or being seen by any cameras. Their internal PDAs were just as capable as Bostic’s was in taking the information he had provided and using it to plot a flawless approach.

They made it to the top without incident, which would have been impossible for any team without Bostic on it. Another case in which a mind reader could outdo the legendary Superman himself. Without mind reading, Clark Kent would never have learned Osmani’s location in the first place, nor managed to make it there without tripping any alarms.

Given the compound’s reliance on electronics and cameras to warn them of any approach, there were only two bodyguards patrolling the grounds, each with automatic weapons and night-vision goggles of their own.

Bostic read pertinent information from both guards and had his PDA send a text message from one to the other, making it appear to have come from the correct address.

Found something unusual, read the message in Farsi. You have to see this. I’m at the south end of the complex, just inside the first outcropping of trees.

Bostic informed his teammates over their telepathic channels that the message had been sent.

“Daniels and I are in place,” sent Larry Potomac through the implants. “Let us know when he takes the bait.”

“Roger that,” replied Bostic.

There was always the chance the guard wouldn’t bite, or would text something back, but they had planned for both of these possibilities. Bostic read the bogey’s mind. It was a breach of protocol for him to leave his post for even a few seconds, but his curiosity was getting the better of him.

The man checked the computers and monitors once again, verifying that there was zero activity, even from a stray animal that might have tripped a sensor, and decided he could leave for just a few minutes.

“He’s on his way,” reported Bostic to the entire group.

“We’re ready for him,” transmitted Potomac. “Daniels and I have taken up positions behind flanking trees.”

“I’m in his mind,” sent Bostic. “I’ll let you know if he detects you somehow.”

“He won’t,” replied Potomac with absolute conviction.

The guard journeyed quickly to where his comrade’s message had specified. “Bijan,” he called out to his friend softly as he stepped inside the tree-line. “What have you found?”

Daniels slipped soundlessly away from his concealed position and emerged swiftly behind the guard, drawing a razor-edged knife across the man’s throat with a single savage motion, lowering him carefully to the ground and avoiding the gusher of blood he had created.

He reported his success to the team and they repeated the same exercise with the second guard, who was felled minutes later.

Bostic decided that in carrying out this exercise, he and his men had been about as challenged as grizzly bears cheerfully waiting in a stream for hapless salmon to leap into their mouths. Or hapless guards in any event.

Bostic felt a tinge of guilt. These men never had a chance. He had no problem with hunters who used a bow to bring down a deer, and who planned to eat what they killed. But mind reading was like using a laser-sighted sniper rifle on a deer who was stuck in molasses. Hardly sporting.

The stronghold was now unprotected, at least by men, and Bostic knew the combination required to get inside the residence and the password required to disarm the alarms.

They entered the main structure without a sound. Osmani and eight additional men were inside, all asleep until their shifts rolled around.

“Anyone up?” transmitted Isaac Torres.

Bostic shook his head. “Like babies dosed with sedatives,” he replied.

Bostic transmitted the location of the eight men within the premises and his team made short work of them. Each of the eight were now sleeping even more soundly, but doing so with severed jugulars and in pools of their own blood.

Finally, the entire team reached Osmani’s sleeping quarters and entered silently.

Bostic had read the night before that the man slept with a gun under his pillow and one on his nightstand. He monitored Osmani’s mind to be sure he wasn’t awakening and gently removed both weapons.

Bostic nodded to his teammates, who each removed their goggles as he flipped on the light. “Rise and shine, shithead!” he barked in Farsi.

Osmani bolted awake, immediately having the presence of mind to reach under his pillow. When he found nothing but mattress there his hand darted to his nightstand, which was now equally unhelpful. He shouted for his guards as his eyes adjusted to the light.

Bostic noted absently that this was one of the more impressive reactions to being startled awake he had seen. “Your men aren’t coming,” he said casually. “It’s just you and us.”

“Who are you?” whispered Osmani, his eyes wide.

“I’m getting that question a lot lately,” said Bostic. “I’m a pissed off Westerner who wants you dead.”

Bostic shook his head. “Here’s the thing, Hakim,” he added in contempt, “Tel Aviv and New York are two of my favorite cities. I’d hate for them to be turned into ashes. Not to mention the millions of innocent people who live there.”

“You’re a fool,” spat Osmani. “I have moles within Iran’s nuclear command and control. Lay a finger on me and the nukes you’re worried about fly right now. If you don’t believe me, I can prove it to you.”

“Oh no,” said Bostic, “we believe you. In fact, I just finished a chat with one of your moles around midnight, just before we came here to kill you. A man named Rasoul Khan. He thinks you’re a giant asshole. He couldn’t wait to screw you over.” He shook his head sadly. “You really aren’t the judge of character you think you are.”

Osmani was reeling from the mention of Khan, but his face took on a new resolve. “Khan is only one of my moles. I have others.”

Bostic sighed. “Yes, we know. Three others, in fact. But these three are already screwing virgins in heaven, I’m afraid.”

Osmani looked ill, his world turned upside down in moments. “I have powerful followers in the Iranian government and elsewhere,” he barked as ominously as he could. “Kill me and they will make sure your death is not an easy one.”

“Yeah,” said Bostic. “I’ve heard that one before too. Not so long ago.”

He put three bullets through Osmani’s brain, matching what he had done to Khan. “I guess I’m willing to take my chances,” he whispered, standing over the Jihadi leader as the man’s white sheets began to turn red.

48

President Cochran couldn’t sleep, so rather than disturb his wife he padded into the Oval Office to get some work done, ignoring the ever-present Secret Service agents who shadowed him as he did.

He was riding a natural high that was amazing. Seal Team Six-and-a-half had succeeded beyond all possible expectations. His gamble had paid off in a huge way.

Now he had been intimately involved with stopping the slaughter of little girls in a stadium and in preventing an unpreventable coup and nuclear strike by Iran. And, lest he forget, helping to ensure that Iran’s entire arsenal would soon be rendered inert.

As great as this felt, it was killing him that he couldn’t publicize these triumphs. He was a glory hound like any politician, and he had never been the type to make anonymous donations to charities. When he donated, he wanted the credit for it. Credit, bold successes, and the building of an unassailable legacy were the currencies of his realm.

Oh well. His decisions had saved millions of lives, and being unable to shout this from the rafters only detracted from the warm glow he now felt by a smidgen. Some day his legacy would be known. Some day the true story would be written.

And this story was far from over. If Bostic could do what he had done so effortlessly, what other feats were now possible? Operations that entire armies couldn’t accomplish could be completed by a lone man in a few days.

Bostic had suggested during one recent communication that he was now more valuable than Superman. Cochran had taken this as a joke at the time, but as he sat alone in the Oval Office at two in the morning he realized Bostic had been right. Superman was unmatched at kicking ass, but without mind reading he often wouldn’t know whose ass to kick, unable to zero in on bad actors before they acted.

As elated as Cochran felt, this last thought sent a momentary chill up his spine. Hall and Bostic had both shown that a single mind reader could be devastating to the bad actors of the world.

So just how devastating could a single bad actor who possessed this ability be to America?

Cochran had pondered this before, but the ease of Bostic’s success made him realize by just how much he had underestimated the answer.

Hall’s utter paranoia over allowing the ESP data off its leash, even for a moment, wasn’t paranoid at all. His fears of what could happen if this ability got in the wrong hands were even better founded than Cochran had realized.

“President Cochran,” said his PDA, “incoming text message from Lieutenant Craig Bostic.”

He had asked Cali to alert him whenever he received a message from any member of SEAL Team Six-and-a-half, especially its leader.

Cochran closed his eyes. “Emulate Bostic’s voice and read it to me,” he ordered.

“Starting now,” said Cali in her own voice.

“Greetings, Mr. President,” the PDA continued, her voice now indistinguishable from Bostic’s. “As you know, our four-man-team is safe in the hands of friendlies and preparing to leave for the States soon. We accomplished all of our mission objectives without suffering so much as a scratch. I would like to report that the performance of each member of the team was extraordinary, and trust that their records will reflect accordingly. They did great honor to me, the service, and their country.

“I am writing to let you know that I won’t be on the plane with them. But in case you think you can change this decision, you should know that I’m composing this message on a time delay. By the time you read this, they will be in the air, and I will be off the grid and gone. But no need to worry about my safety. I’m pretty confident I can handle myself in a rough world, without need of any of your chaperones.

“My life has changed dramatically, to say the least. Not only is this something you’re well aware of, it’s something you’ve been responsible for. One doesn’t become able to surf the Web with thoughts, and especially read minds, without needing an adjustment period. The voices in my head never stop. Ever. It’s awesome, and it’s maddening.

“I need to reassess my life. My goals. Decide if I think I can fully adjust to mind reading, or if, in time, it will drive me insane. I need time to think things through. So I will be seeking privacy and solitude to do just this.

“I have other things to consider too. For example, I had a sense while I was at the farm that you were taking pains to prevent me from reading your mind. I don’t blame you. Still, I couldn’t resist the chance to find out what you were hiding. So I did read your mind before I left for Iran. Extensively.”

“Pause message!” demanded Cochran in shock.

How had this happened?

He had begun listening in a state of peace and relaxation, a Zen state of tranquility from being awake and alone in the calm of the wee hours of the morning. But he wasn’t at peace any longer. Even the beginning of the message had been alarming, but it had just taken a giant turn for the worse.

He took a deep breath and braced himself. “Resume message,” he ordered Cali.

“Resuming now,” said Cali, and then after a pause, continued once again in Bostic’s voice.

“Reading your mind was even more eye-opening than I had expected. You have a lot going on in your head. I have to say my trip down your memory lane was a remarkable experience. I spent several hours at it, and I came upon so much fascinating and valuable material that I ended up streaming it all to a private cloud account, so I could access it later at greater length. It will take me some time to digest it all. You have as many personal secrets, and knowledge of as many national secrets, as one might expect a president to have.

“I was fascinated to learn that Nick Hall is alive and well and working for a group called THT in Utah. Based on your knowledge of what I would face as a new mind reader, I can’t say I was entirely surprised.

“I do have to admit to some disappointments, however. For example, I was what you might call, very, very, irritated to learn that you had armed my implants, adding software to give me a fatal stroke at your sole discretion. Maybe even more than just irritated. I’m sure you can appreciate my displeasure at learning that you were prepared to act as my judge, jury, and executioner.

“In case this message makes you nervous, and you’re planning to reach for your kill switch to ‘keep me under control,’ please don’t bother. I also read from your mind the incoming command that will trigger this stroke. So I took the liberty of instructing my BrainWeb PDA to block this exact command, refusing to receive it or carry it out. Simple enough to do. About the same as having your e-mail system block any message coming from an unwanted e-mail sender. Your failsafe mechanism works great, as long as the person on the other end doesn’t know about it, and doesn’t learn the command used to trigger it.

“So, like I said, I have a lot to process. When I’m finished making some life decisions, I may let you know.

“But don’t call me, I’ll call you.

“I was tempted to do my soul searching at the expense of the Iran mission, but I decided that this mission was too pressing, too important to the world, with too many lives on the line. So I hope you appreciate that I waited to go on my walkabout until after I had done the job in Iran.

“In any event, I’m signing off and getting ready to disappear from the grid. When I may reappear, if ever, is unclear—even to me.

“Please tell my team I couldn’t be prouder of the job they did. And tell them not to come looking for me.

“They know better than anyone that they have no chance of success.”

With that, Cali reported that the message had ended and fell silent.

The president threw his head back against his chair and closed his eyes. “Shit!” he shouted,  to an empty office.

The Iran mission could not have gone any better. But now he was truly screwed. He had let the genie out, and the tether he had created to reel him back in again had been severed.

The genie had grown into his powers, and was no longer answering to him—or anyone.

It was the absolute worst case scenario. One that had suddenly come to life.

PART 7

Victor

49

Nick Hall was in the backseat of the Cockroach heading to yet another of what they were now calling a ninety-nine terrorists on the wall interrogation, the second since the sarin gas attack. Or what Hall could only think of as a trip to the dentist—times ten.

It was still early morning and he was mentally fresh, alert, and happy. He tried not to dwell on the grueling hours to come, when he would become spent, brain-dead, and miserable. He squeezed Megan’s hand beside him, knowing, as always, that he couldn’t do it without her.

To keep Hall as fresh as possible, they were taking the scenic route to Hill Air Force Base, taking their time and avoiding even small aggregations of humanity. It was now late September, and the never-ending mountain ranges surrounding the area were capped with bright white snow, more majestic than ever.

Lieutenant Floyd Briarwood was driving, as usual, having insisted on accompanying Hall and Megan on every one of these interrogations, but the other three bodyguards to make the trip varied. Chris Guest, tragically lost during the sarin gas attack, had yet to be replaced, and the other two men who had been with them that day, Joey Plaskett and Kevin Wellman, were both attending to duties on base. In their place were three others from the team, men the two civilians also considered family: Lieutenant Herschel Trent and Sergeants Tim Herman and Eddie Ontiveros.

“I heard through the grapevine that Homeland is running out of top terror suspects for us,” said Briarwood, pulling onto a two-lane highway that was the only sign of civilization for miles.

“If only that were true,” said Hall wistfully.

“I’m not kidding,” replied the lieutenant. “I think it really is true. I mean, you’re so thorough that you either put these suspects away, or you clear them, so they have to give you a new set of ninety-nine each month.”

“I knew I always got a fresh batch,” said Hall, “but I never thought I was making that big of a dent.”

“You are,” said Briarwood. “And the intel you get from these guys ends up taking out far more than just ninety-nine each time.”

“We knew that, too,” said Megan. “But I think we just assumed the Jihadists were making more,” she added. “As fast as Nick took them down.”

“They’re doing their best,” said Briarwood. “But they aren’t even close to keeping up with Nick.”

Hall smiled. “Good to hear,” he said. “I was beginning to think they were inexhaustible.”

“I guess not,” said Megan happily. “And no one is as inexhaustible as you are, Nick.”

“Megan!” he sent to her telepathically, his mental tone playful, “I can’t believe you’re sharing details of our sex lives with these guys.”

“I said inexhaustible,” she sent back, “not insatiable. Two different things.”

“If I’m going to be insatiable,” he pointed out with a grin, “I need to be inexhaustible.”

He was about to send another telepathic observation to her when a malevolent thought pierced through the modest surrounding level of mental static like an ice pick.

Someone was watching them. Gaining on them in a sports car.

Hall instinctively tried to connect to Girdler and Nessie but the Wi-Fi signal had suddenly vanished. The implants had become every bit as much a part of him as his eyes or ears, and the loss of a signal was almost as rare, and troubling, as temporary blindness would have been.

“Slow down!” he said to the driver, his voice just shy of panicked.

Briarwood slowed slightly, watching him dubiously in the rearview mirror. “Another cat up a tree?” he asked.

“Anyone able to connect to headquarters?” snapped Hall, ignoring him.

Seconds later he had his answer. The rest of the men in the vehicle confirmed they were now in a communications black hole, and all were instantly stone-faced and alert.

Hall located the mind who was watching them and raced through it. “We’re in trouble!” he said ominously. “Slow as much as you can without being obvious while I learn more.”

This time Briarwood complied without hesitation, while Trent, Herman, and Ontiveros removed concealed weapons and readied them for action.

“There’s a guy following us,” said Hall after almost a full minute of mind reading. “From an ISIS sleeper cell. Activated recently. His job is to kill our signal and make sure we continue on our usual route. He’s using the same tech we ran into two months ago on the drones.”

“Is it similar,” asked Briarwood, “or the exact same tech? Did he get it from Lucas?”

“He doesn’t know its origin,” said Hall. “And Lucas still hasn’t installed a set of implants, so we don’t know all he’s been up to. My guess is that he sold this tech more broadly after killing his father. Regardless of how he got it, it’s working just fine.”

“So he’s jamming our signal,” said Eddie Ontiveros, “but to what end?”

“There’s an ambush waiting for us in about fifteen miles,” replied Hall. “If we do anything suspicious, anything that looks to the guy tailing us like we’re aware of what’s waiting, they’ll bring the ambush to us. In a hurry.”

“The Cockroach is all but ambush-proof,” said Briarwood.

Hall shook his head vigorously. “Not from this it isn’t. All hell is about to break loose. We could be inside of a tank and it wouldn’t matter. This guy trailing us doesn’t know precise details, but he has general knowledge. They aren’t just armed with assault rifles. They’ve pulled out all the stops. They know all about the Cockroach’s enhancements. They know that Nessie and her satellites are looking out for us. The ambush is completely camouflaged by some advanced stealth tech, probably something else out of Victor’s shop that his son is selling.”

“At least you’ve given us fair warning,” said Briarwood.

“But without communications, we’re still vulnerable,” said Megan. “We try to avoid the ambush and they come after us. Even if forcing them to break cover allows Nessie to see through their stealth technology, she won’t have time to get enough reinforcements here to matter.”

“How is any of this possible?” asked Tim Herman. “How could ISIS know about you, Nick?”

“They don’t,” he replied with a deep frown. “Not precisely. If they did, this guy wouldn’t be within mind-reading range. He’s taking orders from Ali Jalili, a name I’m familiar with from some of my interrogations. A higher-up in the caliphate. The guy following us and the ambush team have only been told that whoever is in this vehicle needs to die. They know about the interrogations at Hill each month. They have no idea how we’re doing it, but they’ve come to believe that we’re connected to the devastating losses they’ve been suffering lately, and the disruption of their plans in America.”

“I don’t see how they could know that,” said Herschel Trent.

“I don’t either,” said Hall. “But they do. And their ambush strategy is excellent. Fortunately, I think we’ve gotten lucky and may have a way out.”

“May have?” said Herman.

“We’ll see,” replied Hall grimly. “Floyd, I need you to take the next exit and then follow my instructions from there. Drive calmly until you reach the exit. Then I’m going to need you to set speed records. As fast as the Cockroach can go without wiping out.”

“Where are we going?” asked Briarwood.

“ISIS has taken so many losses recently,” said Hall, “that they aren’t prepared to sacrifice their ambush team. They’ve given them an exit strategy. They constructed a large steel bunker near our route over the past month. Spared no effort. Including weaponry that can be controlled by computer. Once they’ve killed us, they’ve been instructed to hightail it to this bunker before Nessie can send in the cavalry.”

“I tend to think of the phrase, ‘send in the cavalry’ to mean a force that comes to the rescue,” said Megan. “So if we’re already dead, what Nessie sends in won’t be the cavalry. More like the revenge squad.”

“Really?” said Hall, unable to stop a smile from flickering across his face. “You felt the need to point that out right now?”

“Sorry,” said Megan sheepishly.

“To repeat,” said Hall, “before Nessie can hit them with a . . . revenge squad, they’ve been told to move into the bunker to escape. Requires a password for entry. Once they’re all in the room is hermetically sealed. Pretty impenetrable.”

“Won’t help them for long,” said Briarwood. “Nessie will know where they are. They’d just make themselves sitting ducks. Granted, they’d be ducks sitting under a steel shell, but they still wouldn’t survive.”

Hall shook his head. “They’ve thought this through,” he said. “There’s a tunnel in the center of the bunker. While our forces are trying to find the best way to breach, and taking computer-controlled fire, they’re escaping, emerging somewhere our people aren’t expecting, and going on their merry way inside stealth ground transportation.”

“Let me guess,” said Briarwood. “Your plan is for us to use this escape hatch instead. Is that it?”

“Exactly. I’ve read the location and the password needed to enter. We just have to make it there before they can attack. Nessie will see the Cockroach taking a detour and investigate. We just have to hold out underground until she can send help.”

“I have to admit,” said Eddie Ontiveros, “the idea of stealing their escape plan really works for me.”

Briarwood was quickly nearing the exit, his driving measured. The calm before the storm. Once the terrorists knew they were veering off course, they’d have only a few minutes to reach their destination.

“Tighten your seatbelts, ladies and gentlemen,” he said as he rolled onto the off ramp, still in the middle of nowhere. “The ride is about to get a little more . . . wild.”

50

Troy Browning had made more progress in only a month than he ever could have hoped for.

The mind reading brought on by the implants, and the implants themselves, were extraordinary beyond measure, the power and possibilities they brought immense.

The first few days had been brutal, but he had tamed his mind reading and learned to reduce the blaring, discordant orchestra of thoughts in his head, far faster than the president’s man had done, as evidenced by the calls between Bostic and Cochran he had intercepted.

Browning had become fascinated with the man named Victor since their first meeting and had been studying him ever since, hacking into computers the old-fashioned way, even before mind reading, to learn everything the authorities knew of him. And his study had accelerated many fold once he had implants and mind reading in place.

The more he learned, the more impressed with Victor he became. The man had a massive organization and was a master of many things, including staying off the grid. He had set up any number of remote bases around the world, specializing in islands. But even in the US he had found a way to hide and isolate himself, the same way Browning wanted to do in order to wait out the coming storm that he would bring about.

Victor’s bases in the US had a similar theme. He bought huge tracts of land, either deep within America’s vast wilderness—which most Americans, living in cities and suburbs, had no real conception of, hundreds of thousands of square miles in total—or on farmland. He would quickly have several structures built, establishing a small living and working quarters for himself and close associates, and then several others for the numerous soldiers on his payroll.

He would build complex tunnel systems, hide helicopters and other aircraft, and ring the property with sophisticated video cameras and sensors, all tied to a central computer.

Wireless sensors and cameras had improved dramatically every year now for decades, while plummeting in cost. Sensors were everywhere, for everything, able to detect movement, temperature, pressure, magnetism, inertial forces, and everything else imaginable. They had begun their explosive growth in items such as cell phones, where they detected movement and orientation, and cars, self-driving or otherwise, where they issued proximity alerts and monitored blind spots.

Then came the concept of the Internet of Things, which was quickly becoming a reality. Tiny microscopic sensors had been developed that could talk to the Web, and had become so low cost that everything could be made “smart.” Your alarm clock could talk to your coffee maker, alerting it to begin doing its job. Your car could send an e-mail to the office, detailing the traffic jam you were in and your exact estimated time of late arrival to a meeting. Sensors in your clothing could monitor your health. The possibilities were endless.

And this included personal security.

Now, anyone with a thousand dollars could set up a wireless sensor and video perimeter that few could defeat. And while the US military was able to defeat most of this tech, sophisticated players like Victor used more advanced—and much more expensive—sensor arrays that were as close to foolproof as anything got.

If there was ever a man for Browning to emulate as he set up his own organization and removed himself from the grid, it was Victor. In fact, the tech dealer, through intermediaries, had slowly begun stripping bases that he now knew the Americans were aware of and putting them on the market, and Browning had snapped one up, in the state of Colorado.

He had moved in just the week before. He would need to develop such bases around the world as Victor had done, but this was a good first step, and since Victor had divested the property it was now off THT’s radar.

Browning’s only disappointment was that with all of his brilliance and his newfound abilities, he had still been unable to find the tech merchant again. Which only served to make Browning even more impressed with the man.

But what a month it had been. Browning had increased his net worth a hundred fold in the first few days after taming ESP, and he was now removed from the grid.

He had hired dozens of mercenary soldiers, many of whom were now living with him in Colorado, taking another page from Victor’s playbook. The mercs he had hired in Costa Rica had been given to him on a silver platter, but without mind reading he wouldn’t have known where to begin to acquire the small army of them he needed, and wouldn’t have had the means to pay them well enough to ensure absolute loyalty if he did.

But connecting dots from one mind to another to another made any knowledge, any connection to experts in any field, a maximum of three or four simple steps away. And now he knew for certain if a prospective hire would be loyal or not. He could turn his back on dozens of dangerous mercs, secure in the knowledge that they had no plans to cross him.

He had also learned of and acquired revolutionary body armor he discovered was being developed in the labs of a defense contractor in California. He had made a special trip to steal a few of the prototypes for himself, and now wore one of these advanced vests at all times.

Safety first was his motto. He would let nothing stand in the way of his survival, and just because he was the savior didn’t mean he was bulletproof. Destiny helped those who helped themselves.

The beauty of the technology was that the vest was only three times heavier and thicker than a normal undershirt, so it could be worn at all times without anyone guessing it was there, and had better stopping power than vests many times bulkier. It also had what Browning considered an innovation that was as brilliant as it should have been obvious: it bled. Copiously. Why advertise to a shooter that his bullet hadn’t penetrated the target? Much better for him to think he had scored a direct hit.

Browning had always been a god among men. But now he would be recognized as such. The power was intoxicating. Jesus could turn water into wine for a stranger, but he couldn’t read that stranger’s mind to know that he preferred beer. At least not according to the Bible, he couldn’t.

Browning had been so busy, life had been so exhilarating, that he barely took time to eat, and slept only four or five hours a night. He studied the Kelvin Gray data and programmed the most advanced AIs short of Nessie to correlate it with everything known about the brain, and he was making definite progress. Already. He was more convinced than ever that ESP could be made available to all without the need of implants, and that he and his computer minions would find the answer soon.

Which was perfect. He could keep the implants to himself. So when the world did transform itself, when he gave the gift of mind reading to all of humanity, he would still maintain a major advantage over all others.

Well, two advantages. His genius, most importantly. And then the sole ability to maintain a mind-Web connection—once the Internet infrastructure was rebuilt from the ashes of the old world order.

The monsters out there, in the billions, would use mind reading to tear each other apart, while the pure of heart waited in the wings to emerge into a new day. In this sense the meek truly would inherit the earth, for once making Jesus right about something.

But before this could happen, Browning had several more pages of his to-do list to complete.

He hadn’t found a solution for one important item on this list, in particular, but he wasn’t worried. The answer would come, as it always did.

He just had to be paying attention when fate knocked on his door.

51

The Cockroach hurtled forward on a two lane road threading along salt flats, which would gradually lead to the Great Salt Lake situated less than thirty miles away.

“Our sleeper is still following,” announced Hall, realizing as he said it that this report wasn’t necessary. Their communications were still down, so of course the terrorist was still following. “He’s texted the ambush team about our detour, and they’ve texted back that they’re on their way to take us out now.”

“How did they text each other?” said Herschel Trent. “Isn’t he the one generating the communications blackout?”

Hall shrugged. “He was given a phone and told it was immune from the blackout tech, at least with respect to texting. It is. He has no idea how it works.” He paused. “Left here,” he said to Briarwood, pointing ahead.

Everyone braced themselves as the captain slowed just enough to avoid flipping the vehicle over, the force of the turn throwing them all roughly against the doors or each other as the tires squealed in protest.

After the vehicle had steadied once again, Ontiveros and Trent craned their necks to look up out of the windows, trying to spot the incoming attack.

“The hostiles still haven’t entered my telepathic range,” announced Hall, reminding the two soldiers that he would know when they were nearing before anyone.

Then, like a mirage in the desert, a square building appeared, the size of a small house, but with the outer stucco covering a shell of steel rather than wood. The structure was starkly out of place, a tick on the smooth back of a whale, but an outcropping of civilization was only a third of a mile distant. Hall had read that this is where the tunnel emerged.

Briarwood streaked to the large steel door and slammed on the brakes.

“We’re still clear,” said Hall as the passengers hastily exited the vehicle.

The terrorist following was picking up speed and Hall read his confusion and indecision. The sleeper agent couldn’t begin to understand how they knew about this structure. He contemplated attacking them himself before they could get inside, but realized this was misguided. The attack force would be here to wipe them out any minute, and while they might know the location of the bunker there was no way they could possibly have the password needed to enter.

“Guess again, asshole!” mumbled Hall as he accessed a touch-screen near the door, its high-tech presence completely out of place next to the low-tech look of the building.

“What did you say?” asked Megan beside him.

“Never mind,” he replied as his fingers rushed over the screen, entering the proper code.

There was a loud noise as the locks disengaged and the touch screen turned green. As Hall pulled open the door the lights turned on automatically and the entire group rushed inside.

A number of the group exhaled loudly as the door began to close. They were safe. They had made it! And long before the hostile force had arrived.

The door was now fully closed and they heard the telltale sound of the locks engaging once again, sealing them in tight.

And another sound as well.

The loud, hissing sound of gas being forced through several vents above them.

The four trained commandos reacted immediately, attempting to block the gas and looking for additional exits, but despite their quick thinking and lack of panic, their efforts were useless.

One by one, all six inhabitants of the structure were finally forced to take a breath. And one by one, all six inhabitants fell into oblivion.

52

Hall gradually came to his senses, groggy and disoriented.

He was once again bound, bringing back memories of a cabin outside of San Diego where he had been held during the sarin drone operation. And just as was the case then, Wi-Fi had been disabled in the vicinity, rendering his implants impotent.

What had happened? Where was he?

He reached out with his mind for answers.

Victor?

It couldn’t be!

And yet it was. Victor’s thoughts were remarkably lucid for someone long dead.

Hall pretended he was still unconscious, a ploy he had used once before in the presence of this same man, and searched for answers. Within five minutes he had all that he needed.

Lucas had outsmarted them. He had figured out the implants were bugs, and had only pretended to kill his father and Eduardo Alvarez. Lucas and Alvarez were presently elsewhere.

Victor had wanted them here with him, but had been concerned about Hall’s ability to read minds, concerned that he could use what he read to pit the three of them against each other, corrupt their shared trust, play mind games. Which is exactly what he would have done.

Victor also knew not to leave Hall alone with any of his guards unless he was gagged, having a full appreciation of how he could use what he read in their minds to blackmail, entice, confuse, or distract them.

Victor was as savvy as they came.

Hall had also learned of Victor’s interactions with Troy Browning, and that Browning had told him everything he knew about THT, which was extensive, including team composition, personalities, and goals. At some point Browning had eavesdropped on a call between the president and a new recruit to the ESP team, during which the president had described Hall’s mind-reading ability at length, including his range.

But Browning still didn’t know about Megan Emerson. He didn’t know she was immune from mind reading, and most importantly, didn’t know about their ability to communicate telepathically. They had used this ability to defeat Girdler, back when he was trying to kill Hall. Perhaps they could use it again.

Hall had almost vomited when he learned how the president had betrayed them all, exactly one month earlier. How he had used Dennis Sargent to smuggle out the implant and ESP data. As if this wasn’t bad enough, he also read how Victor had teamed up with Browning to get a copy of the data without Sargent or the president knowing.

Cochran planned to duplicate Nick Hall, to reincarnate his abilities in the body of a commando. Something the president had almost certainly already accomplished.

Browning had also given Victor detailed information about THT’s headquarters, and that while this structure was all but invulnerable, Hall ventured out once a month to interrogate terror suspects. Browning had also learned that after the attempted sarin attack, Girdler had vowed to remain firmly at headquarters whenever Nick Hall was out.

Victor had used this intelligence to plan his revenge. It was all he could think about. He had been played for a fool. Used. Betrayed. Turned into a laughingstock. He was determined that those responsible would pay the ultimate price.

He wanted Girdler most of all, but this would have to wait. He knew better than to try to attack THT head on, and Hall and Girdler never ventured out at the same time. So he would capture Hall first, the more dangerous and problematic of the two.

The strategy he had devised was ingenious, the planning and execution of the operation nothing short of breathtaking.. He had found a way to use Hall’s strengths against him.

Victor had begun by telling Sayed Nazry of Hall and his abilities, and about the Cockroach and the vehicle’s monthly excursions to Hill. Victor had promised the ISIS leader that he would take out Hall himself, since he was a common enemy, and as a show of goodwill. All Nazry had to do in return was keep the information about the mind reader to himself, for now, and tell one of his lieutenants, Ali Jalili, to follow Victor’s orders. These orders would involve having Jalili give precise instructions to a single one of Nazry’s sleeper agents in the States.

Once Nazry had agreed, Victor had built a bunker in the wastelands of Utah, sparing no expense to get it done quickly, and had waited for Hall’s monthly outing.

Hall had felt lucky that they had made it to the bunker before the ambush team had even come within mind-reading range. But luck had nothing to do with it.

Because there was no ambush team. It was nothing but a well-constructed mirage.

Victor had Jalili provide his Utah sleeper with the tech that would kill communications, and had him order the man to proceed exactly as Hall had read from his mind. To follow the specified vehicle and disrupt its communications. To use the phone he had been given to text the ambush team if the vehicle deviated from the expected course.

The sleeper had sent this text, all right. But it hadn’t gone to any ambush team. It had gone to Victor himself, and it was Victor who had sent the reply.

There was no army of terrorists waiting for them around the bend, protected by camouflage and stealth technology. Victor had found it much simpler just to convince the hapless sleeper agent that one existed, and safer, since Nessie had never once become suspicious of an ambush that wasn’t there.

Hall had walked right into the trap. He had dutifully read the sleeper’s mind. Read that his orders had come from Jalili, so Victor’s hand was hidden. Read all about the phantom ambushers and the bunker Jalili had instructed them to use as an escape route.

The sleeper had no idea it was a trap, so Hall had had no idea. Victor had funneled Hall exactly where he wanted him to be.

Just as Victor had expected, Hall had taken the bait, had patted himself on the back for realizing the terrorists’ bunker could be used to escape the coming attack. The knockout gas was set to be released when the door was opened and closed, trapping Hall and the rest inside.

Two mercenaries Victor trusted had been standing by in a civilian helicopter ten miles away, well out of Hall’s range. When the gas was released, these men were signaled, and they landed in the nearby town minutes later and used the tunnel, which was real, to retrieve Hall and Megan.

But only Hall and Megan. Their four bodyguards, who had become more than just their friends, had been shot to death while they lay unconscious.

Hall’s blood had come to a boil as he read this in Victor’s mind. He had wanted to tear out his captor’s throat with his bare hands, but knew that his restraints made this impossible.

The losses kept mounting. Five of their bodyguards were now dead. Hall was poison to anyone around him. Once again brave, good men had died because of his mistakes, and once again he didn’t have time to mourn them.

As hard as it was for Hall to believe, it was now just past noon. He and Megan had been out for only four hours, which had been plenty of time for Victor to pick up his prizes and bring them, unseen, to a new base Lucas had readied for just this purpose. A base that not only didn’t require the crossing of an international border, but didn’t require the crossing of a state border.

Since his days as the leader of a drug cartel, Victor had made it a point to explore the vast wilderness that still covered much of America, to identify the many places that were so off the beaten path the authorities couldn’t even find them, let alone guess that an important base was hidden there, in plain sight, under the guise of a nature preserve or a ranch.

The facility Hall and Megan had been brought to was within the three thousand square mile perimeter of Utah’s Dixie National Forest, in the southwest corner of the state. It was situated on a campground that Lucas had purchased and modified to their needs. It was similar in many ways to any number of bases Victor had established around the world, with multiple small living quarters, hidden tunnels, weapons caches, perimeter sensors, and eight of Victor’s men patrolling the grounds.

Hall had been in desperate situations before, but none more hopeless than this. Victor maintained an outward calm, but inside he was seething, consumed every second by the need for revenge. Hall knew that there would be no escape, and that while he was currently alive, this would not be true for long.

He was only alive now because Victor needed something from him.

And although Hall hadn’t made a final decision, he was frightened to the core of his being that he wouldn’t have the strength or moral fortitude to deny him what he wanted.

53

Hall opened his eyes while Victor was studying a computer screen at his desk. Megan hadn’t moved in the slightest, and he had hopes she wouldn’t regain consciousness until the conversation had come to an end.

Hall cleared his throat to get his captor’s attention.

Victor immediately turned to face him. “So the great Nick Hall arises,” he began in contempt. “The formidable creature himself, finally in captivity.”

“You bastard!” spat Hall. “You didn’t need to kill our bodyguards! Your beef is with me.”

“You should have worried about your colleagues before you decided to cross me!” shouted Victor, rising from his chair. “Their fate is your responsibility.”

Hall fumed but didn’t respond.

Victor studied his prisoner, dispassionate once again. “Interesting,” he said. “You weren’t surprised to see me alive. And you’re aware that your friends are dead. So you must have read my mind before you opened your eyes.”

“Aren’t you the clever one,” said Hall. “So why am I not dead?”

“You didn’t read that, too?” said Victor.

“I chose not to,” lied Hall. “I’d rather learn what you have in mind organically.”

Hall had read most of what was coming, but he wanted to be underestimated, hoping Victor might lower his guard, and this would never happen if he continued to flaunt his abilities. So he would have a somewhat normal conversation and pretend his mind reading wasn’t as powerful as it was, even if Victor knew otherwise.

“I could have given myself your abilities, you know,” said Victor.

Hall hesitated. He had read about this in Victor’s mind, but should he admit he was already aware? Just how long could he play dumb before Victor realized it was an act and actually raised his guard? “What are you talking about?” he replied.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know,” said Victor dubiously.

Hall tilted his head. “Now I do,” he said. “I just read your mind, since you were thinking about it. So you partnered with a guy named Browning to copy a data stick.”

“That’s better. Nice to see you living up to your billing. I did partner with Browning.” He smiled icily. “By the way, how do you feel about your president betraying your entire team?”

“Not good,” admitted Hall. “But I have to be honest with you. At the moment, it isn’t my biggest concern. Any guesses as to what motivates this Browning?”

“Not really. But he made me uneasy. I’ve interacted with plenty of psychopaths and mass murderers, but there was something about this guy that makes him seem even more dangerous. Especially now that he has ESP. I’m tempted to go after him and kill him now, while someone still can. This guy’s like fire. If you don’t put it out when it’s just an ember, you risk it growing into a thousand-acre inferno—and then it’s too late.”

“So why don’t you kill him?”

“You know why. Because I made a deal. And I keep my word.”

Hall stared at his captor with great intensity. “So why haven’t you given yourself mind reading?” he asked.

“Because I’m set in my ways. I don’t want to know what everyone thinks. And I’ve seen enough ugliness on the outside of men not to want to see the rest of that iceberg.”

Hall couldn’t help but smile. It had been a good turn of phrase.

Victor was an enigma. Ruthless and vengeful and megalomaniacal. Willing to kill innocent men like Briarwood, Ontiveros, Herman, and Trent without batting an eye. But brilliant and thoughtful. Someone who pondered philosophy and ethics in depth. A polymath. A murderer who was also capable of  great kindness and generosity.

Few men in his place could look mind reading in the eye and resist its lure.

“So what are your plans for it?” pressed Hall.

Victor shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ve given this significant thought. I think I want to see what happens with Browning first before I decide.”

Hall nodded. “I see,” he said. “Before you test out your mystery bomb, you’d like to see just how big of a crater it makes in Browning’s hands.”

“Exactly,” said Victor.

“So back to my question,” said Hall. “Why am I not dead?”

“You aren’t dead because I need you to lure the rest of your core team here. All of those who are now stationed at your headquarters. But rest assured, once you do, I will take great pleasure in killing you.”

“And you really think I’ll help you get your hands on my friends? You’re out of your mind.”

“I know that you’ll help me,” replied Victor calmly. “Because if you don’t, I’m going to torture and kill Megan Emerson—in front of you. Then I’m going to kill you. And after that, I won’t rest until all the others who took part in the scheme to make me a patsy are dead. General Girdler. Colonel Campbell. Alex Altschuler. Drew Russell. Heather Zambrana.” He flashed a cruel smile. “You’d tell me if I left someone out, right?”

“You bloodthirsty prick!” spat Hall. “You know Girdler planned and executed the op all by himself. He would never have been able to fool you if anyone else knew what he was up to. These others had nothing to do with it.”

“But they’re hardly innocent,” said Victor. “This was the initial group he formed around himself to exploit his coup, so they get to pay for his crimes along with him.”

Hall was deep inside Victor’s head and knew this would be his response, but he was still trying to make himself look as normal as possible.

“Now that you’ve captured me and Megan,” said Hall, “the others will be more cautious than ever. You’ll never get near them.”

Victor laughed. “You know better than that. You know how relentless I am, and how talented. You know the effort and resources I’m willing to put in. You’ve studied me. You’ve read my mind. If I promise not to rest until I’ve wiped them out, you know their days are numbered.”

“But you aren’t positive you’ll succeed,” said Hall. “And you obviously want me to save you substantial time and effort. So what do I get in return?” he said, knowing precisely what Victor planned to trade.

“Lure the rest here and I’ll spare Megan’s life. She’ll walk away without a scratch.”

“And me?”

“I’m still going to kill you, no matter what. Girdler and Campbell also. But if you do help me, I’ll spare the others. Alex Altschuler, Drew Russell, and Heather Zambrana will get to walk—along with Megan, of course.”

“Then why have them make the trip out here?”

“They’ll get a pass physically, but not emotionally. I’m going to convince them they’re about to die. After they’ve stewed in this juice for a while, I’ll force them to witness the executions of their friends. Teach them a lesson.”

“You mean scar them for the rest of their lives?” said Hall.

Victor shrugged. “At least they’ll have a rest of their lives.”

“But I’m dead under either scenario?” said Hall.

“You’re too dangerous. And too involved.”

“So your offer boils down to trading Megan’s life for the lives of two men, Justin Girdler and Mike Campbell?”

“Yes. The civilian woman you’re madly in love with for two soldiers who know the risks of playing with fire. Men I’d kill anyway within a few years, at most. And let’s not forget that in exchange, I promise to never go after the others—ever. They are safe. Don’t take the offer, and I promise to kill the others, in addition to Girdler and Campbell. It will just be a matter of time—and not much time at that.”

Hall had known this moment of truth was coming before he had even opened his eyes. But he had avoided a decision. Maybe engaging in this conversation wasn’t about a cat and mouse game of keeping the extent of his abilities hidden, but about stalling on a decision that no person should ever have to make.

So what was he going to do? From what he read he had the feeling he could spare Mike Campbell, limit the deaths to just his and Girdler’s. But even so, could he make this deal?

Could he not?

Could he really trade a life for a life? He wouldn’t just be condemning Girdler to death, he would be the instrument of that death. Luring him in under false pretenses. But if he did nothing, he truly believed that Victor would make good on his vow. Girdler would end up being killed anyway, but this time so would Drew, Mike, Alex, and Heather.

And Megan. Beautiful, wonderful Megan.

He couldn’t lure Girdler to his death. But he also couldn’t stand by and do nothing while Megan was tortured and killed, either. Which is what Victor was counting on.

There was one additional consideration. If he agreed to the deal, he would gain time. If he said no, his and Megan’s end would come quickly. But if he stalled for time, maybe they would find a way out of this. It was very unlikely, but still possible. He and the team had proven their resourcefulness again and again.

Perhaps he was just rationalizing a decision he had already come to. But it didn’t matter. He could use all the logic in the world and it came down to one simple fact: he was not going to let Megan die. Not under any circumstances. He would do anything to prevent it.

He had studied ethics and knew this was a classical situation experimenters had posed to subjects for decades. A thought experiment. Would you sacrifice one woman to save three, if all four were strangers to you? Of course you would. An easy question.

But what if the one you had to sacrifice was your mother? Would you do it then?

Not so easy this time.

Hall was faced with a similar dilemma. Only in this case it wasn’t hypothetical.

“How about a third option?” said Hall. It was a desperate attempt with little chance of success, but what did he have to lose? “You’re a rational man. A brilliant man. But aren’t you letting your emotional need for revenge poison your thinking?”

Victor looked on, but remained expressionless.

“Right now you’re being left alone,” continued Hall. “We thought you were dead, but we also thought we still might be able to use Lucas, so it’s been hands off. We’ve been monitoring other agencies who are hunting for him. And protecting him from them. The last thing we’ve wanted is for Lucas to be captured. But kill me and Girdler and you’ve kicked a hornet’s nest. You think you were wanted before, wait and see what happens after you take us out.”

“Nicely improvised,” said Victor, almost in admiration. “If we weren’t enemies, I’d be impressed.” He shook his head. “But did you really think I might go for this option? Just release you and Megan and forget about the whole thing?”

“Why not? We’ll then know you’re still alive, but in exchange for letting us go I can see to it that you continue to be protected. Or at minimum, much less actively pursued. Make your life a lot easier. And why not forget about the whole thing? Yes, Girdler screwed you. He outsmarted you. Our entire team used you. But so what? Terrorists are working hard to wipe out our citizenry. Insane dictators in North Korea and Iran are trying to hit us with nukes. If you were Girdler and saw a way to keep this from happening, you’d jump at it like he did.”

Victor didn’t respond, but Hall read that he continued to be impressed by his arguments, and that Hall was growing on him. Hall wondered how big a sticking point his hatred of Americans might be. Reading the man’s mind alone couldn’t help him determine which of several close motivations were the strongest.

“So you have a long-standing hatred of Americans,” continued Hall. “Many treated you like shit as a boy, and one killed your mother. I don’t blame you for how you feel. You were exposed to scores of Americans who deserved such hatred. But you can’t paint an entire people with that brush. You must know that. Americans are like any other group of people. A mixture of good and bad and rich and poor. Or are you saying that you’ve never come across people from your own country who were assholes? Or selfish? Or cruel?”

Victor sighed. “I have considered this perspective, and I’ve come to agree with you more than you know. My hatred was formed at a young age and is something that is difficult to be rational about. But it still gives me pleasure to take America down a few pegs, because you are the most arrogant country in the world. Perhaps this goes hand in hand with being the most successful, but it doesn’t matter to those far behind in the race.”

He paused. “But this is less about hatred of America I still can’t shake, and more about damage to my reputation. About sending a signal that I can’t be taken advantage of. It’s a strict rule that I live by. Deal straight with me and I’ll do the same with you. Cross me, and you’ll pay the price. I can’t change that now.”

“Even though if you take my offer you and your organization will be protected by America? And if you don’t, the hunt for you will be intensified a hundred-fold?”

Victor smiled. “This isn’t really true, and I suspect you know it. Even if you don’t tell them, eventually your superiors will learn that I have the recipe for implants and mind reading. Then all bets are off. No matter how much they assured you they’d keep your bargain with me and leave me alone, they’ll come after me with a vengeance—with the same intensity they would have if I hadn’t made this deal.”

He raised his eyebrows. “After all, I assume your President Cochran made a promise to keep the ESP data safe inside your headquarters?” He shrugged. “So just how reliable do you think his promises are?”

Hall scowled. This had struck a nerve. And he read that Victor’s decision in this matter was final, and that he would tolerate no further arguments.

“Nice try,” said Victor, “but we’re left with my original two options.”

“You say my side can’t be trusted,” said Hall. “And yes, I know all about your reputation. But how do I know for sure you’ll honor your word in this case? To people you feel didn’t honor theirs to begin with?”

Victor laughed. “I’ve been willing to go along with you,” he said, “while you pretend to lack abilities I know full well you have. But don’t think I’m stupid enough to believe you haven’t read my mind on this score. You know I’ll keep my word. You’ve read my thoughts, and my intent. Get your team to come here and surrender, and I’ll do as I promise.”

Hall took a deep breath. “Okay. I do believe you’ll honor your word,” he said. “So I am willing to make your deal. But only if you make three concessions.”

Hall couldn’t believe he was really having this conversation, really bargaining for lives like they were trinkets in a third world bazaar. He was trapped in a living nightmare.

“First,” he began, “you’re asking for two additional lives in exchange for sparing Megan’s. It has to be a one-for-one trade. You kill the general in Megan’s place. But that’s it. Mike Campbell lives.”

“No deal,” said Victor reflexively, forgetting for a moment with whom he was negotiating.

“I read your mind while you were answering,” said Hall. “I know you’re willing to do this. You won’t rest until you have my scalp and Girdler’s. But you’re willing to let Campbell live if you have to.”

Victor didn’t bother to argue the point. “And the second concession?”

“The easiest of all. Don’t have Heather be a part of this. No psychic scars, no fear for her life, no witnessing atrocities. She had nothing to do with anything. She stays out of it.”

Victor nodded, knowing Hall had immediately read his willingness to agree to this point. “And the third?” he said.

“Megan will be recovering from the gas soon, correct?”

“Yes. Any minute. She must have gotten a bigger lungful than you.”

“I want your assurances that she’ll never learn anything about our bargain. She never knows that I gave you Girdler on a platter to spare her life. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself. And no handcuffs or harsh treatment when she awakens. I get to reassure her and tell her I love her. You can listen in to be sure I don’t pull anything cute. But I get to say goodbye.”

“Without her knowing it really is goodbye, I presume,” said Victor.

“That’s right. Then I want her in a separate building away from it all. I’ve read in your mind you have a strong knockout drug in pill form. I want you to give it to her right after she gets there. Let her sit on a bed and take it. I want her out cold for a long time. This way she isn’t consumed with worry, and isn’t exposed to violence or any sick lesson you’re trying to deliver. I want her to awaken back at THT headquarters when this is all over, spared all of it.”

A hint of a smile came over Victor’s features. “I assume you don’t want me to shove the pill down her throat. That’s the only way she’ll ever take it.”

“I can get her to take it,” said Hall. “I’ll have to lie to her to do it, but I want her to sleep through this, so I will.”

Victor shrugged. “If you can get her unconscious, I’m willing to go along.”

“I think I have a good chance. But if I’m wrong, she stays in a nice room, away from any violence, and is treated like an honored guest. Other than whatever guard you have manning the door.”

“Okay,” said Victor. “We have an understanding. Under one condition. Why don’t you tell me what it is. I enjoy your mind-reading demonstrations, and you’ve been shy about delivering.”

Hall sighed. “You still don’t want to let Campbell off the hook so easily. So you’ll agree to spare his life, but you’ll still plan to beat him nearly unconscious.”

“Very good. He won’t die, and he’ll make a full recovery. Agreed?”

Hall sighed. He could read that Victor considered this point a deal-breaker. “Agreed,” he replied reluctantly.

“Good,” said Victor. “It’s your job to get them here. Any tricks and the deal is off. They come unarmed, surrender to me, and no backup. No special operators. No drones or missiles. If anything goes awry, Megan dies along with as many of them as I can take out.”

Hall entered Victor’s mind and confirmed that he absolutely intended to honor the deal, and didn’t intend to revisit his thinking once Hall was dead. “Understood,” he said.

“I’ve come to respect you more than I thought I would,” said Victor. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m going to regret having to kill you.”

“Yeah,” said Hall, wincing. “I’m going to regret that too. And no, it doesn’t make me feel any better.”

54

It was the hardest phone call Hall had ever made. Lying to his friend, a man who had been overjoyed to learn he was still alive. Luring him to his death. It was awful.

Hall had insisted that the call be audio only so his facial expressions wouldn’t give him away, but his stomach was in knots and he had barely managed to keep his breakfast down. It was lucky he hadn’t had any lunch or he surely would have erupted.

At least it was over. Girdler would have to run the situation by the rest of the team, but Hall had little doubt they would come.

He and Megan were now once again in Victor’s office, both with their mouths taped shut and two guards looking on. Victor had left instructions to be called in the moment Megan awoke.

Neither guard had any idea that this event had already occurred, ten minutes earlier.

Once Hall had forged his agreement with Victor he had called out to Megan telepathically every few minutes, so he could catch her as she returned to consciousness. When this finally happened, he had instructed her to keep her eyes closed while he brought her up to speed.

He explained how they were tricked and captured, and how Victor happened to still be alive. She was as astonished by these events as he had been.

He considered telling her what he had learned about the president’s betrayal, and how Victor and a partner, Troy Browning, had stolen the data they had most wanted to safeguard, but decided against it. Once he was gone, she would be the only one who could pass this vital information on to the surviving members of the team, but it could keep until Victor was nearer to ending his life. She couldn’t pretend to be unconscious for much longer, and he didn’t want to give her even more to worry about.

“I probably don’t need to remind you of this,” sent Hall, “but you’ll need to act startled the first time you see Victor.”

“Are you kidding?” she sent back, “I totally killed as Juliet in Shakespeare in the Park. You haven’t seen ‘startled’ until you’ve seen my ‘startled.’”

“Very funny,” he replied. “I know you’ve never acted. But even though you’re kidding, be careful not to overdo it. He’s very smart.”

“I don’t care if he’s Albert Einstein, he’ll never guess telepathy,” she pointed out.

“You do make a good point.”

“So what does he want with us?”

Hall decided he needed to lie once again. Now wasn’t the time for thorny debates about the ethics of trading one life for another. Besides, Megan needed her mind to be as clear as possible. “He’s using us as lures to attract the rest of the core team.”

“Does he know that includes the President of the United States?”

“Yes,” he replied. “But he’s interested in the original core team only. The president and Admiral Siegel get a pass. He had me contact Justin Girdler to tell him you and I would be killed if they didn’t surrender.”

“And you went along with that?” asked Megan in disbelief.

“He didn’t give me much choice. If I didn’t say what he told me to, he would have hurt you. And this wasn’t a bluff.”

Megan swallowed hard, but not loudly enough to attract the attention of the guards. “I’m sure the general refused, right? You both know better. If Girdler brings the team here, Victor will kill us anyway—and then he’ll kill them.”

“Maybe not,” replied Hall. “Victor told me that if the team does surrender, he’ll release us all alive—eventually. He’ll beat the crap out of us, but we’ll all live.”

“Why are you telling me what he said, Nick? I don’t care about that. What was he thinking?”

Hall took a mental breath. He was telling so many lies he wasn’t certain he would even recognize reality at this point. He was trying to make sure Megan stayed out of harm’s way while giving her hope. But if he told her he had read from Victor’s mind that they would all be fine, once she learned that he and Girdler had been killed, she would know that the last words he had ever spoken to her had been lies.

Hall decided to at least introduce the possibility that he wouldn’t survive. “Victor’s intent is unclear,” he replied. “He’s waging an internal struggle. Half of him is tempted to kill us all, and the other half wants to maintain his reputation for keeping his word. It’s unclear which side will win the day. If his bad half does win, the general and I are in the most danger.”

“Not exactly comforting, Nick. Did you at least pass this on to the general?”

“I couldn’t. Victor was listening in. Girdler didn’t make any decisions during our brief conversation, but since Victor’s reputation for keeping his word is so well known, I think there’s a good chance the team will come. We have to assume as much.”

“Great,” sent back Megan miserably. “This just keeps on getting better and better.”

“There’s still hope,” broadcast Hall. “But I won’t lie to you,” he added, disgusted with himself, knowing full well how many lies he had already told, “our chances aren’t good.”

“So what’s the play?” she asked.

“You wake up in a few minutes and act surprised when you see Victor. I give you some platitudes, and trick you into taking a pill, putting on a performance that Victor will buy. Agree to take the pill, by the way, but don’t really do it.”

“What’s in it?”

“A knockout drug. So sit on a bed and pretend to take it. Then pretend it worked. I’m afraid you’ll need to fake being unconscious for a number of hours. I’ve read Victor’s mind. He’ll have a guard in the room with you, even if he thinks you’re out cold.”

“That’s not good,” noted Megan.

“True, but I don’t think it will be that big of a deal. Guarding an unconscious woman is being ridiculously cautious. The man watching you will know that. He’ll do a half-hearted job of it, at best. More like a tenth-hearted job.”

“So why should I pretend to be out for so long?” she asked. “You’ll know from the guard’s mind when he’s convinced I’m a vegetable. You can direct me to get the drop on him and escape.”

“Unfortunately,” replied Hall, “Victor plans to knock me out until Girdler and the gang arrive. The difference is that I’ll be unconscious for real. He’ll give me a shot, not a pill like I’ve arranged for you.”

“But why?”

“Just another of his precautions. He has a drug that will reverse the effect fairly rapidly. He plans to wake me just before our team arrives.”

“So that’s what I’ll be waiting for while I’m pretending to be out? You to be revived?”

“Exactly. I’ll read the situation on the ground when this happens and figure out a plan, guiding you telepathically.”

“Just like old times,” broadcast Megan. “I have no doubt that with you reading the minds of anyone I’m up against, I’ll get free fast.”

“That’s the plan. Then I’ll play it by ear from there.”

“I know you’ll find a way to get us out of this,” she sent. “You always do.”

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Megan,” he replied, one of the truest things he had communicated yet, even though he meant it in a much different way than she would take it. “I love you too much.”

He paused. “But I should save this mushy stuff for later, when Victor is around. I plan to put on a complex act for him—but my feelings about you won’t be an act.”

“I know they won’t be, Nick,” she replied. “But if you don’t stop right now I’m going to start tearing up, which might blow my cover. I’m not sure unconscious people do that.”

Hall laughed into the duct tape, which drew puzzled glances from the men Victor had left in the room. Even in this situation, knowing he was going to die while betraying his friends, even then she had a way of making him happy. She was a gift.

“I can do this, Nick,” added Megan. “We can do this.”

“Of course we can,” replied Hall, sickened by his biggest lie of all.

The truth was he had no plans to contact Megan when he regained consciousness. She would pretend to sleep while he and Girdler were killed, Campbell was beaten, and the rest of the group was forced to watch, having no idea this was happening.

He had little doubt he could guide her to elude the guard and gain her freedom. But only temporarily. He had to be realistic. Victor was too smart and had too many soldiers on the grounds. Hall knew all of the precautions Victor was planning to take when the team arrived. There was maybe a one percent chance Megan could rescue them, with Hall’s help, but a ninety-nine percent chance she would fail.

And if she did fail, even if she wasn’t killed, Victor would know they had fooled him, that she wasn’t as knocked out as they had led him to believe. He’d know that she and Hall had somehow conspired against him. Victor would take this as a nullification of the agreement, freeing him to break his word and kill them all.

Activating Megan would accomplish nothing but ensure that she was killed, that they were all killed, instead of just Hall and Girdler. So he had lied again. He never planned to contact her after he was revived. He planned to let the situation play out to its tragic conclusion, while Megan waited patiently to hear from him. Patiently, and safely.

But he had set things up in case a miracle happened, set her up to play possum while maintaining consciousness, at the ready in case the calculus changed dramatically. If the odds somehow shifted in their favor, even if they only rose to fifty-one percent, then he would proceed the way he had told her, working together to try to save them all, despite the risks.

But the likelihood of that happening was about the same as getting struck by a falling meteor.

“Ready to open your eyes and put on our little show?” he asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she replied.

“Great. Just follow my lead. It’s going to get strange. Victor agreed to let me spare you from the details of what’s really happening here. So even though you know, I have to pretend to fool you, to convince you everything’s okay.”

“You do make things complicated.”

“No doubt about that,” replied Hall with a sigh. And she didn’t know the half of it. Good thing his implants gave him the photographic memory he needed to keep all of his stories straight.

He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he broadcast. “Here we go. Go ahead and come awake. Just don’t forget to shout into the duct tape when you first see Victor.”

“Are you kidding?” she replied. “No one pretends to shout into duct tape better than me.”

Hall couldn’t help but laugh once again, despite his mouth being taped and knowing he had but hours to live. At that moment, despite everything, he could not have loved Megan Emerson any more, or been any more determined to protect her.

55

Victor dismissed the guards and tore the duct tape from his prisoners’ mouths, both of whom were still seated next to each other on his couch, their ankles and wrists bound with zip-ties.

Megan’s eyes continued to bulge from their sockets, as they had since Victor had entered the room.

“Be careful,” Hall teased her telepathically. “You don’t want your eyes to explode.”

“Everybody’s a critic,” she broadcast back.

“Victor?” she whispered in disbelief the moment her mouth was freed. She glanced at Hall in shock and then back at her captor. “How can you be alive?”

Victor gestured toward Hall, “Why don’t you take this one,” he said.

Hall faced his fiancée and reached out to hold her hands, ignoring the zip-ties. “Thank God you’re finally awake,” he said.

“How is he alive?” she asked again. “And where are we?”

“We’re still in Utah,” he replied, “a few hundred miles from where we were. As to how we came to be here, and how Victor is alive, that’s a long, complicated story.” He sighed. “Which we really don’t have time for right now. The bottom line is that there is a lot going on here. A lot you don’t understand. Remember when everyone thought the general had gone off the reservation, but it was all part of a larger game?”

Megan nodded, genuinely confused. “I said I’d follow your lead,” she broadcast to Hall, “but where the hell are you going with this?”

“Well, it’s a similar story here,” continued Hall, ignoring her telepathic question. “Victor isn’t what you think he is. He captured us to put on a show for others, but that’s all this is. A show. We’re both going to be fine. I promise you.”

“Look into my eyes like you’re unsure,” instructed Hall telepathically. “Victor thinks I’m telling these lies to put you at ease. It all fits with the sleeping pill angle.”

Megan stared into his eyes, searching.

“Now say that you believe me.”

“This all sounds crazy,” said Megan, taking Hall’s cue. “But if you’re sure everything’s okay, Nick, that’s good enough for me.”

“I promise I’ll explain everything,” said Hall, “and it will all make sense. But for now, Victor is going to have one of his men cut your restraints and escort you to a small structure nearby. There’s a bedroom inside you can stay in for a while. I’ll come visit as soon as I can and tell you what’s going on.”

She stared at Victor for several seconds. While he kept his face impassive, she could tell he was enjoying Hall’s artistry in lying to the woman he loved.

“This is very strange, Nick,” she complained. “I don’t like being kept in the dark.”

“I know,” said Hall. “But not for long. Go to the room and try to relax. Victor will give your escort a pill for you to take once you’re settled in. Go ahead and take it.”

“What kind of a pill?” asked Megan suspiciously.

“One designed to counteract the gas they used on us,” he explained. “I took one earlier. You probably feel fine by now, but if even a tiny amount of the gas remains in your lungs it could trigger some very bad reactions. The pill will ensure it’s entirely out of your system.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Of course I’m sure. I’m a mind reader, remember? The pill is for your own good.”

“Right,” said Megan sheepishly. “Dumb question. I’ll take it right away.”

Megan hadn’t known how Hall was going to pull off the pill deception, but he had played it beautifully. Victor was now convinced that Hall had fooled her, and that she would dutifully take the offered drug, knocking her unconscious. Her guard wouldn’t even be watching her closely to make sure she hadn’t palmed it.

Hall’s eyes fell. “Before you go, Megan,” he said, “I want to apologize for being so secretive and strange about this. You’ll understand later. But I love you. You think you know how much, but you don’t. You can’t. Always remember that I would do anything for you. You bring a boundless joy with you whenever you enter a room. You brighten everyone’s life. You’ve kept me sane and grounded, and able to see the joy in life rather than the despair.”

Hall’s eyes began to tear up and he stopped speaking.

Megan teared up as well. “I love you, too, Nick. You know that. But are you sure we’re going to be okay? That sounded like a farewell address.”

Hall faked a smile. “No, not at all. Just feeling guilty about this bizarre situation.”

Megan leaned forward and kissed him gently, an awkward maneuver given their restraints. “Nick, I know you think our chances of survival are no better than the flip of a coin,” she broadcast to him hastily. “But I believe in you. In fate. You’ve done too much good in the world. You’re too good-hearted and talented. We’re going to work together and get out of this. I’ll prepare myself for when you regain consciousness, and I’ll await your instructions.”

“Okay then,” he replied telepathically. “I’ll be contacting you before you know it.”

56

President Timothy Cochran was stressed to his limits, but the world just seemed to want to pile on, not caring in the least. He had a country to run, mundane things to do. Budgets to negotiate, education policy to develop, prime ministers to meet, and funerals to attend.

Yet he was spending more and more time at the heart of stealth operations so Black that in the case of Bostic and his team, only Bob Siegel and he had any knowledge of them. And in the case of THT, not too many more.

After learning of the disaster in Utah, Bob Siegel had rushed to the White House, creating, along with Justin Girdler at THT headquarters, a two-pronged command center. The president and the admiral sat around a small circular table in the Oval Office as Justin Girdler’s perfect three-dimensional avatar materialized across the table from them, looking for all the world like he was seated.

“I just got off the phone with Nick,” he began without any greeting or pleasantries. “Nick and Megan are both alive and well.”

Cochran and Siegel looked at each other and breathed heavy sighs of relief. “Thank God,” said the president for both of them.

The day Nick Hall interrogated a new batch of terror suspects was always one Cochran, and now Siegel, circled on their calendars, but this day had gone horribly wrong from the start. Hall and those with him had never made it to the air force base. They had taken a detour, for no apparent reason. Nessie had flagged this change of plans immediately, and it became even more worrisome when satellite footage showed them rushing from their vehicle into a small building in the middle of nowhere.

Mike Campbell had led a team to investigate, and they had found all four of Hall’s bodyguards dead on the floor, with Hall and Megan nowhere to be found.

Girdler had insisted they were still alive. If those responsible wanted them dead, they would already be dead. Besides, whoever attacked them would find Nick Hall far more slippery than they bargained for. Even without implants or mind reading, no one thought better on their feet or was more creative, and the man had a knack for deception.

Cochran had acknowledged Girdler’s logic, but he wasn’t nearly as confident. Who could understand the motivations of a killer? So the general’s confirmation that Nick was okay was an enormous relief, marking the first time the president had stopped holding his figurative breath since the ordeal had begun.

Still, he couldn’t believe it was possible to have a week this horrendous. Four days had passed since he had received Bostic’s farewell message and there was still no sign of the man. And now this. What else could go wrong? Had they been having too much luck recently? Was this some sort of cosmic balancing of the scales?

“How were you able to get Nick on the phone?” asked Siegel.

“He called me,” replied Girdler. “And he threw a few surprises at me I’d have never seen coming.”

“You mean surprises like someone getting the drop on a mind reader?” said the president irritably.

“No,” said Girdler. “I mean surprises like Victor returning from the grave.”

Both the president and admiral stared at him like he was crazy.

“You were able to actually verify this for yourself?” asked Siegel.

“No. I didn’t see him or hear him. Nick told me he was still alive.”

“So you don’t have proof,” said the president.

Girdler looked confused. “I don’t,” he admitted. “But I have no reason to doubt Nick. Why would he lie to me?”

Cochran doubted he had, but he wasn’t willing to rule it out. After all, Bostic had seemed dependable too—right up until the time he wasn’t. Had Bostic disappeared because he felt betrayed, or had his ESP brought mental instability? The chances that ESP had driven both Bostic and Hall mad in the same week were remote, but he had to bring it up.

“I’m not saying he lied,” said the president. “What I am saying is that Nick has a lot going on in that brain of his. We’ve always had to face the possibility that he might lose his mind someday.”

“He sounded as sane as ever,” said Girdler. “And his explanation of how Victor is still alive makes perfect sense.”

He went on to explain how they had been deceived.

Siegel nodded when he had finished. “It does add up,” he said. “Victor did order his son to do nothing but troubleshoot, and it makes sense that Lucas might have seen our fingerprints on the implants. And there’s another thing,” he added, “the way Nick and Megan were captured. Only someone as talented as Victor could pull off an op like that. An op so clever we still have no idea how it was done.” He paused and stared at Girdler. “Or has Mike learned anything more?”

The general shook his head. “Nothing. They veered from their normal route for no apparent reason. They didn’t contact anyone at headquarters to explain their actions. They drove to a lone building and entered. Four were killed and two taken. Their vehicle, which they call the Cockroach, was left parked near the entrance, all four doors still open, as though they were in such a rush they couldn’t spare the time to shut them. But why? Nessie didn’t detect anything coming at them that should have been cause for alarm. We still have no explanation for any of their behavior.”

“So Nick didn’t shed any light on it during your conversation?” asked Siegel.

“No. He said he didn’t have much time, so we stuck to the purpose of his call.”

“Which was?” said Cochran.

“He told me that Victor had forced him to contact me. That Victor is pissed off about how we used him, put bugs inside his head. With pissed off being a major understatement. He wants us punished. So he captured Nick and Megan. How he knew where they were and how he captured them, again, is anybody’s guess. But the bottom line is that Nick says he’ll kill them both if we don’t come to where he’s holding them.”

“Who’s we?” said the president.

“Me, Mike, Drew, and Alex.”

“So the remaining members of the core team from Utah,” noted Siegel, “except for Heather. Why do you think she wasn’t included?”

“I have no idea,” said Girdler. “I asked Nick about that and he claimed to have no idea either. He said Victor told him who needed to show up, and it was up to him to figure out how to get us there.”

“So Nick was lying,” said Siegel, “at least about not knowing why Heather was excluded. How could a mind reader not know?”

“I agree,” said Cochran. “There is more here than meets the eye.”

“You’re almost certainly right,” said Girdler. “Nick has a reason for everything he does in these situations. He told me our call was private, but there’s no way Victor wasn’t listening in. Any lies he tells are for the benefit of Victor, I’m sure.”

“I assume you tried to trace the call and got nowhere,” said Siegel.

“Yes. As expected.”

Bob Siegel scowled and shook his head. “The entire premise of this is ridiculous,” he complained. “Why would you ever deliver yourselves on a platter? So instead of killing two people, he gets to kill six?”

“Nick claims that if we show, Victor will make us suffer. Greatly. Mostly me and Mike. He’ll bring us close to death, but not all the way. And he won’t do anything we won’t eventually recover from. If we surrender, everyone gets to live. If we don’t, he kills Megan and Nick.”

“I’m not buying it,” said the president. “Who’d believe he’d go to all the trouble just to hurt you? If he releases you, you live to go after him another day. Who wounds an animal and then turns his back on it?”

“I agree,” said Girdler. “But Nick says he read his mind and he’s certain he’s telling the truth. That it’s a dominance play. Victor wants us to know just who it is who turned the tables and had us in the palm of his hand. He wants to beat us physically, and let us live to remember the beating for all of our remaining days, and who delivered it. We all know Victor’s reputation for integrity is golden, despite being a thief and murderer, so I’d tend to trust his assurances even without Nick to vouch for him.”

“And you believe Nick is being totally straight with you?” asked the president.

“No. The call was voice only, and his voice was as strained as I’ve ever heard it. He’s hiding something. But again, he must have known Victor was listening.”

“So he wouldn’t be able to tell you if this was part of a grand plan,” said Siegel.

“Exactly. Again, this is Nick Hall we’re talking about. No one is smarter or more resourceful. If he wants us to do this, that’s good enough for me.”

“And you know where he is?” said Cochran.

Girdler nodded. “Closer than you’d ever guess,” he replied. “Southern Utah. In Dixie National Forest.”

The president’s eyes narrowed. “If he’s right here in the States, why can’t we mount an op to go after him?”

“We’d have no chance of success,” said Girdler simply. “Victor knows this is a possibility. Hall told us it was a waste of time to even consider a strike. Unless we’re willing to write Nick and Megan off. Victor has bodyguards and a sophisticated sensor array. No way we could get through it without him knowing it.” He sighed. “Ironically, the only man on Earth who could get through the array is Nick himself.”

Not the only man, thought Cochran. This would be the perfect op for Craig Bostic and his team. Send a mind reader to save a mind reader. If only he knew where to find him.

“So Victor wants us to come unarmed,” continued Girdler, “in a civilian helo. We’ll give him the transponder signature so we won’t trigger any alarms or defenses. We fly in, land in a specified clearing, and surrender. If we try to cross him, veer a few yards off course, or his sensors pick up any signs that we have weapons on board, he kills Nick and Megan, and us if he can.”

“He’s bluffing,” said the president. “If he kills them, he has no more leverage. After that, his sensors won’t do him any good—we won’t care if he knows we’re coming. We’ll send in whatever force it takes to end him.”

Girdler shook his head. “I think he’d still get away,” he said. “Suppose he’s lying about everything and is just luring us there to kill us. In that case, you and Bob know where he is and will try to take him out. But even if he honors his word and lets us ultimately walk, he knows the same thing will happen once we get clear. So either way he knows we’ll be coming at him full force, and he won’t have any hostages to stop us. Which means he isn’t troubled by this certainty. Knowing him, he has his tunnels and stealth tech and sleight of hand all lined up. He’s ready to play the shell game with us. And we can count on him not being under whichever shell we lift.”

“I agree with Justin,” said Admiral Siegel. “He managed to draw Nick and his crew to a building in the middle of nowhere and then out of their protected vehicle. Then he casually picked off four special forces commandos on protective detail. This isn’t the kind of man who’s going to screw up his exit strategy. And although he’s a wanted murderer, we can hardly send a battalion after him on American soil. And we aren’t about to risk setting a National Forest ablaze. He knows that.”

“That’s not to say we still can’t have forces standing by,” said Girdler.

“Even that has its share of complexities,” said the president. “I can have ground forces ready to go in, but given the target is in Utah, a lot of uncomfortable questions will be asked—and will need to be answered.”

“Believe me, I understand,” said Girdler. “You’re the commander-in-chief, but we aren’t in a dictatorship. Putting armed forces on high alert will require disclosures we aren’t prepared to make. Especially since it’s so unlikely they’ll be necessary. Like I said, if we decide to go forward, either we’ll be dead very soon or Victor will eventually release us. Either way, having the entire might of the country ready to go in at a moment’s notice won’t change a thing.”

“I’ll alert some key people to be ready to hear from me if something totally unexpected happens,” said Cochran, “without telling them anything. It will require some deft political skills and a lot of lying. Given these circumstances, though, it could take more than an hour to get meaningful ground forces there if you signaled the need. The good news is that I should still be able to get air power over the site within five or ten minutes.”

Girdler winced. “I’m not sure air power is a great idea,” he said. “Victor is known for his exceptional defenses, and has the capability to shoot down aircraft. If we lose one of these on an op over Utah, Mr. President, your enemies in Congress will sink their teeth in and won’t let go until they have answers, until THT becomes better known than McDonald’s.”

“I agree,” said Siegel. “After what happened over USD stadium, the nation already thinks you’re a reckless cowboy.”

Girdler stared intently at the president. “I think your idea of thinking through what strings you would pull, what cover story you would tell, is a good one,” he said. “Without tipping anyone off or setting anything in motion. But if military support is needed, I’d rule out using air power and missiles completely.” He frowned. “Again, it’s very unlikely it will matter. Either we’re dead or we’re alive. It’s a binary event.”

“Sounds like you’ve already made a decision,” said the president.

“It’s not one that can wait,” said Girdler.  “We have to be there at five exactly. If we’re more than five minutes off either way, Nick and Megan die.”

Cochran frowned, and looked to be in almost physical pain. “So your final recommendation is to deliver yourselves to this murderer?”

“Yes,” said Girdler stoically. “I wish there was another way.”

“How do we know Victor didn’t kill Nick the moment he got off the phone?” asked the president.

“I insisted we get proof of life before we land,” replied the general. “Nick told me Victor had anticipated this request. If we call ten minutes before five, we’ll have our proof. Nick said the second he was off the call with me, Victor planned to administer a knockout drug. He’ll use another to revive Nick just in time for us to confirm he’s alive and unharmed.”

“So he’s unconscious right now?” asked the president. “Even as we speak?”

“Almost certainly,” said Girdler.

“Did he tell you why Victor was putting him out?” asked Siegel.

“Yes, because he respects Nick’s capabilities. He’s heard the rumors about what he’s been able to accomplish. The Academy Awards. Stopping the attack on USD, which Nazry mounted using Victor’s own technology. He knows better than to underestimate Nick, and he’s cautious by nature.”

“Smart,” said Siegel. “Even Nick can’t turn the tables when he’s out cold.”

“And instead of having almost four hours to come up with a plan,” said Cochran, “he’ll only have ten minutes.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” said Girdler. “Victor never misses a trick.”

“But you were able to outsmart him,” noted Siegel.

“I got lucky,” said the general modestly.

“So you fly over there,” said the president, “Victor rouses Nick just before five, and you get proof of life.” He paused for a moment in thought. “Then you land, Victor beats the shit out of the lot of you, and then he eventually lets you all leave—after he’s proven his point. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“If everyone is telling the truth, yes,” replied the general.

“It stinks to high heaven,” said Cochran. “More than stinks. It reeks.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Girdler. “But I have faith in Nick. He knows what he’s doing. I spoke with Alex, Mike, and Drew before I got on this call. All four of us are willing to go along.”

“Knowing that being beaten nearly to death is the best-case scenario,” said Cochran.

“No. Counting on Nick to come through like he always does.”

“And you’ll just surrender and play it straight?” asked the president.

“That’s right,” said Girdler. “Nick says if we try anything, Victor will know it, and his kid glove treatment of us will end. At that point, all bets will be off. So all we can do is go in unarmed, keep our eyes and ears open, and wait for an opportunity to arise.”

“If anyone can spot an opportunity and make the most out of it, Justin, it’s you,” said Siegel.

“Thank you, Admiral,” replied Girdler. “But Nick being Nick, I’d be absolutely shocked if something absolutely shocking doesn’t happen.”

The general nodded slowly, his face intense. “And when it does, we’ll be ready.”

57

Browning was almost shaking from excitement as the president ended the videoconference with Justin Girdler. He had been using his implants to eavesdrop, so he had viewed the meeting in his mind’s eye as though he were in the room with them.

It was hard to believe things were aligning this perfectly, even for him. But they were. It was the ultimate sign. Fate.

What he had overheard made it more clear than ever before that he was on the right course, that he shouldn’t deviate a millimeter. Whatever power drove the universe was really showing off this time.

He had desperately wanted to find Victor. For a number of reasons.

And now the man had been practically delivered into his lap. He was right next door. Browning, from his temporary base in Colorado, was as close to Victor as Girdler was. It couldn’t just be a coincidence

Browning had also wanted to clear the playing field of possible threats, and THT was at the top of this list. Now all of the key players were about to leave the protection of their headquarters and weaponry and gather in one place, like fish in a barrel.

And Nick Hall, the only rival other than Craig Bostic who might even slow him down, would be out like a light. Helpless.

He couldn’t have diagrammed it any better.

A tear came to his eye. He was the chosen one. There could be no doubt. The universe had provided for him once again, bigger than ever.

This was his chance, and there was no time to waste.

To say he was about to take out two birds with one stone was an understatement.

He was about to take out an entire flock.

PART 8

Troy Browning

58

Browning almost drooled as he contemplated his upcoming reunion with the man named Victor.

He handpicked four mercenaries for the mission, selecting among dozens by reading their minds to find those who had killed the most often, the most efficiently, and the most stealthily. He then handpicked eight others for a follow-up mission, his second wave.

He made sure one of the four with him could fly a helicopter, a skill he planned to learn as soon as he had time. The mercs were outfitted with bulletproof vests, earpieces, and mics, and while Browning was unarmed and traveling light, his four companions seemed to have entire armories attached to their bodies, packed as tightly as parachutes. While they were dressed like commandos—belts, rucksacks, heavy body armor, and forest camo from head to toe—he was dressed casually, wearing his standard body armor that was all but undetectable.

Two of the men brought shoulder-fired missile launchers, with heat-seeking munitions, which is all they would need to annihilate Girdler’s ride and the men inside. Since Victor had insisted they come in a civilian helo, they would have about as much ability to evade these missiles as would a baby carriage.

Hopefully the missile launchers wouldn’t be needed, but in studying Victor he had learned from the best. It always paid to have backup plans for your backup plans.

He had no idea how many men Victor had on site, but he was confident four men would be more than enough for the job—as long as he was there to guide them.

He had listened to Craig Bostic report to Admiral Siegel after taking out a man named Osmani, so he knew exactly how to proceed. Along with video and sensor arrays, which had become commonplace around protected sites, Bostic had also faced human deterrents. He had chosen to pick off the two guards patrolling the grounds by drawing each into an ambush, one by one.

So why wouldn’t Browning follow his lead? Why not crib from a master commando who possessed the exact same capabilities as Browning did? He could have managed the mission without copying Bostic’s tactics, but when the universe provides, why not take advantage?

And the universe had really been outdoing itself lately.

At some point he was probably going to have to find Bostic and remove him from the board, but this didn’t seem urgent. Bostic might possess implants and mind reading, but he didn’t possess the blueprints for either, so he was less of a threat to Browning’s plans.

Browning’s helicopter landed in a small clearing in the woods after he had indicated that no one was watching. The clearing was twenty miles from Victor’s compound, but more importantly, only a hundred yards from a company situated on a dirt lot that rented rugged off-road vehicles for those who liked to camp and explore. Browning rented a large SUV while his team, dressed like the commandos they were, waited out of sight in the woods.

The group then made their way to within two miles of the compound—one and a half miles from where the sensor and video array began. While they hiked on foot to the start of the sensors, missile launchers in tow, Browning read minds, discussed strategy with his men, and made plans.

Victor had eight men patrolling the grounds, all heavily armed. This was double the force Browning had brought, but Victor could have had twenty men and it wouldn’t have helped him.

Victor was in the main structure in the center of the compound, and Browning could see the legendary Nick Hall through Victor’s eyes, out cold as expected. Browning tried to read Hall but couldn’t even locate his mind. Reading a man who was asleep was one thing, reading one who was in coma or knocked out with drugs was another.

He read of the arrangement Victor and Hall had come to with fascination. Victor’s mind was a treasure trove that he wished he had hours to peruse, but as it was he had other jobs to attend to.

One of the eight guards was babysitting Hall’s love interest in the next building over. She was lying on a bed like Sleeping Beauty. Browning searched for her mind, and failed, confirming that she wasn’t just sleeping but knocked out, completely unconscious.

Victor wasn’t only gathering all the fish Browning prized and confining them to a barrel, he was dynamiting the barrel for him.

Browning had demonstrated his mind-reading capabilities to his mercenary soldiers when they had been hired, to keep them honest and so they would trust his orders in situations like this. They now followed single file behind him as he navigated the minefield of invisible sensors.

He hadn’t been able to discover the exact placements of the sensors in Victor’s mind, since the man hadn’t bothered to commit these to memory, but he was able to learn Victor’s computer passwords and exactly where a GPS map of the array could be found. Browning’s implants converted this into the precise route needed to evade them in seconds.

Bostic had been right when he told Admiral Siegel that having implants and mind reading was the ultimate cheat. That it made things too easy.

But in Browning’s book, there was nothing wrong with too easy. Besides, he didn’t plan to hoard this capability, at least not the mind reading. So, yes, right now he was a sighted man in the kingdom of the blind, but soon enough he would level the playing field, give the gift of sight to the kingdom, elevating the species to his level.

Well . . . almost. No one would ever be quite at his level.

As it was, Craig Bostic’s strategy of stealing passwords and e-mail addresses to breach secure communications systems and lure men out to the periphery into a series of stealthy ambushes was inspired.

Browning checked the time in his mind’s eye. Four o’clock. This gave them forty minutes to wipe out eight guards and capture Victor before Hall was revived, and in time to properly greet Hall’s THT colleagues in the incoming helicopter.

Seemed a daunting task, but Browning was confident he could do it in twenty.

Browning couldn’t be prouder of the plan he had put together on short notice. Taking down THT’s core team would be the easy part. The challenge would come in escaping from the scene and living to tell about it.

So his second wave was ready and standing by fifteen miles away. Two teams of four, each in their own civilian helicopters. Not that the arsenal they carried inside could ever be mistaken for civilian.

Browning would accomplish this mission in two stages. First he would take over the compound using his abilities and small four-man force. Once he had control he would eliminate all THT personnel, hopefully without need for messy missiles, although that remained to be seen.

All of this would be done in the woods, out of easy sight. The president and Admiral Siegel wouldn’t be sure when anyone from the team would be able to report back, so they would tread cautiously until they got a read on what was happening.

Ironically, based on what he had overheard of Cochran’s meeting with Girdler and Siegel, the president’s response time to get a ground force to Victor’s compound would be embarrassingly slow. Still, they wouldn’t stop hunting anyone who emerged from the area, so he decided to provide them with a decoy to chase, create a smokescreen for himself.

About a quarter past five, Browning would contact his second wave, tell them he and his team had disabled Victor’s defenses and were heading for their helo twenty miles away. But this second part would be a lie, to throw off any future interrogators. Instead, he and his team would be hiding out in the tunnel system Victor always put in place, which Browning had verified once he had been within mind-reading range.

Then, his second wave would hit. He would reprogram Victor’s air defenses to let these helos through, and they would machine gun and bomb the entire compound into rubble.

He had purposely kept these men in the dark, and they would have no idea that they were being made scapegoats, and that two of the most powerful men in the world would be watching. Once finished, they would race off, like sleek red foxes, irresistible bait for the many hounds an outraged president and admiral would send.

Browning wasn’t even close to being on Cochran’s or Siegel’s radar, and they would have no idea who had carried out the attack or why. Once the situation had settled down, even if this took days, Browning and his team would emerge from the tunnels, safely off the radar.

He hated the necessity of wasting the men in his second wave, but he had read their minds, and they would never come close to making it into the paradise he would create. Even so, they were playing a critical role, and history would honor their sacrifice.

Most importantly, they were expendable. Because very soon now, his organization would be orders of magnitude larger, and he would have more mercenaries than he would ever need.

59

Megan Emerson had entered the bowels of hell. She feared for her own life, the life of the man she loved, and the lives of close friends and colleagues. And all the while she pretended to be unconscious, with nothing to do for an interminable period of time but worry and try not to lose her mind as unscratchable itches continued to plague her, arising only after she had realized this might be an issue. These were likely not only her last hours on Earth, but also her longest.

She heard several hard raps on the closed bedroom door. The guard who was in the room with her, playing video games on his phone, hastily put the device in his pocket and walked the few steps necessary to reach the door.

“Del, it’s Vaughn,” said a deep male voice outside. “Victor sent me to give you a break.”

Megan opened her eyes a few millimeters, enough to have a tiny slit of sight while her eyes still looked closed, grateful that something was happening to distract her from her purgatory.

Her guard, apparently named Del, tilted his head in thought. “I don’t know any Vaughn,” he said.

“Yeah you do,” said the man at the door. “I’m one of three local hires Victor introduced you to just before you took off with him to collect the prisoners. Remember? I’m the good-looking one,” he added in amusement. “Vaughn.”

“Right,” said Del, as though a light had just come on in his head.

He opened the door and two beefy men charged into the room. One shoved a hand over Del’s mouth and pushed him back against the wall while the other shot him once in the chest with a silenced gun.

The man who had been guarding Megan slid to the floor with a blank expression while blood soaked his clothing and ran onto the floor.

Megan flexed in shock and barely managed to stifle a gasp.

Were these men allies, here to rescue her? It seemed likely, but they could have incapacitated her guard without killing him, so their behavior was suspicious. She decided to pretend to be out just a little longer until she had a better sense of what was going on.

A third man strolled into the room, different than the other two. Softer. Where they were physically imposing, he was the opposite. And something about him was a little off, in an undefinable way.

“Good work,” he said to the others. “Eight down—none to go. Victor is now the only man left standing.”

The newcomer shifted his gaze to her. “So this is the famous Megan Emerson,” he said. He glanced at his two associates. “This is quite some woman,” he told them. “As far as I know, she slept her way into the heart of a very special man and into the upper echelon of the most  powerful Black Ops organization in America. What do you think of her?” he asked. “She’s cute enough, I guess. But she’s hardly anything special.”

Both men shrugged, not responding to the question. “What do you want us to do with her?” said the man who had called himself Vaughn.

“Leave her for now,” replied the diminutive newcomer, obviously in charge. “I’ve read Schmidt’s and Hulsey’s minds, and they’re in position outside of Victor’s quarters. Victor is still inside with Hall, completely unaware that the men who were protecting him are all dead. But it’s best to capture him before he catches on.”

A chill traveled through Megan’s entire body. Who was this man? Could he really read minds? She could direct a telepathic message his way to find out for sure, but that would tip him off that she was conscious.

“We should at least tie her up,” said Vaughn. “You know better than me that she’s only pretending to be asleep.”

The smaller man smiled and shook his head. “Believe me, she’s out colder than if she got hit in the head with a baseball bat. When she starts to come to, I’ll know it, and I’ll send you to retrieve her.”

“I could have sworn I saw her jump when Johnson shot this guy.”

“Just your imagination. Trust me, there are bronze statues that have more mental activity going on inside than this one.”

The man who had pretended to be Vaughn came forward, put both of his hands on Megan’s shoulder, and shook her roughly for several of the longest seconds she had ever experienced. He studied her for a few seconds more and then nodded. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “Must have just been my imagination.”

60

Victor checked the time. It was a little after four twenty. It wouldn’t be long now.

He was of mixed emotions. He would relish the death of Justin Girdler, but this Nick Hall had reacted to his plight with unexpected poise and intelligence. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he found himself instinctively liking the man. This wouldn’t change the outcome, but it would change how he felt about it.

He produced a vial containing a reversal agent that would bring Hall back to life fairly quickly and drew up five cc’s in a plastic syringe. He placed it carefully on a small table, out of the way, for when it would be needed.

As he was returning to his computer to finish up what he’d been doing, the door burst open, exploding from its hinges. Before he could react, four men streamed through carrying automatic weapons, pointed in his direction.

“Freeze!” the first one shouted as he entered.

Victor’s eyes widened. Who were these intruders? And where were his men?

The answer to these questions strolled through the entrance to his office like the grand marshal in a parade.

“Troy Browning?” said Victor in disbelief, his mind racing to make sense of it all. “I thought we had a deal to part company,” he continued in English. “Forever. At your insistence.”

“You agreed not to come after me,” said Browning. “I, however, never agreed not to come after you.”

“You son of a bitch!” barked Victor. “What do you want?”

Browning motioned to the man closest to his prisoner. “Disarm him and do the zip-tie thing,” he ordered. He produced a small electronic device with a blinking light on top, about the size of a bottle-cap. “And put this in his pocket. He has a gun in the small of his back, another holstered to his right ankle, and a knife strapped to his left ankle.”

He nodded to a second man. “Schmidt, remove the gun he has in the top drawer of his desk and the one hidden in the potted plant,” he added, gesturing toward a large Ficus tree in the corner of the room.

Browning turned back toward Victor, who was now being disarmed while multiple automatic rifles remained pointed at him. “Some would say this many weapons in such a small space is overkill, but I’ve come to admire your preparedness and professionalism.”

“So you turned yourself into a mind reader,” said Victor in disgust. “Good for you. At least you’re getting unvarnished insight into the contempt I have for you.”

“I’m getting a lot more than that, Victor. A lot more.”

Browning quickly instructed his men to wait outside, which Victor took to mean two things. One, with his mental abilities and Victor’s restraints, he didn’t feel the need for any backup, and two, he wanted to be able to speak freely. Perhaps he would say something Victor could use to turn his bodyguards against him.

“None of what I say to you will turn my men against me,” said Browning, sounding almost bored. “Not that I’d let you try. I would read your intent and make sure you were gagged.”

Victor frowned deeply. It was instinctive for him to plot against an enemy, but this was the worst thing he could do when his enemy could read his mind.

“What did you put in my pocket?” demanded Victor.

“You killed Wi-Fi in this room so Hall couldn’t use his implants to communicate,” said Browning. “I knew you’d make this move. Impressive, right?” he added, tapping his index finger against his skull to indicate he had thought of everything. “Anyway, since I’d like to use my implants, I brought a device that only blocks signals for a few feet. As long as it’s in your pocket, I can use my implants, but you can’t use yours.”

He walked over to Victor’s desk and made a show of disabling a device the size of a cell phone that had been blocking Wi-Fi in the room. “That’s better,” he said with a grin.

“Why are you here?” demanded Victor.

Browning laughed. “Almost by invitation,” he replied. “Imagine my delight when I overheard what you had done. You’re the only one who knows about me, and who also has the blueprint for mind reading and implants. And I’m what you might call a control freak. Which is where Jesus went wrong. He was a little bit too hands-off.”

“Where Jesus went wrong?” repeated Victor in disdain. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Not important. What is important is that I realized I needed you dead or contained. And THT had to go, also, of course. They’re the only real threat to me, especially with this guy in the mix,” he added, nodding toward the unconscious Nick Hall lying on Victor’s couch.

Victor shook his head in disgust, an emotion directed at himself as much as at Browning. He had always had a bad feeling about the man. He should have factored him into the equation, anticipated that this scrawny asshole, emboldened by ESP, might come after him.

“I don’t appreciate the term, ‘scrawny asshole’” said Browning, almost in amusement, “but aside from that, you’re being too hard on yourself, Victor.  I’m a key player in the transformation of humanity. It’s not easy to see me coming, especially when fate is so strongly in my corner.”

“So I wrapped THT’s core team into a neat little package and tied a bow around it, didn’t I?” said Victor. “And around myself. It was as good as an invitation,” he added miserably. “A dog whistle calling you here.”

“Again, don’t be too hard on yourself. You sent an invite that only a mind reader who could beat your security could accept.” Browning shook his head in wonder. “But you really, truly provided for me—in every way possible. For example, if you hadn’t made sure Nick Hall was out cold, I couldn’t have done it. He’d have been able to see my attack coming.”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Or at least I think he would have,” he continued. “Haven’t yet tried that experiment. Can two mind readers read each other, or do their own abilities provide a shield? I’m almost tempted to let Hall wake up to find out.” A smile came over his face and he shook his head. “Almost,” he added.

“If you’re going to kill me,” said Victor defiantly, “get on with it. Or are you going to talk me to death?”

“You know, I’ve been studying you now for a while, even before I got to see your extraordinary planning skills in action during the Dennis Sargent operation. I’ve really come to admire you. I even decided to emulate you, at least with respect to building an organization off the grid. So why don’t you come work for me?”

“You knew my answer before you even asked the question. Why waste your breath?”

“I strongly suspected what your answer would be, but I didn’t know for sure. It’s easy for me to fish out memories and intent, but it’s impossible to know for certain what you’ll answer to a question that’s never been posed to you before. So just for the sake of completeness, would you refuse to work for me, even to save your own life?”

Victor didn’t bother to respond.

“I was afraid of that,” said Browning. “No matter, you’ll help me anyway. You don’t have a choice. I read in your mind that only you, Eduardo Alvarez, and your son know anything about the data stick you stole from Sargent. So once I make sure they’re both dead—which I will do very soon—I’ll be the only one other than President Cochran with access.”

“You got lucky with me,” growled Victor icily. “You won’t get lucky with them.”

Browning simply smiled. “You have no idea just how thoroughly I read your mind on the hike here. I know where they are, and where they’re going to be. I know where they’ll head in a moment of crisis. I can find them now as easily as you’d be able to do. Even if you could use your implants to warn them I’m coming, it wouldn’t matter.”

“Agree to keep them out of this and I’ll work for you.”

“Interesting. Everyone has their Achilles’ heel. Nick Hall’s weakness is Megan Emerson. And you’re vulnerable when it comes to Lucas and Eduardo. Everyone has someone who can be used as leverage against them. Everyone, that is, except me.”

“I wouldn’t be proud of that if I were you.”

“Well you’re not me!” spat Browning. “And I am proud of it.”

He paused, and then continued in a more measured tone. “But getting back to your offer, I’m afraid I have to decline. You’d be doing this under duress, so even without ESP I’d know you’d turn on me the first chance you got. And I don’t need your cooperation. I can mine you for information any time I want, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“For what purpose?”

“I’m disappointed that you don’t see it yet. There’s a reason for everything, including why our paths crossed in the first place. It was to help me achieve my goals. I’m planning to build up off-the-grid infrastructure just like you’ve done. I’ve even purchased one of your old holdings in Colorado. And it has occurred to me, why should I reinvent the wheel when you’ve already done such a masterful job?”

He waited for his prisoner to fully grasp the implications, which he did in seconds. “You think you can just waltz in and take over my organization and holdings?” said Victor.

“That’s exactly what I think,” said Browning. “That’s exactly what I’ll do. A perfect short-cut. And I can succeed without your help or consent. All I need to do is to keep you handy. I can keep you in a gilded cage or a dungeon, that all depends on you. But regardless, your mind becomes a giant intelligent database I can access at my leisure.”

He raised his eyebrows. “A database that contains details of all of your holdings. Bank account information and where all the money and assets are hidden. And I also get to tap into your experience. No one can know your own people and operation better than you do. As long as I keep you alive I can raid your mind whenever I want—no cooperation necessary. I’ll quickly be accepted as the man holding the reins of your organization, with bank accounts and knowledge to match.”

Victor was utterly horrified, almost as much as he had been when he thought his own son was about to kill him. But this wouldn’t turn out to be an act. This would be real. And he would be helpless to stop it.

And then it occurred to him that he would have one way out, after all.

Browning shook his head in disappointment. “Really, Victor?” he said. “You don’t think I’ll make sure you stay healthy and alive, even if I have to strap you down and feed you through an IV? I’m not about to let you take your own life. You know what the Bible says,” he continued. “Suicide makes Jesus cry.”

He grinned. “That might not be an actual passage,” he added in amusement, “but the Christian religion does frown on suicide. Despite the fact that Jesus let himself be killed when he didn’t have to, which amounts to the same thing.”

“What’s your thing with Jesus?” said Victor.

“He’s a pretender, and it annoys me. You see, I’m the real deal.”

Browning went on to explain how he had been chosen by the universe, by fate, to right the ship of humanity, to save it from itself and transform the species, and his grand vision of letting mind reading unite the world.

“I’m sure you read my mind while you were sharing your demented ravings,” said Victor when he finished. “So you know that I’m convinced that you’re a total lunatic—clinically insane.”

Browning smiled. “I’d almost be worried if you didn’t think that,” he said. “It’s like asking an engineer to believe in a perpetual motion machine. Even those who believe Jesus was the savior acknowledge that this wasn’t widely appreciated at the time.”

“You’re a fool,” said Victor in disgust. “And your grand destiny is monumentally misguided. You’ve got it exactly backwards, like only a nut-job of your caliber could do. You’re giving a superpower to wolves and sheep, and you think the sheep will inherit the earth once the carnage is through? The opposite, clown boy. You won’t purify the species. You’ll just ensure that only the most ruthless survive.”

“No!” shouted Browning. “The good souls of the world will see the love in one another. They’ll band together. The evil souls of the world will pillage from them, true, along with everyone else. But once they’ve taken what they will, the wolves will have no more use for the sheep. They’ll have no reason to kill them, and every reason to wage war against their fellow wolves.”

“They’ll see the love in one another? Did you really just say that? Could you possibly be more of a fool, or more delusional?”

“If I’m such a fool,” said Browning coolly, showing unexpected composure, “then what does that make you? Seems I’ve done pretty well for myself. And I’ll be the fool who inherits everything you’ve built over an entire lifetime. I don’t expect you to appreciate just what I am. I’m too far beyond you. But even you have to admit the situation I find myself in right now smacks of a greater destiny. You think all of this would have fallen into my lap so perfectly if fate wasn’t lending a hand?”

Victor sighed. “I thought fate was on my side once, also. When Justin Girdler came to me out of the blue with ten thousand sets of BrainWeb implants. And you know exactly how well that transaction turned out. Unlikely things do happen. What seems like divine fate can be nothing but good luck. And what looks like good luck can reveal itself to be the opposite very quickly.”

“Hold that thought,” said Browning. “Time has been marching forward, and General Girdler’s going to want proof of life any minute. I fully intend to give it to him.”

“You’re going to revive Hall?”

“Of course not. But I’m betting I can get them here anyway. Pretending that I’m you.” He shrugged. “And if not, I brought a few ground-to-air missiles that will do the job nicely.”

61

The helo hovered at the requested distance and Justin Girdler checked his watch for the fifth time. It was now ten before five, on the nose. Victor ran his operations with great precision and Girdler expected him to be punctual.

He continued to stare at his phone as if it might explode.

A chime sounded. It was from the number Nick had used to contact him earlier, but this time it was only a text message.

“It’s a long text from Victor,” he announced to his fellow passengers through their comms. “It reads as follows.” He cleared his throat. “Hello, General. Welcome to you and your three THT colleagues. We agreed to proof of life at this point before you landed at my compound, but I’ve decided to make a minor modification. I realized I didn’t need to awaken Hall to prove he’s still alive and unharmed. You’ve shown yourself to be too good of a team. With him conscious, who knows what kind of plan you could come up with to wriggle off the hook. So I’ve attached some footage with a time stamp from just a minute ago showing Hall in good condition, and the rise and fall of his chest. Alex Altschuler and Drew Russell can both verify that the footage hasn’t been doctored. I still plan to honor our agreement and trust this change doesn’t affect things at your end. I have proven he’s alive, even if you don’t get a chance to chat with him. But this is your call. If this change worries you, by all means, turn around and go back. No need to contact me. Just know that Nick Hall and Megan Emerson will pay the price if you haven’t landed at the location and time specified.”

Girdler handed his phone to the two grim-faced scientists, who ran the footage of the unconscious Hall and then sent it to a program in the cloud, which confirmed the time-stamp was accurate.

“Would it be repetitive of me to say this is total bullshit!” said Mike Campbell.

“Just when we thought this couldn’t smell any worse,” said Altschuler. “So what now?”

The general looked out of the window and down at the forest, as though the beauty of nature might inspire him. “Any hope we had that Nick was orchestrating events as part of a master plan are gone,” he said, turning back to his fellow passengers. “No way he’ll be able to make lemonade this time. Which is what Victor wants to ensure. Once again, he’s smart to keep Nick unconscious.”

“We hoped Nick might have a plan,” said Campbell, “but we knew it was a longshot. So we were always forced to trust Victor. Nick did, after all, and that’s still good enough for me.”

“So we go forward, is that what you’re suggesting?” said Drew Russell. “That the odds of this being a suicide mission are still about the same as they’ve always been.”

“That’s what I’m suggesting,” said Campbell.

“I’m still in, too,” said Girdler. “Nick would be going forward if our lives were on the line. I’m sure of it.”

Altschuler sighed. “I agree. So I’m still in too. At least Heather isn’t with us.”

“Which may explain why she’s not,” noted Girdler. “Drew?”

Russell shook his head. “Am I the only sane man here? You think peer pressure is strong enough to get me to agree to something that could easily get me killed?”

“It is pretty strong,” said Altschuler, allowing himself the hint of a smile, despite their desperate circumstances. “How many people have done boneheaded stunts on a dare?” he added. “But think of it this way: at least we’re doing our boneheaded stunt for a noble cause.”

“I really, really hate all of you,” said Russell, the color now completely drained from his face. “But I’m in. Who’d have ever thought that being beaten nearly to death would be an outcome I’d be praying for?” he added, looking as though he might die from the stress before the helicopter even landed.

62

“Let me read to you the message I just sent to General Girdler,” said Troy Browning.

“I don’t care what you sent him,” said Victor.

“I’ll read it anyway,” said Browning, who proceeded to recite the message.

When he had finished he added, “Two of my men are monitoring the transponder on their helicopter. The other two have missile launchers on their shoulders, ready to fire at Girdler and friends if they make the wrong choice and begin to head back home. We’ll know for sure what they’ll decide in a minute. But what do you think? Will they keep coming? Or will they turn around?”

As much as Victor didn’t want to give Browning any credit, his ploy had been quite good, and lying to him wasn’t possible. “I think they’ll still come, yes,” he replied.

Just as Victor finished speaking he sensed motion behind him and saw Browning’s eyes widen as though he had seen a ghost.

A gunshot cracked near Victor’s ear, almost deafening in its thunder. At the same instant, Troy Browning screamed and slid down the wall he was standing against, a slug having punched through his upper left thigh.

“If your men take one step in our direction,” barked Megan Emerson, “you’re dead! Tell them! Get out your phone.”

Browning was dazed from the pain and the impossibility of what was happening. “No phone,” he rasped out, his face contorted in agony. “I have implants.”

Megan looked surprised for just an instant, but recovered quickly. “Then tell them!” she screamed. “Or do I have to shoot your other leg?”

“Okay!” replied Browning. “I told them. They’ll hold their positions. Just don’t shoot.”

Victor shook his head to clear it, almost as stunned as Browning. Based on what had just happened, Nick Hall was the luckiest man alive. If fate really was looking out for the man destined to save the species, one could argue that this man wasn’t Troy Browning, but the other mind reader in the room.

Megan Emerson was immune from mind reading, Victor realized in fascination. It was the only way she could have surprised Browning. That was her role on the ESP team. He should have guessed. And it was the only way she could maintain a romantic relationship with Hall.

“Two of your men were pointing missile launchers toward the sky,” continued Megan, and Victor realized she must have been able to slip past Browning’s men because they were preoccupied tracking Girdler’s helo. “Tell them to stand down! You’re just as dead if they launch a single one!”

Browning nodded. “No missiles,” he said quickly. “They’ve got it.”

“Who are you?” she demanded. “And how can you read minds?”

“You don’t have time for Q and A,” said Victor rapidly. “His name is Troy Browning—ex-NSA. There’s a lot going on that you don’t know about, but your friends will be landing in a clearing outside in just a few minutes. They’ll be unarmed and helpless. Browning’s men will kill them, which will tilt the balance of power too much in their favor.”

“Why would you help me?” she asked Victor suspiciously.

Victor held out his bound wrists and nodded toward his bound ankles, which were also tied to a heavy chair. “Because this asshole took me prisoner,” he replied hastily, and then he rushed through the rest of what he had to say in a single breath. “And he doesn’t just plan to kill you and your team, but also my son and a man who’s like a brother to me. If we don’t stop him now, we never will. So let’s work together. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Cut me loose and let me help you and I’ll never come after any of you again. You have my word.”

Victor finally gasped in a breath and continued. “Let me save my son—and your friends. Trust me.”

Megan hesitated. “Keep helping me and I’ll decide if I want to free you.”

“Fair enough,” he replied. He reached awkwardly into his front pocket, wrists bound, and extended his fingers, clumsily removing a small device. “First, put this in his pocket. Quickly! This will kill his implants so he can’t communicate further with his men.”

Megan took it from the tech dealer and tossed it on Browning’s lap. “Touch it and I’ll shoot your hand off!” she warned him.

“Good,” said Victor. “Second, we need Hall.” He gestured to a table against the far wall where a filled syringe had been sitting for some time now. “Stab him with that and shove the plunger all the way down. It will counteract the knockout drug I gave him in about five minutes. Hurry!” he implored her.

Megan rushed to the table and did as he said.

“There’s a cell phone in my top drawer,” said Victor the moment she had finished. This was the phone he had given Hall to call Girdler, one immune from the suppressor signals that had blocked Hall’s implants. “Bring it over here, put it on speaker, and hit redial.”

She did what he asked without hesitation.

Girdler answered on the first ring.

“General, this is Victor,” the tech merchant shouted into the phone as Megan held it below him. “You can’t land where we agreed! Repeat, do not land at the agreed upon coordinates! The recent text was from someone else, not me. A mind reader other than Hall. Four commandos are waiting for you at the landing site with orders to kill! Land as close to my compound as you can, but make sure you aren’t captured. We can’t have you being used as hostages.”

“What kind of mind game are you playing at, Victor?” demanded Girdler.

“No game. Megan is right here with me. We’ve forged a truce—one that encompasses THT. A group of hostiles have raided my compound and put down eight of my men. I’ve agreed never to touch any of you in exchange for us working together to kill these bastards.”

“Trust him, General!” shouted Megan. “We really do have a mind reader here. I’m sure. I have him at gunpoint, but the four mercs Victor mentioned are real, and they also have two shoulder-fired missile launchers ready to fire in case you turn around.”

“Understood,” said Girdler, the anxiety in his voice intensifying. “Looking for a landing site now. Okay, Victor, we’re a team—for the time being.”

“Good. I’ll leave you to concentrate on getting your asses on the ground. But Hall will be conscious and reading minds shortly. He can contact you with further instructions. ”

“Roger that,” said Girdler as the connection ended and Megan slipped the phone into her pocket.

She found a pair of sharp scissors and handed them to Victor. “You’ve earned your freedom,” she said as he began sawing through the hardened plastic, a task that would likely take several minutes to complete.

“What now?” she asked him as he worked to free himself.

“You’ve got to kill Browning!” he said emphatically. “Not a second to waste. Take aim and put him down!”

“He’s our only leverage,” said Megan. “If we kill him, there’s nothing to prevent his men from killing us. Besides, I’m not in the habit of killing people in cold blood.”

“We’re better off taking our chances. This guy is too dangerous to let live for an instant longer. Kill him while we still have the chance,” he pleaded.

Browning rose from the floor, steadying himself on one leg while his other leg continued to bleed. Megan backed away, the gun still on him.

“Don’t listen to him,” said Browning. “Kill me and you’ll never leave here alive.”

Before she could reply, Browning’s eyes went wild and he charged, despite his bad leg, screaming like a madman, his actions leaving no doubt he wouldn’t stop until she was dead. Just as he was preparing to dive at her in desperation she pulled the trigger twice. His screams intensified as the slugs hit, but then instantly subsided as he crashed to the floor, blood pouring from two holes in his chest.

Megan lowered the gun in horror as Browning’s eyes shut and he stopped moving altogether.

“I didn’t have any choice,” she stammered at Victor, her voice thick with emotion.

“I know,” he replied as he finished severing his last restraint. “Trust me, it’s for the best,” he added, and his face reflected nothing but relief. “We need to leave before one of Browning’s men decide to bust in here.”

Megan nodded, still shaking from what had just happened. “Take this,” she said, handing him the gun. “You have more experience.”

“Where did you get it?” he said, taking the offered weapon.

“From the body of the man they killed in my room.”

Victor nodded. “We’ll leave through that bookcase,” he said, gesturing toward a floor-to-ceiling model in the southwest corner of his office. “It swivels out to reveal a hidden doorway into a system of branching tunnels.”

He hovered over Hall’s unconscious body on the couch. “Help me lift him up so we can drag him with us.”

Megan did as he requested. “A hidden passageway behind a bookcase?” she said, grunting from the exertion of lifting Hall to his feet. “Isn’t that a little cliché?”

“Would you have guessed it was there?” replied Victor as they began to haul their precious cargo toward the tall oak bookcase, one on each side.

Megan allowed the flicker of a smile to cross her face. “You might be right,” she said. “It’s so obvious that it isn’t obvious anymore.”

63

The moment the bookcase slid back into place, Troy Browning flung the small Wi-Fi disruptor device away from him. Being shot twice at near point-blank range had caused him to stumble backwards before falling in close proximity to the device once again.

The advanced vest he was wearing, impossible to spot, had saved his life. But while it had prevented the bullets from penetrating, and had bled convincingly enough to sell that he was dead, no tech could nullify the enormous force of the blows. The shots had felt like two sledge hammers crashing into his chest. He was certain several of his ribs were broken, and the vest hadn’t protected his leg at all.

Playing dead when all he wanted to do was either shriek or moan had required extraordinary willpower, and he was proud he had the courage to charge the girl when he knew she would shoot him—knew he had to force her to shoot him. At all costs.

If she had refused to kill him as Victor had been insisting, the tech merchant would have taken matters into his own hands—this was as clear as day in his mind. And Victor was seconds away from freeing himself. Unlike her, Victor would have shot him in the head.

Browning fought to pull himself together and get his mind working again, but the pain was all-consuming, excruciating, the worst he had ever experienced by a considerable measure. He contacted his men using his implants and directed them to come inside and administer first aid, even though this would only be a stopgap. He had lost considerable blood and needed expert medical attention.

But that could wait. If he could keep his head, fight through the agony, he could go for several more hours, making sure his goals were still met.

He contacted the two helicopters that comprised his second assault wave, about the time they had expected, but for a different purpose. Instead of commencing a devastating air assault on the compound he had rendered defenseless, he ordered them to land nearby and await further orders.

Browning’s four mercenary soldiers rushed into the room to find him propped up against a wall, grimacing in pain. One had been trained as a medic and removed a first aid kit from his rucksack and began to work on his boss’s leg.

“Go after them!” Browning instructed the other three mercs, wincing in pain from the effort of speaking. “And kill them!”

Browning changed tactics. Instead of speaking out loud to his men, he decided  to think words at his implants and have them transmit a facsimile of his voice into their earpieces. “They went through a hidden passageway behind the bookcase,” he continued. “Press down on the onyx bookend, the one shaped like a horse’s head.”

Browning told them that Victor and Megan were dragging an unconscious Nick Hall along, but decided against warning them that Hall would be conscious and reading minds any second, or that they were armed. Why make them hesitant? If one or more of them lost their lives while exterminating their quarry, these were acceptable losses.

“They’re unarmed,” continued Browning. “I can read their minds and direct you. In a few minutes our two other helos will land, each with four reinforcements. If you haven’t finished the job by the time our friends land, I’ll send them into the tunnels from the other side.”

The three soldiers headed for the bookcase.

“Last thing,” said Browning, just before they left the room. “No mercy. Especially for Sleeping Beauty. I want all of their heads on a platter, and I want that bitch to suffer most of all.”

As Browning’s men cautiously slipped into the tunnel, the medic continued to work on his leg, cleaning the wound, spraying wound-healing foam, and applying compressed bandages. There wasn’t much that could be done about his broken ribs.

Browning did his best to ignore the stabs of pain that accompanied his every breath, despite the painkillers he had been given, and digest what had happened.

Megan Emerson had been a wildcard he couldn’t have possibly seen coming. She wasn’t just window dressing after all, but some kind of mutant who was resistant to mind reading.

How did the reality of humans who were resistant to ESP alter his plans? Even beyond this, he needed to consider this current reversal of fortune in a broader context. Should he rethink his entire strategy? Was Victor right that releasing mind reading to the world would do the opposite of what he thought? Was this fate’s way of telling him he was on the wrong course?

Impossible, he quickly decided. This couldn’t be true. More likely it had happened because this had all fallen into his lap too easily. Fate wanted to test his mettle, have him prove himself.

What was the point in being superior if you never faced a challenge that was worthy of this superiority? How could a savior be fully respected if he hadn’t overcome grueling obstacles worthy of his divinity? Hercules had faced twelve labors. Even Jesus’ run hadn’t been a walk in the park.

Browning’s brilliant move in forcing a woman to shoot him to stay alive would become the stuff of legend. Effortless victories wouldn’t be what defined him, it would be the challenges he had overcome, the struggles and sacrifices he had endured to create an improved, united humanity.

He had much to ponder, but was in no shape to do so now. At the moment he needed to devote all of his ebbing energy to staying alive.

And to finishing the job he had come here to do.

64

Hall came awake with a start to find himself being dragged by Megan and Victor through an unfinished, dimly lit tunnel, about nine feet wide.

Highly charged emotional thoughts battered at him from everywhere, all fighting to be heard at the same time. It was like waking from a sound sleep into the middle of a raging warzone.

He gasped and fell to the ground, slipping through the grasp of the two people transporting him.

“Nick? Are you okay?” said Megan anxiously, but he held out a forestalling hand, and both she and Victor remained silent as he began to assimilate the situation. So much to catch up on, so many perspectives to examine, and so little time.

Megan and Victor? Working together? How had they come to see each other as allies?

Hall reached out to read all of the minds in his vicinity and was stunned by how much had changed since Victor had knocked him unconscious. One mind jumped out from the rest, a mind he didn’t recognize, but one that stood in stark relief to all others, like a blazing neon red in a sea of pastel watercolors.

Troy Browning, the ex-NSA scientist he had learned about while reading Victor earlier.

He was now a mind reader himself!

He had used the data Victor had stolen from Dennis Sargent. He had demonstrated that Hall’s psionic abilities were repeatable, that the recipe worked as expected.

And the man’s aura was neon for a reason. Hall could read in Browning’s mind that Hall stood out just as starkly to him, a beacon in the night. Apparently, this is how one mind reader appeared to another.

Hall raced through Browning’s mind, eerily aware as he did that the ex-NSA scientist was doing the same thing to him. He could read Browning reading him reading Browning, like multiple reflections in a row of funhouse mirrors.

But Hall was doing it better. He could explore a mind much faster and more efficiently than Browning. He was the more experienced at mining thoughts, and Browning was injured and suffering, hanging on by a thread.

Hall wasted no time on details, skimming through pertinent information like a speed reader turning a page every few seconds. Victor hadn’t known Browning’s motivations, but Hall discovered them in a horrifying flash.

He sucked out the essentials of Browning’s capture of the compound. Of his encounter with Victor. Of Megan’s heroic intervention.

He read how Victor had come to be working with Megan and THT, and how Browning had fooled Megan and Victor into leaving him for dead just minutes earlier.

Hall gasped once again. “Fire your gun!” he whispered frantically to Victor. “Anywhere! Now!”

Victor fired several shots straight down into the hard clay of the tunnel floor.

“Follow me,” whispered Hall, having read the tunnel layout in Victor’s mind. “I’m taking us to the nearest exit. We need to get topside quickly. I’ll explain while we move.”

Hall rushed off into the left branch of the tunnel with the other two in tow, taking care to move as quietly as possible. “Browning is wearing a high-tech vest,” he whispered softly as they continued. “Body armor. He’s alive. He sent three men after us, but told them we were unarmed. They were closing in.”

“So you had me fire to make sure they knew we had a gun,” whispered Victor. “Make them think twice about blindly turning corners.”

“Exactly.”

“Why not ambush them?” asked Victor.

“It would still be three men with automatic weapons against one man with a handgun,” replied Hall, still in hushed tones. “Safer to slow them down, make them think twice. Browning is trying to get them to continue on now, insisting that we only have a handgun. Given that we proved his previous assurances a lie, they aren’t inclined to blindly take his word.”

They hit an incline and after a gradual nine-foot increase in elevation they emerged from the tunnel in a thickly wooded section of the forest behind a wall of spruce trees. Along with a sprinkling of oaks, their leaves having just turned a striking orange color, the forest was thick with towering conifers, many that would have made spectacular Christmas trees for a race of giants.

“Let’s move,” said Hall as he began to hurriedly pick his way through the trees.

“So you and Browning can read each other’s minds?” said Victor.

“That’s right,” said Hall.

He paused, as though listening. “Browning’s almost managed to convince the three mercs in the tunnel to keep coming. Eight more of his men will be landing any minute.”

“How do you see our chances?” asked Victor.

“Not good,” replied Hall with a frown. “Browning is injured and fading—not at full mental strength, by any means—but he can’t be underestimated. He has twelve men armed to the teeth and can direct them after reading our minds. I’m at full mental strength, but there are only seven of us, and we currently only have a single gun. Of our seven, we only have three experienced warriors—Girdler, Campbell, and you.”

“At this point, I’d put you and Megan into that category,” said Victor.

“Hold up,” said Hall. “We’ve gained breathing room from the mercs after us, but the one who stayed behind to patch Browning is running through the woods now. He’ll be closing in on Girdler and the others soon. I have to warn them.”

Hall read that his friends were all wearing earpieces and the frequency he needed to use to reach them. “Hello to all,” he transmitted to the group.

They were relieved to hear his implant-generated voice and greeted him enthusiastically.

“There’s a hostile approaching your position from the south,” he told them. “He has a machine gun, but his orders are to capture you if possible. The mind reader leading their side, Troy Browning, hopes to use you as leverage against me, but this makes things more challenging for them.”

“Troy Browning who worked for the NSA, Troy Browning?” said Altschuler in shock.

“Yes,” said Hall. “You know him?”

“Yes. So does Drew. He does what we do. He’s one of the best in the world. Not as good as he thinks he is, but since he has delusions of grandeur and a god complex, that would be impossible.”

“That’s him,” said Hall. “More deluded and dangerous than ever. I’ll direct you so you can avoid the merc Browning sent after you, but he’ll be sending others as soon as they land. I’ll know what all of his people are thinking and where they’re going, but he’ll know the same about us. This is going to get complicated.”

He paused. “We do have some advantages, at least for now,” he continued. “Like I said, their orders are to kill me and Megan, but only to capture you—provided we’re still at large. And it’s easier for me to track the thoughts of one man than it is for Browning to track four. He’s also badly wounded, so his mind’s not nearly at full capacity. He’ll be slower and sloppier than me, less able to juggle multiple thoughts and men.”

“That sounds promising,” said Campbell.

“It isn’t. We’ll soon be hopelessly outmanned and outgunned.”

Hall continued to feel the presence of Browning in his head as he directed the team away from the incoming soldier. This would be a battle for the history books. Two mind readers intercepting the thoughts of every player on the field and moving them around the forest like two grandmasters playing a twisted game of multi-dimensional chess.

“Browning’s reinforcements are now on the ground,” Hall announced out loud, so Victor and Megan would hear this news as well. “General, can I assume you’ve already contacted the president and filled him in?”

He could have read the answer from Girdler’s mind, but he was trying to keep track of Browning and any number of friendlies and hostiles alike, and his abilities couldn’t have been more overtaxed.

“Yes, just a few minutes ago,” replied the general. “Right after we landed and put some distance between us and the helo.”

“What’s the ETA on the cavalry?” asked Hall, glancing sidelong at Megan as he used this term.

“Thirty-five to forty minutes,” replied Girdler gravely.

“Are you kidding me!” shouted Hall. “We’re never going to last that long!”

“My fault,” said the general. “I discussed contingencies with the president and Admiral Siegel before leaving. You can read that discussion from my mind, but there were more complications than you’d think, and I didn’t press it.”

Hall realized that Browning had eavesdropped on the discussion to which Girdler was referring, so was more knowledgeable about the situation than Hall.

“And I ruled out air power and missile strikes myself,” continued Girdler. “You’d think the president could get troops to any place on the map in minutes, but it can be trickier than that, especially since we didn’t put any forces on high alert. A guerrilla war in the woods against a force led by someone other than Victor wasn’t something I imagined could happen.”

“I can’t fault you for that,” admitted Hall.

“To be honest, given what I know, the president is outdoing himself to get reinforcements here in less than an hour.”

“That’s great,” said Hall sarcastically. “Too bad they’re going to find nothing but our dead bodies when they get here.”

“We’ll just have to find a way to hold out until they arrive,” insisted Girdler.

Hall made sure his friends were out of harm’s way and signed off. He then brought Victor and Megan up to speed on Girdler’s end of the conversation, which he could do very quickly. They were screwed. Their would-be rescuers were apparently taking the scenic route.

“Nick, I need to go off on my own,” declared Megan when he had finished.

“What are you talking about?”

“I have to do it. I’m Browning’s only blind spot. But if I’m in sight of anyone on our team, he can pinpoint my location through them. I’ll be more effective on my own. I’m the only one in the game he can’t locate—for himself or his mercs. Including you, Nick.”

Hall’s stomach clenched. His emotions were demanding that he not let her go, but her logic was unassailable. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?” he said.

“Yes,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye, despite the circumstances. “Several times in front of Victor, even. He just stopped trying to kill you,” she added with a grin, “but one more time and he might just change his mind.”

This brought a smile to both men’s faces.

Nick became somber once more. “You’d better get going,” he said. “But be careful. And don’t try to be a hero.”

“Yeah, I’m afraid that the hero thing is the whole point of this,” she said with a wistful smile. She turned to Victor. “I need the gun back. Since I’m the invisible girl, I can make the best use of it.”

Victor thought for just a moment and carefully handed her the weapon.

“Thanks,” she said, and seconds later disappeared behind a large maple with bright red leaves and kept on moving.

“I can see why you’re in love with her,” said Victor. “She really is something special.”

Hall nodded. “You have no idea.”

“I’m going off on my own too,” said Victor. “I have some guns hidden here and there, and I need to try to recover one of them. You’re Browning’s priority at the moment, so he won’t be paying as much attention to me. But once I rearm, I’ll keep trying to help in any way I can.”

Hall nodded. “I know you will.”

“Of course you do,” said Victor with a wry smile. “Good luck,” he added, and Hall read that the man had developed considerable respect for him, which was only partly related to his psionic abilities.

65

Megan racked her brain, secure in the knowledge that she was the only player on the stage who could come up with a plan that couldn’t be intercepted.

Browning was injured, so he probably wasn’t too far from where she had left him. If he was taken out, the balance of power shifted dramatically in favor of the good guys. With him out of the picture, his forces would probably retreat. Even if they didn’t, once Hall was the only mind reader on the field, victory was only a matter of time, no matter how outgunned they were.

***

Hall was Browning’s chief target, so half of Browning’s forces were now assigned to him alone, sending him in constant motion. Hall’s THT colleagues were almost two miles away, and he continued to direct them even farther afield, his connection to them now continuous and his instructions more frequent.

“There’s too many of them,” he complained through his implants.

“What’s the current deployment?” said Mike Campbell, out of breath from the most recent Hall-directed sprint to safety they had made.

“Browning has retreated to a helicopter so he can escape if necessary. He’s kept two of his men back with him. But he’s assigned five men to me, and five to your group. Both sets are getting closer. His ability to keep up with me in the mind-reading department is slipping, which is the only thing keeping us alive.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” asked Altschuler.

“Meaning he continues to always know where we are, but not all at once. He can’t be in so many heads at the same time. He has to choose, or rotate through.”

“And you don’t?” said Altschuler.

“No, I do also, but I can do it faster and more efficiently. But at some point—soon—he’ll fashion a net that doesn’t have a single hole, and then mind reading won’t do us any good.”

“Would it help if we all split up?” asked Russell.

Hall considered. “I don’t think so. They can then pick you off one by one, and I’d be stretched too thin to help each of you effectively. But like I said, he’s juggling a lot of minds right now. And he’s in bad shape. Our best hope is that he continues to weaken.”

Hall extended his mind and located the players in the ever-constricting mosaic of trained mercenaries closing in from the woods on all sides. He issued additional directions to his four friends, but he was just prolonging the inevitable, and not for very much longer.

“I have a thought,” said Girdler. “You’re hoping Browning is in such bad shape he’ll soon fall over the edge. But what if we can help push him there?”

“I don’t follow,” said Hall. Usually he would have just read Girdler’s meaning, but he had to keep his mind open to many other minds at the same time and couldn’t spare a look.

“We know we’re in Browning’s head,” said Girdler. “But what if we get in his head. The most potent, visceral thoughts hit you like fingernails screeching across a chalkboard, right? Shouldn’t the same apply to him? You told me Kevin Wellman got your attention during the sarin op by focusing on images of Megan being tortured. What if the four of us all do this to Browning. Think about nothing but how we’re going to skin the bastard alive. Really focus on horrible ways for him to die.”

Hall smiled. “Great idea. Even if he’s reading you now and knows what you plan, it will still work. It should weaken him, give him even more to deal with.”

The general never failed to impress. It was an idea Hall should have come up with himself, and it really could slow Browning down, cause him to make mistakes, miss openings in his dragnet that Hall could catch.

“We’ll start now,” said Girdler. “Unleashing our hatred at this prick and visualizing him being dismembered will be one assignment we can really sink our teeth into. If you’re listening out there, asshole!” he added, “brace yourself. We’re going to move so far into your head you’ll need a proctologist to get us out!”

“What does that mean, exactly?” asked Hall, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m not really sure,” said Girdler. “But it sounded good when I was saying it.”

Hall allowed himself the briefest flicker of a smile. “Be sure to visualize him being nailed to a cross,” he said, all traces of humor now gone. “That’ll really mess with his head. Trust me.”

As his colleagues began their mental assault on Browning, Hall took stock of his own situation. It was rapidly deteriorating. He had mere minutes before the forces around him would close in, and he was all out of ideas.

***

Megan was almost back to the main compound, the gun still ready in her hand. This time she’d be sure to hit Browning where it counted. She wasn’t a killer, but if saving Nick and four others she cared deeply about required her to put a bullet between his eyes, she was prepared to do so without flinching.

“Megan, dive!” came a telepathic scream. “Behind the tree on your right.”

She launched herself to the right just as a fusillade of bullets raked across the forest where she had been standing, spitting up bark and pinecone and leaves. Her heart slammed into her ribcage like a runaway train.

“He’s alone,” Hall informed her. “One of two men protecting Browning.”

“But now Browning can see me through his eyes.”

“Yes. But this guy knows you have a gun, so he has to tread lightly. Shoot at him if he gets too close. And hang tight. I’ll come up with something soon.”

“Hurry!”

***

Hall’s mind raced and he completely ignored the net that was now closing in on him. Not that any of this would matter. Even if he were to save Megan now, the end looked preordained.

They only had a single hope, that Browning’s injuries, blood loss, and psionic strain would soon prove too much for him. Hall had hundreds of times more experience using his abilities for intense, extended periods, and even his mind was beginning to grow fatigued—at a faster rate than ever.

The merc approaching Megan was doing so cautiously, but she’d have no chance if Hall didn’t come up with a plan immediately. Even if he did, Browning would soon discover what it was, although given the man’s deteriorating state, Hall guessed he’d have a small window to carry it out.

If only he had an idea. If ever he needed to dial up inspiration on demand, this was the time.

His eyes widened as the inspiration he was seeking struck him with all the force of a lightning bolt delivered by God.

“Megan, pay close attention,” he sent urgently. “I can buy you an opportunity. You’ll know it when you see it. The guy after you is wearing a vest, so when opportunity knocks, you’ll have to aim for his head. But no hesitation. You’ll only have a few seconds.”

“Got it,” replied Megan.

Even before she sent her reply Hall dived into Browning’s head and fished out the frequency he was using to communicate with his men. He then used his implants to immediately send a message to the soldier stalking Megan, instructing the software to mimic Browning’s voice.

“Vladimir! Behind you!” the voice screamed into the merc’s ear. “Get down, get down, get down!”

The man hit the ground and rolled, coming up on his stomach with his rifle pointed in the direction opposite of where Megan had been huddled behind a tree.

“Go!” shouted Hall telepathically, but Megan was already on the move, sprinting toward a soldier who was frantically searching for hostiles that weren’t there. By the time the real Browning had warned his man, who began to turn around once again, it was too late. Megan shot at his head three times in quick succession, and one of the shots found its mark, killing him instantly.

She raced back to the cover of trees. “He’s dead Nick,” she broadcast, and the tenor of her telepathic tone left no doubt just how traumatized she was by what she had done. It wasn’t fair that such a kind and gentle soul was being forced to commit such violent acts.

“How did you do that?” she asked.

“I sent a message to his comm, pretending to be Browning. But he’ll make sure this ploy won’t work again.”

“That’s okay, as long as it worked the first time. Brilliant, Nick. Saved my life for sure.”

Suddenly Hall became aware of another mind, this one belonging to a soldier who was now fifteen yards away from him and pointing an automatic rifle. The man had a bead on him and was about to press down on the trigger, spraying a wall of death.

Hall had been so intent on saving Megan he had let his own guard down, had failed to keep monitoring his own vicinity with the necessary vigilance.

Hall closed his eyes and waited for death.

A single shot rang out, but Hall didn’t feel any pain. Had it missed him?

He opened both his mind and his eyes once more.

The hostile was on the ground, dead.

Hall had missed a second important element. He needed to be in so many minds at once he had been forced to prioritize, and had chosen to ignore Victor. But the tech merchant had rearmed and returned, saving Hall’s life. And by taking this man out, he had created a hole in the net that Hall could use to buy himself another five or ten minutes of life.

Hall sprinted in the direction of the fallen soldier, reading Victor’s mind to get the information he needed to send him a virtual telepathic message. “Thanks,” he said simply. “I really needed that. But aren’t you afraid of what this will do to your reputation?” he added wryly.

Victor smiled. “I changed the deal, so I’m just helping an ally, as promised. My reputation is intact.” He paused. “I have to go use one of my escapes now. I’m hoping Browning’s hands are too full to divert someone to stop me.”

Hall didn’t have time to respond. Megan was frantically sending telepathic shouts his way, fearful that something bad had happened to him when he hadn’t replied to her repeated calls.

“I’m okay,” he broadcast. “Sorry. Just had something I needed to do. But back to you. Based on your location, I assume you’re trying to kill Browning. It won’t work. He’s retreated to the safety of a helo in a clearing. He had the guy you just killed patrolling, but the other is with him. He’s a pilot and isn’t going anywhere. You may be invisible to their minds, but their eyes will see you coming a long way off.”

“My chances are still better than zero.”

“Please don’t try this,” broadcast Hall. “I’m begging you. Instead, find a way to come up with another decisive move. Somehow. Things aren’t going well. I continue to move our pieces, but I’m just about out of options. If this were chess, I’d be tipping my own king over in defeat.”

“Don’t you dare think like that!” she shouted into his mind. “It’s your turn to hang in there. I promise you, I’ll think of something.”

“I know you will Megan,” he replied, trying to fake belief.

66

Justin Girdler knew that Hall was doing everything he could to keep them hidden from the soldiers hunting them, despite Browning’s insider information. Hall had confirmed that their strategy of getting in Browning’s head was working, allowing Hall to read holes and move his pieces—in this case, them—more adroitly than his adversary could do.

Girdler wasn’t sure that coming up with a strategy of directing vitriolic, gory images of torture to a man while running and hiding was something he’d be putting on his resumé, but he’d try anything that might help, and it did have the distinction of being the most unique defensive strategy in the history of warfare.

Still, their time had all but run out. Browning had originally ordered his team to capture them as Hall-bait, but this order had changed to kill-on-sight five minutes later. And their group was drained, exhausted. When Hall told them to move, he meant move.

They had been sprinting between trees and over small streams and hither and yon like players in a bloody game of hide-and-seek, or perhaps competitors in a real-life Hunger Games. Despite the chilly air they were sweating profusely, and rarely had enough time to catch their breath before Hall’s grandmasterly hand reached down to move them yet again.

Time seemed both compressed and stretched, depending on the situation. Hard to believe they had only been playing this deadly game of cat and mouse for twenty minutes now. Rescue was still fifteen to twenty minutes away. Hall had been right. The would-be rescuers would find nothing in the forest but their warm corpses.

Hall reported on the ever-moving positions of the five men who were attempting to corral them, and that he was all out of moves. The game was up, and everyone knew it. They had waged a heroic effort, especially Hall, who had to be the most depleted of them all.

Mike Campbell burst forward through the trees, leaving his comrades well behind him. He carried a sturdy tree limb with him, one he had picked up earlier. A wood club against automatic weapons.

Girdler called him on his comm but he didn’t respond.

Hall broke in on all of their comms. “Mike’s taking the offense,” he explained, his voice hollow. “Going on the attack. With Browning out there he has almost no chance of success, but he’s trying to create enough of a diversion for me to direct you through the minefield again.”

“It’s suicide!” said Girdler in horror.

“Mike knows that, General,” said Hall sadly. “And you can’t change his mind.”

Girdler’s eyes moistened. He had long loved Mike Campbell like a son. He was irreplaceable. But if he had to die, he had chosen well, going down fighting like a man, sacrificing himself so that his team might live. The general was devastated, but also proud.

“Mike, I know you can hear me,” he said. “Thank you for this heroic effort. You know you’ve been like a son to me. It has been the honor of my life to serve with you.”

“Likewise, General,” replied Campbell, preparing to wield his makeshift club, with no ability to surprise. “You’re a great man, and you’ve been a great mentor. As for the others on the team, it’s been a true joy working with you and calling you friends.”

He paused, ready for his final charge. “Now stop thinking about me and use the time I’m buying you.”

Hall had been in a trance but this last had broken him out of it. “General,” he said quickly, “two of Browning’s men have been forced to move over to cut Mike off. Double-time it due north. There’s a seam if you’re fast enough.”

As the three remaining members of the group began to sprint northward they heard an extended burst of machine gun fire. No one needed Hall to know that Mike Campbell was gone.

The general clenched his teeth, as if to prevent his pain and emotions from spilling out along with his tears. What Campbell had done was an extraordinary act of heroism, but it had only bought them a few minutes when they needed twenty. Girdler knew they would be joining their fallen comrade very soon. Perhaps this was only fitting.

They were able to just beat one of Browning’s men to the seam and slip outside the cordon again, but Browning was already moving his pieces to compensate, and there was now a natural barrier—a cliff formation—blocking their path to the east, making it even easier for their adversary.

Girdler’s thoughts had turned back to his fallen friend when he received a call on his personal frequency. “General, it’s President Cochran,” said the caller, speaking quickly. “There’s a swarm of military helos as thick as locusts ninety seconds from your position, coming from the north. Over eighty commandos will be rappelling into the forest to join you. Anything that isn’t you or your team will be cut down like weeds.”

“Outstanding!” said Girdler. “I thought you couldn’t get them here this fast.”

“I lied about the ETA when we spoke,” said Cochran. “I knew a mind reader was listening in, so I thought it would be better to mislead him.”

“Thank God!” said Girdler. “Talk about perfect timing,” he added, but even as he did a stab of pain hit him in the gut.

Almost perfect. Five minutes earlier would have saved Mike Campbell’s life.

67

Troy Browning couldn’t believe it! God dammit!

He had suffered more pain in less than an hour than he had in the rest of his life combined. Every breath was an ice pick to his chest. And he was mentally fried at a level he hadn’t thought could even exist, his mind screaming for rest, even as he was forced to endure brutal images of his own gory death being hammered at him by his adversaries.

And he had been winning, despite all this. Granted, his players were all heavily armed and outnumbered Hall’s, but still. He had finally outmaneuvered his rival on the field, had been on the cusp of absolute victory.

And now this. The president himself had found a way to deceive him.

The forecast had called for clear skies, but now it appeared that a storm of commandos was about to rain from above, just a minute or two away.

Shit!

Had all the fortune that had smiled on him previously turned against him in a single day?

“Abort mission!” he ordered his forces. “Retreat back to the nearest helo and take off to the south as soon as possible. US military approaching with overwhelming force,” he added, proud of himself for trying to save his men. They had little hope, but he had tried, demonstrating a generosity of spirit worthy of a savior, even if only to benefit men whose souls were as black as coal.

He was seething mad as he ordered the soldier with him to take off to the south and make best speed anywhere but here. The Colorado compound would be poison now that Hall had been in his mind, but he would find another base soon enough. He would heal and regroup. Live to fight another day. Build the legend of Troy Browning, which would be told for hundreds and thousands of generations to come.

“Leaving so soon?” taunted Nick Hall directly into his mind as his helo began picking up altitude and speed.

Hall was speaking to him telepathically, Browning realized. Fascinating. So he and Hall could read what they wanted from each other, but could also have directed telepathic conversations that were more focused.

“I thought leaving was a good idea,” replied Browning. “There’s about to be an infestation of hero types in the woods. Since I’m sympathetic to our men and women in uniform, I called a retreat as I’m sure you know. To avoid a clash. Limit unnecessary deaths.”

“Didn’t seem worried about limiting our deaths.”

“You and your THT colleagues fall into a category I call, ‘necessary deaths.’”

“I doubt what I say will matter to you,” sent Hall, “but you’re a very delusional man. Consider this, you insisted you were on the right course because fate’s been so kind to you. Then when fate turned on you, as it did today, you still took this as a sign that you’re the chosen one. You can’t have it both ways. You’re a scientist. You must see that you’re fitting the data to match the conclusion you’re after.”

“I don’t expect you to understand. But sleep with one eye open, Nick Hall, because I’m coming for you.”

“Good luck with that,” replied Hall. “If you’re close enough to read me, I’m close enough to read you. And now I’m the one with access to the highest level of resources.”

“You had access to the president during this skirmish and it didn’t help you.”

“If it didn’t help me, then why are you fleeing?” asked Hall. “And we were caught off guard this time. We didn’t know you were out there. Trust me, we won’t be caught with our pants down again.”

He paused. “How are your ribs, by the way? And your leg? Even the residual trace of pain I’m getting from your mind is pretty  nasty. Every nerve in your body is begging for mercy.”

“I can take it. It’s a test. And I pass tests.”

“Victor was right. Not just that you’re clinically insane, but that your plan will do the exact opposite of what you think.”

“I’m afraid you won’t be alive to know that I was right,” replied Browning.

“Look, you’re almost out of range,” sent Hall. “I urge you to rethink your life. It’s not too late to change gears. Make amends. But go up against me and you’ll lose. Because it’s not just me. I have a team around me, people who care about each other and have each other’s backs. You have no one. And you don’t want to save humanity. You just like the idea of seeing your own glory reflected in the eyes of others. But at the end of this tunnel, there isn’t an adoring flock of transcendent human sheep who will adore you. There is a pack of vicious wolves that will tear you to pieces.”

Browning attempted to send a reply, but he was now out of range.

No matter, he decided. He would get the last word yet.

68

Hall directed the surviving members of THT’s core leadership to meet at a point roughly equidistant from the three locations they hailed from, which turned out to be a grouping of oak trees about a mile from Victor’s compound. When they arrived at this gathering point, Hall verified that Browning’s men had double-timed it back to the closest of their two remaining helicopters, crowded on board, and fled.

He also explained that Victor was long gone, having taken off in a helicopter of his own. As Victor had predicted, Browning had bigger fish to fry, and hadn’t diverted men to stop him.

“Where are our forces?” said Altschuler in confusion. “They should have been here five minutes ago.”

Hall grinned broadly. “You want to tell them, Megan?” he said.

Megan’s eyes widened. “You can’t read my mind,” she said. “So what makes you think I know?”

“Because I figured it out,” he said simply.

All eyes were now on Megan. “Here’s the thing,” she said with an impish smile, “since I was the only one who didn’t register on Browning’s personal radar, I went off on my own. I thought I could kill him, but when that didn’t work out, I had to come up with Plan B. I was really freaking out,” she admitted. “I had to come up with something fast or it was all over. I knew reinforcements would never get here in time to save us.”

She paused for effect. “But then I realized . . . so what?” She arched one eyebrow. “Phantom reinforcements could work just as well.”

“Phantom reinforcements?” said Drew Russell. “I’m not following.”

“Nick, why don’t you tell them how Victor managed to capture us,” she said.

Hall did as she asked, as efficiently as he could.

Girdler turned to Megan with a look of admiration. “So you took a page from Victor’s book, didn’t you?” he said.

“Exactly,” she replied proudly. “Victor was able to use Nick’s strength—mind reading—against him. He demonstrated that the only way to fool a mind reader is to fool the person he’s reading. In this case that was you, General. I contacted the president and told him I needed an emergency bluff. Browning couldn’t read me, so he had no idea I was discussing this with the president. And he couldn’t read him, of course, since he was far away in DC.”

Russell nodded excitedly. “Ingenious!” he said in admiration. “You had the president call and tell the general that massive forces were converging on our position. Didn’t matter that this was a total lie. The general had no reason not to believe it. So when Browning read this from the general’s mind he bought it hook, line, and sinker. And he panicked.”

“That’s right,” said Megan. “You know what they say, you can’t always believe everything you, um . . . read.”

There were groans all around.

Hall gazed adoringly at his fiancée. “A brilliant strategy,” he said, looking more smitten with her than ever. “Brilliantly executed. And not a moment too soon. But it was even smarter than you’ve told us. It wasn’t an accident that you had our phantom forces arriving from the north, was it?”

“I thought you might catch that,” she said. “You’re right, of course. Browning was several miles south of his men. If our forces were coming from the south, and were so near to arriving, he might wonder why he didn’t detect a wave of incoming minds.”

“But coming from the north,” said Hall, “it was more likely he’d just assume they were still out of his range.”

“Exactly,” said Megan, beaming.

“Truly extraordinary,” said Girdler. “You’re a civilian with a background in graphic design, yet you came up with a plan that our most accomplished PsyOps agents would envy.”

“I’ve learned from the best,” she said.

“I think you meant that as a compliment to me,” said Girdler with a smile, “so I hate to remind you that you learned this particular trick from Victor.”

Megan winced. “And yet you were still able to outsmart him to establish THT,” she said, looking relieved to have thought of this reply.

“Nice save,” said Hall with a grin.

“Don’t mean to change the subject,” said Russell, “but any reason we’re still standing here?”

“Good point,” said the general. He turned to Megan. “Can I assume no real forces are coming for us now?”

“They aren’t,” she replied. “I told the president not to bother, that this bluff was our only chance. So let’s return to where you guys parked the helo and get out of here.”

The general sighed heavily. “We need to retrieve Mike’s body first,” he said, a pained expression on his face. “He’ll be given a hero’s funeral, along with the others who have fallen today.”

The euphoria the group was feeling from escaping certain death vanished. How could they have forgotten, even for a moment, the losses they had suffered. Mike Campbell was gone, a devastating blow to them all, but especially Justin Girdler. His only solace came from knowing that his friend’s sacrifice had not been in vain, after all. He had bought them exactly the amount of time they had needed.

But Mike Campbell was only the last in a series of heart-wrenching losses. Chris Guest. Floyd Briarwood. Herschel Trent. Tim Herman. Eddie Ontiveros.

All of them gone.

“THT is in a shambles,” said Girdler grimly as they walked, unable to keep the gloom he felt at bay. “We’ve been taking a beating lately. And Victor and Browning both got away.”

“I wouldn’t look at it that way,” said Megan, ever the optimist. “It wasn’t as though we had these two in a net, and they escaped. The opposite happened. They didn’t get away. We did.”

“We were lucky,” said Hall. “If Browning hadn’t intervened, we’d be at Victor’s mercy right now.”

“It wasn’t all luck,” said Altschuler. “The team performed brilliantly. Especially you and Megan.”

“Not to rain on our parade,” said the general, “but yesterday, we thought Victor was dead, and Nick was the only mind reader in the world. So while we made it through today, our tomorrow is looking very bad. Worst-case scenario bad.”

“What’s the deal with Browning, anyway?” said Russell. “Last I knew he had been thrown out of the NSA. How did he become involved? How is he a mind reader? What’s he after?”

Hall blew out a long, unhappy breath. “When I tell you that, our tomorrow is going to look even worse,” he said. “A lot worse.”

PART 9

THT

69

Hall felt like hell, still having only partially recovered. But after sleeping for almost eighteen hours straight he was ready to take part in a meeting the team had hastily arranged after he had awakened. There were pressing matters to discuss.

They would have insisted that he join them in the debriefing right after they landed the night before, but they all knew how much he had exerted himself, and all remembered the coma he had been in after the sarin gas operation. So they had convened the initial meeting without him, knowing they would have to retill much of the same soil with their most important asset in attendance at a later time.

This later time had now arrived.

Six members of THT’s senior leadership were seated in the main conference room in Utah, while the president and Admiral Siegel joined them virtually from the Oval Office. But this time, instead of using the secure communication channel developed by Troy Browning, they used another system that Browning didn’t have intimate knowledge of and hadn’t yet bothered to crack.

Alex Altschuler and Drew Russell had been urgently assigned to develop secure communication protocols that were Browning-proof as quickly as possible. There were only a handful of people in the world skillful enough to accomplish this, and THT was lucky enough to have two of them.

But even when they succeeded—which they would—if they couldn’t discover how to keep information from a mind reader, secure communications would be the least of their worries.

“I know you’re still pretty spent from yesterday, Nick,” began the president, getting the meeting underway, “so I promise to keep this as short as possible.”

Hall didn’t respond. He couldn’t help but read the surface thoughts of the minds around him. In many ways this was a meeting between him and Cochran, and the others in attendance knew it, thinking of themselves more as witnesses than participants.

The president took a deep breath. “For what it’s worth,” he continued, his eyes locked on Hall’s, “I confessed my sins to the team while you were recuperating. They filled me in on what you discovered at Victor’s compound. That he and Browning somehow worked together to steal a copy of the data I had Dennis Sargent smuggle out. I owe you an explanation, Nick. And I owe you an apology.”

Hall knew from speaking with Megan that the president had apologized to the team the night before, but he felt he owed this to Hall most of all.

“You think an apology will cover it?” he replied icily.

Cochran sighed. “No, I don’t. I know how much of a betrayal this was. And what an unmitigated disaster it has become. I also know that you saying, ‘I told you so,’ wouldn’t even begin to cover it. Everything you feared came to pass—with a vengeance. You were right to be as protective of the data as you were.”

The president paused. “But I at least want to tell you why I did what I did. And describe the fallout, good and bad.”

“I’m listening,” said Hall, his tone still chilly.

Cochran described the situation in Iran he had faced, one spiraling out of control, and that he felt he had no options that didn’t end with mushroom clouds in Israel and America. The only option with any chance of success was putting ESP into play, and after much soul searching he had felt he had no other choice but to take it.

He went on to describe the operation in Iran, which had gone flawlessly. At least until it was over. At least until Craig Bostic had disappeared into the night.

“Are you kidding?” shouted Hall, unable to believe things were even worse than he thought. “Let me make sure I have this right. Victor now has thousands of sets of implants and a copy of the recipe for ESP. Browning also has the ESP data, with grandiose plans to use it. Not to block ESP, but to release it into the wild. Which, in case anyone has forgotten, has been our doomsday scenario all along. And now we have a member of SEAL Team Six—a trained killer to put all other trained killers to shame—who has psionic abilities, unknown motivation, and who is presently unaccounted for.”

The room was as somber as a funeral. At least his colleagues had had some time to digest the bad news. Cochran simply nodded. “I’m afraid that’s where we are.”

Hall shook his head. “That’s not where we are. Where we are is a whole lot worse, as hard as this is to believe. There are a few items I haven’t yet had the chance to share. First, Browning isn’t done with us. He’s on the loose and made it a point to tell me he’s coming after me, coming after us. And he’s worse news than you can imagine. I’ve been in the minds of countless lunatics, countless zealots, but this guy is something special. He’s as brilliant as he is demented, which is a bad combination even before he’s armed with implants and mind reading.”

Hall paused to let this sink in. “I give us some hope of holding him off,” he continued, “but only because I’m a Troy Browning early warning detection system. But we’d better come up with some way to protect ourselves. And not just from Browning. Craig Bostic is out there too. And Victor can turn anyone he wants into a mind reader. We have to get Nessie involved even more. Step up facial recognition of Bostic and Browning to stratospheric levels. Even a mind reader can’t read or defeat a machine, as long as its programming can’t be altered.”

“I’ve been working on methods to stop mind readers since we returned,” said Girdler. “I’ve elevated it to our top priority. Our focus has been on blocking ESP, not learning how to defeat mind readers. For good reason, Nick. You were the only mind reader in the world, and you were on our side. But we’re changing gears in a hurry. Every day that passes we’ll be more prepared.”

There were several nods of approval around the table.

“I hope you’re right, General,” said Hall, “but I’m not finished with the bad news. You’re all aware of the ruse Victor used to capture me and Megan. But to set this up, he needed an assist. So he told Sayed Nazry about me, the head of ISIS. He told him about my abilities and my interrogations of terror suspects at Hill. Nazry is well aware that his efforts in America have been decimated recently, and now he knows why. Does anyone doubt that we’re now the number one target of the caliphate? You know, just in case we don’t have enough enemies.”

This news was met with alarm all around, and pained disbelief. Just when the team thought their wounds couldn’t be deeper or more raw, salt had been rubbed in. Their backs had already been up against the wall, but now the wall had sprouted daggers.

Cochran’s expression was stunned, horrified. “There are no words,” he said. “Sorry isn’t nearly enough. I did what I thought was right, and it couldn’t have gone more wrong. Everything we’re now up against has stemmed from this one decision. Victor and Browning’s partnership. Victor learning of the location of THT and enough information to capture you. ISIS learning of THT and your abilities. So many good men dead, including Mike Campbell.”

“I need to make it clear that the president didn’t make this decision alone,” said Bob Siegel. “I admire him for not pointing a finger my way, but I’m every bit as much to blame for where we are as he is.”

“I appreciate that, Bob,” said the president. “But I’m the commander-in-chief, as much as I wish this weren’t true at the moment, and I made this call. I don’t expect anyone here to ever forgive me for that. But THT needs me and Bob in the loop more than ever. All I can do is apologize and do the best I can from here on out to help clean up some of the mess I’ve caused.”

There was a long silence and all eyes were on Hall, wondering what his response would be. Their thoughts were so powerful he couldn’t avoid them. Would he start frothing at the mouth? Would he scream? Would he slam the table and then the door on his way out of the conference room? Would he curse at the president? Threaten him?

Hall took several deep mental breaths and tried to calm himself. They had all been through hell recently and he was in a foul mood. But he couldn’t let this cloud his judgment. It was true that the president had betrayed them, with catastrophic consequences. But his recent ordeal had expanded his perspective on the matter.

He now had a greater appreciation than ever before that what seemed like bad luck could eventually end up being good luck in disguise. Hard to imagine how this could be true of their current predicament, but that remained to be seen. Maybe fate did exist, and it liked to play the long game.

More importantly, in the past year, and especially in the past few days, he had made many choices, had crossed many lines, that would have ethicists rolling in their graves. So who was he to cast the first stone?

Hadn’t he made the decision to sacrifice Justin Girdler’s life? If Browning hadn’t intervened, Girdler would be dead, and so would he.

Thank God the others on the team couldn’t read his mind, because this was something he intended to keep secret forever. Let them think the story he told of Victor simply wanting to punish them all and release them had been true, and never learn of his betrayal.

Cochran had betrayed the team, yes, and had taken a big risk that had ended catastrophically, but he had done this in the hope of saving millions of lives. So weren’t Hall’s actions far worse? He had betrayed the team for selfish reasons, to save a woman he couldn’t live without. He had betrayed a man who trusted him with his life, who would march into hell for him—had marched into hell for him.

And Cochran had done everything he could to mitigate possible negative consequences. He had established a failsafe, not knowing that Bostic would read his mind and defeat it. And it was likely that his action did save millions of lives.

He had also performed brilliantly during the USD crisis. He was the leader of the free world, yet devoted tremendous time and effort to THT, and had left politics at the door. He had been a gentleman in every way, straightforward, dependable, indispensable.

The Iran situation had backed Cochran into a corner. He had made the only real choice available to him. It could even be argued that none of this would have happened if Hall hadn’t repeatedly shown absolute inflexibility with regard to the ESP data, not caring what else might be at stake. Had the president felt able to share his decision with Hall, the data would have been transferred more securely, and maybe Hall could have coached Bostic and gone to Iran to keep tabs on him.

“I can’t say I’m happy about where we’ve ended up,” said Hall, breaking a long silence. “And I can’t speak for the others here, Mr. President. But as for me, I do forgive you. And I won’t hold this against you going forward.”

Had the rest of the group been eating cereal at the time, the table would now be wet from expelled food. The team had considered many reactions he might have had, but this wasn’t one of them.

Cochran looked unsure, as though this might be some kind of sick joke. Instead of responding, he waited for Hall to continue.

And Hall did. He walked through the thoughts he was having that led him to forgive Cochran, leaving out his own betrayals. Cochran had done what he thought best, with unimpeachable motives. He had been backed into a corner. Had Hall been less dogmatic in his objections, this may not have happened. And it wasn’t as though any of the negative outcomes had been intended. Cochran had considered the dangers that Bostic might present, but had never even imagined that a player like Browning could have hijacked the data without his knowledge, nor the breathtaking speed and severity of the consequences.

“This group of people deals with monsters on a regular basis,” said Hall. “We’re the smallest government agency in America, an ant against Godzilla, and we’ve taken a series of devastating body blows. No one has more reason to feel overwhelmed and pessimistic. But we’ve always managed to stay optimistic instead. We’ve always shown an ability to get back on the horse. So let’s take a few days to be angry and pessimistic about the mess we’re in, and then come off the mat fighting. Claw our way out of this like we always do.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Megan enthusiastically. “And what other choice do we have? We broke it, so now we have to buy it.”

“I’ve been insulated from the recent horrors this team has experienced,” said Heather, “but I think we have a lot to still be thankful for. Everyone physically in this room with me now should have died in Dixie National Forest. It’s a miracle that you didn’t. And like the general said, every day from now on we’ll be better prepared, better able to turn this around.”

Girdler sighed. “Heather is right,” he said. “And the truth is, we reached rock bottom before yesterday, we just didn’t know it. We fiddled while Rome burned. If not for the losses of five good men, yesterday would have been a blessing in disguise. Two days ago Browning was out there, getting stronger, making his plans, but we were totally clueless. Now at least we know what we’re up against, which at least gives us a fighting chance.”

The president continued to watch in amazement as the team took Hall’s lead and fought to throw off the yoke of anger and hopelessness that had dominated their emotions.

“Mistakes have been made,” said Megan. “Pandora’s Box has been opened. And we know it can only be closed again at great cost. But we need to always remember the good this team has done. Think of all the terror plots Nick has disrupted. The lives we’ve personally helped save. Thousands at the Academy Awards. Thousands of little girls at USD. Millions the president’s actions in Iran likely saved. And while Victor didn’t place as many implants as we’d hoped, he still placed a large number.”

Siegel nodded. “The window we now have on the seats of power in Russia, China, and North Korea is unprecedented. I haven’t shared all of the intel we’ve been getting, but it’s been extraordinary. And like Nick said, his efforts have helped us decimate the terror network in America.”

The president finally decided to chime in. “See what you’ve done, Nick,” he said with a smile. “You’ve taken our dour moods and turned them hopeful. You’ve helped us take stock. And you’ll never know how much your forgiveness means to me. Thank you.”

Hall nodded in acknowledgement.

“I’m not trying to reverse the mood back again,” continued Cochran, “but I did want to point out that Victor could turn out to be a bigger problem than Browning or ISIS. Browning at least is trying to contain ESP until he’s ready to bestow it as a gift to humanity. But Victor sells assets. So even though he’s chosen not to use ESP, he could begin disseminating it at any time.”

“You make a good point,” said Hall. “But I think we might actually be able to turn Victor from a liability into an asset.” He raised his eyebrows. “I think we can team up with him.”

Siegel coughed. “Come again, Nick?” he said. “I know you forged a truce at his compound, but this was temporary and born out of necessity.”

“I haven’t told this to anyone yet,” said Hall, “but out in the woods—Victor saved my life. Which means he saved all of our lives. If I had died then, everyone else would have followed.”

Cochran’s mouth dropped open. “Unbelievable,” he said.

“He’s the most complicated man I’ve ever read,” said Hall. “A ruthless killer, but also fiercely loyal, and able to adhere to a strict sense of principles. We’ve come to a level of mutual respect. And Bostic is after him, too. He needs us.”

“The enemy of my enemy . . .” said Girdler.

“Same line he used on me,” said Megan.

The corners of Hall’s mouth turned up into the hint of a smile. “Just because it’s cliché doesn’t mean it can’t be true. Here’s another relevant cliché: war makes strange bedfellows. Before Victor saved my life, Megan saved his. But she saved more than his life. She saved him from a lifetime of involuntary servitude to a man he loathes. We can trust his word. And we can use him. Browning will be coming after him and two people he loves. He also knows what Browning is planning for the world, and believes it to be a doomsday scenario.”

“How would you see this alliance working?” said Cochran

Hall paused in thought. “First, to help get him to agree to our terms, Mr. President, I’d like you to offer him immunity from prosecution in the US. Erasing the slate and letting him access his holdings.”

Cochran’s eyes narrowed. “For that to happen, these terms of yours would have to be pretty damn favorable.”

“Here’s what I have in mind,” said Hall. “First and most importantly, we would insist on getting our data back. If we can do that we only have the Browning leak left to plug, and Victor can’t make any more mind readers. Second, he devotes all of his energy to helping us defeat Browning. Third, he would have to agree to go legit. He isn’t interested in money anymore, and is leaning toward the scientific side of what he does already. And he likes a challenge.”

“Teaming up to stop a threat like Browning is certainly that,” said Siegel.

“He’s one of the few people around with insight into the man,” said Hall. “Not only would we get Victor’s genius, he’s probably the first target Browning will go after once he recovers, so we can also use him as bait.”

The president considered. “If we really could get our data back and eliminate him as a threat,” he said, “I’m in for sure. If he can help us stop Browning, so much the better. Get him to agree to this, and he’ll have his immunity.”

“I’ll give it my best,” said Hall.

The president nodded, almost contentedly. “I know you will, Nick. You never give anything less.” He paused. “Speaking of which,” he continued, “I know you need more recovery time. I did promise you a relatively short meeting, so I think we should end things here.”

He turned and addressed the entire group. “Thanks to you all. I have to say, when this meeting began I couldn’t see any light at the end of this tunnel. But despite Nick’s troubling revelations, I’m now hopeful that we can turn this around yet. The challenges are immense, greater than ever, but so are the talents of this team. The path ahead will be grueling and treacherous, but so was the path behind. And yet we found a way.” He paused. “God willing, we will somehow find a way again.”

Hall considered these inspirational words. He was so weary. And the challenges ahead were more daunting than ever—which was truly saying something. The odds couldn’t be stacked more steeply against them.

But they had defied the odds on so many occasions. He had read thoughts of fate in several minds recently. Browning thought destiny was securely in his corner. When Megan had saved Hall, though, even Victor had begun to wonder if fate wasn’t squarely on THT’s side of the ledger. And Megan had used this term herself when Hall had been certain he would never see her again. She had expressed her belief in both him and in fate, and that he had done too much good for his life to end in this way.

So was there such a thing as fate? Or was it all about luck and talent? And what about the good men who had died? Destiny had failed to protect them.

It was impossible to say. The only thing he and his colleagues could do was rage against the forces trying to destroy THT, trying to destroy civilization, and hope for the best.

As much as he might wish his powers also allowed him to see the future, there was no way to know if this would be enough. There was no way to know if fate truly was looking out for them.

As much as Nick Hall wished it were otherwise, the outcome of their struggle against these destructive forces would only be known in the fullness of time.

But fortune favored the prepared. So whatever might be coming at them, he, for one, intended to be ready for it.

From the Author: Thanks for reading MindWar. I hope that you enjoyed it. As always, I’d be grateful if you would rate the novel on its Amazon page here, as a high number of ratings really helps drive the success of a book.

I’ve been told the Nick Hall books can be enjoyed in any order, so if this is your first, please consider giving Mind’s Eye or BrainWeb a try. Also, I’ve included a list of all of my books at the very end of this section.

Finally, feel free to visit my website (where you can get on a mailing list to be notified of new releases), Friend me on Facebook at Douglas E. Richards Author here or write to me at doug@san.rr.com.

MindWar: What’s real and what isn’t

As you may know, I conduct fairly extensive research for all of my novels. In addition to trying to tell the most compelling stories I possibly can, I strive to introduce concepts and accurate information that I hope will prove fascinating, thought-provoking, and even controversial.

MindWar is a work of fiction and contains considerable speculation. I encourage interested readers to explore these topics on their own to get a more thorough and nuanced look at each one, and weigh any conflicting data, opinions, and interpretations. By so doing, you can decide for yourself what is accurate and arrive at your own view of the subject matter.

The Nick Hall novels present some unique challenges to me as a writer. Thrillers are known for their surprises and twists and turns, but to make these happen authors typically need their characters to be able to keep secrets from one another. The presence of a mind reader, from whom nothing is secret, does make this more challenging, and multiple mind readers increases the difficulty even more. Passages in which two mind reading antagonists inhabit the same scene together, given that they can read each other’s minds as well as those around them, can be even thornier to write. Even so, I felt that the introduction of additional mind readers was critical to the evolution of the series and to moving the story forward.

With this said, I’ll get right to it: what’s real in MindWar and what isn’t. If you aren’t interested in an early category and want to skip ahead to one that might interest you more, I’ve listed the categories I’ll be covering in order of their appearance.

Privacy in our modern world

Computer assisted mind reading and telepathy

Sensors and the Internet of Things

Drone catching drones

Malala Yousafzai

Amnesty International report on ISIS’s ethnic cleansing

The University of San Diego

Salt Lake City

Privacy in our modern world

Your phone can track your location each and every second of the day. Your grocery store knows what you eat. Amazon knows more about your interests and lifestyle than your best friend. Google knows everything you’ve ever searched for. And Facebook—is there anything it doesn’t know about you?

Hackers can readily read your private e-mail messages. Cameras have grown ever cheaper and smaller and have become ubiquitous, not just in malls, streets, and other public locations, but in every pocket and purse in the civilized world.

Meanwhile, ever more sophisticated data analysis programs are able to draw conclusions from the limitless information about you that is being collected. There is a famous story about Target, the retailer. Apparently Target sent fliers to a teen girl, alerting her to specials on baby items, which aroused the ire of her father. Why? Because of course his daughter wasn’t pregnant. Except that she was. Target and its supercomputers had gotten it right. The father . . . not so much.

So how did the computers know? Turns out pregnant women tend to buy calcium and magnesium supplements, extra big bags of cotton balls, and switch from scented to unscented lotions and soap, among dozens of other telltale buying habits.

As sensors and the Internet of Things (covered separately) grow ever more invasive, and computer power and memory grow ever greater, our privacy is vanishing.

In September of 2016, Snapchat announced the release of Snapchat Spectacles, stylish sunglasses capable of recording video that is automatically uploaded to the cloud. Sony recently filed a patent regarding contact lenses that can do the same thing. In MindWar, Nick Hall can record everything he sees, but the day is not far off when this capability will become a reality.

I, for one, find this a bit disconcerting.

But getting back to Snapchat Spectacles, according to the UK publication, The Sun:

The devices have already sparked surveillance and privacy fears among social media users. Tremecca D. Doss, an American attorney, wrote: ‘Very interested to see if new privacy and surveillance issues in the workplace and at schools arise from Snapchat Spectacles.” Another Twitter user wrote, “When we’re under 24/7 inescapable surveillance, we will have done it to ourselves.”

Young people living today are the most surveilled generation in human history, and it’s not necessarily the government or spooks that are doing the snooping.

I continue to be amazed at how comfortable young people are with living in a fishbowl, exposing aspects of their behavior and personality that most in my generation would never dream of doing, and desperate to share their every thought, experience, opinion, and selfie to the world (not to mention photos of their every meal, which I still don’t quite get).

The good news is that despite this willing erosion of privacy, we’re still free to hate our bosses without them knowing, fantasize about men or women who are not our spouses, and tell a screeching friend that her singing voice is beautiful.

My own belief is that our society can continue to thrive, even as privacy continues to erode, but if we are ever able to read each other’s innermost thoughts, if our last bastion of privacy is ever violated, society will be unable to adapt to this new state of affairs.

Computer assisted mind reading and telepathy

Recently scientists and entrepreneurs have made a number of breakthroughs that allow people to control such things as drones, video games, and prosthetic limbs with their thoughts alone, and this technology is rapidly improving and expanding. It isn’t difficult to imagine a day in which computer assisted mind reading and telepathy become a reality—in fact, I’ve now written three novels imagining this very thing. J

To give you a quick flavor of the future we appear to be heading toward, I’ve pasted very brief excerpts from three articles below:

Zuckerberg on telepathy: you'll capture a thought and share it with the world.

The Guardian, June 14, 2016.

First Facebook had pictures. Then it had videos. And soon it will have virtual reality. But some day, CEO Mark Zuckerberg imagines a way for users to be able to transmit thoughts directly from one brain to another.

“You’re going to just be able to capture a thought, what you’re thinking or feeling in kind of its ideal and perfect form in your head, and be able to share that with the world in a format where they can get that,” Zuckerberg said in a live video Q&A broadcast from his Facebook page. “There’s some pretty crazy brain research going on that suggests we might be able to do this at some point.”

Neurotelepathy: rise of the mind-reading machines

BBC Focus magazine, September 2015

. . . but recently, ‘mind reading’ by brain imaging has taken some big steps into the real world.

German and US researchers recently produced speech that was communicated by a patient undergoing brain surgery. The words in the recording were translated from a readout of the electrical patterns generated in the patient’s brain.

This brain-to-text study is the latest to demonstrate that neuro-telepathy—knowing what a person is experiencing by interpreting their brain activity—is a reality, even if it is still relatively crude. Last year, a group of Yale researchers produced digital reconstructions of faces that were being viewed by people in an fMRI scanner. Again, the source of the images was the pattern of activity detected in the viewers’ brains. The published results suggest the reconstructed faces are as recognizable, or more so, than traditional photo-fits.

Professor Marvin Chun, who ran the study in his lab at Yale, says it has finally given him an answer to the question so often asked by strangers when they learn he is a psychologist: “They want to know if I  can read their mind,’ he says. “Now I have an answer. Yes. If I can get them in a scanner, I can.”

UW team links two human brains for question-and-answer experiment

UW Today, September 23, 2015

Imagine a question-and-answer game played by two people who are not in the same place and not talking to each other. Round after round, one player asks a series of questions and accurately guesses the object the other is thinking about.

Sci-fi? Mind-reading superpowers? Not quite.

University of Washington researchers recently used a direct brain-to-brain connection to enable pairs of participants to play a question-and-answer game by transmitting signals from one brain to the other over the Internet. “This is the most complex brain-to-brain experiment, I think, that’s been done to date in humans,” said lead author Andrea Stocco, an assistant professor of psychology and a researcher at UW’s Institute for Learning & Brain Sciences.

The study builds on the UW team’s initial experiment in 2013, when it was the first to demonstrate a direct brain-to-brain connection between humans. In the 2013 experiment, the UW team used noninvasive technology to send a person’s brain signals over the Internet to control the hand motions of another person.

Sensors and the Internet of Things

In MindWar I present several instances in which strongholds controlled by the bad guys are protected by sensor arrays, and this is something that is already quite possible. For example, according to an article in Information Week, technology is being developed for the Defense and Homeland Security departments, “that could use hundreds of tiny, wireless sensors packed with computing power to help secure U.S. borders, bridges, power plants, and ships by detecting suspicious movements or dangerous cargo and radioing warnings back to a command center.”  (from a 2015 article entitled, “Sensors Everywhere: A bucket brigade of tiny, wirelessly networked sensors someday may be able to track anything, anytime, anywhere.”)

In general, the rise of ubiquitous and ever-cheaper microsensors and microcameras described in the novel is real, and coming faster than you might imagine. For many years now these MEMS—which stands for Micro-Electro-Mechanical Systems—have seen a staggering rate of growth, and there is no end in sight. Microsensors have been developed to detect, among other things, temperature, pressure, motion, chemicals, gas concentration, the electromagnetic spectrum (light, microwave, infrared, radio, and so on), and radiation.

The Internet of Things envisions a world in which everything is “smart.” Every tennis racquet, article of clothing, rug, appliance, and more, all armed with tiny sensors connected to the Web, generating data and helping to make our lives a little easier.

Cities themselves can be made smart. Imagine a day when every car, street, and traffic light talks to each other, allowing stoplights and travel routes to be adjusted second by second to optimize traffic flow.

When the Web was in its infancy, it was impossible to imagine just how profoundly this technology would reshape society and change our lives. I believe the same will be true of the Internet of Things. No matter how imaginative and forward thinking we believe we are being in predicting its impact, I’m confident that we aren’t even scratching the surface.

Drone catching drones

I spent more time than I want to admit researching different ways to catch a falling drone, but the method I finally landed on is about to become a reality. I’ve pasted an excerpt from an article entitled, “Drone catcher: 'robotic falcon' can capture, retrieve renegade drones” from Science News, January 8, 2016.

Mo Rastgaar, an associate professor of mechanical engineering at Michigan Technological University, and his team have developed a drone catcher that can pursue and capture rogue drones that might threaten military installations, air traffic, sporting events, and even the White House—as startled Secret Service officers discovered when one crash-landed on the White House lawn last January.

It’s a simple system: a launcher shoots a big net attached to a large drone by a string. After an intruding drone is spotted, the drone catcher takes up the chase and fires the net at it from a distance of up to 40 feet (perhaps more spider than falcon). Because the net is so big and can be deployed so quickly, it can overwhelm even the fastest, most maneuverable small drone, the engineers claim.

Once trapped, the net swings down below the drone catcher, which ferries its cargo to a safe location. The system can be autonomous, controlled by a ground-based human pilot, or a combination of the two.

“If the threat is a drone, you really don’t want to shoot it down — it might contain explosives and blow up,” says Rastgaar. “What you want to do is catch it and get it out of there.”

Malala Yousafzai

Malala Yousafzai is an extraordinary young woman and I hope my admiration for her courage and inspirational message was able to shine through in the novel. Everything I wrote about her is accurate (except the part about her speaking to a stadium full of little girls at USD in the year two thousand twenty something—I’m not sure that’s been scheduled quite yet).

For narrative purposes, I chose to briefly use Malala as a point-of-view character, and have her actually deliver a few minutes of a speech before getting interrupted by the president. This presented me with the challenge of trying to imagine what the real Malala might say during a fictionalized future address. To help me get a feel for this, I read the lecture she gave during her acceptance of the Nobel Peace Prize. In the end, I decided that rather than putting my own fictionalized words into the mouth of such a special young woman, it would be best to simply borrow an excerpt from her actual speech.

Below I have excerpted a few additional sections of this speech, given before the Nobel Prize committee on December 10, 2014, just to give you more of a flavor.

Bismillah hir rahman ir rahim. In the name of God, the most merciful, the most beneficent.

Your Majesties, Your royal highnesses, distinguished members of the Norwegian Nobel Committee.

Dear sisters and brothers, today is a day of great happiness for me. I am humbled that the Nobel Committee has selected me for this precious award.

. . . Thank you to my father for not clipping my wings and for letting me fly. Thank you to my mother for inspiring me to be patient and to always speak the truth—which we strongly believe is the true message of Islam.

Dear brothers and sisters, I was named after the inspirational Malalai of Maiwand who is the Pashtun Joan of Arc. The word Malala means grief stricken, “sad”, but in order to lend some happiness to it, my grandfather would always call me “Malala—The happiest girl in the world,” and today I am very happy that we are together fighting for an important cause.

This award is not just for me. It is for those forgotten children who want education. It is for those frightened children who want peace. It is for those voiceless children who want change.

I am here to stand up for their rights, to raise their voice.

. . . As far as I know, I am just a committed and even stubborn person who wants to see every child getting quality education, who wants to see women having equal rights and who wants peace in every corner of the world.

Education is one of the blessings of life—and one of its necessities. That has been my experience during the 17 years of my life.

. . . When I was in Swat, which was a place of tourism and beauty, suddenly changed into a place of terrorism. I was just ten when more than 400 schools were destroyed. Women were flogged. People were killed. And our beautiful dreams turned into nightmares.

Education went from being a right to being a crime. Girls were stopped from going to school.

When my world suddenly changed, my priorities changed too. I had two options. One was to remain silent and wait to be killed. And the second was to speak up and then be killed.

I chose the second one. I decided to speak up.

We could not just stand by and see those injustices of the terrorists denying our rights, ruthlessly killing people and misusing the name of Islam.

The terrorists tried to stop us and attacked me and my friends who are here today, on our school bus in 2012, but neither their ideas nor their bullets could win.

We survived. And since that day, our voices have grown louder and louder.

I tell my story, not because it is unique, but because it is not.

It is the story of many girls.

. . .

Amnesty International report on ISIS’s ethnic cleansing

Early on in the novel, Lucas tells his father about a report he read from Amnesty International on the roundup and murder of large numbers of innocents by ISIS. I based this short scene on a report I found in my research, which was written many years prior to the events in MindWar. Still for anyone interested, here is an excerpt from a September 2, 2014 article in the Daily Beast entitled, “Amnesty Report: ISIS Committing Ethnic Cleansing on an Historic Scale.”

An ISIS fighter approached a Christian woman two weeks ago and lifted the 3-year-old child from her arms. Little Kristina wailed as she was taken out of sight of her mother; she has not been seen since.

This heartless crime, carried out in northern Iraq, is just the latest act in a systematic campaign of ethnic cleansing which is being carried out on an historic scale by the so-called Islamic State, according to a report by Amnesty International.

The human rights organization says thousands of women and children have been abducted, while men and boys over the age of 12 have been massacred, in a calculated campaign to drive non-Muslims out of the area. “It’s a clear-cut case of ethnic cleansing,” Donatella Rovera, author of the Amnesty report, told The Daily Beast. “I can see it happening in front of my eyes very quickly.”

Amnesty has spoken to hundreds of survivors some of whom watched family members and neighbors lined up along the edge of mass graves and shot dead, execution-style. In two of the killings, detailed in the report, up to 90 civilians were shot in the back after being separated from their wives and children and made to kneel before their killers.

Those criminals took their killing spree to tiny Kocho just south of Sinjar on August 15. A group of Yazidi had been trapped by fighting in the village, which has a population of 1,200. ISIS fighters told the residents to gather at the local high school where they took their phones, jewelry and cash. They were separated into groups of men, women, and children. The men were packed into vehicles, taken out a short distance and shot.

University of San Diego

USD is a real college, of course, and one only twenty miles away from my home. In fact, my daughter just graduated from this school (and my wife before her), so I know it well. The architecture and feel of the campus truly is magnificent, and I’ve been inside the stadium to root on the football team on more than one occasion. What I wrote about USD in MindWar is accurate, except that the university doesn’t host six thousand little girls each summer.

Just weeks before this novel was due to be released, my wife and I attended Homecoming at USD, where we not only got to watch a big win by the USD Toreros football team (where I couldn’t help but look up to make sure no drones were flying overhead), but also had the chance to see the women’s volleyball team in action (ranked number five in the nation, with wins over UCLA and Stanford).

While we were there, my wife and I randomly happened to run into the president of the university, James Harris, and his wife Mary. After I introduced myself, I couldn’t help but mention that I was a novelist and had included the university, and a fictitious president, in my latest offering. We chatted for several minutes, and they were very nice people, who expressed interest in reading MindWar.

This caused me to wince just a bit, and I felt the need to reveal just how USD appeared in the novel, as the target of a horrendous terror attack. I immediately felt the need to explain that the attack had failed, and that no one was hurt, even at the risk of providing a spoiler. They took it quite well, and were even amenable to having our chance encounter included at the end of this note.

Salt Lake City

My son is finishing up college, but was living in the Salt Lake City area during the summer of 2016, working as a summer intern, when I started writing MindWar. I had never been to this region before, but after paying my son a visit, I have to say I fell in love with it. Mountains with white caps everywhere. Streams and woods and spectacular rock formations seemingly without limit. A city and surroundings that I found to be clean, well kept, and thriving.

When I returned home and needed a place to locate the most secret fictional organization in America, I decided the Salt Lake City region would be ideal.

About the Author and List of Books

Douglas E. Richards is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of WIRED and numerous other novels (see list below). A former biotech executive, Richards earned a BS in microbiology from the Ohio State University, a master's degree in genetic engineering from the University of Wisconsin (where he engineered mutant viruses now named after him), and an MBA from the University of Chicago.

In recognition of his work, Richards was selected to be a "special guest" at San Diego Comic-Con International, along with such icons as Stan Lee and Ray Bradbury. His essays have been featured in National Geographic, the BBC, the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, Earth & Sky, Today's Parent, and many others.

The author has two children and currently lives with his wife and two dogs in San Diego, California.

You can friend Richards on Facebook at Douglas E. Richards Author, visit his website at douglaserichards.com, and write to him at doug@san.rr.com

Near Future Science Fiction Thrillers by Douglas E. Richards

WIRED (Wired 1)

AMPED (Wired 2)

MIND'S EYE (Nick Hall 1)

BRAINWEB (Nick Hall 2)

MIND WAR (Nick Hall 3)

QUANTUM LENS

SPLIT SECOND

GAME CHANGER

Kids Science Fiction Thrillers (9 and up, enjoyed by kids and adults alike)

TRAPPED (Prometheus Project 1)

CAPTURED (Prometheus Project 2)

STRANDED (Prometheus Project 3)

OUT OF THIS WORLD

THE DEVIL'S SWORD

Table of Contents

PART 1Victor

1

2

3

4

5

6

PART 2Trojan Horse Taskforce

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

PART 3Lucas

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

PART 4Troy Browning

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

PART 5Dennis Sargent

39

40

41

42

PART 6Craig Bostic

43

44

45

46

47

48

PART 7Victor

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

PART 8Troy Browning

58

59

60

61

62

63

64

65

66

67

68

PART 9THT

69