the door. He seemed reasonably convinced but not entirely certain.
"We've got to go, Tristan," Darby said, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him toward the window before the young man could rethink his value system. She tried to ignore the feeling of warm blood splashing over her open sandals as she pushed the remaining glass from the broken pane and followed Tristan out onto the roof. They stood on the edge of it for a moment, looking down at the ten-foot drop into a gravel side yard.
Darby looked at Tristan's bare feet and then behind her through the window. The man who had let them go was moving toward them and his gun was no longer hanging limp from his hand. It was aimed directly at them.
She grabbed hold of Tristan and pulled him off the roof with her just as the first shot sounded. She heard him grunt in pain as they hit the ground, but she ignored it, rolling to her feet and dragging him up with her.
"No time to complain, Twist! Come on!"
She heard the second shot ring out as they ran desperately toward a densely wooded butte two hundred yards away. She looked back at the window just before the third shot and realized that the man wasn't aiming anywhere near them. It was a show for the benefit of his colleagues.
"Come ON!" she said again. Her fingers dug deep into his bicep as she pulled him along behind.
She heard shouts that sounded as if they were coming from outside the house, but didn't look back again. All they had to do was make the trees, then they could take the steepest line up the butte. No son of a bitch in a suit was going to be able to keep up with her there even if she had to carry Tristan on her back.
Mark Beamon looked around him at the familiar blankness of the conference room and then out the windows across from him at the silent procession of agents and support staff as they moved through the halls.
It seemed like he'd spent a good half of the last six months of his life trapped in these barren cubes, waiting to be questioned, poked, and prodded about his role in the Vericomm fiasco. He looked up at the clock and confirmed that he'd been sitting there for exactly twenty-nine minutes.
The lack of creativity and spontaneity in government service was no more evident than when his persecutors were trying to gain a psychological advantage. They would leave him to stew for a half an hour. No more.
No less.
The delay actually did have an effect--but not the one they were looking for. In these empty rooms, forcibly shielded from the external stimulation he was always careful to surround himself with, he surrendered to his newfound urge to look inward. It was something Carrie would undoubtedly encourage but was turning out to be a kind of dangerous skill to be developing this late in life.
What was he feeling right now? Nervousness? Not really. The outcome of this meeting had been preordained. The Office of Professional Responsibility--the FBI's answer to Internal Affairs--had found a great deal of smoke, but had been unable to find any actual flames still burning in the embers of his ill-fated investigation of the Church of the Evolution.
Regret? No, he'd do the same thing again.
Disappointment? There it was, the current front-runner.
Tom Sherman had been right--as that son of a bitch almost always was.
The FBI, and its big brother, the U. S. government, was only interested in Mark Beamon as far as they could use him. He knew that but couldn't find the strength to use the knowledge. As much as he wanted to tell them to shove the job they were about to give back to him, he couldn't.
Even with Carrie and Emory there to help, he didn't know if he could fill the void it would leave in him. And that was just downright pathetic.
Beamon watched through the windows as Gerald Reys, his FBI appointed inquisitor du your, came around the corner and stopped at a water fountain. He was obviously aware that he still had thirty seconds to kill before the half-hour was up.
As near as Beamon could
"We've got to go, Tristan," Darby said, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him toward the window before the young man could rethink his value system. She tried to ignore the feeling of warm blood splashing over her open sandals as she pushed the remaining glass from the broken pane and followed Tristan out onto the roof. They stood on the edge of it for a moment, looking down at the ten-foot drop into a gravel side yard.
Darby looked at Tristan's bare feet and then behind her through the window. The man who had let them go was moving toward them and his gun was no longer hanging limp from his hand. It was aimed directly at them.
She grabbed hold of Tristan and pulled him off the roof with her just as the first shot sounded. She heard him grunt in pain as they hit the ground, but she ignored it, rolling to her feet and dragging him up with her.
"No time to complain, Twist! Come on!"
She heard the second shot ring out as they ran desperately toward a densely wooded butte two hundred yards away. She looked back at the window just before the third shot and realized that the man wasn't aiming anywhere near them. It was a show for the benefit of his colleagues.
"Come ON!" she said again. Her fingers dug deep into his bicep as she pulled him along behind.
She heard shouts that sounded as if they were coming from outside the house, but didn't look back again. All they had to do was make the trees, then they could take the steepest line up the butte. No son of a bitch in a suit was going to be able to keep up with her there even if she had to carry Tristan on her back.
Mark Beamon looked around him at the familiar blankness of the conference room and then out the windows across from him at the silent procession of agents and support staff as they moved through the halls.
It seemed like he'd spent a good half of the last six months of his life trapped in these barren cubes, waiting to be questioned, poked, and prodded about his role in the Vericomm fiasco. He looked up at the clock and confirmed that he'd been sitting there for exactly twenty-nine minutes.
The lack of creativity and spontaneity in government service was no more evident than when his persecutors were trying to gain a psychological advantage. They would leave him to stew for a half an hour. No more.
No less.
The delay actually did have an effect--but not the one they were looking for. In these empty rooms, forcibly shielded from the external stimulation he was always careful to surround himself with, he surrendered to his newfound urge to look inward. It was something Carrie would undoubtedly encourage but was turning out to be a kind of dangerous skill to be developing this late in life.
What was he feeling right now? Nervousness? Not really. The outcome of this meeting had been preordained. The Office of Professional Responsibility--the FBI's answer to Internal Affairs--had found a great deal of smoke, but had been unable to find any actual flames still burning in the embers of his ill-fated investigation of the Church of the Evolution.
Regret? No, he'd do the same thing again.
Disappointment? There it was, the current front-runner.
Tom Sherman had been right--as that son of a bitch almost always was.
The FBI, and its big brother, the U. S. government, was only interested in Mark Beamon as far as they could use him. He knew that but couldn't find the strength to use the knowledge. As much as he wanted to tell them to shove the job they were about to give back to him, he couldn't.
Even with Carrie and Emory there to help, he didn't know if he could fill the void it would leave in him. And that was just downright pathetic.
Beamon watched through the windows as Gerald Reys, his FBI appointed inquisitor du your, came around the corner and stopped at a water fountain. He was obviously aware that he still had thirty seconds to kill before the half-hour was up.
As near as Beamon could
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