the poor bastard up for nothing. “Sorry I wasted your time, Eric. I thought maybe you’d…”
My words trail off because I really don’t know what I was thinking, other than the fact that I’d assumed the head of the fucking NSA would have some answers. I’m angry with him for being so clueless. I’m angry with myself for wasting precious time.
He moves to the window, puts his hands behind his head, and stares out over the kingdom that is his backyard. “No, no, you’re fine,” he reassures me. “I wish I had more for you.”
“Is there anything you can do for me? Anybody to talk to? Questions to ask?”
“I can make some calls, ask around, but I’ll tell you this, Leo, I gotta be careful. This gets on the wrong side of George Silver, I’m out on my ass, maybe even buried.”
I move over beside him, study his face, looking for any signs of malfeasance. When he turns to me, there’s nothing. He simply looks old and tired, and a bit lost now that there’s a group out there with more power than he has.
“So I’m on my own, huh?”
He nods apologetically. “One thing I’m coming back to, Leo—did you know that Silver was never a fan of Patriotman?”
“What? No.” News to me, because for as far back as I could remember, from his time in the Senate, up through his reign as governor of Virginia, campaigning for the Presidency himself a couple of times, and then finally onto the cabinet, he’d always been the biggest damn proponent of Patriotman among any political figure out there. Hmm. Now that I think about it, maybe that was why he was crying—or pretending to—the dude had to keep up appearances.
You know, before every word out of his mouth was a big fat honking lie.
“He had to play nice on TV because who the fuck doesn’t like Patriotman, right? If he came out against the defender of the human race, he would’ve been crucified by the media. Dead in the water before his political aspirations ever got off the ground.”
“It goes back that far?”
“Something like twenty-three years, if my math is right.”
“Damn. I was, what, sixteen?”
Yeah, I was sixteen, and I was fairly familiar with Silver, even back then.
I was a big kid, too. I mean, a big kid for my age. My classmates called me Pops because I was already shaving and packing on muscle just by looking at weights.
“So what happened?”
Landers turns to me. Just as he opens his mouth, a red dot blinks onto his forehead.
The insane thing is, I know exactly what this is—I’ve had them trained on me who knows how many times. I’ve painted them all over my own targets for the last three years. I know exactly what’s about to happen, but I lack the ability to react. My brain is unwilling, or unprepared, for this to happen right in front of me, especially when I’m not the one initiating it.
My arms go numb. My skin prickles. I manage to lift a hand and squeak out a pitiful, “Get d—”
The glass picture window crackles. Landers grunts when a hole opens in his forehead. His body folds in half as he crumples to the floor.
Chapter Twelve
Two Weeks Earlier, Con’t.
I tackle my West Coast counterparts for the first couple of days, and so far, I’m batting the biggest zero in the history of batting averages. I’ve been spinning it as a “new guy wants to get to know you personally” kind of thing, lest they start talking amongst themselves, wondering why the new weirdo is visiting each of them individually.
I’ve got nothing to show for it.
Which leads me to here—I’m back at home now, in my apartment, preparing to jot down some notes. I’ve got some white noise playing on my cell to block the sounds of Portland outside; the lights are low, and I can’t sleep, which leads me to this: thinking.
It’s what I do.
I flip my notebook open and write down eleven names, checking off the S.A.’s I’ve already visited; then I create a little brainstorm of thought clouds out beside each one.
Charlie Bravo
My words trail off because I really don’t know what I was thinking, other than the fact that I’d assumed the head of the fucking NSA would have some answers. I’m angry with him for being so clueless. I’m angry with myself for wasting precious time.
He moves to the window, puts his hands behind his head, and stares out over the kingdom that is his backyard. “No, no, you’re fine,” he reassures me. “I wish I had more for you.”
“Is there anything you can do for me? Anybody to talk to? Questions to ask?”
“I can make some calls, ask around, but I’ll tell you this, Leo, I gotta be careful. This gets on the wrong side of George Silver, I’m out on my ass, maybe even buried.”
I move over beside him, study his face, looking for any signs of malfeasance. When he turns to me, there’s nothing. He simply looks old and tired, and a bit lost now that there’s a group out there with more power than he has.
“So I’m on my own, huh?”
He nods apologetically. “One thing I’m coming back to, Leo—did you know that Silver was never a fan of Patriotman?”
“What? No.” News to me, because for as far back as I could remember, from his time in the Senate, up through his reign as governor of Virginia, campaigning for the Presidency himself a couple of times, and then finally onto the cabinet, he’d always been the biggest damn proponent of Patriotman among any political figure out there. Hmm. Now that I think about it, maybe that was why he was crying—or pretending to—the dude had to keep up appearances.
You know, before every word out of his mouth was a big fat honking lie.
“He had to play nice on TV because who the fuck doesn’t like Patriotman, right? If he came out against the defender of the human race, he would’ve been crucified by the media. Dead in the water before his political aspirations ever got off the ground.”
“It goes back that far?”
“Something like twenty-three years, if my math is right.”
“Damn. I was, what, sixteen?”
Yeah, I was sixteen, and I was fairly familiar with Silver, even back then.
I was a big kid, too. I mean, a big kid for my age. My classmates called me Pops because I was already shaving and packing on muscle just by looking at weights.
“So what happened?”
Landers turns to me. Just as he opens his mouth, a red dot blinks onto his forehead.
The insane thing is, I know exactly what this is—I’ve had them trained on me who knows how many times. I’ve painted them all over my own targets for the last three years. I know exactly what’s about to happen, but I lack the ability to react. My brain is unwilling, or unprepared, for this to happen right in front of me, especially when I’m not the one initiating it.
My arms go numb. My skin prickles. I manage to lift a hand and squeak out a pitiful, “Get d—”
The glass picture window crackles. Landers grunts when a hole opens in his forehead. His body folds in half as he crumples to the floor.
Chapter Twelve
Two Weeks Earlier, Con’t.
I tackle my West Coast counterparts for the first couple of days, and so far, I’m batting the biggest zero in the history of batting averages. I’ve been spinning it as a “new guy wants to get to know you personally” kind of thing, lest they start talking amongst themselves, wondering why the new weirdo is visiting each of them individually.
I’ve got nothing to show for it.
Which leads me to here—I’m back at home now, in my apartment, preparing to jot down some notes. I’ve got some white noise playing on my cell to block the sounds of Portland outside; the lights are low, and I can’t sleep, which leads me to this: thinking.
It’s what I do.
I flip my notebook open and write down eleven names, checking off the S.A.’s I’ve already visited; then I create a little brainstorm of thought clouds out beside each one.
Charlie Bravo
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