God.”
“For your sake, it’d better be. Good-bye, Mister Collier.”
A sharp click led to silence as the secretary hung up.
Jordan returned the phone to its cradle at his bedside. Then he picked it back up and pressed a button to call his assistant’s internal line. She picked up on the first ring.
“Yes, sir?”
“Jaime, wake up Hal and Lucas. I need them to help Raj neutralize the tsunami caused by the California earthquake.”
Jaime acknowledged his instructions, then hung up to carry them out. Setting the phone down once again, Jordan sighed and threw a weary look in Kyle’s direction. “I didn’t just lie to the secretary of state, did I, Kyle?”
“I don’t know,” Kyle replied. “Did you?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. Did we or didn’t we have anything to do with causing this morning’s earthquake in California?” Sensing the young man’s reluctance to answer, Jordan pressed him. “Kyle, we’re standing on the brink of war, and this could be what pushes us over the edge. I need to know: Did we do this? Have you and Cassie pushed us into a war?”
Kyle turned away from Jordan, but his face was still visible in the mirror above Jordan’s dresser. The youth seemed to be struggling for an answer, but Jordan suspected that Kyle was getting his talking points from Cassie.
At first a guilty pall washed over Kyle’s features. Within seconds it was pushed aside by a mask of fear. Then his mien turned blank; his eyes went dead and his expression took on the slack neutrality of a sociopath. He turned back to face Jordan.
“It’s impossible to say for certain,” Kyle declared. “There are a lot of rogue p-positives out there. A lot of them have grudges against the government. It would only take one going off the reservation to cause something like this.”
It was an artless evasion, in Jordan’s opinion. Kyle was good at many things, but lying persuasively was not one of them.
“That’s not what I asked, Kyle, and you know it. Butsince you seem committed to misinterpreting me, allow me to rephrase my question: Did you—or did Cassie, acting through you—plan, order, or sanction, personally or through a proxy, the initiation or exacerbation of this morning’s earthquake by any promicin-positive group or individual?”
The ghost of a smirk haunted Kyle’s face. “Good question,” he said, walking toward the open bedroom door. As he left, he said over his shoulder, “I’ll look into it and get back to you.”
Kyle closed the door behind him. It shut with a heavy, wooden thud. Jordan stood and stared dumbly at it, unsure what troubled him more: the fact that Kyle was obviously lying to him, or that the youth and his dark muse had just given the United States the perfect excuse to declare war on Promise City.
TWENTY-TWO
8:05 A.M.
T OM HAD JUST settled in at his desk across from Diana when a muffled roar of frustration from outside their office called them back to their feet. They nearly collided in the doorway as they gazed past the NTAC bullpen, where a dozen agents were prairie-dogging over the walls of their cubicles, all of them looking at the source of the commotion: the director’s office.
Meghan Doyle was going berserk.
She slammed the handset of her phone up and down against its base on her desk. With one yank she tore the phone’s cord from its floor jack, picked up the whole unit, and let out a scream of rage as she hurled it at the wall. The phone shattered into a storm of plastic debris, loose wires, and orphaned computer chips that scattered across her office’s floor. Then Meghan slumped back into her chair, planted her elbows on her desk, and buried her face in her hands.
All the agents in the bullpen stared for several seconds at their silently exasperated director. Then, like a flock of birds turning in unison, they swiveled their heads toward Tom, who recoiled slightly from their unspoken collective plea.
He looked at Diana. She was staring at him,
“For your sake, it’d better be. Good-bye, Mister Collier.”
A sharp click led to silence as the secretary hung up.
Jordan returned the phone to its cradle at his bedside. Then he picked it back up and pressed a button to call his assistant’s internal line. She picked up on the first ring.
“Yes, sir?”
“Jaime, wake up Hal and Lucas. I need them to help Raj neutralize the tsunami caused by the California earthquake.”
Jaime acknowledged his instructions, then hung up to carry them out. Setting the phone down once again, Jordan sighed and threw a weary look in Kyle’s direction. “I didn’t just lie to the secretary of state, did I, Kyle?”
“I don’t know,” Kyle replied. “Did you?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. Did we or didn’t we have anything to do with causing this morning’s earthquake in California?” Sensing the young man’s reluctance to answer, Jordan pressed him. “Kyle, we’re standing on the brink of war, and this could be what pushes us over the edge. I need to know: Did we do this? Have you and Cassie pushed us into a war?”
Kyle turned away from Jordan, but his face was still visible in the mirror above Jordan’s dresser. The youth seemed to be struggling for an answer, but Jordan suspected that Kyle was getting his talking points from Cassie.
At first a guilty pall washed over Kyle’s features. Within seconds it was pushed aside by a mask of fear. Then his mien turned blank; his eyes went dead and his expression took on the slack neutrality of a sociopath. He turned back to face Jordan.
“It’s impossible to say for certain,” Kyle declared. “There are a lot of rogue p-positives out there. A lot of them have grudges against the government. It would only take one going off the reservation to cause something like this.”
It was an artless evasion, in Jordan’s opinion. Kyle was good at many things, but lying persuasively was not one of them.
“That’s not what I asked, Kyle, and you know it. Butsince you seem committed to misinterpreting me, allow me to rephrase my question: Did you—or did Cassie, acting through you—plan, order, or sanction, personally or through a proxy, the initiation or exacerbation of this morning’s earthquake by any promicin-positive group or individual?”
The ghost of a smirk haunted Kyle’s face. “Good question,” he said, walking toward the open bedroom door. As he left, he said over his shoulder, “I’ll look into it and get back to you.”
Kyle closed the door behind him. It shut with a heavy, wooden thud. Jordan stood and stared dumbly at it, unsure what troubled him more: the fact that Kyle was obviously lying to him, or that the youth and his dark muse had just given the United States the perfect excuse to declare war on Promise City.
TWENTY-TWO
8:05 A.M.
T OM HAD JUST settled in at his desk across from Diana when a muffled roar of frustration from outside their office called them back to their feet. They nearly collided in the doorway as they gazed past the NTAC bullpen, where a dozen agents were prairie-dogging over the walls of their cubicles, all of them looking at the source of the commotion: the director’s office.
Meghan Doyle was going berserk.
She slammed the handset of her phone up and down against its base on her desk. With one yank she tore the phone’s cord from its floor jack, picked up the whole unit, and let out a scream of rage as she hurled it at the wall. The phone shattered into a storm of plastic debris, loose wires, and orphaned computer chips that scattered across her office’s floor. Then Meghan slumped back into her chair, planted her elbows on her desk, and buried her face in her hands.
All the agents in the bullpen stared for several seconds at their silently exasperated director. Then, like a flock of birds turning in unison, they swiveled their heads toward Tom, who recoiled slightly from their unspoken collective plea.
He looked at Diana. She was staring at him,
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