That you plan to have Church whacked?” He liked saying the word “whacked.”
“Me? Hell no . . . but there’s a rumor in the wind that there’s a contract out on him. Church and a few other troublemakers. If I didn’t know your dad was on a leash I’d say it was his kind of play. Doesn’t really matter, though. With any luck whoever has the contract will close it out before all the dust from today’s cluster fuck settles down. Otherwise Church might start looking around to see what’s in the wind, which is exactly what none of us wanted.”
Hecate had been leaning close to Paris in order to hear the conversation. Their eyes met and they shared a “he has a point” look.
“So now what?” Paris asked.
“Now we let the NSA thing play out. It’ll still take a while for the President to take back the reins, so we’ve still effectively hobbled the DMS for the rest of today. Maybe into tomorrow, but that’s starting to look like wishful thinking. After that we let the Vice President play the rest of his cards. Throw some scapegoats to the congressional wolves, yada yada . . . and then go to the next phase.”
Paris looked at Hecate, who nodded.
“Okay, J.P. You have any other ideas for how to get hold of Mind-Reader?”
“A few,” Sunderland said. “But nothing we can try until after Church is out of the mix.”
“Shit.”
Sunderland chuckled. It was the deep, throaty, hungry laugh of a bear who had a salmon gasping on the riverbank.
“Now,” he said, “let’s talk about Denver.”
Chapter Nineteen
Druid Hill Park, Baltimore, Maryland
Saturday, August 28, 10:31 A.M.
Time Remaining on Extinction Clock: 97 hours, 29 minutes
I was waiting by the exit for my ride when my phone rang. I looked at the screen. Grace. Normally that would make me smile, but I had a flash of panic wondering if something bad had happened to her.
“Hello?”
“Joe . . . ,” she said, sounding on edge.
“Hey,” I said. “Eggs?” A coded query about scramblers.
“Of course, you sodding twit.”
“Nice language. You kiss the Prime Minister with that mouth?”
She told me to sod off, but she said it with a laugh. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Grace Courtland, an agent for the British government and now head of the Baltimore Regional Office of the DMS, was one-third my local boss, one-third a comrade in arms who had stood with me in several of the weirdest and most terrible battles since I’d started working for the G, and one-third my girlfriend—and if anyone has ever had a more interesting, complex, and smoking-hot girlfriend, I never heard about it. The relationship was not a public thing; we were trying to keep it off the public record, though we were both realistic enough to accept that we were working with about a hundred class-A trained observers, so our little clandestine fling was probably old news in the pipeline.
“I’m glad to hear your voice,” I said.
“Glad to hear you, too,” she said. “I had images of you in the back of an NSA car with a sodding black bag over your head.”
“It’s not for a lack of them trying. I hope you’re not calling with more bad news. I’m going to stop answering my phone.”
“Yes. I heard about your man Faraday,” she said. “Bloody awful, Joe. I’m so sorry.”
I knew she meant it. Grace had lost a lot of people in the years she’d been one of Church’s field commanders.
“Thanks.”
Grace was on semi-permanent loan to the DMS from Barrier, a group in the U.K. that was a model for rapid-response science-based threat groups like ours. Church had asked for her personally, and he usually got what he wanted.
“I have some updated info for you, though,” she said. “Jerry Spencer is at the crime scene now. Some of Mr. Church’s friends in Wilmington were able to float false credentials for him. He’s at Gilpin’s apartment and will call in as soon as the smoke clears.”
“That’s something.” I felt a flicker of relief. Jerry
“Me? Hell no . . . but there’s a rumor in the wind that there’s a contract out on him. Church and a few other troublemakers. If I didn’t know your dad was on a leash I’d say it was his kind of play. Doesn’t really matter, though. With any luck whoever has the contract will close it out before all the dust from today’s cluster fuck settles down. Otherwise Church might start looking around to see what’s in the wind, which is exactly what none of us wanted.”
Hecate had been leaning close to Paris in order to hear the conversation. Their eyes met and they shared a “he has a point” look.
“So now what?” Paris asked.
“Now we let the NSA thing play out. It’ll still take a while for the President to take back the reins, so we’ve still effectively hobbled the DMS for the rest of today. Maybe into tomorrow, but that’s starting to look like wishful thinking. After that we let the Vice President play the rest of his cards. Throw some scapegoats to the congressional wolves, yada yada . . . and then go to the next phase.”
Paris looked at Hecate, who nodded.
“Okay, J.P. You have any other ideas for how to get hold of Mind-Reader?”
“A few,” Sunderland said. “But nothing we can try until after Church is out of the mix.”
“Shit.”
Sunderland chuckled. It was the deep, throaty, hungry laugh of a bear who had a salmon gasping on the riverbank.
“Now,” he said, “let’s talk about Denver.”
Chapter Nineteen
Druid Hill Park, Baltimore, Maryland
Saturday, August 28, 10:31 A.M.
Time Remaining on Extinction Clock: 97 hours, 29 minutes
I was waiting by the exit for my ride when my phone rang. I looked at the screen. Grace. Normally that would make me smile, but I had a flash of panic wondering if something bad had happened to her.
“Hello?”
“Joe . . . ,” she said, sounding on edge.
“Hey,” I said. “Eggs?” A coded query about scramblers.
“Of course, you sodding twit.”
“Nice language. You kiss the Prime Minister with that mouth?”
She told me to sod off, but she said it with a laugh. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Grace Courtland, an agent for the British government and now head of the Baltimore Regional Office of the DMS, was one-third my local boss, one-third a comrade in arms who had stood with me in several of the weirdest and most terrible battles since I’d started working for the G, and one-third my girlfriend—and if anyone has ever had a more interesting, complex, and smoking-hot girlfriend, I never heard about it. The relationship was not a public thing; we were trying to keep it off the public record, though we were both realistic enough to accept that we were working with about a hundred class-A trained observers, so our little clandestine fling was probably old news in the pipeline.
“I’m glad to hear your voice,” I said.
“Glad to hear you, too,” she said. “I had images of you in the back of an NSA car with a sodding black bag over your head.”
“It’s not for a lack of them trying. I hope you’re not calling with more bad news. I’m going to stop answering my phone.”
“Yes. I heard about your man Faraday,” she said. “Bloody awful, Joe. I’m so sorry.”
I knew she meant it. Grace had lost a lot of people in the years she’d been one of Church’s field commanders.
“Thanks.”
Grace was on semi-permanent loan to the DMS from Barrier, a group in the U.K. that was a model for rapid-response science-based threat groups like ours. Church had asked for her personally, and he usually got what he wanted.
“I have some updated info for you, though,” she said. “Jerry Spencer is at the crime scene now. Some of Mr. Church’s friends in Wilmington were able to float false credentials for him. He’s at Gilpin’s apartment and will call in as soon as the smoke clears.”
“That’s something.” I felt a flicker of relief. Jerry
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