Gregg Hurwitz - The Program

She started to weep, her cries hoarse and desperate. Curled in the corner, she sobbed. Finally she closed her eyes, succumbing to exhaustion. After ten minutes darkness fell across her body. When the inevitable burst of static came, she screamed, scrambling around the padded room like a trapped rat.

At last it ceased. The pain in her head grew so intense it blurred her vision. She drifted in and out of sleep, snapping to and staring to make sure the lightbulb remained on. It clicked off at irregular intervals that made anticipation impossible. Eventually she started screaming in the dark even before the noise came. The deafening static lasted sometimes three seconds, sometimes five minutes.

She swore she couldn't make it. She was terribly thirsty and had to pee, but if she urinated in here, Stanley John would extend her lesson.

She lay on her side, hair across her eyes, a tinny ring vibrating in both ears. The room went dark, but she couldn't muster the strength to raise her hands to her ears.

Instead of the next surge of static, the door creaked open. TD appeared, backlit, a glorious vision. He crouched over her. Her lips barely moved.

"Please don't leave me in here anymore."

He gathered her up in his arms. "Have you united with your criticism?"

"Yes. God, yes. I'm so sorry."

He stroked her hair. "Sorry? To me? To yourself? You know why TD does this, don't you? Because I care so much about your growth. Being upset with me would be like getting angry at a surgeon for excising a cancerous growth. A good surgeon wouldn't stop if you cried out in pain. He'd keep going, no matter how much it pained him. He'd cure you."

Her head lolled in his lap. His petting hands felt divine.

"I know," she said. "I know you did the right thing. Thank you."

"You have to build up your psychological immune system. The Growth Room is sort of like a vaccination. You're a smart, smart girl. You know how vaccines work."

"Yes."

"My first memory is of when I was a baby in a high chair. My mother was stuffing my face with strained peas, and I threw up. She fed my vomit back to me with a spoon."

Leah's headache had subsided, but her voice was still weak. "God, that's awful."

"She left me at the side of a desolate highway in the snow. A trucker found me two days later. I was almost dead. Even when I recovered, I used to be cold all the time. Then I started going out in the snow without a jacket. I built up my immunity, just like you are now. Have you ever seen me wear a jacket?"

"No, never."

"That's right." He paused thoughtfully. "Your parents have made several attempts to kidnap you, to bring you back under their control."

"…never…"

"I don't pray, Leah, but if I did, I'd pray you never make the mistake of forsaking the protection of The Program."

"I won't."

She let her eyelids droop. He caressed her face a bit more. "I know it's terribly hard for you to endure a lesson like this. It must remind you of when your stepdad used to abuse you."

"I don't remember him abusing me."

He rocked her gently, his eyes far away. "You will."

Fully tacked up with vests and ballistic helmets, Denley and Palton fell on Guerrera, the youngest Arrest Response Team member, pounding him with expandable batons. Guerrera, his gestures slowed by the puffy red-foam body suit, skipped back, keeping to his feet, and flipped them off Italian style, one padded hand flicking out from under his chin.

The ethnic gesticulation was no doubt for Tannino's sake. The marshal had pawned off a visiting Justice Rehnquist on his chief deputy so he could sneak some time with his beloved ART squad in the mat room in Roybal's basement. Brian Miller, the supervisory deputy, stood to the side, his drills co-opted by the marshal not for the first time.

"You useless knuckleheads," Tannino said. "Two of you can't put him on his ass?"

Guerrera slapped his chest, looking like an ornery Michelin Man. "You gringos can't step to papi chulo."

"Fuck you and the raft you floated in on," Denley said in his thick Brooklyn accent.

Guerrera busted a few "Vida Loca" dance moves in the red-man suit, eliciting whistles and jeers.

From the door Tim watched the proceedings. In his jeans and collared shirt, he felt like a parent at a high-school dance. He'd been an ART member for three years; his operational skills, honed in the Army Rangers, had won him quick admittance to the squad. His subsequent actions had won him quick ejection.

Shaking his head, Tannino returned to his conversation with Tim. "You sure you need all this shit?"

"It's the best angle so far."

"Well, a vehicle's not too much of a hassle – I'll get you a list from Asset Seizure, and you can go to the warehouse and pick something that suits your needs."

In the far corner, Maybeck – who, like Denley and Palton, was decked out in gear to simulate street conditions – fired a laser gun at a fleeing suspect projected onto a movie screen. The unit made a woeful bleeping noise, and UNJUSTIFIED SHOOTING scrolled across the screen in red letters.

Maybeck lowered the gun. "Whoops."

Aside from Bear and Guerrera, who'd offered Tim a wink from the depths of his suit, Tim's former colleagues continued to show him a studied – however warranted – indifference.

"I'll also need you to build me an ID. The basics – credit card, driver's license, Social Security card. Name of Tom Altman, common spelling."

Tannino grimaced – Tim had used the name previously when eluding the marshals last year. "How about cash?"

"Ten grand."

"Don't push your luck. I can get you five. Does the money have to walk?"

"Probably."

Tannino pressed his lips together, thinking. "Okay. It comes out of Henning, but we still gotta keep the books tidy. We'll hit up the Asset Forfeiture Fund – I'll push it through the undercover-review board at the DOJ."

"I need it by tomorrow."

"They're a panel of attorneys, Rackley. It takes them twenty-four hours just to choose chairs around the conference table." He noted the resolve in Tim's eyes. "I'll get it done. But no more hoops. Just find the girl."

Palton came at Guerrera again, and Tannino shouted, "Goddamnit, Frankie, approach with your weak side so your weapon's not exposed. Look, look. Here." Tannino stepped forward, placing his left hand on Guerrera's shoulder. He hooked his foot behind Guerrera's heel and leaned in, letting his elbow rise to clip Guerrera in the throat. Guerrera flipped off his feet, striking the mat hard with his shoulder blades.

"Get me Johnny Cochran on line two," Guerrera moaned.

Tannino helped him up, slapped him on the back, and returned to Tim. "Good stuff, Rackley. The lead."

"It might not be the right group."

"And we might all die tomorrow if Salami bin Laden's henchmen un-cork smallpox on us. I said good stuff, Rackley. Say thank you and go have a bourbon." Tannino threw up his hands. "Goddamnit, Denley, is it a takedown or a pirouette? Put some fucking balls into it!"

Tim watched them run drills a few moments longer before he retreated, the thuds of bodies pounding on neoprene following him down the corridor.

The dashboard of the Acura rattled when Tim hit eighty dropping into Simi Valley, heading for the Moorpark Station. An eighteen-wheeler dominated the parking lot. A white trailer with no markings, the mobile range drove from station to station, permitting sheriff's deputies to log required shooting time and complete their trimester qualifications.

Dray sat on the hood of her patrol car, a cluster of colleagues gathered around her. The sole woman at her station, Dray was the object of several unspoken crushes, the strongest of which was nursed by Mac, her sometime partner. As Tim approached, Fowler and Gutierez, with whom Tim had an uneven history, firmed up their postures – arms crossing, stances widening. For all the bluster, they returned Tim's nod.