John Shirley - Watch Dogs - Dark Clouds

“Niall Quinn. Son of Lucky Quinn?”

“Right. Niall Quinn wanted revenge on Aiden Pearce for killing his dad…”

Wolfe grunted. “Big mistake on Verrick’s fault, to get involved with that bunch. Because going after Pearce, for Quinn—got Pearce to fight back. And Pearce’s been using me like a chess piece against Verrick… only I don’t think he knows why Verrick sent Grampus…”

Seline glared at Bullock. “Just tell me—when was this attack… involving drones and planes… going to happen?”

“A few days. End of that meeting the Blume outfit was here for. But—I’ve heard… that Verrick is moving it up. It’s going ahead… tomorrow!”

“So it was Niall Quinn?” Pearce’s voice on the phone was hard, brittle. “I wondered if it might be. He pulled the trigger on Verrick, who pulled the trigger on Tranter, who pulled the trigger on Grampus—who pulled it on me.”

“Yeah. But Pearce…” Wolfe was in the bedroom of the safehouse. She could hear the murmur of voices, Seline talking to Bullock in the next room. “…the attack. If Bullock’s right about that…”

“It fits in with what we know. It’s the last piece of the puzzle, Wolfe. We have to assume it’s true. You’re going to have to go to a guy I know at the Justice Department. Or—I have a friend who’s a friend of his. Kiskel knows him. He’ll see you. There’s an office right here in Chicago. You warn them—Homeland Security will ground those planes and put out an alert for drones.”

“You believe that?”

“Sure, they go on high alert every time a Muslim baby burps. They’re almost as worried about militia nut jobs. And this is pretty much what these Purity guys are.”

“But—Van Ness is a connected son of a bitch. And Purity has a lot of money. You know as well as I do that money talks in this country. Did the Department of Justice go after all those Wall Street lowlifes? I don’t know if they’re going to raid Verrick and Iceberg on my say-so.”

“Look, I’m not a law and order guy. I’m a wanted man. But —we’ve got an obligation to tell people about this. I think Department of Justice is more reliable than Homeland Security. Those dopes at HS will probably arrest you before they’ll detain Van Ness… they’ll figure it’s all a veiled threat from you. But Doolin at DoJ—Kiskel says he’s all right. Go to him, Pearce. Fast. I’ll try to set it up.”

It was dusk by the time Seline drove Bullock to the train station.

They were just approaching the curb near the station, when Bullock said, suddenly, “Young lady—you wouldn’t really have carved me up, would you?”

She hesitated. But she couldn’t keep up the pretense anymore. “No. And we wouldn’t have given you to Verrick. But we’d have turned you over to Pearce, probably. And who knows what he’d have done with you…”

He looked up at the station. “I don’t know if this is safe…”

“You want to try to drive out?”

“No. Verrick’ll be watching my house. I don’t want to use a credit card—I’d need that for a rental.”

“You could try O’Hare…”

“No, couldn’t go out through O’Hare. Not with a lot of crashing planes a possibility. But… I don’t feel good about this either. They could be looking for me here. Would you at least come in with me?”

“Okay, Bullock.” She took a left, and lucked into a parking place almost immediately. They parked, got out and walked through the cold gray evening to Union Station. She had the remote camera scrambler Wolfe had given her, in her pocket, and she pressed it several times as they approached. She didn’t know if they were looking for her but she didn’t want to take a chance.

They went through the glass doors, down the hallway, into the big ticketing room. Seline looked around. It was mostly just a room full of busy people, or waiting people. They were bustling off to a train, waiting in lines, or waiting in wooden benches. There were a couple of cops across the room, chatting, paying them no harm. An announcer’s voice boomed out, warning that a train to Kansas City was about to depart.

“You sure you want to go to Los Angeles, Bullock?” she asked. He was planning to pay for the ticket cash, at the ticket windows.

“Yes. I didn’t know if you were going to really bring me here…” He looked around nervously. “I don’t see anyone watching me.”

“There wasn’t any doubt, once Wolfe made you a promise, that he was going to let you go. He’s a pretty square guy. Tough but… honest.”

“You like him, don’t you? I mean… in a big way.”

“None of your business.”

The ticket cashier, a gray haired man in thick glasses, was staring at them, as they got closer in the line. He excused himself for a moment, as the fat lady up ahead fumbled in her purse for cash, and then stepped away from the window, talking quickly into a cell phone.

I shouldn’t be paranoid about that, Seline told herself. The man could’ve just realized he had to call his wife. Could be anything.

The cashier quickly returned to the window and took the fat lady’s money.

Seline tried to relax. It took a couple more minutes, but at last Bullock stepped up to the window, and asked for a ticket to Los Angeles.

Then Seline realized the cashier was staring past Bullock—past her. At someone…

She turned, saw a flabby pot bellied man in coveralls rushing up toward Bullock. In his hand was something like a walkie-talkie. It seemed modified, with extra wiring on the outside—and he was pointing it at Bullock.

“Bullock!” Seline called.

He turned—saw the man… stared at the device in his hand…

Then Bullock began to sway. He looked dizzy. White foam showed at the corners of his lips. “Insulin… shock. He…”

Bullock collapsed.

Seline automatically knelt by him—tried to hold Bullock still as he convulsed, his eyes rolling back in his head…

She shouted, “Someone! We need an ambulance!”

The cops ran over to her, looking genuinely concerned. Seline looked around for the man with the device in his hand…

But he was gone. Vanished into the crowd.

She backed away. The cops were kneeling by Bullock, one of them taking his pulse. “This man’s dying…”

Seline slipped into the crowd herself.

“Wolfe?”

“Yeah, you get him on a train?”

“No. They were watching for him. He’s dead. He said something about his insulin… There was a man there who was pointing a… a machine of some kind at him…”

Wolfe was driving a “borrowed” car to the justice department, listening to Seline on his bluetooth.

She described the man with the “device”.

“That’s Starling,” Wolfe said. “He must’ve been nearby. But then Blume’s headquarters is about half a block away. Must’ve hacked into Bullock’s insulin injector. Made it dump three months worth at once. Too much insulin—you die.”

“Oh, God.”

“You get away without being followed?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. Go back to the safehouse. I’ll call you. I’ve got to go in and see Doolin. Kiskel got me an appointment. I want to get this over with fast before they start looking at me for… other stuff.”

Wolfe ended the call, pulled the car up to the nearest curb. It was a red curb but he didn’t care—he didn’t plan to drive it again.

He hurried through the increasing wind across the street to the Federal Building, sizing it up as he went.

It was old granite building, about eight stories high, with a U.S. flag out front and curving stone eaves. The Department of Justice’s offices in Chicago were housed in two buildings and this was the older one.