Marcus Sakey - Brilliance

“Ground two?”

“Go.”

“Three?”

“Freezing my tits off, but go.” Luisa, bringing her usual flair.

“Crow’s nest?”

“Two positions, overlapping sight lines. Go.”

“God?”

“The view from on high is divine, my son.” Behind the voice came the buzz of rotors. At the elevation the airship was flying, it was nothing but a darker gray spot against a bright gray sky. “God is good.”

Cooper smiled and pressed the transmit button. “Peace be with you.”

“And also with you. But woe betide the sorry shitbird who tries to run, lest we hurl a thunderbolt.”

“Amen.” He clicked off and gazed down through the double-thick glass at the meet site.

Today looked pretty much like yesterday, which was one of those things you could say about a lot of DC days between November and March. The sunlight was weak tea, and gusts of winds tugged at the coats of powerbrokers, the scarves of businesswomen.

Ground two was the FedEx truck. It was parked on G Street, on the northwest corner. The back door was up, and an undercover agent was loading boxes on a dolly, checking each one against a manifest. Behind a makeshift shelf, four more agents were jammed together out of sight. It was a tight, uncomfortable space, but even so, they had it better than ground one; the utility van had been parked on 12th all night.

Cooper had done recon in those things before. They were dark and uncomfortable, boiling in the summer and frigid in the winter. Movement had to be restricted to the absolute minimum, and the air always reeked of urine from the quart jars they used. One time a junior agent had broken a jar, and after six scorching hours, the team had been ready to forget the target and beat the hell out of him.

11:30. The meet was set for noon. Good planning on the bad guys’ part: lunchtime, and the corner below would be even busier as everyone in the surrounding buildings scurried from their cubicles.

“Camera feed good?”

“Better than.” Bobby Quinn sat at a polished wood table twenty feet long. He’d co-opted the law firm’s presentation system for his mobile headquarters, and the air in front of him shimmered with ghost images, video feeds from various angles. “The intersection is wired like a tri-d studio.”

“Show me the transmitter.”

Quinn gestured, and a map of the city streets glowed. “Green dot is this.” Quinn tossed him the stamp drive. It looked perfectly normal, down to the half-rubbed-out logo on the side. Cooper pocketed it. His partner continued. “The red dot is Vasquez, the man himself.”

“How’d you wire him?”

“His colon,” Quinn deadpanned. Cooper glanced over sharply, but his partner continued. “Shiny newtech, just in from R&D. Some academy bright boy came up with a tracker in a gelcap. Enzyme-bonds to the lining of the large intestine.”

“Wow. Is he—is it—”

“No. Bonds dissolve in about a week, and out it goes with the rest of the junk mail.”

“Wow,” Cooper repeated.

“Gives new meaning to the phrase ‘stay on his ass.’”

“Been waiting to use that?”

“Since the moment they handed me the gelcap.” Quinn looked up and smiled. “Learn anything useful yesterday?”

“Yeah. I learned Smith has a right to be pissed off.”

“Hey, hey, whoa.” Quinn dropped his voice. “Dickinson would flip if he heard you say that.”

“ Screw Roger Dickinson.”

“Yeah, well, you know he’d be happy to screw you. So be careful.” Quinn leaned back. “What’s really going on?”

Cooper thought of yesterday afternoon, the relief he’d felt as he hit the road. The Monongahela National Forest blurring around him, huddled trees and ragged mountains, prefab housing dropped at random.

I MISS MY SON, the pale woman’s placard had read.

“They aren’t schools, Bobby. They’re brainwashing centers.”

“Come on—”

“I’m not being poetic. That’s literally what they are. I mean, I’d heard things, we all have, but I didn’t believe it. Who could treat children this way?” Cooper shook his head. “Turns out the answer is, we can.”

“We?”

“They’re government facilities. DAR facilities.”

“But not Equitable Services.”

“Close enough.”

“It’s not ‘close enough.’” Quinn’s voice sharp. “You are not personally responsible for the actions of an entire agency.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. We all—”

“Do you believe that Alex Vasquez was trying to make the world a better place?”

“What?”

“Do you believe that Alex Vasquez—”

“No.”

“Do you believe that John Smith is trying to make the world a better place?”

“No.”

“Do you believe that he is responsible for killing a whole bunch of people?”

“Yes.”

“Innocent people?”

“Yes.”

“Children?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go get him. That is what we do. We take down bad people who hurt good people. Preferably before they hurt the good people. That’s our responsibility. After that,” Quinn said, “we go out for beer. Which you buy. That’s your responsibility.”

Cooper chuckled despite himself. “Yeah, all right, Bobby. I hear you.”

“Good.”

“That was something.” Cooper stood. “Getting all righteous on me. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I am multilayered. Like an onion.”

“That part I’ll buy.” Cooper clapped his friend on the shoulder. “I’m going to check on Vasquez.”

“Calm him down, will you? He’s sweating so bad I’m afraid he might somehow shake that tracker loose after all.”

“And thank you for that image.”

“Here for you, boss.” Quinn yawned and put his feet up on the polished wood table.

Cooper strolled down the hall, passing a gold logo with the names of three white guys followed by LLC. The law office was in a building overlooking the Metro station where the meet was to take place. Quinn had reached out to them yesterday, and the partners had been delighted to help Equitable Services. Cooper had met one of them earlier, a trim guy with a halo of white hair who had wished him good hunting.

Good hunting. Shit.

Two guards stood outside the corner office, their tactical blacks today replaced by bland business suits. The submachine guns were still ready-slung. He nodded at them. One said, “Sir,” and opened the office door.

Inside, Bryan Vasquez stood by the window, his hands against the glass. At the sound, he jumped, turning with an expression that was part guilt and part nerves.

Fever Orange, Cooper decided to name the color. He thanked the guard, then stepped inside.

“You startled me,” Bryan said. He had one hand pressed against the glass, the other to his chest. Ghostly white dots of condensation marked where the pads of his fingers had rested on the window. There were sweat stains at his armpits, and his chest rose and fell swiftly. He licked his lips as he shifted his weight from right to left.

Cooper slid his hands into his pockets and—

He’s dedicated to his sister, but he’s also a believer. He’s worried about his own safety but would never admit it. He’s attracted to the idea of plots and secret worlds, to comrades in arms.

He needs a strong hand, but not so strong he shatters. He needs to be pumped up and sent out to do his piece for a better world.

—stepped into the room. “Sorry about that. I always get jumpy before these things, too.” He pulled out the chair, spun it around, then sat with his arms on the back. “This part drives me crazy.”

“What part?”

“The waiting. Too much time in your head. Once things start, it gets better. You know what you have to do, and you just do it. It’s easier. Don’t you think?”