Marcus Sakey: Brilliance

Quinn said, “Got it. Suite 508. The conference room is in the southeast corner.”

Shannon said, “On my way.”

Cooper said, “There. Now how about Roger does the same?”

Dickinson laughed. Peters gave his thin smile. “I don’t think so. We’re both aware of your abilities. Now, where’s the drive?”

“It’s safe.”

“How nice to hear. Where?”

“If I tell you, how do I know you won’t kill them anyway?”

“You have my word.”

“That’s not carrying as much weight with me as it used to, Drew.”

“It’s going to have to do. I told you, you’re not in a position to negotiate. Give me what I want and I’ll let you all go.”

Dickinson said, “I bet it’s in his pocket. Let me take him.”

Shannon said, “Nick, I’m in the office, outside the conference room. Going now.”

“No, Roger.” Peters paused. Then he said, “Shoot Cooper’s son on the count of three.”

On the monitor, one of the guards raised his gun, pointed it at Todd—

The guards can hear him.

The speakerphone. The call light is on. They’re listening in.

Shannon is stepping into that room now. She can take the guards…unless Peters or Dickinson yell a warning from up here.

Which they will if they’re watching the monitor.

—as Peters said, “Three. Two.”

“Okay!” Cooper took a quick step forward, and both Peters and Dickinson jumped, turned their full attention on him. “I’ve got it here.” He reached in his pocket, felt the slim profile of the stamp drive. He didn’t want to risk losing hold of it, even for a moment. It was the only proof he had of the monstrosity he had helped create. Once he let it go, everything could change. The only chance for some sort of justice could vanish.

It’s justice or your children.

Cooper pulled the drive from his pocket. It took all his effort not to glance at the monitor. His children, helpless, and him up here, powerless, and Dickinson right there, hungry, his hand already flexing. Cooper kept his fingers curled around the drive, didn’t let them see it. They wouldn’t risk making a move until they were sure he wasn’t bluffing. He held the moment as long as he dared, his heart pounding. Stepped forward, lowered his hand over the table. Opened his fingers.

The drive fell to the table.

Peters zeroed in on it, eyes hungry and triumphant.

A flash of movement on the monitor. Cooper told himself not to look, but it was too late, his gift beyond his control, needing data, reading situations.

Dickinson staring at him. Tracking his eyes. Following them.

They both watched as, on the monitor, Shannon threw an elbow into the throat of a gunman.

To the guards, Dickinson yelled, “Kill them!” as his hand flew inside his jacket.

Cooper spun and bolted for the nearest cubicle, leaving the drive on the table. A shot from behind, and drywall exploded. He kept moving, feeling Dickinson tracking him, firing again and again, not quite catching him, and then he was out of sight behind a low cube. He dropped to his knees and quickly crawled for the next one, bullets punching through the fabric walls.

Peters will go for the drive.

Nothing he could do about that. The conference room would be lethal. He wasn’t a superhero who could dodge bullets. Being able to see where someone intended to shoot gave him a leg up, but against a professional like Dickinson, in an open space, it wouldn’t be enough.

Had Shannon taken out both gunmen? No way to know, and no time to wonder. There was another shot, and another ragged hole blown in a fabric wall. A monitor exploded.

Cooper stayed low, hurried along the aisle between the cubicles. Pictured the floor plan, trying to place himself on it. The design studio was large, maybe fifty employees. The open plan meant that if he stood up, Dickinson would be able to see him. On the other hand, if he didn’t stand up, his own gift was nullified. Without being able to see what was going on, he was just prey, scurrying from cover to cover.

He looked around. Two cubes near him, one stacked with papers and folders, the other neat and decorated, someone making an effort to turn a gray fabric cage into a cozy living room: a recliner, a lamp, framed photos on the desk. Nothing resembling a weapon in either, at least not a weapon he’d match against a handgun. Glanced upward: girders, pipes, hanging banks of fluorescent lights.

At some distance, a faint double ping. The door chime.

Quinn would have warned him if any more threats had come into the building. Which meant that sound was Peters leaving. With the drive.

Everything was falling apart.

Cooper crept into the well-decorated cube, took one of the photos off the desk. The glass was bright and reflected a ghostly image of himself. He eased it up above the edge of the fabric wall. It was a long way from a mirror, but it gave a hint of what was going on, the overheads glowing in it, and motion, Dickinson somehow ten feet tall. The table. The agent had climbed on top of it for a better view. Cooper pulled the picture down before the man spotted it.

“Come on, Cooper,” Dickinson said. “Come out and I’ll make it quick. Just like your children.”

Bile surged in his throat. He whispered, “Shannon? You okay?”

No response.

Quinn said, “Coop, I don’t know what’s going on. I’ve got no feed, and she’s not answering.”

“I recognized your terrorist girlfriend,” Dickinson said, “but I’m afraid she didn’t make it.”

It was a bluff. A way to taunt him into the open. It had to be.

“And that little stunt cost your family’s lives. Sorry about that, but we did warn you.”

He closed his eyes, leaned back against the cubicle wall.

“Ahh, don’t sweat it, Cooper. Kids are replaceable. What’s one or two gone?”

Nothing from Quinn. Nothing from Shannon. He’d caught only the tiniest flash of her on the monitor, a move to disable one of the guards, but there had been two in the room. Skilled killers on high alert.

His gift ran ahead of him again, collated the data, jumped to its conclusion.

Your family is dead.

Cooper had been at a scene once where a car had collided with an agent and pinned him against a metal barrier, shattering everything from the ribs down, severing both legs at midthigh. Massive physical damage, unsurvivable. What had haunted him most, though, was that the man was calm. He didn’t scream, didn’t seem to feel any pain.

Some wounds were too enormous to feel.

A strange dark purity flowed through him. It was almost sweet. If his family was gone, there wasn’t much point in going on. Not many reasons to live. Just one.

You’re going to die, Roger. And so is Peters.

He ducked low, left the cubicle, and scurried down the aisle. Kept his shoulder against the near wall, visualizing the angle Dickinson could see. Climbing on top of the conference table would give him the high ground, generally a tactical advantage. But it came with limitations, too.

A gunshot, and then another. Nothing exploded near him, though. Dickinson was blind-firing, trying to draw him out.

I’m coming out, Roger. Don’t you worry.

He moved along the aisle back toward the entrance. On the wall between two mounted skateboards he saw what he’d been looking for. But it was a long exposed sprint to reach it. No way to get there without being seen.

He dropped to a runner’s crouch, ready to sprint. Then, with a looping toss, he threw the picture frame as far behind as he could.

Dickinson reacted immediately, twin gun blasts. Cooper didn’t pause, just launched himself into a sprint for the far wall, covering a dozen yards in seconds. He heard glass shatter behind him, the picture frame hitting something. Dickinson would have processed it for the distraction it was. He’d have his gun up and be tracking, looking for motion.