Authors: Max Allan Collins
Then another door opened, and footsteps echoed away.
The new voice spoke again, and it was touched with a south-of-the-border lilt: “Turn around, you . . . slowly.”
She did as she'd been told—a good girl—and Morales stood in front of her now, his pistol aimed at the middle of her chest.
“Nice and easy now,” he said. “I want you to set that bag on the floor, like it's your poor sweet gran'ma.”
Again she did as told—even though she had no “sweet gran'ma” that she knew of.
Morales's other hand went up to his mouth and he spoke into his sleeve. “Intruder contained in the gallery, repeat, the gallery.”
Rising slowly, she heard a crackily “ten-four” from Morales's earpiece.
Then the security man crossed slowly toward her and, though his face remained impassive and professional, something sexual flickered in his eyes when he said, “I'm going to have to pat you down.”
“I don't think so.”
“Put your hands behind your head, little girl; wing those elbows.”
Morales crouched, keeping his handgun and his eyes on his captive even as his free hand reached for the zippered bag. He had begun to rise, slowly, when footsteps in the foyer drew his eyes toward the door, just long enough to give Max the opening she needed.
She swung at the waist, twisting her body as if exercising, and one of those elbows he'd requested caught Morales on the side of the head.
Pitching sideways from the blow, he got off one wild shot that buried itself in the wall, between two of those valuable pictures. She thrust her right foot into his throat, and—already off-balance—he tumbled backward, gasping for breath. Before he hit the floor, Max had kicked the gun from his fingers and it went spinning across the waxed wood floor, clattering against the floorboards clear across the room.
Morales gurgled and seemed vaguely conscious, but showed no sign of getting up.
Behind her, in that doorway Sterling had slipped out, a deep voice growled, “Freeze!”
Instead, Max did two cartwheels, and was into her back flip when the tall crew-cut leader's pistol coughed harshly, twice, both rounds missing the blur that was Max and burying themselves in a wall and a painting, respectively.
The catlike home invader landed in front of him, perhaps a yard separating them, enough room for her to kick the pistol from his hand. Then she pirouetted, back-kicked the estate's top security man in the belly, folding him up, and sent him flying across the room, where he smacked into a wall hard enough to make several pictures hang crooked.
He still had that gun, so she went to him, incredibly fast, and when he tried to rise, and looked at where she'd been, the intruder was gone . . . and he then glanced to his right, where she was now standing.
“Can't play with you,” she said. “Sorry. . . .”
Her left foot caught him in the groin and he cried out shrilly and sagged to the floor again. Max was taking no chances, however, and as soon as her left foot touched the floor, her right foot came up and caught the leader under the chin, knocking him unconscious and sending him sliding across the waxed surface, like a kid on a sled.
She sprinted back to where Morales lay bubbling—he was unconscious now—and snatched up the waterproof bag. Then she smashed the Plexiglas case with a kick, and—for the second time!—grabbed the precious Heart of the Ocean, triggering an alarm: a buzzerlike bawling.
Max slipped the necklace into a vest pocket, which she zipped shut, and carried the bag with the painting in her left hand as she moved toward the door that would take her back to the foyer—she had come in the front way, she'd go out the same.
She was heading for the security keypad when she all but bumped into the black guy, Maurer, finally down from upstairs, looking a little disheveled, and sweaty, from an apparently thorough and fruitless search of the vast upper floors. The MP7A was in his hands, and he swung it up, leveling the weapon at her . . .
. . . but Max leapt high and with a martial-arts kick sent the weapon flying; when the MP7A landed on the marble floor, hitting hard, it fired off its own burst and shattered a priceless Frank Lloyd Wright chair into kindling.
Maurer was no pushover, however, and he came roaring at her with his fists raised.
“Wanna box?” she asked.
A straight right broke his nose and another landed squarely on his jaw with a satisfying crunch. Maurer fell backward, stiff-legged, and did a backward pratfall, his head smacking on the marble. The only question Max had was whether he was out from her punch, or from losing that battle with the floor. . . .
She didn't bother to Gameboy the keypad; it wasn't like they didn't know she was there. She threw open the front door, triggering the alarm—this one an annoying honking, which made an off-key counterpoint to the gallery buzzer (different sounds apparently indicated different security breach points—Max admired the strategy).
Bad move,
she thought, realizing she should have taken the time to punch in the keycode; mentally, she pictured Moody frowning and shaking his head at her.
Those dueling alarms would, with honking and screeching, draw the attention not only of the rest of the security team, but cops and neighbors and anybody for at least a square mile who wasn't stone-cold deaf.
Halfway across the yard, slipping back into the fog, she suddenly saw Jackson emerging from the swirling mist, crossing toward her, his MP7A raised.
Not waiting for him to act, Max launched herself to one side, diving, rolling, disappearing into the smokelike fog.
The guard knew enough not to fire into the fog—he might shoot one of his own team—and when he pursued her, assuming she was on the move, almost ran into her.
Startled, his eyes popped open, and before he could fire, she kicked him in the side of the head, dropping him out-cold to the lawn like a toppled garden gnome.
With those alarms still blaring like dissonant horror-show music, waterproof bag tucked under an arm, Max circled the house, leapt the wall, and approached her hidden boat carefully, in case any of Sterling's security team had scouted ahead.
But only her boat was waiting, and she eased it out onto the lapping water and she, the Grant Wood, the Heart of the Ocean, and the ungainly tourist craft disappeared onto the fog-flung lake.
Not exactly a perfect heist, but the haul was good, and even with a few flubs, she knew Moody would be proud of his girl. This was a seven-figure evening, easy, enough to finance the search for Seth and allow her to slip back into the anonymity of the straight life . . . for a while anyway.
A few hours later, with the glow of the coming day already lightening the easterly sky, Max sat on the couch in her squatter's flat, staring at the necklace.
She still had no idea how Sterling had ended up with it, and now she wondered what she was going to do with it. The painting needed to be fenced, which would cover immediate expenses; unfortunately, she had no such connections in Seattle . . . yet.
She had not called Moody in LA, since getting to town and settling into this new life; she'd wanted a clean break . . . but now she
had
to talk to him. This time of night . . . or morning . . . she didn't dare bother him. But in a few hours, she'd find out what the hell was going on with the real prop of the necklace.
Dropping the stone into a black velvet bag, she hid it in her bedroom, and ambled back out to the living room to try to relax—so hard for her to get to sleep after a score. . . .
To Max's surprise, Kendra was sitting on the couch now, watching TV.
“What's up?” Max asked.
Kendra gave her roommate a coy smile. “Just got home. Had a date.”
“Really?” Max sat beside her, gave her sly look. “Nice guy?”
Kendra's smile widened. “No, he was a bad, bad boy . . . in a nice, nice way.”
They laughed at that, perhaps a little too much—what with Kendra a little drunk, and Max trapped in wide-awake exhaustion.
“Details,” ordered Max, “details.”
“No way.”
“I would tell
you.
”
Her mouth open wide in mock astonishment, Kendra said, “You would not, and we both know it—you are the most secretive little bee-atch on the planet . . . and you're pumping
me
for details?”
“
I
wasn't pumping you,” Max said with a laugh. “What I want to know is,
who
was pumping you?”
“Oh, you're wicked. . . .”
They were interrupted by the distracting white noise of TV static; both young women quickly recognized what this signaled, and their conversation ceased as they gave their attention to the cool yet intense eyes on the screen, eyes bordered above and below by blue, with the words STREAMING FREEDOM VIDEO gliding in white letters against a red background.
“Do not attempt to adjust your set,”
the calm yet intense voice intoned, making the same introduction as before, a sixty-second untraceable cable hack from the only free voice in the city.
“Look at those eyes,” Kendra said.
“Shhhh,” Max said.
“He can hack my cable any ol' time. . . .”
“Quiet, Kendra.”
“This bulletin contains graphic violence, and we are broadcasting at this hour to avoid young viewers. This footage—banned from the media in Los Angeles where the slaughter occurred two days ago—is sobering evidence of what happens to people who stand up for freedom.”
Max's eyes widened in dread as she saw the handheld footage of the outside of the Chinese Theatre.
“Official documents indicate that the gangster group the Brood was responsible,”
the electronically altered voice continued,
“but the media clampdown—and reports of black-uniformed, heavily armed soldiers at the scene—indicate government involvement, even collusion.”
The camera moved closer to the theater and revealed four bodies sprawled on the patio in postures of bullet-riddled death. Max's fingers clutched the cloth of the couch.
“The Chinese Clan, freedom fighters in the Los Angeles area . . .”
Freedom fighters?
Max thought bitterly.
Not hardly. . . .
The camera moved into the lobby where more bodies were flung, some of them Brood members, and she wondered if Moody's crew had been able to fight back, to hold off the onslaught, to limit the carnage. . . .
“. . . were gunned down by the Brood in a dispute, allegedly over stolen goods.”
And Max saw Fresca, in his worn Dodgers jacket, lying in rubble next to a headless girl . . . Niner? Fresca's jacket, originally Dodger blue, was now an ugly, blood-soaked purple.
“None of this group of freedom fighters escaped the wrath of the Brood.”
The handheld was in the auditorium now. Bodies lay strewn about like abandoned, broken toys.
“Gross,” Kendra said; but her eyes were glued to the screen.
Again Max felt warm wetness trailing down her cheeks, but she otherwise remained passive, simply sitting watching the video footage of her dead Clan family.
“Eyes Only sources indicate the Brood may be expanding into Seattle,”
the voice continued.
“If this criminal gang truly has government sanction, our city will be further enslaved.”
The camera swung around in the theater's auditorium for the image Eyes Only had chosen to make his final point:
Moody's head impaled on a spike.
On spikes on either side of him were the heads of Tippett and Gabriel. . . .
“Shut it off!” Max gasped, and turned away.
Kendra used the remote, but the bulletin was already over, SNN back on; the tears on Max's cheeks surprised her roommate into sobriety.
“What's wrong, Max? You're not the squeamish type.”
“I know them . . .
knew
them.”
“What?”
“I was one of them . . . the Chinese Clan. They were . . . family. Like family. . . .”
Kendra slipped an arm around Max's shoulders. “Oh, God, Max, I'm so sorry. What can I do to help?”
Max shut the grief off, as if she'd thrown a switch. “You can help me find Eyes Only, I've got to talk to him. I've got to find out more about what happened at that theater.”
Kendra's eyes were big, and she was shaking her head. “Honey, I don't know
anything
about him—nobody does. He comes on the tube at will, he does his thing, he splits.”
Max shook her head. “There's got to be more to it than that—there must be an underground movement in this city.”
“Well, if so, I don't know anything about it. And I don't know anybody who knows anything about Eyes Only. . . . you gonna be all right?”
Nodding, Max said, “I'm fine.”
“No you're not. You're holding it in—that's not healthy. If you don't let it out . . .”
“There's nothing to be done for them now.”
Kendra frowned in concern. “You sure you don't want to talk it out?”
“Yeah, I'm sure.”
“Well . . .” Max's roommate rose, yawned, and said, “I guess I better catch some z's . . . that is, if you're
sure
—”
“Kendra, go ahead and crash. . . . I'll be fine.”
After Kendra stumbled off to bed, Max went to her own room, where she took from its hiding place the black velvet bag with the necklace.
This stone had cost Moody and the others their lives . . . and she hadn't been there for them. . . .
She wept, quietly, her face in a hand, for several minutes; then the thoughts, the questions, began to crystallize.
Eyes Only, Seth, this necklace, the Brood, the art collector Jared Sterling, and maybe even Manticore and Lydecker himself were interwoven in the tragedy that had befallen the Clan.
But
how?
She knew where to start. Not Eyes Only—his whereabouts, like his identity, were a mystery. Seth had given up no leads since the brawl with the boys in blue; and the necklace was a mute witness. The Brood was in LA, and Lydecker was at Manticore.
That left one option.
The ten-man security team would be ready for her next time, but she could see no other choice: Max would have to return to the scene of the crime.
Chapter Nine
EYES ONLY
LOGAN CALE'S APARTMENT
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, 2019
Even in the post-Pulse world, the ringing of a doorbell was, generally, an innocuous thing.
Right now, with midnight approaching, the doorbell in Logan Cale's condominium was trilling the hello of an unannounced guest. The building was secure, and the lobby guard would normally call and check before sending anyone through.
But there had been no call—just the ringing of the bell.
And in the life of Logan Cale, answering a doorbell could mean his last act on earth.
First, there was the risk that someone with the government—or some “civic-minded” citizen looking for reward money—would enter and discover the not-terribly-secret home studio from which Logan broadcast the cyberbulletins of his very secret alter ego, Eyes Only.
Second, Logan was one of a long line of Americans born to wealth who developed a sense of shame—even guilt—for his life of privilege, a sentiment that had blossomed into genuine social concern. And, while his underground identity as Eyes Only seemed secure, his reputation as an aboveground left-leaning journalist was well known.
This of course did not prevent Logan from being perceived as just another fat-cat target. The Cale family had the kind of affluence that had easily weathered the Pulse and its various upheavals and problems . . . one of which was kidnapping the rich for ransom.
As in the Great Twentieth-Century Depression, this left-handed entrepreneurial pursuit had become the “racket of choice” of many criminals, from down-on-their-outers to sophisticated career criminals. And as in the Lindbergh era of “snatches,” the victims usually turned up dead, even after full payment had been made.
So . . . if this caller wasn't who Logan thought it was, he just might never get to open the door again.
Logan could ignore the bell. His two-hundred-fifty-pound ex-cop bodyguard, Peter, had the night off, and—unless this was a full-scale raid, in which the door would be battered down, anyway—Logan could just continue with his research and wait for whoever-it-was to go away.
But if this caller was who Logan suspected it might be, he would prefer to take the meeting during Peter's absence. If this was someone else, well, that was why Peter very seldom got a night off, and on the rare occasions when Logan did answer his own door, he did so in the company of a shotgun.
The bell rang again.
Paranoia runs deep,
Logan thought with a wry little smile, quoting a very old song as he rose from his massive array of racked computer gear—including half a dozen monitors and a networked laptop—and strode from his work space with an easy grace suggesting an acceptance of whatever might befall him in his quixotic but so-necessary crusade.
A shade over six feet tall, dark blond and blue-eyed behind wire-frame glasses, Logan Cale had rowed crew at Yale, and continued to work out, maintaining a slender yet muscular physique worthy of a college athlete; his apparel—jeans, a pullover gray sweater, and sneakers—added to an eternal-college-boy air of which he was wholly unaware.
His surroundings—the sprawling, modern condo, decorated with quality and taste (or at least he liked to think so)—were the one indulgence of wealth Logan allowed himself. With hardwood floors in each room, and the occasional area rug, the place had a stark, masculine feel; translucent panels separated the rooms, track lighting bathing his world in pale orange, peach, and yellow.
In the living room, each wall bore a different color, earth tones or a combination thereof. Two walls came together to form the corner of the predominantly glass high-rise, allowing a great deal of light into the room by day. Though the furniture was expensive—hard woods, sleek lines, designer stuff—the overall statement was minimalism. A plush brown sofa dominated the center of the room with simple white and silver end tables and a matching coffee table in front. Chairs sat perpendicular to the couch, completing the feng shui of the room.
Shotgun in his hands, Logan approached the double doors that were the front entry to the apartment; a small video screen to the right served as an electronic peephole.
About Logan's height, his visitor was a sullenly handsome young man of maybe twenty or twenty-one—short brown hair, green eyes, and a long, angular face—in a black leather jacket, dark blue T-shirt, and black jeans.
Logan opened the door.
“Take your goddamn time, why don't you?” the young man said, his voice deeper and older than his years, his barely contained rage evident.
“Why hello, Seth,” Logan said. “Forgive me—from now on, I'll just sit by the door, waiting for you to stop by, unannounced.”
Seth grunting a humorless laugh was his only reply.
Logan tried not to take Seth's dark attitude personally; the boy had this kind of quiet contempt for just about everybody and everything.
Logan gestured for Seth to come in, which he did. While Logan shut the door, pausing for a moment to look at the video security monitor, just in case someone had followed Seth up, the young man crossed to the couch and fell onto it with the kind of casual familiarity of a family member.
“Make yourself at home,” Logan said, dryly, ambling in after his guest.
“I'd feel more at home with a drink,” Seth said, a condescending smile tickling the thin lips.
Logan took a deep breath and let it out slow, fighting irritation; this screwed-up kid had a way of looking both happy and miserable at the same time, like that old-time movie actor . . . what was his name? Then Logan remembered: James Dean.
Deciding not to slap the smirk off the young man's face, Logan asked, “Scotch, I suppose?”
“I been off Bosco for a while.”
What a charmer,
Logan thought, went to the kitchen and came back with a glass filled with ice and clear liquid. He handed Seth the glass.
“This is water,” the young man said, just looking at it.
“Can't get anything by you.”
“What are you . . . my daddy now? I'd like a goddamn Scotch.”
“Maybe ‘daddy' doesn't feel you need your judgment impaired any worse than it already is.”
Seth obviously knew immediately what Logan meant, and sipped the water, putting the glass—thoughtfully—on a coaster on the nearby coffee table.
The relationship between the two had been strained from the beginning—neither liked the other's style, or manner. But they needed each other (
codependents,
Logan thought), each offering abilities and knowledge the other didn't have. It had made for a rocky ride thus far, Seth with his gift for alienating almost anybody who came into his life—particularly anyone who got at all close—and Logan, always focused on the struggle, with little patience for those who did not share his passion.
The pair had been introduced less than a month ago by Ben Daly, a mousy middle-aged med tech who was a mutual acquaintance. Among Logan's Eyes Only efforts was a sort of Underground Railroad, and the cyber–freedom fighter had been working on securing safe passage to Canada for Daly, where the tech hoped with Cale's help to disappear into a new identity.
Daly was on the run from his former employer, a private corporation that had been taken over by U.S. government black ops. The med tech and his fellow employees had been experimenting in bio-enhancement technology, but the new covert project—Project Manticore—moved the experiment into using recombinant DNA to produce a superior combat soldier. When Manticore started using children as guinea pigs, Daly decided he'd had enough.
Another research scientist at the facility gave notice, and this encouraged Daly to make an appointment to see his boss, to tender his own resignation . . . and the next night, said research scientist was a hit-and-run fatality. The head of Manticore, the spookily soft-spoken Colonel Donald Lydecker, had said to Daly, “A dangerous world out there—what was it you wanted to talk to me about, Mr. Daly?”
So Ben Daly settled in, did his job, and waited for his chance. It wasn't until well after the Pulse that he'd gotten away—Manticore was the kind of job you couldn't quit . . . you had to
escape
from it, like the prison it was—and he'd stayed hidden for years, the last three in Seattle, working as a lowly (but alive) lab tech.
And then Daly had been tracked down by Seth. At first Daly thought the X5 had been sent by Manticore, but it quickly became apparent he was simply looking for a solution to the seizures that had afflicted him, and his siblings, since their youth. A runaway. Still, Seth's turning up gave Daly a sudden, desperate desire to leave Seattle, and find some new rock to crawl under. If Seth, a kid on the run, working by himself, could find Daly, it was only a matter of time until organization-man Lydecker came calling.
Though he hadn't been able to solve Seth's health problem, Daly had informed the renegade X5 that tryptophan—a homeopathic neurotransmitter—could help control the symptoms. In an effort to keep from getting his ass kicked by Seth for failing to end the seizures, Daly had introduced the volatile young man to Logan.
Daly, of course, was unaware that Logan was Eyes Only; but he did know that Logan was an anti-establishment journalist from a very wealthy family.
“Maybe you can track down some doctor or research scientist,” Daly had said, “who can address Seth's condition . . . maybe you can network with this Eyes Only character. Who knows?”
“Who knows,” Logan had said.
Logan suspected Daly didn't care if the X5 got help or not. Likely the med tech only hoped that Seth would latch onto Logan as a new target of his dark moods. If so, Daly's strategy had proved successful: the tech was in some little town on the edge of the Arctic Circle, and Seth was still in Seattle, playing a dangerous game with Logan Cale.
Sprawled on the couch, running shoes up on it, Seth might have been a patient in a psychiatrist's office. Referring to Ryan Devane—the corrupt sector chief who had been selling everything from under-the-table sector passes to minority teenagers into slavery overseas—Seth said, “Problem solved.”
Few in Seattle, no matter their political persuasion, had any doubt that Devane was a bad
man . . . many would have called him evil; but his position had been so well insulated, he couldn't be touched . . . except by Eyes Only.
“Solved,” Logan echoed emptily.
“Did what you wanted,” Seth said.
“What I wanted, and more.”
“You wanted him stopped.” Seth smiled over innocently at Logan, who had settled into a chair. “I stopped him.”
“You killed him.”
Seth shrugged, folded his hands on his tummy, stared at the ceiling. “That's pretty much the most efficient way to stop somebody.”
Shaking his head, Logan said, “The most efficient way isn't always the best way.”
“I agree . . . but in this case, it was. You're not going to lecture me on that ends-don't-justify-the-means b.s. again, are you? They taught us ethics at fuckin' Manticore.”
“I'll just bet they did. They teach you anything about justice?”
The younger man thought about it for a long moment. “Justice was served. . . . What's next?”
“Never mind what's next,” Logan said, rising, propelled by rage. “How the hell do you figure ‘justice' was served by murder?”
Seth glanced over with an expression of mock innocence. “Any children sold into slavery lately?”
“That doesn't justify—”
“Sure it does. Bastard got what he deserved.”
Logan began to pace, hands in the pockets of his slacks. “Seth—that's not justice, that's revenge.”
“Same difference,” Seth said, and swung into a sitting position, leaning back, arms outstretched on the back of the couch.
Logan said, “I wanted to stop him—expose him, entrap him—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa—isn't entrapment illegal? I thought the ends didn't justify the means?”
“When law enforcement itself is corrupt, certain extreme measures have to be taken. It's a matter of degree, Seth—some laws go beyond politics. These are laws that have to do with society, with civilization, even religion.”
“Oh, shit, you're not gonna go
religious
on my ass, now!”
“No . . . no. But ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill' is part of the social contract, Seth. You can't—”
“Bullshit! The social contract got ripped up when the Pulse went down—where was the social contract when Manticore was makin'
me,
like instant soup in a damn test tube?”
Logan stopped pacing. He sat down next to Seth. “Don't make me regret taking you into my confidence.”
Seth's grin was a terrible thing. “Thought you had a supersoldier to play with, didn'tcha? And now you're afraid all you got is a loose cannon . . . am I on to something, ‘Eyes Only'?”
“Seth . . . please . . . We have the opportunity to be a team. To make a
difference. . . .”
“We're already making a difference!” Seth sprang to his feet; now he was the one pacing, but there was a raving and ranting quality to the words that accompanied it. “Logan, you were unhappy when a corrupt official was ruining lives and selling children into slavery . . . and now you're telling me you're
still
unhappy, even though we stopped the mofo!”
“I'm not unhappy he's been stopped—”
“But you
are
unhappy this blight on society is dead? Are you fuckin'
high?
”
Logan sighed. “You were acting as my . . . agent. I feel responsible for that man's death. And I don't like it, not one little bit.”
Seth stopped in front of Logan and put his hands together in a prayerful gesture. “How touching . . . but your liberal guilt doesn't negate the fact that the mission was accomplished and we saved maybe hundreds, who knows, maybe even thousands of kids from being sold into slavery.”
Logan could see he wasn't going to prevail in this debate. And he feared the moral complexities would continue to elude this kid—the supersoldier genetic makeup perhaps had made Seth a literal killing machine.
Maybe over the long haul, Logan could convince Seth that justice didn't necessarily mean the summary execution of everyone they went after. He only hoped he could control and shape Colonel Lydecker's nasty lab rat into something positive for society.