And with hunger.
But it was almost immediately drowned out by the high, shrill screams of total agony from the teenager as the sweating man bit into the flesh of his throat and tore it out. In the glow of the cell phones the geysering blood was as black as oil.
Then everyone was screaming.
Maria screamed, too.
It took two minutes and nine men to subdue the sweating man. They crowded him into a corner and hammered him with kicks and punches. People hung from the straps for balance as they stomped him. Breaking his face, breaking his bones, knocking out teeth.
Through all of that, the man kept fighting. Keep trying to bite.
He never grunted in pain. Never begged for mercy.
He stopped fighting back only when one of the kicks caught him just right and his head struck a pole so hard that skin and bone burst.
The kicks continued for ten more seconds.
Then the crowd froze again, caught in a tableau, shocked by what had happened, calculating the degree of their involvement in any police action that might follow.
Cell cameras flashed, flashed, flashed.
Someone said, “Jesus Christ.”
The sound of panting—from exertion and fear—filled the car.
Maria hurried over to the teenager, but she could tell that he was already gone. His windpipe was exposed and ragged, the arterial blood pulsed once more, weakly, then settled down to a dying bubble.
She felt for his pulse, felt the last throb, and then … nothing.
“Jesus Christ,” said someone else, loading it with a different meaning.
Then Maria herself said it. “
Jesus Christ!
”
Because the teenager opened his eyes.
And his mouth.
And he lunged for her.
The last thing Maria saw was a glaring eye inches from her own as the teenager—the dead teenager—darted in to take his first bite.
Chapter Thirty-three
FreeTech
800 Fifth Avenue
New York City
Sunday, August 31, 12:24 p.m.
Junie Flynn watched as each of the newest members of her board settled into their chairs. It was a strange mix of people, and Junie knew that each of them had secrets that the others at the table did not necessarily share. Each brought their own unique skills, knowledge, connections, and motives to FreeTech. They came to help and to share in the benefits of an organization with a structure like DARPA but which had no military agenda. It was, to Junie’s experience, a unique organization.
After thanking them each for attending this closed session, Junie addressed the group. “We will operate with two levels of disclosure. Each of you has requested and been granted a public identity that has been crafted by MindReader. No one outside of this group and the upper echelon of the DMS will know who you are.”
The people seated around the table nodded, some with less enthusiasm and more suspicion than others.
“However,” said Junie, “everything else we do at FreeTech will be available through the Freedom of Information Act. All benefits will be shared equally with the public, without reservations. Since none of our research or development is intended for military use, that freedom of access will extend beyond U.S. borders. Agreed?”
Another round of nods.
However, one person, a young woman with olive skin and dark hair, raised her hand. “As much as I can appreciate altruism on this scale,” said Violin, “it is expensive. Surely, whomever is financing this venture will want the lion’s share of any profits.”
“Actually,” said Junie, “if any profits are generated they will be used for further research and to fund foundations tasked with distributing the fruits of that research.”
“How? This will take many millions…”
Junie smiled. “We are operating with a start-up bank of seventy billion dollars.”
It was a shocking amount. An absurd amount. Everyone gaped at her.
“How?” demanded Violin. “Your congress could never pass an appropriations bill of that size.”
“Private donation,” said Junie. She was intensely aware that the challenge in Violin’s voice spoke to issues beyond FreeTech. Violin had been Joe’s lover and Junie suspected that the strange woman still had strong feelings for Joe. They’d gone into combat together on multiple occasions and shared a kind of intimacy that was unique to them. Even though Junie knew that Joe was faithful to her, she was adult enough to realize that there were unresolved issues hanging fire between him and Violin. Issues that might never be resolved.
Although her trust in Joe’s fidelity was ironclad, Junie had less faith that this beautiful, exotic, and powerful warrior woman was the kind to simply bow out without a fight. Junie had been mentally preparing herself for that fight, and she dearly hoped it wouldn’t involve actual knives.
“Donated by whom?” Violin’s brow was knitted with doubt and concern. “Who has that kind of money? And why would they give so much? Is this part of the Bill and Amanda Gates Foundation or—”
“No,” said a sad-eyed young man seated across from her. He was in his thirties, thin, handsome, and he spoke with a British accent. “I donated the money. All of it.”
“You?” asked the thin, dark-haired teenager seated to Junie’s right. His name was Helmut Deacon. “And how do you have that much money?”
“I suppose you could say I inherited it,” said the Brit.
“Oil money?” asked Helmut.
“No.”
Suspicion flickered in Violin’s eyes. “Inherited from where?”
The Brit turned to Junie and raised inquiring eyebrows. She nodded.
“No secrets between us,” Junie said. “That’s our rule. Besides, FreeTech is your idea.”
“Bloody hell,” said the Brit. He took a breath. “Well, buckle up, kids, because this is going to be a bumpy ride. The funding for this was appropriated on my behalf from the Seven Kings. I was made steward of the money on the condition that I find a way to do the best possible good with it. I proposed the creation of FreeTech as a way of fixing some of the damage the Kings did. Damage that I am partly responsible for.”
Everyone at the table stared at him in stunned silence.
“And before I give you those details,” said the Brit after taking a steadying breath, “I want one favor from you. No matter how much good we do, even if we cure the common effing cold, I don’t
ever
want to hear the words ‘thank you’ aimed in my direction. Ever. This isn’t about me and it never will be.”
One by one the others nodded, though they all looked suspicious and mystified.
“Very well,” said the Brit. “I’ll start by introducing myself. My name is Alexander Chismer, but everyone calls me Toys.”
Interlude Eight
Four Seasons Hotel
1 Logan Square
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Four Years Ago
“Take it, you bitch!”
Bill Collins snarled the words as he thrust into her from behind. She was on elbows and knees; he stood beside the bed. Her buttocks flared red from where he’d slapped her over and over again with each thrust.
She snarled back at him from between clenched teeth. Goading him on, demanding that he go harder and faster, that he hit her.
Demanding it.
When they came they howled together like night creatures. Like wolves.
The iPod played very loud opera. If anyone else in the hotel heard them, no one called the front desk.
The Secret Service men outside the door were paid a lot of money under the table to pretend to be as deaf as they were blind. As far as they were concerned, they worked for Bill Collins, not for the vice president. That distinction was expensive and paid for in cash.
Collins collapsed on her by slow degrees, his sweaty chest falling onto her back and bearing her down to the sodden and tangled sheets. They panted loudly, unable to speak, spent and aching, lost in the exhaustion and pleasure and an afterglow that burned their skin.
This was the tenth time they’d met in private, and it was always like this for them.
Genuine tenderness formed no part of their relationship, though they went through the motions of it over dinner and before clothes were off. Once they were naked, each of them knew that they could be their real, true selves. They were not nice people, and that was part of the fun for each of them. They were rough and mean to each other, and that was a turn-on. And they both knew that they were trying through physical extremity to try and fuck each other’s mind. To do that, in fact, would have been their only goal, their only act; but in the absence of that possibility they drove each other toward the edge of the cliff every time.
And every time it was good for them.
Bliss had never allowed herself to be like this with anyone with whom she’d ever slept. Not even her foster father. In all other situations she’d made sure to dial it down, to play a borderline virgin, to be the good little geek girl who—oh my god!—has sex. None of that was her, or if any of it was, then it belonged to that lesser, unevolved self whom Bliss left farther behind every day.
As the sweat cooled on their skin, they gradually fell apart, him rolling off her, Bliss shifting toward the center of the bed. They were totally unabashed about nakedness or preference, and that was such a liberating thing.
After a while, he said, “The president has been having some heart problems.”
Bliss turned and looked at him. Collins was staring up at the ceiling, smiling.
“Really? Like what?”
“He nearly had a heart attack at Camp David. It was kept out of the press, but the doctors are freaked. They ran all the tests and his arteries are for shit. They’re going to try him on some statins to see if that will clear things out, but if not…”
“What? You think he’ll have a heart attack for real?”
Collins barked out a sour laugh. “I’m not that lucky. No … they’re talking bypass surgery.”
“Oh.”
There was a moment of silence and then Bliss realized that Collins was waiting for her to say something. She replayed the conversation and then realized what it was.
“If he has surgery and they use a general anesthesia,” she said, “wouldn’t that mean that you’d be president?”
“Short term … but abso-fucking-lutely.”
She turned and propped herself up on her elbow. “Bill—that’s so exciting.”
“It does not suck,” he agreed.
“Now, all we need is an allergic reaction to the anesthesia.”
“Or a surgeon with the hiccups.”
They were silent for a long time, and she pulled the sheet over herself. The room was getting cool. “Bill … while you’re acting as president, I mean … you’ll actually
be
the president, right?”
“Yes.”
“With all of the powers of the president?”
“Yup.” He stroked her hair. “Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that it seems like a great opportunity. There has to be something you can do with that chance.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But what?”
Bliss smiled. “I don’t know. But let me think on it.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Pierre Hotel
East Sixty-second Street
New York City
Sunday, August 31, 12:25 p.m.
Ludo Monk was playing a video game while he waited to kill people. It was a great way to unwind one kind of tension—ordinary, everyday stuff—and an equally great way to ramp up for the trigger pulls to come.
He was on level sixteen of Burn to Shine, and he’d just completed the second Virus Vault level. He’d burned through two lives to do it, but the game gave you an unlimited number of replays.
The hit itself was of little concern to him. The target, location, angle, weapon, and escape route had all been worked out to the smallest detail, a process that included consideration of many hundreds of variables. Ludo had spent weeks getting it all set up the right way. He did not believe in haste. He never took a job that did not permit at least a month of planning, and preferred to have more time than that.
It was all about the variables.
Time of day, weather, wind conditions, location, angles, access and egress, distance to resources, traffic congestion at different times of day, frequency of police car and air patrols, access to multiple vantage points, availability of additional assets, reliability of those assets, training of same, events on that day’s calendar for any venue within a mile, even the particulate count in the air quality report.
He was aware that some of the variables he considered were requested by parts of his brain that were less orderly and reliable than the part that generally drove the car. But that was fine. The frequency of his own madness was also a variable and it had to be considered.
Had to be.
Things went wrong only when planning was weak. The hit on Joe Ledger and Reggie Boyd in Baltimore was a prime example. That was rushed, built on poor intel, and it relied on some of Mother Night’s goofy suicide flunkies. Henchmen, as Monk thought of them. Henchmen were notorious for flubbing things. Ask anyone. Read a comic book.
Monk never used henchmen. He would occasionally use a lackey, but they were different. Lackeys were for fetching and carrying, not for wet work in the field. Lackeys picked up supplies for him, had his vehicles serviced, delivered packages, and made sure he had licorice, Coke, and plenty of pills. They were good at that sort of thing.
It was the henchmen who fucked things up. Attacking someone like Ledger with a car and then trying to outgun him. Seriously? Ledger had killed more people than smallpox. Monk knew, he’d read the files. Ledger was a psychotic killing machine—or at least that’s the phrasing Monk used in his head, and he figured he was not very far off. Monk would have handled that whole thing differently.
For one thing, he’d have picked a secure and dry shooting position, ideally in one of the buildings across the street from the Warehouse. Then he would have used explosive rounds and parked six shots through the windshield as soon as Ledger pulled up to the security exit. There was a three-second window of opportunity there while Ledger showed Boyd’s transfer papers. It would have been a clean kill. Three shots into Ledger, and then three into Boyd, allowing the explosive rounds to turn the inside of the Explorer into a fireball. Then he would have abandoned his gear, set a ten-minute explosive charge in the room he was vacating, and been halfway across Baltimore before the debris stopped falling.