The Singularity Race (2 page)

Chapter Two

“Who is it?” The soft voice asked the question in response to the double knock on the hotel door.

“Russell Mullins with Prime Protection.” He held his photo ID next to his face in front of the peep hole.

The door opened immediately. A slim, attractive Chinese woman stood just inside. She wore a dark blue dress with a conservative neckline. A single strand of pearls was her only jewelry.

Mullins looked beyond her to where a boy sat on the suite's sofa, his attention fully focused on his iPad. He was dressed in a white shirt, red tie, and blue knee pants. The U.S. color scheme was topped off by a red Washington Nationals baseball cap pushed back far enough to reveal thick black hair.

Mullins knew from the background dossier that the child was named Wang Ping, the son of Dr. Lisa Li's sister. In the U.S. he was called Peter Wang, shifting his surname to secondary position to avoid confusing Americans unfamiliar with the Chinese custom of surname first. Mullins had read that Lisa Li's Chinese name was actually Li Li, meaning beautiful. His gaze returned to her. She lived up to the description.

“You shouldn't open the door so fast,” he said gently. “I don't think you checked my credentials first.”

“I was expecting you.”

“Which is why someone would have claimed to be me.”

She dropped her head. “I'm sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. It's about being safe. Are you ready?”

She sighed. “Not really. I'm not good at cocktail talk.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I thought maybe we could wait till closer to the dinner. Peter will be lost in a sea of grownups wandering around holding wineglasses.”

Mullins wasn't good at cocktail talk either, and the less time Dr. Li spent in a public crowd, the safer she would be.

“Then I'll wait here in the hall,” he said. “Just let me know when you want to go to dinner.”

“I've had enough guards at my door. Please come in.”

Mullins caught a subtle bitterness in her tone. But nothing in Li's background hinted at any trouble with the Chinese government or university officials. She had been an outstanding researcher and theorist, specializing in the neuroscience of subconscious brain activity. She had married an older professor whose field had been computer database management, a critical area for seeking innovative and more efficient ways for processors to access and make connections with data and its interpretation and extrapolation. Way over Mullins' head. The layman's note he had read in her dossier compared it to building more neurons and synapses in a human brain.

Lisa Li was forty, although she looked younger. She had a fifteen-year-old son in school in Beijing. Nearly eight years ago, her scientist husband had been killed in a freak accident in his computer lab when a malfunctioning circuit sent lethal power to an electronic security keypad. Li withdrew from the public eye for nearly a year, evidently too grief-stricken to continue her work.

She was lured back into active research by a Chinese company named Jué Dé.

The English translation was “to think” or “to sense.” The company was so successful, it had opened an artificial intelligence lab in Silicon Valley. Dr. Li had obtained the clearance from both the Chinese and American governments to transfer her work to the new facility.

The nephew had come to visit his aunt, and, thanks to Jué Dé, to take in a baseball game. Mullins didn't know what Jué Dé sold, but with three tickets in his pocket, he was inclined to buy it.

“Peter, say hello to Mr. Mullins,” Li said. “He's going to be our guide while we're in Washington.”

Guide was probably a better euphemism for a seven-year-old than saying guard. Mullins played along.

Peter Wang looked up. “Hello.” He immediately returned his attention to the iPad.

“I've got a hat just like that,” Mullins said. “So does my grandson.”

The boy studied Mullins more carefully. “You go to ball games?” His English was excellent.

“Yes. Or watch them on TV. My grandson's only three. He just likes his hat. Tomorrow, you and I and your aunt will go to the game.”

Peter's eyes widened. He bounced up and down on the sofa. “Really? Can I go? Can I go?”

Evidently Li hadn't told him. Mullins hoped he hadn't spoken too soon.

Dr. Li raised her palm and the child immediately calmed. “If you behave and do everything Mr. Mullins instructs you to do.”

“I will. I promise.”

Mullins stepped closer to the boy. “How did you learn to speak English so well?”

Peter shrugged. “I've studied it for years.”

“But you're only seven.”

“Seven and a half. And I started when I was three,” he explained, and flipped the iPad around to show Mullins the screen. “The Nats lineup for tomorrow. I'm still working on the stats, but I think the Nats are a two-run favorite.”

Mullins stared at the kid. If he had his aunt's brains, then before he was twenty he'd be either a World Series team manager or a multimillion-dollar bookie. “Two runs sound good to me,” Mullins said. “Who's starting?”

“Fernandez. And the temperature's supposed to be above twenty-six.”

“Twenty-six?”

Peter seemed confused by Mullins' question. Then he smiled. “Sorry. Celsius.” He squinted his eyes shut and calculated. “Eighty Fahrenheit. Fernandez pitches his best games when the temperature goes above eighty.”

“Of course,” Mullins said, as if it had slipped his mind. He wouldn't have thought to connect temperature to a pitcher's performance. It dawned on him that he should have waited in the hall rather than prove to himself he was the dumbest one in the room.

“You and Mr. Mullins can talk baseball tomorrow,” Li said. “Take off your hat and go to the bathroom. Mr. Mullins won't want to have to escort you to the restroom once we're downstairs.”

Peter turned off his iPad and did as he was told.

“I'll wait in the hall,” Mullins said.

***

Mullins stood against the wall and watched the diners eat their way through a three-course meal. His stomach growled, but it would have to go unsatisfied until he was off-duty.

Dr. Li and her nephew ate at a round table about twenty feet away. The boy kept looking at Mullins as if hoping he would come sit and talk baseball. Li, unfortunately, had been placed beside the amorous Dr. Brecht who was leaning so close to her that he could have used her silverware.

Mullins shifted his gaze across the banquet hall to the opposite wall. Nicole Parsons stood alert, her eyes constantly moving. Ted Lewison was stationed at the main entrance where he was near the three other Prime Protection employees located in the outside corridors. Their job was to scan all approaching individuals and give warning of anything suspicious. All six were tied into wireless communication.

Mullins paid particular attention to the waitstaff. In his walkthrough before escorting Dr. Li and her nephew, he had gone through all the connecting hallways, memorizing shortcuts for exiting and also potential places where an outsider might breach security, especially between the kitchen and the ballroom. That was why he'd picked a spot nearest the primary access door for the meal delivery.

The dinner service had progressed to the removal of the main course in preparation for dessert and coffee.

“I just got word we're to move our people onto the stage for the discussion.” Ted Lewison's voice crackled in Mullins' ear. “They're forgoing dessert, so let's escort them now. Nicole, I'll take Brecht and his international hands. You stay with Dr. Ahmad.”

“International hands?” the woman asked.

Mullins groaned. “You had to ask, Nicole?”

“Yeah.” Lewison laughed. “Russian hands and Roman fingers.”

The lights went out. A collective gasp rose from the crowd. A few emergency fixtures came on, providing just enough illumination to turn everyone into gray shapes. Waiters froze in place. Then Mullins saw several men moving forward from the rear.

“Lewison! Coming from your back.” He barked the warning into his lapel mike and then turned his priority to his charge. He ran to Dr. Li. “You and Peter come with me.”

“Oh, it's just a power outage,” Brecht said. He grasped Li's wrist. “We should wait rather than stumble around in the dark.”

Mullins reached down and broke the man's hold. He practically lifted Lisa Li from her chair. Then he shouted in the German's face, “You and Dr. Ahmad do what she says.” He pointed to Nicole who had just run up to the table. “Don't wait for Lewison. Move them now.”

Two muffled pops sounded from the middle of the room. Mullins instantly recognized suppressed gunshots. “Now!” he shouted.

The room erupted in screams.

Pushing Li and her nephew in front of him, Mullins hurried to the service door. He knew if he could get them to the kitchen, he should either be able to exit to a loading dock or escape through a service elevator to a safe section of the hotel.

He glanced over his shoulder. Nicole and the two other scientists had not followed as quickly as he wanted. More shots came as the door slammed behind him. All he could do was keep moving.

The blackout wasn't localized to the ballroom. Peter Wang stumbled against a tray of dishes that had been stacked on a rolling cart. Plates clattered on the floor.

“Sorry,” the boy cried.

“It's okay. Keep going.”

“Let them take me,” Li pleaded. “But don't let them take Peter.”

“No one's taking anyone.” Mullins urged them forward. “The kitchen's just ahead. You'll be safe there.”

An emergency light burned in the ceiling beside double doors. Their upper halves were windowed to enable the staff to see if anyone was on the other side before pushing it open.

“Hold up,” Mullins whispered. “Let me go first. Put Peter behind you and then wait against the wall until I say it's clear.” He drew his Glock and moved ahead of them, stepping to the left side of the door. He slowly pushed it inward with his left hand, leading with the Glock in his right.

The large industrial kitchen was deserted, the workers having evacuated in search of a lighted area. Mullins turned his head to the hall. “All clear. Come on.”

A muffled cry greeted him. He retreated through the door to see a man pulling Li back, his arm around her neck in a choke hold.

“Mr. Mullins,” her nephew cried, and he kicked the man's shin as hard as he could.

The assailant swatted at the boy with his other hand, a hand wielding a pistol. Then he raised the gun toward Mullins.

Mullins flattened against the wall as the muzzle flashed. He felt a rip through his shoulder, but the shooter had turned away just enough to increase the angle between his head and Dr. Li's.

Mullins fired.

The forty-five-caliber slug smashed through the man's forehead. He dropped to the floor.

Dr. Li tumbled forward. Mullins tried to catch her, but his left arm could only cushion her as they both fell into the kitchen. Peter scrambled after them.

“Stay down,” Mullins ordered. He felt blood pooling beneath him. He looked for the darkest corner.

“You're hurt,” Li whispered.

“You and Peter crawl up under the work sinks over there.” He gestured with his gun. “Don't make a sound.”

Mullins held his position until they disappeared into the shadows. His shoulder throbbed like someone had dropped a burning ember on it. He edged closer to Li and the boy where he had a clear shooting angle on all three doorways.
Ten minutes,
he thought.
If I can just hold out ten minutes, surely Lewison, the team, and hotel security will have ferreted out this scum.

“Mullins!”

He recognized Nicole's voice. Her shout came through the door they'd entered.

“We're here. Come in slowly.” Mullins didn't take the chance that she was held hostage and forced to call for him.

The lights came back to a brightness rivaling an operating room. Nicole pushed through the door, her gun leading the way. Her eyes went first to the blood glistening bright red on the tile floor. She followed the trail to where Mullins lay prone in shooting position. Her face paled.

“We're clear, Mullins.” Her lower lip trembled. “But Lewison's dead. So are Brecht and Ahmad.”

Lisa Li sobbed and Nicole spotted her and her nephew huddled beneath the sink.

“They're safe?”

“Yeah.” His own voice sounded far away.

“Man down in the kitchen,” Nicole barked into her lapel mike. “Man down in the kitchen. Get a medic here now!”

The gun slipped from Mullins' hand. He felt someone crawl next to him. He thought it was Nicole.

“Mr. Mullins. Please don't die.”

No, not Nicole. Not the scientist either.

“I won't,” he whispered to the boy. “We've got a ball game to see.”

Chapter Three

Robert Brentwood's cell phone vibrated for the fourth time in three minutes. He glanced down at his notes for a graceful way to shorten his remarks without slighting the expectations of his audience.

The annual dinner of the Rutherford County Chamber of Commerce had been squeezed into his busy schedule nine months ago, and the gala had sold out when he'd agreed to be the keynote speaker.

His appearance was calculated politics, especially since not only the local business leaders attended, but also the North Carolina governor and speaker of the state house, who were anxious for a photo op with billionaire Brentwood. His high-tech data storage facility covered more than twenty-five acres of previously undeveloped county land and promised good jobs and the economic revitalization of a region that had seen the textile and furniture industries bolt to the foreign lands of cheap labor.

Brentwood stepped from behind the podium. “In short, ladies and gentlemen, the genie is out of the bottle, and super computing is and will continue to be forever entwined with our human species. I'm proud that Cumulus Cognitive Connections, Rutherford County, and the great state of North Carolina are visionary partners. We not only have a bright future, but we will create that bright future together. Members of the chamber, Governor Montgomery, and Speaker Prescott, I salute you.”

He started applauding. Five seconds at the most, he thought. One. Two. Three.

The governor stood, clapping as he reciprocated Brentwood's tribute. The whole room joined him, and the applause rose into a standing ovation that Brentwood engineered through his feigned humility.

He bowed.
Thank you, Dad
, he thought. He'd seen his father, Rex Brentwood, use the trick countless times. It was one of the few things of value he'd learned from the cold bastard. Brentwood waved and left the stage.

The president of the chamber of commerce met him at the side steps. “Fabulous, Robert. Just fabulous.”

Brentwood patted the gushing man on the back. “We couldn't have done it without you.” He felt his phone vibrate. “Excuse me. Need to make a pit stop. Back in a moment.” He hurried out the nearest door of the country club ballroom and headed for the men's room.

Once inside, he walked the length of the stalls, glancing under the doors for shoes. The place was empty. He figured he had only a few minutes before the enlarged prostate brigade invaded for their after-dinner pee.

He entered the last stall, closed the door, and sat on the toilet. His phone displayed four missed calls and one text, all from his executive vice president in Washington, D.C. He opened the text.

“Shooting. Brecht and Ahmad dead. Li safe. Call!!!”

Jesus Christ
, he thought. What the hell happened? He texted his driver:

Service entrance. Now!

Then a text to his Head of External Communications who was still in the ballroom:

Leaving. Make apologies.

Brentwood exited the clubhouse as a black limousine pulled to the sidewalk. “To the office,” he told the driver. “Glass up.”

A purr no louder than a kitten's accompanied the ascension of a double pane of glass that acoustically insulated him from the driver. He checked to make sure the intercom was off, and then placed his call.

“What a shit storm!” Ned Farino's voice quivered. Sirens wailed in the background.

“Where are you?”

“In my car at the far end of a parking deck.”

“Then tell me what happened.”

“There was a blackout just as the three were to start the panel discussion. I was at the back of the room and had given the all-clear to Jenkins.”

“We'll get to Jenkins later.”

“Five men came in moving rapidly. I thought they were security. Someone tried to stop them and was gunned down. Then all hell broke loose.”

“What'd you do?”

“Crawled under the damn table like everyone else. When the lights came on, Brecht and Ahmad were dead. All five assassins were killed and a member of the security team.”

“Where was Li?”

“No one knew. Then I heard one of the security team confirm Li had been found alive in the kitchen. Her guard had whisked her away.”

Brentwood's mind raced. “And the nephew?”

“He was with her. Also safe.”

“Have you heard from Jenkins?”

“Yes. He was in her room. We're going to meet at midnight. The jet's standing by.”

Brentwood relaxed. “Keep Jenkins with you. I don't want you without a bodyguard. Until we know what we're up against, we could all be targets.”

“That's comforting,” Farino said.

Brentwood mulled the word. “Yes, comforting. What was the security guard's name who saved Li?”

“I don't know. They herded us out. The whole complex is a crime scene. Why?”

“Because that guy is now Dr. Li's new best friend.”

Farino saw the angle his boss was exploiting. “A way in. We might turn this to our advantage.”

“Stay there. See if you can get close to the press. Someone will have his name.” He cut the call and switched on the intercom. “Change of plans. Go to the condo in Charlotte. I need to be near the airport.”

He settled back in the leather seat. A little after nine. The hour drive would give him time to plan undisturbed. Fifteen minutes later, the phone screen lit up with a text.

Guard—Rusty Mullins—wounded.

Rusty Mullins. The name rang a bell. Brentwood pulled open a panel from the back of the seat in front of him. A keyboard and video screen locked into place. He used the customized high-powered computer to log onto his private search engine and prioritized retrieval based upon the number of hits generated by all the other major engines. The first wasn't a Facebook page or LinkedIn profile. It was a picture of a handsome, stone-faced, middle-aged man standing beside the President of the United States.

“Oh, shit,” Brentwood muttered. “
That
Rusty Mullins.”