“I’m not going back in,” Perry said.
“Don’t be a pussy,” Dew said.
Perry’s eyes widened, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a slight smile. He pointed a finger at Dew. “Don’t. Push. Me.”
Perry turned and walked into the darkness.
Dew let him go. There was a time to lead, a time to follow and a time to get the fuck out of the way. He’d seen that look on Perry’s face once before—when the kid had been coming right at him, smiling, wide-eyed, naked and covered in blood, hopping on one foot with his severed cock flopping in his clenched fist.
Yep, definitely the time to get the fuck out of the way.
The Orbital couldn’t understand it. It had given Chelsea very specific instructions.
Chelsea, I told you not to talk to the destroyer.
I know you did.
So she hadn’t forgotten. She remembered the order, yet she had disobeyed anyway.
If you knew it was for bidden, why did you do it?
I dunno.
The Orbital tried to process the response. Tried, and failed.
What do you mean, you do not know?
I dunno.
Do not disobey me, Chelsea. You will bring the destroyer if you talk to him. You must never, ever connect to him again.
I already told you once, Chauncey. You’re not the boss of me.
The Orbital felt the connection end. Chelsea had broken it. The Orbital hadn’t known that was possible.
Clearly, it had to make additional changes. Now it would have to divert yet another part of its processing to making sure Chelsea could not speak to the destroyer again.
She was already more powerful than projected, and that power would only increase as she connected to become more and more converted.
MURRAY AND VANESSA, BFF
The president of the United States of America sat in his Oval Office chair, holding a glass of sixty-year-old Macallan on the rocks. Vanessa Col-burn sat in a chair near the desk. She didn’t drink, Murray had heard. Except, maybe, for the blood of her victims. Or of random orphans. Or maybe a kitten.
The Macallan was an Inauguration Day gift from the Scottish ambassador. It was rumored to cost upwards of thirty thousand dollars a bottle. You didn’t exactly give the president of the United States a bottle of Chivas Regal as a present. That glass alone was probably worth more than Murray made in a week. He would have loved to let Gutierrez savor the scotch, but now wasn’t a time for slow sipping.
“Mister President, we need an answer,” Murray said. “Doctor Montoya wants to operate on Bernadette Smith immediately.”
“So operate,” Vanessa said. “Ogden’s men got you the live host you wanted, but Dawsey won’t talk to the triangles. Kind of shoots the whole plan right out of the sky.”
In one sentence she managed to combine the success of her idea to send Ogden with the failure of Murray’s team to capitalize on it. Okay, so it was actually a compound sentence—that didn’t change how effortlessly Vanessa Colburn could make you look like an idiot.
“Montoya can still dissect a triangle before it decomposes,” Vanessa said. “We’re further ahead than we were before, even though Dawsey failed to communicate, so what’s the problem?”
“The problem, Miss Colburn, is that for three months we’ve also been trying to capture a live hatchling. Now we can achieve that objective.”
Vanessa stared at him. “Achieve that objective? What the hell are you saying, Murray? That we should just let this woman die so we can capture a hatchling?”
“It’s an option that’s on the table.”
“It’s an option if you’re a fucking vampire,” she said.
She was calling him a vampire? Priceless. “We need information. Wars aren’t won with guns. They’re won with intel.”
She shook her head. “This isn’t a war, Murray.”
He’d had just about all he could take from her. This woman had the president’s ear? This woman was part of deciding the fate of the free world?
“Not a war?” Murray said. “What would you call it, then?”
“It’s a crisis situation,” Vanessa snapped. “No one in his right mind would call this a war.”
“And what the fuck do you know about war? Huh? With your fucking Ivy League education? You’re going to tell me what a war is?”
“Take it easy, Murray,” Gutierrez said.
“I don’t think I will, Mister President,” Murray said. He could hear himself, he tried to stop himself, but he couldn’t take it anymore. “Tell me, Miss Colburn, in your infinite wisdom, do you know what it’s like to have someone shoot at you?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” she said. “I earned my Ivy League education.
Earned it while growing up without any money, with drugs all around me and crime all over the place. I saw my fair share of guns, Murray. I’ve seen friends die.”
Murray laughed at her. “Oh, is that right? So you grew up in da hood, and that means you know what war is? After you saw someone die, did you run back to your house and turn on MTV?”
“You don’t know me,” Vanessa said. “You don’t know how I grew up.”
“Fine, then educate me. How many people have you killed?”
She said nothing.
“None? Okay, I’ll give you a free pass there. How many times have you held your friend’s head while he bled out, looked into his eyes and promised him you’d make sure his kids would grow up strong? None? Well then, surely you must have had to wipe your friend’s brains off your fucking face, right? How many times have you hidden in a rice paddy as your blood seeps into the filthy water? How many times have you had to kill a twelve-year-old girl because she was shooting her AK at you? Huh?
Maybe da hood don’t sound so tough now, does it?”
“Murray!” Gutierrez barked. “Your service to this country is no small matter, but that’s enough.”
Murray realized he was breathing hard and sweating. In thirty years of being in this room, in front of six presidents, he’d never snapped like that.
This woman could push his buttons like no other. He pulled some Kleenex from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his head.
Vanessa didn’t look upset at all. Her poker face was good, but it couldn’t hide her main emotion—satisfaction. She’d won. She’d exposed his mistakes. She’d made him lose his temper, big-time. In her eyes he saw a crystal-clear message—if he was going to save any part of his career, he needed to cave in and back whatever she suggested.
Murray cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mister President.”
Gutierrez gave his political smile. “This is a rough situation. We’re all a little short-tempered.”
“Listen, Murray,” Vanessa said. “Believe me, I’m not some hippie who thinks you were a baby killer or something. I respect your service and your experience, but you’re from a different time. This is the reason we came into office. Because people like you think we can just forget someone’s civil rights if it fits the moment.”
Murray’s temper reignited, but he’d be damned if he’d lose it again. He locked his jaw shut. An uneasy silence filled the Oval Office. Gutierrez finally broke it.