“You keep saying we. Who is the we?”
“That is none of your business, Evan,” Andrews said, now taking control of the conversation. “And what’s with the gun? You going to shoot me?”
Evan glanced at the silenced pistol. “No, of course not. It was in case I ran into some of the guards.”
“Then put it away,” Andrews said curtly. “And don’t shoot any of my security guards on the way out.”
“I’ve got another question, Bruce,” Ziegler said, slipping the pistol under his sweater. “How many more people do I have to kill for you? When we first spoke, I thought this would entail removing one of two people, but this is getting ridiculous. I’ve killed four people in cold blood. That’s not what the American government trained me to do. That’s not what I want to do with my life.”
“I pay you well to remove obstacles, Evan,” Andrews retorted.
“I don’t do it for the money,” Evan replied, knowing that his quality of life and his copier business in Denver had profited greatly from the cash Andrews forwarded to him after each hit. “I just want Ben out of that chair.”
Andrews nodded and leaned forward. “That’s why I approached you, Evan. The SEALs gave you certain skills that I need, and I have what it will take to get your son walking again. I would never have asked you to help me if Ben didn’t desperately need the technology Veritas is developing. I knew when I embarked on the brain chip program that I would face heavy opposition, that there would be people who would do anything to stop it. Some people feel a moral obligation to oppose it; others want to stop it for economic reasons. It’s a drain on our finances, Evan. It reduces research in other sectors. Scientists don’t like watching their funding go somewhere else. They’re funny that way. And sometimes they react much differently than an ordinary person with a normal IQ would. And when those threats become real, I call you.”
“How much longer, Bruce?” Evan asked in a hushed tone.
Andrews shrugged. “We’re close to beginning Phase I trials on humans. Perhaps another year, maybe two. I will make sure Ben’s application to be in the first test group is approved.”
Evan Ziegler was quiet, reflecting on Andrews’s words. One year, maybe two. Ben would be twenty or twenty-one. And if the brain chip did stimulate the neural pathways as Andrews had promised, Ben would almost certainly regain movement in the upper portion of his body, possibly in the legs as well. His spinal cord was not so severely damaged that the amplified signals wouldn’t make it through. And once those synapses were functioning again, he would walk. Christ, his son would be cured. A normal life, not one as a thinking vegetable, locked in a prison on wheels. Ben would be back.
“That’s encouraging, Bruce,” Evan said. “One or two years. That’s very encouraging.”
Andrews smiled, reached out, and set his hand gently on Evan’s shoulder. “Yes, Evan, it’s incredible. We just have to keep things on track.”
“Right,” Evan said. He stood slowly, then walked to the door. “I’ll talk to you later, Bruce.”
“Okay, Evan. Your money will be in Denver in a couple of days. I’ll call down to the guards and tell them you’re on your way out. They won’t bother you.”
Evan waved his hand nonchalantly and closed the office door behind him. He didn’t like Bruce Andrews, and he certainly didn’t trust him. But the man was a necessary evil. No other company was pressing forward in brain chip technology as quickly as Veritas. They were the leader, and he would do what he could to ensure they stayed on target.
Even if it meant killing people.
The door closed behind Evan Ziegler and Bruce Andrews’s face darkened. Ziegler’s statement that he had brought the gun with him in case he ran into a security guard was a total crock of shit. Andrews knew his hired killer had brought the gun with every intention of either forcing some sort of a confession from him or killing him. Which meant Ziegler was quickly becoming a liability. And liabilities were dangerous. Especially when they were capable of walking and talking.
But was killing Ziegler the right course of action? He had the resources in place to remove the man if he desired, but Ziegler was defused for the time being, and was still an asset in some ways.
Things were getting complicated. He was starting to feel like one of those jugglers spinning plates on dowels. And if he got too many plates spinning, they would all crash. He had to settle things down, get a grip on things. And fast. At some point, the press would sniff out the subtle signs that the brain chip division was being terminated. There was no money in helping the one-in-a-million cases out there. And that’s exactly what Ben Ziegler was, one in a million. The prognosis for most paraplegics or quadriplegics was hopeless, their spinal cords damaged beyond repair. Ben Ziegler and others like him were the lucky ones. The ones who could actually walk again if enough was invested to see the technology come to fruition. But Veritas was not going to be the company that invested two or three hundred million dollars to reap a few million in rewards. No charity cases here. No orphan drugs-that was for Marcon and the other do-gooders. But that left him with a problem. A very real problem.
If Evan Ziegler somehow learned that the brain chip program was slowly being dismantled, the man would explode. And when a former Navy SEAL exploded, people were sure to die. And Bruce Andrews harbored no doubts that he would be first on Ziegler’s list. The man was a time bomb.
He picked up the phone and dialed a number. A man answered. “It’s me,” Andrews said. “I had a visit from someone tonight, and I need you to put surveillance on him.”
“Who?” the voice asked.
“Evan Ziegler.”
“I told you bringing him in was a bad idea,” the man said. “We never needed him. I could have taken care of everything he did.” He sounded irritated.
“What I do not need right now is someone telling me ‘I told you so,’ ” Andrews said. “Just get someone on him. If he books a flight to Richmond without my invitation, kill him. I don’t want him near me again.”
“Why don’t we just take him out now?”
“No, not yet. He may prove to be useful.”
“You’re playing with fire,” the man said, much more than just irritated now. “He’s going to fuck things up, Bruce. Mark my words.”
“Just get someone to tail him and submit reports. Leave him alone for now. I’ll let you know when I want him killed.”
“You do that.” The line went dead.
“Asshole,” Andrews said to the dial tone. He switched off his computer and locked his office for the evening. The guards smiled and told him to have a good night. He smiled back, all the while wanting to beat the stupid grins off their faces. He was beginning to feel the stress. Maybe he had stretched things too thin. Maybe the plates were beginning to crash.
He reached his Cadillac and sat behind the wheel, breathing deeply and reminding himself of the resources he had in place. He had not reached this position in life without risk. The only difference now was that the risk was coming at him from numerous fronts. All he had to do was weather the turbulence. Four or five months, six tops, and the corrections would be in place. It was going to be a rough ride, but he could weather it.
As he started his car, he noticed something. He was smiling. And somehow that made him feel better.
13
Doug Hughes twisted the handset on his front door and pushed, all in the same motion. The handle didn’t turn, and he almost smacked his face into the door. He tried the handle again. Locked. He rang the doorbell and waited. Nothing. It was just after five on Monday-no reason for Elsie to be out with the kids. He dug in his pocket, fished out a key, and opened the door. The house was quiet.
“Hello,” he said, a slight lilt to his voice. “Honey? You home?”
Silence.