Olivia knew that the CIA, the KGB, and Chinese MSS all had enormous spy facilities. On the internet alone, a hundred thousand Chinese agents worked monitoring email transmissions that they intercepted using "ghost servers." One in every three emails sent in the United States got read by agents in China.
But it wasn't just the internet that was monitored. Satellites using advanced voice-recognition software listened in on every conversation for certain key words.
The average person on the streets wasn't aware of just how closely they were being watched, listened to, studied. But not all of the spies worked for government entities.
The Draghouls' efforts also used sophisticated software. If anything, their spy network was more advanced than the CIA's. Much of the security software developed by private corporations and sold to governments around the world was built by the Draghouls.
All it took to build a spy network was money, and the Draghouls had a nearly limitless supply.
Their criminal empire had flourished from the time merchants first traveled down the Silk Road out of China, smuggling stolen gems and antiques under piles of silk. They'd made a fortune selling blue lotus blossoms to ancient Egyptians eager for a high, and by rigging bets in the Roman Coliseum.
Over the centuries, they'd amassed trillions of dollars.
Nowadays, they made most of their money bootlegging prescription drugs and manipulating global stock markets.
They'd tapped into the communications satellites decades ago. That's why Olivia seldom contacted other masaaks by phone, and why she spoke in vagaries and codes when she did. The Draghouls might well be listening to a recording of Olivia's call with Officer Walton at this very moment, analyzing every word.
If so, the wisest course for her would be to throw her cell phone out the window so that her location couldn't be traced. She could drive away, disappear forever—leave Bron in his cell for the Draghouls, leave Mike to have his brain picked apart for any clues as to where she might have gone.
The fact that she froze in indecision, considered driving the lonely roads to Elko, Nevada, and hiding out in the desert, indicated just how much the enemy terrified her.
But she couldn't run. If I don't try to save the people I love, I'll never be able to live with myself. She had to squash this, and fast.
Bron closed his eyes, imagined an old song called "Free Bird." He had a gift for remembering music. If he concentrated, he could almost hear a song, remember every note, every nuance to the singer's voice. He only had to hear it three or four times, and he had it forever. It was like having an iPod in his head.
The engine roared as the police cruiser raced down the highway.
The band that had sung the song, Lynyrd Skynyrd, had pretty much all been wiped out in a plane crash. Snuffed out and silenced in the dead of night.
Such a loss.
Bron opened his eyes to mere slits. The car bounced as it hit a bump. A purple light sparked in the air.
Bron hadn't meant to do anything. His powers were still untamed. He couldn't help it, but he'd just drained something from Officer Walton.
What happens if I drain too much from him? Bron wondered. Would he just crumple, clutching the steering wheel? Would he faint and veer from the road at seventy miles per hour?
Bron didn't want to find out.
He tried to calm himself, taking deep breaths, until they reached Saint George, turned into the center of town, and rolled into the police station.
It was bigger than Bron had imagined. Officer Walton escorted Bron to a front desk and told the petite receptionist, "I'm going to need an interrogation room here. The prisoner's name is Bron, B-R-O-N. Last name Jones."
The woman smiled at Bron as if she were used to working the counter at Taco Bell, rather than in a police station. She typed his name into a computer, then jutted her chin. "Room three is yours."
Dozens of officers were bustling about.
Walton marched Bron into the back room, keeping him in cuffs, and set him in a hard chair. Walton wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Lordy, I'm tired." He turned to leave.
"Aren't you going to ask me any questions?" Bron said.
"No," Walton smiled. "You lawyered up. Besides, I'm not all that interested in you. You're just a minnow. I'm after the big fish, and you're just the bait."
Walton gave a gloating smile, turned, and left Bron beneath the glaring lights.
As Olivia reached Highway 89, she made a quick call to Father Leery, the only other masaak that she knew locally. She briefly explained the situation and asked, "What should we do?"
"First," Father Leery said, "don't be in such a hurry to get down to the police station. I know you're worried about Bron. By now, I suspect that the enemy knows that someone has been arrested. They'll be coming for him."
"That's why I want to get him out now!"
"It's almost 10:00," Father Leery said. "There will be a shift change at the precinct. Officers will be coming on duty, others will be filling out reports. The place will be busy. The enemy will send an extraction team, but they'll want to wait until things quiet down, to lessen their risk."
Olivia nodded. Father Leery was wise in many ways, and she appreciated having a man with experience in such dangerous matters.
"So what do we do?"
"They'll come for him in the dead of night," Father Leery warned. "Four in the morning would be the safest hour, but they'll be too eager. They'll strike just after midnight."
"Okay," Olivia said. That was only a couple of hours away.
"I'll reach you well before that. We'll take Bron out before the enemy gets there. Don't be afraid. I'm on my way."
"Bring guns," she begged.
Father Leery didn't answer, merely hung up.
Of course he'll bring guns, Olivia thought. But she wasn't sure. He was a man of peace, after all.
Before she could put the phone back in her pocket, Mike called. "Did you hear the news?" he demanded. "Bron's been arrested!"
"I know," Olivia said. "I'm on my way to the police station."
"Okay," Mike said. "We've got to figure a way out of this. I don't believe these charges. I don't think Bron's a killer. He's a nice kid. There has got to be some kind of mistake."
"I agree," Olivia said.
"But we don't have the money to bail him out," Mike said. "I mean, if he goes up on murder, with a full trial? We could lose our life's savings real fast."
She hadn't even considered the notion that she might get Bron out on bail. It seemed a faint hope. No, with the Draghouls out there, she really didn't have any hope at all.
"Don't worry," Olivia said. "I'm not going to put the ranch at risk. I won't post any bail."
"Do you want me to come down there?" Mike asked.
He'd want to make sure that she didn't make a mistake, get emotional and throw away all of their money, of course, but Olivia heard something in his voice: a real concern for Bron.
"This has to be some kind of stupid mistake," Olivia said. "Even if they do offer to let Bron out on bail, the best thing is to wait for a few weeks. The judges don't want to fill up the jails, so they'll keep lowering the bail every week or so, until someone springs for it. The best thing that we can do is to let Bron know that we love him, and wait."
"Yeah," Mike said, sounding reassured. "Yeah, you're right. I think I'm going to come down anyway."
She didn't want him there. This looked like it might get messy real fast, so she tried to warn him off.