Hanert looked at him and back to Cohen. “Yeah, but only because she’s so damn pretty. I wouldn’t give grandfather here jack.”
“Go to hell, Hanert,” said Savas.
The hacker smiled and tapped his index finger repeatedly, nail to vinyl on the short shelf between him and the glass. “I said we didn’t know each other. That was mostly true. But there’s online and there’s the real world. Some of us did pass the hash pipe. Maybe more.”
Cohen tapped on her tablet and looked up. “Well, I’m ready when you are.”
27
Cohen sped down I-87 toward New York City, the black Dodge Charger clearing one hundred without seeming to break a sweat. She glanced from the speedometer over to the impressive LCD screen flashing information on the cellular signal as Savas continued to speak through the hands-free system. The hidden flashing lights had been activated, but she had left the siren off — she'd have a migraine by the time they entered the City otherwise.
"Several of the prints returned with hits." It was Miller's voice. "They're all over the place — security firms, prison guards. One was ex-military, then worked for a contractor that provided muscle in Iraq and Syria for VIPs."
"I'm smelling mercenary," said Savas, his expression grim.
"Possible. But it's not very helpful. No recent addresses. We’ll fish with relatives and last known residences, but—"
"But we don't have the time for that. What else?"
"The mask was better."
"How so?"
"Hair. They got DNA sequence — likely the mask ripped out some strands with roots."
"A match?"
"No, and that’s the interesting part. Doesn't match the prints. The DNA sequence is an unknown. But some genotyping gives us a first sketch of the leader: Caucasian male, brown eyes, black hair that matched the hair color found, so a good control."
"Fawkes," whispered Cohen, staring ahead at the blurred road. The dash display flickered oddly. She hoped that she wasn’t pushing the car too hard.
"Sorry?" asked Miller.
Savas answered. "We'll fill you in soon, Frank. Thanks. I'm getting an alert of an incoming call from Angel. We'll get more details in an hour when we arrive."
"Right. Out for now."
The connection was severed and Savas punched the touch screen on the dash to take the call from Lightfoote.
"Shoot, Angel."
"John, pull the damn car over!"
"Sorry — repeat that, Angel?"
The dash screen pixelated and froze. Cohen spoke coldly.
“John, the steering wheel is locked.”
Lightfoote’s voice still came in over the speakers. “The worm! You’re on a system with an online connection. Your car cell is tracked. Worm activity lit up on my monitors and it’s you two!”
Savas felt his stomach clench. “The car?”
Cohen gasped. “Oh God.”
Savas didn’t have to see the needle on the speedometer begin to spin clockwise, he could feel the acceleration in his gut. Cohen frantically stomped on the break.
“Nothing’s responding!”
The speed climbed toward one-hundred and twenty. Cohen flipped the switch to engage the sirens. They were not part of the car’s system, installed independently, and they blared out. Cars in front began to swerve to the side as the blue and red lights bore down on them.
“Disconnect the motherboard!” came Lightfoote’s voice. “Under the steering wheel, wires lead to the circuitry. Yank them! You’ll get manual, maybe. Or the car will shut down. I don’t know! But disconnect, now!”
There was a loud pop from the speakers. The control panel went dark.
“Angel?” called Savas. There was no response.
“No time, John. Connection’s severed. Do what she said. Get over here.”
The car shuddered and Cohen gasped. Her hands were white with pressure and her shoulders hunched as she struggled with the wheel.
“John, hurry! It’s trying to turn!”
Turn? At that speed, they’d flip over and roll to their deaths.
There was no time for finesse. He removed his sidearm and fired several shots into the casing of the dash near Cohen’s legs. He saw her flinch as the plastic exploded only inches from her knees. His ears rang. He released his seatbelt and fell onto his back toward the driver’s seat. His feet worked their way up the window and he pushed himself between the steering wheel and the floor board, body crushed into the tight space.
“One forty! It keeps trying to turn! John, hurry!”
Jesus. Grasping the smoking and shattered plastic, he ripped with all his strength. Toxic fumes from melted insulation choked him, but he reached in and grasped elements of the circuitry and wires, praying that he wouldn’t electrocute himself.
Cohen screamed and he felt the car lurch back and forth and barely remain under her control. He felt sick from the motion and stench, but forced himself to focus. He ripped backward from the electronics, snapping wires and yanking pieces of the computer boards out with them, static pops exploding beside his face.
The car stalled.
“John, no control. No brakes, no wheel. Key is locked! I can’t start it!”
“Is the computer control dead?”
“I don’t know!”
Ahead of them construction arrows indicated a merge of traffic. Cohen could see a small bottleneck approaching and a single-file line of cars. The car continued to slow down, but it wouldn’t be enough.
“John, hotwire it. Now. Construction!”
“Shit! Can you hotwire these cars?”
“Try!”
In his wild efforts to disconnect the computers of the dash, he had smashed part of the paneling around the steering column. He reached up and beat on the loosed parts, crushing several elements and the ignition cover. By now his hands were bloody, but he hardly noticed, running on pure adrenaline.
Three wire pairs. “Battery, lights, ignition,” he spoke numbly as his slick fingers worked to strip the wiring, bring the leads to this mouth where his teeth ripped at the insulation.
“John, now!”
He didn’t have time to figure it. He’d have to guess. He grasped two wires which he prayed were the power to the car. He disconnected them from the cylinder, twisting them together.
Cohen cried out. “We’ve got the dash and lights. Start it, John!”
He took the two remaining wires and touched them together. There was a spark and the engine roared. Cohen slammed on the brakes and steered the Charger. The car shuddered and leapt into the air. From his vantage point he could see nothing, only imagining her veering away from the obstacles ahead and likely off road. If the shoulder was not forgiving, they were likely dead.
A machine gun sound beside his ear announced the engagement of the antilock brakes, and the car began to spin. Cohen screamed. They wrenched sideways, glass shattered, and everything went dark.
28
“John, can you hear me?”
A woman’s voice. Probably his mother’s.
He was at the seaside. A strong wind was blowing, waves crashing, muffling sound. No, he was in the water, floating on his back, incoming waves smashing against him, up and down, right and left. Dizzy.
His whole body hurt.
“John?”
“Please, ma’am.” A male. “You shouldn’t even be here.” That would be dad.
Sirens. Why were there sirens at the sea?
Another jolt and his eyes opened. He was staring up at a ceiling, a blurry sphere above him condensing slowly into a fluid-filled bag. A tube ran from it to his right arm. Across from him was a shape on a gurney. A woman with brown hair. Her leg was immobilized with a metal shell of some kind. Blood soaked bandages on her head and shoulder.