“No. I wasn’t here.”
She nods. Of course he wouldn’t keep his operation here. He’s probably based on the other side of the Atlas Mountains, in ungoverned territory. Did he come alone? Unlikely. Somewhere not far off there must be at least a few Variant Forces soldiers, assigned to guard his flanks. He implies as much when he tells her, “I’ve had assets out, looking for your crew.” There is uncertainty in his voice. Maybe she’s bait in a trap? He isn’t sure yet.
She decides to play on his doubt. “You didn’t find my people, did you?”
His right hand tightens on the wheel. “No.”
“That’s because I’m alone.”
Again that tense quirk of his lips, scar flashing white. “That’s hardcore, True.”
“Spur-of-the-moment resolve,” she admits, certain now that he has his own crew nearby, watching the approaches.
“You rogue, then?” he asks. “Not Lincoln’s girl anymore?”
“For now.”
“How does he feel about that?”
“I don’t know. I ghosted.”
A low whistle of surprise. “He won’t like that.”
She doesn’t need Shaw to tell her that. The knot in her gut is doing the job nicely, thank you. “I did what I had to do.”
“That’s what it comes down to,” he agrees. He asks, “You think it was Lincoln who commissioned that Sibolt to follow you?”
She’s suspicious but doesn’t want to admit it. “I don’t know. Maybe it was Dove. Maybe he got curious.”
“No. Dove’s been warned to be discreet.”
She touches the phone in her pocket. She assumed Dove would report her visit to Lincoln—but maybe that didn’t happen and she really is on her own, with no chance of backup at all.
You chose it, she reminds herself.
But she’s also reminded of Shaw’s associates, and it comes to her that Hussam’s little brother, Rihab, might want to know about a Requisite Operations soldier gone astray. Rihab was supposed to be the filmmaker behind Hussam’s execution videos.
Shaw senses something. A change in her breathing maybe, or the sudden fixed focus of her gaze. Or her hand on the door latch. “Something I need to know about?” he asks.
“No.” In her mind she reviews the moves she’d have to make to open the door, to roll out into the street, even as she turns her head to meet his gaze. “It’s something I need to know. Is Rihab here somewhere, with you?”
“Late to be asking that question.”
“I didn’t get to ask a lot of questions.”
“Yeah, you took a hell of a chance, that’s for sure.” He adds, “Rihab doesn’t know about you, and I sure as fuck am not going to tell him. He knows better than to show up here.”
“He’s not your client?”
“No. He’d rather kill me than pay me money. Revenge for his beloved brother, even though the prick hates Hussam almost as much as I do.”
“Hussam said you worked for him.”
“I took his money. I take anyone’s money.” His voice grows harsh. “I help them make money. Because what fascinates me, True, are the levels of depravity people are willing to engage in to earn a few dollars. No sense of perspective. Full throttle, over the cliff.”
Her cheeks heat up in the wake of this outburst. Her mouth is dry with tension.
He adds, “I saw your crew got busted in the PI.”
She breathes deeply, striving for calm. He must have seen a news report. He must have a digital assistant searching for mentions of ReqOps, of Lincoln… and of her? “A misunderstanding,” she tells him softly.
“You found an ex-priest tortured by Saomong.”
“Yes.” Her heart races. She fears for Daniel. “He’s no harm to you.”
“He told you what happened?”
“Some of it.”
“Tough bastard,” Shaw says with grudging admiration. “Thought sure he wouldn’t live out that day.”
Her voice is soft, soothing, almost submissive when she says, “You weren’t all that surprised to get my message.”
“No, I was. Not what I was expecting. But I’m not surprised someone’s following you. You got any other guesses about the Sibolts?”
She considers mentioning the biomimetic hawk in the Philippines but rejects the idea, not wanting to feed his suspicions. “No. No other guesses.”
A pause. She turns in her seat, looking back, but the street behind is dark.
“You expecting someone, True?”
She settles back in her seat. “I think we’re both trying to understand the terrain, the potential threats.”
“Yeah, that’s always the trick.”
“You’re part of the terrain.” Her voice is cautious, feeling her way. “You’ve got people out there covering you, guarding your flanks. Don’t you? Variant Forces soldiers.”
A grunt of amusement or annoyance. She can’t tell. He hesitates as if weighing his words. Then tells her, “It’s a modern company. Relies heavily on automation.”
So maybe they are alone?
“The State Department described Variant Forces as a syndicate of independent operators.” She looks at him sideways. “Financed and organized by you?”
“You want to know how to set up a pirate PMC, True? I’ll tell you the secret. Don’t trust anyone. And make sure you hold all the keys.”
She thinks about this. Considers the little she knows of his operation. Then speculates: “The first key, that’s cash. You control it and distribute it generously. That lets you sit at the center of an intelligence network, fed by contractors. That’s how we do it, anyway. Human intelligence. Machine surveillance. Here, in your theater of operations, you know everybody who’s in the business, either directly or through intermediaries. They know you. Or they know your reputation. You’re reliable. Again, that’s how we do it. But our IT is in-house. I’m going to guess yours is freelance. Your programmers are probably from all over the world. No personal interest, paid well. Even so, you run an AI to check their code, confirm its security. Ensure you’ve got password overrides or backdoors on all the software. That how it works?”
The knuckles on his right hand whiten as he holds the wheel. “You left out one thing.”
“No qualms,” she says quietly. “But you already told me that.”
They enter a warehouse district. Lights are on in a few buildings, but most are dark. Shaw weaves through the streets. Ahead of them, a panel door at the front of a tall warehouse begins to open. Lights come on inside, spilling out to paint the street. Shaw drives in, parking on a concrete pad just large enough for two vans. It’s a loading space, surrounded by modular walls that hide the bulk of the warehouse’s interior. Only a small glass-walled office is visible.
“Anyone here?” True asks.
“Still scoping the terrain?”
“Yes.”
“No one’s here. The way I see it, this is between you and me. No one else. Right?”
“Yes.”
The panel door rattles shut behind them. He opens his door, admitting a familiar noise: the soft, rhythmic, integrated hum of precision machinery driven by quiet electric motors. She opens her own door, sniffs at air that is cool and a little dusty. Not air conditioned and even so, there’s no scent of industrial chemicals or exhaust. “Printer factory?” she asks.
“That’s what most of these warehouses are.”
She studies him across the hood of the SUV, under the daylight glow of ceiling lights. He’s six-two, maybe six-three. Lean to the point of being underweight. His cheeks are gaunt, his dark blond hair shot through with gray and starting to thin. If he’s carrying a weapon, she can’t see it… except of course the centipede bracelet, its mandible presently hidden. “Is this place secure?” she asks him.
“Good enough.”