In an academic setting such lofty statements would have more meaning for Copley than they did right now. For a team to function healthily, dissent was wrong. He was surprised that Franklin didn’t already know this.
“What are your thoughts on the execution?” Copley asked.
Franklin’s answer came without pause. “I think that you have no choice. They killed a soldier.”
“The boy maintains that he was protecting his mother from rape,” Copley baited. “I cannot say that such a crime is beyond the reach of Brother Stephen.”
“And had he lived, he would have been appropriately punished,” Franklin said. “As it is, that opportunity for justice was denied.”
“Exactly,” Copley said. “And do you agree that the execution should be broadcast live on the Internet?”
Franklin’s body seemed to stiffen with the question. “Is that important?”
“Our goal is to rend the fabric of what the Users believe is comfort in their lives. Could there be anything more unsettling?”
Franklin hesitated. “Nothing I can think of.”
Copley didn’t like the noncommittal answer. “I said you can speak freely.”
A deep breath, followed by a settling sigh. “I worry about cause and effect,” he said. “Actions have consequences. It’s one thing to watch the news and hear and see reports of the mayhem the Army is sowing. But if you present the public with the spectacle of an execution, I fear that instead of justice, they will see only cruelty.”
“You fear,” Copley said. He was sick to death of that word. “Is cowardice in battle likewise not a crime?”
Franklin stood. “You told me to speak freely.”
Copley felt a wave of anger approaching, but he pushed it down. “Yes, I did,” he said. He stood as well and pointed with his chin to the rifle. “Are you up to more spotting?”
“I am,” Franklin said. As they covered the distance to the weapon, he said, “Please, Brother Michael. If I offended-”
Copley waved him off. “You’re fine,” he said. “Everything’s fine.”
The two men moved almost in unison as they lowered themselves to their bellies on the ground in front of their respective toys. Copley positioned himself at the gunstock and wriggled a bit as he settled into a comfortable position on the ground.
“Be aware on the left,” Franklin said. “It looks like one of Mrs. Shockley’s cows has wandered out of the pasture.”
“Is it likely to wander into my field of fire?” Shooting was a head game, and he didn’t appreciate the interruption.
“Probably not. Not unless you shoot wild. She ranges at twenty-one fifty yards and three hundred twenty feet from the target.”
Copley reacquired the acoustic panel and ran the previous ballistic calculations through his head. “Is the cow moving or standing still?”
“Looks like she’s grazing.”
Without saying a word, Copley pivoted the Barrett to the left, adjusted in his head for the new range, and squeezed the trigger. Again. And again. The massive weapon bucked with each round, the pressure wave at the muzzle blasting dirt and leaves.
Two point two seconds later-long before the sound of the gunshots could arrive on the opposite hill-the cow erupted in a pink cloud, one of its hind legs spinning away and landing ten or fifteen feet from the rest of the carcass.
Copley smiled. He lifted his cheek from the butt stock and craned his neck to look over his shoulder at Franklin, whose face was a mask of disbelief.
“You didn’t even aim,” Franklin said.
“Of course I aimed. I just did it quickly.” He rose to his knees and hefted the Barrett from the ground. “But a shot like that tells you that it’s time to stop for the day.”
He walked back to the flat rock to begin the process of cleaning the weapon and returning it to its padded case, leaving Franklin to pick up the sandbags and other clutter from their shooting perch. Arriving at the rock, he gently placed the weapon butt-down on the flat surface. He removed the five-cartridge magazine and cleared the breach.
“Franklin?” he said without looking.
“Yes, sir?”
He liked the “sir.” That’s what happened when you made people nervous. “Can I count on you to make things happen tonight?”
“Of course,” he said. Then, after a beat: “What things are you talking about?”
“I want the entire compound assembled for the executions, and I want it on a live Internet feed. Route it as we did before.”
A long moment passed in silence. Copley turned to see Franklin just standing there. “Brother Franklin?”
He seemed startled. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ll see to it. What time?”
“Eight-ish? After the trial.”
Franklin clearly wanted to object, but he swallowed his words. “Both of them, sir?”
“One at a time, of course. What do you think would make the best drama for television, a mother watching her son die first, or the other way around?”
There was that look again.
“I can count on you, can’t I, Brother Franklin?” The action of the Barrett made a loud clack as it slid closed.
“Always, Brother Michael.”
“Then who do you think we should send to God first, the woman or the boy?”
Franklin searched a long time for the right words. “I’m sure that any decision you make will be the right one, Brother Michael.”
That unsettled, appalled look would soon be shared by the entire world, Copley thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY – FOUR
Nothing happened at the mansion for an hour and a half. Literally nothing. The sentries didn’t change, and no one left or arrived. From this distance, with the equipment they had available, there was no way to monitor what might be going on inside, but Jonathan’s instincts told him that they were in a lull.
It was possible that they’d missed their precious cargo completely, but thoughts like that were self-defeating, so he pushed them away. If they’d blown the mission, they’d blown it. For the time being, until he had data to the contrary, this was their plan.
As the sun dropped, it took the temperature with it, and under a new moon without a cloud anywhere, they were staring down the maw of double awfulness: frigid temperatures and a bright starlit sky.
He’d switched to night vision about fifteen minutes ago, and the view was like green daylight. Once Venice had the coverage she needed and she’d successfully overridden the video feed, they would move into the house and liberate their precious cargo.
“Cars coming,” Boxers said into his earbud. The sudden noise startled him.
“A bunch of cars,” Venice corrected. “I thought nothing was supposed to happen till seven.”
“Damn bad guys didn’t read the playbook,” Boxers mocked. “What’re you thinking, Scorpion?”
Jonathan answered with a question. “Mother Hen, do you have enough to cover an entry now?”
“I could use more,” she said.
“With all this activity out in the front yard, we’re missing the perfect opportunity to enter through the back,” Boxers said. “Distracted guards are my favorite kind.”
“Understood,” Jonathan said. “We wait till Mother says it’s okay to go.” He shared Boxers’ urge to move, but he stifled it. You had to take a longer view of these things. The video loop was as much about their escape as their entry, and he was rolling the dice that five minutes wouldn’t make a lot of difference one way or the other.
Jonathan counted seven cars in total. Most were pickup trucks or SUVs, but there were a couple of beat-up sedans in the mix as well. The headlights flared his night vision, so he flipped the goggles out of the way. In the starlight, though, while he could see people moving, he couldn’t get enough detail for a hard count.
“Big Guy, how many people do you see?”
“I don’t have the angle for that,” he said.
“I want you to know that I’m feeling very left out back here,” Gail said.
“We’ll be there soon enough,” Jonathan promised. “How are we coming, Mother?”