Not even close.
Cooper clenched his fists, fought a rising in his stomach.
This has to be done.
He looked at the hologram, saw Soren twitch and jerk. The man’s eyes were closed but moving frantically behind the lids as he lay on his bunk, the cable running up from the wall and to the interface in the back of his neck.
Beside him, Rickard typed frenetically. The terminal was layered with windows and wireframes that reacted as the programmer tweaked the controls. It was strangely chilling to stand in the control room outside Soren’s cell, this bland computerized space, watching the holo of the man sweat and convulse.
“Pretty impressive, right?” Rickard’s fingers danced. “No display as high-res as the one in our skull.”
The audio of the virtual reality was turned low. The effect was like listening to a slasher film in the next room. Soren’s screams were high-pitched and raw, skating on the edge of sanity. Samantha—no, not her, just a digital construct, a program, nothing more—moaned strangled sounds through the duct tape.
“Gotta hand it to you, never thought of this application. I designed the system as a game, you know, run around shooting aliens, get to feel the adrenaline and see the blood and stuff. We developed the personal scans so that people could do it together, save the universe with a buddy.” Rickard smiled. “Not that I minded scanning her. I mean, damn, but that chick is something.”
One of the display windows showed Samantha the way Soren saw her, and when Cooper looked at it, he fought a gag, bile burning the back of his mouth.
“What?” Rickard looked up, his bland expression changing when he saw Cooper’s. “We didn’t actually hurt her. Just a multi-angle camera scan, skin scrapings, hair samples. Exactly like before your little trip to Rome. The subconscious does the heavy lifting. Same as when you have a dream, and you know someone is your wife, even when they look like your mom. It’s not real. We’re not torturing anybody.”
“We’re not torturing her. But look at that”—Cooper pointed at the quadrant of the display showing Soren’s vitals, the indicators deep in the red line on heart rate, respiration, hormones—“and tell me we’re not torturing him.”
“Sure, but it’s not real.”
“He’s still living it. As far as he knows, someone is cutting her up in front of him.”
“Hold on,” Rickard said, and tapped a command to trigger a subroutine. In another window, a digital version of Cooper said, “Are you ready to tell me where Smith is?”
In response, Soren wept and whimpered.
Digital Cooper said, “Rickard. Continue.”
Cooper made himself watch as he said, “Why use yourself as the torturer?”
“Just easier. I’ve got myself thoroughly scanned.” He took one hand off the keyboard, brushed back his hair to show the interface implant in his neck. “Did it when I was developing this.”
“And you’re okay with it? Being a torturer?”
“Well, I mean . . . it’s not real.”
“So you keep saying.”
The programmer looked up. “Didn’t this guy kill you?”
“He also put my son in a coma and tried to murder an innocent family, including a baby. And those are just the ones I was around for.” Cooper paused. “If a dog is rabid, you have to put him down. But you shouldn’t enjoy it.”
Rickard was about to reply when something on the display caught his attention. “His betas are shifting.”
“Huh?”
“This monitors his brainwave activity. He’s been high beta, which makes sense given the stress. But the pattern is shifting.”
“Which means?”
“He’s about to talk.”
In his private virtual hell, Soren yelled, “Stop!” He hung his head.
Then, in a halting voice, he began to tell them what Smith planned.
Cooper said, “Holy shit.” He leaned forward and thumbed a button. “Epstein. Are you watching?”
“Yes.” Erik’s voice came from the speaker. “Readying a strike team now.”
“I’ll lead them.”
“The NCH tactical division—”
“Isn’t as good as I am,” Cooper said.
“Negative. Two previous opportunities. Both failures.”
“That’s why it has to be me. This is John Smith we’re talking about. I’ve been chasing him for almost a decade. No one knows his tactics the way I do.”
For long seconds there was only silence. Cooper could picture Epstein in his cave, his face lit by a mass of data. That’s the answer. “Erik. Put aside personal concerns. What course offers the statistically highest probability of success?”
More silence. For a moment, Cooper wondered if the abnorm had already broken the line. Then the speaker sounded again. “What do you need?”
“Your best people. Transportation. Weapons. And schematics, not only for the building, but for the surrounding blocks, as well as all civic and maintenance structure diagrams.”
“Yes.”
“One more thing.” Cooper paused, smiled. “Shannon is in Newton. How fast can you get her here?”
CHAPTER 25
“Okay,” Cooper said. “On the surface this is a simple breach-and-clear. But you all know the stakes. It needs to be textbook.”
The moving truck was dim and crowded, humid with the breath of thirty muscular men and women. Though Epstein had no standing army, his tactical operatives were hard core. Technically the Wardens were part of the corporate police force that provided security for the Holdfast, but to Cooper they most resembled US Army Rangers—flexible, elite forces constantly training in everything from search-and-rescue to urban warfare. They sat on benches hurriedly placed against the truck walls, automatic rifles between their knees, black body armor stretched over broad chests.
“As you know, our target is John Smith. He cannot be allowed to escape. Teams Alpha and Bravo will breach the front and rear doors at the same time, then push through, clearing room by room and meeting in the lab. Charlie Team will remain outside to secure the street and all possible exits. In addition, we have snipers already in position on nearby buildings . . .”
It had taken Epstein a bit more than an hour to fetch Shannon via helicopter. Her travel time had defined Cooper’s window to review schematics for the building and make a plan. One hour to organize an operation to catch the most dangerous man alive.
Yet brief as that was, it was longer than comfortable. By hacking the feed of government spy satellites, Epstein’s programmers had been able to confirm that Soren was telling the truth. John Smith had arrived at the facility two days ago. According to the footage, he hadn’t left yet. But for all Cooper knew he was packing his bags at that very moment. They couldn’t risk more time, not now, when they were so close.
There’s an ironic way to put it. “So close” is right. Was John Smith hiding in the Congo, or a cave in Afghanistan, or even a secret lair beneath New York?
No. The bastard has been in Tesla, not five miles from the house where your children sleep. He’s been preparing a biological weapon right around the corner.
As grave as the situation was, it was funny, but there hadn’t been time to laugh about it. This was his last shot. He had to be sure he thought of everything. For years Cooper had hunted Smith, tracked him, studied him. Pored over his chess matches, watched footage of his speeches. Twice he’d caught up with the man: a year ago, when Smith had fed him half-truths that aimed him like a warhead at his own government, and then again a few weeks ago, when he and Bobby Quinn—Bobby—had hijacked Smith only to decide executing him might turn him into a martyr.