The Cyclops Initiative (12 page)

Chapel had forgotten that they'd bought it together. He'd driven it so rarely back when he lived in New York, and the title was in her name—­he tried to minimize his paper trail—­so he'd always thought of it as her car.

“You'd do anything for her, wouldn't you?” he asked, glancing over at Angel, who was glued to the TV.

The hand on his arm moved up to his shoulder. “Not just her,” Julia said. “I need to tell you something. About how we . . . how things ended between us.”

She didn't get the chance, though.

“Guys,” Angel said, looking over her shoulder at them, “you should see this.”

BROOKLYN, NY: MARCH 21, 18:23

On the television screen red and blue lights flashed and cops moved back and forth behind yellow caution tape. The shot changed to show crowds of ­people standing outside the rail yard fence. It changed again to show police helicopters darting over Queens like a cloud of gnats.

“Police have cordoned off a neighborhood in Queens tonight as they continue the search for the person or persons involved,” a reporter announced. “Though information is scarce at the moment, we do know the explosion in a railroad facility earlier today is believed to have been caused by a bomb or other explosive device. The blast was loud enough to be heard in Long Island City, over a mile away. Six police officers were injured in the explosion, and two of them are in the hospital in critical condition.”

“Jesus.” Julia looked at the two of them as if she'd never seen them before. “Did you—­”

“Somebody tried to kill Angel. They didn't know she was already gone,” Chapel said. “I think. Maybe they just wanted to destroy her computers.”

“My trailer!” Angel said, because the scene on the TV had changed to a helicopter view of the scene.

“The police were investigating an anonymous tip when they approached this mobile home,” the reporter said. “The explosion looks to have been timed to injure as many of them as possible. New York One spoke with Lieutenant Charles Good of the city's Hercules team, the police branch responsible for counterterrorism operations.”

Lieutenant Good was an enormous man with a bristly mustache and very tired eyes. He was dressed in full riot gear but had his helmet off for the cameras. “We are currently looking to interview a person of interest who was seen fleeing from the crime scene immediately after the explosion,” he said. Half a dozen microphones shoved closer to his face. “We don't have a name yet but we believe we have a picture of him, which we'll be making available to all news outlets. I want to make a promise to New York City. We're going to find this guy. And we're going to make him pay.”

The view on the TV changed to a static shot of a color photograph of Chapel's face.

“Shit,” he said.

BROOKLYN, NY: MARCH 21, 18:29

Julia ran around the kitchen, grabbing things. Bottles of water. A box of protein bars and some soy crisps. “I've got some cash, not much—­I mean, can you wait here until I run to the ATM? I can get a ­couple of hundred dollars and . . . I know, you can take my jewelry, pawn it somewhere—­”

“What about clothes?” Chapel asked.

“I think you left a ­couple of shirts here when you moved out, but I don't know what I did with them. Maybe I gave them to Goodwill. Oh, God, why did I give them away? I guess I just didn't want anything that would remind me of . . . never mind. Maybe I missed something.”

“I meant for Angel,” Chapel pointed out.

“Sure, sure, she can take whatever she thinks will fit her.”

Angel nodded and headed into the bedroom to pack a bag.

“There are some toiletries, you can take whatever I've got, I mean, you'll smell like Lady Speed Stick but it's better than—­do you think you'll be in the car for a long time? Or are you going to go someplace that has showers? Never mind—­don't tell me anything.” She put her hand to her neck as if she were taking her own pulse. “Medical supplies,” she said. “Knowing you, you're going to need gauze and antibiotic cream and maybe a suture kit.” She shook her head. “All of that stuff is at my clinic, though. Do we have time for me to run to the ATM and my clinic?”

“No,” Chapel said.

“I found a shirt!” Angel called from the bedroom. The door opened and a balled-­up blue men's dress shirt came flying into the living room. Chapel caught it with one hand and started unfurling it.

“Oh,” Julia said, “you found—­that one.”

“It was in her nightstand!” Angel called.

“I guess I did keep one, after all,” Julia said, and she blushed until her face was nearly as red as her hair. “Well, good, that'll give you something to wear. That's—­that's good.”

The shirt hadn't been laundered. It was a mass of rumples. But it was less distinctive than the uniform shirt Chapel was wearing at the moment. He laid it over the back of the couch to let it air out for a minute.

“What about, I don't know, my passport? Can you use that, maybe put a picture of Angel in it and—­”

“Why did you keep this shirt?” Chapel asked.

Julia stared at it. Then she stroked one of the sleeves. “I always liked it. And . . . it still smelled like you,” she said.

Chapel frowned. “When you broke things off, I thought you never wanted to see me again,” he said. “I don't understand.”

“You're not the only one with secrets,” she said.

He reached over and put a hand on the back of her neck. Felt her hair run between his fingers. She shivered under his touch. He put his other arm around her, intending to draw her into a hug, but she moved her head and their lips met, her warm, soft lips, and he kissed her, and for a second that was all he needed to do. The only thing.

Thoughts crept back into his head, one at a time. The first was that he was never going to see her again. The second was that this was wrong, that it was over between them, that they didn't kiss like this anymore.

Julia didn't seem to have gotten that memo.

The kiss might have gone on a lot longer if Angel hadn't come out of the bedroom just then, pulling a wheeled suitcase. “Guys,” she said quietly.

Chapel let Julia go. She moved back into the kitchen and started rifling through the cupboards again.

Time to get back to business. “Is that everything you want to bring?” he asked.

Angel nodded. “Just clothes and a toothbrush and a ­couple of things. I don't need much.”

“Good. There's going to be a roadblock. They'll inspect the car and if they see a bunch of luggage, they'll probably insist on a full search. But I think we'll be okay. We can put that bag in the backseat; if we shove it down into the leg well, most likely they won't even see it, and if they do, well, it's just an overnight bag. It won't be enough to arouse suspicion. This might work.”

“Won't they recognize you from the picture?” Angel asked.

“Definitely. Which is why I'll be riding in the trunk. They don't know what you look like, which is the one thing we have going for us. When they pull you over, you have to act natural, Angel. You need to convince them you're . . .” He tried to think of a good cover story. Simple, easy to remember, but something that would explain the suitcase. He was probably being overcautious but you tried to plan for everything that could go wrong. “Just a college student heading home to see your parents. Smile a lot, and act dumb. If it's a male cop who pulls you over, don't be afraid to flirt a little.”

“Uh-­huh,” Angel said. “That I know how to do.” But something was wrong. He could see it in her face. “So your big plan is that I'm going to drive while you ride in the trunk.”

“Yeah. What is it? The car's easy to drive, it's a compact.” Her face didn't clear, so he added, “It's automatic, if you don't know how to drive stick.”

“It would help if I even knew what that meant,” Angel said.

Chapel sat down on the arm of the couch. “You don't know how to drive at all, do you?”

“Never got my license,” she admitted.

“Oh, boy,” he said.

BROOKLYN, NY: MARCH 21, 22:17

Cars clogged the Holland Tunnel, creeping along through the stench of exhaust as they inched their way under the river and into New Jersey. Tempers flared and the sound of honking horns reverberated until the claustrophobic space became a resonating chamber, a crescendo of shrill noise that never stopped.

At the far end motorists breathed deep for the first time in hours as they crawled back up to the surface. As they emerged from the brightly lit tunnel into the dark of night, the lights of greasy spoon diners and countless gas stations dazzled their eyes. Only after they'd adjusted to the changing light could they see what lay ahead of them.

Between the tunnel and the turnpike, New Jersey had turned into an armed camp. Police vehicles were everywhere, blocking access and feeder streets, while hulking black riot tanks formed a bottleneck on the main road. Men with machine guns cradled in their arms waved down every car, while hastily erected signs warned motorists that their usual rights had been suspended. Every car was subject to search, every driver to processing.

Anyone even vaguely suspicious, anyone matching the subject's description to the slightest degree, got hauled over to a big tent on one side of the road for further questioning, their cars towed out of the way and sequestered in an already-­packed lot half a mile away just in case they were full of bombs.

The drivers had no chance to protest—­and no possible way to back up or turn away from the roadblock. Men in the heavy black armor of Hercules units watched with stern faces as one by one the cars were squeezed through the cordon.

It was a cold night and the breath of the cops steamed in the air and got caught in all the whirling, flashing light. Dogs paced up and down the line of cars, sniffing at wheels, jumping in their harnesses. Cops used mirrors on the ends of long poles to look under every car, as if terrorists might be down there, clutching the undercarriage, trying to stay out of view.

One cop jogged over and tapped on the window of Julia's car. “Just gotta take a look,” he said. “Roll down your windows, please. Driver's license for the operator, and everybody in the car has to show me their hands. We'll get you through this as soon as possible.”

The window rolled down and the driver peered out with a weak smile. The cop barely registered her features.

Female, shoulder-­length red hair. Not the guy they were looking for. He leaned down to peer across her at the passenger. Younger female, short brown hair, her hands up as if she were being arrested. Cute. A kid like that was no terrorist.

The driver's license came out.

Julia Taggart, resident of Brooklyn. The picture matched. The cop passed the license under an ultraviolet light and the seal of the State of New York lit up. Legit.

“You've got a bag in the backseat. Heading somewhere?”

“My sister and I are going to visit our parents in Atlantic City. We didn't know if maybe we should stay there until this is over. Do you think there are going to be more bombs?” the driver asked.

“No information at this time, ma'am.” The cop glanced around the backseat again. Looked at the trunk.

A driver three cars back leaned on his horn, breaking the cop's train of thought.

Whatever. This car was clean. “Okay, you're good,” the cop said, and he slapped the roof of the car. “Enjoy your trip.”

The car's window rolled back up, and it nosed its way onto the open road, headed for the New Jersey turnpike without any further ado.

IN TRANSIT: MARCH 21, 22:49

For a long time they drove in silence. Angel kept looking back over her shoulder, though there was no sign of any cops back there. Maybe they were being followed, but Julia had no idea how you could tell.

This wasn't exactly her line of work. If your schnauzer had kennel cough, she was definitely ready for that. She even knew how to properly shoe a horse. But when it came to running from the law, she was definitely a novice.

Not that she imagined Angel had much experience in it, either—­at least not firsthand. “Anything to worry about?” she asked.

“No,” Angel said and sat down hard in her seat. She looked straight forward through the windshield. “I don't think so. I think we're clear.”

Very few cars were headed into New York, but Julia noticed how Angel kept squinting every time a car passed them headed the other direction. “You okay? Your eyes hurt when those high beams get you?”

“I guess I'm not used to this,” Angel confessed.

“There are a lot of things you're not used to, huh?” Julia turned on the cruise control and eased her foot off the accelerator. “I couldn't help but noticing, you're kind of pale. And you said you hadn't been out of your trailer in six months. I know I'm not supposed to ask questions, but—­”

“It's my job. I'm on call pretty much twenty-­four seven,” Angel said. “So I don't go out much. It's not as bad as it sounds.”

“Really? I can't imagine being cooped up in a little space like that for so long.”

“I had the Internet,” Angel replied, as if that explained everything.

Julia knew very little about Angel. When the hacker came to her door begging for help, she'd had plenty of reason to take her in, but honestly—­they were almost strangers. She did know how Angel had gotten her unusual job. Once, in Julia's hearing, she'd told the story to Chapel—­how she had gotten into computers when she was a kid and then how she'd hacked into the wrong database, one belonging to the Pentagon. She'd been caught, but the military had been so impressed with her skills they'd given her a choice. She could go to jail for decades or she could come work for them.

It sounded like it wasn't that much of a choice, after all. Being stuck in a trailer waiting for secret agents to call you asking for advice couldn't be that much better than prison. But Angel had also said she loved her work.