“Barksdale’s back there,” he murmured in the man’s ear. “I think he’s dead. He and one of the guards. And the hacker’s gone.”
With a single, blistering expletive, Poole moved past him, racing back toward the cell.
Warne went to Terri, put an arm around her shoulder.
“Are you okay?” he asked. He stroked her cheek, lifted her eyes toward his. Tried to keep her from looking down at the trail of footsteps.
She nodded. “I’m okay.”
“And Georgia—?” Something in Terri’s eyes would not let him continue.
“She woke up. Briefly. She’s asleep again.”
The double doors opened and a very young man stood framed between them. Warne recognized him as Peccam, Allocco’s video tech.
“Where have you been?” Peccam demanded. “I’ve been looking all over for you. All hell broke loose in Callisto, and this place emptied out, so I…” He stopped at the sight of the bloody footsteps.
“Poole’s back there,” Warne said, pointing over his shoulder. “He’ll fill you in. Maybe you can be of some help. Meanwhile, I’ve got to make a call.”
As Peccam moved away, Warne guided Terri into the area behind the front desk. There were two smaller rooms here, an office and a bathroom. He gently wheeled Georgia into the office. She was restless, stirring in her sleep. She cried out once and he stroked her hair soothingly, kissed the warm forehead. She muttered something, seemed to grow calmer.
“I love you, princess,” he murmured. Then he stepped outside and returned to Terri.
Terri raised her eyes to him. “She didn’t cry,” she said. Her voice was a monotone, still full of shock. “After that man with the gun left. It was dark there, so dark, where we hid. She dozed again. I think it’s the—I think it’s the medication.”
“Thank you,” Warne said in almost a whisper, taking her hand. “I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me today.”
Terri looked at him.
“Can you do one more thing?” Warne stared at her closely, trying to read the emotions on her face, wondering how best to say this. He decided to tell her everything. “Two men have been hurt here, very badly. One’s a security guard. The other is Fred Barksdale. Could you please call Medical, have them send a doctor down right away?”
At the sound of Barksdale’s name, Terri flinched, seemed to grow even paler. But without another word she turned away, toward the central desk. She located a phone, picked it up. It trembled slightly in her hand.
Ducking into the bathroom, Warne grabbed half a dozen towels and dampened them in the sink. Then he ran back down the corridor.
With both Sarah and Poole kneeling beside Barksdale, the holding cell was cramped. Mutely, Warne handed a couple of the towels to Sarah, then retired to the doorway, stood beside Peccam. The guard had been rolled over onto his back—probably by Poole, checking his condition. The man’s face was grotesquely swollen, the tip of a blackened tongue peeping almost coyly between parted lips. Sarah, still cradling Barksdale in her arms, began gently swabbing his face. The Englishman was so badly battered his fine features were almost unrecognizable.
“Terri’s calling Medical,” Warne said.
Poole took the rest of the towels from him, exchanged them for Sarah’s bloody ones. “He’s still alive,” he told Warne. “Barely.”
Carefully, with infinite gentleness, Sarah dabbed at the face. Barksdale stirred and moaned slightly.
“Freddy,” she said, drawing closer. “It’s me, Sarah. I’m here.”
Barksdale stirred again.
“Just relax.”
Barksdale’s mouth twitched. “Sarah.” The voice was slurred, barely comprehensible.
“Don’t try to talk. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“No. Must talk. Sarah—so sorry…”
The towels were now exhausted, and Warne retreated to get more. At the front desk, Terri was speaking into the phone in low, urgent tones. Warne rooted through a few cabinets, looking for a first-aid kit. Unsuccessful, he went to the bathroom for the fresh towels. Then he headed back down the corridor. To his surprise, he was met halfway by Poole and Ralph Peccam.
“I thought you should know,” Poole said. “He’s confessed.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much, yet. He’s in an awful lot of pain.”
“Let’s go.” Warne started back down the corridor, but Poole put a restraining hand on his arm.
“What is it?”
“Look. I’m not a doctor, but it doesn’t take one to see that guy isn’t going to make it.”
Warne looked at him. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, let’s give her a couple of minutes’ peace with him.”
Warne hesitated a moment.
“Whatever he says, she’ll tell us when she’s ready. If it’s any of our business.”
“You’re right.” Warne turned, began walking slowly back toward the anteroom. Peccam stood, blinking stupidly, stunned motionless.
Terri was replacing the phone as Warne returned. In the oversize leather chair, she looked small, vulnerable. Her eyes were red, but dry. Although he wasn’t sure what had happened in Medical, the blood on her hand made guessing all too easy. Warne felt a stab of guilt. Somehow, he would try to make it up to her.
He knelt beside the chair, using the towels to clean the spattered blood from her hand. He felt a pressure on his shoulder as she leaned her head against him. He raised his other arm, pressed her close. Her shoulders began to shake in silent, rhythmic sobs.
“It’s all right,” he told her. “Everything’s over now.”
He knelt there, holding the woman in his arms. Minutes passed, he wasn’t sure how many. He felt her slowing sobs, smelled the clean scent of balsam in her hair. It was over. For better or worse, it was over. It had to be.
That’s when he heard the voice—Sarah’s voice—shouting his name. “Andrew! Andrew!”
As gently as he could, Warne detached himself from Terri. Then, giving her cheek a final caress, he turned away and raced for the cell.
Poole was there before him, crouched once again beside Barksdale, listening.
“The armored car,” Sarah was saying as she stroked Barksdale’s hair. “That was the real target. That, and the Crucible technology. Everything else, the glitches with the bots, were just ruses to keep us off balance.”
As Sarah spoke, she rocked back and forth slightly.
“To keep you from seeing what was really going on,” Poole said to Sarah, nodding. There was a sympathetic expression on his face. “What’s this about an armored car?”
“It makes one run a week, on Mondays.” Sarah did not look at either Poole or Warne. Her eyes were on Barksdale, her voice a monotone. Blood had soaked the sleeves of her jacket, making them cling to her forearms. “The whole process is automated. Only myself or Chuck Emory in New York can cancel it. Which we’re supposed to do if there’s an emergency, or a threat to public safety. I canceled the milk run this morning, but the word was never passed on by Freddy. The people in Vault Control downstairs still expect a truck. And he says one’s coming. Where’s that goddamned doctor?”
“On his way,” said Warne.
“What time is the truck due?” Poole asked.
“Right now.”
“Now?” Poole echoed in surprise. He glanced at Warne. “That would explain why they didn’t kill the video cameras on C Level: couldn’t let the boys in the subbasement get too suspicious. And it would explain what just happened at that ride in the Skyport. One final diversion. No fooling around this time, either.”
Sarah turned abruptly. “Freddy didn’t know about that,” she said, drilling him with a glare. “He was tricked. There weren’t supposed to be any casualties. He just told me so.” She turned back to the unresponsive Barksdale.
There was a brief silence.
“That’s not why I called you back here.” A quaver came into Sarah’s voice, but she quickly mastered it. ??
?They’ve rigged the dome with explosives.”
The small room filled with sound as both men spoke at once.
“What?” Warne cried.
“How do you know?” said Poole, rising to his feet.
“That bastard left Freddy for dead. But he heard him, talking over a radio. They’re all meeting up at the phony armored car.”
There was a moment of stasis, of horrified incredulity. And then Poole ducked out of the cell, motioning Warne to follow.
Peccam, who was standing out in the hallway, came over at Poole’s impatient signal.
“Remember that high-powered transmitter we found in the duffel?” Poole said to Peccam. “The one you couldn’t figure out?”
Peccam nodded.
“It could send a signal over a relatively long distance, you said.” Poole turned to Warne. “But to do that, it needed a clean line of sight. It couldn’t go through walls.”
“Right, right, I remember.”
Poole leaned away with a look of surprise. “Well, don’t you see?”
Warne had to work to keep his focus. “No.”
“Once they’re clear of the building, they’re going to use the transmitter to implode the dome. Bring the whole thing down on top of the guests, then escape undetected in the aftermath.” A strange kind of smile came across his face. “They must have intended to do it from the very beginning. Security, any arriving law enforcement, will have their hands full coping with the carnage. Now, that’s what I call a real diversion.”
Briefly, Warne’s sense of reality wavered. Blow up the dome? He struggled with this fresh surprise.
“You almost act as if you admire it,” he said.
Poole shrugged. Then he turned away, ducking back into the cell. Warne followed. He still felt numb. Blow up the dome…For a moment, his only panicked thought was to grab Georgia and Terri and run for safety. But just as quickly he realized that, even if he knew where to run, there simply wasn’t time.
“What else did he say?” Warne heard Poole ask Sarah.
“That’s it. He’s resting now.” And Sarah rocked Barksdale’s ruined head softly in her arms.
“What’s the turnaround time for loading the armored car?”
“I don’t know. Treasury Operations was, is, Freddy’s area. Ten minutes, something like that.”
Poole looked at Warne. “Ten minutes. We’re in deep kimchi, brother.”
He raced out into the anteroom, Warne and Peccam at his heels. Poole looked around a moment, then grabbed an internal directory and began leafing through it. “Vault Control,” he murmured under his breath. “Vault Control.” Finding the number, he reached for a wall phone, dialed. A moment later, he hung up with a curse. “It won’t let me connect,” he said. “Of course.”
“But Terri was able to call Medical just now.”
“Is that so surprising? John Doe’s obviously cut phone communication to the vault.”
“But we know about the armored car now. We can stop it.”
“The operative word in that sentence was ‘armored,’ pal. They’ve got guns, remember? Lots of nice, big guns. I’ve got a pistol with a few rounds left.”
“What about Allocco?” Warne could hear the desperation in his own voice.
“Can’t get him down here in time.”
“Security guards?”
“It would take us more time than we have just to convince them. Besides, Utopia’s guards are unarmed. What do you suggest? Spitballs? A human chain?”
“We’ve got to do something,” Warne rounded on him. The sense of unreality was gone, leaving only a grim determination behind. “We can’t let that vehicle get out of the Park. Whatever it is, we’ll have to do it ourselves.”
“You’re filling me with confidence.”
“Peccam here said that transmitter needs a clear line of sight,” Warne continued. “Right? That means they have to be outside the Park. So if we can stop the armored car before it leaves the building, they won’t be able to use the transmitter. That’s the key. They’re not going to bring down the dome until they’re clear, until they can get away safely.”
Poole considered this. “Makes sense. But I’m not throwing my body down in front of an armored car in hopes it’ll stop. Why don’t you get that mechanical doggy of yours to nip it to death?”
“Maybe I will.” Warne thought quickly. “What do you know about explosives?”
“Uh-oh. I know where this is leading.”
“Answer the question. What do you know about explosives?”
“What do you think? A hell of a lot more than your grandmother does.”
“Leave my family out of this. Why don’t you go up there, see if you can defuse them?”
“I can give you about forty reasons why. Because that’s the number of charges it would take to bring down that big old dome. I don’t know the architecture, the delivery system, the—”
“It beats staying here.”
“I don’t know about that. At least it’s safe down here.”
“Safe?” Warne cried. “What makes you so sure that collapse wouldn’t pancake the Underground? Besides, you’re the one who signed on for bodyguard duty, remember? Only now it’s not just me. It’s about seventy thousand people. Including a few I think you know.”
Poole glanced at him sharply. “Okay. You’ve got a point.” He paused. “If they’re using standard shape charges, I might be able to pull enough detonators to destabilize the pattern, keep the dome from collapsing. But it’s a balancing act. You’ll need to find a way to slow down that armored car.”
Warne nodded.
“They’re not going to set off the charges until the car is clear of the building. You have to keep it from leaving. Everything depends on how much time you can buy me. Understand?”
Warne nodded again.
“Good. Because if you screw up your end of the job and I get blown sky-high, my ghost is going to haunt your ass for all eternity.”
“Fair enough.”
“In that case, we’re wasting time talking.”
Poole trotted through the anteroom. At the far door, he paused to look back. “You watch yourself, friend.”
“You, too,” Warne replied.
Then the doors closed behind Poole and he was gone.
Warne turned to Peccam. “Wait here for me a minute, please,” he said.
More quickly now, he walked around the front desk. The leather chair was vacant, and he felt a brief surge of fear. But then he saw Terri, through the open doorway of the office beyond. She was standing beside Georgia.
As he entered the office, she turned, noticed instantly that something was wrong. “What is it?” she asked.
He hesitated, just for a moment. “I was wrong when I said it was over. There’s something I have to do.”
Terri swallowed painfully, gripped the handle of the wheelchair. At the sound of their voices, Georgia sighed, shifted.
He placed his hand on Terri’s shoulder. “Listen,” he said. “I need to lean on you one more time. You’ve got to be strong, just once more, for me.”
Terri returned his gaze but said nothing.
“Stand guard here, while I’m gone. There’s no time for you to get out of the Park, but I think you’ll be safe here.” He hesitated. “Terri, I love my daughter more than anything, more than life. It’s so hard for me to leave her now, you can’t know how hard. But remember what I told you earlier—how afraid I was something would happen to Georgia, only to see that something did? Well, I’m not afraid now. And I can leave, because I know I can trust you to look after her. There’s no one I’d trust more. So will you do this for me—look after Georgia, look after each other, no matter what? Will you do that?”
Terri nodded again, brown eyes not leaving his face.
“You understand me, right? No matter what?”
She brought her face toward his. He hugged her, closed his eyes, whispered a prayer.
Then he ran back to the anteroom, where Peccam was waiti
ng.
“I need you to take me somewhere,” Warne told him. “Can you show me the fastest way?”
“Where?” Peccam asked as they, too, ducked out into the corridor. The door swung closed behind them, and the Security Complex fell into deep silence.
FOUR-FIFTEEN P.M., mountain standard time.
—
IN NEW YORK, Charles Emory III, chairman and CEO of the Utopia Holding Company, had picked up the phone and was dialing the Las Vegas field office of the FBI. His actions were slow and automatic, and his normally tanned face looked gray and very old.
—
IN THE HIGH desert south of Nellis Air Force Base, atop the sandstone escarpment that surrounded Utopia, the man known as Water Buffalo lay in shadow. He had seen their armored car come up the rear approach, right on schedule. Taking his eyes off the horizon for a moment, he glanced over his shoulder, up at the mountain of glass and steel that rose in a perfect logarithmic curve behind him. The charge placements were not visible at this distance, but in his mind he reconstructed the blast pattern, searching the design once again for hidden faults or structural weaknesses. The dome had been exceptionally well built, the load perfectly distributed across its members. Normally, he would have preferred a three-tiered design, fired bottom-to-top at quarter-second intervals. That had always served him well in taking down steel-reinforced bridges, whether he’d been working for Chechen rebels or the Congolese. But given the size of this particular job, and the limited amount of C-4 he’d been able to carry in, he’d striven for maximum efficiency. A single ring of twenty charges spaced evenly along the base would break the dome’s back; a second set of elliptical charges, placed in a smaller ring about halfway up, would explode simultaneously, collapsing the crown, imploding it in upon itself.
He took a swig from his canteen, simulating the geometry of the explosion at high speed in his mind, dropping the dome, rebuilding it in reverse, up, down, up, down. The design was perfect. He grunted, pleased. Demolition was an art form, beautiful in its own way. It was like reverse architecture. And, like sniping, it was a solitary art, suited to solitary people.