Court cocked his head in surprise. “Pretty sure they already know I’m here.”
Travers rolled his head back as if he was looking to the heavens. “Well, I sure wish someone would have bothered to give me the heads-up.”
“Look, you aren’t going to believe me over this suit from General Council… but I was not derelict. I never fragged the wrong target. Not once. Not ever.” He added, “And my team tried to murder me, not bring me in. I had to defend myself.”
Travers nodded like he believed, but Court didn’t think for a minute that he’d convinced him.
Travers said, “Okay. I guess they got it wrong. I’ll let everybody know. That should fix things.” It was sarcasm, brave considering Travers’s situation, but it was clear to Court the other man wanted to show he was not afraid.
Court thought a moment. “AAP. Does that mean anything to you?”
Travers was taken aback by the question. “You mean that magazine for old people?”
“No, Chris. That’s AARP. I am talking about the Autonomous Asset Program. Did this guy from General Council say anything about that?”
Travers shook his head. “I don’t know what that is. He didn’t mention it. Sounds stupid.”
Court sagged low on the couch, frustrated and confused. But then he nodded to himself. Softly he said, “Carmichael needed an excuse to kill me, so he came up with a cover story. He had to erase the AAP. Terminate all the participants… But they couldn’t breathe a word about it to anyone. They blamed me for some imaginary screwup.”
“Whatever you say, dude,” Travers said. He hadn’t heard everything, because Court had been speaking to himself.
Court ignored him and stood up slowly.
“What are you going to do?” Travers asked, letting a little nervousness show in his voice now.
“I’m leaving. You are useless. You know even less about what went down than I do.” Then he said, “Stand up.”
Travers did so. Court reached into his coat and pulled out zip ties. The other man’s eyes widened just a little, but he made no comment.
Court said, “Your lucky day, right? You know how to get out of these in five seconds. Put them on. Behind your back.”
Travers followed Gentry’s orders, confused. He did know how to defeat zip ties, even when his arms were fastened behind his back, but if Gentry knew this already, why was he using them?
When his arms were secured, Court walked up to him and spun him around. A second later Travers heard the sound of thick duct tape being pulled from a roll.
“You motherfucker,” he mumbled. The zip ties were just to keep his hands down while Court restrained him in a way that would be much harder to defeat.
Five minutes later Travers’s arms and hands were completely secured, from the shoulders all the way down to the fingertips, with an entire roll of duct tape. His ankles were bound with wires from two table lamps. He sat on the floor, arms outstretched behind him like a single wing, and his feet in front of him, lashed together.
Once Court was finished he knelt over the other man and surveyed his work. “You look ridiculous,” he said.
“I’ve got to piss.”
“Just think of that as additional incentive.” Court patted the other man on the head. “Good to see you, Chris.” He headed for the door.
“Fuck you. Seriously, how the hell am I supposed to get out of this?”
Court flipped off the overhead in the living room. The only remaining light was from the street, filtering in through the curtains. He said, “If this equation takes you more than ten minutes to solve, then you are a poor excuse for an asset.” Court reached for the door latch.
Travers called after him. “Hey, Court?”
“Yeah?”
Travers paused, then said, “I’m going to tell you this as a friend. I really hope you’ll take my advice. Run. Just fucking run. You had the right plan. Staying off grid, out of the States. That was working for you. There is no future to you sticking around here. Trust me on that. Now that you’re here. Now that they know. They’ll rain down on you with everything they have, and they will kill you.”
“I suspect you’re right,” Court said, and he left Travers there, alone in the dark.
It was well after two a.m. when Court pulled into a little market and gas station a mile from his long-term storage unit in Columbia Heights. He’d been driving around for a while, rolling into, and then back out of, a half dozen other convenience store parking lots, because he was looking for a very specific setup.
He needed a place with poor CCTV camera coverage of the parking lot.
Court took it on faith that the U.S. government would have access to civilian CCTV networks here in the area. They would also have facial recognition software working to identify him as he moved around the city. While there was nothing Court could do to avoid getting picked up on cameras inside stores — he couldn’t very well wear a ski mask as he shopped — he knew it was in his best interests to show neither his face nor his vehicle on camera.
Court could mitigate the risk to himself by never going to the same place more than once. By the time he was identified on camera and CIA or police arrived to investigate, hours would have passed. Court merely had to know better than to ever return. But if he allowed his image to be recorded and identified and he allowed his vehicle to be identified by parking it in view of a CCTV camera, then he would be screwed, because he couldn’t very well change cars every time he went out into the city.
The parking lots of the first six late-night markets he pulled into had good camera coverage, with no place to park without exposing his vehicle. The seventh store, to Court’s great relief, did have a couple of outdoor cameras near the pumps, but the store’s owners were cutting corners and relying on the inside camera to film a portion of the lot near the window. Court only had to pull up to one side of the front window or the other, park in a space there, and then go inside.
Court stepped carefully into the Easy Market on Rhode Island with his head down. He lowered his hood, but he left his baseball cap on, low in front of his face. He moved slowly to the back corner of the establishment, far away from the register, and he pretended to look through the cooler for a drink. Soon he glanced up and around the little shop, scanning high and in the corners, searching for cameras.
And Court liked what he saw. Not only had the management here gone cheap with the cams outside; two of the cameras inside the market were hanging down with wires unplugged — clearly out of commission. A third camera was up to the right of the front register and facing down, but Court determined he could defeat it with his cap and by turning his face away from the proper angle needed for successful facial recog.
Within one minute of passing through the door, Court decided he would become a faithful customer here at the Easy Market on Rhode Island Avenue.
Court grabbed a few items off shelves — more duct tape, a few cans of food, a bottle of water, and a candy bar — then he carefully stepped up to the register at a forty-five-degree angle, with his head turned slightly to the left and the bill of his baseball cap slightly cocked to the right. A lone clerk stood behind the counter, watching his approach. She was mid-twenties, heavyset, and African American. Her nametag read LaShondra. When Court put his items up on the counter he glanced at her again and noticed she had a severely lazy left eye, with the pupil drooping down.
She looked tired, but she wore a kind smile. “Hey, baby doll, how’s your night goin’?”