“I don’t know. But I’m convinced of one thing — merely designing a technology doesn’t make it a good idea. As far as META goes, I’d like to toss the whole concept into the deep end of the ocean.”
“Even given what it might do for you?”
DeBolt picked up a handful of smooth stones and stood. He walked to a ledge and whipped a rock sidearm over the hillside. He did it a half-dozen more times before saying, “When I was in high school my grandfather died. He was a great guy, took me hiking and skiing a lot when I was a kid. He was never rich, but he did okay. He and my grandmother had an average house, with the usual stuff — big TV for watching games, a ’sixty-nine Camaro in the garage he always wanted to restore but never got around to. They lived in the same house for forty years. Then she died, and he started to go downhill. My mom was getting bad by that time, early-onset dementia, so I was pretty busy with her. There was no way I could handle him too, so we moved him into a nursing home. It was actually all right, they took good care of him. I got the job of selling my grandparents’ house, getting rid of all their stuff. And let me tell you, after forty years in the same place — people accumulate a lot. He died two years later, more or less peacefully. His wife was gone, he was tired, and he let go because it was time. A few days after he passed, I stopped by the nursing home to thank a few people for all they’d done. As I was leaving, a nurse gave me a small box. Inside were a pair of glasses, a cheap watch, an electric razor, and a framed picture of Grandma. That was it — all his worldly possessions.”
He threw one last rock, then looked at Lund, and said, “You come into this world with nothing. You leave with what can fit in a shoebox. Everything in between … it really doesn’t amount to much. It’s the experiences that count. The places you go. The people you meet and what effect you have on them. That’s all anybody ever leaves behind.”
She looked at the fresh grave. “And what did he leave behind?”
DeBolt was silent for a long time. He turned back toward the hills, and said, “I’ve never killed anybody before.”
“You’ve saved a lot of lives.”
“It’s not the kind of thing you can add and subtract, come up with a net zero.”
“You had no control over what happened, Trey. Delta forced the issue. It was his life or yours … and probably mine,” she added.
He thought about it, then nodded. “Thanks for putting it like that.”
Lund stood and walked slowly to DeBolt’s side. She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “So there you have it,” she said. “I’m heading to Alaska, and you’re going to Fiji. Any idea how we get there?”
“For you it’s easy. You walk into the nearest Bundespolizei precinct. I’ll find my own way. But I was thinking … maybe we could put it off for a day or two.”
“Stay on the run? They’ll be looking for the car.”
“We’ll ditch it.”
“Where do we stay?” she asked.
“I still have enough cash for a couple of sleeping bags, some food, maybe a tent. Sleep out under the stars. Nobody can track that, can they?”
“Not even you.”
They hiked back slowly to their stolen Mercedes. Neither addressed what would happen after Kodiak and police interviews, after Fiji and falling off the grid. Perhaps because they didn’t know. Or perhaps because they did.
When they reached the car it was still running. The main road was only a mile away, and DeBolt knew he would soon have a connection with a macrocell GSM antenna — yesterday he’d discovered how to differentiate source signals.
Lund paused before getting in the passenger seat. She looked out over a nearby lake, the low sun reflecting on its glassy surface.
“Might be nice camping over there,” she said.
“Maybe we can get back before dark.”
“I wonder what time the sun sets tonight.”
DeBolt thought about it. But only for a moment.
He said, “I have no idea.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With deepest gratitude I would like to thank those who helped with Cutting Edge.
To begin, much appreciation to everyone at Tor for supporting a book that falls outside my traditional wheelhouse. In particular, thanks to my editor, Bob Gleason, for your encouragement, not to mention the faith you’ve shown in me over the years. Also to Elayne Becker for your keen eye and attention to detail. A special thanks to Linda Quinton, whose support has been essential. And of course, to Tom Doherty, for the incomparable house you’ve built.
With respect to my agent, Susan Gleason, I can say something few authors can: I have never felt disappointed after ending one of our calls.
Finally, thanks as ever to my family: your support has never wavered.
ALSO BY WARD LARSEN
The Perfect Assassin
Assassin’s Game
Assassin’s Silence
Assassin’s Code
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WARD LARSEN is a USA Today bestselling author and four-time winner of the Florida Book Award. He has also been nominated for both the Macavity and Silver Falchion Awards. A former U.S. Air Force fighter pilot, Larsen flew more than twenty missions in Operation Desert Storm. He has served as a federal law enforcement officer and is a trained aircraft accident investigator. His first thriller, The Perfect Assassin, is currently being adapted into a major motion picture by Amber Entertainment. You can sign up for email updates here.