“I’m not pointing the finger at anyone,” I reply, as calmly as possible. “I’m merely questioning how anyone in their right mind could agree that making something this powerful and this… invasive… could possibly be a good idea. But to call me self-righteous? Bob, I’m only here because you asked for my help. And being honest, the more I find out about this whole thing, the less I feel I can actually do anything. Shouldn’t you be calling the Pentagon? Or the White House?”
Silence descends once more, which Josh breaks after a few tense moments, sounding eager to resolve the situation. “Okay, Bob, send everything you have on that laptop to one of our secure servers. I’ll copy it onto my personal computer as well and set to work trying to figure out how Hussein intended using this information. Adrian, get your ass back home to Tori. I’ll contact you if I find anything out, or if I need your help any further, okay?”
I notice he said I, not we, just then. Probably thinks it’s best to disassociate himself from GlobaTech when talking to me for the time being, which is a wise decision.
I nod. “Sounds like a plan. Josh, I’ll call you when I get back to Texas anyway, just to see how you’re getting on.” I turn to Clark. “Bob, if you still want my advice, once you’ve given all the information off that laptop to Josh, I’d destroy it. Just in case Hussein sends anyone to retrieve it.”
Clark nods, which to me looks intended as half a thank you and, I think, half as an apology. I hang up the phone, pick up my shoulder bag, and walk out of the room.
I’ll make my own way to the goddamn airport…
I decide instead to head back to the safe house on 55th Avenue in Queens first. Initially I just wanted time with my thoughts, but I ended up catching some sleep. I woke about an hour ago, and flagged a cab just down the street from the safe house to drive me a half hour down Atlantic Avenue, onto the Nassau Expressway and finally into JFK.. Thankfully, GlobaTech’s hospitality hadn’t expired, and the plane was still waiting for me. After minimal fuss getting back on board, our takeoff was given priority clearance, so I was in the air within twenty minutes, heading back home.
There’s no stewardess on the flight this time, so I’m sitting alone in the cabin, staring out the window with my bag at my feet. The co-pilot had seen me on board and shown me to my seat, before disappearing into the cockpit and locking the door behind him.
I’m staring into space, trying to wrap my head around everything that’s happening. I think it’s a fairly safe bet to assume that Hussein and his Armageddon Initiative intend getting access to this Cerberus satellite. God only knows what they’re going to do with it, should they succeed, but whatever it is can’t possibly be good.
On top of that is their recruitment drive, which I have to assume is still ongoing. I doubt they’d stop just because they couldn’t get me. Then there’s our mystery four-star general, meeting with Hussein… in New York, of all places. I don’t know who he is, but if Hussein’s managed to negotiate getting a man on the inside, especially one that highly ranked, then they’re an even bigger threat than anyone realizes. The FBI is investigating, but they aren’t going to know as much as I do right now.
Maybe I should go to them with all this? I think back to my argument with Clark. I know my opinion isn’t everybody’s, but surely, I’m not the only one who thinks GlobaTech’s involvement in this is questionable? And for Josh to be front and center… I know he was just doing a job, but I don’t want anything coming back on him. Or Clark, if I’m honest. He’s always been straight with me in the past and has had my back when I needed him.
I sigh heavily. I can feel a headache coming on.
Oh, and let’s not forget Clara fucking Fox! I’ve got at least one bullet with that bitch’s name on it.
I look back out the window, my vision having glazed over as I was thinking about everything. As I focus more on the world outside, something strikes me as strange. New York to Texas is a fairly straight line, going over West Virginia, Tennessee, and finally Mississippi, before reaching San Antonio. I’ve been in the air, what, forty minutes already? Why am I seeing water below us?
I’m a reasonably well traveled and well-educated man, and I call on my middle school-level geography from the dark recesses of my mind, just to make damn sure I’m not mistaken. But there’s definitely no water between New York and Texas.
I take out my phone, using a compass app on there to see which way we’re traveling. I look out the window again, then back at the direction. Using my middle school math as well, I reckon I’m somewhere over the North Atlantic ocean, approaching Bermuda… which, being in a relatively small plane could pose its own set of problems, I guess.
I get up, walk over to the cockpit, and knock on the door. “Hey, you got a sec?” I shout.
I hear movement from inside, but almost a minute passes before the door unlatches and opens. The co-pilot stands in the doorway, holding it ajar just enough for his body to fit. I can’t see past him into the cockpit itself.
“Is everything okay?” he asks.
He’s a tall guy, almost my height. Looks in good shape physically, dressed smart, with some designer stubble. Maybe late-thirties, with, I would guess, at least six years’ experience, to land this kind of gig. But there’s something in his eyes. Something not quite right. I make a mental note and carry on regardless.
“Yeah, no, everything’s fine. Just a question, really… and I’m the first to admit I’m no expert here, but I’m pretty sure we don’t need to fly over any water to get to San Antonio from JFK…?”
There’s a split second flash in his eyes, suppressed as quickly as it appeared. I didn’t expect it, but I saw it, and I’d recognize it anywhere.
It was fear.
Beads of sweat form on his forehead. He hesitates for a moment, but replies calmly and professionally.
“We had to divert via Florida,” he explains. “The airspace isn’t clear for a private plane, due to a buildup of commercial flights coming out of Tennessee, so we have to fly around them.”
I’m impressed with his answer — very technical, and extremely plausible. However, I can smell bullshit a mile away, and coupled with everything else I’ve noticed, I’m now convinced something’s not right here. Question is what do I do? I’m probably seventeen thousand feet up, and with guns not being an option, I’m left depending on my skills in diplomacy and tact to deal with whatever happens next.
I’m so screwed…
“That makes sense… fair enough.” I pause, making like I’m about to walk back to my seat, but I’ve just thought of something else to say. “Is everything alright?” I ask him, trying to sound innocently concerned. “You don’t look so good.”
Before he can answer, I hear movement behind him, and then the co-pilot grunts as he’s struck on the back of his head. His eyes roll up in his skull, and he wobbles momentarily before falling heavily and landing at my feet.
I knew something wasn’t right, but I didn’t expect that. I take a couple of steps back, surprised enough that I’m momentarily distracted from reacting how I should’ve done.
Another man steps out from inside the cockpit, striding over the body and standing in front of me. He’s pointing a gun at me, which looks like a Glock. He’s aiming right between my eyes. His arm is steady, his breathing is normal, and his stance is relaxed and comfortable… definitely well trained. He’s about my height, with an average, but well-built, frame. He’s wearing unmarked, black and gray camo overalls and thick work boots. He’s got thick stubble, and his dark eyes stare at me, not blinking and not interested.
I take a deep breath, preparing myself for a fight that I hope won’t happen. Too many things can go wrong when you’re on a plane. I stand my ground, but don’t make any movement.