“Why? It’s broken and it doesn’t have any electronics that I can see.”
“The interference started when you took it from the safe, and it’s getting stronger, so humor me, okay?”
“Yes, mother,” I said with bad grace. “Wait one.”
Faraday bags were an invention by the late Dr. William Hu, former director of the DMS Integrated Sciences Division and Doc Holliday’s predecessor. The one into which I placed the green crystal gun was a heavy plastic envelope veined with a wire mesh that nullified all electronic signals. I mostly used them to disguise my own electronic gizmos when traveling commercial, because they won’t register at all, even in a metal detector; but the bag also kept high-tech surveillance devices from transmitting signals. As I sealed the bag I felt a shiver whip through me. It was so fast and intense that I nearly cried out. Ghost came to point and stared fixedly at me, then he came closer and pushed his head against my hand. It surprised me, but I ran my fingers through his white fur.
“Okay,” said Bug almost at once, “the signal’s clearing up.”
“Copy that.” Beneath my balaclava and helmet I was sweating like a pig. “I’m going to want to have Huckleberry explain how a piece of quartz with no wires in it can do this to our gear. She said her new stuff was top of the line, and this is a perfect ‘put up or shut up’ opportunity.”
“Huckleberry” was Doc Holliday’s call sign.
“Um, you know she’s actually in the TOC, Cowboy,” said Bug nervously. “Standing right next to me. She can actually hear you.”
“Good,” I growled, and I thought I heard a female voice in the background say something very specific about me getting frisky with livestock.
“You’re good to go. Everything’s in the green,” Bug said, then he quickly added, “Not that crystal green, I mean, I—”
“Yeah, yeah, got it,” I said.
I clicked my tongue for Ghost and we began moving along the empty second-floor hallway. We paused near the top of the steps and I touched a dial to send some houseflies up there and then along the hall. The lights were low and the tiny drones would be virtually invisible. They whipped down the hall to a T-junction and cut left and right. The left side was empty, but on the right I saw a guy dressed in a drab gray security company uniform standing guard outside of a locked room. The logo stitched onto his jacket read: Sluzhby Zashchity, which translates as “Protection Services.” Appropriately nondescript. Ghost ran to the end of our hall and stopped out of sight of the guard, crouching, waiting for me to give the word. I ran to catch up.
Ghost looked at me as if to say, I’m good to kill this guy, boss.
I winked at him. Not really sure if dogs get the whole winking thing, but Ghost shifted and tensed for a rush. I gave him a hand sign to signal him to be ready, but not attack. He gave me a mildly disapproving look. I holstered my pistol, drew the Snellig dart gun, leaned around the corner, and shot the faux guard in the thigh.
Horsey works on everyone. Even brutes as big as this guy. I ran and caught the guard before he hit the floor, then stretched him out. A quick pat-down produced nothing of use. A packet of tissues, a roll of mints, and that was it. No ID of any kind and no cell phone. However, he wore what looked like a high school ring — you know, the kind with the big, fake jewel. Except that there was a metal cap over it. Something about the ring bothered me, so I jiggered around and finally forced a hidden release and the cap flipped open to reveal a stone that shone with a very familiar green radiance.
“Cowboy,” said Bug, “I’m beginning to get more of that interference.”
I angled my bodycam to show the ring. “Check it out.”
“If you take it,” said Bug, “Huckleberry wants you to put it in the Faraday bag.” I did that, and was told that the interference was now gone.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” I murmured, then dragged the guard around the corner and into a women’s bathroom. That hurt my back, but I ate the pain because now was not a time to go all whiny.
I went to the security door and bypassed the locks. Inside, there were rows of computer workstations, each with a desk-model computer. Everything looked new, and all of the hardware I saw was state of the art.
“Bug…?” I asked quietly.
“Seeing it, Cowboy,” he said. “This is all high-end stuff. Mostly Russian manufacture, but there are some Chinese and Japanese computers, too. Hey, the one on the end of the left-hand row. See it? The one with three monitors? That’s probably a supervisor’s desk. Find a USB port and plug me in.”
I hurried over and did as he suggested, socketing an uplink device into the side of the central monitor. “Done.”
“Okay,” said Bug after a moment, “couple things. First, there’s a command log-in program installed on that computer. Looks like everyone has to log in through the supervisor and get the day code.”
“Shit. Can you bypass it?”
Bug’s snort of derision was eloquent.
“Sorry,” I said.
“They are definitely using intranet instead of Internet. Nothing goes outside of this room. Computer access here isn’t even connected to the rest of the building. I see a link to a multi-disc DVD burner, so they must use that when they need to take bulk data to another site. Otherwise, just the twenty-three computers in that room. I’m not detecting any landline or Wi-Fi at all.”
“Got you covered,” I said, and produced a compact but very powerful portable router and attached it to the uplink. Screens all through the room suddenly winked on.
“Perfect,” said Bug. “Let me see what I can—” He stopped. “Oh, shit.”
“What?” I demanded.
“I just pulled up a building floor plan from their internal computers, and it doesn’t match at all with the one I already gave you. They totally redesigned the place, and they didn’t build out or up, they went down. I’m seeing three levels of subbasement. Looks like they installed some of the most sophisticated security equipment I’ve ever seen. The second subbasement ceiling is titanium-sheathed lead with a ceramic core. Nothing on Earth can scan through that. There could be a hundred people down there for all we know. Makes me think more about those buses, you know? There are also delivery receipts for tons of materials and sixteen big-ass generators.”
“What the hell are they building down there?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” said Bug, “but Doc wants you to go down there and find out.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THREE
Tracy Cole loved watching Top Sims move. Not for any sexual or romantic reasons — he was too old for her and she was too professional — but because he moved like a cat. Quick, quiet, efficient; able to go from stillness into rapid motion and then freeze on a dime and vanish into the background.
Tracy had read about soldiers who were like that, but she’d never met one. Not really. Not even during her time in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Syria with a U.S. Army detail attached working as United Nations peacekeepers. She’d met SEALs who moved with less grace, and even Delta shooters who were younger and stronger but who didn’t have the same gift. It reinforced why Top was Captain Ledger’s right hand; and why he was the one who trained the top fighters in the DMS.
She wondered if there was anyone other than the captain who could take Top in a fight. Sure, Duffy was a better shot and Bunny was stronger than the Hulk, but…
Top reached the door and dropped down onto one knee, his weapon and eyes moving to cover the area around him. Then he gave her a single wave and covered her as she broke from cover and dashed across the parking lot, trying to mimic the sleek grace of the older man. Cole knew she was good, but she never accepted good as enough. Not when she was in the army, not as a cop in South Carolina, and sure as hell not now that she was running with the big dogs.