Steph took a ladle, which she claimed was her "lucky ladle." Her daughter Nancy, exhibiting a great deal more in the way of practicality or fighting spirit or both, took the biggest knife she could find. In her small hand, it almost looked like a sword.
Chapter Fifty-Three
McBryde sat staring at the empty display for two or three heartbeats, and his earlier swirling hollowness was suddenly very still, very calm. He knew what he had to do.
His hands went back to the computer keyboard, and he called up one of the sequences he'd just installed. It wasn't in the order he'd planned on activating it, but it ought to do the trick, and he bared his teeth as the central computer's memory was adjusted to show that Herlander Simões had entered his office with him. Information on the personnel movements in and out of the Center was automatically copied to an off-site stand-alone system. He could have reached the off-site system from his personal terminal here in the Center if he'd wanted to erase the information in it, but that was the last thing he wanted, because that stand-alone system was what was going to cover Simões' escape . . . he hoped. He felt a sudden, deep pang of sorrow as he thought about the sergeant down at the entrance foyer, but he couldn't warn the man without undoing Simões' cover. Besides, despite the weekend, the sergeant wasn't the only other person in the complex with him, and there wasn't anything he could do about any of them now.
This was proving to be an interesting experience, actually. Curiosity was one of Herlander's most prominent traits, and he now realized that he could possibly use that trait to keep his fear under control.
A climate controlled crate—with top-of-the-line air scrubbers and what looked like an emergency backup air tank—that appeared, from the outside, as if it was carrying nothing more delicate than heavy machinery.
It was lit inside, too. Very dimly, but it was still light. He'd expected to make the whole trip in darkness, which he hadn't been looking forward to at all.
The woman looked at her timepiece, for perhaps the hundredth time. "They should be here soon," she muttered. "Well. Maybe another half hour."
Herlander's eyes, moving around with interest, were arrested by a panel in one of the corners of the crate.
Good God. Is that scramblingequipment? Where did they get this stuff?
Jack thought about sending a final message to Zachariah, or his parents, or his sisters, but not very hard. Much as he wished he could have explained his reasoning to them, he'd already decided he couldn't risk that. Security was going to be looking at all of them very closely, and their best protection was going to be the fact that he'd never said a single word to any of them about what he planned. Given Security's facilities, it wouldn't take very long to establish that none of them had had a clue or been involved in any way in his actions. And, despite the revulsion he'd come to feel for the Alignment and all it stood for, it did not punish people for someone else's actions. There'd be a stigma, of course, and they'd all be watched carefully, at least for a while, but no one would hold them responsible for what he had done. Sending them any final messages might undermine that immunity, however. Worse, it might start them thinking in the same direction he had, bring them onto the same collision path with the Alignment and everyone around them, and he simply couldn't risk that.
Especially not in light of what he was actually going to do now.
When Anton came back out of the kitchen, Victor still had everyone in the diner completely subdued. That included a new person whom Anton didn't recognize. She must have had the bad luck to walk in a short while ago.
It also included the man Anton had dragged out from under the table. He was kneeling not far from Victor, with his hands clasped behind his back.
Again, Anton grabbed him by the collar and hauled him to his feet. "You're coming with us, fella."
As he headed toward the rear exit, he heard Victor saying to the people held captive: "Here's how it is. We have associates standing guard outside both doors, front and back. Anyone who tries to leave within five minutes will be shot. No warning, no discussion, you will simply be dead. Once five minutes are up"—he pointed to the far wall—"according to that time display, you can leave the diner. Go anywhere you want. My own advice, take it or leave is, is that you'd be wise to pretend you were never here. This place has no recording or security equipment, except whatever these corpses brought with them, and we took care of that. So you can probably get away with it."
He started walking across the room toward the back exit. "Or you can report the incident to the authorities, who will certainly treat you with the respect traditionally given to seccies. It's your choice."
Half a minute later, he and Anton and the two women and their captive were in the escape passageway.
There, they stopped. Anton shoved the captive against the wall and stepped back. Victor stepped forward, the gun in his hand.
Lajos Irvine was petrified. He was about to die, and he knew it. There was no mercy at all in those black eyes and the gun hand was as steady as a bar of steel.
A few seconds passed. Maybe five, although it seemed like fifty.
"I'm just not positive," said the black-eyed man.
"It's your call," said the waiter.
The black-eyed man stepped back. "He needs to be out for at least four hours."
"Not a problem." The waiter came to stand right in front of Lajos. He looked as wide as the sea.
"I'd say this was going to hurt me more than it hurts you, but that'd be ridiculous."
The sledgehammer fist didn't hurt at all, oddly enough. Or, if did, Lajos could never remember.
From the beginning, Jack McBryde had realized that simply defecting wasn't enough—not in light of all he'd contributed to the Alignment first. That was the real reason he'd chosen to attack the Center's secure data network and every other computer system he could reach. There were backups, of course, but there was at least a chance of inflicting significant damage on the Alignment's most secure data systems, and that was definitely worth trying.
Only now he wasn't going to have that opportunity. There wasn't going to be enough time. Which meant there was only one way he could hope to take out a meaningful chunk of truly significant data, and since it was painfully clear to him that he wasn't going to be getting off Mesa after all . . .
He tapped a combination into his personal com. It was a one-time, untraceable combination—one he'd set up through his own security connections, even as he'd hoped he'd never need it. It buzzed only once, and then Herlander Simões's voice answered. McBryde could hear the tension in it, the recognition that he wouldn't have been calling on this combination unless something had gone seriously wrong.
"Yes?" Simões said.
"Eggshell," McBryde replied, and heard an audible inhalation as the emergency codeword registered.
"I—" Simões began, then stopped. There was the harsh sound of someone clearing his throat. "Understood. Thanks. I . . . won't forget."
"Good." McBryde wanted to say something more himself, but there wasn't time, and there wasn't much he could have said, anyway. Except—"Be well. Clear."
Feeling stunned, Herlander keyed off his com.
"What does that mean?" asked Yana.
"It means he's been . . . he's going to . . ." He burst into tears. "He's the only friend I have."
They were practically running down the passageway, now. Anton wasn't happy about that at all. First, it broke every rule of tradecraft. Secondly, there was a genuine risk of tripping over something in the dim light. And there were plenty of "somethings" to trip over, too. The floor of the passageway was littered with debris. Unlike some of these underground tunnels, this one was little-used. That was a good part of the reason they'd selected it, of course. But all they needed at this point was for someone to get injured in a fall.