She’d been back in the Holdfast for more than a week, watering her fake plant and staring out the windows of her unlived-in apartment, when Erik had asked her to come see him. Her studio was in Newton and he lived in Tesla, but when the world’s richest man called, one hopped, and so she’d gotten on a glider and met him that afternoon.
His idea had been intriguing.
No, sweetie. Learning a favorite author has a new book is intriguing. A restaurant you’ve never tried is intriguing. Nick’s smile when you shot the guard who had the drop on him was intriguing.
This is something else.
“Statistically poor,” Epstein had said. “83.7 percent chance of failure to capture John Smith alive. 77.3 percent chance of failure to kill him. 65.1 percent chance of situation reversal, possibly resulting in your death.”
“You know, you and John are a lot alike,” Shannon had said.
“Negative. We comprise dramatically different personality matrices—”
“Maybe,” Shannon said. “But one thing you have in common. You both really suck at pitching me jobs.” It was only the second time she’d met Erik, the real Erik, not his brother Jakob, who was the public face of the man. The first time had been nine days ago, when she delivered a drugged and broken Soren Johansen to him. Cooper had asked her to, believing that Soren might give them leverage or information against Smith; at the time, Shannon wasn’t so sure of that, but now she wondered.
Regardless, Erik didn’t react to her jab, just slouched there, his face lit in flickers from the holographs that hung in the air around them: a topographical chart of the price of pork bellies plotted against incidents of terrorism, images of a rainstorm in the South China Sea, vector maps of bullets fired from various weapons, a time-lapse of moss creeping up a tree, news footage of a limo burning—the new president’s, Ramirez, and wasn’t it just the way that the first female prez in history nearly gets blown up two weeks after swearing the oath? This inner sanctum was a subterranean space more akin to a planetarium than an office, and while she had tried to play cool, it was hard not to be overwhelmed by the sheer lunatic volume of information. “Why would I agree to do something that is almost certainly going to get me killed?”
“The situation is increasingly fluid,” Epstein had said in a voice whiny with frustration. “Patterns rely on data, but data is shifting too quickly. Impossible to sort it, parse it, specify it. But statistically, an attack upon the Holdfast is a near certainty.”
“And you think handing over John Smith to the government will prevent that?”
“Prevent, no. Delay.”
She’d sucked air through her teeth, looked at the schematics of the light rail train that hung in front of her. “John will know I’m not with him anymore. Why would he agree to meet?”
“Temptation. Significant stakes offered.”
“What stakes?”
“Joining. Me. You. All of us, together.”
That would be a temptation. John was his own revolution, and based on the shit state of the world, doing quite well. But how much more effective could he be with Epstein behind him?
“I’m not sure I’m willing. It’s one thing to cross him, another to try to kill him.”
“Preferably capture.”
“In order to turn him over to people who will kill him.”
“Previous subtleties of situation are now irrelevant. There are only two positions. For war, against war. Not choosing is choosing.”
It was a fact she hadn’t been able to dispute, which was how she’d ended up here, on the LRT that circled Tesla, a magnetic train without sound or vibration, the only evidence of motion the city blowing by outside. Shannon looked out the window and considered what it meant that John wanted a war. He was the greatest strategic mind alive, a man who thought not five steps but five years ahead, and if he wanted a war, it was because he believed he could win it.
That was a very sobering thought indeed. Brilliants were outnumbered 99 to 1. Any victory would involve oceans of blood.
Focus, Shan. You’re already outmatched. Don’t be distracted, too.
You don’t know if your ace in the hole is actually an ace—or even if it’s in the hole.
And John is supposed to board at the next stop.
Normally, being on a job made the colors of the day a little brighter and the taste of the air a little sweeter. But now all she felt was nervous.
The train glided into the Ashbury station without a sound. A handful of passengers got off, others climbed on. Midday, and the car was nearing capacity. Shannon had one boot propped up on the opposite seat, gave tiny headshakes to the people who eyed it. She scanned the people boarding, those navigating the rows. Two teens flirted. A young woman hummed softly to a newborn. An old lady dozed, her head rocked back at an awkward angle. A man in a cowboy hat moved down the aisle. The brim was pulled low to hide his face, but he had John’s physique. Shannon flexed her fingers, ready to slide into character, only the man walked right past her. Shit.
When she looked back at the opposite seat, someone was sitting in it. A boy, probably sixteen, staring right at her. Shannon’s boot was still on the seat, his legs on either side of it.
Well, aren’t you slick.
“Listen, I’m flattered, but I’m waiting for someone,” she said.
The boy said nothing. But now there was a d-pad in his hand that hadn’t been there a moment before. Without a word, he held it out to her.
Her heart fell. Of course. Well, it had been a long shot. She took the pad, which glowed to life.
“Hello, Shannon,” John Smith said on the screen. “I have to say, I’m disappointed.”
“You’re disappointed? At least I showed up. I’m here. Where are you?”
“I’m not in New Canaan right now,” he said. “Which is probably for the best, since I see you have some new friends. I count six of Epstein’s best tactical assets, including the fellow in the hat you thought was me. I suppose they’re just commuting?”
“They’re here for protection,” she said. “We didn’t know what to expect—”
“Stop,” he said. “This is me.”
She took a deep breath, let it out. “Okay.”
“We’re going to chat for a minute. But first you need to see something. Colin?”
The boy opposite moved in a blur, his hand flying into and out of his pocket. When he opened it, she saw a small cylinder topped with a button. Her stomach twisted.
“In the interest of time, let me dispense with your thoughts. No, you cannot move faster than Colin, nor can you shift without him noticing. He’s gifted and very, very good. And yes, LRT station scanners are attuned to conventional explosives, so no, Colin couldn’t have boarded with any. Which is why half an hour ago he injected himself with radio-triggered explosive nanites. Individually they’re not much, but when they self-organize into a lattice in a host body, they pack a punch. The blast will take out most of this car.”
She stared at Colin, took in his sunken cheeks, his fervent eyes, the sweat at his temples and throat. “Why?”
“I’d ask you the same question. We go back a long way.”
“It wasn’t easy. But I don’t want a war, and you do.”
“I don’t want a war, Shannon; I have one.”
“So why waste time talking to me?”