The last time Nick had seen this man he had been walking across the Monarch campus-the only gunman with his smiley mask off, like he didn’t care-shooting people. The others were rounding people up, herding them together, but that guy was smiling and shooting anyone who ran.
Randall Gibson looked like hell. If people weren’t looking at the Tower they were looking at Gibson’s ruined clothes, his bleeding arms, his fucked-up face. Randall Gibson looked like every inch a man who had somehow survived an exploding building.
He hurt, that was clear. He was favoring one leg and the set of his jaw said he was gritting his teeth as much out of pain as fury. His eyes were set dead ahead as he moved for the crosswalk. When he reached the traffic lights he tapped the Walk button, and waited.
Under the blood and dirt Nick could tell there’d been some real damage done there.
The light turned green. Gibson crossed the road, shouldered through the crowd, and made for the western entrance to Monarch Tower.
Nick and Beth had talked, back at the pool. She’d told him about Gibson, about how he had been inside Jack’s place when it blew.
She said he had identified her. Knew she worked for Monarch.
Down there, that was a man looking for blood.
He’d come looking for her.
Nick checked his phone. “I should text her. I’ll text her.”
Then he stopped. He didn’t have her number. He didn’t have her goddamned number.
Saturday, 8 October 2016. 8:27 P.M. Ground-Floor Atrium, Monarch Tower.
Jack was on floor thirty-five. Martin Hatch’s office and helipad were on fifty. There were a couple of other pads to choose from, but a bird on fifty could be guaranteed. Beth hadn’t lied to Davis: her unit was meant to be part of the security on the mezzanines, but she was early. That gave her time to roam before anyone wised up to what she was doing.
Door security announced they were opening up the atrium. The attendants in the middle third of the atrium collected their trays from the temporary bar, adjusted their smiles, and got into position.
There were two elevator bays on either side of the bar, which had temporarily replaced the receptionist station. The bays were three-sided glass tubes built into the glossy black wall, door in the middle plane. That’s when she saw seven of the eight remaining members of Chronon-1 hanging out on floor five, leaning on the rail, looking down on all the fuss. Beth could imagine Irene wanting to spit on heads.
C-1’s attention swiveled to their right as Donny stormed out of an elevator. The conversation was animated, heated. There was excitement, and then they all headed for the elevators. Beth jogged to the opposite bay, heading up as they headed down.
Saturday, 8 October 2016. 8:39 P.M. Outside Monarch Tower.
Nick had only ever had two jobs: ushering at a Cineplex and driving a cab. With both these jobs each night ended with wiping down seats and collecting lost property.
The trunk of the cab looked like it had been stocked by raccoons. Underwear, shoes, wallets, ID, false teeth, burner phones, cheap jewelry, medical results, toys, glasses, handbags, and a laptop. There were also two full suits, still in dry cleaner’s plastic.
The first one floated on him. The second one, while not perfect, was passable.
Two minutes later he’d changed out of his jeans and hoodie and was failing to complete a tie. Fuck it.
He did his hair in the rearview mirror, then rummaged in the driver’s side footwell. He found a red plastic traveler cup. In the glove compartment was a small bottle of bourbon and a discarded pack of cigarettes. Nick poured a couple of fingers into the cup, stuck an unlit smoke between his teeth, locked the cab, grabbed the coat from the roof of the cab, and got down to street level as quickly as he could.
People were still arriving and the crowd was still straining for a look. Guards by the rope were yessing and no-ing to randoms, making sure they had invites. Nick had to go through the main entrance. The guards on the western entrance weren’t distracted enough. He insinuated himself into the crowd, jacket off, cup in hand, keeping it steady as he could within the press of backs and shoulders.
His eyes were on the guards, looking for the one who was busiest. Heavyset dude, shades, and an ear mic, fending off a fifty-something blonde who felt she had a right to be in there.
“No invite, no entry.”
“What’s your name?”
“My security number is…”
A dance as old as time.
Nick used a few bodies to stay on the guard’s blind side, and then, as though this had only just occurred to him, asked, “Oh, hey buddy. Sorry to interrupt.” Nick held up the cup. “I’m on break. Is it cool if I take this outside?”
The guard held a hand up to the woman, silencing her for a second. To Nick: “Say what?”
Nick took the cigarette out of his mouth. “I said I’m on break. Ten minutes. Is it cool if I take this outside?”
“You drinkin’?”
“Steve said it was cool. We’ve been in there all day.”
“Get the f- ’scuse me, ma’am.” More civil. “Get back inside. And put your jacket back on.”
“But-”
“Before I report you.”
Nick sighed, saluted, and stepped over the rope.
Saturday, 8 October 2016. 8:53 P.M. Outside Monarch Tower.
It was about to get ugly for Davis and his partner when Gibson’s squad came out of the security door behind them. Donny shouldered Davis out of the way as Chronon-1 pulled up before the scarred, fucked-up wreck of their former senior operative.
“Boss?”
Gibson’s left eye was swollen and fused shut. Hair had been seared away in patches. He was missing a tooth. His skin and fatigues were black with impacted soot, ash, and blood, slashed along the arms and knees. Keeping the weight off his left leg gave him the posture of something that had crawled out of a crater.
“Hey, Donny. You want to get these nun fuckers away from me?”
“Sure, boss.”
Davis and his partner backed off, herded away by bloodless glances from Voss and Irene.
“Seen Beth Wilder around?”
“The washout? Her unit’s doing internal for sure. Why?”
“Get me inside.”
“Sure thing. Voss, scramble a medic.”
“Fuck that. Get me inside. Davis, you say nothing. Donny: let’s go.”
Saturday, 8 October 2016. 9:00 P.M. Monarch Tower. Atrium.
The two-story videoboard faded out from images of foreign lands, laboratories, workers, children, and innovations, cross-faded to the company logo, the word MONARCH fading in peacefully atop it.
Martin Hatch took the stage. The crowd applauded.
“Invited guests, thank you for being with us here this evening. You all know me. I’m Martin Hatch, CEO of Monarch Solutions. I know a few of you have noticed the four strange-looking objects arrayed about us.”
Hatch pointed to the four stutter-field pylons delineating the western third of the atrium, bracketing the audience. Chrome and hazard-striped, each had a small chronon battery affixed to its base. Each one was manned by a chronon technician.
“I overheard my good friend Harold Ashworth, CEO of Exxa, wonder to his lovely wife if perhaps Monarch’s big announcement would be that we are branching out into the production of avant-garde furniture.”
The crowd laughed.
“No, Howard, we are not.”
A few chuckles.
“For tonight’s demonstration to truly impress I request that you all ensure you are within the yellow border marked out on the floor for you.”