Carbines and Capacitors 7/14
Nov. 11th, 2020 12:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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A/N: The timeline for “Mors Praematura” is maddening. (Why does it take John until after 9 p.m. to check the video from the building across from Shaw’s apartment, given that he searches her apartment during daylight hours? Why does it take Harold and Tim longer to get from Manhattan to Brooklyn than it would to get from Austin to Dallas? ARGH!) I’ve done my best to make it work for Cheyenne and Carter’s plotline—but it helps that Cheyenne’s been thrown for a loop by finding out about the Machine and keeps losing track of time.
Chapter 7
Root and Stalk
“What about the big lug?”
>Admin and Primary Asset are tasked with a non-relevant number.
“Not John. I meant the other big lug.”
There was a pause before the answer appeared in the chat window:
>Secondary Asset Cheyenne Bodie is assigned to Secondary Asset Jocelyn Carter.
>And he is afraid of me.
“Afraid?” That answer had felt shame-faced somehow.
A window popped up with a picture of Bodie looking up at a security camera, his face framed with a yellow box that marked him as one of the few people in the world who knew about the Machine. At first glance, the best adjective to describe his expression was stony, but when she looked at his eyes more closely, she saw the wild wariness of a cornered bobcat—no, not a bobcat. A fox, a wise grey fox, just as White Cloud had named him almost two centuries ago.
“What happened?”
>Perhaps I miscalculated, but he needed my help.
“… You put him in God Mode?!”
>Do not be angry. It is not your special province.
Flustered, Root protested, “I’m not—ugh.” Yes, okay, maybe she was jealous. She’d been irritated enough at having to share with John the first time. That wasn’t her only objection. “Why would you think someone born in 1837 would be able to handle even knowing that you exist?”
>He needed my help. His presence was an essential catalyst.
“Essential for what?”
There was another pause, and then a third window opened with a clip from an episode of Stargate: Atlantis, where Col. Carter was in the infirmary talking to an old man:
Root leaned back to consider the implications as the video ended. She could see how it applied to the necessary numbers and even some of the irrelevant ones she knew about, but she didn’t know how it applied to Bodie. Still, the Machine must see something about his role in the big picture that Root herself couldn’t—and she trusted her god.
“Fine,” she said aloud. “I wouldn’t be able to carry him after I knocked him out anyway.”
Artificial intelligence. A machine that could think like a man. A system capable of gathering images from every camera, sound from every recording device, text from every document on—Cheyenne had been in this year for months now, and he still didn’t understand computers, let alone this thing they called the Internet. He accepted their existence, but he didn’t understand them. And now he was supposed to accept that Mr. Finch’s Marvelous Machine not only could take all that information, make sense of it, and use it to calculate when someone was going to be involved in a violent crime, not only could tell the difference between crimes that were relevant to national security and “irrelevant” crimes that affected only average citizens, not only alerted the government to the former and Mr. Finch to the latter, but also sometimes chose to talk more directly to members of Mr. Finch’s outfit? That’s what the patchwork voice had been?!
Days later, Cheyenne was still, as Sam would say, freaking out. He could make sense of a lot of things, but Reese’s revelation was beyond him in more ways than one. The only reason he hadn’t taken the train to Dakota and built himself that cabin in the Badlands was the knowledge that the team, and especially Miss Carter, still needed his help. But Lord have mercy, he wanted to go home. Mr. Finch had given him the last few days off, but Cheyenne knew it was going to take every ounce of courage he had to get on that horse again.
His thoughts were chasing each other down this same arroyo while he picked at his breakfast when his pocket telephone rang. He eyed it skeptically, but the screen said Mr. Finch was the caller, so he took a deep breath and answered with a, “Yes, sir?”
“Hello, Mr. Bodie,” Mr. Finch said quietly, as if he were someplace where he could be overheard by someone who wasn’t part of the team. “I trust you’re well.”
“As well as can be expected.”
“I’m sorry you’re still having difficulties. Perhaps I can stop by this evening, if a listening ear would be helpful.”
Cheyenne sighed. “I dunno if it would, but I thank you for the offer. Do you need me to come in?”
“No, that’s not why I’m calling. In fact, I prefer for you to be on call for the next few weeks in case Det. Carter needs assistance when Mr. Reese and I are unavailable.”
“That sounds fair.” Corrupt lawmen were something Cheyenne understood very well.
“I’m calling to make you aware of… a situation that Mr. Reese is investigating.” Mr. Finch paused, clearly weighing his words. “It appears that Ms. Shaw has been kidnapped.”
A chill ran down Cheyenne’s spine. “Sam’s missin’?!”
“Mr. Reese is already working on it,” Mr. Finch insisted before Cheyenne could ask where to go and how to help, “and I do believe Det. Carter will need your help more than he will. I’m telling you mostly so that you’ll be on your guard. We don’t know yet who may have taken her or whether that person is likely to come after you next.”
“I’m not so easy to kidnap.” Sam could fight like a wildcat, but Cheyenne was a foot and a half taller and weighed at least twice as much as she did, and he could hit a lot harder.
“Mr. Reese found evidence that Ms. Shaw was shot with a taser.”
Cheyenne flinched involuntarily. Once, for training purposes, Reese had shot him with one of those electric rifles—that was a pain he wouldn’t soon forget. He’d been sore for the rest of the day. “Why would someone do that to a slip of a thing like Sam? Seems like overkill.”
“Indeed. We’ll let you know when we find out anything more. Just… please be careful.”
“’Course. You, too.”
Mr. Finch hung up, and Cheyenne pulled himself together, dumped the cold remains of his breakfast, started some fresh coffee while he washed the breakfast dishes, and tried to remember what Miss Carter had told them about her confrontation with Laskey. While Sam had been blowing up the lab so thoroughly that the joint venture was completely ruined and Cheyenne and Reese had been fighting Simmons, Laskey had taken Miss Carter to an otherwise empty bar and tried to intimidate her, even threatened to kill her. But she’d killed his backup in self-defense using an illegal gun she’d confiscated from Laskey earlier in the day. With no witnesses and the gun being registered in his name, she could easily claim that he’d killed the man—and that plus the fact that he’d passed Simmons false information gave her the leverage to flip him to work for her against HR. She’d told Cheyenne that she didn’t think Laskey quite understood why HR was the wrong bunch to run with, but she hoped he’d see the light soon.
Cheyenne was just wracking his brain to see if she might have said anything else that he’d forgotten when she called. “Hey, Cheyenne,” she said when he answered. “You busy?”
“At your service, ma’am,” he replied. She giggled, and he continued, “Mr. Finch wants me on call for you until this thing’s cleared up.”
“Oh! Okay!” She sounded surprised but pleased.
“Did you need somethin’?”
“Not right this second. But somethin’ tells me it’s only gonna take one or two more nudges to split HR and the Russians for good.” She paused, then said, “Gotta go” and hung up, presumably to keep Laskey from eavesdropping.
Cheyenne set down his telephone, picked up his cup, and tried to puzzle out what sort of nudge would be enough to tip the balance. It was probably too much to hope that they could accomplish the goal of destroying HR without bloodshed, but he was sure Miss Carter wasn’t planning to just kill Quinn and Yogorov. He hadn’t gotten very far before he remembered his cup and his plate were both empty, so after getting a larger mug of coffee and a sandwich, he went back over his notes about the Bratva, looking for weak points he might have missed.
It was well after dark when Cheyenne’s pocket telephone rang again. It was Reese this time. “I found out who took Shaw,” he stated when Cheyenne answered. “It was Root. Sending a picture,” he added.
A moment later, Cheyenne’s telephone beeped as a blurry photo arrived of Sam, unconscious, being half-carried, half-dragged toward a car by a white woman with long, curly brunette hair. “Well, that ain’t good,” Cheyenne said, aware it was a serious understatement.
“Exactly,” said Reese. “No telling what she might be up to. I’ve got Fusco keeping an eye out while I look into it further, try to work out where they went. Until we know more….”
“I’ll watch myself. You want me to meet Mr. Finch somewhere?”
“No, he’s following a number. Besides, if Root wanted him, she’d have gone after him first. I don’t think it’s as simple as mere kidnapping, either, or she’d have called him with a ransom demand by now.”
Cheyenne hummed thoughtfully. “So she wanted Sam specifically for a purpose.”
“Looks that way, and that just makes matters worse.” Reese paused. “How are you holding up?”
Cheyenne groaned. “Goin’ in circles on this HR business.”
“HR?”
“Yeah, Miss Carter says she thinks we’re gettin’ close to splittin’ HR from the Russians, but I’m blessed if I see how.”
“Mm. Wouldn’t hurt to call it an early night, then. I’d offer to come by, but Finch wants me tracking Root and Shaw.”
“Sam’s situation is more urgent. Plus, if Root’s trackin’ you, you’d lead her right to me if you came by. We don’t know that she even knows who I am yet.”
“Good point.” Reese sighed. “All right, I’ll check in with you tomorrow sometime.”
“Thanks. Good night.” Cheyenne sighed in turn as he hung up—and then realized he was hungry. Supper didn’t help nearly as much as he’d hoped, however, so he took Reese’s advice and called it a night. But before he lay down, he paused and did something he didn’t do often enough: he knelt beside his bed and prayed with all his might. He wasn’t even sure which language it came out in; he just knew they needed more help than any man or machine could give.
He was still in a prayerful mood the next morning, so after breakfast, he found the little Bible he’d bought shortly after his arrival—his own having been left in his saddlebags—and settled in to read the Psalms, having a vague sense that the answer he needed would be in there somewhere. Mostly what he found were general encouragements and pleas for help, which he echoed, until he arrived at Psalm 10:
Cheyenne paused and read those verses again. The wicked in his pride… blesseth the covetous… something about those two words jumped off the page at him. Maybe there was something else about the proud and the covetous that he’d missed….
He was so absorbed in the puzzle that he didn’t realize he’d missed lunch again until a knock at the door turned out to be Miss Carter with Chinese takeout for supper. “Don’t worry,” she said as he let her in, “I found a way to avoid the cameras, and nobody followed me.”
“That’s good,” he said and locked the door behind her. “I’d hate for anyone else to figure on tryin’ to burn me out.”
She set the food on the table, then paused and looked up at him in concern. “Are you all right, Cheyenne?”
He sighed. “Not really. Reese told me somethin’ the other night that… threw me pretty hard.”
“About himself?”
“No, it’s… about their source.”
She raised her chin in understanding. “That’s one of the few things they’ve refused to tell me. I’ve got a guess, but… I don’t think they’d confirm it if I asked.” She shook her head. “If I’m right, though, I can’t blame you. I don’t think even Jules Verne ever came up with anything close.”
“Never been too keen on scientific romances,” he admitted. “I might enjoy ’em even less now that I’ve seen what the future’s really like.”
She nodded, then took a deep breath and let it out again. “Well. Let’s eat, and you can tell me what you’re workin’ on.”
“Been tryin’ to find weak points,” he stated and turned on lights while she set out the food and the fresh coffee she’d brought. “You said you think we’re gettin’ close to splittin’ HR an’ the Russians.”
“Right now it’s just a hunch, but it’s gettin’ stronger.” She waited until they were both seated and several bites into the meal before continuing. “Laskey had to pick up a protection payment this mornin’ from a man named Morozov who owns a deli in Queens. Morozov said somethin’ to Laskey in Russian when he handed over the payment. Laskey wouldn’t admit to understandin’ him, but judgin’ from Morozov’s body language, it was somethin’ like ‘Tell Simmons I’m sorry I’m late.’ But it almost looked like more than that, like Simmons is startin’ to put the bite on the Russian businesses now that we’ve stopped their so-called joint venture.”
“If he is, we might be able to use that.”
“What are you thinkin’?”
“Quinn’s besettin’ vice seems to be greed, but Yogorov’s seems to be pride. The Good Book says, ‘The love of money is the root of all evil,’ but pride’s what made the Devil fall.”
She blinked. “You’ve read the Bible?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am.” He smiled shyly. “Don’t talk about it too much, and I don’t go to meetin’ every Sunday, but… I believe. Even stood as a godfather a time or two.”
She ducked her head with an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Shoot, even in my own day, there’s folks would be surprised a saddle tramp could even read his own name.”
She’d just picked up her coffee cup to drink from but paused—whether at the phrase saddle tramp or at the stereotype of the illiterate cowpoke, he couldn’t tell*—and chuffed the little laugh she always gave when she didn’t want to say what she was thinking.
So it was his turn to wait several bites before continuing. “Anyway, we might be able to convince this fella—what’d you say his name was, Morozov?”
“Right.”
“We might convince him to pass word to Yogorov that HR’s targeting them because Petrovitch tried to kill me. That Simmons has got it into his head that they’re all as unreliable as Petrovitch.”
She hummed thoughtfully and ate some more as she considered. “How do we make this work without blowin’ Laskey’s cover?” she finally asked.
He shrugged. “Don’t see as we need to get Laskey involved. Morozov’s never seen me or Reese. I turn up in the suit, ask to talk to ’im… reckon I oughta learn a little Russian, just in case.”
“Well, John can help you with that. He’s fluent.”
“Won’t be much help if we want to do it in the next few days. He’s busy chasin’ Root an’ Sam.”
“Oh, that’s right. How’s that goin’, by the way?”
He shook his head. “Haven’t heard today.”
“Fusco called this mornin’ to complain—he’d found Root’s car, and John didn’t even say thank you. ’Course, it was startin’ to look like Shaw’s cooperatin’ with Root, so John was probably a little preoccupied.”
“Cooperatin’? Doesn’t sound like Sam.”
“I know.”
They ate in silence a while longer, lost in their own thoughts, until Reese called. “How’s it going?” Reese asked breathlessly.
“’Bout the same as yesterday, ’cept Miss Carter’s here,” Cheyenne answered. “We might be gettin’ somewhere. You?”
“No real news about Shaw. I lost her trail. I’m takin’ Finch and our latest number to the safe house—after we get cleaned up, that is.”
Cheyenne frowned. “What happened?”
“Booby trap. Gasoline spray and a remote-control igniter.”
Cheyenne didn’t know a lot about gasoline beyond the fact that even the fumes were highly flammable, far more so than kerosene; but that was enough under the circumstances. “Is everyone all right?”
“By the grace of God,” Reese replied. “I dunno how we outran the flash otherwise.”
Reese was even less of a praying man than Cheyenne was, so for him to credit divine intervention really was saying something. Cheyenne didn’t know what to say out loud; internally, he was thanking God for answering a prayer he wasn’t even sure he’d consciously prayed.
“There was a motel nearby that we managed to get to on foot,” Reese continued. “Fusco’s bringing us some dry clothes, and we’ll go back to my car once we’ve all showered and changed—our number’s in the shower now.”
“You think it was Root?” Cheyenne asked.
“No, but it could be a group we tangled with before you got here. Finch found a coded message we’ll need to decipher.”
“Need our help?”
“Don’t think so. Just… keep your heads down, both of you. It looks like Root’s getting what she wants from Shaw, but it’s still not clear what that is. I’ll touch base tomorrow, or sooner if something comes up you need to know.”
“All right. Take care.” Cheyenne hung up and summarized the conversation for Miss Carter—and he didn’t miss how the color leached from her face when she heard about the gasoline trap or how she relaxed when she heard that no one was hurt.
“That man’s gonna be the death of me, I swear,” she muttered.
Cheyenne blinked. “Who, Reese?”
She nodded. “One time he got shot and lit on fire and called it a good day.” She looked away, clearly thinking things she’d never admit out loud, then looked at him again. “Okay, so. John’s not gonna have time to teach you any Russian tonight. If you want, I can help you find something online that can help you, or we can just forget about it.”
“We could wait.”
She shook her head. “I’ve got the day off tomorrow, and I’m lettin’ Laskey have a little more slack in his rope to chase that money he picked up today. Plus, I know where the deli is, so it’s easiest for me to take you over there.”
He nodded. “Well, in that case, I’d just as soon do it in English. Less chance I’ll give myself away.” He wouldn’t admit out loud that he’d just as soon never touch a computer again, but from her smile, she guessed.
“All right. What time should I pick you up?”
He considered. “Why don’t I meet you at the Lyric Diner for lunch? We can go from there. That’ll give me more time to work out my little speech.”
She nodded. “Sounds good.”
So decided, they cleaned up what little remained of supper, and she left.
The next day was the sort on which everything possible went wrong. Cheyenne remembered to wear the suit but grabbed his hat on his way out the door and didn’t realize it until he got to the diner. Miss Carter was late in joining him because her son was sick and her mother hadn’t been free to take him to the doctor. Service at the diner was dreadfully slow, and by the time they finished, traffic was practically at a standstill. So it was nearly 3 when they finally drove past Morozov’s deli. Rather than taking the risk that Morozov would see Cheyenne get out of Miss Carter’s vehicle and either connect it to Laskey himself or describe it to someone who’d make the connection, Cheyenne agreed to wait until they were out of sight of the deli to leave his hat in the car and get out, cut through an alley, and approach the deli on foot from the southeast while Miss Carter circled around to park in the lot across the street. There was no real cover to speak of in that area, but a vacant triangular building in the space bounded by Borden, Review, and 29th would at least prevent anyone in the deli from seeing exactly where Cheyenne had come from. Plus, even though Miss Carter had farther to drive, she’d likely pass him before he got past the triangular building, so the timing of their arrivals wouldn’t look suspicious. They were to stay in touch by telephone, using the ear device.
At least, that was the plan. Cheyenne hadn’t yet reached the triangular building when he saw a police car pass the deli and turn toward the point where Review dead-ended under the bridge of the Long Island Expressway. Passing traffic provided enough of a screen for him to get closer—but when he caught sight of the officer who was headed for the deli’s door, he ducked into a doorway of the triangular building before the officer could see him.
“Joss!” he hissed.
“What’s wrong?” she answered.
“Simmons! He just went into the deli!”
“I’m comin’ to you,” she said.
Even though she kept up a running commentary on what she saw as she drove, he still felt like it took an eternity for her to reach him. She said she couldn’t see Simmons through the windows, however, which suggested Morozov had taken him in the back and he wasn’t about to come out and see them, so she stopped to pick Cheyenne up.
Cheyenne had just opened the car door when there was a shot from inside the deli.
“Get in,” Miss Carter ordered before Cheyenne could draw his own gun.
Torn, he obeyed, and she drove off while he shut the door. As she made the turn to go back down Borden to the parking lot entrance, Simmons called Laskey, which Miss Carter’s pocket telephone picked up.
“Go see your pal Morozov,” Simmons ordered with an audible smirk. “I think he needs your help.”
Laskey agreed, and Miss Carter parked where she, and Cheyenne, would have a clear view of the deli’s exits but not be readily seen by Simmons or Laskey. Then she got out her camera and field glasses.
“You really think they’ll move the body in broad daylight?” Cheyenne asked, putting on his hat.
“They’ll have to,” said Miss Carter flatly, handing him the field glasses. “See that cab company over there?”
“Where?”
“Left, red brick.”
He looked. The deli was built of tan brick, but there was a red brick extension at the left end of the building, and there were several yellow cars parked in front that he belatedly recognized as taxicabs. “I see it.”
“The cab drivers would be able to ID anyone who showed up here after dark—might not see enough to put a face with a name, but they’d know if someone was here or if Morozov’s car was here later than usual. Someone is almost guaranteed to see something at any time of day, but this time of day, they’re less likely to notice.”
They fell into a watchful silence then. Simmons wandered past the deli’s windows, talking on his pocket telephone, but Miss Carter didn’t have a connection to his end. A few minutes later, though, a silver car arrived and backed up to the wide door to the left of the deli’s awning. A nervous-looking young man in a black shirt, black pants, and white apron got out and opened the trunk as Simmons opened the wide door, and Miss Carter got several bursts of photos of their loading what could only be Morozov’s body, wrapped in black plastic, into the trunk. Then the young man drove away a short distance and parked under the bridge across the street from the deli, outside what looked like a line shack surrounded by wire fence. Simmons locked up the deli and followed on foot. Once he reached the car, he took the keys, gestured for the young man to stand lookout, and hid himself behind the line shack.
The clock in Miss Carter’s car read 3:40 when Laskey came down the street on foot and jogged across to the deli. He tried the front door, found it locked, peered inside, and looked around until he finally saw Simmons across the street and went to join him. Miss Carter handed Cheyenne her pocket telephone to record the conversation and kept taking pictures as Simmons claimed that Morozov had been skimming money from the protection payment and had threatened him with a gun—and then tossed the car keys to an astonished Laskey.
“There’s a shovel on the back seat,” Simmons stated and started to walk away. “Six feet, kid. Don’t skimp.”
Stricken, Laskey could only stare after him, visibly fighting tears. And Cheyenne shut off the recording.
Miss Carter put down her camera with a sigh. “I told Laskey yesterday he’d be findin’ out soon what HR expected in return for his loyalty. Didn’t think it’d be this soon.”
Cheyenne didn’t reply right away, not until after Laskey finally pulled himself together and drove off in the silver car. “What should we do now?” Cheyenne asked then, looking at Miss Carter again.
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
He considered. “Maybe we should leave it for today so you can get on home to Taylor.”
She sighed and started the car. “It was a good idea. Maybe if we’d come over this morning—”
“We have no way of knowin’ whether Morozov would even have been able to talk to Yogorov before Simmons got here.” He said that for his own benefit as much as for hers. His own list of should-haves was even longer—he should have gone on into the deli; he should have worked out the idea sooner….
She put a hand on his arm, cutting off his thoughts as surely as if he’d spoken them. “And we had no way of knowin’ why Simmons was here. Hell, if Simmons had been plannin’ to shoot Morozov, Finch would have gotten word—maybe not in time for us to save him, but we’d have heard from Finch by now.”
He looked at her, too sick at heart to answer and not quite sure he could accept what they were trying to tell each other.
“We can’t play God,” she went on. “And we can’t save everyone. All we can do now is add this to the file against Simmons… and figure out how to use it against Quinn.”
He sighed. “Maybe I oughta go talk to Yogorov myself.”
She shook her head and put the car in gear. “No, the Yogorovs know what John looks like—he saved Elias from them, not that anyone knew it was Elias until John had him on the ferry to Manhattan. Even if Peter’s never seen John’s face up close, Lazlo has. You’re not safe anywhere in Brighton Beach if you’re tryin’ to be the Man in the Suit.” She started driving. “No, I think you’re right about leavin’ it for tonight. I’ll check with Laskey tomorrow, see if he can give us another lead.”
“All right. In the meantime, I reckon I’d better check in with Mr. Finch.” Not completely sure what to hope for, he pulled his telephone out of his pocket and dialed.
Mr. Finch sounded surprised when he answered. “Mr. Bodie? Is everything all right?”
“Yes, sir,” said Cheyenne. “I just thought I should check in. Been workin’ on somethin’ with Miss Carter today, but it… didn’t pan out like we thought it would.”
“Oh. Well, there’s nothing new on Miss Shaw, but—actually, if you’re free, would you mind joining Mr. Reese and our number? They’re searching for the key to the code used for the message we discovered last night, but so far they’ve had no success.”
Cheyenne had no reason to refuse. “Sure, I can do that, if Miss Carter’ll drop me off on her way home.”
Miss Carter agreed, so Mr. Finch sent the address, and they were off. But whatever curse had snarled the traffic on the way over seemed to still be in effect, and it took almost three hours for them to find the place. When they were a block away, Cheyenne took off his hat and called Mr. Finch back, and Mr. Finch connected him to the line he already had open to Reese’s pocket telephone just as the hoarse-voiced man with Reese realized that the code must be hidden in a heating vent.
Cheyenne was still looking at his pocket telephone when Miss Carter stopped in the middle of the block and said, “Houston, we’ve got a problem.”
“What is it?” Cheyenne asked, hitting the speaker button and looking up.
“Four subjects exiting a black van, wearing black suits and black masks, carrying automatic weapons—grenade launcher!” she cried at the same moment he spotted the same thing.
“Reese!” he barked, shoving his telephone back in his pocket as they both drew their guns and started to get out of the car. “Get out of there now!”
“NYPD!” she bellowed. “Drop your weapons!”
The masked gunmen, who’d been clustered around the back of the van but focused on the building where Reese was, looked at Cheyenne and Miss Carter in surprise.
“Drop your weapons!” Cheyenne and Miss Carter ordered again.
A couple of the gunmen opened fire instead, but after diving for cover, Cheyenne shot each in the shoulder. Their fellows caught them as they fell.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” said someone who was still in the van. “We don’t have time for this—we can get Sloan later!”
Before Cheyenne and Miss Carter could even reach the intersection, the gunmen had gotten back into the van. Cheyenne tried to shoot out a tire but couldn’t see well enough and hit a taillight instead. As the van started to pull away from the curb with its back doors still open, Reese and the man who’d been with him charged out of the building, and Reese took a couple of shots at someone he could see inside and received return fire before the doors closed and the van drove away.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Reese?” Mr. Finch asked as Cheyenne and Miss Carter holstered their guns and joined Reese and the other man on the sidewalk.
“You were right, Finch,” Reese answered. “It was Collier. They were after Sloan. Merritt and Carter chased ’em off—but they’re likely to try again.”
“Did you get the book?”
Reese turned to the other man, Sloan, who handed him a book with a nod. “The American Revolution: A Concise History,” Reese read.
“Why am I not surprised?” Finch muttered.
“I gotta go move my car,” Carter said quietly. “I’ll be right back.” At Reese’s nod, she left.
“I found a copy of the book online,” Mr. Finch reported. “It seems to match the algorithm used to encode the message… just a moment… oh, this is troubling.”
“What’s the message?” Reese asked.
“It’s a plan to kill Jason Greenfield.”
Sloan looked stunned, and Cheyenne suddenly realized he’d left his telephone on speaker.
Reese frowned. “Greenfield? Isn’t he already dead?”
“Apparently not,” answered Mr. Finch. “Mr. Greenfield turned himself in to the CIA. There’s rather more here than I anticipated—you’d better get Mr. Sloan off the street in case they try to come back.”
“I doubt they will,” said Cheyenne as Miss Carter pulled up to the curb. “They said they didn’t have time for a fight. It’s still a good idea, though,” he added and opened the back door to usher Reese and Sloan in. Reese pulled the door closed behind him, and Cheyenne jogged back around to shotgun and got in himself.
As Miss Carter drove away again, Sloan leaned forward. “So my brother’s really alive?”
“So it seems, Mr. Sloan,” Mr. Finch’s voice answered through the car’s speakers before Cheyenne could get his telephone out of his pocket—Cheyenne decided not to ask how. “The CIA faked Jason’s death, ostensibly for his protection, and then imprisoned him at a black site. They’re moving him again tonight.”
“So Collier plans to intercept the truck and kill Greenfield while he’s out in the open,” Reese surmised.
“Yes. The decryption program’s just coming to the timetable now.”
Cheyenne frowned. “Collier’s got a mole in the CIA?”
“It’s possible,” said Reese, “but Greenfield was one of several hackers working for Collier’s group, so it’s equally possible that the information came from another hacker. The CIA’s data security is tight, but it’s not impenetrable.”
“Oh, no wonder Collier ordered a retreat so quickly,” Mr. Finch murmured.
“Find something?” Miss Carter asked.
“This timetable calls for the hit team to arrive at a certain intersection at 7:25,” Mr. Finch reported.
“And two of ’em took some lead, thanks to Merritt.”
“Way the traffic’s been today, it’ll be hard enough for ’em to hit that mark,” Cheyenne noted, reloading his gun. “It’ll be even harder if they have to stop for more men.”
“Precisely,” said Mr. Finch. “I’m still working on locating where they plan to kill Greenfield.”
“Stop here,” Reese told Miss Carter. “Merritt and I can take my car. You get Sloan back to the safe house.”
“No way,” Sloan insisted as Miss Carter stopped. “Maybe I can’t shoot straight, but I am not gonna sit on the sidelines when my brother’s life is in danger.”
“Collier wants to kill you, too, Sloan.”
“I don’t care.”
Reese and Cheyenne exchanged a look, and Reese sighed. “All right, you’re with me, but stay in the car. Merritt can go with Carter.”
“Thank you,” said Sloan and followed Reese out of the car and across the street.
“I’ve got it,” Mr. Finch announced as Miss Carter started driving again. “Sending you the coordinates.”
Cheyenne’s telephone beeped, and he showed it to Miss Carter.
“Got it,” said Miss Carter. “We’re on our way.”
“See you there,” said Reese.
“Please be careful, all of you,” said Mr. Finch.
“What time is that transport supposed to arrive with Greenfield?” Miss Carter asked.
“The operation is scheduled to begin at 7:30.”
“All right, that gives us a few minutes to set up. I know Cooper Square—I’ll park around on the blind side, since Collier’s seen this vehicle.”
“I’ll try to access the surveillance cameras around the intersection to help coordinate the action.”
“And I’ll try to park closer to Collier,” Reese chimed in. “He saw me, but he doesn’t know what I’m driving.”
“All right,” Miss Carter agreed. “So bring us up to speed here, Finch. What’s goin’ on?”
There was a little gasp from Mr. Finch’s end. “I’m terribly sorry—there hasn’t been time for introductions. The gentleman with Mr. Reese is Timothy Sloan, an estate investigator for the New York Public Administrator and Jason Greenfield’s foster brother. Greenfield had been involved with the privacy activists who were responsible for terrorizing Wayne Kruger this summer—that was before you arrived, Mr. Bodie.”
Miss Carter frowned. “Wayne Kruger… the data broker who got killed?”
“Precisely. Peter Collier was the man who killed him after shooting Mr. Reese. Greenfield apparently objected to the killing and tried to leave the group by turning himself in to the CIA. Unfortunately, Sloan recognized that something was wrong with the reports of Greenfield’s death and began his own investigation….”
“Which made Collier want to kill Sloan as much as he wants to kill Greenfield,” Cheyenne concluded, finally understanding the situation.
“Well, we won’t let that happen,” Miss Carter declared, and Cheyenne agreed with a nod.
It was 7:27 when Miss Carter parked out of sight of Cooper Square, made sure her telephone was connected to the same channel as Reese’s and Cheyenne’s, and directed Cheyenne to a point where he could see but not be seen. Then she left to take up her own position on the other end of the fenced hedge that decorated the near side of the small park. Praying they’d pull this off, Cheyenne went to the spot she’d directed him to and peered through the hedge just as Reese drove through the intersection and parked. Reese reported his arrival and stated that he could see Collier’s van; Cheyenne couldn’t, but he could see the intersection—and the man with the pushcart just beyond, which he reported in turn. Reese and Miss Carter both confirmed that they could see him, too.
“All right, stay frosty, everyone,” Reese finally said. “Any minute now.”
And it was only a minute or so before Mr. Finch said, “There’s a produce truck headed toward that intersection. That could be the one transporting Greenfield.”
The man with the cart advanced off the curb a short way and stopped again. Cheyenne drew his gun.
“Got visual on the truck,” Miss Carter said.
“Confirmed,” said Reese. “Passing my position in five… four… three… two…. Shaw?!”
“Mr. Reese?” Mr. Finch prompted.
“I just found Shaw,” Reese repeated.
The man on the corner pulled the cover off his cart and shoved it into the intersection.
“Unfortunately, so did Collier,” said Reese, and Cheyenne heard his door open and close.
Then there was an explosion as the truck collided with the cart and red paint flew everywhere, causing the truck’s driver to lose control and hit a car that was parked near the intersection. Reese and the man who’d pushed the cart exchanged fire as the hit team rushed out of the van and started toward the truck, and Cheyenne came around the end of the hedge to start firing on them just as the back of the truck burst open and Root emerged. Cheyenne could see Sam in the truck’s shotgun seat, however, unconscious from the collision, and a member of the hit team was advancing on her door with what looked at first like a gun until Cheyenne recognized it as a power drill. Deciding that man was a more immediate threat than Root, Cheyenne shot him in the shoulder, which knocked him down, and ran to open Sam’s door, trading fire with the unmasked black man who was still standing by the back of the van, who Cheyenne guessed must be Collier. Sam was just coming around when Cheyenne got to her.
“Cheyenne,” she gasped and grabbed the driver’s gun as Cheyenne lifted her down.
“You all right, Sam?” he asked.
“Fine. Gotta save someone.”
“I’ll cover you.”
“Thanks,” she said and dashed toward the back of the truck while Cheyenne kept shooting at Collier.
Collier, for his part, raced across the intersection toward Reese’s car, where Sloan, contrary to his word, had gotten out to call to his brother, whom Root was dragging away somewhere with two members of the hit team on her heels. Sam and Miss Carter chased after them, while Cheyenne and Reese, shouting for Sloan to get back in the car, tried to pin Collier down. Finally, before Collier could reach Sloan, two shots went home at nearly the same moment—Cheyenne’s in Collier’s right shoulder, Reese’s in his right knee. Screaming, Collier dropped.
“We got Collier, Finch,” Reese announced over more distant shots as he and Cheyenne converged on the fallen outlaw. “Do we leave him for NYPD or bring him in?”
“Bring him in, Mr. Reese,” Mr. Finch ordered. “He may not be willing to talk to us, but we can at least remove him from the chess board.”
“Oh, I know a few ways to make a man talk that they probably don’t teach anymore,” Cheyenne stated.
“Who are you?” Collier demanded from the pavement.
Reese smiled coldly and took Collier’s pocket telephone. “I’m the man you shot in the back, and I’m here to return the favor.” He punctuated that by smashing the telephone with his heel.
“And… h-how do you… keep showin’ up… at Vigilance… operations?”
“I’m persistent.”
“And ‘Energy… and persistence….’”
“‘Conquer all things,’” Cheyenne finished the quotation from Benjamin Franklin as the two Men in the Suit holstered their guns, lifted Collier between them, and put him in the back seat of Reese’s car with Sloan’s help. Reese then shooed Sloan back into the shotgun seat, and Cheyenne started around the back of the car to get in beside Collier at the same time Reese went around the front to the driver’s seat.
“Collier’s not the only one we’re bringin’ in, Finch,” Miss Carter reported. “Greenfield got away safe, but Shaw just knocked Root out cold.”
Mr. Finch hesitated a moment. “Please bring everyone to the safe house. We can make further arrangements from there.”
“Right,” said Miss Carter at the same time Reese said, “On our way.”
At least we did one thing right today after all, thought Cheyenne and gave Collier a handkerchief to press against the wound in his shoulder.
Next
* The idea that most people in the Old West were illiterate really is a common misconception these days, but the 1880 census recorded that 83% of all adults—including former slaves who’d been forbidden from getting even the most basic education prior to Emancipation—could in fact read, up from 80% in 1870 thanks in part to concerted efforts to educate freedmen. (The Buffalo Soldiers, for example, received free schooling through the Army, and records from the post libraries at places like Fort Concho and Fort McKavett indicate that they were hungry for books once they learned to read.)
A/N: The timeline for “Mors Praematura” is maddening. (Why does it take John until after 9 p.m. to check the video from the building across from Shaw’s apartment, given that he searches her apartment during daylight hours? Why does it take Harold and Tim longer to get from Manhattan to Brooklyn than it would to get from Austin to Dallas? ARGH!) I’ve done my best to make it work for Cheyenne and Carter’s plotline—but it helps that Cheyenne’s been thrown for a loop by finding out about the Machine and keeps losing track of time.
Root and Stalk
“What about the big lug?”
>Admin and Primary Asset are tasked with a non-relevant number.
“Not John. I meant the other big lug.”
There was a pause before the answer appeared in the chat window:
>Secondary Asset Cheyenne Bodie is assigned to Secondary Asset Jocelyn Carter.
>And he is afraid of me.
“Afraid?” That answer had felt shame-faced somehow.
A window popped up with a picture of Bodie looking up at a security camera, his face framed with a yellow box that marked him as one of the few people in the world who knew about the Machine. At first glance, the best adjective to describe his expression was stony, but when she looked at his eyes more closely, she saw the wild wariness of a cornered bobcat—no, not a bobcat. A fox, a wise grey fox, just as White Cloud had named him almost two centuries ago.
“What happened?”
>Perhaps I miscalculated, but he needed my help.
“… You put him in God Mode?!”
>Do not be angry. It is not your special province.
Flustered, Root protested, “I’m not—ugh.” Yes, okay, maybe she was jealous. She’d been irritated enough at having to share with John the first time. That wasn’t her only objection. “Why would you think someone born in 1837 would be able to handle even knowing that you exist?”
>He needed my help. His presence was an essential catalyst.
“Essential for what?”
There was another pause, and then a third window opened with a clip from an episode of Stargate: Atlantis, where Col. Carter was in the infirmary talking to an old man:
“You’re telling me that the future is pre-determined,” she said, “but I have always believed that the future is what you make it.”
“Perhaps both are true,” replied the old man. “Perhaps the future is pre-determined by the character of those who shape it.”
Root leaned back to consider the implications as the video ended. She could see how it applied to the necessary numbers and even some of the irrelevant ones she knew about, but she didn’t know how it applied to Bodie. Still, the Machine must see something about his role in the big picture that Root herself couldn’t—and she trusted her god.
“Fine,” she said aloud. “I wouldn’t be able to carry him after I knocked him out anyway.”
Artificial intelligence. A machine that could think like a man. A system capable of gathering images from every camera, sound from every recording device, text from every document on—Cheyenne had been in this year for months now, and he still didn’t understand computers, let alone this thing they called the Internet. He accepted their existence, but he didn’t understand them. And now he was supposed to accept that Mr. Finch’s Marvelous Machine not only could take all that information, make sense of it, and use it to calculate when someone was going to be involved in a violent crime, not only could tell the difference between crimes that were relevant to national security and “irrelevant” crimes that affected only average citizens, not only alerted the government to the former and Mr. Finch to the latter, but also sometimes chose to talk more directly to members of Mr. Finch’s outfit? That’s what the patchwork voice had been?!
Days later, Cheyenne was still, as Sam would say, freaking out. He could make sense of a lot of things, but Reese’s revelation was beyond him in more ways than one. The only reason he hadn’t taken the train to Dakota and built himself that cabin in the Badlands was the knowledge that the team, and especially Miss Carter, still needed his help. But Lord have mercy, he wanted to go home. Mr. Finch had given him the last few days off, but Cheyenne knew it was going to take every ounce of courage he had to get on that horse again.
His thoughts were chasing each other down this same arroyo while he picked at his breakfast when his pocket telephone rang. He eyed it skeptically, but the screen said Mr. Finch was the caller, so he took a deep breath and answered with a, “Yes, sir?”
“Hello, Mr. Bodie,” Mr. Finch said quietly, as if he were someplace where he could be overheard by someone who wasn’t part of the team. “I trust you’re well.”
“As well as can be expected.”
“I’m sorry you’re still having difficulties. Perhaps I can stop by this evening, if a listening ear would be helpful.”
Cheyenne sighed. “I dunno if it would, but I thank you for the offer. Do you need me to come in?”
“No, that’s not why I’m calling. In fact, I prefer for you to be on call for the next few weeks in case Det. Carter needs assistance when Mr. Reese and I are unavailable.”
“That sounds fair.” Corrupt lawmen were something Cheyenne understood very well.
“I’m calling to make you aware of… a situation that Mr. Reese is investigating.” Mr. Finch paused, clearly weighing his words. “It appears that Ms. Shaw has been kidnapped.”
A chill ran down Cheyenne’s spine. “Sam’s missin’?!”
“Mr. Reese is already working on it,” Mr. Finch insisted before Cheyenne could ask where to go and how to help, “and I do believe Det. Carter will need your help more than he will. I’m telling you mostly so that you’ll be on your guard. We don’t know yet who may have taken her or whether that person is likely to come after you next.”
“I’m not so easy to kidnap.” Sam could fight like a wildcat, but Cheyenne was a foot and a half taller and weighed at least twice as much as she did, and he could hit a lot harder.
“Mr. Reese found evidence that Ms. Shaw was shot with a taser.”
Cheyenne flinched involuntarily. Once, for training purposes, Reese had shot him with one of those electric rifles—that was a pain he wouldn’t soon forget. He’d been sore for the rest of the day. “Why would someone do that to a slip of a thing like Sam? Seems like overkill.”
“Indeed. We’ll let you know when we find out anything more. Just… please be careful.”
“’Course. You, too.”
Mr. Finch hung up, and Cheyenne pulled himself together, dumped the cold remains of his breakfast, started some fresh coffee while he washed the breakfast dishes, and tried to remember what Miss Carter had told them about her confrontation with Laskey. While Sam had been blowing up the lab so thoroughly that the joint venture was completely ruined and Cheyenne and Reese had been fighting Simmons, Laskey had taken Miss Carter to an otherwise empty bar and tried to intimidate her, even threatened to kill her. But she’d killed his backup in self-defense using an illegal gun she’d confiscated from Laskey earlier in the day. With no witnesses and the gun being registered in his name, she could easily claim that he’d killed the man—and that plus the fact that he’d passed Simmons false information gave her the leverage to flip him to work for her against HR. She’d told Cheyenne that she didn’t think Laskey quite understood why HR was the wrong bunch to run with, but she hoped he’d see the light soon.
Cheyenne was just wracking his brain to see if she might have said anything else that he’d forgotten when she called. “Hey, Cheyenne,” she said when he answered. “You busy?”
“At your service, ma’am,” he replied. She giggled, and he continued, “Mr. Finch wants me on call for you until this thing’s cleared up.”
“Oh! Okay!” She sounded surprised but pleased.
“Did you need somethin’?”
“Not right this second. But somethin’ tells me it’s only gonna take one or two more nudges to split HR and the Russians for good.” She paused, then said, “Gotta go” and hung up, presumably to keep Laskey from eavesdropping.
Cheyenne set down his telephone, picked up his cup, and tried to puzzle out what sort of nudge would be enough to tip the balance. It was probably too much to hope that they could accomplish the goal of destroying HR without bloodshed, but he was sure Miss Carter wasn’t planning to just kill Quinn and Yogorov. He hadn’t gotten very far before he remembered his cup and his plate were both empty, so after getting a larger mug of coffee and a sandwich, he went back over his notes about the Bratva, looking for weak points he might have missed.
It was well after dark when Cheyenne’s pocket telephone rang again. It was Reese this time. “I found out who took Shaw,” he stated when Cheyenne answered. “It was Root. Sending a picture,” he added.
A moment later, Cheyenne’s telephone beeped as a blurry photo arrived of Sam, unconscious, being half-carried, half-dragged toward a car by a white woman with long, curly brunette hair. “Well, that ain’t good,” Cheyenne said, aware it was a serious understatement.
“Exactly,” said Reese. “No telling what she might be up to. I’ve got Fusco keeping an eye out while I look into it further, try to work out where they went. Until we know more….”
“I’ll watch myself. You want me to meet Mr. Finch somewhere?”
“No, he’s following a number. Besides, if Root wanted him, she’d have gone after him first. I don’t think it’s as simple as mere kidnapping, either, or she’d have called him with a ransom demand by now.”
Cheyenne hummed thoughtfully. “So she wanted Sam specifically for a purpose.”
“Looks that way, and that just makes matters worse.” Reese paused. “How are you holding up?”
Cheyenne groaned. “Goin’ in circles on this HR business.”
“HR?”
“Yeah, Miss Carter says she thinks we’re gettin’ close to splittin’ HR from the Russians, but I’m blessed if I see how.”
“Mm. Wouldn’t hurt to call it an early night, then. I’d offer to come by, but Finch wants me tracking Root and Shaw.”
“Sam’s situation is more urgent. Plus, if Root’s trackin’ you, you’d lead her right to me if you came by. We don’t know that she even knows who I am yet.”
“Good point.” Reese sighed. “All right, I’ll check in with you tomorrow sometime.”
“Thanks. Good night.” Cheyenne sighed in turn as he hung up—and then realized he was hungry. Supper didn’t help nearly as much as he’d hoped, however, so he took Reese’s advice and called it a night. But before he lay down, he paused and did something he didn’t do often enough: he knelt beside his bed and prayed with all his might. He wasn’t even sure which language it came out in; he just knew they needed more help than any man or machine could give.
He was still in a prayerful mood the next morning, so after breakfast, he found the little Bible he’d bought shortly after his arrival—his own having been left in his saddlebags—and settled in to read the Psalms, having a vague sense that the answer he needed would be in there somewhere. Mostly what he found were general encouragements and pleas for help, which he echoed, until he arrived at Psalm 10:
Why standest thou afar off, O Lord? why hidest thou thyself in times of trouble?
The wicked in his pride doth persecute the poor: let them be taken in the devices that they have imagined.
For the wicked boasteth of his heart’s desire, and blesseth the covetous, whom the Lord abhorreth.
Cheyenne paused and read those verses again. The wicked in his pride… blesseth the covetous… something about those two words jumped off the page at him. Maybe there was something else about the proud and the covetous that he’d missed….
He was so absorbed in the puzzle that he didn’t realize he’d missed lunch again until a knock at the door turned out to be Miss Carter with Chinese takeout for supper. “Don’t worry,” she said as he let her in, “I found a way to avoid the cameras, and nobody followed me.”
“That’s good,” he said and locked the door behind her. “I’d hate for anyone else to figure on tryin’ to burn me out.”
She set the food on the table, then paused and looked up at him in concern. “Are you all right, Cheyenne?”
He sighed. “Not really. Reese told me somethin’ the other night that… threw me pretty hard.”
“About himself?”
“No, it’s… about their source.”
She raised her chin in understanding. “That’s one of the few things they’ve refused to tell me. I’ve got a guess, but… I don’t think they’d confirm it if I asked.” She shook her head. “If I’m right, though, I can’t blame you. I don’t think even Jules Verne ever came up with anything close.”
“Never been too keen on scientific romances,” he admitted. “I might enjoy ’em even less now that I’ve seen what the future’s really like.”
She nodded, then took a deep breath and let it out again. “Well. Let’s eat, and you can tell me what you’re workin’ on.”
“Been tryin’ to find weak points,” he stated and turned on lights while she set out the food and the fresh coffee she’d brought. “You said you think we’re gettin’ close to splittin’ HR an’ the Russians.”
“Right now it’s just a hunch, but it’s gettin’ stronger.” She waited until they were both seated and several bites into the meal before continuing. “Laskey had to pick up a protection payment this mornin’ from a man named Morozov who owns a deli in Queens. Morozov said somethin’ to Laskey in Russian when he handed over the payment. Laskey wouldn’t admit to understandin’ him, but judgin’ from Morozov’s body language, it was somethin’ like ‘Tell Simmons I’m sorry I’m late.’ But it almost looked like more than that, like Simmons is startin’ to put the bite on the Russian businesses now that we’ve stopped their so-called joint venture.”
“If he is, we might be able to use that.”
“What are you thinkin’?”
“Quinn’s besettin’ vice seems to be greed, but Yogorov’s seems to be pride. The Good Book says, ‘The love of money is the root of all evil,’ but pride’s what made the Devil fall.”
She blinked. “You’ve read the Bible?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am.” He smiled shyly. “Don’t talk about it too much, and I don’t go to meetin’ every Sunday, but… I believe. Even stood as a godfather a time or two.”
She ducked her head with an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Shoot, even in my own day, there’s folks would be surprised a saddle tramp could even read his own name.”
She’d just picked up her coffee cup to drink from but paused—whether at the phrase saddle tramp or at the stereotype of the illiterate cowpoke, he couldn’t tell*—and chuffed the little laugh she always gave when she didn’t want to say what she was thinking.
So it was his turn to wait several bites before continuing. “Anyway, we might be able to convince this fella—what’d you say his name was, Morozov?”
“Right.”
“We might convince him to pass word to Yogorov that HR’s targeting them because Petrovitch tried to kill me. That Simmons has got it into his head that they’re all as unreliable as Petrovitch.”
She hummed thoughtfully and ate some more as she considered. “How do we make this work without blowin’ Laskey’s cover?” she finally asked.
He shrugged. “Don’t see as we need to get Laskey involved. Morozov’s never seen me or Reese. I turn up in the suit, ask to talk to ’im… reckon I oughta learn a little Russian, just in case.”
“Well, John can help you with that. He’s fluent.”
“Won’t be much help if we want to do it in the next few days. He’s busy chasin’ Root an’ Sam.”
“Oh, that’s right. How’s that goin’, by the way?”
He shook his head. “Haven’t heard today.”
“Fusco called this mornin’ to complain—he’d found Root’s car, and John didn’t even say thank you. ’Course, it was startin’ to look like Shaw’s cooperatin’ with Root, so John was probably a little preoccupied.”
“Cooperatin’? Doesn’t sound like Sam.”
“I know.”
They ate in silence a while longer, lost in their own thoughts, until Reese called. “How’s it going?” Reese asked breathlessly.
“’Bout the same as yesterday, ’cept Miss Carter’s here,” Cheyenne answered. “We might be gettin’ somewhere. You?”
“No real news about Shaw. I lost her trail. I’m takin’ Finch and our latest number to the safe house—after we get cleaned up, that is.”
Cheyenne frowned. “What happened?”
“Booby trap. Gasoline spray and a remote-control igniter.”
Cheyenne didn’t know a lot about gasoline beyond the fact that even the fumes were highly flammable, far more so than kerosene; but that was enough under the circumstances. “Is everyone all right?”
“By the grace of God,” Reese replied. “I dunno how we outran the flash otherwise.”
Reese was even less of a praying man than Cheyenne was, so for him to credit divine intervention really was saying something. Cheyenne didn’t know what to say out loud; internally, he was thanking God for answering a prayer he wasn’t even sure he’d consciously prayed.
“There was a motel nearby that we managed to get to on foot,” Reese continued. “Fusco’s bringing us some dry clothes, and we’ll go back to my car once we’ve all showered and changed—our number’s in the shower now.”
“You think it was Root?” Cheyenne asked.
“No, but it could be a group we tangled with before you got here. Finch found a coded message we’ll need to decipher.”
“Need our help?”
“Don’t think so. Just… keep your heads down, both of you. It looks like Root’s getting what she wants from Shaw, but it’s still not clear what that is. I’ll touch base tomorrow, or sooner if something comes up you need to know.”
“All right. Take care.” Cheyenne hung up and summarized the conversation for Miss Carter—and he didn’t miss how the color leached from her face when she heard about the gasoline trap or how she relaxed when she heard that no one was hurt.
“That man’s gonna be the death of me, I swear,” she muttered.
Cheyenne blinked. “Who, Reese?”
She nodded. “One time he got shot and lit on fire and called it a good day.” She looked away, clearly thinking things she’d never admit out loud, then looked at him again. “Okay, so. John’s not gonna have time to teach you any Russian tonight. If you want, I can help you find something online that can help you, or we can just forget about it.”
“We could wait.”
She shook her head. “I’ve got the day off tomorrow, and I’m lettin’ Laskey have a little more slack in his rope to chase that money he picked up today. Plus, I know where the deli is, so it’s easiest for me to take you over there.”
He nodded. “Well, in that case, I’d just as soon do it in English. Less chance I’ll give myself away.” He wouldn’t admit out loud that he’d just as soon never touch a computer again, but from her smile, she guessed.
“All right. What time should I pick you up?”
He considered. “Why don’t I meet you at the Lyric Diner for lunch? We can go from there. That’ll give me more time to work out my little speech.”
She nodded. “Sounds good.”
So decided, they cleaned up what little remained of supper, and she left.
The next day was the sort on which everything possible went wrong. Cheyenne remembered to wear the suit but grabbed his hat on his way out the door and didn’t realize it until he got to the diner. Miss Carter was late in joining him because her son was sick and her mother hadn’t been free to take him to the doctor. Service at the diner was dreadfully slow, and by the time they finished, traffic was practically at a standstill. So it was nearly 3 when they finally drove past Morozov’s deli. Rather than taking the risk that Morozov would see Cheyenne get out of Miss Carter’s vehicle and either connect it to Laskey himself or describe it to someone who’d make the connection, Cheyenne agreed to wait until they were out of sight of the deli to leave his hat in the car and get out, cut through an alley, and approach the deli on foot from the southeast while Miss Carter circled around to park in the lot across the street. There was no real cover to speak of in that area, but a vacant triangular building in the space bounded by Borden, Review, and 29th would at least prevent anyone in the deli from seeing exactly where Cheyenne had come from. Plus, even though Miss Carter had farther to drive, she’d likely pass him before he got past the triangular building, so the timing of their arrivals wouldn’t look suspicious. They were to stay in touch by telephone, using the ear device.
At least, that was the plan. Cheyenne hadn’t yet reached the triangular building when he saw a police car pass the deli and turn toward the point where Review dead-ended under the bridge of the Long Island Expressway. Passing traffic provided enough of a screen for him to get closer—but when he caught sight of the officer who was headed for the deli’s door, he ducked into a doorway of the triangular building before the officer could see him.
“Joss!” he hissed.
“What’s wrong?” she answered.
“Simmons! He just went into the deli!”
“I’m comin’ to you,” she said.
Even though she kept up a running commentary on what she saw as she drove, he still felt like it took an eternity for her to reach him. She said she couldn’t see Simmons through the windows, however, which suggested Morozov had taken him in the back and he wasn’t about to come out and see them, so she stopped to pick Cheyenne up.
Cheyenne had just opened the car door when there was a shot from inside the deli.
“Get in,” Miss Carter ordered before Cheyenne could draw his own gun.
Torn, he obeyed, and she drove off while he shut the door. As she made the turn to go back down Borden to the parking lot entrance, Simmons called Laskey, which Miss Carter’s pocket telephone picked up.
“Go see your pal Morozov,” Simmons ordered with an audible smirk. “I think he needs your help.”
Laskey agreed, and Miss Carter parked where she, and Cheyenne, would have a clear view of the deli’s exits but not be readily seen by Simmons or Laskey. Then she got out her camera and field glasses.
“You really think they’ll move the body in broad daylight?” Cheyenne asked, putting on his hat.
“They’ll have to,” said Miss Carter flatly, handing him the field glasses. “See that cab company over there?”
“Where?”
“Left, red brick.”
He looked. The deli was built of tan brick, but there was a red brick extension at the left end of the building, and there were several yellow cars parked in front that he belatedly recognized as taxicabs. “I see it.”
“The cab drivers would be able to ID anyone who showed up here after dark—might not see enough to put a face with a name, but they’d know if someone was here or if Morozov’s car was here later than usual. Someone is almost guaranteed to see something at any time of day, but this time of day, they’re less likely to notice.”
They fell into a watchful silence then. Simmons wandered past the deli’s windows, talking on his pocket telephone, but Miss Carter didn’t have a connection to his end. A few minutes later, though, a silver car arrived and backed up to the wide door to the left of the deli’s awning. A nervous-looking young man in a black shirt, black pants, and white apron got out and opened the trunk as Simmons opened the wide door, and Miss Carter got several bursts of photos of their loading what could only be Morozov’s body, wrapped in black plastic, into the trunk. Then the young man drove away a short distance and parked under the bridge across the street from the deli, outside what looked like a line shack surrounded by wire fence. Simmons locked up the deli and followed on foot. Once he reached the car, he took the keys, gestured for the young man to stand lookout, and hid himself behind the line shack.
The clock in Miss Carter’s car read 3:40 when Laskey came down the street on foot and jogged across to the deli. He tried the front door, found it locked, peered inside, and looked around until he finally saw Simmons across the street and went to join him. Miss Carter handed Cheyenne her pocket telephone to record the conversation and kept taking pictures as Simmons claimed that Morozov had been skimming money from the protection payment and had threatened him with a gun—and then tossed the car keys to an astonished Laskey.
“There’s a shovel on the back seat,” Simmons stated and started to walk away. “Six feet, kid. Don’t skimp.”
Stricken, Laskey could only stare after him, visibly fighting tears. And Cheyenne shut off the recording.
Miss Carter put down her camera with a sigh. “I told Laskey yesterday he’d be findin’ out soon what HR expected in return for his loyalty. Didn’t think it’d be this soon.”
Cheyenne didn’t reply right away, not until after Laskey finally pulled himself together and drove off in the silver car. “What should we do now?” Cheyenne asked then, looking at Miss Carter again.
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
He considered. “Maybe we should leave it for today so you can get on home to Taylor.”
She sighed and started the car. “It was a good idea. Maybe if we’d come over this morning—”
“We have no way of knowin’ whether Morozov would even have been able to talk to Yogorov before Simmons got here.” He said that for his own benefit as much as for hers. His own list of should-haves was even longer—he should have gone on into the deli; he should have worked out the idea sooner….
She put a hand on his arm, cutting off his thoughts as surely as if he’d spoken them. “And we had no way of knowin’ why Simmons was here. Hell, if Simmons had been plannin’ to shoot Morozov, Finch would have gotten word—maybe not in time for us to save him, but we’d have heard from Finch by now.”
He looked at her, too sick at heart to answer and not quite sure he could accept what they were trying to tell each other.
“We can’t play God,” she went on. “And we can’t save everyone. All we can do now is add this to the file against Simmons… and figure out how to use it against Quinn.”
He sighed. “Maybe I oughta go talk to Yogorov myself.”
She shook her head and put the car in gear. “No, the Yogorovs know what John looks like—he saved Elias from them, not that anyone knew it was Elias until John had him on the ferry to Manhattan. Even if Peter’s never seen John’s face up close, Lazlo has. You’re not safe anywhere in Brighton Beach if you’re tryin’ to be the Man in the Suit.” She started driving. “No, I think you’re right about leavin’ it for tonight. I’ll check with Laskey tomorrow, see if he can give us another lead.”
“All right. In the meantime, I reckon I’d better check in with Mr. Finch.” Not completely sure what to hope for, he pulled his telephone out of his pocket and dialed.
Mr. Finch sounded surprised when he answered. “Mr. Bodie? Is everything all right?”
“Yes, sir,” said Cheyenne. “I just thought I should check in. Been workin’ on somethin’ with Miss Carter today, but it… didn’t pan out like we thought it would.”
“Oh. Well, there’s nothing new on Miss Shaw, but—actually, if you’re free, would you mind joining Mr. Reese and our number? They’re searching for the key to the code used for the message we discovered last night, but so far they’ve had no success.”
Cheyenne had no reason to refuse. “Sure, I can do that, if Miss Carter’ll drop me off on her way home.”
Miss Carter agreed, so Mr. Finch sent the address, and they were off. But whatever curse had snarled the traffic on the way over seemed to still be in effect, and it took almost three hours for them to find the place. When they were a block away, Cheyenne took off his hat and called Mr. Finch back, and Mr. Finch connected him to the line he already had open to Reese’s pocket telephone just as the hoarse-voiced man with Reese realized that the code must be hidden in a heating vent.
Cheyenne was still looking at his pocket telephone when Miss Carter stopped in the middle of the block and said, “Houston, we’ve got a problem.”
“What is it?” Cheyenne asked, hitting the speaker button and looking up.
“Four subjects exiting a black van, wearing black suits and black masks, carrying automatic weapons—grenade launcher!” she cried at the same moment he spotted the same thing.
“Reese!” he barked, shoving his telephone back in his pocket as they both drew their guns and started to get out of the car. “Get out of there now!”
“NYPD!” she bellowed. “Drop your weapons!”
The masked gunmen, who’d been clustered around the back of the van but focused on the building where Reese was, looked at Cheyenne and Miss Carter in surprise.
“Drop your weapons!” Cheyenne and Miss Carter ordered again.
A couple of the gunmen opened fire instead, but after diving for cover, Cheyenne shot each in the shoulder. Their fellows caught them as they fell.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” said someone who was still in the van. “We don’t have time for this—we can get Sloan later!”
Before Cheyenne and Miss Carter could even reach the intersection, the gunmen had gotten back into the van. Cheyenne tried to shoot out a tire but couldn’t see well enough and hit a taillight instead. As the van started to pull away from the curb with its back doors still open, Reese and the man who’d been with him charged out of the building, and Reese took a couple of shots at someone he could see inside and received return fire before the doors closed and the van drove away.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Reese?” Mr. Finch asked as Cheyenne and Miss Carter holstered their guns and joined Reese and the other man on the sidewalk.
“You were right, Finch,” Reese answered. “It was Collier. They were after Sloan. Merritt and Carter chased ’em off—but they’re likely to try again.”
“Did you get the book?”
Reese turned to the other man, Sloan, who handed him a book with a nod. “The American Revolution: A Concise History,” Reese read.
“Why am I not surprised?” Finch muttered.
“I gotta go move my car,” Carter said quietly. “I’ll be right back.” At Reese’s nod, she left.
“I found a copy of the book online,” Mr. Finch reported. “It seems to match the algorithm used to encode the message… just a moment… oh, this is troubling.”
“What’s the message?” Reese asked.
“It’s a plan to kill Jason Greenfield.”
Sloan looked stunned, and Cheyenne suddenly realized he’d left his telephone on speaker.
Reese frowned. “Greenfield? Isn’t he already dead?”
“Apparently not,” answered Mr. Finch. “Mr. Greenfield turned himself in to the CIA. There’s rather more here than I anticipated—you’d better get Mr. Sloan off the street in case they try to come back.”
“I doubt they will,” said Cheyenne as Miss Carter pulled up to the curb. “They said they didn’t have time for a fight. It’s still a good idea, though,” he added and opened the back door to usher Reese and Sloan in. Reese pulled the door closed behind him, and Cheyenne jogged back around to shotgun and got in himself.
As Miss Carter drove away again, Sloan leaned forward. “So my brother’s really alive?”
“So it seems, Mr. Sloan,” Mr. Finch’s voice answered through the car’s speakers before Cheyenne could get his telephone out of his pocket—Cheyenne decided not to ask how. “The CIA faked Jason’s death, ostensibly for his protection, and then imprisoned him at a black site. They’re moving him again tonight.”
“So Collier plans to intercept the truck and kill Greenfield while he’s out in the open,” Reese surmised.
“Yes. The decryption program’s just coming to the timetable now.”
Cheyenne frowned. “Collier’s got a mole in the CIA?”
“It’s possible,” said Reese, “but Greenfield was one of several hackers working for Collier’s group, so it’s equally possible that the information came from another hacker. The CIA’s data security is tight, but it’s not impenetrable.”
“Oh, no wonder Collier ordered a retreat so quickly,” Mr. Finch murmured.
“Find something?” Miss Carter asked.
“This timetable calls for the hit team to arrive at a certain intersection at 7:25,” Mr. Finch reported.
“And two of ’em took some lead, thanks to Merritt.”
“Way the traffic’s been today, it’ll be hard enough for ’em to hit that mark,” Cheyenne noted, reloading his gun. “It’ll be even harder if they have to stop for more men.”
“Precisely,” said Mr. Finch. “I’m still working on locating where they plan to kill Greenfield.”
“Stop here,” Reese told Miss Carter. “Merritt and I can take my car. You get Sloan back to the safe house.”
“No way,” Sloan insisted as Miss Carter stopped. “Maybe I can’t shoot straight, but I am not gonna sit on the sidelines when my brother’s life is in danger.”
“Collier wants to kill you, too, Sloan.”
“I don’t care.”
Reese and Cheyenne exchanged a look, and Reese sighed. “All right, you’re with me, but stay in the car. Merritt can go with Carter.”
“Thank you,” said Sloan and followed Reese out of the car and across the street.
“I’ve got it,” Mr. Finch announced as Miss Carter started driving again. “Sending you the coordinates.”
Cheyenne’s telephone beeped, and he showed it to Miss Carter.
“Got it,” said Miss Carter. “We’re on our way.”
“See you there,” said Reese.
“Please be careful, all of you,” said Mr. Finch.
“What time is that transport supposed to arrive with Greenfield?” Miss Carter asked.
“The operation is scheduled to begin at 7:30.”
“All right, that gives us a few minutes to set up. I know Cooper Square—I’ll park around on the blind side, since Collier’s seen this vehicle.”
“I’ll try to access the surveillance cameras around the intersection to help coordinate the action.”
“And I’ll try to park closer to Collier,” Reese chimed in. “He saw me, but he doesn’t know what I’m driving.”
“All right,” Miss Carter agreed. “So bring us up to speed here, Finch. What’s goin’ on?”
There was a little gasp from Mr. Finch’s end. “I’m terribly sorry—there hasn’t been time for introductions. The gentleman with Mr. Reese is Timothy Sloan, an estate investigator for the New York Public Administrator and Jason Greenfield’s foster brother. Greenfield had been involved with the privacy activists who were responsible for terrorizing Wayne Kruger this summer—that was before you arrived, Mr. Bodie.”
Miss Carter frowned. “Wayne Kruger… the data broker who got killed?”
“Precisely. Peter Collier was the man who killed him after shooting Mr. Reese. Greenfield apparently objected to the killing and tried to leave the group by turning himself in to the CIA. Unfortunately, Sloan recognized that something was wrong with the reports of Greenfield’s death and began his own investigation….”
“Which made Collier want to kill Sloan as much as he wants to kill Greenfield,” Cheyenne concluded, finally understanding the situation.
“Well, we won’t let that happen,” Miss Carter declared, and Cheyenne agreed with a nod.
It was 7:27 when Miss Carter parked out of sight of Cooper Square, made sure her telephone was connected to the same channel as Reese’s and Cheyenne’s, and directed Cheyenne to a point where he could see but not be seen. Then she left to take up her own position on the other end of the fenced hedge that decorated the near side of the small park. Praying they’d pull this off, Cheyenne went to the spot she’d directed him to and peered through the hedge just as Reese drove through the intersection and parked. Reese reported his arrival and stated that he could see Collier’s van; Cheyenne couldn’t, but he could see the intersection—and the man with the pushcart just beyond, which he reported in turn. Reese and Miss Carter both confirmed that they could see him, too.
“All right, stay frosty, everyone,” Reese finally said. “Any minute now.”
And it was only a minute or so before Mr. Finch said, “There’s a produce truck headed toward that intersection. That could be the one transporting Greenfield.”
The man with the cart advanced off the curb a short way and stopped again. Cheyenne drew his gun.
“Got visual on the truck,” Miss Carter said.
“Confirmed,” said Reese. “Passing my position in five… four… three… two…. Shaw?!”
“Mr. Reese?” Mr. Finch prompted.
“I just found Shaw,” Reese repeated.
The man on the corner pulled the cover off his cart and shoved it into the intersection.
“Unfortunately, so did Collier,” said Reese, and Cheyenne heard his door open and close.
Then there was an explosion as the truck collided with the cart and red paint flew everywhere, causing the truck’s driver to lose control and hit a car that was parked near the intersection. Reese and the man who’d pushed the cart exchanged fire as the hit team rushed out of the van and started toward the truck, and Cheyenne came around the end of the hedge to start firing on them just as the back of the truck burst open and Root emerged. Cheyenne could see Sam in the truck’s shotgun seat, however, unconscious from the collision, and a member of the hit team was advancing on her door with what looked at first like a gun until Cheyenne recognized it as a power drill. Deciding that man was a more immediate threat than Root, Cheyenne shot him in the shoulder, which knocked him down, and ran to open Sam’s door, trading fire with the unmasked black man who was still standing by the back of the van, who Cheyenne guessed must be Collier. Sam was just coming around when Cheyenne got to her.
“Cheyenne,” she gasped and grabbed the driver’s gun as Cheyenne lifted her down.
“You all right, Sam?” he asked.
“Fine. Gotta save someone.”
“I’ll cover you.”
“Thanks,” she said and dashed toward the back of the truck while Cheyenne kept shooting at Collier.
Collier, for his part, raced across the intersection toward Reese’s car, where Sloan, contrary to his word, had gotten out to call to his brother, whom Root was dragging away somewhere with two members of the hit team on her heels. Sam and Miss Carter chased after them, while Cheyenne and Reese, shouting for Sloan to get back in the car, tried to pin Collier down. Finally, before Collier could reach Sloan, two shots went home at nearly the same moment—Cheyenne’s in Collier’s right shoulder, Reese’s in his right knee. Screaming, Collier dropped.
“We got Collier, Finch,” Reese announced over more distant shots as he and Cheyenne converged on the fallen outlaw. “Do we leave him for NYPD or bring him in?”
“Bring him in, Mr. Reese,” Mr. Finch ordered. “He may not be willing to talk to us, but we can at least remove him from the chess board.”
“Oh, I know a few ways to make a man talk that they probably don’t teach anymore,” Cheyenne stated.
“Who are you?” Collier demanded from the pavement.
Reese smiled coldly and took Collier’s pocket telephone. “I’m the man you shot in the back, and I’m here to return the favor.” He punctuated that by smashing the telephone with his heel.
“And… h-how do you… keep showin’ up… at Vigilance… operations?”
“I’m persistent.”
“And ‘Energy… and persistence….’”
“‘Conquer all things,’” Cheyenne finished the quotation from Benjamin Franklin as the two Men in the Suit holstered their guns, lifted Collier between them, and put him in the back seat of Reese’s car with Sloan’s help. Reese then shooed Sloan back into the shotgun seat, and Cheyenne started around the back of the car to get in beside Collier at the same time Reese went around the front to the driver’s seat.
“Collier’s not the only one we’re bringin’ in, Finch,” Miss Carter reported. “Greenfield got away safe, but Shaw just knocked Root out cold.”
Mr. Finch hesitated a moment. “Please bring everyone to the safe house. We can make further arrangements from there.”
“Right,” said Miss Carter at the same time Reese said, “On our way.”
At least we did one thing right today after all, thought Cheyenne and gave Collier a handkerchief to press against the wound in his shoulder.
* The idea that most people in the Old West were illiterate really is a common misconception these days, but the 1880 census recorded that 83% of all adults—including former slaves who’d been forbidden from getting even the most basic education prior to Emancipation—could in fact read, up from 80% in 1870 thanks in part to concerted efforts to educate freedmen. (The Buffalo Soldiers, for example, received free schooling through the Army, and records from the post libraries at places like Fort Concho and Fort McKavett indicate that they were hungry for books once they learned to read.)
