Nothing felt real. Two weeks ago, Steven had been in his cell on Alcatraz. A week ago, he had been settling into another cell at White Sands. Five days ago, he had been in an AIM safehouse in Matamoros, right along the coast, not wanting to leave Melinda’s side- nor she his, for so much as a second.
Now he was in a boat, in the dark, heading south through the maze of islands and islets that ran through the Lake of the Woods, sneaking back across the border into the United States of America.
Steven still wasn’t sure how they had talked him into it.
“Penny for your thoughts, soldier?” Melinda slipped her hand into his. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”
“Just taking it all in. I…” Steven struggled for the words. “Nothing feels right now. The sounds, the colors, the ability to just get up and go where I want, there’s so much freedom it’s almost intoxicating, so,” he sighed.
“You think it’s some kind of crazy dream?” Melinda asked,
“Not a crazy dream,” Steven replied with a grin. “The perfect dream. A dream I never dreamed–”
“I know,” Melinda replied. “And I’m sorry, I know another mission is probably the last thing you want to do, it’s just-”
“You owe them. I get it,” Steven said. “I owe them too. And besides, it’s just a meeting, right?”
“That’s right. Just a meeting,” Melinda said. “No commitments.”
“No commitments.”
They lapsed into silence again, and Steven resisted the urge to yawn. It had to be past midnight now. The gentle thrum of the motor had been the only sound for a while now. The screams of the cicadas had faded with the coming of full night, and it was not yet warm enough for fireflies or the mosquitoes to be as bad as they usually were up in these parts.
A day of hard travel got them across the border and to the relative security of an AIM safehouse along the coast near Matamoros. The group had split up then, Harvey being whisked off to parts unknown. Steven and Melinda had spent another two days just sleeping and waking up tangled in the bedsheets and each other more often than not, ducking out into the kitchen now and again to see what food could be found. It was on the third day that they had both wandered out into the living room to find Joseph waiting for them
Harvey needs your help, Miss Melinda, he told her.
Steven ached to go home. He ached for anything but this life of his, at least for a while. He wanted to read again, quietly, in a little Craftsman house somewhere quiet next to a lake. Really, he thought, looking at Melinda, he just wanted to spend time with her, but as soon as he had seen the look on her face, he had known what the answer was going to be.
So, more travel: west to Monterrey and then a plane to Mexico City. From there, north to Toronto. Another flight to Winnipeg and then a nondescript blue sedan east again across the Ontario border to Kenora. There, in a plain, simple house along the lakeside, they had parked the car and took to the boat, heading south across the Lake of the Woods, through an endless maze of channels and islands that seemed to stretch on forever. The sun set, the stars came out, and now-
“Cut the engine,” said Ty. “I’ll kill the light.”
Joseph nodded and bent over the outboard motor for a moment. The quiet background noise of the motor suddenly stopped, and after another moment, the light at the front of the boat flickered off, and they were alone in the darkness. Steven looked up and sighed softly in pleasure. The stars above them were brilliant and more numerous than anything he had ever seen in his life. The Milky Way, a brilliant cascading smudge far above them.
Melinda leaned into him, her hand still holding his, and didn’t say anything, just squeezed his hand once, letting him know that she was still next to him in the darkness. He marvelled that after all these years apart, he knew her scent, whatever it was- soap, shampoo, or a touch of perfume, he had never asked. She had always just smelled so damn good to him. It was strange, he knew, but since they had broken him out of prison, he wanted to appreciate the little things, treasure them, and not take them for granted.
A phone screen suddenly illuminated Ty’s face, and Steven saw him turn, keenly watching what appeared to be a map on his phone screen. Seemingly satisfied that he was facing the right direction, he bent down to pick something up that turned out to be a flashlight. He flashed it once, twice, three times, and then turned it off and waited. Steven followed his gaze, and there came a signal back. Once, twice, three times.
“Okay,” Ty said. “Start her up again, we’re good to approach.”
The motor started up again, and Joseph turned the boat in the direction of the signal, and gradually, a dark outline took shape. Trees and a structure of some kind appeared out of the darkness.
“Is that a lighthouse?” Melinda whispered.
“I think so,” Steven replied with a frown. “I don’t know why you’d need a lighthouse in the middle of a lake.”
“It’s for decoration,” Joseph replied. “Doesn’t even have a light on top. Just a sunroom or some nonsense.”
They drew closer to the island, and suddenly a dock emerged from the shadows. Ty flashed the light a couple of more times. A low whistle answered them, followed by, “You’re late.”
“You try steering a boat through this damn lake in the dark,” Joseph growled back.
“Besides,” Ty added, as his flashlight illuminated Clayton, who was waiting for them with an unrepentant grin on his face. “We’re not late. We’re right on time.”
“Harvey’s impatient.”
“Harvey’s always impatient,” Joseph replied as he brought the boat alongside the dock. “Always has been, always will be.” Both Ty and Clayton chuckled at that, and Joseph brought the boat right up alongside the dock, where a small ladder hung down into the water. Clayton tossed a mooring rope down to Ty, who quickly moved to secure the boat to the dock before heaving himself up the ladder and onto the dock. Melinda, then Steven, followed behind him. “Welcome to Flag Island,” Clayton said. “You’re officially back in the United States of America.”
Steven felt a chill at that. He knew that this was the last place anybody would be looking for him; in fact, if anything, the Federal Council would have their eyes watching the Free Territories to see if and when he surfaced there. But at the same time… Melinda leaned into him again. “Hey,” she said. He looked down at her. “Just a meeting, remember? No commitments.”
He took a deep breath to steady himself. “No commitments.”
“He’s waiting for you,” Clayton said. “Head on up.”
Melinda squeezed his hand reassuringly, and together they walked up the dock and towards the lighthouse. As they got closer, Steven saw that Joseph had been right. “It really is just a lighthouse-shaped house, isn’t it?” Melinda said.
With a laugh, Steven tried the front door, which was the same bright red as the lighthouse above them. It was open, so with a brief glance at each other, they slipped inside.
“About time,” Harvey said. There was a small kitchen immediately to the right of the front door that opened out into a long circular living room that was the base of the lighthouse. A staircase spiralled upward to the right. Steven and Melinda made their way into the living room, Ty, Clayton, and eventually Joseph following behind. They all settled onto various couches and chairs opposite Harvey, who was wrapped in a light blanket.
Not for the first time, Steven wished he had paid attention to the intelligence briefings about the man sitting opposite him. Harvey Coyote was a legend; there was no other word to describe the man. He had reignited the AIM and turned into an effective voice of resistance to the Federal Council. The Governors of both Dakotas had at one point or another, threatened to place an actual bounty on his head. The Federal Council had been extremely happy when they had caught up with him in the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming, more by pure chance than anything else.
Now he was free and looked exhausted, his face drawn, blanket gathered tightly around him. “If we’re all here, I’ll get right to the point,” he said. “I need your help.”
“With what?” Steven asked, cautiously.
“About two months ago, word was smuggled to me via our prison networks about one of our hackers. Her codename was The Rabbit. She stumbled across something bigger than she expected, and Homeland Security came at her hard and fast. She shot her way into Falls Park in Sioux Falls, and when they cornered her, she…” Harvey grimaced. “She immolated herself.”
Steven raised an eyebrow. “She lit herself on fire?”
“Yes, it’s…” Harvey grimaced again. “It took me forever to stamp out that particular nonsense, but the Fire Warriors… her sister was one. Parents died early in the Revolt. She had skills and knew how to survive, but… not even she was willing to risk Homeland Security.”
“What did she have?” Melinda asked. “If she got something to bring Homeland Security on her that fast, it must be big.”
“It was,” Harvey replied. “When I learned that you,” he nodded at Steven, “had been housed at Alcatraz, I wondered if you might know something about it. She only managed to transmit a fragment. I’m not sure what she did with the rest.”
“What did you get?”
“Not much,” Harvey replied. “Just a sentence. Prisoner 112 must never be found.”
Steven froze.
“Who is Prisoner 112?” Melinda asked.
“We don’t know,” Harvey replied. “But Homeland Security was-”
“They were near me,” Steven said. “On Alcatraz. I don’t know who they are, but all the high-value prisoners were kept on the north end of the complex. I never could get a glimpse of their face, but whoever they are, they’re big.”
“How big?”
“General John Casey paid them a visit.”
Melinda arched an eyebrow in surprise. “Are you sure?”
Steven nodded, “As sure as I can be. The only question is, what do you propose to do about it?” This was directed at Harvey.
Harvey, for his part, glanced over at Ty, who ran his hand through his hair. “We’ve been approached.”
“By whom?” Melinda asked.
“A contact from the Dark Web. Calls himself The Key.”
“What’s he offering?”
“A flash drive, that if uploaded to our dead drop in Falls Park, should be able to determine how much was uploaded and, if so, recover the files.”
“You can’t just do that anyway?” Steven asked.
“I could,” Ty admitted. “But not quickly and not with any guarantee of success or without attracting a large amount of attention, none of us will probably want.”
“But you think this Key fellow can?” Steven asked.
Ty nodded. “I do. He’s got a good reputation in the hacking community. Reportedly, one of the best. If he says he can get those files recovered for us, I’d be inclined to believe him.”
“What’s the catch?” Melinda asked, eyes narrowed.
“He wants a meeting,” Harvey replied. “In person.”
“Where?”
“Minneapolis.”
Silence fell at that, and Steven stood up. “I’m going to get a drink,” he glanced over at Melinda. “Be right back.” He made his way around the edge of the couch and slipped into the small kitchen. Wanting to maintain the pretense, he opened the fridge and was surprised to find beer inside. With a shrug, he grabbed a can of beer and popped it open just as Melinda snuck into the kitchen.
“Is that for me?” She arched an eyebrow at him, and with a grin, he handed it to her and dove back into the fridge for a second can. He popped it open and raised it to her. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” she replied. They both took a sip. “So, what are you thinking?” Melinda asked.
“Something feels very convenient here, and I’m not sure what it is,” Steven replied.
“How so?”
“I get moved- specifically to a facility that you find out about and can raid. General Casey gets assassinated and replaced by a hardliner, and now we have this mysterious Prisoner 112 being dangled in front of us…”
“Like bait.”
“That’s what worries me,” Steven replied. “On the other hand, what if this is real?”
“How real could it be?” Melinda asked. “We don’t even have a name. Just a late-night visit by General Casey.”
“That means whoever this Prisoner 112 is, they’re not nobody,” Steven replied.
“True,” Melinda acknowledged. Her eyes narrowed. “You think we need to see where this goes.” It wasn’t a question.
“I do,” Steven replied. “I don’t particularly want to, but…” he sighed. “What I really want doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does,” Melinda replied. “What do you want?”
“You,” Steven replied, simply. “A house. By a lake somewhere. Full of books and walking trails and… anything but this.”
“We said no commitments,” Melinda replied quietly. “I meant it.. Say the word, and we can leave. Go find that house by the lake and let someone else deal with this.”
Steven snorted in amusement. “Have you ever in your life seen me be good at letting someone else deal with things? Hell, if I were, I probably wouldn’t have-”
Melinda set her beer down and stepped forward, reaching up and placing a long, cool hand on his cheek. “But you’re here now, and I want to keep it that way.”
“Believe me, I have no intention of going anywhere,” Steven replied. “But… even you have to admit, there’s something weird about all this. And it’s weird enough that we should probably find out if there’s anything to it.”
Melinda considered that for a moment before sighing heavily. “Damn it, I hate it when you’re right.”
Steven smiled. “Let’s go to Minneapolis.”
~
General John McMillan said nothing as the motorboat sped across the waters of San Francisco Bay, heading toward Alcatraz. He was in a foul mood thanks to a wasted week of travelling and searching. He had called in every favor that he could think of, but no one had heard anything about a Prisoner 112. Then he had finally opened the letter that Doreen Casey had given him at the wake.
It was John’s handwriting, he saw right away. But there was no greeting, none of John’s usual blunt words of advice. There were only two short sentences: Go to Alcatraz and talk to Williams. He knows. McMillan had spit out a string of ugly curses, filled his flask, packed a bag, and hopped on a late flight out to San Francisco.
He had arrived two hours earlier in utmost secrecy, just after eleven o’clock at night, and nobody had been all that happy to see him. The base commander, a dyspeptic-looking middle-aged Colonel, had been cagey, even rude, and had been reluctant to assign him two soldiers and a boat to go out to Alcatraz.
McMillan had insisted, and here they were speeding away across the dark waters, the bulk of the iconic island rearing up ahead of them as they drew closer to the main dock. The two soldiers who had been assigned to him cast nervous glances over their shoulders at him now and again and were met with nothing more than his impassive, unemotional stare. He felt a ripple of amusement at that. It was the best poker face he could muster and had intimidated many an officer out of their hard-earned money over the years.
The roar of the boat faded a bit as the young soldier behind the wheel throttled the engine down to a slower speed as they began their final approach to the main dock at Alcatraz. Someone, McMillan noted with displeasure, had called ahead because an official welcoming party had been hastily assembled and was lined up in perfect military precision along the main dock.
The boat easily slid to a stop alongside the main pier, and McMillan easily ascended the ladder and, once safely on the dock, straightened out his uniform. “You, what’s your name?” He pointed at the driver of the boat.
“Private Garrison, sir.”
“Garrison, stay with the boat,” he said. “You, what’s your name?” He pointed at the other soldier who had accompanied them.
“Private Ramirez, sir.”
“Ramirez, you’re with me,” he said and noted the alacrity with which Ramirez got himself out of the boat and onto the dock beside him with approval. He gave the kid a moment to catch his breath and then turned to the waiting, welcoming party. “Let’s go,” he said. “And Ramirez?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You play poker?”
“Little bit, sir.”
“You got a good poker face?”
“I won $300 bucks off the Colonel last week, sir.”
“We’ll call that a yes,” McMillan said. “Whatever I do and whatever I say while we’re here, keep your poker face on. We clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
“All right,” McMillan said. “Let’s do this- and try and keep up.” Then he started walking towards the waiting retinue, lengthening his stride.
“General McMillan, it’s a pleasure to have you here on Alcatraz,” the rather portly officer at the head of the greeting party said. McMillan kept walking, so he had no choice but to fall in step with him or get left behind at the dock. “I’m Colonel Williams.”
“Colonel,” McMillan said. “I’m here to conduct an inspection of the north wing.”
“The north wing?”
“Yes, the north wing,” they passed the old gift shop now, the outlines of the old National Park Service signs still evident on the worn facade, as well as decades-old graffiti from the occupation by the American Indian Movement. “I’d like to start there.”
“Sir, we’re not prepared for an inspection at this late hour,” Williams protested, already winded as they began to climb the stairs to the main complex. “It’s been lights out on all the main cell blocks for at least two hours now.”
“I don’t want to go to the main cell blocks,” McMillan said, “I want to go to the north wing and conduct an inspection.”
“This is a highly unusual request,” Williams protested. They had reached the main entrance to the complex.
McMillan screeched to a halt. “Lucky for you, Colonel, that I am considered to be a highly unusual General. Now open these doors and show me the north wing.”
“General-”
“That was an order, Colonel,” McMillan snapped. “I can still give them, you know.”
Williams swallowed, his eyes darting as McMillan leaned closer to the man. “Colonel,” he said. “I’m not the Red Cross. I don’t care if the bruises on the prisoners are showing, and I know,” he glanced down at his watch, “that it’s one in the morning, but believe me, I wouldn’t care if it was three in the morning. Now open the damn door.”
Williams broke. Stepping forward to the entrance, he punched in his access code, and the first of the heavy steel doors began to swing open. “Right this way, General,” he said and led them into the darkness beyond. There were only two more doors to go through and a security checkpoint after that, but with Williams walking ahead of them, they merely walked through the usual checkpoints with ease.
Then they were in the dimly lit cell blocks beyond. Williams walked with authority now, and McMillan accorded him some grudging respect for that. The man knew every inch of the facility he was running. Then they were through the main complex and out another entrance onto a well-lit, newer-looking sidewalk that led down to the north end of the rocky island.
“You’ll have to excuse the state of the exterior of the building,” Williams said. “We were limited as to how much renovation we could do to it.”
“Limited by whom?”
“General Casey,” Williams said. “We wanted to renovate the New Industries Building,” he gestured to the long building ahead of them, “But General Casey wanted some distance between the high-value prisoners and the main populace, so we were forced to renovate the Model Industries Building instead.”
The path was sloping downwards towards the water, and McMillan could see their destination ahead of them. The perimeter around the North Wing, as it was called, was lit with floodlights. “The building’s exterior remains more or less the way it was when we took over,” Williams said. “It looks terrible, but the only thing we could do was stabilize the structure by extending the seawall.”
As they drew closer, McMillan saw that Williams was correct. The exterior of the building looked rusted, ancient, and old- but there were fresh windows evident throughout, and lights were on inside, indicating some kind of human habitation. They were at another checkpoint now, and a quick wave from Williams had them into the perimeter surrounding the building. Maybe twenty, thirty yards after that, they were at the entrance when Williams hesitated again.
“The kid stays with me,” McMillan said.
“Sir, he doesn’t have clearance.”
“This isn’t up for discussion,” McMillan said. The two men locked eyes again before Williams surrendered and punched in his access code. The steel door to the building slid open again, and Williams led them inside. There was a brief pause as a second door swung open, but then Williams gestured for McMillan to step through.
The inside of this building was far different than the dimly lit, cramped cell blocks of the main complex they had just seen. The place felt warmer, more inviting, and the anteroom they were standing in felt more like a waiting room in a Doctor’s office than a prison.
“Well, here we are, General,” Williams said. “Where would you like to start?”
“Take me to Prisoner 112.”
Williams’ face went white, and his eyes began to dart back and forth again. The man looked like he wanted to be anywhere but standing in front of McMillan, and for one brief instant, McMillan felt sorry for the man.
“General, I-”
“Take me to their cell,” McMillan said, cutting Williams off. Reluctantly pouring off of the man, he turned on his heel and, punching in an access code, opened a door and led them into a long hallway. These cells were different, McMillan saw. Bigger, more open, with more furnishings... most inmates were asleep. Down the long hallway, then they turned and turned again to a shorter hallway where Williams came to a halt.
“Where is Prisoner 112?”
The steel door to the cell stood open, and he could see that the cell was empty. McMillan had expected that.
“She... she was transferred,” Williams said.
“To where?”
“I don’t know.” McMillan’s eyes bored into Williams, and he watched the man writhe under his gaze. He was breaking, McMillan saw, his resistance crumbling, all it would take is one little- “Private Ramirez!” McMillan barked, not taking his eyes off Williams. “Give me your sidearm.”
“Yes, sir!” Ramirez barked back. Williams’ eyes went very wide indeed as Ramirez offered his gun to McMillan. McMillan took it, cocked it, and watched in satisfaction as Williams’ eyes went crossed as he pushed the barrel of the gun between the man’s eyes. “Not. Good. Enough.” McMillan enunciated every word. “Where is Prisoner 112?”
Williams went white. “Homeland Security,” he swallowed hard. “They came and took her last week. They transferred her to another facility.”
“Who came?” McMillan asked, pressing the gun into his forehead a little more. “Some mid-level paper pusher can’t authorize a transfer like this.”
“Needles,” Williams gasped. “The man they call Needles.”
McMillan lowered the gun. “Do you know who Prisoner 112 is?”
Williams shook his head. “The identities remain secret even from us,” he said. He watched as McMillan considered that for a moment. “You have to believe me,” he said.
“Here’s the problem, Colonel,” McMillan said. “I don’t. Did General Casey come to visit Prisoner 112?”
“H-h-how did you know that?”
“He left me a note,” McMillan said, grinding the gun into the man’s forehead. “He told me to come to Alcatraz and talk to you. He said that you knew.”
“All right, all right, I’ll tell you,” Williams said. “But just you.” Rolling his eyes, McMillan lowered the gun and stepped forward to stand next to the man. Williams leaned in and told him the name.
McMillan froze. That explained everything. Why had John pushed for negotiations? Why had he visited Prisoner 112? And it explained why Miller and Homeland Security were terrified of anybody finding out the true identity of Prisoner 112- so terrified that they might be willing to start a war over it. He stepped back and handed the gun back to Ramirez, who popped the bullet out of the chamber and holstered the sidearm again.
“Thank you, Colonel,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful. I think that’ll be all.” He glanced at Williams, who was still looking very pale. “Why don’t you radio ahead and let them know we’re on the way back?” he said, a note of sympathy in his voice. “Private Ramirez and I will show ourselves out.”
Williams stiffened. “That won’t be necessary, General. But there is one other thing,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“You’re not the first person to come looking for Prisoner 112,” Williams said. “Admiral Jones was here just last week.”
McMillan said nothing after that and remained silent as Williams led them back out and up the hill to the Main Complex and through the Main Complex and back out and down the stairs to the pier, where their boat was waiting. Williams came to a stop at the top of the stairs leading down to the docks. “General,” he said, “It’s been a pleasure having you here on Alcatraz.”
McMillan shook himself and straightened to return the man’s salute. “Colonel Williams,” he said. He almost turned to go, but then he stopped himself. “Williams, you seem like a straight shooter who knows what he’s doing running this place,” he said. “Can I ask you one more thing?”
“What’s that?”
“You said Admiral Jones was here- did he know who he was looking for?”
Williams nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” McMillan said and then turned to go. He walked down the stairs, Ramirez just beside him.
“You know what I hate, Ramirez?”
“What’s that, sir?”
“I hate being played,” McMillan said. He felt the anger come for the first time then, and that made him smile even more. The Admirals thought they had found a pawn to play their game, but he wouldn’t be so transparently manipulated. He knew who Prisoner 112 was now. All he had to do was find her, and he could end Miller and bring down the Federal Council once and for all.
~
“Mara, it’s too damn early for this,” Abby groaned as they made their way toward the Student Union.
Mara tried to suppress a yawn, without much success. “I know, I know. It wasn’t my idea, though.”
“You sure it’s them?”
“As sure as I can be,” Mara replied as she pulled open the door to the student union.
At this hour of the morning, there weren’t many people in the commons area of the union. Trying not to be too obvious about checking out the room, Abby and Mara lined up for coffee and, once they had secured their usuals. (Abby an iced caramel macchiato, Mara, a cappuccino), They made their way to a pair of comfortable seats near the windows.
“Do you see them yet?” Abby asked.
“No,” Mara grimaced. “I’ve been looking.”
“They’re along the wall, both of them. Over my right shoulder,” Abby replied.
Mara took a sip of her coffee, scanning the wall until she found them. Both of them were about fifty feet away, happily oblivious to their presence, buried in their laptops.
“You do it,” Mara told Abby.
“Me? Why me?”
“I think I intimidated them last time,” Mara replied. “Besides, the short one has a thing for you.”
Abby snorted in disbelief.
Mara rolled her eyes. “Just go over and talk to them. It won’t take long.”
Abby sighed and got up out of the well-padded, comfortable chair she was sitting in and fixed Mara with a scowl. “You owe me.”
Mara smiled. “See if you can get his number,” she called as Abby began to walk toward them. Abby didn’t stop walking; she just half turned back to Mara and raised the middle finger of her left hand at Mara. Mara laughed as she watched Abby cover the distance between them and slip into a chair next to the two young men and start to talk.
Which left Mara alone in her chair, puzzling over everything. Her father’s admonishment to ‘be careful’ had been echoing in her ears more and more lately. Something about this whole situation was odd. Why the Independence Party? Why now? The aftermath of The Great Revolt had not been good to any of the defeated states of the Alliance that had tried to overthrow the Federal Council. All had been placed under military occupation for a period of five years, and all had suffered as a result. Parts of the Twin Cities still bore scars from the fighting nearly two decades before- that’s how slowly they had been forced to rebuild by the Federal Council.
Many, and Mara amongst them, assumed that it was her grandmother’s association with the party that had led the authorities to ban it, but it was more than that. Support for the Independence Party had been growing steadily even before her grandmother had caused a political sensation by divorcing her then-husband, the incumbent Republican governor, and running for the office herself. Both Democratic and Republican parties had been drifting to the far ends of their political spectrums for a good decade before that on the national level, and that extremism was filtering down to state parties with a vengeance. It had gotten so bad that rural Minnesota Democrats had been seriously talking about splitting from the party and re-forming the old Farmer-Labor Party again. The Independence Party had become the moderate alternative that voters had desperately wanted.
And that, more than anything else, was why The Federal Council had banned the party. A popular alternative to what they were offering? Couldn’t have that. Couldn’t give the people the idea that they had any say in the matter. They could have their state governments vote in their little elections, but the real power was theirs to control.
Which only left Mara wrestling with the most puzzling question of all: why now? What could they possibly gain by challenging the ban against them now?
“Got it,” Abby said, as she sat back down in the chair next to Mara, snapping Mara out of her reverie.
“What?”
“His number. You were right about the short one,” Abby said. She held up a scrap of paper. “He does have a thing for me.”
“Did you get what we were looking for?”
Abby nodded. “They sent an encrypted chat to their contact. He’s meeting us in half an hour.”
“Where?”
Abby told her, and Mara grimaced in distaste.
“Why there?”
Abby dug into her pocket and tossed Mara her set of car keys. “You’re driving.”
~
Jordan was surprised to find that he was actually nervous. Miss Scarlet had not been able to provide much information and had seemed annoyed that he had even asked. Of course, Federal agents were working in the city. This close to the frontier, there were probably a half dozen intelligence agencies with assets in the metro doing god knows what. But after extorting him for her usual fee, Jordan had more drones, better, more modern tracking software, and now he was three cars back on the Crosstown Parkway, watching as his targets headed towards their destination.
There was no guarantee any of this was going to work, but it was the best idea Jordan had. He had gone over the drone data from the meeting in the lecture hall. He had reviewed the footage multiple times, and all of it convinced him, despite Miss Scarlet’s annoyance that someone was shadowing these two girls. The Territories were clearly interested and worried about what challenging the ban on the Independence Party would do, and that meant-
He hissed in irritation as his targets changed lanes at the last minute without using an indicator. He flicked his on and followed, sliding around the interchange and heading south. With a sigh, he realized that unless they were heading to the airport, there was really only one other place they could be going. He frowned as the realization hit him: there was no better place to meet or, worse still, quietly eliminate a problem.
Jordan reached forward to where his phone was sitting on top of the dashboard and swiped it open. He flicked through his contacts until he found the one he was looking for and then called it. After three rings, there was an answer:
“Twice in one day?” Miss Scarlet asked. “People will say we’re in love.”
“No time for our usual repartee, I’m afraid. I need a favor, and it’s a big one.”
“How big?”
“I need an eye in the sky. Access to the security net and someone to watch my back.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone before Miss Scarlet replied: “Where?”
Jordan told her.
“You must be joking. Do I even want to know when you need this by?”
“Right now.”
There was another long pause on the other end of the phone before Jordan heard a deep sigh. “Fine. You owe me, though.”
“Add it to my tab,” Jordan replied, then ended the call.
~
With a shuddering wheeze, Mara pushed the gas pedal on Abby’s rusted, lime green hatchback to the floor and urged it up the long incline to the top of the cavernous parking ramp on the east side of the Mall of America. Reaching the top of the incline, Mara turned right, and the wheeze of the engine eased as it slipped onto a flat surface.
It was Tuesday, so Mara had held out hope that maybe just maybe the Mall would be operating at something less than its usual insanity, but the parking ramp was packed to the brim, and it took them far too long to find a parking space that was about as far away from the entrance as it was possible to be.
“Could you have parked further away?” Abby asked as Mara threw the car into park.
“Did you want to drive?”
“Not really,” Abby replied as Mara turned the car off and they both unbuckled their seatbelts and opened their doors. Mara closed her door and tossed Abby the keys. “So where is this mysterious contact going to meet us?”
“Over by the East Rotunda. At the Smoothie Guru.”
“The Smoothie Guru?”
“What?” Abby said as they started to walk towards the skywalk over to the Mall. “You don’t like wheatgrass in your smoothies?”
“I don’t know,” Mara said. “Does it taste like grass?”
“It looks like grass.”
“And people put it in smoothies?” Mara asked as they reached the stairs and headed down to the Skywalk.
“It’s the chlorophyll.” Abby shrugged.
“Seriously?”
“It works for plants, doesn’t it?” Abby held the door open for Mara, and then they were inside the Mall.
~
Jordan was doing his best to stay well behind the two girls when his phone rang. He slipped an earbud into his ear and answered it.
“You up and running?”
“Yes,” Miss Scarlet replied. “What’s your location?”
“Second level east, near the… candy shop. Sweets and Treats.”
A pause, then. “I’ve got you. Two females about twenty yards in front of you are your targets?”
“Yes,” Jordan replied.
“All right, so fill me in, what am I looking for?”
Jordan gave her a quick rundown of what he knew, carefully omitting the real reasons why the Independence Party would be so interested in one of them.
“Copy,” Miss Scarlet replied. “Keep your phone close at hand. I’ll call if I see anything unusual.”
“Thanks,” Jordan replied and ended the call.
~
Twenty minutes of arduous and frustrating walking later, they finally reached their destination, and Mara’s good mood had vanished. The Mall of America was the one place in the world where it was impossible to get anywhere in a hurry. Mara tended to get frustrated when people slowed down or insisted on walking three abreast, blocking any attempts to get around them.
Although she was tempted to plunge into the Smoothie Guru to get this over with, she made her way to an open bench close by and sat down, Abby following a step behind her.
“Okay, so what’s the game plan?”
"What do you mean?” Abby asked.
“Like, are we meeting someone? How does this work?”
“Oh,” Abby replied. “We’re just supposed to order a certain type of smoothie and then find a table and wait. They’ll make contact after that.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Abby replied.
Mara slapped her knees and stood up. “Well, then, let’s get this over with.”
~
Jordan’s phone buzzed again, and he answered it.
“They’ve got a shadow.”
“Where?”
“Across the way, in front of the flag store. You see him?”
Jordan caught sight of him immediately. Blue polo shirt, khakis, and tennis shoes, he looked for all the world to be just your average middle-aged American consumer out for a trip at the mall.
“You sure?” Jordan asked, flipping his hood up.
“Yeah,” Miss Scarlet replied. “He’s been on them since they went through the food court.”
“We think he’s armed?”
“Unknown,” she replied. “But we both know that doesn’t mean much. Camera is picking up some weird facial distortions as well.”
Jordan slowed down to consider his options for a second. “You think it’s one of those new nano-masks I’ve been hearing so much about?”
“Probably,” Miss Scarlet replied.
“Hmmm,” Jordan stepped off to one side to kneel and pretend to tie his shoe. “The microdrones you use, do they have an overload feature?”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking if I do this fast enough, I can fritz out the nano-mask and we get a good look at this guy’s face and find out if he’s armed.”
“And if you’re not fast enough?”
“Then things will get… interesting,” Jordan replied. “Slip me a drone, will you?”
“All right,” Miss Scarlet replied. “One will be landing right next to your shoe in five, four, three, two-”
It was roughly the size and shape of a highlighter, and Jordan grabbed it and slipped it into his pocket. “He still there?”
“Yep.”
Jordan took a deep breath and stood up, fingering the drone in his pocket. He set himself. “Set it to overload in ten seconds.”
“Copy that.”
~
“Namaste! Welcome to the Smoothie Guru! Would you like a sample?”
“No,” Mara growled. “Thank you,” she added as she realized how she sounded. “We’d like…” she half turned to Abby.
Abby rolled her eyes. “Two Mango Golden Hours. With wheatgrass.”
“Is the wheatgrass optional?” Mara asked.
“Be brave, grasshopper.”
A sudden burst of noise from outside made them both turn, and they saw that all the lights in the store across the way had gone out for some reason. The passing crowds were giving sideways glances to something, but-
“What was that?” Abby asked.
“No idea,” Mara shrugged.
The line moved with ease, and a couple of minutes later, smoothies in hand, they found a seat at a table alongside the windows as instructed. “So now what?” Mara asked. She took a tentative sip of her smoothie and grimaced.
“Wheatgrass is not for you?”
“No, it’s like I’m eating my lawn.”
“It’s good for you,” Abby replied. “It-”
A man abruptly slid into the third chair at the table. He was wearing a maroon and gold Minnesota sweatshirt with the hood pulled up and a smoothie in his hand.
“You were followed,” he said without preamble.
“What do you mean?” Abby asked. “We followed the instructions we were given. We know how to check for surveillance.”
“Basic surveillance,” he replied.
“Who are you?” Mara asked, suddenly realizing that whomever he was, he wasn’t their contact.
“Let’s just say I’m a friend.”
“I have plenty of friends,” Mara replied. “You’re not the person we’re supposed to be meeting with.”
“True,” he admitted.
“So, who are you?” Abby demanded. “And why should we believe you?”
“You want to know who’s funding the effort to challenge the ban on the Independence Party,” he replied. “And it’s the right question to ask. There is a certain logic to making the move now. The Governor is unpopular. The Federal Council is distracted. Stir up some chaos, show there is broad support, and maybe you'll force them to repeal the ban.”
“Maybe?” Mara asked.
“Or maybe, you’re being used. You have to see the whole board, ladies. Look at the pieces moving elsewhere, and the whole picture falls into place.” He took a long sip of his smoothie.
“Who are you?” Abby asked again.
The man flipped his hood back, and Abby went very still. The footage that The Key had sent her played over again in her mind. The face emerging from the bar and walking down the alleyway. The image from the airport, the jaunty salute, the same man, and now that man was sitting across from her. There was no mistaking him. Are you sure you want to know the truth?
“Have you ever been to Jordan, Minnesota?” The question was out of her mouth before she could stop it. The man paused, mid-sip, and his eyes fixed onto hers for a moment. Then, he pushed his chair back and stood up, picking up his smoothie as he did so. “Sorry, ladies. That’s all you get.” Then the ghost of a smile flickered across his face. “You look just like her,” he said to Mara.
“Who?”
“Your Grandmother,” he replied. “I knew her once.” Then, before Mara or Abby could say anything, he slipped through the tables that lined the windows and vanished into the growing line in front of the counter, and then was out into the Mall and gone.
“That was crazy,” Mara said. “You okay, Abbs? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I feel like I have,” Abby replied, forcing a grin to cover the ball of tension in her stomach.
“Who was that guy?” Mara asked.
“I don’t know,” Abby replied. “But whoever he is, he’s not good news.”
~