Phoenix (12 page)

"Come on." Mort patted his arm. "Let’s see
what sort of illegal activities our Club has planned for us."

* * *

A few hours later, the house was empty save
for Mort and Brad. The Club had dispersed, each member tasked with
certain responsibilities concerning the plan, and were off making
whatever preparations were necessary. Jonah had left as well,
though he’d declined participating in their illegal venture.

"Where did he go?" Brad asked.

Mort folded the newspaper he held and placed
it neatly on the countertop, then walked over to the island and sat
down across from Brad. "I guess he went back out hunting."

"No luck before?"

"I don’t think so. I asked him about it, but
he didn’t say a word. I think he’s as blind to them as me and
Laura." He held up his hands.

Brad snorted. "Yeah. Real gabby, that
one."

"He’s good at what he does. And he doesn’t
need to say so either."

"I know." Brad held his head and waved the
other hand in the air. "I know." After a moment, he let out a
breath and stroked his chin. He hadn’t shaved in days and had a
fair amount of scruff to show for it. "Why don’t we just go to the
press? Even if the majority doesn’t believe us, rumors would get
started. This day and age, that’d probably be enough to muck up
their plans."

Mort sighed. "The world sees PhoenTek as a
savior. They make grand promises of more jobs, higher-quality
products, more accessible services, and greater funding for medical
research. They’ve guaranteed cures for cancer, Parkinson’s,
Alzheimer’s. In times as troubled as these, people grasp at any
hope available, even false hope. Never in a million years would you
be able to turn people against them."

Brad gritted his teeth. "Then we cut off the
head."

Mort’s head jerked back as if he’d been
slapped. "What are you saying?" He jabbed a stubby finger toward
the window. "It’s bad enough our friends are out there getting
ready to vandalize so many of PhoenTeks’ trucks that their asses
might wind up behind bars for a few months. Maybe a fine and
community service if they’re lucky." Mort’s voice rose in octave
until he was standing and emphasizing with his hands. "And you want
to do what, exactly? Go to prison for life? Maybe get slapped with
a death sentence?"

"PhoenTek is a snake. Cut off the head, it
dies. Who’s the head? Sean Boucher. We take him down, maybe the
organization crumbles. Maybe we stomp this thing flat."

Mort shook his head and grabbed the paper
behind him. He slammed it down in front of Brad and tapped the
picture on the front page. "This guy. Look at him."

Brad kept his eyes on Mort and balled his
fists.

"Look at him!" Mort slapped the paper.

Brad lowered his eyes and stared at the
PhoenTek logo next to a grainy black and white photograph of the
CEO. The front page of the paper fluttered when Mort hit it,
causing the blazing-orange and red bird of the logo to come to life
for a second.

"Maybe you need a reality check, boy." Mort
prodded the paper again. "This is real, and that’s a human being
you’re talking about." He shoved the paper toward Brad and stepped
away. "I understand you’ve been dealing with more than any one man
should have to, but listen to me. Killing a man isn’t easy, and if
you ever find it is?" Mort shook his head in disgust. "We’re not
gods, and we don’t use our gifts to kill. We’re not
them
."
He pointed to the picture of Sean Boucher.

Brad kept his eyes on the newspaper and his
mouth shut. He’d just realized how to find them, or at least how to
find
Boucher
. He almost laughed but bit it off. Brad heard
Mort jingling glasses in the cabinet, then the kitchen faucet turn
on. When he knew Mort would have a mouthful of water, he spoke
up.

"And if this doesn’t work? Delaying or even
stopping the distribution of their vaccine? What then? You said we
needed to try and stop this. What then, Mort?" His voice was low
and only after he’d finished did he raise his eyes to meet his
mentor’s.

Mort swallowed with a click. "Then we try
something else."

Brad’s shoulders slumped, and he looked down
at the paper again.

"Not an option, boy. Get your head around it.
It’s not going to happen. We find another way."

Brad’s hung head wobbled in what passed as a
nod and he mumbled, "Fine."

"We have an understanding?"

"Yes, fine. I get it."

Mort watched Brad as the younger man’s hands
clenched and unclenched on the tabletop next to the paper. Brad’s
eyes were still glued to Boucher’s face.

"What’s really going on here?"

Brad looked up. "What do you mean? What the
hell have we been talking about for the past twenty minutes?" He
made a move to get up and storm out, but Mort stayed him with a
single question.

"What are you
really
afraid of?"

Fear. That’s what was driving Brad. Mort had
figured it out, and now that he had, it poured from the boy even
without Mort having to tap his pen.

Mort stepped around the island, his concern
growing.

Brad only had one image in his mind: the
blonde, curly-haired woman from his dream. "I have to take care of
something." Brad didn’t wait for Mort to protest. Halfway to the
front door he called out over his shoulder, "Call if you need
anything."

Mort caught up just as the door slammed shut,
and he paused with his hand on the knob. "Trust him, Mort," he said
to himself. He backed away and wiped his sweaty palms against his
pantlegs. "Just trust him. You’ve got your own work to do." With
that, he went to the phone and started making calls.

Time to check in with the Club’s
progress.

"Sir, the target is leaving the city, headed
south," Briggs said. "What are my instructions?"

"Is she alone?" Rakburn asked.

"Yes, sir. It is only the woman. Do I
follow?"

Rakburn considered this a moment. "No. Hold
your position and notify me when she returns."

"Understood, sir."

Rakburn hung up before the junior agent could
pester him with questions. He sat at the window, staring across the
street at the precog’s apartment. It had been empty for almost two
days, and he didn’t dare use his ability to track the young man’s
location. Doing so might cause his cloak to slip. Since talking
with Sam, Rakburn had laid out a plan for keeping his
insubordination a secret.

Now he just needed the impulsive young bloke
to come home so he could activate it.

A radio murmured on the table next to him. He
reached over and turned up the volume. It was set on an AM news
station. He preferred this method of staying up to date to
television, since the light from the screen could potentially give
him away.

"The WHO is saying that cases of the Korean
Flu are being reported in Beijing, Tokyo, Tehran, Cairo,
Paris…"

Rakburn’s back stiffened and he leaned closer
to the radio.
Korean
Flu
?

"Hospitals in the affected cities are said to
be overflowing with patients. Attempts to slow the spread of the
virus have failed, and the world waits to see if the global giant,
PhoenTek, will deliver on its promise of a vaccine. So far, no
cases have been reported in the United States, and travel to or
from the affected areas has been suspended indefinitely."

Rakburn flipped off the radio and pulled his
cell from his jacket pocket. The phone rang three times before a
woman answered.

"What is your status?" he asked.

"Hello to you too, Agent Rakburn. And my
status has gone to hell, thanks for asking."

He could hear sirens in the background and
the voices of several people. "Who is with you?"

"All the European agents. We’ve been ordered
to pull out. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but Paris is lost. So
is London, Dublin, Madrid, and Rome. The Board has ordered us back
home. We’re getting on a private jet and hauling ass back to
Headquarters as fast as possible."

Rakburn smoothed his mustache with a
trembling hand and took a moment to collect himself. Things were
indeed progressing at an alarming rate and he wondered if the Board
had foreseen this long ago. That would explain their insistence on
a contingency plan.

"I understand," Rakburn said. "It would seem
we have reached a critical juncture."

"Pretty much. Wait, hold on a second."

Rakburn listened to Istrah talk with someone
in the background. He couldn’t make out who it was, but the voice
was hurried.

"Sorry, but I gotta run. Time to hit the
skies. With any luck I’ll be seeing you soon. Take care of
yourself."

The call disconnected and Rakburn was left
staring at his cell.

He was desperate to know what the Board was
doing now, though he didn’t dare call any of them. They called
him
, not the other way around. He understood the basic
outline of the Board’s operation and from the very beginning had
spread information about it throughout his web of agents. He
thought of them as
his
agents; he was the oldest still
active, after all, and had always looked after the others. He knew
each of them by name, knew the names of their wives, husbands,
children, and even their pets. The Board cared very little for the
well-being of its agents; they were expendable. They were simply
tools to be used and discarded.

He had left the DHS for this very reason,
only to join an organization that trod down the same path.

If he had to guess, the PhoenTek CEO would be
giving the order to begin distribution of the vaccine immediately.
That would mean free clinics at predetermined locations, spread
strategically throughout the country to cover as much of the
populace as possible. While not everyone would receive it, this
part of the plan would ensure the greatest chance of success.

In the event that phase one failed, they
would move on to phase two.

Operation Phoenix.

He
had
to find out whether this had
been initiated. If not, then the precog could be of even
greater
use to him.

Rakburn pulled a small notebook from his
briefcase and began calling his fellow agents stationed within the
United States.

Across the street, Brad entered his apartment
building.

* * *

Before unlocking his door, Brad checked his
danger radar and blinked out a few pulses. Finding nothing, he
hurried inside and locked up. He had been forced to fight through
three separate visions on the walk over from Mort’s. Now he felt
like he had a hangover, minus the drinking part. But he didn’t have
time to be sick right now. He had to warn her.

Brad headed straight to his bedroom closet.
He grabbed and tossed things off the top shelf, littering the floor
with old boxes, spare blankets, and Playboys. He muttered to
himself until he finally found what he was looking for. He grabbed
it and sat down on the edge of the bed. The shoebox lid hit the
floor and Brad stared down at an old photograph of her, taken on
one of their vacations to the mountains. She had always said it was
silly, staying in a hotel or renting a cabin, when she happened to
live in the area and they could stay at her house for free. Not
only that, but it was hardly a vacation for her when the background
was something she’d known her whole life. "Same shit, different
day," she would say.

She never shared his romantic view. It was
one of the reasons for their split.

He dug through the box until he found a scrap
of paper with three phone numbers scrawled on it. Brad tried her
home number first.

"I’m sorry. The number you have reached is no
longer in—"

"Goddammit." Brad punched the button and
ended the call. He dialed her cell.

"I’m sorry. The number you have reached is no
longer in—"

"Goddammit!" He threw the phone across the
room, stood, and pulled at his hair. "Okay, calm down. If you
don’t, Mort’ll be calling. Just cool it." He took a few deep
breaths and retrieved his phone from under the dresser. He had to
snap the battery and cover back into place, but luckily it wasn’t
broken. "Dumbass," he muttered and went back to the bed.

He dialed the last number on the list. Her
work number.

"She’s going to kill me."

The phone started ringing and wasn’t
interrupted by the lovely computer voice.

He pumped a fist and whispered, "Yes." Then
he realized again that he was calling her at work and remembered
the reason for it. "Shit. She’s going to kill me."

Four rings later she answered.
"Stratford."

"Uh…" He paused to clear his throat. "Uh,
hey, Kasey."

* * *

Mort and Jonah stood in front of the TV in
the older man’s living room, watching a CBS News Break. Neither was
upset that it had interrupted regularly scheduled programming.
Jonah watched in silence while Mort spoke quietly on the phone.

"Yes, Laura. Do it. Give the go ahead. I want
this over with in the next thirty minutes." He listened to her
reply and nodded. "Good. And try to stay out of jail, okay?" He
hung up and turned his attention back to the TV.

"They hittin’ the trucks?" Jonah asked, the
cigarette held between his lips wobbling with each word.

"Yes. We can’t get them all, but Laura was
able to get almost everyone in my book on board. So we should be
able to sabotage about half of them from here all the way to
California."

"That’s a lot of trucks."

Mort shrugged. "Stop them before they head
out and the vaccine never gets to where it’s going. Like I said, we
won’t get them all, but we have to do something."

"Gotta try, I know."

The breaking news report was updating people
on the Korean Flu situation and where to go to get their
injection.