The Trials (The Red Trilogy Book 2) (43 page)

“Geez,” Joby says. “She’s
agreeing
with you. It’s not some fucking one-in-a-billion coincidence that you know Graham. It’s because you know Graham that you’re here at all.”

Delphi crosses her arms, looking impatient. “Shelley, can we just please set up a secure call with your cousin and get this done?”

I’m grateful to her for the change of subject, but this isn’t going to be as easy as she hopes. “Mark won’t do this over the phone. This isn’t a little favor. The only way he’ll consider it is if he can look me in the eye, log my overlay’s serial number, and know that he’s not being spoofed and that no one is holding a gun to my head. So we have to go see him.”

Jaynie looks resigned. “Back to New York?”

“Back to DC. Mark lives in a Maryland suburb, just outside the capital.”

•   •   •   •

Airline seats are rationed and booked up for months, so we take a train. Rawlings isn’t happy. He says we have too many enemies, we’re too vulnerable. But during the two days it takes to reach the Capitol, no one tries to kill or kidnap us. It’s kind of nice.

On the way we watch the second episode of
Against the Beast
. It’s titled “Shadow Governments,” and Koi Reisman has put it together to look like a political drama. The story centers on the FBI agents, introduced during the first episode, as they pursue a relentless investigation of the DC nuke. Undaunted by power plays and stonewalling from above, they persist—until a credible informant whispers of an old and long-buried scandal linking the president to Carl Vanda and, by implication, to the Coma Day cover-up.

It’s an association that could bring down the administration.

As the senior agent contemplates her next best move, fresh intel arrives. Two more INDs have been tentatively located. Fearing a cover-up in her chain of command, the agent defies protocol and organizes her resources to back an illegal mission by a secret militia on its way to confirm the presence of the INDs aboard the
Non-Negotiable
.

The bloody, tragic gun battle that follows consumes less than forty seconds of the show. It’s all blazing muzzle shots, heavy breathing, and first-person viewpoints—an anonymous militia to the end—but the nukes are recovered, with the promise that they will be removed to a secure facility and disassembled.

Koi Reisman said it wasn’t my show anymore. She was right and I’m glad for it, but that doesn’t mean my story is over.

•   •   •   •

My cousin Mark picks us up at the station in an electric sedan with tinted windows. He’s twelve years older than me and a few pounds heavier, with a neatly trimmed beard and dark brown hair already beginning to show a little gray. As I slide into the passenger seat beside him, he gives me a nervous smile.

I introduce him to Jaynie and Delphi.

“Let’s not talk until we get to the house,” he says.

He’s had a shielded, soundproof room built into his basement to use when he’s working at home. There are monitors on the walls, a stand-up desk, a couple of sofas, and pillows on the carpeted floor. Mark closes the door, cutting off the faint hum of appliances running upstairs. He turns to me. “You are seriously scaring the fuck out of me, Jimmy.”

“We need this, Mark. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t critical.”

“I saw ‘Shadow Governments.’ It looks like fiction, but the rumor mill is buzzing. Chatter says the president is stitching his golden parachute. I don’t know if you meant to bring down the administration when you pulled off First Light, but it looks like you might do it.”

“The president,” I say noncommittally, “is a complicated man.”

“So are you, cousin. That battle at the end of the show? I had a feeling I was seeing part of it through your eyes.”

“Good guess,” Jaynie says. She takes off her jacket to show him the livid, fresh scar from her bullet wound. She’s still wearing a brace on her arm.

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

She tells him, “There’s another mission in the planning stages, with a similar goal.”

I sketch out the highlights. Mark, of course, has his
own overlay and while he’s too polite to say so, I know he’s using emotional analysis to measure our truthfulness and our sincerity.

Delphi sums things up. “If we can access Eduard Semak’s overlay, we’ll know the location of his rogue nukes, and we will turn that information over to an agency that can go after them.”

Mark looks at me with real worry. “Why is it you, Jimmy? You’ve done your part. You’ve done enough. Someone else should go.”

Jaynie answers for me. “It’s not our decision.”

Mark studies her with a thoughtful expression, as if FaceValue is giving him mixed data, but then he shrugs. “Okay. I understand you can’t tell me everything.” He pulls a hand-size tablet out of his pocket. “You’ve got the optical trigger?”

Jaynie hands it to him.

He shows us how to use the slider switch to wipe the memory. Then he manipulates the tablet until it displays a long string of letters and numbers and symbols. “My company has reevaluated security, in light of the breach you uncovered, Jimmy.”

“So you know who was working with Jasmine Harris?” I ask him.

“Let’s just say I know how Harris got the code.” He taps the rim of the tablet. “We’ve closed the loophole that let it happen. I need you to understand that I will not be able to do this again.”

“Mark, you know I wouldn’t ask for it this time, except—”

“I know.” He scans the string with the optical trigger, which beeps in acknowledgment. Then he hands the device back to Jaynie. “That’ll let you do what you need to do.”

“Mark . . .” I hesitate. I don’t want to compromise him,
but there’s another question he might be able to help me with. “Do you know of any other LCS soldiers who use an overlay?”

Right away, he’s suspicious. “No, but we’ve sold close to two hundred thousand systems. So I guess it’s possible. Why?”

“There are supposed to be others like me.” I asked Jones to look into it—more than once—but I got nothing back. “I want to know if it’s true. I want to know who they are.”

It’s an awkward moment as his gaze darts away. When he looks at me again, it’s with narrowed eyes. “I’m not going to look that up for you.”

“Mark—”

“Leave it, Shelley,” Jaynie warns. “We got what we need to support the mission. Pushing for anything else is a security risk and it undermines our integrity.”

All true. But I don’t want to let it go. Mark is my last, best resource. He has direct access to the names of everyone who has ever been fitted with an overlay. “Look, it’s not like I’m asking for more codes. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just need to know if . . .”

I hesitate, wondering why this is so important to me.

Jaynie wants to know the same thing. “If what, Shelley? Why does it matter?”

I just want to know I’m not the only soldier on call in the Red’s network. If there are others, soldiers who’ve held on to their anonymity, I want to believe they have my back, that they’ll be in a position to step in and salvage things when I fuck up.

“I’m just asking for names. Nothing else. I just want to know if other soldiers are wired with overlays—and if they’re still alive.”

Mark crosses his arms. Puts on a stubborn expression. “If they do exist, if they’re still alive, I’m not going
to compromise their safety or the future of my company by compiling that information. Sorry, Jimmy. But I’ve got integrity too.”

•   •   •   •

We’re not due back at the train station until after midnight, so we order pizza and then sit in the living room and talk. Mark tells me that my dad’s doing okay, he’s got a new apartment, and he’s thinking of getting into city politics, which amazes me. He’s always been a private man, but he’s angry now, and determined to take back his world.

We’ve moved on to a discussion of the guilty verdict in the Sheridan trial when a soft, tonal alarm goes off. I look at Mark, who’s frowning at something on his overlay. “Black SUV stopped at the curb,” he announces. “Right in front of the house. Two women, one man, exiting. Dressed in dark suits, wearing farsights, with handguns under their coats.”

“Still holstered, right?” I ask him.

“So far. Okay, two are staying by the car. Just one of the women is coming to the front door—that’s a good sign. She identifies with ninety-five percent probability as Secret Service. So does the other woman. The guy must be a rookie. I’ve got him at only forty-nine percent.”

“Nice security system,” Delphi says.

“Thanks.”

I do not want to be arrested again, but I also don’t want to get Mark in trouble. “I’ll answer it.” He objects politely. I ignore him. Signaling Delphi to stay put, I go to the door. Jaynie comes with me.

Past the curtain, I see the porch light come on. Jaynie stands on the side so she’ll be out of sight as I open the door—which I do slowly to avoid startling the agent.

She nods when she sees me, and for a few seconds we study each other, her translucent farsights confirming my
identity while my overlay seeks for hers. She looks to be in her forties, maybe five nine, with a neat black perm and strong Latina features—but my encyclopedia fails to come up with a name.

“Lieutenant Shelley,” she says, displaying her badge. “May I come in?”

I turn to look at Mark for permission. He shrugs. If he has anything to hide, it’s well hidden. So I open the door wider and let her in.

As she enters, she scans the room with her farsights. Her gaze pauses first on Jaynie, who is looking intimidating dressed in a tight black athletic shirt, black skullcap, and farsights. The agent smiles. “Sergeant Vasquez.”

“Ma’am.”

Her gaze lingers next on Delphi. No doubt she successfully identifies my former handler Karin Larsen, but she has the manners not to say so. Instead she turns to me with an earnest look. “Lieutenant—”

“I’m not an officer anymore, ma’am.”

“Of course. My apologies. Mr. Shelley—and Ms. Vasquez—a ceremony of some importance will take place tomorrow at noon, at the White House. The two of you were not expected to be available, but since you are here—”

“We’re leaving tonight,” Jaynie interrupts.

“In that case, the president requests you delay your departure.”

The president requests it?

“What kind of ceremony is it?” I ask.

“I’m not at liberty to say, but be assured it is of crucial importance to the future of the country. A car will pick you up tomorrow morning at oh eight hundred. You will be informed of the nature of the ceremony when you reach the White House. Nothing will be required of you except your appearance.”

I wonder if it’s a trick, but if so, why go through a charade? They could arrest us now if they wanted to.

I look at Delphi for her opinion. It’s easy to see from her expression she doesn’t like the idea. “You don’t have a suit,” she points out. “Neither does Vasquez.”

The agent frowns, hesitates. Then her farsights flicker and she relaxes again. “Formal attire will be provided.”

I am not the president’s favorite war hero, but that doesn’t mean Jaynie and I can’t be useful to him, our presence a stamp of approval on whatever scheme he’s about to announce. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to be used as propaganda in a regime as corrupt as this one, but if Kendrick were here he would tell me to shut the fuck up and honor the request of my commander in chief.

“You okay with it, Jaynie?”

She crosses her arms. “It’s an invite from the
president
. Say no to that, and next time he might not ask nicely.”

I think she’s wrong. I don’t think there will be a next time; I don’t think there can be. The video of Carl Vanda’s interrogation hasn’t gone public yet, but that won’t last.

“So you’re coming?” the agent concludes drily, one arched eyebrow communicating her opinion. “Very good.” She opens the door. “Please do not speak of this to anyone who might leak it to the media.”

After the black SUV pulls away, Mark inspects the walkway and the front porch for bugs.

I help Delphi reschedule our train tickets.

•   •   •   •

By ten hundred the next morning, Jaynie and I are back in DC. I’m wearing a perfectly tailored gray suit; she’s in a dusky blue, flowing jacket and loose slacks that somehow make her skullcap look like an intentional part of the outfit and not just the emotional prosthetic that it is.

We take seats in a briefing room with nineteen other puzzled citizens. My overlay identifies most of them as respected and retired politicians and military officers. Clearly, the president is determined to endow this ceremony with all the borrowed legitimacy he can.

When the chief of staff comes in, the low murmur of conversation falls off into silence. She takes the podium— a fair-skinned woman, around forty years old, mostly Caucasian with her African ancestry showing only around her full lips, in her wide eyes, and in her heavy black hair.

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice. Your presence here today will help ensure a smooth transition, and encourage the people of this country to be confident in the president’s decision. I am authorized to announce to you that with the president’s encouragement, Vice President Thompson has chosen to resign from elected office effective now, at ten hundred, in deference to a suite of charges that will soon be filed against him—charges that have resulted from the ongoing and widespread investigation into the systemic corruption and influence peddling that allowed the treason of Coma Day.” Her gaze settles on me and Jaynie. “We have here with us today former lieutenant James Shelley and former sergeant Jayne Vasquez, whose patriotism ignited the search for truth and justice that has led to Mr. Thompson’s resignation. Lieutenant Shelley, Sergeant Vasquez, I’m sure I speak for all of us here when I say, thank you both for your service.”

She gives us a tight-lipped smile, and then her gaze rises to take in the full audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, the nominee for vice president of the United States is judge and former colonel Susan Monteiro.”

I turn to meet Jaynie’s incredulous expression. Judge Monteiro, the woman who, less than two months ago, was prepared to sentence us both to life in prison, will be
second-in-command of the United States. Jaynie shakes her head, I grin, and we both rise to join in the applause and exclamations of approval that greet Susan Monteiro as she walks in and takes over the podium.