Final shadows, p.2
Final Shadows, page 2
Do they know about us?
Will anyone come for us?
Does anyone care what’s happening to us?
No, Henry could not have answered those questions, not today. Maybe . . . maybe later. She hoped. She hoped so bad. For some kind of news.
For some kind of hope.
But for now he was another victim. Someone she had to try to help, to try to warn. So maybe he would know just enough to escape their punishments.
She held up one hand and stared at it, at the bandage that made her hand a fist because it covered the stumps of what had been her fingers.
“Hold on, Henry,” she whispered. “Hold on as long as you can.”
* * *
• • •
“Report.”
Sebring stood before the group of her superiors, more relaxed than many might have been because she was a highly capable and confident woman.
Some would have said arrogant. Had said, in fact.
Brisk and impersonal, she said, “There have been increasing signs that the resistance movement is gaining strength. Their numbers grow almost daily, and it’s clear they have hidden assets providing them with important resources.”
“What kind of resources?” the man at the head of the table asked.
“High-tech equipment and access to information, contacts within various branches of law enforcement and the government, fast travel when needed, possibly weapons. Plenty of money.”
“How high up in law enforcement?”
“FBI.”
He didn’t quite flinch. Not quite. “Bishop?”
“I believe he’s made contact with them, something we anticipated. He could very well be helping them, providing intel and support. He may actively be searching for missing psychics on his watch list.”
Another man said, hoarsely, “We agreed. We agreed to stay as far away from Bishop and his psychics as possible. Including those on his watch list.”
“Yes, sir. But since he has not exactly published his watch list, nor visibly branded any of the psychics on it, our only means of determining which psychics are in contact with him is observation over a period of time. Sometimes over months. Until he does or does not make contact with them, or we see some other sign that tells us they are not his.” Her voice was not at all disrespectful, merely matter-of-fact.
“Our psychics—”
“Risk alerting Bishop if they touch the mind of one of his psychics. I’ve been given no reasonable explanation as to how he’s able to do it, but our scientists are certain that once he has made contact with a psychic, he knows when that psychic is . . . in trouble. When that psychic is taken. He knows, or they are able to call out to him somehow, even if they are not telepaths. So all we can do is watch, and wait, and follow our protocols.
“But we are tracking psychics we’re reasonably sure are not on his watch list. Those we can take.” She paused briefly. “You ordered me in recent months to increase the number of subjects, to locate and take more of them. You’ve been concerned with numbers. Higher numbers mean we have to move faster. Haste means a greater possibility of mistakes.”
“We can’t afford mistakes,” a third man said harshly.
“Yes, sir. I am aware. My people know their jobs. I merely point out that the risks increase when we move faster than originally planned.”
“And the resistance? Do they know?” the same man demanded, his voice still harsh. “Do they know who we are? What we are?”
“Of course not, sir. And as yet, they have no idea why psychics are so important to us.”
“As yet?”
Coolly, she said, “Logically, they will either work it out by putting together disparate pieces of the puzzle they’ve managed to acquire over the years or else will get on their side a psychic able to tell them what they need to know. It’s only a matter of time. It was always only a matter of time. Especially once their technology, primarily in communication and information-gathering, reached a certain critical stage. That stage, I believe, has been achieved.”
“We’re close,” one of the other men at the table muttered. “Too close to allow them to interfere.”
“My people won’t allow that to happen, sir.”
“I trust you’re as confident as you sound, Sebring.” It wasn’t a question.
But she answered it nevertheless.
“Of course, sir. There is no reason not to be confident.”
“There is Duran. And there is, still, Tasha Solomon.”
“I have factored both into my calculations, sir. Duran is being manipulated, his work interfered with, his progress slowed. And Solomon is wholly occupied with . . . personal concerns. Neither of them present any obstacle or danger to your plans.”
“And Bishop?”
“It’s still an open question as to how deeply he means to involve himself in this. Even to search for psychics on his watch list he risks at the very least his position and authority within the FBI. He has spent too many years building his unit and Haven to risk both out of concern for a few missing psychics.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course, sir.” She was honestly surprised that anyone would even question that. Risk everything he’d built only to search for a psychic or two, likely dead by now anyway?
No, of course Bishop wouldn’t do that.
She was certain of it.
* * *
• • •
“Should you be so close to Charleston?” Murphy asked.
“Well, it does seem the place to be. For now, at least. Don’t worry, I’m shielded by more than my own abilities.”
Murphy nodded, confident in that, at least.
She should have been, since she’d helped set up that very careful, multilayered security.
The leader of their resistance sat back in her chair and looked across at the other woman, both of them alert despite the lateness of the hour.
“And we do have a lot to discuss. Especially since we know considerably more now than we did even just days ago. Good work, finding both of their main office buildings. And learning what makes them different.”
“I wasn’t the only one searching. We have some damned good assets.” Waving that aside absently, Murphy added, “I think that gives us an extra reason to push now that we know they don’t present the united front we believed they did. Maybe our best bet now, our best strategy, is divide and conquer. Or, at least, divide and confuse like hell.”
The other woman smiled faintly, but asked, “Are you sure it’s the best time to try this? Already a lot of balls in the air, and we can’t afford to drop any of them. For one thing, we have a major rescue operation set for less than a week away, probably the most important one of this war. And unless I’m misreading Bishop badly, he’s more than determined to find the missing psychics on his watch list.”
“If they’re still alive.”
“I think he believes they are. That he can still save them. And I don’t believe he’ll accept our experiences in that as a good enough reason to stop his search.”
“Yeah.”
“So we have that variable, that . . . wild card, to factor into our plans. The rescue operation is something for which we’ve been readying our people and other assets for many weeks now. And even that’s been adjusted, more people and assets called upon, as Tucker and others find more facilities.”
“I know. And I agree it could be and probably is the most important action we’ve taken in this war so far.”
“So is it the right time to push Duran? Is the risk worth the potential benefits of whatever intel he’ll part with?”
Murphy was frowning a little, but not with uncertainty as her response clearly showed. “I think a lot depends on what happens between now and then, as far as that rescue operation goes. Even as carefully as we’ve planned, it could all change in a heartbeat. We don’t have a single precog on our side able to see how that operation—or any other—works out for us. Which means all we can do is play the hand we’re dealt with the cards we have.”
“Agreed.”
“As for Bishop . . . I don’t doubt he has assets looking for those psychics, that he and Miranda are using their own knowledge and senses, especially now that we all agree Duran knows they’re in the game. They don’t have to use Miranda’s shield all the time to hide themselves, which means that, whatever they do for us, for this war, they also have their own agenda. And I hope they find them, Bishop’s missing psychics. God knows we’ve never been able to, once they’re taken.”
“If he finds them . . . it’s more than likely he’ll find where they’re taken and held.”
“Something else we’ve never been able to do,” Murphy noted.
“Their main offices plus the facilities where they take and hold psychics . . . if we had both, it could be a major turning point. Potentially a huge amount of intel over and above the chance to hurt them and get some of our own back. Knowing the locations of both could, at the very least, give us actual targets to hit, and hit hard.”
“You know their security’s going to be hell to breach.”
“And we both know we have some very, very bright people working on those problems, ongoing.” She shook her head slightly, but her eyes were bright. “We all knew Bishop could be a game changer. Maybe this whole thing is finally tipping in our direction.”
“Maybe.”
“Your relationship with Duran could be another key.”
Murphy winced. “Relationship. Gotta be another name for two enemies who trust each other about as far as either one of us could throw a Buick.”
“Well, whatever it is, it’s been helpful. And now, perhaps . . . a lot more than helpful.”
“Well, I am pretty sure I’ve hit a tipping point with him, boss. If he isn’t ready for that one last push now, he never will be.”
“And afterward? Making the giant assumption that all this goes our way eventually?”
Murphy didn’t need the question explained. “He’s taken a lot of chances to help us, even risked his life, I think. Certainly risked his position. I don’t believe he would have done that only to see his own people destroyed if we won decisively and could . . . dictate what happens to them. I think it’s really about survival with him. Survival of his people. He wouldn’t be Duran if he hadn’t thought of a time after this war, win or lose.”
“But would he remain dangerous?”
“I’d want to keep a close eye on him for a while,” Murphy said honestly. “On his operations. Make sure we know what he and his people are doing. My guess would be some kind of business, a company, investigation and security, at least in the beginning. His people are already trained for that kind of work.”
“Not military?”
“Not something I think we should ever agree to, at least for the foreseeable future. And I think Duran would know that.”
“What about the political aspirations?”
Murphy shook her head. “You know we’ve found evidence they’ve managed to place people on the very bottom rungs of that ladder, and worldwide, but I’d be very surprised if that was ever a part of their original plan, before some of them figured out they were stuck here. Surprised if Duran knows for sure what his superiors had in mind, have in mind, and pretty damned sure he wasn’t happy about the situation. He was . . . almost . . . too willing to get rid of Wolfe. I don’t think he approves of the political aspirations.”
The boss smiled faintly. “Why not?”
“For one thing, any mistakes are on far too public a stage to suit him. And bad mistakes would be costly.”
“And for another thing?”
“It was never about conquest with him. Never about domination, power. Like I said, he’s about survival. He genuinely believed, for a very long time, that the mission was to save his people. A positive goal, not a negative one. And I think that’s important, a vital distinction, especially now that we know about the other faction. Something we can add to all the times he’s had chances to kill, to destroy and didn’t. Duran doesn’t want to destroy. Maybe that’s his mother’s influence, whether or not he’s consciously aware of it. Or maybe it’s just the life he spent growing up here.”
“You think he admires us?”
“I think he doesn’t believe we’re inferior.”
“You do realize we’re banking a great deal on how this one man will respond to our plans?”
“Of course.” Murphy smiled suddenly. “But everything we’ve found out, especially recently, tells me we can do that.”
“With high confidence?”
Murphy’s smile widened. “With high confidence.”
TWO
MONDAY, JUNE 3
CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA
The roar of the flames was ungodly.
Noah Bishop and his wife and partner, Miranda, were no more than half an hour later than planned in reaching the small, innocuous house in its normal Charlotte suburban neighborhood with its almost cookie-cutter houses, each with neat, spacious yards and the privacy of hedges and well-pruned trees, and the occasional nice, well-maintained fence.
The sort of fence that both maintained privacy and allowed several of the larger homes to also host quiet home businesses that were tolerated so long as they did not disturb the peace of the neighborhood. Because it was a nice neighborhood.
The sort of neighborhood where people were outwardly friendly and waved smilingly across streets and yards and fences but were basically uninterested in neighbors and kept their business to themselves and their noses out of other people’s business. Suburb or not, Charlotte was a huge city, with a huge city’s impassivity.
And this normal suburban neighborhood in this huge city naturally boasted good electronic security guarding most houses as well as a Neighborhood Watch, and many dogs inside the houses and patrolling fenced yards.
Not a sound came from any of those early warning systems.
The dogs, in particular, were almost eerily silent. Many had been visible as the couple had silently made their way to their destination, dogs standing at gates or on front porches or inside the houses peering through windows, turning their heads to watch the strangers passing, yet all of them otherwise unmoving and silent.
Bishop, who knew dogs, made a troubled mental note.
When the report was filed, everyone questioned, when what was left of the house had been poked and prodded and examined, it might or might not have been something noticed by others, perhaps commented upon, and if so would be listed as one more inexplicable thing in a world filled with them.
No one had noticed anything unusual, that’s what they would most likely say, what they’d tell the police and fire marshal. The peaceful house that served as a quiet short-term convalescent home for people recovering from surgeries was always quiet, more secluded than some of the other houses in the neighborhood and with a larger yard than most, its caretakers pleasant, the patients hardly seen at all by neighbors too polite to peer over the tall privacy fence.
Everything had been fine, had been normal, and why would anyone want to burn down that lovely house?
But it was burning. And they were late in arriving.
No more than half an hour late.
But it was enough.
The predawn morning was lit with a hellish glow because the roof was already burning savagely with hungry flames, burning too quickly, too intensely, too needfully, to be anything but deliberate. The drought of weeks past had left everything a tinderbox. And still there must have been the need for absolute certainty, the need to destroy utterly, because the house had, clearly, been liberally splashed with an accelerant of some kind, inside and out, just to make certain that the roar of the fire would be swift, hungry and fierce. And not just the roof, but the once-pretty shingle siding and the shrubbery planted near the house, and even where there seemed little to burn, fire blazed, blocking every window and every door.
Burning. Burning, all of it.
Bishop and Miranda could see nothing but flames as they raced toward the house already knowing they were too late. Every possible entrance—and exit—was blocked by the fire. A wall of flames no human could breach. The whole place deliberately turned into a living, writhing, gleeful hell.
They stopped only when they had to, when the wave of heat blasting back at them was searing even twenty yards away, nearly knocking them off their feet as the fire’s hungry roar increased. And even then, what stopped them was the inescapable certainty that there was no way in.
And no way out.
Dimly, sirens could be heard, so already a neighbor up early or awakened had noticed and called first responders. Because the house’s fire alarms would have been disabled, of course, detectors destroyed and lines to emergency services severed, just so there would be more time for the fire to take hold. More time to destroy . . . everything.
“Shit,” Miranda muttered, and went utterly still, her intense gaze fixed on the flaming pyre.
“Goddammit, Miranda, don’t—”
“I have to. You know I have to.”
And she was already reaching out with every one of her senses, as unable as he was not to use every tool at her disposal when lives were at stake. And she had to do this, her rather than him, because it was the shield she had made that protected them both, something organic to her, and only she could shatter it in a violent instant without harming both of them. The intensely powerful psychic shield created out of desperate need that had been in place for years to hide herself and her younger sister, Bonnie, from the monster that had destroyed their family. And, more recently these last months, to hide Bishop and herself from those who would be interested, if not horrified and panicked, at their involvement in this.
