Chapter Eighteen

The Deck

Saturday, August 28, 10:22 A.M.

Time Remaining on Extinction Clock: 97 hours, 38 minutes E.S.T.

Paris’s cell rang as their plane was rolling to a stop on the tarmac.

“Yes?” he answered in a musical voice.

“It’s me,” said J. P. Sunderland.

“And—”

“It’s a wash. We hit all of the DMS bases likely to have a Mind-Reader substation, but without an Executive Order to shoot, the best we could manage was a standoff. Actually, kiddo,” Sunderland said, “we have several agents in the hospital and ears are up in local and regional law coast to coast. The Vice President is probably going to get his ass dragged before a subcommittee for this.”

“So,” Paris said with ice, “basically you fucked it up.”

“Basically, yes.”

“You could at least sound contrite.”

“Blow me, snowball,” said Sunderland. There was no heat in his voice; there never was. He was too practiced a game player to let any bad hand of cards, or even a bad run of cards, fracture his cool. “This was a fifty-fifty at best and we all knew that going in. You and your sister called this play. I was against it from the start as you well know. It’s a waste of resources that could have been better used further down the road.”

“We need that system. Without MindReader the money train’s going to slow to a halt, J.P.”

“I’ll practice singing the blues later. Right now it looks like the NSA will be stalled long enough for the power to shift back to the President. And, like I said, we may lose the Vice President over this.”

“What a pity,” drawled Paris. “That would bring the free world to its knees.”

“Okay, fair enough, who cares if he sinks? Point is, the NSA ploy would have had more pop to it if we’d used it when the big man was dead.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think?”

Paris laughed. “What are you saying? That you plan to have Church whacked?” He liked saying the word “whacked.”

“Me? Hell no . . . but there’s a rumor in the wind that there’s a contract out on him. Church and a few other troublemakers. If I didn’t know your dad was on a leash I’d say it was his kind of play. Doesn’t really matter, though. With any luck whoever has the contract will close it out before all the dust from today’s cluster fuck settles down. Otherwise Church might start looking around to see what’s in the wind, which is exactly what none of us wanted.”

Hecate had been leaning close to Paris in order to hear the conversation. Their eyes met and they shared a “he has a point” look.

“So now what?” Paris asked.

“Now we let the NSA thing play out. It’ll still take a while for the President to take back the reins, so we’ve still effectively hobbled the DMS for the rest of today. Maybe into tomorrow, but that’s starting to look like wishful thinking. After that we let the Vice President play the rest of his cards. Throw some scapegoats to the congressional wolves, yada yada . . . and then go to the next phase.”

Paris looked at Hecate, who nodded.

“Okay, J.P. You have any other ideas for how to get hold of Mind-Reader?”

“A few,” Sunderland said. “But nothing we can try until after Church is out of the mix.”

“Shit.”

Sunderland chuckled. It was the deep, throaty, hungry laugh of a bear who had a salmon gasping on the riverbank.

“Now,” he said, “let’s talk about Denver.”