14
Outside The Varsity, Cutty and Valdez searched for the Judas, with no luck. The traitor had escaped.
“He is gone,” Valdez said, wind tossing strands of hair across her face. “What do we do?”
“Follow me,” Cutty said.
He marched across the parking lot to the Suburban. Protocol required that he contact the dispatcher and notify him that he had lost the Judas, to allow them to use their awesome resources to relocate him. But placing that call would be the equivalent of admitting failure, of telling his superior that he was not as capable as they believed him to be, and that they’d erred in giving him the task.
He had never failed, and he would not this time. God hated losers.
Ensconced in the driver’s seat, he powered on the mobile data terminal, which was mounted in the console beneath the stereo. Much like the computers with which police cars were outfitted, the MDT was a customization to the truck, connected via satellite to their organization’s servers. All of the vehicles in their division’s fleet were similarly equipped.
A small, removable keyboard was slotted beneath the screen. He slid it out and placed it on his lap.
The greeting, “Welcome to the Genesis Network” filled the display, white text floating on an ocean-blue background.
“The man I asked you to follow,” he said to Valdez, “you got the plates from his vehicle like I asked you to?”
“Si.”
“God bless you, Valdez,” he said. “You rock.”
She smiled. “Gracias.”
He returned his attention to the screen, and entered his username and password to sign on to the network.
The Genesis Network was the brains of their division, a cutting-edge system of servers and software designed and administered by techies. Gen, as it was casually known amongst them, was linked—sometimes secretly—to public and private databases across the globe. He’d once toured the underground core data center where the network was housed, and had been awed by the vast chamber of servers taller than him, the giant monitors streaming rivers of data, and the gimlet-eyed programmers who spoke in such geek-speak they were nearly incomprehensible. He was not a techie. He was a field guy who went out and got his hands dirty. But he appreciated the value of high-tech tools; we lived in an age when information was worth more than money, and Gen made his job immeasurably easier.
Ironically, he had been reared in a household that lacked a television set, radio, and even a telephone. The devil, he’d been taught as a child, was skilled at using the wonders of modern technology to deceive you, and out of concern for the spiritual health of the family, Father had banned those devices from the home. It was not until his late teen years that he learned God’s most valiant warriors were using technology to wage their war against the wicked.
After entering a series of keystrokes, he arrived at a menu that offered access to the State of Georgia Department of Motor Vehicles records. A blank field requested license plates data.
“And his plates are?” he asked.
She told him in her halting English, and he typed in the combination of letters and digits. Almost immediately, Gen had a hit.
The results included the license registrant’s name, vehicle make, model, and VIN, registrant’s date of birth, height, weight, current street address, and a photo from his most recently issued driver’s license.
It was the same man he’d witnessed talking to the Judas in the grease joint.
“Anthony Thorne, Junior,” Cutty said. “Thirty years old. Resides at 522 Cherokee Avenue, in Atlanta.”
At the bottom of the screen, a command allowed you to request a full background check on any given individual. It could take up to an hour or two for Gen to compile a complete personal profile, so he went ahead and requested the comprehensive report. It might prove useful later.
As were all fleet vehicles, the Suburban was equipped with a GPS navigation system. He entered Thorne’s address. The estimated drive time was thirteen minutes.
“Let’s go talk to this guy,” he said.