Broots had just about had enough of looking at columns of numbers – and it wasn’t even noon yet.

Working on the premise that Jerry O’Brien had been closing in on a key piece of information when he’d been murdered, the computer tech had spent the better part of the morning tracking down the files that the auditor had accessed immediately before his demise. Most of the files had been routine records of payments and ledger entries detailing where checks were sent and the date of endorsement – although the idea still rankled that the checks that had been intended for Miss Parker’s team, based on the faulty expense reports, had somehow ended up in the pockets of a number of smaller and lower-priority projects. Over the past hour, he’d collected digital renderings of all of the printed checks that SHOULD have gone back to Miss Parker – front and back. He’d even carefully verified that each check did indeed reimburse some of the fraudulent expenses credited against the Pretender Project Retrieval team – with the only problem being that the check reimbursed a department or project other than the Pretender Project.

And yet…

Something was tweaking on the edges of his awareness – a feeling that something was as conspicuously wrong as it was possible to be, and that he was totally missing it.

“Hey there!”

Broots jerked around and then sighed when he saw that the voice belonged to Sam. “Geez, you scared me out of three years’ growth!”

Sam looked tired. “You really need to work on your interpersonal skills, Broots,” he commented with a stifled yawn. “Miss Parker sent me down to see if you’d found anything yet.”

Broots turned back to his computer screen in frustration. “My problem is that I know I’m missing something here,” he waved his hand at the images of several check fronts and backs, “but I just can’t quite figure out…”

Sam leaned in. “You mean beside the fact that these checks were endorsed by the same person?”

Broots stared up into the burly sweeper’s face with a blank expression – and then stared at his computer screen. “Good God!” he exclaimed, flipping from one page of images to the next, “I think you’re onto something there. The names aren’t the same, but…”

“O come on!” Sam shook his head. “Look at the way the letters are formed. And that’s a fairly consistent slant. I’ll bet if you take this to cartography, they’ll tell you the same person wrote each one of those names.”

“I think you’re right. The question now is…” Broots quickly sent each of the pages of images to his printer, “…how the hell do we find out just who really signed them – and just where the money REALLY went?”

“We have signatures on file for each employee, don’t we?” Sam reminded the computer tech. “I suggest you take what you have down to the experts and have them help you sift through the mainframe and find the signature that matches the traits in these.”

Broots’ face was a study in frustration and reluctance. “Do you have any idea how LONG that’s going to take?”

Sam patted the slight man companionably on the shoulder. “Better get to it, then. And you’d better keep the information to yourself until you’re one hundred percent certain of your findings,” he warned as an afterthought. “If we’re right, O'Brien was killed because he may well have tripped over the exact same realization – and we don’t need to have you taken out the same way.”

Broots blanched. “Do you really think…”

The sweeper shook his head as he turned to leave. “You never know. Best to keep what you find to yourself – or maybe just share it with me until we have a more complete idea of what we’re dealing with here.”

The balding technician nodded vigorously. “I’ll call you when I have something solid.”

“Good.”

Broots frowned as he made a quick command that printed each of the endorsements so that they could be simply scanned into the system as graphic entities for search purposes. Was Sam right – was he retracing the steps that had gotten Jerry O'Brien silenced? And if so, why had Sam first set his feet on the path only to issue a dire warning?

He glanced in the direction of the exit with disquiet. Things were still not as they should be with Sam – and the situation wasn’t getting any better. But who could he talk to…

Then he nodded. Sydney might be able to shed some light on the sweeper’s recent behavior patterns from a psychiatrist’s point of view. He’d have to ask the older man – maybe he’d take his lunch break and head to the Sim Lab instead of nurse-maiding the handwriting experts in their efforts.

Feeling a little relieved, he reached for the phone and the booklet with the extensions of each of the myriad departments of the Centre. “This is Lazlo Broots for SIS, I’d like to make arrangements to have some handwriting samples checked against our database…”

~~~~~~~~*

The wide broom in Jerry Fishbain’s hand slowed just a bit as he watched the parade of obviously African faces through the foyer of the facility halt and smile widely and shake hands with the person most likely to be the head of the place. His ears perked to listen heard one man introduced as “Ugo N’Deka” and the tall, thin, basketball-player-type standing just behind the first’s shoulder as “Solo Indala”. Yes, the man making the obsequious greetings was called “Evanston” – the name provided in the documents McKenna had given them as the head of the facility. He was even more innocuous and normal looking than the photo in the documents had portrayed him.

Fishbain let his attention drop away from the small knot of men that eventually found itself being shepherded in the direction of the elevators to note the position and number of surveillance cameras in the foyer. His observant gaze even took note of the one hidden strategically amid the leaves of a decorative plant. One by one he watched the cameras, quietly timing the amount of time that the red activation light on each was lit and in what order that activation was made. He smiled to himself at the simplicity of the pattern – and the general ease with which it would be possible for him to place his wireless taps into each line.

The morning was young, and yet he’d already had a chance to tap into the cameras in the parking garage, both elevators and the corridor that led to the administrative offices on the first floor. Each of the little taps had input and output capabilities – making it possible to both tape harmless loops from each of the cameras in question during activation times and then feed back that harmless footage when cover was needed. He’d also been taking quiet mental notes as to the number and placement of the security forces present – finding that the security at the facility was astonishingly light, considering the reputation the Centre had for securing a facility from unfriendly penetration. He lowered his gaze once more to his janitorial task for the time being, figuring that perhaps the Centre was depending upon the utter secrecy that surrounded this place’s mere existence to provide security. So few knew it actually existed in the first place, the threat was relatively small…

How foolish of them!

He steered the wide broom around the corner and toward the maintenance cart that was ostensibly his work station. All he had to do now was figure a way to gain access to the higher-security areas – those areas guarded by uniformed security men behind desks controlling the locks on the doors and even huskier Men-In-Black types whose critical gaze never stopped moving.

The walkie-talkie on his shoulder sputtered into life. “Seabring, wet clean-up in area SL18 immediately!”

Fishbain reached up to the unit on his shoulder and pushed the broadcast button. “SL18 – yes sir!” he chimed efficiently, just as he’d heard other of his fellow janitors respond to similar calls since he’d arrived that morning. SL18 – that was one of the higher security areas designated as living quarters for the targets that he’d been hoping to penetrate; and once behind those restrictive doors, the chance of slipping into other areas to plant his little devices wouldn’t be so hard.

The catch-dust cover of the wide broom was quickly and easily removed and replaced before the broom itself was folded and inserted into its place on the cart. Fishbain took secure hold on the cart’s handle and maneuvered it toward the guard at the desk. “Wet cleanup on SL18,” he announced, handing over his identity card.

The guard slid the card through a reader and then nodded. “Proceed,” he answered in a bored voice, pushing a button that resulted in the automatic doors swinging open.

Fishbain restrained the satisfied grin as he pushed his cart through the gaping opening. This was as easy as taking candy from a baby, he thought as he began once more to pay very close attention to the placement of the cameras in the corridor. And this is FAR more like it!

~~~~~~~~*

“What?” Lyle stared at Willy.

“I said Mr. Raines wants to have a word with you,” the dark-skinned sweeper stated again, his voice only slightly sardonic. “Now.”

“What about?”

Willy shook his head. “I don’t ask questions, Mr. Lyle, about things that don’t concern me. Now – are you coming…”

Lyle snorted his frustration as his morning only continued to go downhill. He hadn’t heard from his detective all morning, the Vostov syndicate STILL hadn’t coughed up the money they owed him – and all efforts to contact his sister in case he could genuinely be of assistance to her had been rudely rebuffed. The absolute last thing he either needed or wanted was to once more be called on the carpet in the Tower – especially if his sister wasn’t going to get a similar ass-reaming. “I suppose I’ll get no peace until I go with you,” he snapped and turned off his computer terminal.

“Not really, sir,” Willy agreed without volunteering even the slightest sign of smugness that would rightfully earn him a reprimand. “I’m only doing as my superior asked of me.”

“Oh shut up and lead on,” Lyle growled and stood.

“After you, sir,” Willy gestured toward the office door.

Lyle knew the way to the elevator, and his posture easily exposed his pique. He was doing everything he was supposed to be doing and then some, he reasoned in a defensive reverie – all of what he’d been doing had been with the ultimate good of the Centre in mind. He sighed and pushed the up elevator button and raised a hand to rub disgustedly over his eyes and beneath his nose, thus not noticing that Willy had reached out and quickly pushed the cancel button and then the down button almost the moment his attention wandered.

The blue-grey of his eyes was snapping as he joined the two other sweepers in the elevator car. “You know, I’d get a whole lot more accomplished if your boss would give me a whole day’s peace,” he growled at Willy as the silver and wood veneered door slid closed.

“I’m sure,” Willy agreed, glancing over his shoulder and giving a faint nod.

Before Lyle could even realize that the elevator was heading in the wrong direction, a set of arms whipped around him, pinning his arms so that he couldn’t struggle. Willy turned with an aerosol in hand, and Lyle’s eyes widened in surprise and fear. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he managed to bark even as the fine mist quickly put him to sleep.

“Taking care of the garbage,” Willy responded to the senseless man that now hung in the hold of the sweeper behind him. “Let’s get him down where he can be prepared for delivery,” he ordered his colleagues in a quiet voice. “Make sure to keep the hold tight – we don’t need him waking up and getting away.”

“No, sir,” the tall and husky blonde sweeper agreed, his hold on the limp, shorter man tightening significantly.

~~~~~~~~*

Emily read the screen in front of her and frowned. All in all, this Eire Foundation had a reputation for philanthropy and community service that was virtually unheard of in the corporate world. Like so many who were in similar businesses, the Foundation went out of its way to present a benign face to the American public – indeed, some of the nano-technological advances in the medical field were being pioneered right there in the labs in Philadelphia. The weapons research and development was a department of the whole that reportedly worked almost exclusively for the US government – not something that would normally raise eyebrows or cause suspicion.

And yet, her brother had insinuated himself into that organization for the same reason he inserted himself into any occupation or locale – in order to right some kind of wrong. So what was it he was crusading for this time? What was wrong with the Foundation?

She clicked on the back button until she was back at her initial search page – and then, remembering just how her elder brother often went about choosing his crusades, typed in yet another complex search string and hit enter. The list that presented itself this time was far different – a catalogue of news articles published both in the Philadelphia paper as well as other major US sources that dealt in some way or fashion with the Foundation.

“Hey, Russell!”

Emily swung around in her chair, startled, to find herself looking up into the face of her editor-in-chief, Ken Arnolds. “Yeah – what can I do for you, chief?”

“When am I going to get the latest installment of that story on Commissioner Fitzgerald’s misuse of city funds?”

Emily reached out and with a simple keystroke returned herself to her word processor. “Just taking a break and clearing my mind before putting the last touches on it, sir,” she assured her boss – indicating with an expansive sweep of the hand the impressive amount of writing on the topic that had already been composed.

“I’m hoping to begin publishing the series next week,” Arnolds reminded his best community reporter. “So don’t take too long blowing out the cobwebs. I want the editorial team to see everything you’ve got at the next evening meeting.”

“I’ll have it ready for you, sir, I promise.”

Arnolds nodded, apparently satisfied with her answer. “See to it that you do,” he tossed over his shoulder as he turned away.

Emily waited until he was completely gone from the reporters’ pool before switching her computer back to the search engine and its list of news articles. She folded her hands in front of her face and stared at the long list of results. Jarod had been involved in this latest endeavor for about two weeks – which meant that he’d found whatever it was that had set him off roughly a week or so earlier than that.

She typed quickly, narrowing the search criteria even more – and hit enter. The number of items presenting themselves to her had diminished considerably. This was reading she could do at home later, she decided, and opened each page individually and sent them to her printer before closing them.

Somewhere, she just knew, was the answer she needed – an answer she knew she’d never get from her secretive brother.

Finished, she closed down the web browser and brought back the word processor with the story she was writing after six weeks’ worth of investigation into the questionable actions of yet another Philadelphia public official. She moved her coffee cup from where it sat on her notes and, after thinking for a long moment, began typing again.

~~~~~~~~*

Lyle swam back to consciousness slowly; and as his senses returned, so a sense of dread grew within him – for he awoke to find himself bound tightly in a white canvas straitjacket and strapped securely to a gurney. Worse, he was alone in one of the featureless and dismal cell-spaces that were scattered throughout the Centre for prisoners, inmates and others needing to be secured.

He opened his mouth to yell, then realized that his throat was dry and his mouth parched – and the only sound he was able to make was stifled and diminished accordingly.

His mind raced. Raines – he HAD to be behind this – but why?

Could his boss have found out about the Vostov fiasco? Surely Raines wouldn’t hold that one against him – after all, Raines himself had worked something virtually identical to this not all that long ago. And there was no way for anyone to know that the profit from the enterprise was destined for his own pocket – was there? No, he comforted himself, he’d been very careful there in setting up the deal.

Hadn’t he?

It COULDN’T be about that prostitute in Baltimore – once more, he’d been very careful that nothing whatsoever could possibly lead authorities back to the Centre or him. And Raines must have known that his absolute prohibition on such activities again would be taken with the same amount of salt and disregard as Raines himself had taken the Triumvirate’s directive to shut down anything remotely resembling the Pretender Project.

Perhaps it was RAINES who had something to hide – and taking him out was the only way to maintain control on the situation! Yes, Lyle congratulated himself, that HAD to be it!

But now what?

Lyle expanded his chest and tested the tightness of the straps holding him down, then huffed his disappointment. Between having his hands effectively tied down and hidden within the sleeves of the straitjacket and the thick leather of the straps on the gurney, he was helpless to escape or prevent whatever was planned for him from happening.

It was an ugly feeling to be on the other end of this kind of situation – he’d never ever really wanted to know exactly how his victims felt as they struggled against THEIR bonds and knew that there was no escape for them from his appetites. This was never supposed to happen to HIM! He was to be the power obliging THEM to face their mortality – to know that their existence was finite and soon to be ended. HE was the guide to the next world for other – and through their deaths, he gained immortality. At no time was another supposed to usher HIM to the brink of extinction. This was… sacrilege!

He disregarded his dry mouth and parched throat to roar his frustration, anger and promised revenge on any and all who had any part in turning him from an agent of power and destiny into a victim – to the empty cement walls of his current storage space. He was alone. No one could hear – wanted to hear – his cries or his roars. The roar transformed into a scream of utter horror as Lyle realized that nobody cared whether he roared, cried or whimpered – he really was that unimportant. His sister despised him, his father obviously plotted to be rid of him, his colleagues feared and loathed him – he had no friends except those he’d left behind long ago in Africa.

When his energies were expended, he closed his eyes and swallowed hard. What WERE they going to do with him?

This wasn’t hanging in Lyle Bowman’s tool shed dreading the next beating – even in that world, he had at least mattered to someone. His pain had mattered. Administering pain TO him had demonstrated his worth. Bowman wouldn’t have spent the energy working up a good sweat beating the shit out of him if he was unimportant. Raines wouldn’t have made the journey to give Bowman pointers on more effective torture if he’d been unimportant to the Centre – would he?

No, this was torture of a different kind – a modern-day “Cask of Amantillado” scenario, only it was a metal door, cement blocks and leather straps on a gurney that had him isolated and walled in instead of the brick and mortar of Poe’s time. He could easily – SO easily – be just as forgotten and left to face his fate – his complete powerlessness – in utter silence and solitude.

Oh God…

~~~~~~~~*

Sam rubbed his tired eyes for the fourth time in very few minutes after pausing the surveillance footage this time. He was tired – the lack of sleep from the night before and now the absolute boredom of watching the comings and goings of foot traffic in front of O'Brien’s office two days earlier was making it all too likely that he was going to miss something if he wasn’t careful. What was more, he’d have to find SOME time to slip in a couple of hours of nap before he took up his post outside Miss Parker’s again that night.

He’d toyed with the idea of bringing in another sweeper to spell him every other night – but as he’d been reviewing the list of sweepers who might be amenable to such an assignment, he suddenly realized anew that he didn’t know WHO was a mole. Without firm knowledge of just whom he could trust and whom he couldn’t, he simply COULDN’T afford to palm off half of the self-assigned task designed to keep Miss Parker safe without raising her suspicions any higher than the6y already were. No, he’d have to do the job himself.

“Sam? Did you hear me?”

“Huh?” Sam jerked and swiveled around, startling Broots. “What is it?”

Broots’ brows furled for a moment. “You OK?”

Sam waved his hand at the paused image in front of him. “I was just taking a break from that,” he explained lamely, not wanting to admit that he hadn’t even heard Broots call out to him the first time. This wasn’t good – how was he going to be able to keep this up, and how much had he missed from the surveillance footage? “I’m fine. What’s up?” he asked, pasting on a brighter expression than he felt.

Broots slipped into the chair next to the sweeper and sagged. “Well, I had the experts go through everything and try to discover who was endorsing all those checks… but…”

“But?” Sam was too tired to play the verbal games Broots tended to play. “You hit a wall, I take it?”

“Not really,” Broots sighed. “It just that what I DID find doesn’t make any sense.”

Sam’s brows folded into a solid line across his forehead. “What doesn’t make any sense?”

“The handwriting expert confirmed that one person endorsed all the checks – although there were signs indicating forgery. But, in the end, all the signatures were traced back to Jerry O'Brien’s handwriting…”

“What?” Sam woke up at that. “O'Brien himself signed them?”

“No – and that’s what doesn’t make sense.” Broots ran his hand over his nearly-bald pate. “It was a forgery all right – someone was forging O'Brien forging all these other signatures. It was a frame-up.” Broots sighed again. “And they couldn’t tell me whose signatures they really were – because they don’t match anybody in the Centre database.”

Sam’s face crinkled into disbelief. “What the Hell is going on here?”

Broots shook his head vehemently. “I don’t’ know – but this is getting stranger and stranger, I tell you…” He broke off as his eyes studied the image frozen on the screen in front of him. “What time was that taken?” he asked suddenly.

Sam looked down at the DSA display in front of him – since this was relatively raw footage, it hadn’t had the date-time stamped into the image itself yet. “About… four-forty-five. Why?” He looked back at the image and his mouth dropped open.

“What the heck is a sweeper doing entering an office in the middle of the work day with a weapon drawn?” Broots demanded, his right index finger pointing to the obvious shape in the man’s hand as he was pushing open the door.

Sam manipulated the controls of the DSA viewer to pull in on the face of the intruder, then pushed a button to send a copy of the close-up to the printer. “They’re in the sweeper corps too?” he muttered to himself angrily.

Broots blinked and looked into Sam’s face with surprise. “WHO is in the sweeper corps too?” he asked.

Sam mentally cursed himself for his verbal slip, and his mouth worked for a moment while his mind raced to manufacture a reasonable response. “I mean, whoever it is that is causing all this trouble has even got men in the sweeper corps – what did you think I meant?” he rounded on the computer tech, hoping that the defensive attitude needed to respond to the near-accusation he’d just tossed out would help cover the blunder.

“You know this guy?” Broots asked instead, looking just a bit closer at Miss Parker’s personal sweeper. Sam was looking ragged – as if he hadn’t been resting well lately. Here and Sam had thought to lecture HIM on his interpersonal skills?

Sam shook his head. “Nope,” he answered honestly, “but then again, I’m not involved in the sweeper recruitment or training programs anymore – so I have no reason to know each and every man we bring in.”

“Sam,” Broots tried again, this time with a gentle hand on Sam’s arm. “Are you SURE you’re OK? You look beat.”

The dark-haired sweeper sighed. “This is beginning to get to me,” he admitted, knowing that just a shade of the truth wouldn’t hurt under the circumstances. “It seems that every time we start to think we have an avenue to search and get some results, things just twist around even more. Instead of simple money-laundering, we find an outside forger forging the handwriting of someone who would have no business getting the checks in the first place. The man who starts to trace this down is murdered – and now Miss Parker’s little brother…”

“Something’s happened to Evan?” Broots demanded sharply. Maybe Sam was on edge for a reason after all.

“He was approached…” Sam sighed again and ran his hand over his face yet again to clear stubborn cobwebs. “I put a pair of sweepers on him, just in case…”

“Man!” Broots just shook his head. “So what are you going to do about him?” He jerked his nose at the monitor screen with the close-up of what was probably O'Brien’s murder.

Sam reached over and pulled the hardcopy of the close-up out of the printer. “Go through the sweeper corps database and find out just who the Hell this is – and then go have a VERY long talk with him,” he snapped tiredly. “Is there anything else you need?”

Broots shook his head. “Just wanted to bounce the information I got off of you,” he replied sympathetically. “Miss Parker…”

Sam shook his head. “Miss Parker doesn’t need to hear about the dead ends, Broots,” he declared as he rose and reached for his jacket. “She needs to hear about results. She’s got enough to worry about that she doesn’t need to hear about failure.” He shrugged the garment into place. “What else are you chasing down?”

Broots tried very hard not to frown. Miss Parker always wanted to know EVERYTHING that went on during an investigation she was involved in – even the failures and the brick walls that popped up along the way. Sam was telling him NOT to tell her – just like before – but why? Still, he’d been asked a question… “Uh…” He thought hard. “I’m still looking through the mainframe for the security check… trying to find any recent entries mentioning Jarod…”

“Why don’t you go back to that then,” Sam suggested in an urgent tone. “If Miss Parker needs to know what’s going on – or why you haven’t brought her news, I’ll tell her what you just told me.”

“OK…” Broots rose from his seat too – only not with any mind to head back to his cubby. “I’ll see you later, Sam.”

The computer technician knew he couldn’t keep his questions to himself anymore – something was seriously amiss with Sam. The time had definitely come to bounce ideas off of Sydney – of all of them, he was probably the most level-headed and logical. Not to mention Sydney had Miss Parker’s ear in a way that none of the others did.

~~~~~~~~*

“What do you mean, that’s it?” an angry Walt Carrow demanded as he shook the paycheck he’d just been handed in Stan Bateman’s face. “I spend a year and a half learning all about how to be a Centre sweeper and get inside the organization only to take out one man and be booted out of a job?”

Bateman’s eyes narrowed. Removing loose ends for Mr. McKenna was part of his job – but it didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy it sometimes. Why was it that security men were always so dense? And here this guy was, out in the open in a park, shouting his complicity at the top of his lungs. Didn’t they teach muscle-men anything anymore besides how to hit and how to intimidate? “Look – your face is probably on their surveillance, and that means your ass is grass the next time you set foot inside the facility.”

“I was careful…”

“Not saying you weren’t,” Bateman shook his head. “But at this stage in the game, we can’t afford to take chances. You know too much about what is going on and what the goal is. This check is merely moving expenses – I’m supposed to tell you that you’re expected in Philadelphia a week from tomorrow, ready to go to work directly for the Foundation now.”

Slowly the anger evaporated from Carrow’s face. “Me? Work directly for the Eire Foundation?”

Bateman sighed. Yup, this one was definitely dense. “That’s what I said. Now go get that cashed and do whatever you have to to get your ass out of Blue Cove by the end of the day – hear me?”

Finally Carrow looked down at the long, narrow paper in his hand, and his eyes bulged to see the amount it represented. “Five thou… thanks!”

“Don’t mention it,” Bateman replied honestly and walked away in the direction of his pickup.

Not that Carrow would have a chance to mention it. McKenna’s directives had been very clear and specific. All of the sub-contractors that had been put into play in this final stage of the takedown of the Centre were expendable – even HE, the second in command of Foundation security, was expendable if push came to shove. The only one in Delaware who wasn’t expendable was McKenna’s brother.

Carrow would need to encounter some sort of tragedy within the next twelve hours, Bateman was certain, or he’d not have moved fast enough to put the Centre off the trail that would lead directly back to Philadelphia and his boss. Carrow had been good at his job – but now he was a liability.

Bateman sighed. Another body – now how was he going to handle THIS one? And how would the Centre handle finding out their murderer had himself been murdered?

He’d have to report to McKenna – after he cleaned up another loose end.

~~~~~~~~*

The young man watched with very little expression in his dark chocolate eyes as the door on the other side of the room from him opened to admit Mr. Evanston and several strangers. One of the newcomers, a black man with a colorful woven drape thrown over his shoulder, seemed momentarily surprised at something, but composed himself quickly in order to take a seat at the wide table in the conference room. Another, a very tall and atheletic black man, seated himself at the older man’s elbow and immediately leaned forward to hear the whispered comments of his colleague. The other two arranged themselves on either side of the door.

So these were the people for whom he was going to have to work, the young man thought with a touch of curiosity that he kept carefully hidden. These were the people who had Joshua giving off signs of impatience and frustration as they had ended the last SIM prematurely the evening before. Joshua was virtually unflappable – he’d never seen the older man lose his temper once in all the years they’d been working together – so seeing Joshua anything but serene and in control had been eye-opening.

These men must be very powerful to have thrown his mentor for such a loop in such a short amount of time.

“What do they call you, son?” the older black gentleman asked in a very musical accent that told the young man of his African origins.

The young man couldn’t help noting the way the question had been posed. They didn’t ask his name, they asked what he was called – a huge difference.

“But everyone has a name, Joshua,” he’d insisted so many times that he could almost recite the exchange by heart – but couldn’t help but indulge himself one more time, just in case a name COULD be forthcoming.

“You don’t,” Joshua had replied with his expression the same neutrally serene that was virtually his trademark. “Your designation is Cancer – that’s all.”

“A designation isn’t a name,” he’d complained loudly – again following the set ritual.

“No, it isn’t,” Joshua had answered him the last time, “and bringing this subject up over and over again is beginning to be an obstacle. I can arrange for you to receive treatment…”

“NO!” He’d been instantly contrite. The last time he’d been sent to Renewal for “treatment” to counter rebellion and subordination, he’d promised himself that he’d never be sent back again. “I won’t ask again, Joshua – I promise!”

“See that you don’t,” his mentor had cautioned him sternly. “You are called Cancer – it is your designation. Don’t wish for more – you’ll only be disappointed in the end.”

“I’m called Cancer,” he replied in an even voice, and noted how Joshua, sitting next to him, nodded slightly in approval and agreement. He sighed inwardly – why COULDN’T he have a name like everyone else?

The older African gentleman frowned slightly, bent to whisper to the man who was evidently an associate or assistant, and then looked across the table again. “And have you been informed as to what you’re going to be doing for me, Cancer?”

“No, sir.” It was the simple truth – and he’d been told to tell the simple truth in as few words as necessary.

“We weren’t informed as to any of the particulars of the SIM you were going to ask Cancer to perform for you,” Joshua Kelly stated in more concise terms. “Mr. Evanston told me that you would have everything Cancer needs with you.”

The old African gentleman made a graceful gesture with his head – and his assistant lifted the briefcase that he’d carried into the room to the table surface. “Everything you need is in this,” he stated calmly, keeping his eyes on the face of the young man across the table from him. “I expect to be observing preparations when I return in the morning.”

Joshua reached out and pulled the briefcase to him. “I look forward to hearing your assessment of our work, sir.”

“Excuse me, sir...”

All eyes turned to the young man who had been trained from infancy not to address the adults in charge of him unless addressed first. Still, the African gentleman seemed not to take any offense. “Yes?”

“What are you called, sir?”

“Excuse me…”

The young man pressed on, heedless of the glare of fury from his mentor. “What do I call you, sir?”

“You don’t, my young friend,” the African answered gently and rose. “Until tomorrow, gentlemen.”

Joshua already had a very tight hold on his protégé’s upper arm, dragging him out of his chair and toward the door that led back to the SIM Lab and the residential area beyond. “What do you think you were doing?” the mentor hissed, not really wanting the cameras or microphones to pick up his chastising his charge. “Do you WANT to end up in Renewal for treatment after all?”

“But I just wanted to know…”

“I just hope this isn’t a sign that you’re beginning to fail as a Pretender,” Joshua whispered into his ear in a furious tone. “You remember what I told you happened to Gemini when that happened to HIM, don’t you – and what happened to the original Pretender himself?”

The young man blanched and faltered in his step slightly. The failure of the project designation before him had been related to him in very clear terms during his last stay in Renewal – how the renewal team assigned here had needed to wash the mind so completely that Gemini was no longer even considered a viable product. The description of the termination of the young man at an age not so very far removed from his own had been given in clinical terms that left no doubt as to what his own fate could be under similar circumstances. The tale of Jarod, however, had been one of the first “bedtime stories” that he could remember – how the Pretender had been forcibly removed from the protective shelter of the Centre and his mentor, and had been subsequently contaminated by nonessential experience that had ruined HIM for SIMs too. Jarod’s fate had always been left in terms of a vague threat of you really DON’T want to know what happened to him – we won’t allow you to be contaminated in the same way that had given him nightmares for weeks afterwards. “I’m not…”

“You’d better not,” Joshua growled and pushed the young man through the door being held open by a sweeper. “You have the evening to think through your errors today – I’ll be bringing you out an hour early so that we can discuss this and put it behind us. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Cancer stood in the middle of the small space that was all he could call his – not that he owned it, only that he was returned to it day after day, night after night – and tried not to be affected by the sheer anger in his mentor’s gaze.

Was that what it took to make Joshua angry – to break the rules in front of strangers?

Then, suddenly, Mr. Evanston was in Joshua’s face. “What was that display?” the usually mild-mannered administrator demanded.

“We’ve been having a touch of independent thought,” Joshua hastened to explain, a glare keeping his protégé from answering for himself. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

Evanston shot the both of them warning glares of his own over his shoulder as he walked back to where the small knot of Africans was waiting, and Joshua slammed the metal door harder than necessary to shut his charge into his space for the night.

This was an inauspicious start of the most important SIM of Cancer’s career.

~~~~~~~~*

“Well?”

Fishbain remained silent until he’d sat down and sprawled in the one easy chair that Chuck Seabring had placed in his livingroom. “All the taps were placed – and I located both our targets.”

Delgado let out a long breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Assessment?”

“Thanks,” Fishbain looked up at Langer as the man handed him down a glass of water. “Well…” He sat forward. “Security isn’t lax, by any stretch, but it isn’t as tight as it could be either. Security is generally fixed – there are only a few security personnel that move around, generally attached to specific people. Surveillance isn’t omnipresent – there are plenty of blind spots to the cameras that we might be able to take advantage of.”

“Did you have any problem getting into any of the higher security areas?” Langer asked, propping himself against the wall near the archway into the dining area.

Fishbain shook his head, his lower lip protruding to show his surprise. “The janitorial staff floats all over the building all day – there’s a set routine, but calls for extra clean up happen all the time. I’d say that this works out for us too…” He turned to Delgado. “If you want to place a couple of very small devices – enough to make a plumbing mess in areas we want access to when it comes to Crunch Time – it should make matters a lot easier.”

Delgado nodded slowly, turning over the information in his mind. “I like that,” he said finally. “What about the targets themselves? Guarded?”

“It depends on the time of day,” Fishbain answered easily after taking a long draught of his water that drained the glass. “They keep these boys pretty tightly controlled – about the only time they’re left alone is when they’ve been “put to bed,” as it were.”

“And you know where those rooms are?” Delgado demanded.

“One of them,” Fishbain replied quickly. “But I’d imagine that while you’re spending your several days there, you’ll get a chance to see where they keep the other one.” He shrugged. “There’s several boys there – I seen at least four over the course of the day.”

“Wonderful!” Langer snarled. “How…”

“You heard the man,” Delgado snapped in order to bring his man to attention again. “We take the oldest two – and to Hell with the others. Fish knows where one of them is kept – and the more I think of it, the more I like moving during the nighttime…”

“But there’s not much in the way of janitorial staff on hand during the night,” Langer protested. “We’ll stand out – cause talk when we show up…”

“Only if we all show up at the same time,” Delgado began to smile. “On Crunch Day, we’ll each show up at different times – and not sign out again.”

“You starting to put a plan together?” Fishbain asked curiously.

Delgado just raised his eyebrows at his computer expert. “Hey Langer!” he yelled instead. “It’s your turn to go for burgers…”

~~~~~~~~*

Broots watched his old friend and colleague’s face closely. “So what do you think, Sydney?”

The silver-hair psychiatrist steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and took a long time parsing the information and impressions that Broots had just dumped into his lap. He was inclined to agree with his colleague that something was amiss with Sam – the question was WHAT?

“It’s entirely possible that Sam is beginning to feel the strain of his position,” he offered slowly, lifting his face from the steepled fingers. “After all, Mr. Raines did threaten ALL of us with transportation to Africa and certain tragedy if we didn’t…”

“But that isn’t like Sam,” Broots complained, shaking his head vehemently. “I’ve seen him under pressure before – he doesn’t get this flakey…”

“Do either of us REALLY understand what goes on with Sam?” Sydney asked, his question more honest than rhetorical. “He stays in closer contact with Miss Parker than either of us do anymore – it’s possible that he’s seen or heard things that would curl our hair…” He eyed Broots’ bald pate. “…proverbially, of course…”

“No, I know that,” Broots sighed. How to explain himself more clearly? “He’s also acting like he’s not getting enough rest. I found him literally in a daze, studying those surveillance disks that Miss Parker wanted him to go through – and he’d virtually missed noticing the man getting ready to go into O'Brien’s office…”

The silver brows rose finally. “That IS unusual. Sam is one of the best the Centre has – for him to miss something that important…”

“NOW you see why I’m so concerned…” Broots sighed in relief this time.

“Yes…” Sydney folded his hands and put them in his lap to look evenly at his colleague. “The question now is what you think we should do with our concerns and observations. Tell Miss Parker?”

Broots shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that to Sam,” he declared. “He may only be muscle, but he’s been as loyal to Miss Parker as either of us – and has saved her skin plenty of times.”

“If not that, then what?”

Brilliant blue orbs raised their gaze to the psychiatrist in open hope. “Maybe you could talk to him…”

Again Sydney seemed to pause and reflect on Broots’ words. “I suppose I could…”

“When?”

Sydney frowned. “Are you that worried that I should try to talk to him immediately – or do you think we could wait and see if this is just a temporary situation…”

Broots opened his eyes wide and threw out his hands. “How should I know? Things are not exactly the safest for any of us right now, you know… with O'Brien dead, the stranger who approached Evan, the fraud concerning our project’s expenses, Mr. Raines’ threat…”

Sydney put up a defensive hand. “OK! OK! You made your point.” He sighed. “I’ll see if I can find him to talk to him sometime before day’s end today or first thing in the morning.” He gazed indulgently at his friend. “Will that satisfy you?”

Broots heaved a huge sigh of relief. “Thanks, Sydney. I owe you one.” The technician heaved himself to his feet. “I’d better get back to the mainframe douching I’m supposed to be doing while everything else is falling apart…”

Sydney shook his head. Broots had good reason to be concerned – however, the urgency with which Broots felt the situation was imbued was his own. Finding Sam at this late hour of the workday wasn’t very likely – especially considering all the tasks that the sweeper was handling for his boss. He’d have to catch the man tomorrow morning, when all of them were a helluva lot fresher.

~~~~~~~~*

Lyle’s fear had hit a fever pitch when the injection administered to him just before he was loaded into the back seat of the Centre sedan had paralyzed him without rendering him unconscious. Without any way to defend himself – or even to question Willy, who was driving the car, or Mr. Raines sitting beside him wheezing noisily every other breath or so – his mind had spun out of control, trying to understand what was happening.

Lyle could see enough through the tinted windows of the sedan from where he was slumped against the back seat cushion that he knew they were driving north. As the hours melted into each other and eventually a familiar skyline appeared ahead, he realized that they were heading into New York. It’s the Vostovs, he reasoned at first – they’d voiced their issues with him to Mr. Raines, and he was going to be sent to Renewal after he observed his boss fixing his mess. No, on second thought, dealing with the Vostov organization would have had Raines surrounded with bodyguards.

This was something else again – and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what. Who would they be traveling to New York to see – and why was it necessary to have HIM trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey ready for the freezer?

The sedan threaded its way through the city streets as the sky darkened – and finally headed toward the harbor district as nighttime settled on the city.

Lyle’s butt felt like it had been nailed to the seat and been crushed, and his bladder was nearly bursting, when the car made a turn and steered its way past the huge building that had lettering on the front that designated it as Pier 18. There was a tingling in his fingers and toes – and if he concentrated hard enough, he could just begin to move them to relieve the cramped muscles a little.

“Nine o’clock, sir,” Willy announced over his shoulder.

“Park it here – and we’ll wait,” Raines stated flatly and pulled hard on the oxygen.

Lyle felt his fear surge a little more – they were meeting someone, he just knew it! But who?

Then there were headlights shining into the sedan from the front – headlights that flickered once and then turned off in favor of fog lamps. Willy fiddled with the controls on the panel – probably turning his lights down in much the same manner – and then opened the door and moved from the driver’s seat to open the door for Mr. Raines. Last but not least, he opened the door and hauled Lyle out with a tight arm keeping him from crumpling like a boneless mess onto the asphalt of the pier.

“Wait for me,” Raines dictated and stepped forward, his oxygen cart squeaking along with him.

Lyle’s head still lolled, but he could see well enough to notice that two men rose from the car ahead of them and stepped out to meet Raines. There was a short conversation, and then a briefcase was handed to the oxygen-starved Chairman of the Centre. What the Hell…?

“Willy!” Raines waved his hand.

“Time to go, Slick,” Willy said with a soft snicker, and he pulled and dragged Lyle along until he stood next to Mr. Raines and … Tommy Tanaka. If it hadn’t been for the drug in his system, Lyle’s eyes would have widened in real shock and consternation – these were NOT men he wanted to spend any time with!

“As promised,” Raines wheezed triumphantly, “alive but not exactly in the best of shape. Certainly manageable at the moment, however…”

Tanaka uttered a quick order in gutteral Japanese, and the trunk of the sedan flew open. Lyle had no time to even register a grunt of protest before two burly and powerful Japanese had him by each arm, dragged him to the trunk and unceremoniously tossed him in like a sack of potatoes. The trunk lid slammed shut even before Lyle had a chance to grunt in pain when the jack pressed painfully into his hip.

“Our business is concluded, Raines-san,” Lyle could hear as Aoki Toshiro translated the brusque statement of his boss. “Have a pleasant trip back to Blue Cove.”

They were leaving him in the hands of the Yakuza? But… The Yakuza had been seriously unhappy with him ever since the prison yard stabbing that had killed Tanaka’s father a year earlier – and only a virtual armed truce had kept them from capturing him and taking their vengeance.

Lyle swallowed hard and understood, at last, that he truly was a dead man.

~~~~~~~~*

Nathaniel Cox hurried around the end of the car and opened the door for his passenger. “Now you remember where you’re going?”

Zoë looked around her, seeing the Greyhound logo illuminated on the building across the street from the car. “I’m getting back on a bus and heading to my grandmother’s house.” She looked at Cox with eager expectation. “Right?”

“Exactly right, my dear,” he smiled at her. “You have the money?”

“Yes,” she answered with an almost bland expression on her face. “And I have the gun…”

“Let’s just keep the gun under wraps, shall we?” Cox patted her on the forearm companionably. “There will come a time when you’ll need it, but that time is not yet. Do you remember your other instructions?”

“I’m to call you when Jarod gets in touch with me,” Zoë repeated expressionlessly.

“Exactly. You do not go anywhere to meet him without calling me first, is that understood? After all, YOU decide who lives and dies…”

“I decide…” the redhead repeated, her eyes growing blank. “I decide…”

“Good girl.” Cox snapped his fingers, bringing the woman out of the slight trance that the trigger words were guaranteed to produce. “Get your suitcase then…”

Zoë nodded obediently and opened the back door of the sedan and pulled the nondescript black canvas bag out. “Got it,” she stated quickly.

Cox pulled a paper folder from his breast pocket and held it out to her. “And here is your bus ticket. You will remain on the bus until you get to Atlanta, and then make the transfer to Birmingham and stay on that bus until you reach your destination. You have enough food packed with you to last you – and you will NOT want to talk to strangers.”

“I won’t talk to strangers,” Zoë repeated.

“I’ll be looking forward to your call,” Cox told her gently, reaching out and almost touching the fair cheek with the back of his fingers but pulling back suddenly. “Enjoy your trip.”

“Call when I hear from Jarod,” Zoë murmured to herself as she looked both ways before crossing the street to the bus station. “I decide who lives and dies…”

Cox watched his latest project pull open the glass door and walk inside the building before he finally climbed back into his car. It was done now – he’d rushed the project as much as he’d dared, and now he’d turned her loose, with instructions to call for further instructions the moment that the elusive Pretender made contact with her. Then and only then would he know whether his new process to create assassins from ordinary people would be successful – with Zoë and Jarod being literally an acid test for the process.

With a sigh, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and pushed a programmed number and waited for the emphysemic wheeze of, “Raines…”

“She’s been released – and is on her way to the holding grounds until Jarod gets in contact with her.”

“You’re SURE that she’ll call you when Jarod gets in touch…?”

Cox rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day getting his subject ready for release – and he was ready to rest in his own bed in his own apartment like a normal human being for the first time in days. The last thing he wanted to be doing was to rehash old debate points. “I told you that the process was untested – but theoretically, yes. I’ve planted the drive to call very deep in her subconscious, and made it an imperative. She won’t rest until she calls me.”

“And then?”

“You want Jarod out of the picture, don’t you?” Cox asked in frustration. “I just spent the last few days drilling her on gun usage and accuracy.”

“Then Jarod’s as good as dead?”

“It may not be immediate, but I’d say that his days will have become numbered the next time he decides to put in a call to his sweetheart.”

“Good.” Raines wheezed noisily. “I want a complete report on your project to date, and updates as they become available. If this works, we may just have found another way to keep us all fed and housed for a while.”

Cox wasn’t fooled. If his process worked, they all would be very rich very quickly. It was for that purpose that he’d started the research all those years before. “Yes, sir,” he choked on the honorific. “I’ll let you know the moment I know anything new.”

There was a click on the other end, indicating that Raines had terminated the call. As was usual when dealing with Raines, Cox was ready to kill something – anything. As his attention was drawn to the huge, blue bus slowly moving away from the depot – and wondering if his project were safely aboard it – he began to smile.

His latest taxidermy project had been kept on hold pending his finishing his work with the assassin – and now he was free to begin to choose a pose and backdrop for the skunk he’d found a few weeks earlier on the road to work. Wouldn’t it be just fitting if he styled the skunk into a two-legged stance with a miniaturized oxygen tank and cannula draped over the ears and in the nostrils?

Of course, he’d have to make sure nobody – absolutely NObody – ever saw the finished work, in case word of his silent slam of his employer got back to the Tower and precipitated the kind of response he knew he’d regret greatly. It would work to his advantage, then, that so many diligently tried to ignore the hobby in which he indulged in his subterranean lair. But he’d have his fun, satirizing his boss – taking a mild form of revenge for the lost sleep and the upset stomach that had come from rushing his research into this final testing phase too quickly.

Satisfied that he knew where he was going and what he was going to do, Cox turned the key in the ignition and nosed the sedan back out into traffic – turning eventually onto the highway that would bring him away from Dover and back in the direction of Blue Cove.

Chapter Index: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33

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