Convergence Point

by Liana Brooks

  “Hands.” Breck held out his key, impatience written across his broad features.

  Gant held his hands out.

  Breck looked down, leaned forward . . .

  Gant reached up and grabbed his head, twisting the officer’s face until his fat neck popped. “Who needs a shank?” Bending down, Gant picked up the discarded keys. “Thank you ever so much, Officer.” He unlocked his cuffs. There were two minutes left before Breck was due to check in again, long enough to wipe down Breck’s body to keep the medical examiner from pulling a fingerprint. There was only a slim chance that anyone would find Gant if his plan came to fruition, but old habits died hard. Anyway, it was senseless to leave Detective Rose with any clues.

  To further ensure no evidence, he deposited Breck’s corpse in one of the industrial dryers.

  He set it on “permanent press.”

  Days like this, he wished he had flunkies. There were so many things to do when planning a prison break: guards to watch, alarms to reset, bodies to hide. It was really quite distracting. Nevertheless, needs must, as they said.

  He picked up Breck’s truncheon.

  Time to go muddy the trail.

  Gant didn’t saunter down the hall; that would have drawn attention. He kept his pace measured, quick, light . . . just like the pathetic errand boys who were trying to shave time off their sentence with good behavior. As if fetching and carrying for the guards was going to get them home faster than busting a few heads open.

  The other inmates looked up when Gant walked into the cellblock without his guard or chains.

  He smiled. “Good evening, gentlemen. May I recommend putting your shoes on?” He held up the master key. “I’m about the pull the fire alarm. All of you will be exiting the building in a disorderly fashion. Run. Jump. Cluck like a chicken. I don’t care. As long as you leave the building in under two minutes, you’ll only have to deal with the police.”

  Still smiling, he stuck the master key in the lockbox, twisted, and pulled the fire alarm. It was there only for life-­threatening emergencies. Only meant to be used if the guards outnumbered the prisoners. It shouldn’t have been built at all. Too tempting.

  I’ll never get over the stupidity of those in law enforcement.

  “Come along, gentlemen. I haven’t got all evening. Time and tide wait for no man. Stand up, stand up. Carmichael, why aren’t you wearing . . . you know, never mind. Just go. You.” Gant stopped in front of a cell where a younger man lay in his bunk. “Who are you?”

  “Camden.” The boy looked at him.

  “It’s time to leave, Camden.”

  “Ain’t happening, man. I seen those guns in the turrets. I was here last time some jack fool tried to make a break for it. They took his hands off with bullets.” Camden held his arms up like he was holding an assault rifle. “Rat-­a-­tat-­tat. You know, man? That’s a tune I ain’t dancing to. You have fun. I’m staying here.”

  Gant sighed. “You’re wasting my time, Camden.” In one smooth motion, he raised the truncheon and brought it down hard on Camden’s neck. “Stay here if you want,” he told the corpse with the broken neck.

  An alarm sounded lockdown on the far side of the prison. Someone had tried to bust a buddy out with them. He’d made plans for that. Or, rather, he’d made plans in case someone tried to use the prison break to take a detour and make some extra cash by offing a rival. But just because he planned for such an eventuality didn’t mean the idiots had to go do it.

  Out in the prison yard, gunfire rattled the windows. Rat-­a-­tat-­tat indeed.

  Best to use the parking-­lot exit then.

  Gant hummed as he strolled down the empty path, sirens wailing in the distance. Cell Block B was a great tomb—­no, not a tomb—­a cathedral to human ingenuity. Inmates were given one hour of computer time each month, but it had been more than he needed. One tiny computer virus and—­on his signal—­the sirens lost their voices. The lights were darkened, killed with a single keystroke. And outside the barred, bulletproof glass, the prison-­yard lights illuminated the fog like the dawn of war. So poetic. Genius, even, if he would allow himself a brief moment of immodesty. He wished he could have recorded the moment for posterity.

  One day, he’d have to blackmail someone to make a film of his life. If they didn’t spring for the fog machine, he’d break their femur a quarter inch above the patella. A difficult infliction to master, but it always got his point across.

  He pushed the prison doors open and took a deep breath of the vapor-­choked air. Brilliant. Now, where was the coward?

  Gant sauntered as he moved into the parking lot. The car-­park lights far overhead were dimmed by the fog. The turret guards were distracted. At the far end of the lot, he could hear someone trying to start a car, but he couldn’t see them. Which meant no one saw him as he approached the bright blue four-­wheel-­drive monstrosity with a temporary tag still in the window.

  Officer Wilhite’s aunt had passed unexpectedly a month ago, and she’d left her only surviving relative a tidy sum of money, a fact the bullying guard couldn’t stop bragging about as he watched the inmates eat lunch. It couldn’t have happened to a less worthy person. Wilhite was the kind of man roaches looked down on for not having enough class. He was a thing that fed off whatever the bottom-­feeders left over. If he’d gone into crime—­and Gant wasn’t entirely sure the officer wasn’t supplementing his income with some illegal activity within the prison—­this was the guy the gang would leave for the cops to drag in.

  No one wanted him.

  Even the understaffed prison system hadn’t objected when Wilhite gave his notice.

  Gant hadn’t planned on leaving tonight. He’d been waiting for Detective Rose to be distracted or for the weather to be perfect. A tornado or a hurricane that drove the guards out of the turret would have been ideal. But fog on a night when Detective Rose was chasing someone a hundred miles away and Wilhite was leaving early? It was as if God Himself had stepped down from his cherub-­encircled throne and given Gant the key. It was divine intervention.

  Or diabolical.

  Someone swore in the depth of the fog.

  Gant smiled, fading back into the darkness, giving Wilhite a path to his car.

  “Crazy, sonofa—­” Wilhite stopped in the ring of sickly-­yellow light falling from the lamp overhead. He was watching the tower, head leaning this way and that as he decided whether to go back or not. The former prison guard shook his head. Turning back to his car, he fumbled with his new keys.

  Gant moved in for the kill.

  CHAPTER 4

  Every wave loses energy in time. Collapses into a truer iteration of time.

  ~ excerpt from Lectures on the Movement of Time by Dr. Abdul Emir I1–20740413

  Tuesday March 18, 2070

  Florida District 8

  Commonwealth of North America

  Iteration 2

  “Good morning, Agent Rose!” Edwin said. “You look cheerful this morning.”

  Sam froze in the doorway to her office. “I do?” She didn’t feel cheerful.

  “Very chipper and alert, if I do say so, Agent Rose.” The junior agent beamed at her with all the enthusiasm of a floodlight. “I take it the case is going well?”

  “It’s going.” And so am I . . .

  She flashed a smile at Agent Edwin and retreated to the safety of her desk. Waking up to the familiar smell of Mac’s soap, going for a run with a friend, letting Mac talk her into eating donuts . . . those were nice things. But she wasn’t happy about it. Mac was dangerous . . . no, that was unfair, she realized with a sigh. She was the dangerous one. It was her life in a tailspin. It was her future that was filled with torture and death.

  The danger was that Mac would insinuate himself into her life, again, and wind up getting hurt. She couldn’t allow that to happen.

  She spent a moment
doodling stars on a piece of scrap paper, trying not to overthink the case. With a grumble, she finally shrugged off the dark premonitions and focused on the work in front of her. There was nothing major on the agenda today. A paperwork review, time scheduled to handle complaints, and a tentative meeting scheduled with Director Loren, the regional director for CBI in eastern Florida. Nine times out of ten, he told her to skip the meetings. No one needed input from District 8. Today, though, there’d be questions.

  The main office phone buzzed. A moment later, Agent Edwin called her on the intercom. “Agent Rose? I have Agent Petrilli on the line. Are you available?”

  Ugh. “Put him through.”

  Her phone rang, and, with another reluctant sigh, she picked it up. “This is Agent Rose.”

  “Agent Rose,” Petrilli’s voice dripped amusement, insincere goodwill, and condescension. “I wanted to talk to you before the meeting this afternoon.”

  “Uh-­huh.” She pulled up the files for paperwork Edwin was approving, double-­checking his work. If she caught the mistakes, she didn’t have to deal with the complaints later on.

  “I’m clearing Lawrence Dom to come over for the week.”

  She flagged a questionable tax rebate. “Dom? The medical examiner?”

  “That’s right,” Petrilli said. “He was doing an assist up here on a car accident, but he’ll be free by noon. That’s soon enough, I hope.” He made it sound like twenty-­four hours after she needed an ME was a major favor.

  “I don’t need him at all. Thank you, though,” she said, keeping her frustration out of her voice. “Agent Edwin was able to locate another ME for me yesterday. I have him working the case.”

  “Really?” Petrilli didn’t sound convinced.

  “I think I know an ME with a badge when I meet one, Petrilli.” She flagged another file, circling the space Edwin had missed when checking the taxes.

  He chuckled. It was a classic Feo, trying to make a social gaffe a weak joke, so everyone forgot he’d put his foot in his mouth again. “I meant, I thought that everyone was busy this week. There was a conference, and of course that hailstorm down south. District 6 is the only district with multiple examiners. Who’d you get?”

  “Agent MacKenzie from Chicago. He had the clearance, and he was available.” There was a baffled silence from the other end of the line. Sam smirked.

  “You flew an agent in from Chicago to handle this?”

  “Actually, we requisitioned him from the conference in Orlando. Considering the weather at home is calling for a late-­season cold front, he was more than happy to extend his vacation.” She finished approving the last tax file and opened the complaints box. “Did you need anything else? I have work to get done.”

  “No, no, of course not. I just wanted to let you know that District 6 is here to assist anytime you need. Ah, will this ME be coming to the meeting this afternoon?”

  Sam raised an eyebrow at the phone. Oh, right: She’d mentioned that another competent male was in the district. Petrilli wanted to meet his new rival. “It’s a meeting for senior district agents, unless I missed a memo. I know Chicago has a good reputation, but I don’t think we’re going to have the case wrapped by lunchtime. Give me at least twenty-­four hours.”

  Petrilli laughed again. “Sorry. It’s just my thing. I like to know who’s working in the region.”

  “Mmm-­hmmm.” Petrilli’s “thing” was his ongoing campaign to win her over. To his credit, it wasn’t about sex. It was just that his ego couldn’t understand the possibility that someone might not like him.

  “Do you want to get together around eleven thirty for lunch? We can chat before the meeting, catch up, that sort of thing.”

  Sam silently shook her head. “Let me take a rain check on that. I’d like to have all my ducks in a row before I talk to Director Loren. Maybe another time. When I have less on my plate?”

  “Sure thing. See you this afternoon.”

  “Good-­bye.” She hung up, dropping the phone like a venomous snake.

  Feo Petrilli wasn’t a bad man. He was a good agent—­her highest form of praise—­but he was too much like her ex-­boyfriend from Toronto. The same charismatic charm, the same dark good looks, the same arrogant unthinking nature that had made her fall in love with Joseph. He was even a good Catholic boy, something that would have pleased her mother to no end if she and her mother were still on speaking terms.

  That ever-­strained relationship had been terminated after her mother suggested her memories of the kidnapping were clouded by stress and the Alabama heat. If she’d simply leave the bureau and get married, there’d be none of this kidnapping nonsense. As if a wedding band could miraculously change the world.

  Certainly, there’d be fewer ­people shooting at her if she gave up her Commonwealth citizenship and moved to Madrid.

  She could deal with ­people shooting at her, though. She’d rather deal with homicidal maniacs than become a trophy wife for her mother’s cronies.

  Frustrated, she sent the standard “I’ll look into the matter” e-­mail to all the complaints and shut off her computer. Grabbing her purse and the case file, she headed for the door.

  Agent Edwin looked up from his desk as she walked out. “Do you need something, Senior Agent?”

  “Nope, not unless you can schedule Petrilli for a little trip to the vet. That boy needs to be snipped.” Her junior agent whimpered in sympathy. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”

  “I . . . I can, um . . .” Panic suffused his face as he tried to find a way to obey the order.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Sam smiled. “I’m going to talk with the ME. If it runs long, I’ll leave from the morgue for my meeting with Director Loren. Do you think you can handle everything while I’m out?”

  “Certainly, Agent Rose. Um . . .” His bushy red eyebrows furrowed. “Agent Rose? Do you know where Agent MacKenzie is staying? I don’t have his hotel address, so I can’t arrange for his rental car.”

  “Oh.” She fervently hoped she wasn’t blushing. Technically, there was nothing unprofessional about Mac’s staying at her house. They weren’t breaking any rules, and they weren’t in a relationship, but it still felt wrong. Or right. Whichever, it wasn’t the bureau’s business. “I believe he’s staying with a friend. Why don’t you have the car dropped off here before lunch?”

  Her junior agent beamed happily. “Excellent advice, ma’am. I’ll have it ready within the hour. I’m glad Agent MacKenzie knows someone in the area. I was worried that pulling him into the case was going to cause problems.”

  “He hasn’t registered any complaints with me.” Not unless barely breathing between mouthfuls and telling Sam that he missed her cooking counted as a complaint.

  “I know he doesn’t have a wife or family,” Agent Edwin said. “I checked before I pulled him onto the case, but I thought he might have a girlfriend.”

  “Not that he’s mentioned to me.” To her own ears, her tone was noticeably cooler, but Edwin missed the change. It wasn’t that she was opposed to the idea of Mac’s dating, of course, she just figured he’d have mentioned if there was anyone significant in his life. That’s the sort of things friends talked about over dinner.

  Because that’s what we are . . . friends.

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t, ma’am. You have a professional relationship, after all,” he said with another ingratiating smile.

  Whether he meant she was married to her work or that being an agent would keep her from stripping Mac naked, she wasn’t sure. And she didn’t bother to ask . . . mostly because she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. “I’ve got to run, Edwin. Call if you run into trouble.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Some agents insisted on staying single because the future was too uncertain, and they didn’t want to leave someone they loved burying them young. Her situation was quite the opposite. S
he knew exactly how and when she would die, right down to the six-­hour window when she choked on her last breath. It was like living with a terminal disease.

  Mac had buried enough friends. Of course, he’d already been to her funeral once, so maybe it wouldn’t be so bad a second time around. But seeing her die wasn’t a stress he needed in his life.

  The heels of her navy pumps clicked on the tile floor outside the CBI office door.

  Budget cuts meant she shared office space with everyone from the free clinic downstairs to the local drunk tank for the city police department. It was a situation that made her neck itch with paranoia. Any minute now, some madman was going to come charging through the tastefully decorated arboretum foyer and start shooting ­people because they had a grudge against the Commonwealth Bureau of Investigation. Or the police. Or the free clinic that offered referrals to adoption centers and abortion clinics.

  The number of crazies in the world was sickening. Infuriating. A rational human being would take one look at all the head cases and lock themselves in a bunker. Instead, she kept a gun—­which she hated—­on her at all times and arrested anyone who looked at her funny.

  Taking the steps two at a time, she headed upstairs to the lowest-­budget morgue in the bureau. Mac was there, not bent over the charred remains of Henry Troom but seated at a computer terminal, leaning back in his chair with one foot on the long desk.

  “That looks uncomfortable,” she said from the doorway.

  Mac pivoted fast enough that he almost fell. He caught himself at the last minute, grinning sheepishly. “My knees kept hitting the desk.”

  “What are you looking at?”

  He motioned for her to look. “The lab layout. I’m overlaying the original blueprints with the information from the data bots and the fire department.”

  “Looking for what?” She walked past the empty examination table to peer at the screen over Mac’s shoulder.

  “Here, sit.” He moved out the chair so she could sit down as he pulled up a three-­dimensional diagram of the lab. “This is the Tinker Lab. I figured they’d have everything set up for running a variety of experiments: gas, water, electricity, everything you’d see in a normal college lab setup. But they don’t.” Green lines seared across the screen. “See? Basic electric outlets but nothing else.”