Nicholson’s winsome movie-star smile fell. “Sadly, my father passed away before he could realize his dream. I’ve followed in his footsteps, trying to secure finances to invest in the factory, to invest in the community!
“I was making progress, but a couple of years ago, the banks began turning me away. It took some digging, but I found that True Ally, a local real estate company, had been snatching up every piece of property in the neighborhood. I approached them and offered to sell them the factory, thinking I could rebuild my family’s legacy in a new location.
“No.” Nicholson shook his head. “Instead of negotiating, they laughed me out of their office. I didn’t know why, until the notices came… The government is demolishing the property and reclaiming the land for development.”
“To be fair, I was offered money,” Nicholson said. “But pennies on the dollar, and not nearly enough to rebuild.”
“True,” Santino said, reading documents faster than either Rachel or Phil could have located them. “Or true enough… I think if I dig deeper, some of this won’t hold up. There are time stamps on some of these that look a little hinky—”
Hill shushed him as Nicholson moved closer to the camera.
“Tell me, friends, what was I supposed to do? My father and I followed the law—all of the laws!—that were supposed to protect us. I’m a lawyer myself; I went to school to study property law, to find some way to preserve this valuable part of the local community.”
“And we just found Lobo’s lawyer,” Rachel murmured. “That was easy.”
On screen, Nicholson pressed a hand to his face, as if it hurt to talk. “Nothing has worked,” he said. “We are days away from demolition, and my land has been seized under the guise of eminent domain. They aren’t building a highway or a power plant—they’re claiming my land has been abandoned and are selling my property to True Ally.
“So,” Nicholson said, holding out his hand. The camera turned, taking in a large number of men dressed in various shades of urban camouflage. They were armed, each of them carrying a minimum of two weapons. Some of them appeared to be wearing body cameras. “Here we are. My friends and I have occupied my own building ahead of demolition, peacefully, to ask the government to reopen my family’s case. I have followed all legal channels to the fullest extent of the law; the least I expect is the government to do the same.
“I need to emphasize that this occupation is not a military movement. It is a peaceful protest. Every person on site is here willingly, and no one will be harmed. In fact, we met some people today who were glad to join our cause…”
The men stepped to the side, and there was Hope Blackwell.
She was furious. There was no doubt about that; she glared into the camera with the burning hatred of someone who was ready to tear the world apart with her mind alone. But her hands weren’t tied and she was standing on her own two feet.
“We came voluntarily,” Hope said, rolling her eyes and sighing like a teenager caught in a lie. “Because of course we came voluntarily, because this man none of us has ever met before is just so freakin’ amazing that he won us to his cause as soon as we met him, because there’s nobody holding a gun to—”
A little girl’s whimpered cry came from somewhere off-camera.
Hope shut her eyes. When she opened them, she was somewhat calmer. “We are in no way restrained,” she said, her voice still as sharp as razors. “These men are occupying this structure as part of their ability to exercise their constitutional rights. They are willing to negotiate.”
“Thank you, Dr. Blackwell,” Nicholson said, draping an arm over the woman’s shoulders companionably. Phil sucked in his breath; Rachel’s skin went so cold that she thought her heart had seized. It was only after Hope allowed herself to be steered away that they let themselves relax.
The reporter’s face filled the screen and she resumed chattering, dragging out a summary of what everyone had just heard to prologue her time. Interview, over.
“Okay,” Rachel said, thoughts racing. “Okay. This isn’t a hostage situation.” Hill’s chin came up, and she hastily clarified. “Not a normal hostage situation, anyhow. Unless there’s proof they’re under duress—”
“Bullshit!” Phil snapped. “Blackwell was coerced. That speech was so obviously fake that she might as well have been waving the cue cards around.”
“I know that, you know that, but it’s probably not enough to stand up in court,” Santino said. “Not without additional evidence.”
“Video of the abductions?” Zockinski asked.
“The kidnappers had shut off the cameras in the parking garage,” Santino said. “Everything we’ve got came from Carlota’s perspective, and there haven’t been enough court cases involving testimony from OACET Agents to set precedent.”
“They weren’t the only ones abducted,” Zockinski said. “What about the other hostages?”
“Jason’s working that angle,” Phil said. “He says that all of the footage they’ve located so far shows a van pull up to a person on the street, and that person gets into the back a moment later.”
“At gunpoint?” Santino asked.
“Probably, but unless we can get a clean view of the gun, there’s no proof.” Phil shrugged. “Jason’s running the videos. If there’s anything there, he’ll find it.”
“So what have we got?” Zockinski asked.
Hill rapped the butt of the dry-erase marker on the painted side of the wall. Jeremy Nicholson and Arthur Bennett had been joined by the words True Ally (real estate company).
“And the Sugar Camp Militia,” Rachel said. “And that shark of a lawyer the FBI warned us about, except I’m betting Nicholson is playing that part, too. Do we have his name yet?”
“Not yet,” Santino said. “But you’re probably right.”
The printer in the corner began to spit out high-resolution photographs. Rachel flipped frequencies until she saw Nicholson’s face come rolling off the tray, followed by those of men she recognized from the militia in the background of the interview.
“Jason’s work,” Phil said, as he moved to gather up the prints. “He’s made stills of the men from the factory. He’s running facial recognition through the usual databases.”
“Good,” Zockinski said, and stood to help Phil tack the printouts to the corkboard.
Busywork, Rachel thought, but couldn’t quite bring herself to join them. She was sure that this same wall was being duplicated in at least ten different law enforcement offices throughout the city. We need to work on something new. Something different. Some angle no one else would think to check out—
“Rachel? I’m outside.”
“Shit!” she exclaimed aloud, as Josh’s voice broke into her mind. “Guys, I’ve got to go. I’ll call… Phil?”
“Go, go,” Phil said. “Tell us what you learn.”
She grabbed her purse and jacket, and ran out of the room.
There was another heavy bang! as the metal door to their office flew open a second time. Rachel reactivated the scans she used for the emotional frequencies and saw Hill’s forest green core pounding down the hall behind her, angry reds twisting within the oranges of confusion and the grays of anxiety.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” she told him.
“Find out.”
She reminded herself that, no, this was certainly not the best time to punch Hill.
“Why do you want to punch Hill?”
“Because I want to punch everybody today, and he made a good point,” she told Josh. “Tell me what’s happened. Where are we going?”
“You saw the broadcast?” He was anxious: more than his emotions were spilling over into their link. She felt a steering wheel gripped by hands that were too large to be her own.
“Yeah.”
“Jeremy Nicholson called OACET right before that news report aired,” Josh said. “They wanted Mulcahy to come and meet with them in person, but they settled for me. I’ve been allowed to bring one oth
er Agent. You’re it.”
There were stairs: Rachel pulled herself away from Josh until she and Hill reached the bottom. Stairs and too-tight mental links made for twisted ankles. It was as good a time as any to catch Hill up on Nicholson’s phone call to OACET.
“I’m coming,” he said once she had finished.
“Yeah, I got that,” she said. “But you need to stay in the car. Josh is negotiating this mess, not you. Not me, either—I’m just his portable mind reader.”
Hill’s reds knotted around themselves once more.
Rachel stopped dead in her tracks and spun, putting the flat of her hand against Hill’s chest. “Listen to me,” she said. “If this was a normal situation? You could get Avery back yourself, no doubt in my mind.
“But this isn’t normal,” she continued. “Nicholson’s got something planned, and we need to learn what it is. They’re not going to give us anything today—not even one of the other hostages. It’s too soon. This is a fact-finding mission, not a rescue mission. Got it?”
He made as if to push past her. Rachel set her heels and pushed back, staring him down as hard as she could.
Hill had no problem meeting her eyes.
The moment before she toppled backwards down the stairs, he relented. The wall of reds that was towering over her like a tidal wave eased into itself.
She turned away first, and led them outside and into the fading daylight.
SEVEN
“Stay in the car,” Rachel said.
Hill’s knuckles were tight as he gripped the handle of his car door, dark skin going pale from the strain. He was violent reds, layer upon layer of them, each distinct hue whipping around and giving him the appearance of being wreathed in flame.
“I mean it,” she told him. “You come in with us, this’ll be nothing but a bad joke. A Jew, a Chinese woman, and a black man walk into a militia standoff? Josh is already going to be dancing in there. All I’m going to do is keep my mouth shut and read the crowd. Unless you’ve suddenly discovered you’ve had an implant all along, you’ll just be an extra liability.”
Hill’s conversational colors twisted around the handle.
“Thanks,” Rachel said as he mentally bound himself to the car. “Um… If you hear gunshots…”
He pulled down his shirt collar to show her the ballistic vest beneath, then nodded towards the news crews. There were other officers there, both local cops and the FBI, all of them standing around and waiting for things to go sideways.
“I’ll tell them,” she assured him, and went over to have a few words with the officers so they’d be aware of the giant with the gun in OACET’s unmarked sedan.
It was twilight, with a cold breeze moving off of the ocean through the factory yard. The air smelled like dead fish and old iron, and was an unearthly bright beneath the banks of LED light towers. Everyone—reporters, law enforcement—was gathered a safe hundred yards outside of the building. The local police department had established a barrier for crowd control another twenty yards past that, and the leading edge of what would likely become a massive public mob of looky-loos was butting up against it. Nobody was allowed to approach the building, not unless a member of the militia was there to escort them.
Jeremy Nicholson had decided to keep Josh Glassman waiting.
That was quickly turning into a mistake.
Or, Rachel corrected herself, an orgy.
Forcing Josh to stand around in a parking lot was a power play, the sort of thing that businessmen pulled on their rivals to show who was in control. Josh had responded by letting down whatever mental shields he used to keep his libido in check. He was radiating lust like the sun, and a whole solar system of men and women had fallen into orbit around him.
Rachel wasn’t sure how he did it. It wasn’t pheromones; she would have seen those. In fact, it didn’t seem to be physical at all. It was more like he was broadcasting sex sex SEX! across a mental link that had nothing to do with cybernetics and everything to do with biology. He was leaning on the bumper of a news van, sipping coffee and telling a story of That One Time When That Funny Thing Happened. It was exactly like every other time when he had needed to entertain a crowd… Except his conversational colors were deep red with (Throbbing? Ew!) lust, and everyone around him knew it.
The Indian reporter from the news swept her black hair away from her neck and oh-so-casually placed a hand on Josh’s arm…
He put a gentle hand on hers and brought her in close so he could whisper in her ear; her mouth opened and her eyes lost focus as her own red lust wove itself into his. Josh smiled at her, then stared straight at the nearest windows of the factory where indistinct shapes bobbed behind blue film and broken glass.
You see these people? The ones you think are here for you? that look said. Better do something if you want to keep them.
Someone walked past Rachel, and she glanced behind her to see that some of the officers from the local police force were starting to gravitate towards Josh. Rachel rolled her eyes and set out in search of her own cup of coffee. She found a large pump thermos by the crowd control barrier. It was manned by the youngest cop she had ever seen, a boy no older than eighteen. Or nineteen. Maybe twenty. All right, maybe twenty-five, tops. God, she felt old today.
“What’s happening over there?” he asked, nodding towards the mob surrounding Josh.
“Evolution,” Rachel replied.
She dumped a stupid amount of sugar into her coffee and headed back towards Josh, stopping just outside of what seemed to be his blast radius. The attention of the crowd shifted, red lust and Josh’s core color of tattoo blue swinging to professional blues and…
Blood? Uh-oh.
A man in urban camouflage and a core the color of raw blood was walking towards them. She flipped frequencies to put a face with that unfamiliar color, and saw that Jeremy Nicholson himself had come out to say hello.
Interesting, she thought. I guess the bad guys do color-code themselves. Sometimes.
The crowd gathered around Josh were shaking their heads as if reeling from a sudden punch to the face: whatever he had done to draw them in could be turned off as easily as he turned it on. Rachel saw the flash of embossed type as Josh slid a business card into the pocket of the reporter’s pants, followed one last ripple of lust between them as they broke apart, their conversational colors uncoupling.
Then came the pressure of another’s mind just staying outside of her own senses, a cyborg’s version of coughing politely before knocking.
She opened their link as carefully as possible, ready to step back and slam it shut if Josh was still in full-blown Lothario mode. His mind flowed into hers, as crisp and sexless as an irradiated mountain stream.
They fell into step as they walked towards Nicholson, their coattails whipping in the half-rotten wind blowing up from the ocean.
“Bad cop?” she asked him.
“Invisible cop. I want their full attention on me. Make them forget you’re here.”
She dropped a few feet behind him.
“Can you tie me in? I want to see how they read for myself.” His request was half caution, half politeness. Josh could read people better than she could, but for him, it was because he understood them. He was the human equivalent of the mechanic who could diagnose the cause of engine failure from the sounds the customer made over the phone, the baker who knew from a glance at the recipe that the cookies would benefit from another half-pinch of salt.
But he couldn’t see through walls, and if someone was standing behind him and thinking that this meeting was turning into a joke, that life would be more exciting if they unslung their semiautomatic machine gun and started blasting holes in those irritating Agent-shaped targets…
“Not right now,” she told him, as she swung her scans back through the building. “Not when I might need to move. Let’s get to somewhere safe.”
She felt him nod through their link, and then they were standing before Jeremy Nicholson.
Rachel didn
’t bother to flip frequencies to see his face again. She had gotten all the physical details she needed from the initial news broadcast. Now, she put herself at parade rest behind Josh, and stared through the layers of Nicholson’s emotions. His colors were confusing and confused. The professional blues of a man in control were whipping like a flag across his body, but there was a cloak of sickly yellow beneath this, and he wore a crown of sharp reddish-orange spikes. These spikes burrowed in and out of his temples like serpents through sand: Rachel’s brain hurt from watching it.
“Ping,” Josh said through their link, as he shook Nicholson’s hand and greeted him with the same courtesy he used for visiting heads of state.
“About how you’d expect a man in his situation to look. He’s stressed out and knows he’s not fully in charge, but he’s not an immediate threat.”
“Let me know if that changes.”
“Yup.”
Nicholson was talking, some prepared speech, probably, playing to the cameras as he welcomed Josh Glassman to his home. His voice was strong in that old-fashioned Marlboro Man way, but his words were nothing to her. What he said? That was Josh’s job.
What Nicholson felt? What he meant beneath his pretty well-planned words? That was hers.
She turned part of her scans back towards the building. She had spotted Hope Blackwell’s core colors as soon as they had arrived. Mulcahy’s wife was being held in a lofted office with clear sightlines of the factory floor below.
Avery wasn’t with her.
Nicholson’s men were keeping Avery on the other side of the factory compound. She was surrounded by people wearing a terrified blend of yellows, oranges, and grays. Around them, another layer of people in professional blues, all of whom held guns.
The little girl’s core color was losing the pastel blues that were the ambiguous hues of early childhood, and was transitioning towards a stony green. She was also the only hostage who wasn’t scared out of her mind. Where the others were frightened, Avery was…wary. Her colors shone yellow-white: she was alert and watchful, somewhat eager. Vivid blue flashes the size of dimes darted around her in unpredictable patterns, as if keeping her safe within a web of light.
Brute Force Page 9