Lockdown (Fugitive Marines Book 3)
Page 23
“Napoleon Quinn, you and your companions are under arrest for theft of government property and the destruction of private property, namely the SkyLode Oberon One satellite mining facility. Charges of murder for the people who died on board that station are pending.”
“Are you insane?” Chelsea cried. “We just stopped an alien invasion!”
One of the reporters rolled his eyes. “Give it up already, will you? It’s getting old.”
The soldiers manhandled them across the tarmac toward a large bus with the words New Alcatraz stencilled on the side, except for Chelsea, who was cut from the crowd by two people in white uniforms and led to an ambulance airship.
“Quinn!” she cried. The desperation in her voice made his heart crack.
“I want my lawyer!” Ulysses growled. “I want Tiffany Tranh!”
“Tiffany Tranh dropped you like a hot potato,” said a female reporter. “You should really watch the network more often.”
Quinn seethed as they were loaded into the bus and shoved into seats. Drake entered after them and leaned over Quinn’s seat, glowering.
“You fucked with the wrong people,” the tribune said in a low voice. “And now you’re going to pay the price.”
“We’ll see,” Quinn said through gritted teeth. “One call to Frank King and this all goes away.”
Drake’s shaggy eyebrows rose. “Is that right? I guess you never saw this on the network, then. It was recorded a few days ago.”
He touched the controls of his wrist unit and a holographic display appeared in the air in front of them. It was King, and he was surrounded by reporters at a news conference.
“The whole story will come out soon enough,” he said, holding up his hands to get the reporters to stop talking over themselves. “For now, suffice to say that the men known as the Jarheads will pay for their crimes. The truth will be known.”
The reporters yelled a barrage of questions before one managed to shout over the crowd.
“Where have you been for the last two years?”
King’s eyes narrowed as he looked directly into the camera. It was a look that made Quinn’s guts freeze and his blood boil at the same time.
“I’ve been a prisoner of Napoleon Quinn and his men since they kidnapped me in Astana in the final days of the war,” said King. “They had others keeping me in custody even after they were sentenced to prison on Oberon One. They then proceeded to break out, steal government property and then had the audacity to try to convince the public that they were innocent with that ridiculous video they illegally placed on the network. And that’s just the start of this. I’ll have more information at a later date.”
King stalked away from the throng of reporters, who followed him still yelling questions, before Drake ended the projection.
Quinn looked to the others, who all wore the same look of shock and devastation. Gloom and Maggott looked on the verge of killing someone, while Bishop and Schuster simply looked defeated. This has to be a dream, Quinn thought bleakly. Soon they would all wake up and still be on their Rafts, headed back to Earth for a hero’s welcome.
Drake leaned close to Quinn and smiled coldly. The smell of his breath was enough to let Quinn know he wasn’t dreaming.
“It’s not Oberon One,” he said. “But New Alcatraz is known for living up to its namesake. Hope you enjoy it.”
He took two steps then turned back. “I forgot one last thing.” He raised his middle finger and grinned widely.
When Drake was back on the tarmac, the bus fired up its electric engine and pulled away, headed west toward the Golden Gate Bridge that would take them to the launch that led to the island of New Alcatraz.
As Quinn watched the scenery roll by outside, one thought was stuck in his head. One thing that he was absolutely sure of, in a world where it seemed that he couldn’t be sure of anything.
We broke out of a prison in outer space, he told himself. How hard can an island be?
Epilogue
Morley Drake sat at the edge of the park, his security drone hovering at a discreet distance. He was eating food from a shuttle that never charged him for it, and thinking that life itself was as sweet as the Dungeness crab on his tongue.
After a few minutes, a handsome man with chestnut hair took a seat next to him on the polycarbonate bench. The two looked out at yet another perfectly clear sky over the San Francisco Bay. There was rain scheduled, but not until after midnight, when both men would be asleep.
“You were right,” said Drake. “It went off without a hitch.”
“Do you finally trust me now?” asked Frank King.
“It was never a matter of trust. More like I had a problem with the people you associated with.”
“Well, we don’t have to worry about that anymore. Judging by the video Jakande sent me, it’s unlikely that somebody Toomey’s age could have made it off that station before it blew.”
Drake pitched his empty carton into the nearby incinerator, where it disappeared in a flash. Then he sat back and spread his arms across the back of the bench. It was the first time in a long while that he had left his nitro applicator at home.
“So you’re ready for the next phase?” he asked.
“Just a second,” said King. “We still have a couple of sticking points in our negotiations.”
Drake sighed. “I told you, I can’t unilaterally issue an amnesty for all cyborgs, even if it is only on behalf of the UFT. That has to be voted on by the tribunal. I’m drafting something right now for an executive order. Obviously, we can’t do that in the public eye.”
“You’ve got two weeks. No more.”
Drake nodded; he knew the man meant business. Of all the people he’d ever met, this was the one he least wanted to fuck with.
“I’ll get it done. What about you? What’s your next move?”
Right before Drake’s eyes, Frank King’s face began to shift and bulge. The nose straightened and lengthened a bit, the eyes moved a few millimeters farther apart, the lips became slightly thinner. Five seconds later, he was looking at the face of Napoleon Quinn.
“Things have been all business for a while now,” he said with a grin. “I think I’m going to have a little fun before we move on to the next phase.”
THE END
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