“For the surrounding area, we – ”
“Wait, why four vehicles?”
The Planner stopped speaking. He turned slowly to face the man who had interrupted, one of the Guns. The Organizer looked at him, too. They both stared at him. The silence was heavy. It seemed to grow hotter in the van.
The Gun shrugged helplessly. “I don’t understand,” he said, sounding cautious now. “It’s too many moving parts. Why would we need more than this van? It’s only going to be one man, and he’s – ”
The Organizer held up a hand. “Quiet.” He looked away from the Gun and stared at the black rubber floor of the van, as though considering something deeply troubling. “You’re not Gun One,” he said, without looking up.
The Gun blinked. “No, Gun Two, I – ”
“Gun One?”
“Sir.”
The Organizer lifted his head. He gave Gun One a look.
There was very little room to move inside the van, but Gun One did not hesitate. He leaned forward briskly, lifting and cocking his arm so that his elbow came out to one side. Then he pushed backward quickly and powerfully, driving the flat of his elbow into Gun Two’s unprotected face. There was a wet sound as Gun Two’s nose and upper lip were crushed and split, and then, an instant later, a dull thud as the back of his head struck the side wall of the van.
Gun Two shut his eyes and opened his mouth for air, but he did not make any sounds of his own. No cries of pain or distress. He put both hands up slowly, his eyes still closed, and he focused on breathing. He spread his fingers out like a blind man preparing to navigate his way through an unfamiliar room. Gun One returned to his ready state, and did not look at him. After another moment, Gun Two put his hands back down onto his lap, and then he opened his eyes. He made no move to examine his own nose or lips, or even to wipe away the blood that was now streaming down over his mouth, past his chin, and onto his black shirt.
The Organizer spoke again: “Will you be driving a van?”
Gun Two waited for an extra second to be sure he was the one being asked. Then he answered slowly. “No.” The word came out sounding muffled. Nasal and bloody.
“Are you in charge of planning?”
“No.”
“What is your role?”
“I’m a Gun.”
“Which means?”
“I handle operations. I pick up, I drop off, I neutralize threats, I secure targets.”
“Excellent. Is understanding required for any of these things?”
“No.”
“Do you expect to ask any more questions?”
Again the operative known as Gun Two waited, this time for emphasis. “No, Sir.”
The Organizer nodded. He turned his attention back to the Planner. “Continue.”
“We’ll need a detailed breakdown of local law and emergency services,” the Planner said. He did not seem to have noticed the interruption, nor did he seem concerned that the man sitting across from him, a man whose knees were less than four inches from his own, was now laboring to breathe. There was too much blood. Gun Two was trying to swallow the thick fluid leaking down the back of his throat, but he was falling behind. Gasping now. Choking.
“Stations,” the Planner continued. “I’ll need to know where the nearest police and fire stations are, along with the standard beat patrol routes. Hospitals, too. Anything with a siren vehicle.”
Gun Two’s situation became critical. He lurched forward suddenly, his gag reflex taking command of his body as the blood moving down his throat interrupted the flow of oxygen to his lungs. He tried to sit back, but then he gagged even more violently, leaning forward and vomiting blood-streaked bile onto the floor of the van. He dropped down onto his knees, and now the top of his head was bumping up against the Planner’s shins. He choked once, vomited again, then took a deep, shuddering breath. He cleared his throat and spat, adding to the puddle on the floor.
The Organizer made no move to open the doors.
“We’ll need three more drivers,” the Planner said, “one for the pickup and two for the other two vans.” He cut the air with one hand to indicate he was finished, and the Organizer tapped a few last notes on his slate before returning it to his pocket.
Gun Two recovered. He got up, settled back into his seat, and took a long, much clearer-sounding breath. He seemed to be getting enough air. The silence returned, and the six men retreated into their own heads. One Organizer, one Planner, one Driver, and three Guns.
They knew their jobs.
They would be ready.
Big Danny
Kevin’s first class was only forty minutes long. The boys paid attention, and Kevin marveled at their ability to transform from shouting, hyperactive kids into quiet, focused students. Then again, maybe this was just an act they put on for every teacher on the first day.
The threat of being thrown against a wall probably didn’t hurt.
At the end of the period, just as he was putting the homework assignment on the board, the classroom door opened. In walked a big man with glasses. He had a briefcase in one hand and a textbook in the other. He saw Kevin, and a wide grin spread over his face. “All set,” the man said. “Next room.”
Kevin stared at him, trying to decide how to respond. The man was young and strong; he was dressed very formally, in a tweed suit that had been expertly cut to accommodate his bulky dimensions. The combination of the glasses and the textbook and the tweed made him look like a teacher, but only barely. Kevin had the impression that this man might have been a shot-putter before he took up teaching. Or maybe a piano-mover.
“Thanks,” Kevin said, nodding as if everything were fine. “I think I’ve misplaced my schedule. Do you know how I’d find out what room I’m going to next?”
The man gave him a strange look. “Kevin?” he said slowly. “You okay?”
Christ, another person who knows my name.
He held out his hand. “Your name one more time?”
The man came forward, the grin back on his face. “Daniel Fisher. Danny.” He spoke with sing-song sarcasm, and shook Kevin’s hand with elaborate formality. “Mr. Fisher, I should say,” he added, glancing at the class. “And you’re Mr. Brooks, yes?”
Kevin tried to return the smile. Tried to go along with the idea that they were only putting on a show for the students. A little introduction show. He wondered how long he had actually known this man. “They’re all yours,” Kevin said, nodding at the class.
Danny Fisher nodded, his grin as wide as ever. “Yes they are,” he said. Then he pointed at the little stack of papers on the desk. “As for the schedule, didn’t you say you were going to keep it with you for the first day?”
Kevin sighed with relief. He picked up the stack and found his schedule on the bottom. “Second period,” he said to himself. “503.”
“Right across the way,” Danny said, pointing with his chin. “I’ll be following you in there next period.”
Kevin nodded. He slipped the cell-phone into his pocket, stuffed the stack of papers between the pages of the teacher’s-edition Algebra book on his desk, and then checked around for anything else that might belong to him. Bag? Wallet?
Apparently not.
He headed for the door.
Danny gave him a cheerful little wave, and then he turned to the class. His grin evaporated. “Now,” Danny said, in a stern, booming voice, and twenty-five teenaged boys shrank back in their seats. “As you heard, I am Mr. Fisher. And I am not nearly as nice as Mr. Brooks. We’re going to be reading some serious literature in English class this year.”
Kevin walked out the door and across the hall, and he found room 503. He went in and found twenty-five more eighth graders, the entire group seemingly identical to the first. Khakis and shirts and ties and blazers. As the door closed, he could still hear Danny Fisher putting the fear of God into his students. “Skip an assignment and I’ll turn into your worst nightmare,” he heard Danny say.
Kevin walked to the front o
f his new room. “I’m Mr. Brooks,” he said, trying to remind himself to go a little easier this time on any trouble-makers. “This is Algebra 1.”
He glanced at the clock at the back of the room.
This one seemed to be working normally.
You’re supposed to be doing something.
Get ready.
He shook his head involuntarily, like a horse shaking off a fly. He clenched his teeth together. Then he turned quickly to the whiteboard, trying to make it look as if he had been searching for a marker.
We’ll figure everything out in a few hours, he thought. Give me a minute. I’ve got things to do.
This seemed to work. The panicky voice in his head fell silent once more. He started his Algebra lecture again, from the beginning.
“Notebooks out,” he said.
It’s Impossible
At precisely 10 AM, the rear doors of the white Ford e250 super-duty van opened slowly. The Organizer, a tall, fit man wearing all-black fatigues, climbed carefully out of the back, followed by a shorter, stockier man, also wearing black fatigues. The Driver. Both men moved with the controlled, cautious manner of those who cannot be sure how their limbs will respond after an extended period of sitting. The Driver shut the doors behind him. The Organizer’s mouth opened and his nostrils flared as he took in a deep breath; he tasted the garage air, rubber and oil and aerosolized diesel, all so sweet after the vomit-tainted atmosphere of the van. The Driver walked to the front of the vehicle and climbed in.
The Organizer gave the side of the van a little knock with one fist, and it pulled out of the parking space, drove past him, and disappeared up the ramp leading to the exit. After taking another minute to let the feeling return to his legs, the Organizer pulled a cell phone from one of his pockets. He glanced at the signal readout, and then he began walking up the same curved ramp the van had taken. Toward the surface.
When he was near ground level, he lifted the phone to his ear.
“Good morning,” he said after a moment, still walking. He was almost at the garage entrance now, and there were other cars driving past him, heading out. “Yes, Sir. We’ll be set. On schedule.”
Another pause.
“We’ll need to bring on three more Drivers,” the Organizer said. “And several more Guns.” He stopped at the exit to the garage and leaned his back against the side of the building there. He was facing east, and he could see the river on the far side of F.D.R. Drive. Then Roosevelt island past that. The sun was rising high in the sky, its light beating down onto the green of the island. “Correct,” he said, and now he straightened up. His voice took on a tone of added precision. “Every employee. We’ll know every threat within 48 hours.”
A longer pause now. And a frown.
“Not possible,” the Organizer said. “But don’t worry, we have a mole in the main training center, so we’d know if they had someone new coming down the pipe.” He started walking again, heading north, uptown. “Exactly. We’ll have everyone marked. They could try to start someone from scratch, but that would be useless, and – ”
He stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, listening closely.
“No, because it’s impossible,” the Organizer said. He was trying not to sound dismissive. “Well, for the simplest reason. Target comes out into the open in ten days, yes?” He smiled and resumed walking. He shook his head and stared up at the sky, a cloudless September blue.
“Because you can’t,” he said. “There’s no way to train anyone that fast.”
Bullshit
Danny appeared at Kevin’s door at the end of the second period. As promised.
“Mr. Brooks,” he said, still in that overly formal tone. The grin was back on his face.
“Mr. Fisher.” Kevin collected his few possessions, then turned back to Danny. “There’s nothing on my schedule for this block,” he said.
“Lounge on the third floor,” Danny explained briskly. And then he gave him another look. “You really are out of it,” he said under his breath. “Sure you’re okay?”
Kevin nodded. “No sweat,” he said, and walked quickly out of the room. He found the stairwell in the hall, and once he had made it to the third floor he found a door without any numbers on it. Clearly, this was not a room where students were meant to go. He knocked once and walked in slowly.
The teachers’ lounge was a very tight space. There was a snack table in the middle surrounded by three armchairs, as well as a small refrigerator in the far corner. Brown carpeting covered the floor. Two of the chairs were already occupied, and the men sitting there looked toward the door as Kevin entered. One of them gave a little grunt of forbearance. “Mother of God,” he said. “Another new guy?” This man was overweight, sloppily dressed, and tired-looking. His tie hung low and loose on his shirt, and his gray hair lay in thin strands across the top of his head.
“Oh, shut up, Ronny,” said the other teacher. He stood up quickly. “Make an effort,” he added. This man was young and very thin, and he was reaching out now, simultaneously waving Kevin over and trying to shake hands. “Come on and have a seat. I’m Jean Lengard. Biology. This is Ronny.”
“Ron,” said the older man, who made no effort to rise from his chair. He had his head propped up in one hand, and his eyes were fixed on a point somewhere among the dust and crumbs of the lounge’s brown rug. If Kevin had not heard him speak, he might have thought he was dozing.
“I just call him that to annoy him,” Jean explained.
“Overkill,” Ron grunted, still staring at the rug. “Everything you do annoys me.”
“Hush.”
“I’m Kevin Brooks.” He shook hands with Jean and sat down in the third armchair.
“Ronald Clemson,” the older man said, still without looking up. “Art, Photography, Graphic Design. You’re teaching math?”
“That’s right.”
“Eighth grade?”
“As far as I can tell.”
Ron gave a grudging nod at this, as though being a math teacher fell, in his opinion, at least one step above the position of gas station attendant. “Good thing,” Ron added. “Guy before you only lasted a year. He was a jackass. You’re not a jackass, are you Kevin?”
And here Ronald Clemson looked up for the first time, fixing Kevin with a watery, red-eyed stare that was startling in its clarity. Kevin could see fierce intelligence behind his eyes.
“Hope not,” Kevin said.
“Uh-huh.” Ron seemed unimpressed. “Where were you before this?”
“Tanner and Trevor.”
“Never heard of it. What kind of name for a school is that?”
Jean tried to interrupt. “Ronny, honey. Easy. It’s – ”
“It’s not a school,” Kevin cut in smoothly. He was enjoying the conversation, despite Clemson’s tone. The whiff of confrontation was making his head feel better. Clearer. And that panicky voice from an hour ago – the one that had been so worried about him being ready – had gone completely silent.
At least for the moment.
Ron was still staring at him. “Not a school? Explain.”
“It’s a brokerage. I ran tech at one of their subsidiary hedge funds for a few years.”
“You were a broker?”
“I created the trading algorithms for the fund. The system for telling the computers what and when to buy and sell. But sure, a broker.”
“Whatever. You any good at it?”
Jean tried to pipe in again. “Ronny. Honestly, now. Give the boy a few minutes to settle in first. You’ve got all year to be rude to him.”
“It’s okay,” Kevin said. He turned back to Clemson, and he kept his expression steady. “Ronny,” he said slowly, “I was great at it.”
“Uh-huh,” Ron said again. Still not convinced, his tone said. Or at least pretending not to be. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
Ron smiled. “Twenty-eight,” he repeated. He said the number as though it left a bad taste in his mou
th. “How wise you must be. How seasoned. Did you manage to put away any spare cash while you were busy ruling the world down on Wall Street?”
Kevin affected ignorance. “Spare cash?”
Clemson fell for it. He let a little laugh escape him. “Did you save anything, Kevin my boy? Because now you’re a teacher.”
Kevin waited a moment before answering. “Oh, I understand now.” He kept his voice low. “You mean, do I have anything in the bank?”
“Exactly, Kevin. Because you can’t just – ”
Undetectable (Great Minds Thriller) Page 2