Cold Spectrum

by Craig Schaefer

  They weren’t alone. An unmarked car coming the other way almost spun out as it lurched to a stop. The thrum of rotors split the air as a white-and-blue helicopter flew overhead, veering over the rooftops to double-back again. I kept my eyes dead ahead. Pushed aside the hammering in my heart, the burning in my legs and my lungs and my back. Nothing but the mission.

  “Don’t stop,” Jessie hissed through gritted teeth as Burton and Kevin started to fall behind. “Whatever you do, don’t stop.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  I looked back and wished I hadn’t. Pedestrians stampeded, jumping aside and racing into doorways, as a mob of uniforms raced after us down the sidewalk. A police wagon kept time like a pace car, cherry lights flashing, clearing traffic for the three squad cars behind it.

  Foley Square loomed ahead. The end of the line.

  Monuments to law and justice ringed the open park like grand Greek temples, their ivory Ionic columns soaring tall and flags rippling in the crisp autumn wind. The United States Courthouse, the Thurgood Marshall Courthouse, the New York County Municipal Building—and not far away, the beige-and-black tower of the Manhattan FBI field office. Seemed as good a place as any to make our last stand.

  A fountain stood at the heart of Foley Square, waters rippling around a black granite monument like stylized antelope horns. The polished stone caught the sunlight. We ran to the fountain’s edge—and stopped.

  The cops didn’t get a chance to take us down. Three more unmarked sedans screeched to a stop at the edge of the square, hoods pointed toward us like spearheads, and Bureau agents jumped out with guns drawn. They crouched behind their doors, taking careful aim, every eye on the four of us. The police formed a cordon. They waved pedestrians back as more squad cars screeched up to block side streets, closing the square and cutting off one escape route at a time.

  “Why are we stopping?” Burton stared at me, bug-eyed. “They’re going to kill us. Or worse.”

  “Wait for it,” I murmured.

  I wish I felt as calm as I sounded. We’d done everything we could, and it was out of our hands. Everything depended on April now. The police helicopter circled overhead, hovering, pinning us in the rotor wash.

  “Keep your hands where we can see them,” a voice shouted through a bullhorn. “Do not attempt to run.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jessie called back, holding up her open hands.

  Crohn sauntered to the edge of the square, wearing a cocky grin, flanked by a couple of his own men.

  “Where is she?” he said. “We’ll find her eventually, you know. Might as well save yourself some trouble and start talking now.”

  I glanced back over my shoulder and smiled.

  “Right here,” I told him.

  Another four unmarked cars screeched to a halt at the opposite end of the square. Bureau men helped April out of a backseat and into her wheelchair while Crohn stared, eyes slowly widening, at her companions.

  Linder, along with Deputy Director Esposito. Dick Esposito marched in like a man on a mission, a sheaf of papers clutched in one angry hand.

  “Deputy Director?” Crohn said. He blinked at Linder like he was a piece that belonged to a different puzzle. “What . . . what is this?”

  Esposito pointed at the agents behind Crohn. “Stand down. Stand down right now.”

  Crohn looked back over his shoulder, confused. “Ignore that order. Eyes on the fugitives! I’m in charge here.”

  April rolled over to us, and I made room so she could sit beside Jessie. She squeezed Jessie’s hand, smiling thinly, but her eyes were locked on Crohn. Crohn went toe-to-toe with Linder and Esposito as his face turned beet red.

  “The hell do you think you’re playing at? What is this?” He turned to Linder. “What do you think you’re doing, besides diving headfirst into a world of shit?”

  “You’ve read my classified jacket,” Linder told him. “You know my specialties, the things I’ve done for this government, the things I’m good at. You should have paid more attention. Also, while I fear this may sound petty . . . you should have been nicer to me.”

  We had incoming. New arrivals pulling up behind Esposito’s pack of agents. First came the local vans, their livery advertising ABC Channel 7 and CBS New York. CNN and Fox News weren’t far behind, bringing cameras and pole-mounted lights into the square. Their colleagues from the press, lanyards for the Times and the Post dangling around their necks, crowded as close as the cordon of agents would let them.

  Esposito preened, smoothing back his hair, straightening his tie.

  Someone must have called off the police helicopter. It veered away, the air settling, an expectant silence flooding the square. Nothing but the burble of the black granite fountain, the popping of flashbulbs, and the faint electronic clicks of digital cameras. Esposito turned to address the gathering.

  “I’ve called you here today,” Esposito said, “to address a grievous wrong. These women, Special Agents Jessica Temple and Harmony Black, have been accused of a murderous rampage. In truth—and I deeply regret that I could not reveal the facts until today—they are not only innocent, but they were working on a special, secret assignment directly under my authorization.”

  He pointed an accusing finger at Crohn.

  “An assignment to expose Benjamin Crohn, the director of the FBI, as a traitor to the American people.”

  Crohn took a step back, his jaw dropping. I squinted in the blinding hail of camera flashes.

  “That’s—that’s preposterous,” Crohn stammered. He waved a shaking hand at us. “These women are federal fugitives, and I want them arrested now.”

  None of the agents on the scene, or the gauntlet of uniformed officers at their backs, made a move. They watched in uncertain silence.

  “These agents were framed for crimes committed by Mr. Crohn’s associates when they came too close to the truth,” Esposito told the press. “The truth being that Mr. Crohn illegally siphoned taxpayer dollars to pay for a top-secret program, operated without the knowledge or consent of the Bureau. This program, code-named RedEye, carried out a shocking and unconstitutional level of surveillance. Breaking into citizens’ cell phones, harvesting private data, all without any judicial oversight.”

  As the press erupted, shouting questions and waving hands, I leaned close to Linder. “Tell your buddies in the NSA we said ‘You’re welcome.’”

  He glanced sidelong with a thin, humorless smile. “RedEye is effectively dead as of today. That system cost millions; they’re hardly going to jump for joy over this.”

  “They ought to be happy,” I murmured. “It was going to get exposed eventually, one way or another. Now their hands are clean, and the whole mess gets pinned on a rogue FBI agent. Well, almost all of it. Now for the cherry on top.”

  Jessie was whispering in Burton’s ear. He looked at her like someone had just kicked him between the legs. “Do I have to?”

  “Do you want immunity from all charges?” she asked in return. His shoulders slumped.

  Crohn’s henchmen from Panic Cell had faded into the crowd and turned invisible. He stood alone and abandoned on an empty patch of concrete, hands trembling at his sides.

  “He didn’t do this alone,” Esposito said. “His chief engineer, who was blackmailed into working for him, has agreed to turn state’s evidence. Sir, please tell them the rest.”

  Burton stepped forward to stand at the deputy director’s side. He swallowed hard, eyes at the reporters’ feet.

  “Um, hi. I’m, uh, Burton Webb, and, well . . .”

  Esposito said in a low voice, “Just tell them the truth, son.”

  “Director—Director Crohn needed technical help to make RedEye happen,” Burton stammered. “So he approached Bobby Diehl. Of Diehl Innovations. My, um, former boss. Mr. Diehl agreed to help, so long as he could use the system to gather people’s personal information for targeted advertising and get a cut of the government money that Director Crohn was stealing.”

  I basked in g
rim satisfaction as the press exploded, shouting over one another to be heard. This was small recompense for the damage Bobby Diehl had done, the lives he’d taken, and the innocent people he’d destroyed, but it was a start.

  Killing him was too easy. I wanted to hurt him first. And the man who thought he was untouchable just got backhanded, long-distance, in a way he’d never forget. Meanwhile, Crohn was melting down on camera. His jaw, tense as steel cord, twitched as his hands curled into fists.

  “This is . . . this is all a criminal conspiracy. He’s in it with them!” He looked to the agents at his back, pointing furiously at Esposito. “Arrest them, and arrest him, too. All of them.”

  “You have no authority here, sir,” Esposito told him.

  “I am the director of the Federal—”

  “Not anymore.” Esposito unfurled the papers in his hand, holding them high for the cameras. “An administrative order from the White House, as of forty minutes ago. Benjamin Crohn, you have been relieved of your office pending your investigation and trial.”

  He looked behind him, to his own agents, and nodded at Crohn.

  “Cuff him.”

  I braced myself as the agents moved in. Crohn might have looked like a man on the ropes, but that didn’t change the fact that he had the proportionate speed and power of an incarnate demon. We’d seen him in action against Nyx. If he wanted to, he could kill his way out of here. Just start tearing off limbs and running like a freight train, probably shrugging off bullets while he did it.

  But he’d be doing it in front of live television cameras. Exposing his true nature—and the reality of the occult underground—for the entire globe to see. His masters in the eastern courts might find a way to forgive this mess, but that? That, they’d never forgive. Neither would every other monster, sorcerer, and shadow-lurker on Earth. The underground survived by an unspoken pact of secrecy; if he blew that, there’d be nowhere in the world to hide.

  Was he smart enough to bide his time and play it cool? I held my breath, waiting to find out.

  The cuffs slapped on. Rough hands shoved him forward, pushing him toward the backseat of an unmarked car. I let myself relax, just a little.

  “I’m expecting the former director to have an unfortunate and fatal accident in custody,” Linder murmured in my ear. “We’ve got a line on his demonic contracts?”

  I nodded, subtle, and answered out the side of my mouth. “We’ve identified the Windswept Razors’ hound and his place of business. Pretty sure the contracts are in his safe. We’re going in tonight. One lit match and Crohn’s a bad memory.”

  “I’ll send flowers to his holding cell.”

  Esposito waved Jessie and me forward. The camera flashes turned my vision into a blotchy forest of white and fading afterimages.

  “The Bureau wishes to extend its deepest thanks to these agents, who sacrificed so much, who risked so much, to uncover the truth.” He threw his arm around my shoulder. “These are American heroes.”

  I tried not to flinch under a fresh hail of flashbulbs and shouted questions.

  Esposito leaned close, speaking low through clenched, grinning teeth.

  “C’mon, damn it, smile for the cameras. Make me look good here.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Linder stepped in as soon as he could, gracefully extricating us from the press conference, and had his aides ferry us out of the square in an unmarked car. We ended up in a private meeting room on the seventh floor of the FBI field office. Windows along the wall looked down over the street below—and not far away, the press scrum was still going on at Foley Square.

  Jessie paced along the windows while April, Kevin, and I sat scattered around a long beechwood conference table. Kevin was huddled over his laptop, poring over electronic safe schematics. April jotted lines in a notebook, her handwriting tight and precise. I just slumped with my chin against my curled knuckles, staring out the window.

  “American heroes,” Jessie muttered. “Not that I object to the title, but he didn’t need to drag us right in front of the damn cameras and make us field questions.”

  “Doesn’t do much for our value as covert assets,” I said.

  April didn’t look up from her pad. “You’re both being melodramatic as well as seriously overestimating your own importance.”

  I lifted my head, looking her way. “How do you figure?”

  “We live in a twenty-four-hour news cycle. An engine that requires perpetual feeding. You’ll be household names until tomorrow, two days at most. That was your first and your last show-pony experience. Yes, media outlets will be calling for interviews. Said calls will be patched through to SAC Walburgh’s office. Seeing as SAC Walburgh does not exist, those calls will never be returned.”

  “But what happens when Crohn goes on trial—” Kevin started to ask. He withered under April’s silent stare. “Oh. Right. He’s not going on trial.”

  “He’ll be dead by dawn if we do our jobs properly,” April told him. “The real story here isn’t us, and it isn’t even him. It’s RedEye. And even that, one month from today, will barely be more than a poorly annotated Wikipedia entry. A year from now it’ll be a five-hundred-dollar question on Jeopardy! There’s no need for elaborate cover-ups when the public has the collective memory of a goldfish.”

  The door swung open, and Aselia strode in, all smiles. She tossed my phone over, and I snatched it out of the air.

  “All good?” Jessie asked her.

  “They never even got close. I had fun listening to the local news on the way back, too.” She put her fist to her mouth, clearing her throat, and lifted her chin high as she imitated my voice. “It is the sworn duty of every federal agent to pursue the truth and uphold the law. Our nation’s Constitution is powerful, but at the same time, as defenseless as a newborn child. It falls not only upon our shoulders but upon every American citizen to rise up, to be ever vigilant, and to fight in its defense—”

  I waved my hands at her. “Okay, okay.”

  Aselia snickered. “Seriously, did you have that speech memorized?”

  “No. I don’t know.” I shrugged. “There were a lot of cameras. I just said the first thing that popped into my head.”

  “You’re like that . . . what’s his name, that eagle from The Muppet Show.”

  I got up and ambled over to the credenza, pouring myself a paper cup of water from a half-full pitcher, and tried to change the subject.

  “Kevin, where are we on the burglary? What do you think—can you open Prospero’s safe?”

  He rubbed his forehead, wincing. “It’s theoretically possible to engineer an auto-cracker. I mean, they exist, and I can lift the code-lock schematics from the company’s servers since you got the model number for me, but . . . actually wiring one isn’t something I’ve ever done on my own. I reached out to this West Coast hacker, a friend of mine, for advice—I know she’s built one before—she just hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”

  I glanced out the window, to the amber light of the setting sun.

  “Well,” I said, “we have to go in tonight, so either you find a solution in the next hour, or we start shopping for explosives.”

  Jessie held up her hand. “I vote for explosives.”

  “You always vote for explosives,” I said.

  “You should praise me for consistency. That’s what my therapist does.”

  The phone on the conference table trilled. I leaned over, sipping my ice water, and hit the button for the speaker.

  “Agents,” Linder said, “we have a problem. I need you mobile, immediately.”

  Jessie turned from the window, hands on her hips. “What? Esposito wants another press junket?”

  “Benjamin Crohn is missing.”

  The water in my stomach turned into a cold lead weight.

  “How?” I said. “They only had to drive him two damn blocks. Who was in charge of the transfer?”

  “The wrong people. Crohn was placed in a reinforced police truck. Probably not capable of h
olding someone with the strength of an incarnate demon, but it would have slowed him down. We were counting on his reluctance to reveal his true nature in public view. The truck had four escort units, two in front and two behind.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Halfway to the detention facility, the truck suddenly made a hard right turn and escaped down an alley. The primary agents driving the unit dropped smoke grenades out their windows for cover. By the time the escorts sorted out the chaos, they were long gone. The GPS tracker on the truck shows it currently stopped in the Bronx: Clason Point, on the edge of the East River. I pulled an emergency requisition for the primaries’ personal bank accounts. Both agents received five-figure cash deposits in the last hour.”

  “They took a bribe to let him go.” I closed my eyes, feeling like I was sinking through the floor. “We needed one thing from you, Linder. One thing.”

  “Considering I’ve just added myself to Crohn’s personal list of enemies, Agent, I assure you I’m equally displeased.”

  I thought fast, running down a list of his assets. “His team’s plane. The C-130. You’ve gotta find it and make sure it stays grounded—”

  “Unfortunately, it took off half an hour ago, piloted by two of the surviving members of Panic Cell. Their flight plan was falsified.”

  “But he wasn’t on it?” Jessie asked.

  “No,” Linder said. “Crohn, Mikki, and the rest of Panic Cell are at large and presumably still in the city.”

  Kevin squinted at the phone. “Doesn’t make sense. These guys are supposed to be super loyal, right? Why would two of them take off with the getaway ride and leave their boss behind?”

  April sat back. She gently drummed the eraser of her pencil against the notepad.

  “Because they were ordered to,” she said. “We’re witnessing a contingency plan in motion. Jessie, Harmony, I recommend you get to that vehicle as quickly as possible. See if he’s left anything behind we can use.”