by Dale Brown
Epigraph
Revenge, at first though sweet,
Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.
—Milton, Paradise Lost (Book IX, lines 171–72)
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Epigraph
Data sheet
Obscenity Flash forward
1: Real time
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
A Need to Avenge Flash forward
17: Real time
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
Takedown Flash forward
32: Real time
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
Failure to Close Flash forward
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
Puppet Master Flash forward
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
Done Deal 111
About the Authors
Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author Dale Brown
The Puppet Master Series
Copyright
About the Publisher
Data sheet
Important people
Louis Messina—scientist and entrepreneur, proprietor of Smart Metal, deeply religious; lost his hand and his wife in a car accident as a young man; never remarried
Chelsea Goodman—project engineer at Smart Metal; genius at math, young, petite, creative
Johnny Givens—young, athletic FBI agent on Jenkins’s task force
Yuri Johansen—veteran CIA officer, in charge of a covert antiterror action group primarily operating overseas
Ghadab min Allah—nom de terror of Samir Abdubin, roughly, “God’s wrath.” More demon than man, with a fetish for knives, especially ornate khanjars, which he uses to slit victims’ throats
Shadaa—Ghadab’s paramour
Important places
Boston & suburbs—birthplace of freedom, hardscrabble values, great Italian food, and the best baseball team in the world
Palmyra, Syria—city in Syria occupied by ISIS/Daesh, used as sanctuary by Ghadab
Important tech
Bot—Smart Metal slang for robot that can function to some degree on its own, in contrast to mechs and industrial robots designed for specific, stationary tasks such as welding or chip making. Smart Metal constructs all types
Mech—Smart Metal slang for robots that are preprogrammed for specific tasks but retain more flexibility than industrial robots
Autonomy—ability of bot or other entity to “think” or make decisions without direct commands from operator
UAV—unmanned aerial vehicle, commonly referred to as a “drone”; Smart Metal UAVs can operate without direct human guidance
Obscenity
Flash forward
Boston, Easter Sunday
High noon
Louis Massina paced back and forth in the small high-security area, worried, anxious, and angry.
But most of all, impotent. Boston was under attack. The lives of dozens, maybe hundreds, of his friends were directly threatened. One of his closest employees, a young woman with tremendous promise, was among the hostages.
Maybe even dead.
And all he could do, for all his money, for all his inventions—his robots, his drones, his computers, his software—was walk back and forth, trying desperately to suppress what could not be suppressed.
Anger. Rage. The enemy of reason, yet the core of his being, at least at this moment.
There were other alternatives. Prayer, for one.
Prayer is impotence. Prayer is surrender.
The nuns who taught him would slap his face for thinking that. They held the exact opposite: Prayer was strength, tenfold.
But while in many ways Massina was a man of faith, he had never been much given to prayer. In his mind, actions spoke more effectively than words. Prayers were all well and good, but they worked—if they worked at all—on a realm other than human.
And the action needed now was completely human. Not even the Devil himself could have concocted the evil his city faced.
Light flashed in the center of the far-right monitor.
“They’re going in,” said the operator watching the hotel where Massina’s employee had been taken hostage. The light had come from a small explosion at the side of the building. “They’re going in.”
Almost in spite of himself, Massina started to pray.
1
Real time
Two hours earlier
Boston, Massachusetts
Easter Sunday morning
There were few better hotels in Boston than the Patriot Hotel if you wanted to soak up the city’s history: city hall was practically next door, Faneuil five minutes away. You could catch a trolley for the Old Town tour a block or two down the street. Bunker Hill was a hike, but then the British had found that out as well. The rooms were expensive—twice what they would go for at similarly appointed hotels nearby—but money had never been a major concern for Victoria Goodman, Chelsea Goodman’s favorite aunt. Victoria had gotten a job as a secretary for Microsoft very soon after it started, and when she cashed out her stock in the early 1990s, invested in real estate in and around San Francisco, most notably Palo Alto and Menlo Park—the future homes of Facebook and Google. Victoria had that kind of luck.
Despite her luck, and her money, Victoria was especially easygoing, self-assured yet casual. She met Chelsea in the hotel lobby wearing a blue-floral draped dress that showed off toned upper arms and legs that remained trim and shapely despite the fact that she had recently passed sixty.
“Just on time,” declared Victoria, folding Chelsea to her chest. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“I wouldn’t mind breakfast,” answered Chelsea. “How far did you run this morning?”
“It’s not the distance, it’s the attitude,” replied Victoria. “Only five miles. But it felt wonderful. It’s so marvelous running thro
ugh the city.”
“You’ll have to try for the Marathon.”
“Those days are gone, dear,” said Victoria lightly. “I’d never qualify. But thank you for the thought. You didn’t bring your young friend?”
“We’ll meet her at the Aquarium,” Chelsea said. “She had to go to church with her dad.”
“Well, it is Easter.”
“Actually, they’re Russian Orthodox, so it’s Palm Sunday. He’s a single father, and lately he’s been trying to instill religion in her.”
Chelsea followed Victoria across the paneled lobby to the restaurant entrance, where a maître d’ greeted them with a nod. He had a fresh white rose in his lapel and the manner of someone who’d been looking forward to this encounter the entire morning. He showed the two women to a seat at the far end of the room, then asked if they would care for something to drink while they looked at the menus.
“Mimosas,” said Victoria. “And coffee.”
“Mimosas?” asked Chelsea.
“Why not? You don’t have to work today, and champagne always puts me in the mood for sightseeing.”
Chelsea was just about to ask how exactly that worked when a loud crack shook the room. The metallic snap was followed by two more, each louder than the other. The noise was unfamiliar to most of the people in the restaurant, but Chelsea had lately had a singular experience that not only made the sound familiar, but warned her subconscious that there was great danger nearby. She leaped up from her seat, and before her aunt could respond, had grabbed her and pushed her to the floor.
“Someone is shooting!” Chelsea told Victoria as the crack of a fresh round of bullets echoed against the deep wood panels of the room. “We have to get out of here!”
2
Boston, Massachusetts—around the same time
Johnny Givens couldn’t help but be impressed. Since coming to Smart Metal, the former FBI agent had seen more than his share of high-tech gizmos and gadgets. The company was the leading manufacturer of stand-alone robots in the Northeast, and its R&D section was beyond anything Jules Verne, Gene Rodenberry, or William Gibson could have imagined. And he himself was an example of its cutting-edge technology—having lost his original legs in an accident while working a case, Johnny now walked on a set of prosthetics designed and manufactured by Smart Metal’s Bio-Med division. Yet what he was seeing this morning impressed him even more than his legs. For he was seeing the future of policing.
The Boston Police Department had invited Johnny and his immediate boss, Smart Metal Security Director William Bozzone, to inspect their not-yet-complete Command Center, a veritable Starship Enterprise located in a disaster-proof shelter under the Charles River. Besides the normal communications gear one would find in a class-one emergency call center, BCPD Command had dedicated links to a dozen nearby police departments, the Massachusetts State Police, the National Guard, Homeland Security, and even the Pentagon. Police video cameras, set up at every substation, municipal building, and historic site, provided real-time visuals of what was happening around the city. Visual input could also be received from up to twelve helicopter drones, which were piloted from a room within the complex. Commanders could not only speak in real time to any officer on the force, but could “push” data such as video to their devices—phones, tablets, laptops—as well. Sophisticated computers utilized face- and voice-recognition software to ID suspects and present their rap sheets in less time than it would take a police officer to tell them to put up their hands. The center also received status reports on the city’s T or subway, buses, electrical grid, and its internet systems. And while still in its infancy, software that integrated all of the available information promised to provide alerts that would make the department far more proactive than imagined even a decade before.
To Johnny, it looked like nirvana: a twenty-first-century tool for law enforcement that would put police officers two steps ahead of criminals. So he was baffled when he noticed Bozzone’s frown deepening with every step they took around the center. What had seemed like a quizzical annoyance as they passed through the metal and chemical detectors before boarding the tram at the entrance had blossomed into something that suggested disgust. Bozzone didn’t voice it—he was nothing if not disciplined and polite—but having worked with him closely for several months, Johnny realized he was about ready to explode.
Their tour guide, Police Captain Horace Wu, seemed oblivious. Wu, a fifth-generation police officer whose great-great-grandfather had been one of the first Chinese American members of the Boston PD, led them from the Situation Room down a hallway past some as-yet-unoccupied offices to the Galley—a full-service cafeteria that, unfortunately, was not yet manned. Coffee and pastries had been put out on a table; Wu directed Bozzone and Givens to help themselves while he checked on the other groups being shown through the center.
“This is going to kill your diet,” Givens told Bozzone, glancing at the array of fruit tarts, jelly donuts, and squares of cheesecake.
Bozzone silently poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. Johnny helped himself to a Danish and followed.
“Not even tempted?” asked Givens.
Bozzone shrugged.
“What’s up?”
“You realize this is Big Brother Central, right?” said the security chief.
“I don’t follow.”
“The gear here, the coordination, the inputs, and the abilities—it can be used for a lot of things.”
“Catching criminals. Sure.”
Bozzone focused on his coffee, stirring it slowly.
“Danish is good,” said Johnny.
“The problem is balance. And responsibility. Who do we trust with the keys?” Bozzone raised his head and stared at Givens. His expression was somewhere between that of an interrogator and a philosopher, both accusing and pensive at the same time. “Who do we trust watching our every move?”
“It’s an extension of the guy on the beat,” offered Johnny. “In the old days, a cop would patrol a few blocks, know just about everybody, see just about everything going on. That was community policing.”
Johnny, who’d earned a bachelor’s in criminal science after his Army service, knew this was an exaggeration, and that in fact it bordered on an idealistic fantasy. But it was the best he could offer at the moment.
He expected Bozzone to counter, but he didn’t. Instead, his boss rose.
“Let’s get going. I don’t really feel like spending all Easter here.”
“Good idea,” said Johnny. “Otherwise I’ll be tempted to grab another Danish.”
It occurred to Johnny that their intel shack at Smart Metal, which had been set up to help the CIA complete a mission in occupied Ukraine, had even more capabilities than BCPD Command; Bozzone had raised no objections about that. But this wasn’t the place to bring that up. He fell in behind Bozzone, following as he walked back through the hall to the Situation Room, looking for Wu so they could say thank you and take their leave.
They had just spotted Wu across the room with a pair of Massachusetts State Detectives when a buzzer sounded. Givens looked up at the massive LED video panel at the front of the room. A large red banner was flashing across the top of the screen:
Shooting Reported in Old Town District
A systems operator at a console on a raised platform near the back of the room typed furiously, and the image changed from a map of Boston to a bird’s-eye view of the area near the harbor. A red marker glowed near a building Johnny recognized as the Patriot, a pricey five-star old-world-style hotel in the center of the city’s historic area. The screen divided in half; a video from a police car responding to the scene appeared at the top right, next to the map. Below it was an image from one of the two helicopter drones currently flying above the city.
“Is this a tech demonstration?” Johnny asked.
Before anyone could answer, another banner appeared on the screen, just below the earlier one:
Explosion in Orange Line Station: Back Bay
>
“Come on,” said Bozzone. “Fast.”
Johnny followed his boss as he beelined for the exit portal, running to one of the waiting trams. Johnny had barely gotten in when Bozzone hit the Transport button. The magnetic-impulse car shot away from the Command Center toward the facility’s guarded entrance.
“We need to get out of here before they go to lockdown,” said Bozzone. “Boston is under attack.”
“You don’t think it’s just an exercise?”
Bozzone shook his head. “No way.”
3
Near Boston—a short time later
As a practical matter, most days, even Sundays, religion did not intrude too greatly into Louis Massina’s thoughts, let alone his schedule.
Easter was different.
Easter high mass was a must-attend event; he had not missed one in his memory, which extended back to his days as a toddler. Accordingly, the mass was an exercise in nostalgia as well as devotion. The scent of lilies and incense as he crossed to the narthex from the vestibule returned him to his childhood; by the time he knelt in a pew to pray, he would remember the hard wooden kneelers he’d bruised his knees on as an altar boy. The choir would transport him farther back, to a neighborhood church—boarded now, but at the time crowded with blue-collar parishioners and their prayers. Massina would see his great-aunt, a nun, face beaming as she fingered her rosary beads. He would remember his parents, and the long walk home to the apartment where his mother had hidden their plastic eggs in various crevices.
That was a long time ago, and not just in years.
Conscious of how much had changed, Massina came out of the church in a contemplative mood, and it only deepened when he returned home. If he had been of a different temperament, this contemplation might have led to melancholia, a yearning for the past, and half a bottle of Scotch or some similar beverage. Massina was different: his mood prompted a laundry list of projects he must absolutely turn his attention to, things he had to accomplish, projects he had to try. That was his family’s greatest legacy—urging him to never be satisfied.