“Lunch?” Emma frowned at Sean, who had just entered the girls’ RV and reported his phone call. “I’ve already eaten.” “That’s what he said, and he was quite insistent.” Sean showed her the paper where he’d written down an address. “There’s a map in the car, I think.”
“I’ll drive,” said Emma, “and we’ll stop for directions. I’m not going to spend the rest of the day wandering lost in Chicago just to salve your manly pride.”
Sean chuckled. “Aye, lass, if you say so.”
She sighed. “Maybe we should just cancel.”
Sean shook his head. “Berggren is one of the leading human advocates of mutant rights. Charles keeps the man’s book on his desk. If we miss this, he won’t be pleased.”
“Well, if we must, we must. I suppose the children won’t complain if we let them order another pizza.”
Sean chuckled. “Only if it means they can’t have another one for dinner.”
Everett was sitting in the Xabago’s top-gun seat, playing lookout for the rest. “There they go,” he said, watching as the little white car backed out and drove away.
Jubilee nodded. “Time to book. Everybody got your ski masks?”
Each of them held up one. They were in an assortment of garish colors. Everett had found them at a sporting goods store a few blocks from the RV park, but he’d cleaned them out in the process and hadn’t been able to pick and choose. In any case, Paige had insisted they all have the masks. There was no way of knowing in advance how close the rest of the team would have to get to the studio, and it was vital that none of them be traced back from the show.
Angelo looked at the transit map they’d borrowed from the park office. “You sure we shouldn’t just take the Xabago?” Paige shook her head. “Too conspicuous, too difficult to drive in town. If we take transit, it makes us flexible and difficult to trace.”
Angelo thumbed on the image inducer and put it in his pocket. “Well,” he said, “we’ve got ten minutes to walk to the station.”
Pound didn’t look happy at all as he backed out of the driveway of Recall’s parents’ house. Recall came trotting down the walk and vaulted into the passenger seat.
Pound, normally easygoing, looked tired and grumpy. “Now will you explain why you interrupted a perfectly good nap?”
“I’ve just got the feeling that Paige and the others are in some kind of trouble. Jubilee had me call and trick Mr. Cassidy into moving an appointment he and Ms. Frost had today. She wouldn’t say why, but I had the feeling they wanted to get them out of the way this afternoon.”
Pound chuckled. “Maybe they just want to have a kegger.” Recall frowned and stared straight ahead. “Nope. Remember my power. If they were having a party, I’d be able to find it.” ' ‘ '
The Expatriate realized something was wrong when he put his key in the lock and it turned too easily. He didn’t hear the bolt click back. The door had already been unlocked.
He considered quickly. His gun was inside the office, but the odds of there being a serious threat inside were slim. He reached into his coat pocket and found the comforting grip of the stubby knife he kept there. He slipped it out of its scabbard without removing it from his pocket, then quietly opened the door and stepped inside.
He snapped on the light to find Norman sitting in his chair, leaning back, arms crossed over his chest, a strange half-smile on his face. The Expatriate glanced at the computer screen and did a double take. Sloppy. How many operations had been brought down by just such a last-minute slip?
“Trent,” said Norman, “you’re fired.”
“What?” He gestured at the screen. “Because of that?” “You’re consorting with terrorists, Trent. I’m shocked and amazed.”
His mind raced, trying to build a plausible cover story, trying to find a way to salvage the plan. “I’m not consorting with them. They contacted me. They’re a source. I’ve been manipulating them for the good of the show. I was going to tell you all about it at the meeting.”
“I don’t think so, Trent. I haven’t figured out exactly what you’ve been up to, but I’m betting that it’s all right here in your computer. I’m not much good with the things myself, but we can get some experts in here.” He paused for effect. “Maybe the FBI.”
The Expatriate stepped closer. It was worse than he’d imagined. The plan would have to be abandoned, or modified. He shifted the knife in his hand and moved closer to Norman. He could slit the man’s throat before he could scream, hide the body until just before airtime. “Peg” could still be seen in the building, maybe brandishing a bloody knife. There might still be a way. He took another step closer.
“Don’t bother to clean out your desk, Trent.” Norman unfolded his arms, exposing the pistol he’d hidden in his right hand. “I’ve already done it for you.”
He pointed the pistol clumsily, but the Expatriate saw that he’d managed to figure out how to take off the safety. “Trent, we go back a long way. I’m not convinced from what I’ve found here that you really had a part in this terrorist business, but you see how I can’t keep you around anymore. I’m going to let you walk out of here, and give you until after the program before I call someone to look at this computer. I’ll ask Frank or Susan to fill in for you, tell them you had a family emergency. Only you know how deep you are in this thing, and so only you know how far you have to run. But I suspect—” he smiled slightly “—this is ‘good-bye.’ ”
The Expatriate backed slowly out the door. Certainly he could disarm Norman, but perhaps not without his firing and alerting the whole building. But he had another plan, and Norman’s generosity had given him just enough time to carry it out. In the hall, he checked his pocket to be sure his cell phone was still there. He waited until he was out in the street to call Ivan. “Change of plan,” he said. “Send over the ‘Peg’ suit in the van. I’ll meet them in front of the comer deli by the studio. You know the one. You’ll lead the team against our young friends, and I’ll take on Norman.”
“I don’t understand.”
The Expatriate walked hurriedly down the street, crowded with early lunch traffic. “Just stop those mutants and let me take care of the plan.” He hesitated. Ivan deserved better than that. “Norman fired me, but right now he’s the only one who knows it, and he isn’t going to be telling anyone after I’m through with him.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It is important for the field operative to understand the strengths and weaknesses of the Mandroid family of Powered Armor Mobile Weapons Platforms (PAMWP). For sheer firepower, they can be matched and bettered by tanks and other conventional armor units. Their speed can be bested by any number of ground and airborne units. Their ability to absorb damage is exceeded by most conventional armored units.
Excelling in these areas is not their true strength. It is, rather, the combination of significant high-technology firepower, good survivability, and fair speed in a stealthy and agile package that enhances the natural ability of a good soldier.
You do not operate your Mandroid as you might drive a car. You become part of the Mandroid, and it becomes part of you. Remember this, as you and your Mandroid will live and die together on the battlefield.
—S.H.I.E.L.D. training document
The northbound Edens Expressway was jammed up like a slow drain as Emma crept the little car along with the traffic. Sean, meanwhile, was trying to make sense of the directions they’d gotten from a reluctant convenience-store clerk. “I really don’t think he had any idea where we we’re going. ”
Emma pushed a windblown strand of hair out of her eyes and gave him an annoyed look. * ‘I thought you said there was a map in the glove compartment.”
For the third time since they’d started the drive, he flipped open the little door and pawed through the contents. “I’m sure I did. I haven’t a clue where the blasted thing got off to.” “Yes, Sean,” she said, sarcasm dripping from her voice, “I’m sure Sentinels slipped in last night and stole it as part of their master pla
n.” She tossed her head. “If you’d really left it there, it would be there. Are you sure you don’t want me to help with your memory just a little bit?”
He slumped down in the seat, putting his knees up against the dashboard. “Stay out of m’head, woman. I know what I know, and it was here yesterday.*’ He watched as they crept under a sign announcing an upcoming exit. “I wonder what’s got this all backed up. I’d fly up and have a look if I could get away with it.”
“Humans have this thing called a ‘radio,’ ” she said dryly. “Why don’t you see if you can find a traffic report?”
She clicked it on and tuned to the first AM station he could find. “—Walt Norman Show." Sean sneered at the mention of the man’s name. “Don’t miss this afternoon’s show when Walt interviews the mutant mystery girl Peg about the mutant agenda and her role in the terrorist attack on Mt. Rushmore. Don’t be the one who misses it!”
Emma stared at the radio with concern. “Sean, he couldn’t possibly be talking about one of our girls, could he?”
Sean wrinkled his brow, distressed by the thought. “Ah, sure an’ no. That Norman is shameless. He probably just hired some drama student to come and pretend to be a mutant for an hour or two. That’s all it is.”
He leaned his elbow out the window and examined an ad for The Walt Norman Show displayed on a nearby billboard. He realized that a traffic report was just finishing up on the radio, and he hadn’t been listening to it. Impulsively he reached down between the seats and took out the cell phone. “I should call Dr. Berggren and let him know we’ll be late.” He dialed. “Hello, may I speak with Dr. Berggren. This is? I’m sorry, sir, yer voice sounds different than when you called me this morning. What? You didn’t?” He held the mute button and turned to Emma. “He says that you called and set the lunch up with him, not the other way around. Does that make any sense?"
“It does if somebody wanted us on the road when Walt Norman’s show was on the air.”
Sean slammed his fist down on top of the car door. He picked up the phone again. “I’m sorry, there’s been an emergency and we’ll have to reschedule. We’ll call you—really this time. I’ll explain later. Sorry.” He hung up the phone, then dialed the number of the kids’ cell phone. After ten rings there was no answer. “We’ve got to get back there, quick.” They were coming up on an exit, and Emma was able to get off and reenter the freeway in the other direction, but if anything, the traffic there was worse. Sean slammed his hands down on top of the windshield. “Are these people daft? It’s lunchtime, for God’s sake. Go home, all of ye!”
Emma stared at the driver of the red minivan in front of them. Get out of the way. Sean heard her telepathic “voice” forcefully—the driver obediently pulled over against the railing. Get out of the way again, and the traffic started calmly parting in front of them like water before Moses. Get out of the way.
The car surged forward, its motor deepening to a throaty roar. Emma seemed totally focused, though Sean couldn’t be sure if it was the driving or the telepathy that was taking more of her concentration. “Lass, y’r a miracle worker.” But as he said it, he knew that even at this pace it would still take them at least ten minutes to get back to the RV park.
The train bounced along the overhead track, rocking gently as it did. The kids sat on either side of the aisle, all of them looking at the cell phone in Jubilee’s hand.
“You should have answered it,” said Angelo. “That’s why we brought it.”
Jubilee glared at him. “Yeah, right, like they couldn’t just hear that we were on a train. Don’t be so lame, Angelo.”
Paige’s hands were held in tense fists in front of her, clenched until the knuckles turned white. “So now they know we aren’t home.”
Jubilee rolled her eyes. “So they don’t know anything. That’s the point, right? They might wonder, but they’re halfway across town by now, and they’ll just figure we all booked down to the arcade or something.”
Angelo shook his head.
Jubilee stuck the phone out at him angrily. “You want the phone? You carry the phone. Then you can make the call.” Angelo held up his palms. “No way, chica. You take the heat.”
She held out the phone to Paige. “You take it.”
Paige just looked miserable, as though she might throw up at any moment. Jubilee suddenly felt bad about harassing her. “Sorry, girl,” Jubilee said. “Didn’t mean nothing by it.” “I’ll take the phone,” said Monet.
Jubilee just glared at her and stuck the phone back in her pocket.
“Why,” asked Monet, looking toward the rear of the car, “would a man with a walkie-talkie be following us?”
Paige looked at her. “What man?” She kept her voice low. ‘ ‘The one in the back row, blue suit and the short haircut. He got on at the station with us.”
“It’s probably a ham radio operator,” said Jono.
“It’s probably just another cell phone,” said Jubilee.
“It’s probably a transit security guard,” said Angelo, “waiting for some excuse to hassle us.”
Paige chuckled unenthusiastically. “We are getting so paranoid.” ' '
“This is Watcher One. Targets are leaving the train. Confirmed, targets are leaving the train.”
Ivan smiled inside his armor. It had been an uncomfortable hour riding enclosed in it as the truck bounced along after their quarry, but now the ordeal was paying off. He released the safeties, and the Mandroid, which had previously been heavy and inert around his body, suddenly purred to life. He engaged the radio loop that connected him with his troops. “This is Combat One. Sound off. Gonzalez.”
A woman’s voice, “Combat Two, armed.” “Vogle.”
“Combat Three, ready.”
“Sledge.”
“Combat Four, go.”
“Petra.” "
“Combat Five,” said another woman’s voice. “Let’s kick some butt.”
“This is it,” he announced. “Stay in radio contact at all times. The truck will circle and meet us three blocks west for pickup.’*
He heard the air brakes through his audio pickups as the truck stopped. The Mandroids clumped heavily into motion, shuffling in a line toward the rear of the truck. The big door in the back rolled open, and they dived out one after the other, like paratroopers in an old war movie.
When Sean and Emma roared into the RV park, the only kids they found there were Recall and Dog Pound, sitting in front of the Xabago in Pound’s Cadillac.
Sean jumped out of the car and ran over to Recall. “Have ye seen our kids?”
“We were just looking for them. I thought something might be wrong when they asked me to—” He stopped in midsentence and looked uncomfortable.
Sean’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “That was ye on the phone this morning, wasn’t it?”
Recall hung his head. “Yes, sir. Jubilee asked me to do it, but she wouldn’t tell me why.”
“Could it have something to do with The Walt Norman ShowT*
Recall started at the name, and Sean realized he was on the right track.
“Ye know something, don’t ye, lad?”
He hesitated. “Paige has been calling Norman’s show since early in the trip.”
He threw his hands up. “I should have known it when I caught them listening to his show.” He looked back at Recall. “Did you know she was going to be on it in person?”
His eyes went wide. Pound leaned around him and stared in disbelief. ‘ ‘No,’ ’ said Recall, and he seemed sincere about it.
Sean looked around the empty camp. “They’re already on their way, but they didn’t drive. We might still catch them. Recall, can you track the kids with your power?”
He considered. “Most of the time I just homed in on the RVs during the trip. They’re bigger and easier to track. But,” he said, “I think I could home in on Paige.”
Sean waved Emma over. “This’ll be easier in one car, and we can’t all fit in that one. Pound, you better be a
good driver, because we’ll need to go fast.”
Dog Pound pulled himself up straight in his seat. “Yes, sir, Mr. Cassidy. I had all the top scores on Daytona at the student union.”
Sean was halfway into the backseat, but he hesitated. “That’s very reassuring, lad.”
The van carrying the Expatriate and his modified Mandroid armor circled the block, looking for a drop-off point. In order to make the “killer mutant” story work, he’d have to enter the building through the front door, but it wouldn’t do for him to be seen emerging from the bogus parcel delivery van, especially if he planned to use it to escape afterward.
The armor was too tall for the van, and lay on an inclined platform aiming down toward the rear doors. An electric hoist could raise and lower the end of the platform to street level in only a few seconds, and the doors were rigged to open and close automatically with its movement. It was dark in the van but, thanks to the air-conditioning unit chugging on the roof, not unduly warm.
“There’s a utility truck parked in the alley next to the studio,” the voice of the driver came over his armor’s headset. “It’s a meter reader. He should move soon.”
The Expatriate squirmed in the armor, feeling slightly claustrophobic and very impatient. He tried to occupy himself by running through the armor’s computer control sequences, but the exercise didn’t work. He’d been through them all a hundred times, and he knew them inside and out. He was ready. Unfortunately, he was also early, and it wouldn’t do to loiter around in this getup—plus, he wanted Norman on the air when he arrived.
He called up the interface for the voice box experimentally and chose a phrase from the menu. “Walt Norman,” the box said, “my name is Peg, and I’m here to kill you in the name of all mnfantlrinrl ”
The old man stood on the comer near the elevated train tracks, dressed in a tattered wool coat, a hunter’s cap with flaps pulled down over his ears, and gloves. This wouldn’t have been so strange, thought Angelo, if it hadn’t been eighty degrees in the shade. He looked at them with wet, red-rimmed eyes and shook a tin cup that seemed to have a few nickels rattling around in the bottom, but what really got their attention was the crude, hand-lettered sign he carried. It read, mutant, PLEASE HELP.
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