More thoughts traveled through his mind, none of which had anything to do with the job at hand.
#
Jamerson stood in the crowd across from the building where Stern held meetings. Everything about the structure looked new, but old at the same time. Red bricks from other buildings had been salvaged to repair the walls. Cement blocks had been poured into wooden frames to make the steps leading to doors salvaged from elsewhere and hung on steel hinges. All the windows had long ago been destroyed, but new ones using square panes of glass joined together in wooden frames covered four of the building's five floors. The top floor -- the fifth -- showed only slits and dark shutters, as though the windows were reserved for defense in case of attack.
Rounders milled about. Jamerson sensed, Jake Stern controlled the quasi-military group. They were everywhere, from the rebuilt sections south of Lakeshore to the slums just outside Chicago-proper's east gate. They patrolled the shoreline. They settled quarrels, took sides in disputes, and hauled away protestors that railed against Stern for any reason.
The old man had his fingers in everything. From Grant's Promenade, which anchored his gambling empire, to the refurbished rental properties fronting the main thoroughfare that ran a mile inland from Lake Michigan. He probably had an economic interest in the market places that dotted the Outside.
Jamerson grunted, annoyed with himself for letting the old man take over his thoughts. He fingered the square of plastic he'd been given. He pictured himself smashing it against Stern's body -- his upper arm or his back -- to unleash the nanobots that would build a beacon inside the old man and guide a missile strike.
Why such an elaborate tactic? he wondered. Why not walk up to the man and shoot him in the head. Even an old-fashioned gunpowder weapon would do the job. An air-propelled explosive dart would work as well. Any close-up combat weapon would kill. So would a long-range rifle shot. If Oliver Griffin and whoever he represented wanted Jake Stern dead there were other ways. They didn't need to fire a missile from an overhead drone.
Or did they? he reasoned. Once again, he examined the role he'd been given in Griffin's machinations. Obviously, they'd tried other means. Obviously. Else, they wouldn't now be resorting to something so elaborate. They wouldn't rely on the military if they had another choice.
Jamerson thought back to when he'd met with the army at Fort Sheridan. It seemed like centuries ago. The Chicago police were anxious for federal aid in an attack on Lakeshore. He wondered if the plan to kill Jake Stern came from that meeting. Eliminate the old man, replace him with someone who'd be controlled by Chicago-proper's authorities, and much of the wealth Outside would flow back across the walls of the city. In a sense, the two parts of Chicago would be united again. Maybe the wall would come down. Life along Lake Michigan might change for the better.
Life would change. Jamerson didn't doubt that. But he couldn't say that it would be better. An old man who'd scratched his way to the top of the heap might be eliminated, but that would have scant effect on everything crawling around at the base. There might be chaos. Rounders versus federal troops, perhaps. Attack squads from Chicago-proper hitting those loyal to Stern's successor.
Jamerson trembled when he thought of what his contribution to Oliver Griffin's scheme might mean.
A cheer rose from the crowd. A door opened at the top of the steps to the building across the street. Four men in soft lightweight suits shuffled onto the landing. Behind them, Stern appeared, waving and smiling. He looked tall, but compared to his bodyguards he proved to be short in stature. Maybe he held himself like a larger man, not like the squat one he'd become with age. He projected strength and vitality, as though he absorbed something from his cheering admirers.
Jamerson stepped forward. If he ran, how far would he get? Not far enough. He'd need to cross the street. Rounders could easily stop him. He'd be tackled before he got within reach of the old man. Everyone tasked with protecting Stern was on the lookout for people like him.
He had to become part of the cheering masses. He raised an arm, pumped the air with a fist. Like so many other men and women enthralled by the presence of a leader. Hero worship, Jamerson surmised. Simple worship of an old man who'd become a hero to these exiles, the disenfranchised, the dregs of the city, the refuse of society.
No wonder Oliver Griffin and his kind wanted to put a stop to Jake Stern. In the city, there were no heroes. No one to be admired and worshipped. The city functioned as an anonymous entity without a face.
Jake Stern walked down the wide steps, both arms raised in salute to the crowd, which mushroomed in size as word of his presence spread further. Rounders formed a human chain to keep people at bay. Stern reached across hooked elbows of those protecting him to touch the hands and faces and heads of those determined to show their admiration.
Jamerson only need to get close. He only needed a chance to exchange a glance with Jake Stern. He pushed past a woman with a young girl at her side. He shoved a teenager off the curb. He plowed into the street and up to the human barricade, close enough to the old man to distinguish locks of gray hair curling around brown-spotted ears.
"They want to kill you, Mr. Stern." Jamerson tried to get Stern's attention. Just look him in the eyes. Hold him with a stare. He knew his voice was lost within the din. He knew no one had heard his warning.
Jamerson continued to push, to elbow his way out of the crowd and up to the Rounders keeping Stern safe. He pulled the square of plastic from his pocket.
"With this! Mr. Stern! Look at this. They sent me to kill you with this!"
Stern stopped. Jamerson waved the square of plastic in the air. Someone grabbed his arm. He gripped the square tightly. He waited for the old man's gaze to cross him. When they locked eyes for a moment, Jamerson tried to shake the sheet of plastic in the air and shout out his warning once more, but by then a Rounder raised a blunt wooden club. Pain shot through his wrist. He dropped the plastic square. Someone stepped on it, the nanobot center facedown in the street, which released the tiny machines, sending them into the asphalt.
Killing them.
Jamerson fell when the next blow hit him across the tops of his shoulders. But he saw Jake Stern turn away, safe from this attempt on his life.
Potter stepped up, got close to the old man, stayed ay his side, and guided him to a four-wheeler sitting in the street.
"Grab that guy," Stern said, pointing back at Jamerson.
Potter assumed he'd been given an order.
"Find out what he knows," Stern continued.
Potter nodded. When Stern got into his vehicle and the driver switched on the electric motor, he gave his attention to the man sprawled in the street with two Rounders standing over him. Every time he moved, one of the two slapped his back with the wooden baton.
The Rounders moved aside when Potter walked up. He waved them away. He squatted next to Jamerson.
"Did he go?" Jamerson croaked. Pain shot through his arm. He knew his wrist was broken. His back ached. His shoulders throbbed with pain. "Did Stern get away?"
"He got away," Potter said.
"They wanted me to plant a homing beacon. But I couldn't. Not for them."
Potter helped Jamerson to a sitting position. The crowd dispersed, urged away by Rounders.
"You need to have that set," Potter said, and motioned at Jamerson's wrist. He helped him to his feet. "Your wrist is broken."
"I couldn't do it," Jamerson said. He didn't want to sob like a child, but he couldn't help it. "Is Stern safe?"
Potter didn't answer. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Baumgarten talking to Barrington and then getting into a small three-wheeler taxi for the trip back to the wall and the gate where he'd be smuggled back inside.
A woman in a white smock with a medical emblem -- two entwined snakes -- on her ball cap hurried over and examined Jamerson's wrist. He yelped when she pulled on his hand, expertly setting the broken bone. She wrapped the wrist tightly with stiff canvas, which she secured with a wide el
astic band. Potter followed her to the first-aid station set up on a nearby corner. If Stern wanted to know what this guy knew, Potter intended to find out. He'd been given an order.
Jamerson answered every question put to him, relieved to be talking to someone about what he knew. No more doubts. No more reasoning about why eliminating Jake Stern would be a good thing. No more would he blindly follow Oliver Griffin's instructions.
Potter listened to the babbling and tried to reassemble the story into something the old man would understand. Stern knew he was a target. He joked about it sometimes. He never seemed worried, though. From what he heard now, Potter realized it was the city itself -- or some element in its organization -- that wanted Stern gone.
Through the pain in his wrist, Jamerson kept talking, telling what he knew about Oliver Griffin and the men in striped trousers, the odd woman who'd given him the homing device to plant. Soon, he realized that the short, dangerous looking man who'd been at his side listening had disappeared and he lay on a cot in a tent, with a young man in white attending to him, taking his temperature, injecting him with a pain killer.
Potter slipped out of the first-aid tent when he thought the stranger had fallen asleep, drugged up too much to make more sense. But he had the would-be assassin's name, knew that he worked as a pedicab driver. and lived in one of the upscale apartment buildings just north of the river. If need be, he'd find him again.
#
Barrington thought himself safe. Hawks had disappeared. Someone said he'd been taken away by Rounders. Someone saw him wandering south of the city wall. Someone else claimed Hawks was dropped in Lake Michigan. Barrington didn't care which story was true. He'd managed to come out on top. And alive. He didn't like running the race concession, so he picked out one of the kids that hung around and hired him to manage the races. Besides, the more lucrative concession was the one with the technically advanced setup that broadcast the race from the roaches' point-of-view, with jockeys vying for wins, and an audience jacked-up on the excitement of competition.
#
Jamerson worked even though his wrist hurt him. He moved out of his apartment and into a below-ground room near Grant's Promenade. He kept his license as a pedicab driver, but applied for permission to take fares south of the river. He counted each passing day as one more given to him by fate. He watched for the killer he knew would come after him. Oliver Griffin and the people he worked for would never forgive -- could never understand -- why he did what he did. He sometimes wondered why himself.
#
Potter left Outside with Jamerson's story in his head. While he waited outside the city for the signal to slip through an open gate, he popped a pepper-upper into his mouth. Energy renewed, he hurried to Stern's headquarters in the back of the repair shop. The old man burned with energy, eyes lively, excitement in the air as he sat behind his desk, arms folded across his chest.
"Doesn't sound like I've got anything to worry about," he drawled when Potter finished telling him Jamerson's story. "That guy -- well, he's the one who should be worried."
One of the bodyguards standing in the room snorted. Another chuckled. Potter didn't respond.
"They'll get him eventually," Stern said. "Which means we don't have to."
Potter nodded and started to back away. He'd been out of Chicago-proper for months. All summer. Most of autumn. He wanted to see his wife and child. He'd done what Stern asked of him. He'd served well.
"The guy I'm worried about," Stern continued, "is Barrington. He cheated me once. He'll do it again."
Potter nodded, but then winced at the thought of going Outside again.
"Don't worry," Stern added. "There's nothing you need do now." He waved a hand at him. "Take a few days off. Then get fitted for a suit so you'll look like the rest of these guys." He laughed and turned to a nearby bodyguard. Potter took the gesture as a signal that he'd been promoted.
"Thanks," Potter said, backing away.
"Good job out there. Hell, you even got along with Baumgarten. That's not easy."
Potter smiled to show his appreciation. He left Stern's office. He wandered into the alley behind the building. Daylight spread through the city, bringing with it early morning travelers, early morning cafes opening for business. The Grand Bazaar would be closing now. The city markets would soon open.
He walked the few blocks to the building where he had a sub-basement apartment. When he got there, he found it empty. No Lydia. No Carol. An empty room with a musty odor. He stood at the open doorway. She'd promised to wait, he remembered. Lydia promised to wait for the Outside assignment to come to an end. She'd promised.
Potter sagged against the door frame.
"You Kyle Potter?"
He turned at the mention of his name and looked at a squat middle-aged woman with long gray hair dropping to her shoulders. He nodded when she questioned him again. Then she handed him a slip of paper.
"That's their new address," the woman said. "Your wife got herself upped a notch." She walked away.
How? Potter wondered. Stern's doing? It didn't matter. He stared at the scribbled street address in red ink on a white background. He crumbled it, stuffed it in his pants pocket. He hurried up the flight of stairs to the basement, and then up another flight and out into the street, his pace quickening until he found himself running, looking for the building where Lydia and Carol had gone.
He found it. He found the apartment on the third floor, at the top of a sturdy set of stairs. He knocked on the door. Stern kept his promise. Nothing but a bright future loomed ahead. Living underground with Jake Stern's organization to protect him, Potter felt more alive and free than ever.
The door opened. Carol stood in a night shirt that reached to her bare ankles, her face wrinkled with sleep, her close-cut hair clinging to her scalp.
"It's Dad," she said, and walked away from the door. Potter entered the apartment. Lydia sat at the kitchen table. Carol left the room. Potter looked at the surroundings. More than he'd hoped for. But as much as he deserved, considering how well he served Jake Stern.
"When did you get back?" Lydia asked, slipping off her chair and gliding across the room. She looked sleek. Mellow, dark skin glowing, a happy gleam in her eyes.
Potter took her in his arms. He kissed her. They hugged. In a few minutes, with the two of them standing near the still-open door, Carol emerged dressed in a long skirt, a dark vest and a white shirt. A school uniform, Potter surmised.
"Did you give your dad a kiss?" Lydia asked.
Carol walked past them. "Sure. Hi. Bye. Off to school."
Potter smiled, glad to be home, back to a normal life.
The End
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