Probably a good thing, Reginald thought, considering you’re a hundred feet up.
With escape out, that left shifting.
Molecules beginning to rearrange throughout his body, Reginald knelt beside the planter from which a friendship lily grew. He removed Schwartz’s ID from his pocket, stood it on end in the potting soil, and pushed it down until his first finger was knuckle deep. He did the same with the rake pick. Except for his hidden earpiece, that was everything incriminating.
The bolt clunked. Reginald covered the holes in the soil and plunged a finger into the back of his throat. The gag reflex was immediate. He came just short of heaving, but the illusion was what mattered. When the door flew open, he imagined the scene from their point of view: a maid of Hispanic persuasion, kneeling beside the planter, losing her dinner.
Reginald-as-the-maid spit, then stood slowly. He turned toward the men crowded in the entrance to the office while dabbing his mouth with the sleeve of a replica of the blue uniforms he’d seen on the cleaning crew. Tears spilled from his eyes when he blinked—an effect of the gagging.
“Very sorry,” he said in accented English. “I get sick.” His hands cradled the small swell of his stomach.
The three security guards shuffled their feet. They had burst in on a pregnant woman who had just suffered the profound embarrassment of becoming ill for an audience. The night guard for the floor, the one who had admitted Reginald-as-Schwartz, stepped backwards.
“The man must be in one of the other offices,” he said.
The other two guards nodded in agreement. But before they could follow him out, Ned Schwartz pushed to the front. “Wait.”
He rounded the desk and stopped a few feet from Reginald. His eyes had narrowed to hard slits, thin lips curled into a scowl. Reginald blinked out more tears and lowered his head.
“Very sorry,” he repeated in a whisper.
“Who are you?” Schwartz asked. “How did you get up here?”
“I clean. I get sick.” He pronounced it seek.
“That’s not what I asked.” Schwartz took another step forward.
The security guards looked at one another, their expressions saying, What’s this guy’s problem? Can’t he see she’d like some privacy? But none of them spoke up. The same guy could axe them in an instant.
“What’s your name?” Schwartz demanded. “Su nombre?”
“Margarita,” Reginald whispered.
Schwartz looked him over. “Where’s your identification?” He turned and jabbed the breast badge of the nearest security guard. “Huh? Where’s your badge? You’re supposed to have it on at all times.”
Reginald was tempted to ask where Schwartz’s was but thought better of it. He spoke haltingly. “How you say? L-loose?”
“You lost it?” Schwartz challenged. “Then how did you get up here? This floor is secure access. And where’s your cleaning equipment?” He looked around, then back at Reginald, eyes gleaming red from the emergency lighting. You’re screwed now, aren’t you? those eyes seemed to be saying.
Reginald bent toward the planter as though about to become sick again. He’d hoped to arouse enough pity to get rid of the men and create a space to slip out through. For three of the men, the ruse had worked. He had underestimated the fourth’s paranoia.
“I’ll ask you again,” Schwartz said. “How did you get up here?”
The CFO’s voice was climbing in such a way that Reginald half expected him to turn violent. Reginald-as-the-maid stood and looked past Schwartz’s glistening face. The guards could no longer meet his gaze. He noted the firearms in their duty belts. What were the odds of fighting his way out? He had the element of surprise in his favor, but…
Schwartz snapped his fingers an inch from Reginald’s nose. “Hey!”
Reginald recoiled, considered landing a knock-out blow to Schwartz’s chin, then buried his face in his hands and began sobbing. When all else fails, he thought behind his fingers.
One of the guards stepped forward. “C’mon, Mr. Schwartz,” he pled softly. “Leave her be. She’s not doing nothing.”
“Cuff her,” Schwartz ordered. “I want her interrogated.”
“Interrogated?” the guard asked incredulously.
Reginald peeked through his fingers. Play time was over. With a quick thrust, he drove the flat of his palm into Schwartz’s throat. The CFO staggered back, a choked sound pushing from his O-shaped mouth. Reginald swept the legs out from under the nearest guard and was springing toward the second when he was met by a hissing cloud. Bonfires roared into his sinuses and behind his clenched eyelids. A freshet of tears followed.
Mace, dammit. Hit me with a face full of mace.
As he groped forward, Reginald felt his molecules wriggling from his control, straining to assume their natural form. The burning pain was spiking through his ability to hold his disguise in place.
“What in the hell?” one of the guards exclaimed.
Reginald could only imagine what kind of horror show the man was witnessing as he felt himself lengthening and thickening into his dark male form. Honing in on the voice, Reginald landed a kick to the man’s stomach. Reginald felt the air go out of him in a pliant whoosh.
Three down, one to go.
Someone shuffled behind him. Reginald shot a leg out, but caught empty air. A concussive blow landed against the base of his skull. He swooned, head filling with cotton balls.
Two blows later, Reginald was out.
16
Reginald was pulled from the darkness by a bruising pressure against his chest bone. He cracked his raw eyelids and found himself sitting before a metal table in a small room. Some sort of holding cell. He tried to push the pressure from his chest, but cuffs bound his wrists to his chair’s armrests. His ankles were cuffed to the legs. When he kicked, the chair didn’t move.
“He’s awake,” someone said.
The pressure against his chest relented, and a thick hand withdrew. Reginald craned his neck around, his head an aching fist. Reginald didn’t recognize the guard who had been rubbing his sternal bone. He had not been among the group in the office. Reginald noted the man’s stolid face, dark crew cut, and the knotted muscles beneath his skin-tight black shirt. Reginald knew immediately this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill security guard, but the Viper equivalent of a special-forces agent. The man’s twin stood on the other side of Reginald.
A door opened, and Ned Schwartz entered. He had removed the blue blazer and striped tie from earlier, and his collar was open to reveal a clutch of wiry black hairs. With his white shirt sleeves folded to his elbows, he looked like a man ready to get his hands dirty. Or bloody.
“Reginald Perry,” he said, closing the door behind him. He took a seat across from Reginald and set his folded hands on the table like they were sitting down to a budgetary meeting.
How in the hell does he know my name?
Schwartz grinned as though anticipating the thought. “I was told you might show up tonight.”
Well, isn’t that nice.
“Quite a trunk of tricks you’ve got there.” Schwartz pulled a plastic bag from his shirt pocket and dropped it on the table. Bits of soil clung to the familiar artifacts inside. “Lifting my ID, picking my locks. And that’s to say nothing of your ability to change shape. I assume that’s how you matched my print?” He contemplated his own thumb for a moment before reclasping his hands. “Impressive. And yet for all your tricks, here you are.”
“Here I am.” The left hinge of his jaw ached when it moved, and Reginald felt a knot there.
“I’ve heard about your group, you know.” Schwartz said.
Reginald didn’t like where this was going. The security thugs behind him shifted when he tested his restraints. Even if he managed to slip free, he wasn’t sure he was in any condition to fight, much less win. His one hope was his earpiece. They hadn’t found it. Though the transceiver was off, the device was sending out a homing signal—one Steel’s team could hopefully track.
“Champions, you call yourselves,” Schwartz went on. “The president’s answer to the Soviets.” He smiled at the naiveté. “Do you think we’re winning the Cold War because of you and your team?”
Think I’m admitting anything to you? he thought back, remaining silent.
Schwartz shook his head, his smile turning tight. “The Cold War was always a question of which economic system could sustain an indefinite military buildup. Ours or theirs? I think that question has been answered. In the last decade, both countries doubled down on defense spending. But while our share rose to seven percent of our robust GDP, the Soviet Union’s rose to a crippling one third. It has all but crushed their economy. They can’t keep up. Not when companies like ours are engineering missiles whose accuracy and war-head carrying capacity double almost every six months. Think about that. We are the reason for the Soviet defeat—Viper and the U.S. defense industry. Not your little superhero team.”
“If your role is so self-evident,” Reginald said hoarsely, “why are you paying billions to a lobbyist?” He emphasized the singular aspect of the word. If Schwartz caught it, he didn’t let on.
“Don’t be obtuse,” he said. “Lobbying is as old as government and commerce, convincing those in charge of spending that we give them the greatest advantage, that we are the best positioned to advance their foreign-policy goals while strengthening the domestic economy. And we do. For the more cynical, it’s called angling for a larger slice of pie.”
“Or growing the pie itself.”
Reginald knew he was taking a risk with his bold talk, but he was beginning to suspect that Schwartz was more than a CFO. What would have happened if he had managed to clear Scott through the crypto-modem? Would Scott have traced the funds to an account he controlled? It made sense. Not only did Schwartz have a direct interest in keeping the arms race churning, but he presided over hundreds of billions of dollars and the means to move them anywhere. Meaning all his talk of winning the Cold War was theatrical bunk.
But still, why was Schwartz trying to convince him?
“We’ve profited from the Cold War,” Schwartz admitted. “And there’s no doubt we’re going to have to reinvent ourselves somewhat in its aftermath. Identify new threats, build the weapon systems to meet them. That will require lobbying, as well. The firms we use have done a good job.”
Reginald let out a snort. “I bet they have.”
Schwartz spoke slowly. “Unfortunately, our account was recently hacked, our disbursement codes stolen. We haven’t been able to pay the lobbying firms. And neither have our competitors, we understand.”
“You don’t say.”
“And then we find you in the data closet of our special accounting division.”
Reginald kept his face neutral. He just needed to maintain his cool until Steel’s team showed up. Assuming they were on the way.
“There are two ways we can play this.” Schwartz lowered his voice and leaned forward until Reginald could see the shine along each black hair of his widow’s peak. “One, your team gives me back the disbursement codes, and we go our separate ways. Or two, I set up a meeting with President Reagan, he forces you to hand over the disbursement codes, and we shut down your program.”
And the president will do it, too, Reginald thought, contemplating the edge of the metal table. All Schwartz has to do is threaten to go to congress with the president’s secret program. There would be hearings, indictments, not to mention the exposure of the kids’ identities.
The son of a bitch had him.
When Reginald raised his eyes, Schwartz was grinning again.
“All right, listen to me,” Reginald said, composing himself. “The Soviets are expecting a giant cash infusion, but they’re not going to use it for a conventional invasion of Eastern Europe. They’re plotting a cloaked first strike against the United States. Massive. I don’t give a damn how accurate your Viper missiles are or how many warheads they can carry. By the time we realize we’re under attack, our retaliatory capabilities will have been reduced to dust and rubble. Do you understand me? It will be over.”
“An interesting theory,” Schwartz said evenly. “But what does that have to do with the stolen codes?”
“We have good reason to believe those billions are going to be funneled to the Soviets under the mistaken belief the funds will be used to resume the Cold War.” And then because Reginald couldn’t help himself: “Restore it to its former money-making glory.”
Reginald watched the CFO’s calculating eyes. Whether Schwartz was the kingpin or not, the information would hopefully give him pause. Maybe he didn’t know the Soviets’ intentions as well as he thought.
“Being a company of our size and importance,” Schwartz said after a moment, “we have a close relationship with the Department of Defense and the various intelligence agencies. According to them, the chances of a Soviet first strike are infinitesimally small. As for how we legally disburse our money, that’s up to us.” He looked Reginald up and down. “Not a freakish fringe force.”
“We have information they lack.”
“The disbursement codes, please.”
“Would you listen to me, goddammit.”
“The codes.”
A knock sounded. Schwartz’s face creased in irritation as he turned. A head poked through the opening door, the young black security guard whom Reginald had encountered earlier.
“We know you asked not to be disturbed, but there’s a frigging Delta Force out here demanding we hand him over.” He nodded his head toward Reginald. “They’re armed to the teeth.”
About time, Reginald thought with a quiet sigh.
The two men at Reginald’s back stepped forward, readying pistols. Schwartz raised a staying hand. His eyes slewed toward Reginald. “You’re lucky to have such good friends.” He tapped his own left ear. “And such useful technology.”
He knew about my transceiver the whole time.
Schwartz raised his eyes to the men. “Release him.”
The men unbound his wrists. Reginald shook his stiff arms out as the men stooped and did the same with his ankles. Through the half-open door, he could see a small platoon of Steel’s men. His ankles free, Reginald stood and walked stiffly around the table. Schwartz stepped in front of him, teeth bared in a vicious smile, right hand extended.
“I know I don’t come across as sympathetic,” he said, “but I would hate to have to put you people out of business.” He crushed Reginald’s hand. “You have until midnight tomorrow to get me those codes.”
Schwartz’s eyes swelled in surprise and pain as the hand in his squeezed back.
“We’ll be in touch,” Reginald said.
17
Director Kilmer’s office
The next day
9:00 a.m.
“I thought this was a team meeting,” Scott said to Kilmer, who had sealed the door and was on the verge of speaking. Scott looked around the conference chairs once more. The only others in attendance were Janis, Margaret, and Reginald, the last two having returned from the busted mission in Arlington earlier that morning—and looking every bit the jet-lagged part. In any case, they were short five members. “Where are the others?”
“There’s a reason I wanted to keep this meeting small,” Kilmer said. “To put it bluntly, we have an insider.”
Scott felt the breath go out of him. “A mole?” He looked over at Janis, who nodded.
Kilmer stood back to give Reginald the floor. A knotted bruise shone over the shifter’s left cheekbone, and his lower lids appeared baggy as though he’d slept little, if at all. “Viper’s CFO, this Mr. Schwartz, was expecting me last night. He said as much. He knew my name. Knew who I worked for. That could only have come from someone working for us.”
“The secure communications,” Scott said. “Could Viper have intercepted them?”
Reginald shook his head. “Even if they had, they couldn’t have deciphered our code words so quickly. We put those together yesterday, just hours
before the operation commenced.”
“Who had access to that information?” Margaret asked.
“Well, the five of us in this room,” Kilmer said, “plus Agent Steel and her entire team up there.”
“So we’re the suspects?” Margaret exclaimed.
Kilmer held up a hand in barely-repressed annoyance. “I had your sister scan this group before I called you together. You’re all clean. Rest assured, none of you are under suspicion.”
“Well, what about the new recruits?” Margaret asked. “Erin and whatever their names are? I mean, two were working for the Scale, for crying out loud. How well do we really know them? And then there’s Jesse!”
Beside Scott, Janis heaved out a sigh.
“They’ve been thoroughly vetted,” Kilmer assured her. “Anyway, they weren’t privy to the details of last night’s operation. They wouldn’t have known enough to share the kind of information Schwartz received.”
“So, we’re thinking Steel’s team?” Scott asked.
Kilmer replied with a nod. “We have them quarantined and will be interviewing them shortly. Janis has volunteered to help. From there, we’ll re-vet all Program personnel to ensure the leak is contained.”
“Agent Steel, too?” Janis asked. Her long-standing distrust of the head of security prickled through her voice.
“Even her. But listen,” Kilmer said, turning to the whole group, “if one positive came out of the busted operation, it was learning about the mole. That could have become a much bigger problem down the road.”
“Was any other information leaked?” Scott asked.
Kilmer looked to Reginald, eyebrows raised.
“Well, we think it explains how Shadow knew about the transfer site back on Christmas morning,” Reginald said, “when your team was being evacuated. Shadow claimed she followed me, but I know how to spot a tail, and I didn’t see one that morning. I think she got there before me.”
“Then the mole abetted Creed’s murder,” Janis said coldly.
“The Scale also seemed to know about the trap we laid for them in the Grove,” Scott pointed out.
XGeneration 7: Dead Hand (XGeneration Series) Page 9