Nora looked up into her husband’s gentle brown eyes. They told her to let go a little bit, to save the fight for when it counted most. She hoped they were right.
She changed into a more sedate outfit and left the restroom, Paul and Hope trailing behind. Peter stood in the middle of the showroom, chattering Juan’s ear off. Nora handed Hope a deck of Uno cards from her purse. “Peter, honey, come play with your sister. Sit over here.”
“Aw, do I hafta?” Her son trudged to the corner nearest the restrooms to join Hope.
Nora felt Paul’s heat on her ear. “Go on,” he whispered. “Play nice.”
She paced to a spot next to Juan, who nodded to her. He said, “I usually got the same answer when I told my son to play with his sister.”
“You have children?”
“Well, only one now and he’s not a child anymore, but yeah.”
Grown kids? Maybe gone? He was older than she’d thought. She took another good, close look at Juan. She could usually spot criminals in a crowd, but as hard as she tried, she couldn’t see the criminal in him. Maybe Paul was right. “Mr. Juan?”
“Yeah?”
Nora hesitated, trying to scrape up the right words. “This is really…hard. For all of us.” She stalled, watched the kids bicker over their cards. “It goes against everything I believe in. Everything…all my life.”
When she turned to face him again, she found him watching her calmly with a bit of sadness, as if he knew what she was feeling. Their eyes locked for a few moments.
“It’ll be okay,” he finally said.
The individual changes weren’t huge, but Luis barely recognized the version of Nora he guided into position in front of his counterfeit State of California ID photo backdrop. She wore a streaked-blond wig with the hair piled on top of her head, a broader nose and chin, severe dark eyebrows, dramatic eyes turned hazel by contacts, bright red lipstick and nail polish. The latex pieces had come off Salma’s 3D printer and matched Nora’s face perfectly. Luis took a photo, right thumb print and right-eye retina scan with his balky old slate.
“You like?” Salma asked.
“Great work,” Luis said. “You’re the best.”
“I know.”
Salma had shaved off Paul’s moustache, added a broken nose, padded his cheeks to square out his face, and straightened his hair. While Luis got the slate set up again, Paul prodded his new nose. “Is this really enough to fool the cameras?”
“All it has to do is knock the match score down to seventy or so and they don’t bother following up.” Luis took the mug shot, moved in for the thumb print. “Relax your hand. Any problem putting this stuff on yourselves?”
Paul shrugged. “We’ll see. Edith gave us two more sets of everything and drilled us on what to do. I can’t say I have a lot of experience with makeup, though.”
“It’s not that hard. First time’s a little rough, then you get the hang of it.”
“Hope you’re right.” Paul shook out his hand while Luis lined up for the retina scan. “You know, running away just feels so wrong. We ought to stay and fight more. I mean, if we don’t, who will? What happens to the country if people like us leave?”
“The ones who tried to fight were the first people in the camps. Hold still.” Luis snapped the retina scan, then stepped back. “You know, most of my clients are so scared or so beaten down, they can’t even think about resisting anymore.”
“Well, they should. Somebody has to.”
Echoes of Luis’ talks with Bel, with Ray, with Salma. “You know, I read a little. We’ve gotten totally stupid before. We usually get better.”
Paul put on a resigned half-smile. “I hope you’re right.”
As Salma started breaking down her equipment, Luis handed two sturdy, dark-blue backpacks each to Nora and Paul. “Load up your stuff. Make sure you can carry them. I’ll take you back to the safe house when you’re done.”
Nora examined the packs. “Do you have a plan yet?”
“Yes, I have a plan. I’m working on a way we can just drive across. It’s easiest, but it may take another couple days.”
“Drive?” Nora said, instantly edgy. “With all the guards? In the open?”
“Yeah. This may shock you, but the Cartel owns a lot of Border Patrol and CBP troopers. Once I hook up with the right one, we can pass through a station with your new faces and IDs. I’ll drop you in downtown wherever, my guy down there takes you to Tijuana, you fly to Mexico City, then off to wherever you’re going. Questions?”
Paul shook his head. Nora scowled. “You’ve done this before, right?”
“I’ve taken hundreds of people south. We don’t usually do the IDs and the disguises. It’s expensive and not everybody can pull it off, but it works. So yeah, I’ve done this before.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“Then we do something else. I said this is the easiest way, not the only one.” He had no idea what Plan B would look like, though. “Got it?”
Paul said, “Got it.” For once, Nora stood quietly, eyes closed, and looked nauseated.
18
FRIDAY, 7 MAY
McGinley was about finished two-fingering yesterday’s activity report at his Task Force desk when he heard snuffling behind him. Had to be Tenley, Jorgensen’s lapdog, and his damn allergies. “What can I do for you, Tenley?” he said without turning around.
“You were asking about this Jorge Casillas douchebag?”
McGinley swiveled his chair to face the Feeb. Tenley wasn’t one of the Master Race like Jorgensen, just a wiry little dark-haired peckerhead with a mouth full of lemons. “I did?”
“The image from Wednesday’s drop. You wanted access.”
McGinley stepped on his own smile. Little turd just gave away more than he should’ve. Casillas must be the star of the mystery picture. “Why, yes, I do recall that now.”
Tenley shoved his hands in his pants pockets. “Well, you can stop asking.”
McGinley leaned back in his chair and stared into the little Feeb’s eyes, just to see if he could push the man into talking some more. It didn’t work. “Why would I do that?”
“‘Cause you don’t need to know. Leave it, all right?”
“Is he someone’s snitch?” Tenley just raised his shoulders. “Where the hell is Jorgensen?”
“Out. You’re not gonna get a better answer running to Daddy. Just drop it.” The Feeb skulked off to his side of the room, sniffling.
McGinley watched him go, turning his chair back and forth. This Casillas was sniffing around Esquivel, and it looked like the Feebs wanted to keep it quiet. The Bureau was never much good at sharing, but why this guy? Something in a dark place in McGinley’s brain told him this was more than the usual Feeb I’ve-got-a-secret bullshit.
He wasn’t going to drop it. Now that he had a name, he’d use his own sources. McGinley was damn well going to find out what the hell was going on.
19
“English is a promiscuous language,” says Dr. Walter Keller, professor of linguistics at Harvard. “It will take words from any source and make them its own.” These days, that source is increasingly the same as our popular films, fashions and tech gadgets: India and China, the two largest, hippest, richest nations on Earth.”
— “Sallang Slang: How Bollywood and Shanghai Shape English,” Slate.com
FRIDAY, 7 MAY
Back before the world changed, Luis had never much liked Horton Plaza. It had been a standard mall stacked up four levels, full of tourists and suits, no stores he couldn’t get at any other decent shopping center. Now that so many suburban malls had closed or turned to shit, Horton Plaza was like a blocky pink-stucco time machine with festive banners, reminding him of how things used to be. Even though the place existed mostly for San Diego’s downtown business community, it was still open to anyone. Not like South Coast Plaza back home, where you practically had to go through a credit check to get past the doormen.
Luis lounged on a concrete bench
outside the fourth-floor food-court chaat shop, nibbling a samosa while trying not to look like he was waiting for someone. The security cameras hung right above his head, pointing each way along the walkway. It was like the mall cops wanted to leave a hole where people could do their shady business unrecorded. He wondered how many crooked city purchasing agents got their payoffs right here.
He hadn’t wanted to do this, but Ray forced the issue. “You want this guy, you deal with him,” he’d said on the phone. A runner had dropped off the Disney Store bag at the shop that morning. It now snugged against his hip, advertising he was open for business.
A young gabacho strutted down the walk from the escalators, hands in his jeans pockets. His shades were just bulky enough to be dataspecs. He bobbed his head in time to something other than the Taylor Swift oldie playing on the mall’s overhead speakers. He slowed a step when he saw Luis, glanced sidelong at him and the bag as he passed, then ducked into the chaat shop.
Luis sat quietly, finishing his last bite of samosa even as he grew more disgusted with himself. He’d done this before. Every month he paid bribes to cops and all the other bloodsuckers that blew by the shop. Why did it always make him feel so filthy?
The young guy edged out of the store with what looked like a mango lassi in a clear plastic cup. He thumped down on the bench a foot or so away from Luis and sucked his highlighter-orange drink through an extra-wide straw. The head-bobbing kept on. He watched a couple good-looking Asian women pass by, suit skirts short and tight. The kid tilted his head as they walked away, admiring the back view. “Love the mall,” he said.
“I feel you.” Get this over with. “Justin?”
“Yeah. Glad you caught me, yaar. I gotta go back tonight.”
“When are you on duty next?”
“Sunday. Date with my chhaavi tomorrow.”
“All right. Sunday before noon, a brown Geely four-door will pull into your crossing. I’ll be driving. Wave it into your lane, give everyone a Level 1, move it through. Easy easy. Got it?”
Justin bobbed for a moment. “Whatcha hauling?”
“No dope, no guns, no money. And no questions.”
Justin took another hit off his mango lassi. “I’m asking ‘cause the babus are all feng about something, see? Like, on our asses.”
Had “crazy” changed since Tuesday? Facial recognition for everybody? Spot DNA checks? “Know what that’s about?”
“Maybe we didn’t make our numbers, I dunno, some bullshit. You know how the babus are, yeah? They don’t tell us shit.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Luis stood, leaving the bag.
Justin peeked inside. “Hey, yaar. Can I have the mouse? ‘Cause my chhaavi’s kid would really like it.”
“It’s yours.” Luis wanted to go take a long, hot shower without Bel’s damn timer shutting off the water after two minutes. That wasn’t going to happen tonight, though. He nodded to the kid. “See you Sunday.”
20
Dylan Tunstall has become the first American labour organizer to be granted political asylum in Canada…Citizenship and Immigration Canada cited the on-going violence against persons connected to trade unions, including the murders of an estimated 300 labour organizers between 2021 and 2030…At least 105 similar applications by American trade unionists are still “under review.”
— “Ottawa Grants Asylum to U.S. Trade Unionist,” TheGlobeAndMail.com
FRIDAY, 7 MAY
Bel had driven to and from the hospital along the same route for nearly five years. Every dead tree, every pothole, every busted stoplight, every liquor store and 7-Eleven and street market were as familiar as the hallway from her bedroom to the kitchen. She mostly didn’t notice it anymore unless something stood out.
Like a woman being chased down the sidewalk by four men.
Bel couldn’t make out her face or hair color in the near-dark, but the woman was running for Olympic gold. The men—all in variations of thugwear, black hoods and dark padded jackets, gloves and boots—were only fifty feet or so behind and gaining. In the couple seconds Bel took to scope out the action, she noticed aluminum baseball bats and a long riot baton.
She didn’t have to think.
Bel swerved her little blue Chevy Breeze into the first driveway ahead of the woman, shoved open the door. “Get in! Hurry!”
The woman took two huge strides, then leaped through the open door and careened into Bel’s chest, knocking her back into the driver’s door. “They’ll kill me!” she shrieked. “They killed Zach!”
That voice…
The thugs grew larger by the second in the open doorway. Bel shook her head clear, slammed the car into reverse and stomped the gas. Headlights filled the back window, horns brayed, then a screech. Then a thud. Not a collision; she snapped a look over her shoulder.
There in the headlight glare, a male figure lay spread-eagled across her rear window. He raised his right arm in silhouette. It held some kind of club.
Bel yanked the gearshift into drive and squirted forward just as a big sedan swooped by with inches to spare. The clatter of aluminum on asphalt rang through the still-open door, and the man-shape clutched at the car’s C-pillar with both hands.
The woman collected herself in the passenger’s seat, hauled the door closed and strapped in. Bel called out “Hold on!” and slalomed the Chevy across both lanes. The little hybrid Breeze’s batteries were long dead and gone, and the gerbils running the two-cylinder gas engine began to scream as loud as the skinny tires. The cars behind her dropped back.
One of the thug’s arms kept popping free as she swerved back and forth, but he was always able to regain his grip. “Get off my car!” she yelled more than once. The next time she saw an arm fly up, she mashed down the brake and sent the car squealing toward the center line. The thug-shape disappeared as something heavy rolled onto her roof. Then she smashed down the gas. The car lurched forward, and in her rear-view mirror she saw the thug’s body tumble off the roof into a heap on the street.
“Bel?” her passenger said, and Bel immediately recognized her voice. “Oh my God, I had no idea. I didn’t mean to get you in—”
“Ros? What the hell?”
A block went by before either of them could catch a breath. Bel heard little snuffling noises coming from her right and sneaked a quick peek at Ros. “What was that? Who were those guys? And who’s Zach?”
Ros let her head fall back against the headrest. Bel couldn’t tell whether her ragged breathing was from running, crying, or both. “He’s dead. Those animals, they…they…”
“One thing at a time. Who is he? Was he?”
“The NANU organizer I’ve been working with since last fall. I was meeting him tonight. Then those assholes showed up. Zach made me hide.” Her throat made a tiny cracking noise. “I heard them beat him to death. It was horrible, I couldn’t do anything, just listen.”
“Where was your gun?”
“I left it at work. I was in a hurry, I forgot it. Can you believe? The one night…” She sniffled, pushed her hair back from her face. She was trying to put on a brave front, but Bel could see Ros’ hands shake even in the dark. “Then one of them heard me or saw me or whatever and they came after me. That’s when you showed up.”
Bel gulped. A minute one way or another and she’d never have seen Ros again. “Who were they, do you know?”
“No.” Ros hugged herself tight. “Company goons, private security, what difference does it make? Zach’s dead. Now…do I even have a job anymore?”
Bel still tasted bile when she remembered being flushed from Regional the day after the strike. “Did they see your face?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. It was dark.” Ros choked back a sob. “You warned me. I should’ve listened, you tried—”
“Never mind that.” Bel didn’t try to take the snap out of her voice. “I knew management would never let us organize, but I didn’t think they’d go this far. I’ve been worried for you ever since you started thi
s, though.”
Ros sniffed. “Really?”
“Yeah. If it helps, you’re probably okay at work.” Bel confirmed there were no armed mobs following them, then swooped into a curbside parking place. She undid her seat harness, twisted toward Ros, and spread her arms. “Come on.”
Ros folded into Bel’s embrace. They held each other for a long moment. Then Ros snuffled and said, “I owe you, qin. I owe you big.”
“No, you don’t.” Bel was relieved they were both alive and intact. She didn’t want to keep score.
“Yeah, I do.” Ros pulled back. “You saved my life, girl. Anything you need, ever, any help, anything, you let me know.” She wiped her nose on the back of her wrist. “God, I can’t even call the cops.”
“Don’t even think about it.” The glimmer of a tear track traced the edge of Ros’ sharp cheekbone. Bel could only imagine what she was going through. “Just come to work like nothing happened. It’s all you can do.”
Ros finally let Bel go, sniffed loudly and tried a brave smile that rippled like water. “I need a drink. Drink with me. Please. Come on, I’m buying.”
“Okay. I’m taking you home with me, we’ll drink there. You don’t get to be alone tonight.” Lucho had his strays, now Bel had hers. It was fair. And for a few moments, Bel understood how he felt about his travelers.
21
True to form, the United States is the least generous of its OECD peers toward its pensioners… Private pensions are almost unknown, and it abolished its Social Security old-age scheme nearly ten years ago. The entry of that system’s vast trust fund into the financial markets helped inflate the equities bubble that burst catastrophically in 2025… Over 50% of America’s over-65s live in poverty and subsist entirely on support given by their children and grandchildren, an arrangement more typical of developing nations.
— “International: Paying for Gram,” Economist.com
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