Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Twenty

Durwood monitored from the rear of the Vanagon. Parked halfway down a ramp, loading entrance of an 88-story building. Round the corner from the meet-up spot.

"Moll's spooked," he said.

Quaid was looking at his reflection in the titanium casing of a Stinger missile. Tucking down the collar of his NYPD uniform, the disguise they'd settled on in case intervention became necessary.

"What happened?"

Durwood said he didn't know. Using a joystick control, he panned off Molly—gone stiff as a jackrabbit in Remington crosshairs—and across the plaza. Taxi pulling away. Steam curling up from sidewalk vents. Moderate pedestrian traffic, which included several known Mice. All three skyscrapers accounted for. No fires, nor flight, nor suspicious activity.

Yet.

Affixed to the wall of the Vanagon was a plaza plat map. Durwood had scoured it for targets. Most prominent companies were Citibank and a satellite office of Daimler-Benz. Several medium-size financial firms. Various outfits with slick names. InfoBlast. eDeed. Slam two words together and call yourself sharp.

No members or subsidiaries of the Despicable Dozen. Nobody who'd wronged Josiah or his family, as Ted Blackstone had.

Quaid finished fussing his uniform, clipped handcuffs on a belt loop. "What's our giant Libertarian friend up to? He head back to his sausage cart?"

Durwood moved the joystick. "Negative. Still unattended."

At his feet, Sue-Ann kicked her foreleg in sleep.

Quaid said, "Text McGill again. Let's see what threw her off."

Durwood nodded. Took out his phone and composed the message.

update status when possible.

Then zoomed tight on her face. Molly didn't jump or register his text in any way.

Quaid said, "Maybe they gave her the target and it's bad."

"Hm."

Durwood did not believe she knew the target. Tactical fright was in your head. Molly's was deeper. He considered the button beside his joystick, which would trip fire alarms in all three buildings. Set the whole plaza scrambling. Moll, Hatch, black hacker girl—everybody runs.

Mission abort.

He tapped a series of keys, cycling security feeds from each skyscraper lobby. Leaned hard over his bluejeans and scanned for anomalies. Off-color briefcase. Distorted air. Receptionist smiling too wide.

Nothing.

Pain cleaved Durwood's forehead. He was missing something. Not just now—and not a tiny piece either. More like half the puzzle. The Mice's success despite limited training and experience. The bizarre Blackstone escape. Continued penetration of public infrastructures, stunts tried by far more sophisticated actors: state-sponsored, Iran, North Korea.

Didn't figure. Headache settled in like scum over a pond.

The camera's next sweep through the plaza, Durwood saw what had spooked Moll. The son. Baggy shirt, skateboard under his arm. Flicking hair from his face.

Talking to Hatch and Piper. Big fella listened without turning his head or body, then sent the kid away. Off to a group of Mice waiting near the east skyscraper.

When Durwood felt satisfied Zach was stationary and accounted-for, he panned back to where Molly had been.

She was gone.

Quaid had been watching the screen. "Why'd she run off?"

On cue, Durwood's phone rang. Old rotary tone like from Leave It to Beaver. He would not have bothered changing the factory default—Quaid had done it for a gag.

He answered.

"Fire alarm—trip the fire alarms!" Moll said. "Zach's here!"

"We see," Durwood said. "I got eyes on him right now."

"You have to abort! How did he get in with them? Has he already done missions?"

Durwood said in his estimation, this looked like first contact. They would extract him. Best thing was stay in character and wait. Trust surveillance. Now where was she?

"Hiding in a bathroom. How did this happen? You said you'd protect me, now my child is out there with terrorists?"

This smacked Durwood broadside. In the minds of parents, nothing surpassed a child's safety. Durwood could still recall his C.O.'s telephone call in '05. "Sergeant Jones, you need to find a seat. My news is bad." His son Joel had known the risks of a military career. This gave Durwood no consolation. He found an empty mess hall and wept, crunched over, remembering favorite books and teaching the boy to throw a curveball.

Weeks later, Durwood had taken a similar phone call regarding Maybelle. Only woman he'd loved before or since.

His wife and eldest son dead. Souls snuffed by one Iraqi cell.

This cell was to vanish from the Tikrit desert shortly thereafter, with extreme prejudice, in a manner that ended the military career of Durwood Oak Jones.

Molly continued, "If you won't trip those fire alarms, I will. I don't care. I'll run into the lobby and yank one."

"Listen, Moll—"

"Zach can't be a part of this. He can't—nothing else matters."

Durwood argued for patience. Kid was standing around concrete steps. Here, look-it, Durwood was staring at him on video—Zach had broken out his skateboard and was showing moves to these other kids. If anything started, Durwood would break cover and fetch Zach personally—wrassle him back to the Vanagon in a half-nelson.

Molly was having none of it.

"Here," Quaid said, motioning for the cellphone. "This situation is beyond your down-home skills of persuasion."

Durwood gave it over.

Quaid accepted with a hundred-watt grin. Once Durwood had made the mistake of asking why Quaid did this, made faces while he talked on the phone. His partner had launched into an expansive discourse on belief and its relation to truth. Quaid believed positivity had mystical abilities to shade reality, to bump quarter-truths up to halves, halves up to three-quarters's.

And the surest step toward positivity was a smile.

"McGill," he said now. "We're going to turn this lemon into lemonade."