“What’s the occasion?” I asked. Eating out, especially at a fine-dining restaurant, was an extortionate affair in our post-famine world.
While Dr. Johnson’s prior work history was in the commercial sector, he appears to have adjusted well to his new career in the public school system.
“No occasion,” she said. “I just miss you. Feels like we haven’t really connected in a while.”
Had Beth noticed some of the changes I’d been undergoing?
At least from a glance, his social media presence does not raise any red flags.
“Seven o’clock work?” I asked.
“Perfect.”
MYSTIC flashed a message in my HUD: Recommend no further action or investigation at this time.
“I’ll make the reservation,” I said.
As I ended the call, I stared at the text box in my HUD, which I’d been filling out when Beth rang.
An odd realization crept over me.
I had continued to input my assessment of Clifford Johnson’s social media presence throughout my conversation with Beth.
Replaying what had just transpired, I arrived at a surprising conclusion.
Neither activity—speaking to my wife or working with MYSTIC—had defaulted to autopilot.
In the moment, I had been fully engaged with each task—simultaneously. Re-reading what I’d written about Johnson, there were no typos. While not exactly Tolstoy, it was a well-reasoned paragraph of writing. Absolutely extraordinary.
Was it possible the virus I’d been exposed to was making me better?
And where was Strand’s report?
Fuck this. I would go to his office during lunch.
My phone vibrated.
Turning it over, I saw a text from a number I didn’t recognize.
It read:
They know you’re changing.
I felt a cold shudder of fear, ripped off my HUD frames, wrote back:
Who is this?
The response came instantly.
You need to leave the building NOW.
My pulse quickened.
I lifted off my chair just high enough to peer over my cubicle wall.
Analyst row was an open floor of cubicles that could’ve been the bullpen of any company.
At the moment, there was nothing out of the ordinary.
The sound of fingertips typing away on keyboards.
Muffled music bleeding through headphones.
A handful of quiet conversations.
Two men appeared in the doorway on the far side of the room. I didn’t recognize them, but that wasn’t necessarily a red flag. The GPA had four hundred employees in the building, and I only knew a fraction of— No.
Something was off.
They weren’t analysts returning from lunch. They were speaking with a woman named Ronna who managed the group that worked with MYSTIC. And it was a small thing, impossible for me to read with absolute certainty at this distance, but their body language evinced a quality I had never seen on analyst row.
Coiled energy.
These were men accustomed to physicality.
To violence.
A wrecking ball of adrenaline hit my nervous system.
I sat back down in my chair.
The men were heading in my direction now, their cheap, dark jackets open, and even from fifty feet away, I could see that they were carrying.
I was not.
And I had a decision to make.
Now.
I slid off my chair, stepped out of my cubicle into one of the walkways that cut from one end of the bullpen to the other, and moved away from the men at the leisurely pace of a government employee taking a much-deserved trip to the breakroom.
Only when I reached the far end of the room did I venture a glance back.
Those men were at my cubicle now—one of them was going through my things.
We locked eyes.
He was short and wide, but he looked like he could move.
As he said something to his partner, I turned out of the bullpen and took off, sprinting down a hallway.
I passed an alcove humming with vending machines.
A breakroom.
Restrooms.
Behind me, someone shouted, “Logan!”
I didn’t stop.
Didn’t look back.
Smashed through a door leading to a stairwell and flew down the steps.
I’d always taken the elevators on the other side of the bullpen and never went down this way, but I suspected the stairs emptied into the lobby.
Which was a problem.
Constitution Center was a secure government building that required credentials and passage through a metal detector to enter. While the security was outward facing, the lobby was the only exit from the building.
And there were cameras everywhere.
As I passed the third-floor landing, I heard the fourth-floor door bang open and then two sets of footfalls pounding down the steps, reverberating off the concrete walls.
At the next landing, I opened the door and slipped out into the second floor, letting it close soundlessly behind me.
I ran through a corridor I’d never seen before. There’d be no hiding here. Every door I passed was locked and required IT security clearance to enter. I suspected that most of the MYSTIC servers were kept here.
I turned another corner, and straight ahead, an Exit sign glowed over a door. I ran for it harder than I’d ever run in my life, hoping it wouldn’t just lead back down to the lobby.
Slammed through; glanced back.
The hall was still empty.
I shot down the stairs, reaching for the phone in my pocket, but I’d left it at my cubicle. The stairs terminated at a door emblazoned with a red sign:
EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY. ALARM WILL SOUND.
I shouldered through.
Alarms shrieked, lights pulsated.
I was outside, D Street SW straight ahead, and as I took my first step, something slipped over my head.
Everything went dark.
My legs lifted off the ground.
And then my back struck the concrete so hard I felt the air leave my lungs and I was gasping, trying desperately to tear the hood off my face, but someone rolled me over, my arms torqued behind my back as plastic zip ties dug into my wrists.
Then I was up again, powerful people on either side of me clutching my arms at the shoulders, carrying me swiftly along and the tips of my shoes scraping the pavement.
I shouted. I screamed for help.
Strings of daylight were barely visible through the threadbare portions of the hood.
Straight ahead, I heard the sound of a door sliding open.
I was thrown to a metal floor.
The door slid shut, and I rolled back under the force of acceleration as a deep male voice said, “We’ve got him…Yep…Came out the northwest fire exit…Okay…We’re twenty minutes out.”
Then two people held me down against the floor and raised the hood just enough to expose the side of my neck.
I felt the sting of a needle.
THE NEXT TIME MY eyes opened, I was lying on a hard mattress.
I sat up slowly.
My head felt too large and too heavy, like it might roll off my neck.
Edwin Rogers sharpened into focus.
He was standing fifteen feet away, and I wondered how long he’d been there, watching me sleep.
I swung my legs off the bed and stood.
Unsteady.
My mouth tasted bitter.
I staggered toward Edwin, wading through a heavy, mental fog.
After a few steps, I stopped.
Looked around.
Just beginning to process my surroundings.
I was inside an octagon, twelve feet across, with ten-foot walls made of glass.
There was a desk, bed, toilet, and sink.