“You know that pulse rifle isn’t canon for a Provincial Scout, right?”

“The graphic novel was better than the show, but the book was better than the graphic novel.”

Grady took the first open seat, across from a young couple dressed in matching sets of foam power armor. They were sleeping, gauntleted hands intertwined. Between them, also asleep, was a boy of about six, dressed in a monk’s robe.

For the first time since his escape, Grady exhaled fully and felt the tension dissolve. The young family’s contentment helped him relax.

And all at once he noticed something about the people around him. It was as though they knew, somewhere deep down, that the future was overdue.

The power armor. The laser rifles. The robots.

They thought they were pretending, but Grady, alone among them, knew that the future had already happened. It was as though they sensed it. They’d re-created that future in foam and rubber—determined to live in it.

A slight grin stole across his face as he appraised them, and Grady no longer had any doubt. Hedrick was wrong. These people were ready for the future. Impatient even.

CHAPTER 15

Dead Man

J oin us, Denise?”

Special Agent Denise Davis turned to see Thomas Falwell and Dwight Wortman in the lobby of the Dirksen Federal Building in downtown Chicago. She smiled. “You look happy.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? Cotton will be convicted, and we’ll get to move on with our lives.”

“Amen to that. You’ll probably get a promotion.”

He grimaced. “You mean my old job back.”

“Ah.”

They exited through the security station and onto Dearborn.

“Wallace said to keep our eyes peeled for Winnowers.”

Falwell waved it away. “The Winnowers don’t want to spoil the trial. Cotton’s reveling in the media spotlight. Can you believe the play it’s getting?”

“Even more reason.”

They were moving now through a rush-hour crowd on the sidewalk, following the rest of her team to a neon sign that spelled out “The Berghoff” in rolling script. The joint fronted half the block, and as the group entered the high-ceilinged tavern, they moved through a crowd to an oak bar with brass rails. Dwight had already scored a few stools.

“What are you guys having?”

Davis shouted, “Beer. And the first round’s on me.”

Some minutes later they clinked glasses of amber lager.

“To the end of a long, long road.”

“Hear, hear!”

As Davis looked into the eyes of her team, she felt content. She’d been on the Cotton case nearly seven years, Falwell ten. Remembering all the long hours, the poring through endless financial and travel records, all the boring details that investigative work entails—and then responding decisively when those rare moments of action came.

She truly cared about these people. And she respected them. It was nice to know that all their hard work was about to be rewarded.

Before long Davis placed her empty glass on the bar.

Dwight pointed. “Another, Denise?”

“Sure.” But she thumbed toward the back of the barroom. “Gotta hit the loo first.”

Dwight called after her, “Keep your head on a swivel.”

Falwell laughed. “Yeah, or we’ll come looking for you.”

She moved through the crowd of office workers toward the restroom sign. She had a mild buzz on, and things looked good. She remembered this feeling of camaraderie from army intelligence work. You might not be thrilled about the mission, but at least you were in it together.

In the restroom stall Davis daydreamed about a GS-13 Step 5 pay grade—maybe with a locality adjustment thrown in, if she could get transferred back to Denver. She might not have to live a long-distance relationship anymore. That meant serious plans. Life plans.

On her way out of the restroom a man of medium build in a sweatshirt and jeans blocked her path. He looked familiar—but not in a bad way. Not threatening. Where did she remember that face from? Perhaps a witness or juror? He had the vibe of a community college professor.

“Agent Davis?”

“Where do I know you from? If you’re connected to the trial, we shouldn’t be talking.”

“No. Agent Davis, I’m Jon Grady. One of Richard Louis Cotton’s bombing victims.”

Davis frowned. “None of Cotton’s victims survived.”

He stared back. “I know.”

That’s when Davis saw the intensity in the man’s eyes. The nervous glance behind him.

Davis stepped back and drew her Glock 17 pistol in a smooth motion, leveling it at his chest with a dual grip. “Hands!”

The man raised his hands in confusion. “I don’t know who you think I—”

“Shut up!” Looking past him, she realized her carelessness too late: The hallway had a bend. They were not visible to the barroom crowd.

I am an idiot.

“I need to talk to you, Agent Davis. I came a long way.”

“Who are you?”

“I told you. Would you please stop pointing that gun at me?”

She didn’t lower it. “You just told me you’re dead. I’m not in the mood for crazy today.”

“I’m not crazy. Look, if you want, we can head back to the bar—and you can arrest me. That’s what I want you to do. I need your protection, and I can prove who I am.”

“And who is that exactly?”

“Jon Grady. My memory is a bit spotty, but I was the physicist that Richard Louis Cotton supposedly blew up in New Jersey a few years ago.” He became suddenly grim-faced. “Along with six other people.”

“Edison, New Jersey.” She thought on it. “Chirality Labs.”

He looked momentarily confused then nodded. “Yes. That was my company.”

She made a buzzer sound. “Nnnnnttt. Wrong. There were six victims total at the Chirality bombing, not seven.”

He looked confused again.

She kept the gun on him. “Let’s see ID.”

“I don’t have any identification. But I am Jon Grady. I can prove it, if you’ll let me.”

“You can’t be Mr. Grady because we found what was left of him and the others. So forgive me if I’m skeptical. Especially because I have a terrorist group out to kill me.”

“It’s not a terror group. It’s a rogue government agency. Something called the Federal Bureau of Technology Control.”

Davis felt the tension disappear. “Oh my God.” She lowered her gun. “Get the hell out of my face.”

“The BTC has been disappearing people like me for decades—inventors of disruptive technologies.”

“For decades. Well, they apparently didn’t disappear you because here you are accosting me outside the restroom.”

“I escaped. They were bringing me to their headquarters in Detroit to work on—”

“Detroit?”

He reacted to her dubious look. “Look, never mind that. I came here because I saw you on the news. Richard Cotton isn’t a terrorist; he’s an agent of the BTC.”

“Last warning. Leave. Now.”

“I need protection.”

“Fine. Call the Chicago police. You can explain it to them.”

“No.” The man looked panicked. “You’re the only one I trust. They said you thought you caught Cotton. That you had no idea what was really going on. That’s why I trust you.”

Davis had run into delusional paranoids before. Sadly, the legal system allowed a lot of them to run around on the streets because nobody wanted to pay for their treatment. And sensationalized criminal cases attracted them like moths to a porch light.

The man nodded as he apparently deciphered the look on her face. “Okay. All right. But do me this one favor.”

“No.” She started walking around him warily.

The man wrapped his hand around an empty beer glass on a shelf by the pay phone next to him. Then he let go and pointed at it. “My fingerprints are now on that glass. Run those prints. And”—at that point he tore a small clump of hair from his head, which he then dropped into the glass—“here’s a sample of my DNA.”