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Brandon Vale had never been much of a sleeper.
It wasn't that he didn't aspire to descend into dreamless unconsciousness every night, or to wake up in the morning with a cleared mind and rejuvenated body. It was just that there was always so much to think about. His past, how this job or that job could have been done better, what would happen if brain-eating zombies took over the world. And now, two days out from the Vegas heist, his mind was relentlessly turning over every misstep in the sixteen hour training days he and his team had been enduring. Not to mention obsessing about nuclear warheads, Ukrainian psychos, and Catherine Juarez. He reached for his iPod and scrolled through the screens until he found the song he was looking for: It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine.) If you looked hard enough there was a soundtrack for every possible situation.
He kicked the blanket off and settled back into staring up at the dark ceiling. When the song was over, he scrolled through some more, finally finding one that was perhaps even more appropriate. Alone Again Or.
The door to the room opened a few inches and he propped himself up on his elbow, squinting into the sliver of light. "Catherine?"
He didn't recognize the two men who entered and neither of them said anything. One quietly closed the door and stood in front of it while the other dug clothes from drawers with a precision that suggested he'd been through them before.
Brandon swung his feet to the floor, catching a pair of jeans and a shirt as they were thrown at him. Before he put them on, though, he made a final adjustment to the iPod. The Dead Kennedys seemed to be the band that best captured this particular moment: Forward to Death.
Sadly, it wasn't the first time Brandon had been shoved in the trunk of a car. Not even the second or third. At least it wasn't one of those sub-compacts. Or one with the spare tire right in the middle. Those things could put a kink in your back that wouldn't loosen up for days. Of course, rigor mortis would do the same thing.
He put a hand out and braced himself as the car accelerated around a turn and then closed his eyes in the darkness, wondering what had happened. Had Scanlon decided that he had enough information to pull this thing off on his own? If so he was in for an unpleasant surprise.
Now there was a moral dilemma. Right before they shot him, should he yell "Wait! Before you kill me, let me write down the stuff I didn't tell you!" After all, a nuclear holocaust wasn't exactly the legacy he wanted to leave behind.
No, Scanlon was way too smart and not quite arrogant enough to make such an obvious mistake. Besides, if he had been planning this the whole time, what was all that stuff about wanting Brandon to join the team permanently? What possible benefit was there to be gained by making that offer if it wasn't real?
And what about Catherine? He couldn't quite read her. What he did know, though, was that she was very interested in protecting her mentor. Did she see Brandon as a threat? If she thought it was in Scanlon's best interests, would she go behind her mentor's back? No way.
And so he was left with the only remaining option: That he hadn't met all the players in this thing. And at this point, he didn't think he wanted to.
XXXXXX
Edwin Hamdi held the single page he had unwisely printed, running slightly shaking fingers over the black letters before sliding it into a shredder. It had been the email he'd been waiting so long for: a properly encrypted and authenticated message saying that the Ukrainian warheads were real, operable, and for sale to the highest bidder.
The sound of an opening door drifted in from the outer office, followed by a quiet knock. The only light in the room was provided by a small desk lamp and Hamdi adjusted it so that it shined directly outward.
"Come."
The door swung open and Brandon Vale came through, prompted by a shove from one of the men behind him. He was wearing only a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with the slogan Runs with Scissors.
"Have a seat, Brandon."
He didn't immediately obey, instead standing there trying to put detail to the figure behind the light. After a few seconds, he gave up and dropped into the chair in front of Hamdi's desk.
Despite the uncertainty of his situation and the hair still matted from bed, he appeared much more intelligent in person than in his photos. It was hard to quantify exactly—something in the subtle shifting of his features as he took in what was around him. It was enough to make Hamdi himself look around at the dim, empty office, to make sure there was nothing Brandon could use to identify it later. If indeed there was a later for him.
"I take it you wanted to see me?" Brandon said finally. He didn't sound or look afraid, but the overall effect wasn't bravado or even genuine courage—more an acceptance of the fact that there were things he could control and others he could not. A very sensible philosophy.
"Richard Scanlon isn't in charge of this operation. I am."
Brandon nodded.
"I've seen to the closing of all your accounts—I even had that little safe deposit box in Chicago emptied. I assume you're smart enough to know what you're dealing with here?"
Brandon crossed his legs, bouncing a bare foot casually in the air as he spoke. "The fact that Scanlon didn't come up with this all by himself? That someone in the government is backing him? Sure. Why not?"
Hamdi waited to see if he would say more. He didn't.
"Richard has a great deal of confidence in you. He seems to actually believe you'll succeed in this theft."
"And you don't?"
Hamdi didn't answer the question, because he honestly wasn't sure of the answer. "Let's just say that I've been anxious to meet you. A man with so much power—"
For the first time, a hint of doubt crossed Brandon's face. "Power?"
"Of course. The lives of millions of people are in your hands."
Doubt turned to irritation. "You guys have really got to quit saying that."
"My apologies. May I ask you a personal question, Brandon?"
"Seems like you can do anything you want."
"An astute observation. Tell me, how do you feel about the position you find yourself in? Does a person like you even care?"
"It's a little late for an interview isn't it? Seems like I already got the job."
Hamdi's smile would have been imperceptible, even if Brandon could see his face through the light. Scanlon was right. In his way, he was an impressive little bastard.
"I swear I don't know what's wrong with you people," Brandon continued. "Of course I care. Notice that no one's ever been hurt in a job I've done? Can you say that? I bet I have more of a respect for life than you."
Hamdi leaned back and watched the bouncing of Brandon's foot become manic.
It was hard to believe that the planet's future—or lack thereof—was going to rest on the narrow shoulders of a thirty-three-year-old thief. | |
