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Authors: Sigmund Brouwer
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fugitive had been in town and whom he had visited.
Carney wondered when Bar Elohim would make it law that everyone in Appalachia have radio-chip implants. The chips were about the size of a grain of rice and held enough computer information to store the person’s background and medical information, but most importantly, to track them electronically. The mainframe could keep record of every person’s movement over the last year. But Bar Elohim knew, obedient as Appalachians were, that this could spark rebellion, even beyond the actions of the Clan. God’s Word, after all, plainly showed that this would be the mark of the Beast. So the radio chips were restricted to convicted criminals and the children of criminals, the factory kids.
Public surveillance cameras were the next best thing. It took Carney only half an hour to find Jordan. There, in front of the bank, just two afternoons earlier.
Yes, that’s where he had seen that face.
The video showed Carney stepping out of the bank, just as the man walked down the sidewalk. On the video, Carney watched himself quickly appraise the man and the man ducking his head after noticing Carney’s uniform.
Got you.
Now it was easy. Carney could backtrack the man to another surveillance camera and pick up that footage. From that surveillance camera to the previous one. And so on.
Carney reviewed the videos until he found the time and place that the man had stepped into town alone. Then he watched as the fugitive approached the house. Mitch Evans’s house. The livery owner.
Carney rocked his chair in satisfaction. The Outside agent was looking for a girl, and Carney now had an idea where to set the trap if she slipped past them.
If he was the one to catch her, it would be worth it.
The bigger question was why she’d be worth so much.
TWELVE
A t the head of the valley, Mason Lee stood at the foot of a thin waterfall, which fell from a stream about a hundred feet above. Through the water’s veil, Mason could see just well enough to glimpse a small cavern—the only possible refuge for a woman who surely knew she had been trapped. The bloodhounds had tracked her scent to here and blocked all avenues of escape. Mason pictured the girl shivering in fear, making her way down the rock face to the cavern, hoping for safety.
But there was no way to climb back up. Mason was certain: she could only be there, hidden by the water.
He stood just beyond the spray, all the men in his hire behind him. They knew procedure. Mason was always the one to make the final capture.
One of the men had his vidpod in video recording mode and extended it chest high for an unimpeded view of Mason. This was procedure too. The capture would be uploaded for Bar Elohim to distribute to all vidpods in Appalachia, showing everyone that it was useless to defy God and Bar Elohim. Mason liked the publicity, cementing the perception that no one ever escaped him. He’d always wait until the recording was finished to take his private, bloody revenge on the fugitives.
Aware that his next actions would be in full view of Appalachia, Mason Lee held the stock of his shotgun and flipped the front end upward to snap it shut. He aimed the shotgun at the waterfall.
“Come on out,” he shouted. “There’s no place to go.”
This would look good, the girl stepping out from the curtain of water, drenched and pitiful. Where and when he’d gut her he hadn’t decided yet, but there would be plenty of time between now and the return to Cumberland Gap to make it look as if she’d tried to escape. Mason knew there was no bounty hunter alive who would be able to find him once he had the canister. He wouldn’t mind shooting a couple of his own men to make his escape with the canister even easier.
“Come on out,” he shouted again. “Otherwise I’ll send the dogs in.”
The bloodhounds were anxious, of course. Once they started on a trail, they were obsessive and would never quit. They simply needed the reward of
Carney wondered when Bar Elohim would make it law that everyone in Appalachia have radio-chip implants. The chips were about the size of a grain of rice and held enough computer information to store the person’s background and medical information, but most importantly, to track them electronically. The mainframe could keep record of every person’s movement over the last year. But Bar Elohim knew, obedient as Appalachians were, that this could spark rebellion, even beyond the actions of the Clan. God’s Word, after all, plainly showed that this would be the mark of the Beast. So the radio chips were restricted to convicted criminals and the children of criminals, the factory kids.
Public surveillance cameras were the next best thing. It took Carney only half an hour to find Jordan. There, in front of the bank, just two afternoons earlier.
Yes, that’s where he had seen that face.
The video showed Carney stepping out of the bank, just as the man walked down the sidewalk. On the video, Carney watched himself quickly appraise the man and the man ducking his head after noticing Carney’s uniform.
Got you.
Now it was easy. Carney could backtrack the man to another surveillance camera and pick up that footage. From that surveillance camera to the previous one. And so on.
Carney reviewed the videos until he found the time and place that the man had stepped into town alone. Then he watched as the fugitive approached the house. Mitch Evans’s house. The livery owner.
Carney rocked his chair in satisfaction. The Outside agent was looking for a girl, and Carney now had an idea where to set the trap if she slipped past them.
If he was the one to catch her, it would be worth it.
The bigger question was why she’d be worth so much.
TWELVE
A t the head of the valley, Mason Lee stood at the foot of a thin waterfall, which fell from a stream about a hundred feet above. Through the water’s veil, Mason could see just well enough to glimpse a small cavern—the only possible refuge for a woman who surely knew she had been trapped. The bloodhounds had tracked her scent to here and blocked all avenues of escape. Mason pictured the girl shivering in fear, making her way down the rock face to the cavern, hoping for safety.
But there was no way to climb back up. Mason was certain: she could only be there, hidden by the water.
He stood just beyond the spray, all the men in his hire behind him. They knew procedure. Mason was always the one to make the final capture.
One of the men had his vidpod in video recording mode and extended it chest high for an unimpeded view of Mason. This was procedure too. The capture would be uploaded for Bar Elohim to distribute to all vidpods in Appalachia, showing everyone that it was useless to defy God and Bar Elohim. Mason liked the publicity, cementing the perception that no one ever escaped him. He’d always wait until the recording was finished to take his private, bloody revenge on the fugitives.
Aware that his next actions would be in full view of Appalachia, Mason Lee held the stock of his shotgun and flipped the front end upward to snap it shut. He aimed the shotgun at the waterfall.
“Come on out,” he shouted. “There’s no place to go.”
This would look good, the girl stepping out from the curtain of water, drenched and pitiful. Where and when he’d gut her he hadn’t decided yet, but there would be plenty of time between now and the return to Cumberland Gap to make it look as if she’d tried to escape. Mason knew there was no bounty hunter alive who would be able to find him once he had the canister. He wouldn’t mind shooting a couple of his own men to make his escape with the canister even easier.
“Come on out,” he shouted again. “Otherwise I’ll send the dogs in.”
The bloodhounds were anxious, of course. Once they started on a trail, they were obsessive and would never quit. They simply needed the reward of
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