Read Online DAYBREAK: a gripping thriller full of suspense (Titan Trilogy Book 3) by T.J. BREARTON - Free Book Online
Authors: T.J. BREARTON
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facilities grew and adapted, you know, keeping up with the pace of technology. First there were pneumatic tubes, then the telegraph cable. At one point this building had seventy million feet of copper wire, if you can picture that.”
“Hard to imagine.” Staryles almost winked at the girl, but forced himself to keep a straight face.
“Yup,” she chirped, “Then telephones, and then, now, you know, fiber-optic cable.”
She finished up and her expression changed a bit, like someone who had just inadvertently strayed onto a dicey subject and wished they hadn’t. He wondered what they’d told her — how much she knew about what was up there, on the ninth floor, and its significance.
Jimena glanced at Randy, and Staryles looked at him, too. Randy knew what was up there. At least, old, minimum-wage, rent-a-cop Randy knew that it was important, incredibly important, more than a few MacBook Pros and office supplies to protect. And yet his job was largely for appearance — just a run-of-the-mill friendly neighborhood security guard here, not even armed, perfunctory.
The real security was upstairs. There would be half a dozen of them, maybe more, on the ninth floor. They would be specially trained, armed, some plainclothes, meant to blend in with the other hipsters who would be bustling about.
Sensing the awkwardness, Staryles jumped back into the conversation. “Sure, fiber optics. That’s the new way of things, right?” He sounded like a shmuck with no clue about technology.
Jimena nodded eagerly, but still, the initial bit of flirtation and carefree conversation seemed to have gone. More than that — the way she acted reminded him of time-lapse footage he’d seen somewhere of flowers closing down at the end of a season; vibrant, full bulbs one moment, withering and furling as the sun plummets in the sky. It made him angry, when he got these reactions. He didn’t understand them. What was it with women? All smiles and batting of the eyelashes when you first met, appraising your wardrobe, your chiseled face, your wavy hair. They looked into your blue eyes and then shyly glanced down and you had them.
But then it happened. Suddenly they switched off, like they’d smelled something bad in the room.
It didn’t happen with all women, he reminded himself. Just last night he’d been with a beautiful Ecuadorian with cheekbones as sharp as scythes, small upright breasts, full lips, long legs. This Jimena, she had no idea what he could do to her.
“Yup,” she said again, and nodded. “The way of the future. Everything is digital.” She kept nodding, and now she avoided eye contact, and he realized something. His problem was that he just lingered too long. And it only seemed to happen stateside. His timing was fine in Yemen or Afghanistan. There he would pull away from a job before the body hit the ground. He’d disappear into the night before the family — what was left of them — awoke inside the dusty, stucco rooms. As if back here he was making up for lost time. Taking things more slowly, trying to get somewhere with people, trying to remember how to be human. He hated himself for it. Their conversation had ended, and he needed to walk away.
“Well, thanks for the little history lesson,” he said, and ripped open a huge smile.
“Oh, sure . . .” She looked puzzled. Fine, he thought, let her wonder. Without another word, he turned and strutted across the space to Randy, who watched him come over with the kind of wariness reserved for Jehovah’s Witnesses at the door.
Forgoing the small talk now, Staryles strode up to Randy and said, “Ninth floor.”
Randy blinked. “You have to be in the book. What’s your name?”
“My name is Jeremy Staryles,” he said, already pulling out his credentials. He held up the wallet with the ID inside the plastic window. He tapped it with a manicured fingernail. “Five Star Securities.”
Randy glanced at the ID. His gaze dropped to the book sitting on the
“Hard to imagine.” Staryles almost winked at the girl, but forced himself to keep a straight face.
“Yup,” she chirped, “Then telephones, and then, now, you know, fiber-optic cable.”
She finished up and her expression changed a bit, like someone who had just inadvertently strayed onto a dicey subject and wished they hadn’t. He wondered what they’d told her — how much she knew about what was up there, on the ninth floor, and its significance.
Jimena glanced at Randy, and Staryles looked at him, too. Randy knew what was up there. At least, old, minimum-wage, rent-a-cop Randy knew that it was important, incredibly important, more than a few MacBook Pros and office supplies to protect. And yet his job was largely for appearance — just a run-of-the-mill friendly neighborhood security guard here, not even armed, perfunctory.
The real security was upstairs. There would be half a dozen of them, maybe more, on the ninth floor. They would be specially trained, armed, some plainclothes, meant to blend in with the other hipsters who would be bustling about.
Sensing the awkwardness, Staryles jumped back into the conversation. “Sure, fiber optics. That’s the new way of things, right?” He sounded like a shmuck with no clue about technology.
Jimena nodded eagerly, but still, the initial bit of flirtation and carefree conversation seemed to have gone. More than that — the way she acted reminded him of time-lapse footage he’d seen somewhere of flowers closing down at the end of a season; vibrant, full bulbs one moment, withering and furling as the sun plummets in the sky. It made him angry, when he got these reactions. He didn’t understand them. What was it with women? All smiles and batting of the eyelashes when you first met, appraising your wardrobe, your chiseled face, your wavy hair. They looked into your blue eyes and then shyly glanced down and you had them.
But then it happened. Suddenly they switched off, like they’d smelled something bad in the room.
It didn’t happen with all women, he reminded himself. Just last night he’d been with a beautiful Ecuadorian with cheekbones as sharp as scythes, small upright breasts, full lips, long legs. This Jimena, she had no idea what he could do to her.
“Yup,” she said again, and nodded. “The way of the future. Everything is digital.” She kept nodding, and now she avoided eye contact, and he realized something. His problem was that he just lingered too long. And it only seemed to happen stateside. His timing was fine in Yemen or Afghanistan. There he would pull away from a job before the body hit the ground. He’d disappear into the night before the family — what was left of them — awoke inside the dusty, stucco rooms. As if back here he was making up for lost time. Taking things more slowly, trying to get somewhere with people, trying to remember how to be human. He hated himself for it. Their conversation had ended, and he needed to walk away.
“Well, thanks for the little history lesson,” he said, and ripped open a huge smile.
“Oh, sure . . .” She looked puzzled. Fine, he thought, let her wonder. Without another word, he turned and strutted across the space to Randy, who watched him come over with the kind of wariness reserved for Jehovah’s Witnesses at the door.
Forgoing the small talk now, Staryles strode up to Randy and said, “Ninth floor.”
Randy blinked. “You have to be in the book. What’s your name?”
“My name is Jeremy Staryles,” he said, already pulling out his credentials. He held up the wallet with the ID inside the plastic window. He tapped it with a manicured fingernail. “Five Star Securities.”
Randy glanced at the ID. His gaze dropped to the book sitting on the
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