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Authors: Jack Soren
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toward the flat. A Âcouple of sets. Heavy footprints, with no talking. And then Lew was in the moment and moving. He told Jonathan to meet him at his place and hung up. Lew knew he was in no shape to take anyone on, not without damaging himself. And if Emily was alive, he needed to be at full capacity to find her. With fight out of the question, he turned to flight.
Lew grabbed the corner of one sheet of plywood over the window and yanked. The nails squealed but eventually let go, wind and rain washing over Lewâs face. It was too high to jump all the way down, but the overhang above the entrance was only two stories down and looked fairly solid. Lew braced himself, took a few breaths, and slipped out the window. He hung down as far as he could, then let go. As he dropped, he turned so he could see where he was landing, and realized he was going to miss the overhang. He ran through the parachute training heâd had as a soldier, and as he touched the ground, crumpled and rolled.
Heâd knocked the wind out of himself, but otherwise he was unhurt. After gathering himself, he headed around the side of the building before running in the opposite direction of his flat. Heâd circle back once he was sure he wasnât being followed and head home.
But something told him it wasnât going to be home for very much longer.
Â
Chapter Seven
Las Vegas, Nevada
8:17 P.M. Local Time
B ARELY TEN MINU TES from the Strip, where tourists were staggering, players were strategizing, and young men and women were doing things that would stay in Vegas, Per and Hank sat in their rental car watching a nondescript building surrounded by a nine-Âfoot chain-Âlink fence topped with razor wire. The fence had been there before, but the razor wire was new, a security measure implemented after the bombings started.
Despite the crowds on the Strip, this street was quiet and seemed practically deserted. The building they watched wasnât the only unmarked structure in what looked like a typical industrial section of town, but while the contents of the others contained massage parlors, VIP clubs, and sex shows, this building contained nothing but the cold dead.
It was the last intact cryonic repository Harcourt owned in America. What Per wanted to know was why. Why was this building spared? Was there some significance in that, or was there some other reason it hadnât been attacked like the others, perhaps a timetable Per had yet to discover? Had the bomber been on her way here but something had happened to her? Was the pattern interrupted because of something as pedestrian as a traffic accident? Perâs exterior might have been silent and calm, but inside he was a roiling ocean in a storm.
âYâall ever been to Vegas before?â Hank asked from the driverâs seat.
âNo,â Per said flatly, his eyes never wavering from their target. It was the fifth time Hank had tried to engage Per in some sort of conversation in the three hours they had been sitting there, and every time, Per had responded with a single, monosyllabic answer. He was regretting not leaving Hank at the motel or leaving him for good and continuing on his own.
âHell, I remember the first time I was here,â Hank said, launching into another of his one-Âsided conversations. While most of Perâs attention was on the building, part of him was fascinated by Hankâs inability to endure quiet. But he knew that was a common personality trait in Americans. Silence let them think, and if nothing else, America was a nation of distraction. In another time, it was something that Per would have enjoyed investigating and dissecting. But not now. He slowly put his gloved hand on Hankâs forearm and squeezed with a just few percent of his artificial armâs capacity.
âIâm going to need you to sit quietly for a little while, Mr. Green. Can you do that for me?â Per asked without taking his eyes off the
Lew grabbed the corner of one sheet of plywood over the window and yanked. The nails squealed but eventually let go, wind and rain washing over Lewâs face. It was too high to jump all the way down, but the overhang above the entrance was only two stories down and looked fairly solid. Lew braced himself, took a few breaths, and slipped out the window. He hung down as far as he could, then let go. As he dropped, he turned so he could see where he was landing, and realized he was going to miss the overhang. He ran through the parachute training heâd had as a soldier, and as he touched the ground, crumpled and rolled.
Heâd knocked the wind out of himself, but otherwise he was unhurt. After gathering himself, he headed around the side of the building before running in the opposite direction of his flat. Heâd circle back once he was sure he wasnât being followed and head home.
But something told him it wasnât going to be home for very much longer.
Â
Chapter Seven
Las Vegas, Nevada
8:17 P.M. Local Time
B ARELY TEN MINU TES from the Strip, where tourists were staggering, players were strategizing, and young men and women were doing things that would stay in Vegas, Per and Hank sat in their rental car watching a nondescript building surrounded by a nine-Âfoot chain-Âlink fence topped with razor wire. The fence had been there before, but the razor wire was new, a security measure implemented after the bombings started.
Despite the crowds on the Strip, this street was quiet and seemed practically deserted. The building they watched wasnât the only unmarked structure in what looked like a typical industrial section of town, but while the contents of the others contained massage parlors, VIP clubs, and sex shows, this building contained nothing but the cold dead.
It was the last intact cryonic repository Harcourt owned in America. What Per wanted to know was why. Why was this building spared? Was there some significance in that, or was there some other reason it hadnât been attacked like the others, perhaps a timetable Per had yet to discover? Had the bomber been on her way here but something had happened to her? Was the pattern interrupted because of something as pedestrian as a traffic accident? Perâs exterior might have been silent and calm, but inside he was a roiling ocean in a storm.
âYâall ever been to Vegas before?â Hank asked from the driverâs seat.
âNo,â Per said flatly, his eyes never wavering from their target. It was the fifth time Hank had tried to engage Per in some sort of conversation in the three hours they had been sitting there, and every time, Per had responded with a single, monosyllabic answer. He was regretting not leaving Hank at the motel or leaving him for good and continuing on his own.
âHell, I remember the first time I was here,â Hank said, launching into another of his one-Âsided conversations. While most of Perâs attention was on the building, part of him was fascinated by Hankâs inability to endure quiet. But he knew that was a common personality trait in Americans. Silence let them think, and if nothing else, America was a nation of distraction. In another time, it was something that Per would have enjoyed investigating and dissecting. But not now. He slowly put his gloved hand on Hankâs forearm and squeezed with a just few percent of his artificial armâs capacity.
âIâm going to need you to sit quietly for a little while, Mr. Green. Can you do that for me?â Per asked without taking his eyes off the
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