Read Online Uncaged by John Sandford, Michele Cook - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Sandford, Michele Cook
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“Thank you, Melissa,” and she said, “You’re welcome, Mr. Harmon.”
Melissa was in disguise. Her uniform looked like a standard security guard’s, but she was no rent-a-cop: she’d spent four years as a Secret Service agent on the presidential protection detail. She had a long alcove below the countertop that contained both a .40-caliber Beretta handgun and a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. Should a visitor prove seriously unwelcome, she was more than prepared to deal with it.
Harmon walked past the elevators to the stairs and took them, two at a time, to the fifteenth floor. There were a few people on the security detail who could have done that without breathing hard—but they had prosthetic legs. Harmon was working with original equipment and he was forty-five years old. By the time he got to fifteen, his heart was pounding hard, but he’d made it without slowing down.
He went through the door at the top of the stairs and down thehallway, getting his breathing under control, then through the door into Sync’s outer office. Sync’s secretary nodded at him, pushed an intercom button, and said, “Harmon’s here.”
Two seconds later, Sync’s office door popped open and Sync, with shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow and tie loose around his neck, said, “You’re sweating through your shirt.”
Harmon sniffed an armpit, shrugged, and followed him inside.
Sync’s office was an austere glass box overlooking a man-made pond that shone dull gray in the California sun. Beyond the pond was a view toward the Pacific Ocean.
Sync took a seat behind his chrome desk, and Harmon settled into a chair opposite. At ease with the man who made everyone else around him jump, he swung his black lizard-skin boots up on the desktop and scanned its spare contents: one epically encrypted laptop, one hardwired phone, one Rubik’s Cube, and one twenty-ounce bottle of the green slime Sync ingested like a chain-smoker.
Harmon, Singular’s intelligence chief, didn’t believe in nutritional elixirs or dietary deprivations. He liked his meat bloody, his potatoes fried, and his tequila with two licks of salt. What he believed was this: the edge was entirely mental. Name the time and manner of the contest, and he’d be the last man standing.
Sync said, “Tell me, but make it short.”
“Still looking,” Harmon said. “They’re not making it easy.”
Sync said, “It hurt when they hit us on YouTube, but if they crack those thumb drives, it’ll be much worse.”
“I know, I know, the baby monkey film,” Harmon said. “Didn’t like seeing that shit myself. But finding these kids is hard stuff. They don’t have a base, they don’t have a real organization, theyapparently only use a credit card when they’re leaving wherever they are … they know how to do this. They’re just crazy, they’re not stupid.”
They talked for a couple of minutes until Sync’s desk phone rang. He picked it up, listened for a moment, said, “Okay, I’ll be there,” and hung up. After another swig from his bottle, he looked at Harmon and said, “You know who Gerald Armie is?”
“I’ve heard of him, never seen him.”
“He’s five minutes out,” Sync said. “Micah’s about to reel him in and Jimmie’ll be there. We could get five minutes with Micah now, to talk about the hunt.”
“Okay with me,” Harmon said.
Sync rolled his shirtsleeves down and pulled on a suit coat and tightened his necktie. As they walked out of Sync’s office, Sync told his secretary to hold everything until he got back, and they took the stairs up one floor, to the top. Micah Cartwell was Singular’s CEO; Imogene “Jimmie” Stewart, the company’s chief in-house counsel.
Gerald Armie was the billionaire owner of a national chain of supermarkets headquartered in Oklahoma.
On sixteen, they walked down the hall to Cartwell’s office. Classical music played faintly from speakers set along the hall, adding not only a touch of elegance to
Melissa was in disguise. Her uniform looked like a standard security guard’s, but she was no rent-a-cop: she’d spent four years as a Secret Service agent on the presidential protection detail. She had a long alcove below the countertop that contained both a .40-caliber Beretta handgun and a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. Should a visitor prove seriously unwelcome, she was more than prepared to deal with it.
Harmon walked past the elevators to the stairs and took them, two at a time, to the fifteenth floor. There were a few people on the security detail who could have done that without breathing hard—but they had prosthetic legs. Harmon was working with original equipment and he was forty-five years old. By the time he got to fifteen, his heart was pounding hard, but he’d made it without slowing down.
He went through the door at the top of the stairs and down thehallway, getting his breathing under control, then through the door into Sync’s outer office. Sync’s secretary nodded at him, pushed an intercom button, and said, “Harmon’s here.”
Two seconds later, Sync’s office door popped open and Sync, with shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow and tie loose around his neck, said, “You’re sweating through your shirt.”
Harmon sniffed an armpit, shrugged, and followed him inside.
Sync’s office was an austere glass box overlooking a man-made pond that shone dull gray in the California sun. Beyond the pond was a view toward the Pacific Ocean.
Sync took a seat behind his chrome desk, and Harmon settled into a chair opposite. At ease with the man who made everyone else around him jump, he swung his black lizard-skin boots up on the desktop and scanned its spare contents: one epically encrypted laptop, one hardwired phone, one Rubik’s Cube, and one twenty-ounce bottle of the green slime Sync ingested like a chain-smoker.
Harmon, Singular’s intelligence chief, didn’t believe in nutritional elixirs or dietary deprivations. He liked his meat bloody, his potatoes fried, and his tequila with two licks of salt. What he believed was this: the edge was entirely mental. Name the time and manner of the contest, and he’d be the last man standing.
Sync said, “Tell me, but make it short.”
“Still looking,” Harmon said. “They’re not making it easy.”
Sync said, “It hurt when they hit us on YouTube, but if they crack those thumb drives, it’ll be much worse.”
“I know, I know, the baby monkey film,” Harmon said. “Didn’t like seeing that shit myself. But finding these kids is hard stuff. They don’t have a base, they don’t have a real organization, theyapparently only use a credit card when they’re leaving wherever they are … they know how to do this. They’re just crazy, they’re not stupid.”
They talked for a couple of minutes until Sync’s desk phone rang. He picked it up, listened for a moment, said, “Okay, I’ll be there,” and hung up. After another swig from his bottle, he looked at Harmon and said, “You know who Gerald Armie is?”
“I’ve heard of him, never seen him.”
“He’s five minutes out,” Sync said. “Micah’s about to reel him in and Jimmie’ll be there. We could get five minutes with Micah now, to talk about the hunt.”
“Okay with me,” Harmon said.
Sync rolled his shirtsleeves down and pulled on a suit coat and tightened his necktie. As they walked out of Sync’s office, Sync told his secretary to hold everything until he got back, and they took the stairs up one floor, to the top. Micah Cartwell was Singular’s CEO; Imogene “Jimmie” Stewart, the company’s chief in-house counsel.
Gerald Armie was the billionaire owner of a national chain of supermarkets headquartered in Oklahoma.
On sixteen, they walked down the hall to Cartwell’s office. Classical music played faintly from speakers set along the hall, adding not only a touch of elegance to
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