They walked on. In a few places, the rail overlooked stretches of a rock shoreline, where boulders were continually splashed with foamy seawater. Crabs scuttled over them. The rocks were patterned with overlapping splashes of new and old gull droppings.
“Can we go down to the water?” asked Davidovich. “God, it’s been so long since I smelled the ocean.”
From the guard’s expression, he clearly wanted to say no. His smile was entirely plastic. “Sure. But you have to be careful.”
“Oh, I’m not going in,” laughed Davidovich.
There was a latched waist-high gate nearby, and Davidovich waited while the guard opened it. The scientist nodded thanks as he stepped through and then followed a short, winding path down to the soft, muddy sand. Davidovich stood for a moment and took several long, deep breaths of sea air.
“It’s wonderful,” he said, grinning.
The guard nodded. “I guess.”
Davidovich squatted down. “Oh, look. Those stones look just like dinosaur eggs.”
The beach was strewn with many fist-sized black and charcoal-gray rocks that had been polished to smoothness by ten million waves as they rolled and tumbled through the Pacific. Davidovich picked up a couple of them and studied the pores and curves.
“They really do look like eggs,” he said. “Don’t you think?”
“I guess,” repeated the guard. The man was already deeply bored.
“You know,” said Davidovich, “I almost went into paleontology. Loved dinosaurs when I was a kid. Well, when I say I almost went into it, I mean I thought about it. Jurassic Park came out when I was in high school. Great flick, even thought Michael Crichton got most of his science wrong. You can’t really clone a dinosaur from blood in a mosquito. Everyone knows that. And using frog genes to patch gaps in dinosaur DNA? Don’t get me started on that.” He weighed one of the stones and then pitched it out into the surf. “Most people don’t really understand dinosaurs. They didn’t evolve into crocodiles or Komodo dragons. No, the chicken has a lot more in common with velociraptors. Think about that next time you’re eating Chicken McNuggets.”
He stood up with several stones in his hands and spent a few minutes throwing them out to sea, scooping up more, throwing them. One of the stones clanged off a buoy and rebounded, skipped along the top of an incoming wave, and then plopped down out of sight.
“Whoohooo!” shouted Davidovich. “You see that?”
“Nice throw, sir.”
Davidovich held a stone out to the guard. “How’s your arm?”
The guard shook his head. “That’s okay, sir.”
“Oh, come on. Have a little fun. See if you can hit that buoy?”
“Really, I’m not supposed to—”
“Not supposed to have a little fun? I don’t believe it. I will not believe your orders specified that you can’t lighten up and fuck around a little. What’s your name?”
“Steve.”
“Come on, Steve. Just throw one. You’re not going to tell me that you can’t outthrow a computer geek, for God’s sake.”
“It’s not that,” said Steve.
Davidovich held out the stone, still grinning. “Won’t take no for an answer. Just one throw.”
“I—”
“Steve…”
The guard looked up and down the shoreline as if expecting to see his fellow mercenaries or maybe Doctor Pharos standing there watching. He shook his head.
But after a moment he took the stone.
“Just one,” he said.
“You have to hit the buoy.”
Steve managed a small smile. A real one. “No problem.”
He tossed the stone up and caught it, fitted his fingers around it like a ballplayer, raised his arm, and threw.
It was a good throw, but at the instant he threw it, a wave picked the buoy up and canted it to the left. The stone missed by an inch.
“Ha!” cried Davidovich. “You missed.”
“It moved.”
“Doesn’t count. My turn.” He picked up three more stones, switched two to his left hand, and with his right threw the other. It whistled through the mist and caught the buoy on the rise. The clang echoed back to them. “Got it!”
“That was a lucky shot,” said Steve.
“Talk’s cheap. Money where your mouth is,” said Davidovich as he held one of the remaining stones out.
“I got this,” said Steve, taking the stone. He was grinning, too, as he set himself for the throw. “I fucking got this.”
He put a lot into the throw. Raising his left leg and stepping into the throw to put body weight behind a fastball pitch, he whipped the stone above the waves, and it hit the buoy dead center mass. It struck a massive clang from the metal that was three times as loud as the sound Davidovich’s rock had made.
Steve laughed out loud and spun around, delighted that he’d won.
His broad, happy grin broke apart as Davidovich smashed the remaining stone into his face. The guard’s head snapped back, and he immediately fell backward. Davidovich followed with desperate speed, hammering over and over with the rock as the man collapsed back onto the beach.
Over and over and over again until there was no trace of the smile, or the face, or the man. Only red horror. Blood leaped up around Davidovich as he continued to hammer at the man until there was no longer even a head shape.
Davidovich heard a sound. A high, shrill whimpering noise. When he realized that it was coming from his own throat, he reeled back from what he was doing. The rock fell from his hand, and for a moment he stared at the intense red that was smeared all over his it.
He could feel the warmth of it. Smell it.
Drops of it burned on his face.
It was the first time he had been this close to real blood since that day when Boy had strapped him to a chair and made him watch Mason and Jacob as they systematically dismembered and dehumanized a stranger back in Ashdod.
He fell backward and then scuttled away from the corpse like an upside-down crab.
Then a word exploded inside his head.
A name.
Matthew.
He stopped whimpering, stopped retreating.
Matthew.
Davidovich made himself look at Steve. Once upon a time, Boy had threatened to have Matthew picked up. Threatened to have his testicles and eyes mailed to where they were keeping him. So Davidovich could see the proof of his son’s dismemberment. There was no way to know if Steve would have been part of that, but he worked for the Seven Kings. He might have participated. Maybe he would have held the boy down. Or handled the knife. Or shipped the package.
It didn’t matter.
“Matthew,” he said aloud. Then he summoned the rage that was almost drowned beneath the ocean of fear. He used it the way it should be used. He pumped it into his muscles. Into his tendons and bones.
Get the fuck up, he told himself.
And he got up.
Beyond the dead man were the waters of the Puget Sound.
Beyond them was the mainland.
Somewhere out there was his son. Maybe the Kings would still kill his boy, but Davidovich didn’t think so. Not right away. No, they would place all of their resources into finding him. Into getting Davidovich back. Into silencing him.
“Try and catch me, you sick fucks,” he said, and then he waded out into the cold water and struck out as hard and fast as he could. Boy had helped him get fit and strong. To have stamina.
Yeah, and fuck you, too, you little psycho bitch.
He tried not to think about those nights with her. All he allowed himself to think about was his son. And the phone number that his handler in the CIA had made him remember all those years ago.
Chapter Eighty-seven
UC San Diego Medical Center
200 West Arbor Drive
San Diego, California
March 31, 5:47 P.M.
Toys looked up sharply as the door to Circe’s room opened and Mr. Church stepped into the ha
ll. Lydia and Junie instantly began moving toward him, but Church shook his head and walked into Rudy Sanchez’s room. Brick went and stood outside, arms folded, chest massive, expression unapproachable.
The big dog, Banshee, stood in the doorway and watched him with calm, dangerous, strange eyes. Junie walked past the door and went into Circe’s room.
Doors closed.
Toys remained seated where he was.
“Whatever’s going on,” said a voice, and Toys jumped and looked up to see Sam Imura standing nearby, “it’s way the hell above our pay grade.”
Toys looked up at him, said nothing, and nodded.
Chapter Eighty-eight
UC San Diego Medical Center
200 West Arbor Drive
San Diego, California
March 31, 5:48 P.M.
“Doctor Sanchez,” said Mr. Church, “can you hear me?”
Rudy Sanchez’s eyes fluttered for a moment, then opened slowly. His pupils were dilated and the sclera was shot with red. There was a dark purple bruise in the center of his forehead. A half-moon shape. A heel shape.
Rudy licked his lips and tried to speak. Could not.
Mr. Church took a plastic sponge that had been provided by a nurse, dipped it in cool water, and pressed it gently to Rudy’s lips. He let the man suck moisture from it, then set the sponge aside.
“Th-thanks…” Rudy’s voice was hoarse, his voice cracked.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes.”
“Who am I?”
“Mr. Church.”
“Do you know who you are?”
“Yes.”
“What is your name?”
“Rudy Sanchez.”
“Good. Do you know where you are?” asked Church.
Rudy’s eyes turned glassy, then wet. A tear broke and rolled from the corner of his eye, along his temple, and into his hair. He looked away and then squeezed his eye shut.
“I am in hell,” said Rudy.
Chapter Eighty-nine
Over Indiana Airspace
March 31, 5:49 P.M. Eastern Standard Time
With Top and Bunny on a separate jet to take over the crime scene in Chula Vista, I decided to maximize the flight time to try and map out what we knew about this case. I used several packs of Post-its to paper my jet’s interior walls. I called Top, and after consoling him on the loss of his friend, I told him that I wanted to make this a joint project. We kept an open line via earbuds and laptops and worked it through together.
The process filled the rest of the flight time.
“I think we have it mapped out,” said Top. Our computers were synched to share data and we have the videoconference function thrown onto the big screens mounted inside of each aircraft. It was the closest we could get to being in the same room. This allowed us to see the notes we’d all taped to the walls. My high-def screen was the only part of Shirley’s interior that wasn’t covered with little colored paper squares.
The three of us looked at what we had. The port side of Shirley’s cabin was covered in Post-it notes and larger papers taped to walls, windows, and seats. Both jets had onboard printers, and we’d printed out every news report that involved drones or autonomous computer systems.
I expected to find six or seven incidents. That would have been enough. That would have been truly frightening.
There were dozens of them.
I didn’t even know what to call this.
We’d tagged more than ninety incidents that could be related to the Kings’ experimention with UAVs and the Regis control software.
“There are clear patterns here,” said Top, pointing. “You can see their whole damn rollout from day one. It started with this.” He stepped up and tapped one Post-it on which was written
Aldus Binoche
Camera Crew
B-Unit Camera UAV
Lake Superior, WI
The date was one year ago from yesterday.
“Remember that?” asked Top. “The guy who had that Cajun-cooking reality show? Something happened and the whole crew died? Local law said a generator blew up, overheated the ice on the lake where Binoche was fishing, and the whole team went into the icy water. Died right there. Only thing is, there was a camera drone doing—whaddya call it when they have someone else take scenery shots and shit?”
“B-roll?” I suggested. “Second unit?”
“Right. They had a UAV camera doing that. A production assistant reported it going missing, then said it was back and heading their way. That was the last transmission.”
“So, what are you saying?” asked Bunny. “Someone hijacked it and put a bomb on it?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Why?”
“Test drive,” he said. “Can’t prove it, but think about it. Remote spot and a way to completely hide the evidence? That sound like those Kings ass-fucks to you?”
“Okay,” agreed Bunny, “but who the hell’s Aldus Binoche. I mean, sure, he had that TV show, but he has no connection to the Kings.”
“Figure it out, Farm Boy.”
Bunny sighed. “Right, right, they picked someone with no connections to test-drive their thing. But … what thing were they test-driving. This isn’t Regis.”
“Actually, it is,” I said. “The UAVs leased by the network all have SafeZone. The manufacturer of the software even had to do a big payout to prevent a lawsuit.”
Bunny leafed through some pages on the floor of their jet. “So how come it didn’t show up in the field-test stats? No, wait, I’m being slow again. It doesn’t show up because this is the civilian version, and it’s already sold, so why would the vendor report it? There’s—what?—one of those legal things where they pay money but the other side has to sign something that says no one is actually accepting responsibility or admitting fault?”
“Brain finally switched on?” asked Top.
“I need more coffee. Can’t remember the last time I slept.”
We scanned our notes.
“Looks to me, from what we have here,” said Top, “that the Kings can hack the GPS and controls of commercial UAV and maybe autonomous drive systems. That seem like a fair assessment?”
We thought about it, nodded. There were several incidents of wayward drones whose misbehavior had no known cause. Unless you consider the hacking and hijacking angle.
“You know, Boss,” said Bunny, “this makes me think a little harder about your theory that they have either Davidovich or his research.”
We looked at the other notes.
“Then there’s this from ten months ago,” said Top, taking a matchstick out of his mouth and pointing to another. “Four serious accidents involving self-parking cars. One fatality in Saint Louis. Girl gets killed when her car suddenly pulls out into traffic. Statement from her friend inside the salon and witnesses on the street confirm that the girl was fighting to get out of the car but was killed. That’s number two.”
“SafeZone?” asked Bunny.
Top nodded and pointed to more than thirty other accidents, including some fatal crashes, involving autonomous driving systems. The accidents were random, scattered across the country, across economic and social demographics, across age groups. There was a pattern, but it wasn’t easy to see.
We saw it now, though.
“Again, they’re hacking SafeZone software and causing it to malfunction,” said Top. “All of which led up to Cadillac One going ass-wild a little while back.”
The Beast, the president’s armored car, had indeed malfunctioned, causing some minor injuries. Linden Brierly, a close friend of Mr. Church, had had his face dented.
“Wait,” said Bunny, “so they had this same software in the president’s car? Is it still there? I mean, if so, we need to make a call.”
I shook my head. “No. As soon as it malfunctioned, it was stripped out and replaced by a different system. Solomon, I think. Different manufacturer altogether and it isn’t tied to Regis. Bug ran a chec
k on that for Church after it happened. No one who was anywhere near Regis was involved with Solomon. It has no DARPA or DoD connection, and it has no military application of any kind.”
“Sure, okay,” said Bunny, “but does that mean we trust it?”
“Right now,” I said, “I don’t trust the timer on my Mr. Coffee.”
“Hooah,” agreed Top.
“We’ll forward all of this to Nikki and Church. And to Linden Brierly.” I looked at the wall. “What’s next?”
Top looked at his laptop. “El train in Chicago. Autodrive system on two trains went ape-shit four months back. Engineers couldn’t control the trains, and they crashed.”
“Geez,” said Bunny, “I remember that. Something like eleven people dead.”
“Twelve,” said Top. “Put down to computer error.”
I stepped closer to the wall. “That’s a bigger system to take control of. With each step, the Kings have been flexing their wings. Testing SafeZone, proving to themselves that they can take it over.” I turned to the others. “What questions does this raise? Hit me.”
“Right out of the gate,” said Bunny, “what about BattleZone? We have the Eglin thing, but there’s nothing else here that says they can hack into the software packages the Department of Defense has been installing. No ships have launched missiles, no fighters have gone crazy. What’s that tell us? Do they not have access to the military version of Regis? Is it only SafeZone that they can control?”
“Eglin,” said Top.
“Sure, Eglin,” Bunny agreed, “but what about it? That Regis stuff’s in everything. Why aren’t there missiles in the air? If they had control over BattleZone and all of Regis, they could launch all their shit and that would be game over. The fact that they haven’t makes me think that what happened to Dilbert Howell was actual computer error. Sad, tragic, sure, but I’m not sure we can make a case to connect that to the Kings.”
“You’re saying you don’t believe it?” I asked.
“What I’m saying,” insisted Bunny, “is that we can’t prove it. Eglin could be bad timing and a tragic accident.”
Top gave him a long and withering look.
“We can’t take Eglin off the board,” I said slowly. “I mean, if it was the Kings, it’s a big win for them. It might have told them everything they need to know if they’re planning something really big.”