“Camera feed good?”
“Better than.” Bobby Quinn sat at a polished wood table twenty feet long. He’d co-opted the law firm’s presentation system for his mobile headquarters, and the air in front of him shimmered with ghost images, video feeds from various angles. “The intersection is wired like a tri-d studio.”
“Show me the transmitter.”
Quinn gestured, and a map of the city streets glowed. “Green dot is this.” Quinn tossed him the stamp drive. It looked perfectly normal, down to the half-rubbed-out logo on the side. Cooper pocketed it. His partner continued. “The red dot is Vasquez, the man himself.”
“How’d you wire him?”
“His colon,” Quinn deadpanned. Cooper glanced over sharply, but his partner continued. “Shiny newtech, just in from R&D. Some academy bright boy came up with a tracker in a gelcap. Enzyme-bonds to the lining of the large intestine.”
“Wow. Is he—is it—”
“No. Bonds dissolve in about a week, and out it goes with the rest of the junk mail.”
“Wow,” Cooper repeated.
“Gives new meaning to the phrase ‘stay on his ass.’”
“Been waiting to use that?”
“Since the moment they handed me the gelcap.” Quinn looked up and smiled. “Learn anything useful yesterday?”
“Yeah. I learned Smith has a right to be pissed off.”
“Hey, hey, whoa.” Quinn dropped his voice. “Dickinson would flip if he heard you say that.”
“Screw Roger Dickinson.”
“Yeah, well, you know he’d be happy to screw you. So be careful.” Quinn leaned back. “What’s really going on?”
Cooper thought of yesterday afternoon, the relief he’d felt as he hit the road. The Monongahela National Forest blurring around him, huddled trees and ragged mountains, prefab housing dropped at random.
I MISS MY SON, the pale woman’s placard had read.
“They aren’t schools, Bobby. They’re brainwashing centers.”
“Come on—”
“I’m not being poetic. That’s literally what they are. I mean, I’d heard things, we all have, but I didn’t believe it. Who could treat children this way?” Cooper shook his head. “Turns out the answer is, we can.”
“We?”
“They’re government facilities. DAR facilities.”
“But not Equitable Services.”
“Close enough.”
“It’s not ‘close enough.’” Quinn’s voice sharp. “You are not personally responsible for the actions of an entire agency.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. We all—”
“Do you believe that Alex Vasquez was trying to make the world a better place?”
“What?”
“Do you believe that Alex Vasquez—”
“No.”
“Do you believe that John Smith is trying to make the world a better place?”
“No.”
“Do you believe that he is responsible for killing a whole bunch of people?”
“Yes.”
“Innocent people?”
“Yes.”
“Children?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go get him. That is what we do. We take down bad people who hurt good people. Preferably before they hurt the good people. That’s our responsibility. After that,” Quinn said, “we go out for beer. Which you buy. That’s your responsibility.”
Cooper chuckled despite himself. “Yeah, all right, Bobby. I hear you.”
“Good.”
“That was something.” Cooper stood. “Getting all righteous on me. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I am multilayered. Like an onion.”
“That part I’ll buy.” Cooper clapped his friend on the shoulder. “I’m going to check on Vasquez.”
“Calm him down, will you? He’s sweating so bad I’m afraid he might somehow shake that tracker loose after all.”
“And thank you for that image.”