A countdown.
What did you do, boss? What the fuck is counting down inside that girl’s head?
Sebastian sucked his teeth. He didn’t like this development. Not one goddamn bit. Finney was up to something, and Sebastian needed his goddamn money.
Sammy and Sierra’s money.
“Okay. Let’s talk. But face-to-face, boss.” In a public place, you cagey bastard. Where everyone can see us.
“Fine. Where shall I meet you?”
“Higdon Park.” Without waiting for Finney’s response, he flicked off his audio and thought things over. He’d hear what Finney had to say. Feel the bastard out. Play along, for now at least.
And, if necessary, buy some time to set a backup plan in motion.
FINNEY
Nestled between Turner to the east, lowlying office buildings to the north and south, and the ocean to the west, Higdon Park was a small patch of green extending from the chain-link fence enclosing the construction zone to the edge of the tall cliffs over Black’s Beach.
That’s where, as agreed, Finney found Sebastian.
He walked toward him, across the grass. The grass was the rough-hewn variety common to municipal parks throughout San Diego, its resilience to dry heat attractive to small communities with limited park-maintenance budgets. Most San Diegans chose to forget, or at least overlook, that they lived in a desert that happened to sit next to an ocean.
Finney thought this type of grass comfortable enough, but scratchy, if you walked over it in bare feet, or stretched out on your back on it. But it smelled good, particularly after being mowed, and its smell evoked fond memories of long-ago afternoons spent in solitude, in Southern California parks like this one. His hours alone back then were oases, times when he could hide from the other kids and the shrill drumbeat of their shouting and screaming and shoving so that he could bury himself in his comic books.
The buildings along the north and south sides housed a few small biotech companies and university laboratories. Finney (or, rather, one of his companies run through a third party) owned one of these buildings, in which sat the windowless room from which he’d directed this morning’s activities.
The clear blue sky was breaking into grey, intermittent clouds that blotted out the sun in bursts of shadow. But the temperature was still balmy. A few clusters of people were at cement picnic tables, enjoying the erratic sunshine, eating lunch, or just chatting. Two were throwing a Frisbee on the grass.
Sebastian was sitting on top of one of the tables, gazing out over the Pacific. The table was otherwise empty. It was the one farthest away from the others and the one closest to the ocean. Sebastian had his feet up on one of the benches, his hands in his pockets.
Finney approached him from behind.
“Mr. Finney,” Sebastian said, when he was about five feet away. He didn’t take his eyes off the ocean.
The two of them, Finney noted, were a nondescript pair. Sebastian had changed into a torn, untucked T-shirt (LIFE IS GOOD the back of it proclaimed in cheerful lettering over a surfing stick figure), jeans, flip-flops, a baseball cap, and sunglasses. At least half a dozen other men strolling around the park, or between the adjacent lowlying buildings, were in similar gear—typical for any public area in San Diego all times of year. Finney, in khakis, a collared shirt with a nondescript striped pattern, and casual black loafers, could have passed for any of the cubicle dwellers or lab personnel from the surrounding buildings.
In one fluid motion, Sebastian hopped off the table and began to amble across the grass, toward the cliffs and the ocean. He didn’t wait for Finney to follow.
Finney struck out after him. “So. What do you think, Sebastian?”
“About what, boss?”
Finney pulled abreast. “The auto-surgeon. It performed exactly as I’d planned.”
“Yes.” The hems of Sebastian’s T-shirt flapped in the stiff breeze. The wind had picked up in the last few hours. “It did.”
“Beautiful. Wasn’t it? Today was the first step in replacing flawed human surgeons, like Dr. Wu, with automated surgical systems. Systems immune to poor human judgment.”
Sebastian didn’t respond.
Where is he going?
They reached the edge of the grass, crossed a sidewalk, and walked over several feet of dry, packed dirt to a waist-high metal railing. A bright yellow sign affixed to the railing in red lettering warned:
DANGER!
UNSTABLE CLIFFS
STAY BACK!