Search beams flared, filling long swaths of the woods with daylight. Ruppert and Lucia crept around behind the redwood, flat on their stomachs, just as one of the beams flashed onto the tree’s wide trunk. There was blinding light on either side of them, but they were hidden for the moment.
“We should have taken my computer,” she whispered. “If they can trace where I called, then the whole deal is blown. Wow. That was stupid.”
“We should get moving,” Ruppert whispered. Already he could hear boots crunching through leaves as they descended the slope towards them.
They crawled along the ground, moving straight downhill from the redwood, the only direction along which they had any hoping of concealing themselves. Narrow shafts of light streaked across the woods ahead of them, either flashlights or gun lights.
Ruppert’s hand reached ahead into empty space, and he toppled forward. Lucia grabbed onto him, which slowed his fall but did not break it. They went over the edge of what he first thought was a ditch, until they slid down a muddy bank and splashed into frigid, running water, deep enough that Ruppert’s shoes only brushed against the pebbled bottom. They’d fallen into a creek.
Ruppert grabbed onto exposed tree roots to keep himself from drifting away, though he wondered if drifting might not be the best option. Lucia clung to the bank a few yards downstream, and she was looking at him with wide eyes, pressing one finger to her lips.
“Watch your step there,” a man’s voice spoke directly above them. Ruppert heard several branches snapping, and a clump of loose earth tumbled from overhead, between Ruppert and Lucia, and into the creek.
The narrow beams played along the surface of the water, dangerously close to them. The police were about ten feet over their heads, and only the darkness of the waning night and the shadows of the forest protected them.
“Kill the lights,” a voice said. Then, several seconds later, “I’m not reading anything on thermal.”
Ruppert believed it; he and Lucia were neck deep in what felt like the runoff from a glacier.
“We’re gonna need more feet down here,” another voice said. “Get some guys downstream, too. They might be swimming.”
Then a sound like a clap of thunder boomed in the distance, echoing down all the ridges and canyons of the mountains around them.
“The hell was that?” one of the cops asked. They muttered among themselves.
The crackling crosstalk of the police radios ended, replaced by a single commanding female voice. “All units, all units, we have a possible T1 on Diablo Mountain,” she said. “Repeat, Diablo Mountain, possible T1. All units respond.”
One of the cops began to speak: “Sir, we think we might have these hackers on foot.”
“Forget it,” a voice crackled back. “Emergency boxes are lighting up all over the valley. It’s a distraction.”
“Ten-four.”
The boots and the beams of light retreated up the hill, and then they were gone.
Lucia hauled herself from the cold water and climbed up on the creek bank.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get your car.”
“What happened?” Ruppert began to climb the muddy slope.
“They set off a bomb somewhere to break up the roadblock,” she said. “Terrorism takes priority.”
“That was nice of them.” They hurried up along the steep hillside.
“It’s a lot of trouble,” Lucia said. “And it could draw federal attention. Everyone’s going to hate me. I just hope no one gets caught.”
They climbed back up to the emergency phone box, but Lucia’s computer had been severed and confiscated. They hiked back up along the road, keeping to the trees so they could jump out of the way at a moment’s notice. They found the car intact and undisturbed. The police probably hadn’t had time to find it, and it was not very visible from the road. Ruppert looked ahead, where the edge of flashing blue light had disappeared.
“Let’s go,” Lucia said. “We’re as safe as we’ll ever be.”
They drove for thirty minutes among winding roads, eventually turning off on an unmarked, unlined street that became a dirt track. Lucia stopped in front of an overgrown brick gate thick with vines. She stepped out of the car and approached the gate, where she pressed a button set into an ornate frame.
“We’re here,” she said. “If anybody’s listening.”
After several seconds, the gates creaked open, folded inward and squealing with the sound of badly rusted machinery.
They drove through overgrown fields of wild vines and thorny brambles. At one intersection of dirt tracks, a young dreadlocked black man stood with his hand raised. Lucia stopped, and he climbed into the back seat.
“Turn left,” he said. “We’re stashing the car in the old fermentation building.”
At his directions, Lucia drove them into a long brick building with boarded windows. They parked among machinery draped in tarps, then got out, swept the tarp from one of the machines, and covered up Ruppert’s car.
“Is everything all right?” Lucia asked.
“It's all right,” the man said. “We just had to distract the police force of Sonoma County and get it away with it. Did I mention we had no time to prepare?'
'I’m sorry,” Lucia said.
“Don’t ever, ever do that again. Now we have to deal with Hartwell sniffing around. Through here.” The young man approached one of four giant cylinders against a long wall. He took hold of the circular pressure gauge, which was as wide as the man himself, and wrenched it around like a large dial. A section of the metal cylinder screeched as it opened outward, revealing brick stairs that spiraled away underground. He led them down, closing the hatch after them.
“What is this place?” Ruppert asked as they stepped into an underground room made of brick and stone. Racks of dusty glass containers lined the walls, under rows of grow lamps with empty sockets.
“Somebody used to have another operation going on down here, back in the 1970s, 1980s,” the young man said. “Plants more profitable than grapes. You should wait here.” He left through a faux-medieval door made of thick wooden slats and brass bindings.
“Friendly people,” Ruppert said.
“They’re cleaning up our mess,” Lucia said.
“You don’t think they hurt anybody?”
“I’m sure they just detonated an old building or something. Already wired in advance. They do have contingency plans.”
“An old wooden water tower, actually.” A familiar face entered along with the young black man. It was the “Packers fan” Ruppert had met at Nixon Stadium. “No water was injured, I promise.”
“Archer, I’m glad you made it,” Lucia said.
“Your name’s Archer?” Ruppert said. 'I thought it was Benny.'
'Benny's what I go by when I'm out among the sheeple,' Archer said. 'And Archer's what I'm going by this year. And this is Turin.' Archer clapped the dreadlocked man's shoulder. 'Because he's a miracle worker. Every call box for eighty miles-pow!'
Turin nodded at Adam. To Archer, he said, “Big lady thinks we should go ahead now, since he’s here. They’ll keep watch for the Harty boys.”
“Great,” Archer said. “Daniel, background. We’ve got him thinking that we’re doing it for him-like a final request before the cancer eats him up. He thinks you’re still with GlobeNet, and this is going to go large onscreen. The story he believes beyond that, too complicated, you don't need to know. Can you play along with that?”
“Not a problem,” Ruppert said.
“Should I come?” Lucia asked.
“You’d better,” Turin said. “You go upstairs, she might rip out your throat for the storm you just stirred up. And we don’t need her distracted right now. Anyway, the man hasn’t seen you before, so we're calling you the GlobeNet camera operator.”
“I don’t have any equipment.”
Archer handed her a tall silver cylinder with a 360-degree lens band.
