“And this is good news, my brothers and sisters, for when you hear talk of death, and talk of war, and when you know famineand pestilence cannot be far behind, what does that sound like to you?”
Jonas considered. Branson was a liar, but he had a point. The world did seem like it had a dark cloud covering it these days.
“Why,” the Reverend said, ramping up his intensity, “it sounds to me like the FOUR HORSEMEN come a’ridin’! Not the ridersof the dusty sage, not the cavalry, but the riders of the APOCALYPSE! This is the END of DAYS, my fellow children of God,and I am so pleased to be your source of guidance in this time of trial.”
The crowd, hushed until this moment, boiled over, becoming a cauldron of exaggerated cries of fear, pledges to Jesus, devotionsand exhortations and covenants offered.
“Oh, yes,” Branson said, his amplified voice cutting through the din, “this is it. Prepare your souls for God’s reckoning.
“Brothers and sisters,” he shouted. “Calm yourselves. You are all bathed in God’s light. These days should be days of hope,of anticipation, not fear. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that good people go to Heaven. And you, my friends”—he spreadhis arms wide—“are good people.”
Branson dropped his arms. He let his face grow serious.
“But there’s another thing. You know that the Bible talks of an Antichrist, an evil beast that will stalk the earth in thedays before Jesus’ return. I tell you he’s already here. We’ve talked about him before, and I’m ashamed to say that I underestimatedthe threat to goodness that he posed. Someone out there knows whom I’m talking about. Shout it out to me, right n—”
Jonas clicked off the monitor. He lifted his phone, swiped it open, and checked his e-mail.
Nothing.
He stared at the screen for a moment, then placed it facedown on his desk and returned to work.
Chapter 28
Jonathan Staffman grabbed a backpack containing his toolkit—customized Raspberry Pi processors designed to inject zombifyingmalware into any number of common electronic lock systems, a few laptops filled with his preferred code-breaking algorithms,and even a set of analog lockpicks, just in case. He stepped out of the back of the overheated, stuffy van into the cold airof an April dawn, breathing in the comparatively refreshing scents of Bayonne, New Jersey, with some relief.
The sunrise-tinged Statue of Liberty was visible to the north, and Lower Manhattan beyond, their majesty a stark contrastto their immediate surroundings—a self-storage park on the banks of the Hudson River. Rows of modular steel bins of varyingsizes, painted orange with blue shutter doors, stretched out in either direction. The complex was deserted. That was intentional—themain reason they had gotten there so early.
The Coach appeared next to him, along with two large, dark-suited men of unclear job description, whom she hadn’t seen fitto introduce. Staffman had the sense that it was unusual for the Coach to attend a mission like this personally. The largegentlemen were probably her security team, a conclusion strongly supported by their air of competent menace.
“Which way?” she said.
Staffman pointed, and the group set out toward Unit 909.
“Is this what you expected to find?” the Coach asked, gesturing out at the storage units around them.
“Honestly, no,” Staffman answered, as they made their way down the row, their shoes squelching in the mud. “I was thinkingit would be a warehouse, maybe. But this could make sense too. Some of these units are wired. This company rents them outfor all kinds of things, not just storage. Cheap office space, even some light manufacturing. 3-D printing outfits, lots ofstuff. So some of them have Internet and power. It’s not fancy, but it’s cheap, and my guess is that whoever runs this placedoesn’t ask too many questions.”
Two turns and a short walk deeper into the maze and they arrived at Unit 909, where the third member of the Coach’s securityteam waited, holding the packet sniffer he’d used to zero in on the IP address from the Oracle’s e-mail address.
A heavy padlock and thick chain hung from the shutter door.
“Anything?” the Coach asked her man.
“Nothing. Quiet in there. The lock doesn’t look like it’s been disturbed for a while, either.”
She stepped back, thinking.
“All right. The Oracle isn’t here. That’s obvious. But maybe we’ll just have a little look, see what we can see.”
Staffman breathed a sigh of relief. The Coach’s men were carrying guns—he’d seen them beneath their coats—and he had no interestin being anywhere near any sort of . . . firefight, or battle, or whatever the security team was thinking might happen thatwould require them to be armed.
He swung his shoulder bag around and started rooting around in it for his lockpicks.
“I can get through that lock,” he said, as he searched.
“Can I help you?” a new voice said, from a little farther up the row.
Staffman turned, freezing as he saw a small, dark-skinned man in jeans and a light jacket. An orange-and-blue sweatshirt emblazonedwith the logo of the self-storage company was visible beneath the coat.
He glanced to one side, expecting the Coach to order her security team to gun the man down. And indeed, one of them was reachinginside his coat.
Staffman opened his mouth, desperately hoping he could say something that would prevent another death being added to the considerabletally he already had on his head from the blackouts. He felt the Coach’s hand, tight on his upper arm. He looked over, wherehe saw that her kindly old grandma persona had reappeared, anchored by a reassuring, friendly smile.
The fight—if that was what it could be called—went out of him. Staffman relaxed, resigning himself to whatever happened next.The Coach had said it, back when this all began—Dr. Jonathan Staffman was no hero.
The Coach’s man removed something from inside his blazer—not a pistol, but
