We find ourselves under a grove of trees in the gardens of large brick structure: too big to be called a house, too small for a full-on mansion, with half a dozen steps leading up to a grand portico bordered by Greek columns. Two dozen or more windows face us, including roof dormers and basement windows, all with white frames and shutters.
The cohort is maybe twenty yards away when the leader looks back. “See what yer find yonder,” he calls, pointing to a wooden barn situated a hundred yards from the mansion. Gallie and I look at each other, and then, for want of a better idea, we set off toward it.
“They were expecting us.”
“With some precision,” Gallie replies. “Morales and Byrne didn’t have a chance. They knew exactly where and when.”
“Now what?”
“We stick to the mission.”
“The mission didn’t involve this. Not for Morales and Byrne, it didn’t.” I’m itching all over and take off my tricorn, grateful for the cool breeze. I try to take on board that half of our team was just shot to death. It’s not real for me yet.
“Let’s keep it together, Joad. We have a problem and we’ll work it through.” So we have no route home, our security escorts are dead, and the best plan we have is to check out the contents of a barn on the advice of a band of thugs who assaulted us violently within less than a second of arriving. As we approach, I see two people in front of the barn who seem to be pumping water from a well. I squint.
“Those are jeans,” Gallie says. We speed up. The wearers of the jeans see us and take a step backward, dropping their pail.
“Jenn?” I call. Then louder. “Jenn!” They walk tentatively toward us.
“Joad?” Her face is streaked with mud and her plaid shirt is ripped, hanging off her shoulder. She runs forward and hugs me, which is very much a first. The other figure is Arun Ramuhalli, a newly recruited tackychemist. I wonder how he’s enjoying the job. “Are you here to take us back?” she asks.
“Not exactly. Not yet, at least,” I say. Jenn looks at me, confused, and then at Gallie. I make introductions and Jenn reacts as if she’s heard of Jane Galois.
“Are the others in the barn?” Gallie asks. Jenn nods. “Is it safe in there?”
TWENTY-FIVE
It’s a barn from the outside and a barn from the inside, too. Daylight entering through uneven boards stripes the straw and the faces of the occupants. Some of the faces are looking down from a loft, others look asleep, and some are now directed at us. People begin to stand, descend the loft ladders and gradually cluster around us. Through grime, matted hair and unshaven faces I recognize Chen, McEwan, Jones, Wagner, Bisset, Alvarez, Kwame, Ito, Marlowe, ...
Gallie and I exchange a glance. “Is everyone alright?” Gallie asks. “Any injuries?”
“Alright? Bari, Holcombe and Huang are dead,” Jenn replies in a whisper. “They took out our security team.”
“Leaving just geeks and nerds,” I say. “We’re low risk, I guess.” I look around and estimate maybe fifty faces. “More of you than I expected,” I say.
“It’s pretty much the full complement,” Jenn says. “Both Washingtons cleaned out but for a few.” I rest against a post to steady myself.
“How did it happen?” Gallie asks. Jenn shrugs. “It’s like nothing actually happened. One instant I’m in the big chair. Next I’m tumbling on grass. Same with everyone. It all happened at the same time for each of us on the TMA site. The others appeared seconds later.”
“Kasper Asmus did this?” I ask. Confused looks are exchanged.
“He’s not here,” Ramuhalli says.
“What do you mean about Kasper Asmus?” Jenn asks.
“Is he behind this?” I say. I get only blank stares.
“Don’t know why he’s not here. Didn’t know why you weren’t here, either.”
Gallie places her hand on my arm to say let’s stop with this line of questions.
“Who’s holding you prisoner here?” she asks.
“Prisoner?” Jenn says. “I wouldn’t call us exactly prisoners. We can come and go whenever we like. But where would we go? There’s a village called Leatown maybe a mile away so Andersen thought he’d do some reconnaissance. She points to a man with a red gash over his eye and a plaid shirt missing a sleeve. “Seems they didn’t like the way he looked.” He smiles sardonically and shakes his head.
“How long have you been here?”
“A month, but we’re not tracking time well. Ironic, huh?”
“How are you surviving?” Gallie asks.
“They feed us. Every day. It’s disgusting but they’re keeping us alive.”
“Who is?” Gallie asks. “Who’s doing this?” Jenn shrugs.
“All we ever see are goons with muskets.”
“Someone lives in that house,” Ramuhalli says. “Never tried to get near it but I’m guessing if you did, you’d wind up with a lead ball in your belly.”
I begin to notice the smell. It’s stale food and stale human. I step back outside the barn and look across to the house. The musketeers are milling around it, talking, laughing and spitting. Jenn was right. These are goons and not disciplined soldiers. Ramuhalli follows me out.
“If I say ‘arms trafficking’ would you know what I’m talking about?” I say. He stares at me. “Are you seeing any modern weapons?” He looks bemused and shakes his head. It’s looking like all our theories could be bullshit.
TWENTY-SIX
The food served to the barn-dwellers was not Michelin. Two vats of bones and fat floating beneath a protective layer of grease, with a barrel of turning apples to cleanse the palate, all delivered by armed waiters so contemptuous that even a Parisian restaurant would have fired them. Tuck-in, I think I heard one of them say. I ordered fries someone had shouted from the loft, safe in their anonymity, but
