Jade cleared his throat once, then spoke. 'If you move at all, I will break your neck into fragments. Understand?'
Andrew wiggled his head against Jade's foot. Jade decided it was a nod.
He turned his attention to Kyle, who had rolled to his hands and knees. Blood seeped through the back of his shirt, and Jade realized that he had knocked him onto his own shattered glass. Kyle staggered to his feet, wiping the grease from his eyes. He was too dazed to try anything, so Jade looked back at Andrew.
'Now, with a slow, even movement, reach inside your jacket and remove the gun.'
With trembling fingers, Andrew reached inside his jacket. His hand emerged, holding a camera.
'Oh, for fuck's sake,' Jade groaned. He slowly emerged from his zone, his vision widening, and he realized where he was. The bar had fallen quiet and everyone was staring at them, slack-jawed.
Jade lowered his foot from Andrew's jaw, remaining perfectly balanced on his other leg. Kyle tried to lean against the wall beside Andrew, yelping as the effort forced the glass deeper into his back.
Andrew tried a smile, but his quivering cheeks would not comply. 'Andrew Straussman. The San Francisco Daily.' His wavering hand went to his front pocket and he held a shaking press badge before Jade's face.
Jade looked away with a laugh, but it turned into a snarl. The jukebox rolled over a new record in the background and the spectators shifted uneasily on their feet.
'I have people following me who are assassins, hit men. I've put away rapists, murderers, child molesters. Do you really think I'm not alert enough to notice two reporters? What if I'd fuckin' shot you? Do you know how much trouble you would've gotten me into?'
Blood matted Kyle's beard. 'You're right. I… we… we're sorry.'
'Apology accepted. Now what do you want?'
'We just wanted a statement about today's shoot-out,' Kyle said, wiping his face. 'Cover story. You know, 'The Day Care Affair.'' He spread his hands nervously.
'Why didn't you just ask?'
'Well, we wanted to see where you live.'
'And looking in a phone book was too much of a mental leap?'
Andrew and Kyle looked at each other sheepishly. The people in the bar began to go back to their business, a few of them pointing over at Jade and whispering to their friends.
Jade turned to leave.
'Do you think you'll get the Atlasia case?' Andrew called after him above the din of the bar, his last hope of ensnaring Jade in conversation.
Jade whirled around. 'Atlasia? Allander Atlasia? How'd he break? Where is he? What happened?'
A smile appeared on Andrew's face, broadening with each of Jade's questions. He finally had something Jade wanted. He thought for a moment and decided to press his advantage.
'Well… I can't quite release all our informa-'
His sneakers left the ground before he could finish his sentence. One shoelace had come untied and was soaked with blood and spilled beer.
Jade's grip on Andrew's shirt tightened. 'Information,' he snarled. 'Now.'
'Dusk. Last night. Not located.'
The arms relaxed and the grip loosened. 'Thank you.'
Jade dropped Andrew, and he collapsed to the ground. By the time he got up, Jade was gone. The reporter turned and looked at his blood-stained companion.
'You look like I feel,' Andrew said.
'Don't flatter yourself,' Kyle replied, wiping his beard. 'You look like shit too.'
Jade heard footsteps crunching on the gravel behind him and turned to see a woman with enormous breasts wearing a red, low-cut dress. She twirled a lock of hair around a finger as she walked up to him, looking him up and down, noticing his six o'clock shadow, the hard line of his jaw, and his green, green eyes.
'I think you could have a really good night tonight,' she said huskily.
Jade's eyes danced over her cheap outfit, taking in her costume jewelry and her ruby-red lipstick. 'Yeah?' he said. 'Thanks for the premonition.'
He slid into his driver's seat.
A cloud of dust enveloped the woman as the car pulled away, and she felt the soft sting of gravel particles across her cheeks and in her hair.
Chapter 16
Her blond ponytail swaying with each step, Agent Travers walked down the sleek black corridor with a briefcase handcuffed to her wrist. She ran her card down a slot in one of the large metal panels and a segment of the wall rolled back to reveal another long corridor. At the end of the second corridor, she placed her eye in front of a laser scanner. The check cleared with a series of beeps and a huge steel door clicked open. Travers entered the inner sanctum.
The room she stood in was the office of the man behind the men behind the scenes at the FBI. As far as anyone knew, the room was his home as well, for nobody ever saw him enter or leave the building. He seemed to be eternally present, a single beating heart within the labyrinthine network of subterranean corridors.
The room was empty except for a large black desk, with accompanying chair, that sat in the middle of a dark rug, and a single chrome-and-leather chair placed facing the desk. There was an enormous computer on the desk, and several video monitors were within easy view of the man sitting there, giving him access to an immense range of FBI intelligence that he could recall with the punch of a key. Though he was a solitary man in an airtight room, he seemed to know everything.
There was a great deal of agency lore surrounding this man, but it was anybody's guess as to how much of it was true. After he'd lost an eye in a freak accident or an operation, depending on which version one heard, he had taken the code name Wotan, referring to the German god who had traded an eye for knowledge. His remaining eye had grown quite sensitive to light, so he kept the room dimly lit. There was, however, almost as much artifice to his surroundings as there was need, since Wotan enjoyed his status as the agency mystery. By remaining in the shadows, he appeared even more intimidating and powerful, which was precisely what he wanted.
'Sit down, Agent Travers,' he said quietly, his voice that of an older man.
Travers sat in the small chair ten feet from the desk, dangling her arm to allow the briefcase to rest on the floor. She stared at the row of blank screens set into the wall. When Wotan took meetings, which was not often, he turned off the video monitors.
'Yes, Wotan?'
'Any leads on Atlasia?'
'Well, sir, we found the speedboat about ten miles offshore. It appears he had set it so it would be headed out to sea, so we can't exactly pinpoint where he got out. He may have drowned. We put out roadblocks and sent search parties through all the beachside towns in proximity to the Tower, but there's nothing so far.'
'It appears we have a child in need of punishment,' Wotan said softly. 'And the Tower?'
'Everyone there died except Claude Rivers, an Eleventh Leveler. The sleeper.'
Wotan nodded in recognition. 'Peter Briggs himself has ordered Rivers back in there as quickly as possible. Plus, I don't want him mingling with the other prisoners and guards. It puts them in danger.'
'I'll inform Warden Banks.'
'How'd Rivers survive?'
'It was an unusually high tide, so the water eventually covered up even his cell, but he ripped the U pipe out of his toilet and used it as a snorkel. The water's surface was only about four inches above the top of his ceiling bars. He spent the better part of an hour staring at the rippling air just out of reach before the emergency crew arrived.
'We notified all the prisoners' families, and no one should be a problem, with the exception of Cyprus's mother.' She paused and pursed her lips. 'She's a real bitch, sir.'
Wotan leaned forward and light from the dim lamp fell on his face. Travers saw his bare eye socket, the skin
