Busted Flush

Ray stared stonily ahead as the Lear flashed west, wanting to sleep but unable. It seemed like forever, but took only a couple of hours. Norwood woke up after they’d touched down at the private landing strip outside the Biological Isolation and Containment Center, located in the middle of nowhere in the southeast corner of New Mexico, within stone-throwing distance of the Texas border, if you could throw stones pretty far. A jeep was waiting for them with a security tech wearing BICC insignia and the Haliburton company patch. Justice doesn’t even have the guts to show up himself, an unhappy Ray thought, getting unhappier.

Stuntman wasn’t happy, either, as he surveyed the mostly flat, mostly empty desert. He was already perspiring in the morning heat. “Any place to get breakfast around here?”

“Just the BICC cafeteria, sir,” the tech said.

“Swell,” Norwood grumbled. “Nothing like government-contract food.”

Ray was hungry, too, but he wasn’t going to bellyache about it even if Stuntman was right. They climbed into the jeep and the driver sped off down an obviously recent asphalt road that led from the airstrip to the containment center. BICC consisted of a very large, very ugly, very angular concrete building set in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a gaggle of outbuildings that looked like a motor pool, storage facilities, and barracks. These buildings were enclosed by a razor-wire fence with a central guard station manned by more Haliburton cannon fodder. As they were waved through Ray looked down the fence line to where the chain link and razor wire had been smashed outward as if by an invisible avalanche.

Norwood noticed it as well, and looked at Ray with raised eyebrows. “You’re not dealing with fake bank robbers now,” Ray said pointedly.

“Bring ’em on,” Stuntman said. His grin was almost convincing.

The Haliburton stooge accompanied them into the main building. At least it was cool inside, compared to the killing desert heat. They took an elevator down a half-dozen levels, Stuntman staring at the bloodstains that still discolored the elevator’s walls and floor. For once the newcomer kept silent, and Ray didn’t feel the need to prod him.

The guide escorted them down a hallway with industrial-quality carpet that probably cost the taxpayer a C-note a square yard. He knocked once on the door at the end of the corridor, saluted sloppily, and slouched off.

“You know,” Ray said to Stuntman, “he probably makes six or seven times more a year than you do.”

“Yeah,” Norwood said, “but that uniform he has to wear just sucks.”

Good one, Ray thought, and then a voice called, “Enter.”

The corridor leading to the director’s office had been furnished in mid-twentieth century industrial, but inside was a different story. Ray pursed his lips. The decor here was a lot more luxurious than in his own office. He made a mental note to ream out whoever had let the decorator run amuck.

“Ah.” Pendergast, the BICC director, was sitting in an expensive ergonomic chair that matched his teakwood desk. On the other side of the desk Justice occupied an equally comfortable-looking chair flanked by two straight-backed wooden ones. “Mr. Ray. Good of you to come—”

“Yeah, good of me to do my job,” Ray said without inflection. He looked at the young, slim, handsome Hispanic agent sitting in the comfortable chair. The last young, slim, handsome, Hispanic agent he’d had to deal with had turned out to be a fucking traitor and Ray had gutted him with a glass shard. Ray hated to generalize, but he also hated to be reminded of bad experiences. If it hadn’t been for the Angel, he would’ve cashed in a couple of times during that particular dance. She . . .

He gritted his teeth. “Hello, Justice. Hell of a mess you’ve got here.”

“Yes, sir,” the SCARE agent said sulkily. His handsome features were marred by a lumpy purple and yellow bruise on the right side of his jaw. Probably why he was so pissy. “It—”

He stopped, realizing that Ray was frowning at him, and rose quickly to his feet, flushing. He stepped aside clumsily and Ray took his seat. Ray nodded at Stuntman, who took the chair to his left, while Justice sank down into the chair on his right.

“Right,” Ray said. “Agent Norwood”—he nodded at Stuntman—“Dr. Pendergast, BICC director. Agent Echeverria, head of BICC security. Now that we’re all comfy and we all know each other, suppose you tell me what the hell happened here.”

Pendergast and Justice looked at each other, and Justice started to explain the sequence of events as they’d been reconstructed. It took a few minutes to tell the whole story.

“So,” Ray said when he’d finished, “let me get this straight. You’re head of security with a hundred agents under you. Granted, most are contractors, but still—you couldn’t stop a little fat kid and an ace whose power is getting pregnant from engineering a breakout out of a multibillion-dollar facility with a high-tech security system? Is that about right?”