The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [59]
A silence followed, as satisfying as any violin concerto.
“So, our government’s betters have been using the tanks to salt away troublesome folks and kill them,” he said.
“Something like that.”
“I see.”
“What do you see?”
“The streets teeming with police, DHS FDU squads, and troops. I bet even the Boy Scouts and the Salvation Army are looking for us. They can’t allow the worms to get out of town.”
“Mmmm?” Laurel felt sleepy. His pep pills must have outlived their shelf life.
“I’m losing my touch. Here I am, oozing witty remarks, and all I get is snores.”
“Your touch is fine.” For the first time in many hours, she felt a smile tug at the corners of her lips. Floyd Carpenter, forty-one, doctor of medicine, broke after a recent traumatic divorce, no children or live-in pets. At least, these were the scant details Shepherd had rattled from his notes while they ran over the operation. It seemed years ago instead of weeks.
Yes, Floyd was damaged but cuddly and comfortable, like a worn teddy bear. She drifted in and out of dreamless sleep until his hand pressed her arm with insistence.
“Mmmm?”
“My, but you are verbose. Henry is moving.”
She roused instantly, her mind clear as a foggy road after a strong wind. Maybe his pep pills worked after all. Laurel leaned over and pecked his cheek. “Thank you.”
“Er, I didn’t catch that. Could you repeat it?”
She stood and ran a hand over the seat of her trousers in an unconscious gesture to shake off the dirt. Her fingers caught on something slimy. She refused to look. “No.”
At the end of the tunnel, Henry stood with the other men, waving for them to approach. Laurel neared Raul and leaned over to run a hand over his head. “Something is happening.”
Raul made a wry movement with his mouth, reached for her hand, and held it an instant. “Latte, large, scrambled eggs on toast, and juice.”
“Served by odalisques from a nearby seraglio?”
“Perfect. No veils, please; they only get in the way.”
She squeezed his hand and moved over to Lukas. Out of the corner of her eye, she detected Floyd squatting next to Russo and listening to his chest before shaking his head.
“Come on, let’s go see Henry.” She peered into Lukas’s eyes. All the adrenaline-triggered resolve was gone, leaving only fear in its wake. “Come,” she repeated, offering her hand. “We’re going to be all right.” There was no reason for the encouragement, but, like someone hopelessly in love, his eyes begged for a charitable lie.
As Laurel neared the group, Henry slapped one of the men on the shoulder. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Henry fingered his matted beard, then nodded to Laurel. She eyed the grimy faces of men and a woman, dressed in a bewildering assortment of rags, their sunken eyes ablaze with a strange inner light. Hope or drugs? She couldn’t make up her mind. Like a quarterback calling the play, Henry stepped slightly inside the circle.
“You know Barandus,” Henry said, gesturing to the tall, morose man on his right. Then he raised a hand to encompass the other three. “Jim, Susan, and Charlie. Good friends, and knowledgeable.”
The nature of their knowledge filled Laurel with dread, but she managed a smile. “What are we doing?”
“With luck, the DHS will be busy for a while—not for too long, though. We need to arrange a small diversion to draw all the city forces away from your extraction point. To do that, we need some goods. I propose we go get them.”
Laurel returned Henry’s stare. He hadn’t named the place they were supposed to meet Shepherd, but he hadn’t explained anything about his plan either. “But we have no money.”
Henry nodded. “My word is good enough where we’re going.”
“Who’s going with you?” Raul asked.
“La crème de la crème—Laurel, you, and the five of us. That should be enough. The doctor can look after his charge, and Lukas can help him.”
Henry seemed to have sorted out in his mind who belonged where.
Raul edged forward and cleared his throat. Obviously something was bothering him. “Enough for what?”
“My friend … does it matter?” Henry raised a hand before